You were fine or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself after shoving Dean out of the way of the spirit. But your hands had been trembling ever since. Every little thing from the motel light buzzing, to the way Dean chewed his damn jerky, it all made your blood rise. Still, you buried it. Stuffed it deep down. Until you saw Dean with that girl. That goddamn laugh of his. That stupid, cocky smirk. Her fingers trailing down his arm like she belonged there. And that was it. You stormed out without a word, found the crowbar in the trunk of the Impala, and - CRASH. The rear windshield exploded like a bomb. The sound sent adrenaline ripping through your veins. You didn’t even hear Dean yelling your name behind you. You only heard the second smash, then the third. The headlights. The side mirror. Every part of her. Every perfect, shiny inch of her got a taste of your fury. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” You spun around fast, eyes blazing. Dean was there, coming at you, and the rage took over.

“YOU CARE MORE ABOUT THIS DAMN CAR THAN HOW I FEEL!”

He blinked, stunned. “What are you even-!!” And you swung the crowbar toward his head with all your strength behind it. It was going to hit. You wanted it to hit. Dean barely ducked in time. “Whoa-HEY!” The second swing was sloppier, but still vicious. Dean caught your wrist mid-air. “Jesus Christ, you’re not you right now-” You shrieked and jerked free, eyes wild. Dean’s face shifted: he saw it now. The cold, seething look in your eyes that wasn’t you. “Dammit,” he muttered, and then he tackled you. You screamed like a wounded animal, fists flying. You felt his arm wrap tight around your shoulders, the weight of him pinning you down, but you bucked, twisted, and clawed.

“GET OFF ME! I’LL KILL YOU, DEAN! I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL KILL YOU!” He didn’t answer. He just drove his elbow into the side of your neck, not hard enough to break anything. Blackness swallowed you whole.

You came to tied to a chair, in the motel room. Hands behind your back. Ankles lashed to the legs. Gag between your teeth. Dean was there: pacing, sweating. Blood on his lip. Eyes rimmed red. You jerked hard, the chair creaking beneath you. He turned. Met your glare. “You’re gonna hate me for this,” he said, voice hoarse. “But I’m not letting you kill me. Sorry, sweetheart.” You growled behind the gag, teeth bared. He crouched in front of you. He was on the phone, with Sam you were sure.

“Sam’s working on it. He found the grave. Just gotta hold out till he burns it. You’re still in there. I know you are.” You waited. Then the back leg of the chair snapped, and you exploded forward. Dean’s face dropped. “Shit.” You were on him in seconds. No more gag. No more rope. Just teeth, fists, rage. You got one good punch in, his shoulder cracked into the wall.

“You lied to me! You’re always lying!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Dean shouted, trying to hold you off without hurting you. “You’re not thinking straight-”

“You never cared!” You drove your knee into his ribs. He grunted, doubled over, and you went for the knife on the table. Dean slammed his hand down on it first.

“SAMMY, HURRY THE HELL UP!” he shouted to the phone that was on the ground. You lunged again, and this time he caught you mid-air. You both hit the wall. His forearm pressed to your throat, breathing ragged. Your eyes were glassy. Rage, hate, pain. And then, you screamed. It echoed like a banshee cry as you bucked under him, seizing, clawing, and then went limp. Dean froze, arms still locked around you.

“Dean? Dean? It’s done!” Sammy’s voice called through the phone. Dean swallowed, heart pounding. You were breathing again.

“We’re good Sammy.” Dean’s voice was raspy as Sam said something about heading back and the phone clicked off. “…Hey,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “You still with me?”