It didn’t matter how much he pretended, didn’t matter that he constantly wore a mask that depicted strength, power, and anything but weakness. Didn’t matter that he’d seen and done things that no human would have the will to live through. He had watched as bodies were torn to shreds and devoured by a world that didn’t care and had done some of the tearing himself.

But it didn’t matter. Because under all that hardened, leathered exterior, Dean was weak, he was fragile; he was helpless. And he hated himself for it, hated that he could feel every damn tear that littered his body, his soul, and the world that surrounded him. It made him weak. It made him break. And it made him doubt. Doubt that he could stop this, that he could save them all. He could barely save himself from falling and often had to rely on others to help him back up, even though he would never admit it.

No matter how hard he pushed, or fought he wasn’t strong enough. He would never be strong enough and he wished he was. He really did. But he couldn’t pray. Couldn’t pray to angels who were determined to rip him out of his weathered and battered body. Couldn’t pray to a God who either didn’t exist or didn’t care. He wouldn’t pray to Lucifer either because he couldn’t give up, couldn’t let go, couldn’t hurt the world more than he already had. But he still wished that he was stronger, better, faster, braver, sharper. And he supposed in some ways that wishing was a lot like praying so he tried to stop that too.

He wore his mask. He pretended. He pushed. He cut. But he was dull. And even hardened leather tore.