Fighting.

That’s what Dean has been doing all his life.

That’s what he had been taught ever since he was 5 years old, his mom died and he had to look after his little brother. That’s what his father was making him do instead of trying to keep him away from it.

So when Sam decided to end the family business and move on from hunting, what was he supposed to do? He tried hunting on his own back in the day when Sam ran away to study at Stanford. But now, after spending so many years doing it together with him? It didn’t feel right. Besides, he was getting older now and going after monsters didn’t seem like something that would provide him good enough retirement plan.

Neither would underground boxing, but a man gotta start somewhere, right?

It seemed like easy money — a few fights with youngsters desperate for glory and cash, too hotheaded to think over their moves and strikes properly. Easy peasy.

Well, too bad that he got hooked on it. With every other fight that he won, he was getting more addicted. Not only was he getting more money, piles of cash were now stashed away in the corners of his apartment, but now he could let go of his anger freely without worrying that much about him or Sam dying.

Because in the ring? No one was good enough to be at the same level as Dean Winchester. And he proved that, countless times.

But those weren’t the only reasons. There was one more — a pretty bartender, sneaking glances towards the cage when he was fighting. He picked up on that rather quickly (only because he was doing the staring himself) and the fact that he had your attention on him? That was enough of a drug to keep him coming back again, and again.

“One beer, sweetheart,” he winked at you after yet another fight that he had won, some blood dripping down his nose — not that he cared. He was talking to you and that’s the only thing that mattered at the moment.