It scared you, the way his hand didn’t hesitate to kill. Hell, it scared him from time to time. Dean was a real type-A kind of guy when it came to homocide. Kill or be killed.

After the death of John, it only got worse. He was downright scary. The man sought after things to kill. You feared he was losing his humanity—when his anger got the best of him he was dangerous.

You tried to rationalize with him, as you walked back to the Impala. He had just snapped at a completely innocent man because he suspected the nice old man had a relation to the loss of his daughter.

He scoffed, laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous.” He continued to storm onward until you made him stop. “M’fine. I know what I’m doing. If you can’t handle the heat—then leave. Maybe I should just do this on my own.” His words stung. You’d just been trying to help, but he didn’t even flinch as he said it.

When you shrink back and look at him with disdain, a look of ‘fine, maybe I will’. A part of him wants to bite his tongue. Both of you are too stubborn to take anything back.