Dean used to have a lot of scars. It went with the job. He'd been bitten, scratched and tossed into walls by an encyclopedia of nasty - acheri and zombies and everything that came in between.
Most of them, he could remember, if he cared to. There weren't many that he did. But if pushed, he could point out the jagged line on his leg where Sam had first stitched him up, fifteen and shaking with nerves, or the faint line on his palm that was, of all things, a bad spill on his bike.
Some mattered. Most were just battles. Every hunter had their share. And yeah, a scar meant you'd fought, but it also meant you weren't quite fast enough to get out of the way that time.
But he didn't really think about them. His scars were just a part of him. His past, written on his skin, just the way it was for everyone else.
But that was all before he'd come back.
(Sometimes, being clean felt like the worst mark of all.)
Prompt: "Be proud of your scars for they give testimony to battles faced, fought, and won." - Daily Advice Calendar, August 6th 2012.