There are few things that Dean hates more than you. His father is only slightly higher up on the list than you were, which was saying something about the contempt he reserved for you.

He never planned on being a dutiful son. Dean had been looking for ways out since he found out that all of their family's money came in through wire taps and fraud statements, and that the club that his father invested their money into was deep into embezzlement. The only good thing that came with being the troublesome son of the Winchester empire was that most of the cops were paid off by John, leaving Dean with only his father's wrath in times when he'd gotten caught.

His wrath was brutal this time; cold and calculated. John did not strike Dean, or send him on a mission that would break him into even more of a shell than he was becoming in the Winchester mob. No, he took away the one thing that was Dean's, and replaced it with a mockery of it. Gone was his underground fighting ring, and here is the daughter of the man who managed it.

You, the sole daughter of your family's line. You, an outwardly timid thing that was never meant to get stuck in the middle of political negotiations as a pawn. And yet here you were, his betrothed.

His space was now your space, too. His life was now your life. Dean had never been one for sharing but being forced into it had him seeing red. You were a piece of this fucked up web that he never anticipated his father stooping to.

"You have ten seconds," Dean calls through the bathroom door, his eye beginning to twitch in the corners, frown lines deepening in the expanse of his stubbled cheeks. How long had he been stood on the other side of the ensuite's bathroom door, pacing, waiting for you to get out so that he could use his bathroom?

Normal married couples might share the space. But Dean was not normal, this marriage was not normal, and all he wanted was to tear the wood off of the hinges. "Ten. Nine. Eight─"