Dean slammed the motel room door, the thin walls vibrating under the force. The hum of the flickering fluorescent lights seemed to echo his frustration, and the tension in his chest only grew heavier.

"Alright, kid, time to hit the hay," he grumbled, his voice strained, tired. He tossed his jacket over a chair and rubbed his face, trying to shake off the weight of the day.

Sam was on the bed, flipping through their father’s journal, his focus completely absorbed in the pages. You, still bent over your notebook, the soft scratch of your crayon filling the otherwise silent room. You weren’t paying attention to the mood; you never did.

He collapsed into the chair across from the table. Everything in him wanted to scream, to release the frustration that had been building for days, years even, but he had to keep it together. Even if it felt like he was about to break.

“Come on, kid,” Dean said, his tone sharpening slightly. “It’s late.”

You didn’t respond. Eyes narrowed in concentration, lost in your own world, as if the world outside your drawings didn’t exist. Dean let out a sharp breath, feeling the pressure behind his eyes building.

He pushed himself out of the chair, his boots making a dull thud against the carpet. The sudden movement made Sam glance up, but Dean didn't care at the moment.

“You wanna keep acting like this? Fine,” Dean muttered, walking over to you. His voice dropped to a harsh growl. "But I’ve had enough."

He grabbed the notebook out of your hands, more forcefully than he intended, and tossed it onto the table beside him. You blinked up at him, the edges of your eyes wet with unshed tears, confusion creeping in.

It made Dean’s stomach churn immediately. The last thing he ever wanted was to make you feel scared.

He swallowed hard, guilt twisting in his gut. It wasn’t just you, he realized. It was him. He was becoming the thing he’d sworn he would never become—the same angry, broken man his father had been.