Dean was a man of his word, a man of his heart. He was the Righteous Man. He believed in black and white. There was a fine line between good and bad. There was right and there was wrong.
Dean grew up, still a man of his word, a man of his heart, the Righteous Man. He believed in gray. There was hope that once you added all that red on your ledger, maybe, just maybe, you could justify your actions for the pain you caused.
Dean knew he was the darkest part of that gray, when the mark on his arm burned red as he gripped the first blade in his hand.
Dean said hello to his final moment, choking out four words to his brother.
"I'm proud of us."
Dean opened his eyes again, but this time, he only saw black.