AN: Because I just cannot for the life of me figure out how anyone could possibly hate Dean, I've decided to get into his head, and find his answer for it. What I found, is that the poor boy needs a hug and some reassurance, but I sure as heck still don't know why so many people don't like him. It blows my mind O.o.

Summary: A message from Dean to the Dean haters

Disclaimer: I so do not own this, and as far as I know, I am not making money of this story. (would be nice though )

I hear your words, feel your eyes on my back, and see the sneers you don't bother to hide. I am not an idiot, contrary to what you may believe. I've read Melvin and Tolstoy, I've built working vehicles from scratch and without help, and I managed to catch the eye of the smartest girl ever to grace this town with her existence. Surely that means something. She's not one to go for a guy who can't keep up with her. She must have recognized some kind of intelligence within me, and while it may not have been enough to get me into Yale, it's more than sufficient enough to know when I'm not wanted.

And I get it. I really, really do. I can hardly stand facing my own reflection in the morning; I can't begin to imagine how it would feel being forced to see me every day, in your diner, in your store, and in your town, infecting your lives with my overbearing presence with my jealous nature, and with my grave sins and damned soul. I can't begin to grasp how much you hate putting up with that day after day. But I imagine it can't possibly be more than I hate myself.

You think seeing my face is difficult? Try being trapped in my skin, my filthy, impure skin, Try always flipping too-thin brown hair out of your eyes, only to be reminded of how soft hands once did that for you. Try looking out of once-bright, hazel eyes that used to stare into shocking blue before sending a message to your month to smile. Try forming words through those lips, remembering constantly the feel of another's, knowing deep down that they were never good enough for her, that you were never good enough for her, that you don't deserve to smile.

Forget about boxes carried, bracelets made, cars built, and love given unconditionally, Especially forget about the love, because none of it ever mattered, not compared to bad boys and picnics; not compared to rich boys and yachts.

I was a stepping stone, and she made that clear. Just a thing meant to be used and thrown away, then recycled and thrown out again. I taught her how to love, but she never loved me. She taught me how to hate myself, but through it all, I could never hate her. I would rather cut out my own heart . . . what's left of it, anyway. I've given it to her so many times, and every time, I've gotten it handed back to me, each time a little more broken. Yet still it keeps beating, and always for her.

I made the mistake once of trying to make my heart beat for another. I wanted so badly for it to be real. I thought that marriage could bring about love, but I learned the hard way how delusional I was. I will never let myself forgive what I did to her, when she wanted so badly to be the one to save me. I did exactly the same thing that had been done to me, and I turned the one I love into a sinner in the process.

There was hurt - intense, blinding, devastating hurt - when she tossed me aside for the final time, but I was in no way surprised.

We came from two different worlds

We were headed in separate directions

And I could never be good enough to follow.

Love and devotion, bracelets and cars, water bottles and buses, books and three-month

anniversaries, movie nights and grandparents, coat tails and gloves; all of it swept away.

None of it ever good enough.

And I'll never be worthy of anything but your harsh words and sneers.