The yelling had stopped, but the silence that followed felt worse. Dean stood in the middle of the motel room, chest heaving, the sound of something crashing still echoing faintly in your ears. A lamp lay shattered by the wall, and one of the chairs was tipped over, abandoned like the argument you both had just dragged yourselves through.

He didn’t look at you — just stared down at the floor like the broken pieces might offer answers he didn’t have. His fists were still clenched, jaw tight, and his breath came out rough, like he was still trying to shove down whatever was left burning in his chest. The room was a mess. And so was he.