[He smirks faintly at the memory. We gotta find the thing that killed mom, Dean's go-to. He remembers being angry and confused and scared and — well, a number of things he's glad to be without now, or, uh. Mostly without. It's not like he doesn't feel those temporary angers that comes and goes like rainclouds, not like smoldering fires that stay lit too long. No, just temporary. A firing of chemicals or whatever. He is, and then he isn't, and it doesn't really matter.

Not being attacked is great, though. He's good with that.]

Same. I mean, fighting things that killed parents, anyway.

Started when I was twelve, but it was — y'know, hunting. A lot of hunting things that didn't actually matter in actually finding what killed my mom.

[He's supposed to love her, right? Her and John.

They're just faces, though.]