The scars are gone.
The undersides of his wrists are fishbelly white, smooth and unmarked as they haven't been since - hell, he can't even remember anymore. 13, maybe. He doesn't remember when he made the first cut, took that first step down the neverending road to Hell.
He was born on that road, he could tell you. All of them are. This is no gift, there is no guiding light, this isn't just throwing you in the deep end, which is the deal every mortal gets anyway; this is throwing you in and then making sure you can see every shark in there with you.
Well, he's off that road now. Got his feet on a higher path, if you'd believe it. John doesn't really, and he's on it.
He rubs a thumb over the purple tracery of a vein. He doesn't miss the scars, got nothing to miss there, but minus the ridges of hardened skin, layers of scar tissue, the vulnerability is stark again. Undisguised. He doesn't like that.
John snorts and pulls the sleeves of his shirt back down. Force of habit, he doesn't need to anymore. Not that he needed to in the first place; maybe he needs it more now really.
He's making fuck all sense. He needs a smoke and he hasn't had one in days. It's a miracle he hasn't tried to kill himself again yet.
He tastes the word; miracle, and it is bitter on his tongue. Hard to swallow, but not impossible. Not half as hard as he thinks it should be to swallow. He takes a breath and it doesn't hurt. Lucifer took care of that.
Pulling on a jacket, he slams the door behind him and locks it - locks seen and bolts unseen, because it's not true that John never pays attention to the details. He just doesn't pay attention to the unimportant details.
He doesn't have to work very hard to not let himself wonder who healed the scars.