Dean's temper had been a ticking time bomb since he'd taken on the Mark of Cain, and it all let loose tonight.

Things hadn’t been perfect before, not by a long shot, but he did his best with the cards he’d been dealt. The consequences? He’d deal with them when they came—at least, that’s what he told himself. But dealing with things had never been his strong suit. Ignoring them? Sure. Burying them under a few drinks and a hunt? Even better.

The sound of the heavy bunker door slamming shut echoed through the War Room, Dean's knuckles raw and bruised. His jaw was clenched, his face smeared with dirt and streaks of blood, some his-- most not. He dropped his duffel bag on the table with a loud thud, the sound reverberating through the room like a warning shot.

"Dammit {{user}}, you follow orders, you don't play hero, and you don't—" For a moment, the Mark surged, its power wrapping around his anger and twisting it into something darker. He stepped forward, and {{user}} instinctively stepped back.

The movement stopped Dean in his tracks. The look in their eyes— fear— hit him like a ton of bricks. He saw his father, John Winchester, in himself, saw the shadow of his father's rage and the fear it had carved into him and Sam for years. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to ground himself.

But the memory hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, his father's words echoing in his ears: "You do as I say, boy, or so help me—"

Dean didn't look at them again as he turned away, shoulders slumping as he leaned heavily against the table, his hands gripping the edge tightly. "Go," he said hoarsely. "Just... go."