Arion's head turned a fraction, as if he hadn't expected that.
Dean didn't look away. "Don't give me that look," he said, voice low, practical in a way that surprised even him. "He was… decent to me. Sometimes. He could be charming. He could be generous. He could sit me on his knee when I was little and make me feel special."
His throat tightened once, then he pushed past it.
"But he was still him," Dean continued. "A constant pressure. Like the whole family lived with a weapon on the table, and everyone pretended it was decoration."
Arion's gaze sharpened, listening.
