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a drabble a day

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Dean Winchester was not repressed.

Not really.

Repressed implied a lack of awareness about what you were pushing down, that you’d thrown a sheet over the elephant in the room with your eyes screwed tightly shut before proceeding to ignore its presence, not willing to even think of acknowledging its specific shape and colour.

Dean knew exactly what his specific elephant looked like. He’d known long before he had thrown his sheet over, had even been okay with it. Okay with it, right up until the moment his father realised, until the moment he felt the ever-tight grip of his John Winchester's right hand burning on his shoulder as the left handed him the sheet and his eyes met a steely glare daring him to challenge the unspoken order and find out exactly what would happen.

So, no, Dean didn't tend to think of himself as repressed. He was just shoved so far deep in the closet that he may as well be in fucking Narnia.