Weakness? Dean doesn't say. Oh angel-baby, you've got no damn idea.

He just clenches his hands, holding them like that until he can feel his tendons ache.

Douchebag.

"I'll tell you this," he says instead, turning away from the window.

His expression is set, even as he paces several steps away, back firmly turned to what's shortly gonna become a room of horror.

"I go through that door and I can guarantee you're not gonna like what comes back out."

Considering that most of that's already here --

"You sure you're prepared to deal with that? Because I ain't."

Except for how much he wants it. And God, but he wants it.

He can practically taste the blood.