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His eyes are pitch black.
Sam can’t kill him and the shapeshifter stays as Dean. He can’t put a bullet into the image of Dean, because this thing is wearing Dean’s skin and he just can’t bring himself to end it, even if it is a monster. Dean is dead, the real one is at least, but the memories are still there and slowly, it’s like Dean never left in the first place. Deep down, he knows he’s not Dean, not really, but it helps Sam and he can’t explain why, but that is okay with him. That is more than okay with him, and the shapeshifter wonders when he started caring about Sam the way Dean cared about Sam, and then it hits him, because even though he’s not Dean, he’s as close as he’ll ever get to resurrecting the eldest Winchester.
It’s not his brother, not him, but dammit, it looks like him, sounds like him, hell, even smells like him (leather, rock salt and gun cleaner). It thinks and speaks and even rolls his eyes like Dean, but deep down Sam knows its all a carefully constructed façade. He doesn’t bother to break it or tear it down or call that thing out on it, because he needs it more than he cares to admit. The grin on his face is the same, the hands are scarred in all the right places, and the calluses on his fingers from handling so many weapons over his short lifetime are all there.
But it isn’t Dean. Not really.
Sam shudders as the shifter pulls him into a half hug. He starts to pull away. “Sammy,” The word is filled with a bone deep ache and Sam feels it too. He shrugs Dean’s hand off of his shoulder. “Don’t. You’re not him.” Sam spits, the words are acid on his tongue, tears brimming in his eyes. And that thing has the nerve to look hurt with Dean’s face on. Anger gnaws at Sam. How dare he? How dare he! That thing had no right to impersonate Dean, no matter how good the intentions are.
“He’s dead, ok? Get out of his skin. I can’t kill you while looking at him.” Sam’s on the verge of crying now, his whole body is trembling with grief and rage. The shifter’s eyes shine with guilt and Sam bristles. “GO! Just go, damn it.” He should reach for Dean’s gun, loaded with polished silver bullets, and put two between this thing’s eyes. Instead, he finds himself crumpling into the shapeshifter’s warm embrace. “It’s okay Sammy, it’s okay.”
Sam swallows past a retort of ‘No, it’s not’ and revels in the illusion anyway. Dean wasn’t here, not really, but this was close enough and it was good enough for Sam.