Dean didn't need telling...he just knew.

He reached to his chest to find the wound; healed. His jacket remained blood stained. His memories completely intact.

How much time had passed since he had died? [Dean was certain he had died. No doubt about that.] Minutes? Hours? Days? Please, God, not years.

Dean raised himself upright on the bed.

With every second he knew. With every second the fear became greater.

Was he supposed to feel fear? Was he supposed to feel?

Shit. Sammy.

Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.

Dean thought he could just about cope. Just about... but he wasn't sure Sam could.

He'd prefer to face any monster right now than face his brother. He'd prefer to face any hell hound, any angel, any...

Demon.

Dean put his head in his hands, hopelessness overwhelming him.

He rose to his feet, deliberately avoiding the bedroom mirror.

Dean stopped, his head resting on the wall.

How he could face his brother yet, when he couldn't even face himself?

He felt himself slide down the wall, despair once again hitting home.

He couldn't face Sam yet...in Dean's experience these things were usually better dealt with later.

Much later.

He couldn't stand to even think of how Sam, his little brother, was going to react.

He, Dean Winchester was a Demon.

A Demon.

One of the dirty, evil, scum of the earth's that his whole live resolved around destroying.

A Demon.

Dean knew what had to happen to next.

There was no question in his mind. ..

He didn't notice the door creak open before it was too late.