Is that the plan? Send me to some kind of freaky conversion therapy, change everything about who I am?

[ Maybe his voice is a little higher, a little more shrill because while Dean hates himself, definitely and absolutely, that doesn't mean he wants to be indoctrinated, changed, twisted into some shell of himself.

He looks up, hollow, watching Castiel move, groaning a little as he's moved and tied to the door. His thigh hurts, his arm hurts, he's fucking terrified; he stares hard at the back of Castiel's head, jaw set. ]

I hope that when you pass out and wreck this car, you feel every second of it.