[ For a long stretch, he stares. Like he hears the words but can't quite process them in full. He takes a breath. It shouldn't matter. He's put all this behind him so fucking long ago. He'd told Sam once he made his peace, and Sam had asked, Did you? And yeah. He has. As much as he ever could.

Except this world, the Singularity, all it ever does is reopen those wounds.

He's spilled more blood than Dean's seen. That isn't what bothers him. He knows what he is, what he's willing to to, what he has done. Those things do not weigh on his mind. It's—the life itself. Dean is right. He has bled. For a lot of reasons. In and out of these walls. However many years go by, that will never change. But at least the blood used to dry. ]

We use it. The lab. [ He leans forward. ] Even after the Trials were over, I grew up studying inside it. Pulling monsters apart to examine them next to bloodstained beds. We do not turn away from what made us. But ever since...

[ Since Thorne. Since their memories would not stop spilling. He scoffs lightly, tipping the bottle back. It's clearly not his first. Probably not even his second at this point. ]

This place seems insistent on picking at old scars.