Dean had spent months believing that Sam didn’t see them as brothers anymore, as family.
“So what, we’re not family now?”
"I’m saying, you want to work? Let’s work. If you want to be brothers…?"
And yet in that moment of defeat, beaten, bloody and stabbed, after everything he did influenced by the mark of Cain, after all the fighting and the tension, in that moment of dying, there was Sam, not giving up on him. Because you never give up on family. And that look in Dean’s eyes is him seeing that that actually does apply to him too, at first disbelieving but then finding relief in the acceptance of it. Because if he is going to die then at least it is still as Sam’s brother. And there is peace in that.
He embraces it very quickly. There’s no inner struggle. Because he’s not just a demon, he’s a demon with the Mark of Cain, which makes him like über demon. So there’s so much evil inside him, there’s so much devil inside him, that the practical Dean is smothered.
"I’ll not rest until I know the cause is fought and won From this day on until I die I’ll wear my father’s gun” (x)
~~Season 10 Scenarios~~
He hadn’t expected to end up in New Orleans of all places. And least during the summer. But somehow the streets and small bars in the french quater had kept calling him like a lover whispering sweet seducing words into his ears and he couldn’t resist. No, he definitely couldn’t resist. And why resisiting anyway? Resisiting feeling good? Resisting feeling free? He finally felt alive. And feeling like that hasn’t been the case for years. Kind of ironic he thought to himself - "Dying to live" - and couldn’t help but smile while nursing a bottle of whiskey. Why bother with a glas if you could just drain a whole bottle? Especially when the nasty side effects he’d grown used to back when he was human - the hangover, the headache, the shakes - were non-existent now. Back then he drank to forget, now he drank to connect and to enjoy himself. There were no voices to be drowned out now, just sweet liberation to be embraced to the fullest. He found himself bopping his knee to the rhythm of the band - three old guys in their 70s and damn, he had to admit given their age, they fucking owned it - he’s never been an enthusiastic dancer, but the past few months he had developed a taste for it. As he had developed for many other things as well. Like cigarettes and jazz. He glanced to the side. There was a group of people shooting him glances. Maybe he’d take one of them up for a dance. There was at least one girl and one guy, he thought looked somewhat cute and up for some adventure. And adventure that’s what it was all about now. Adventure. He left Crowley behind months ago. "Poor son of a bitch, you really thought you could actually tame me" he thought, chuckled and took another swig from the bottle and draining it. He stood up, knees a little wobbly, but the best kind of way and went outside to have a smoke. It was late, the moon bright up in the sky, but the streets still filled with life. He loved this place. It was like he belonged here. It was like he finally found the light at the end of the tunnel. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe when your eye-colour matches the darkness within it kind of changes your view and somehow the black doesn’t seem as black as it used to.