Your boyfriend, Dean, sat on the edge of the motel bed, his jaw clenched and hands restless.

The hunt had been chaotic — not a complete disaster, but messy enough to leave its mark on him. You had managed to brush it off, but for Dean, every minor setback felt magnified, the tension building within him like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment.

He glanced at the clock — he had been waiting for you to return for what felt like an eternity. You had stepped out earlier to grab some snacks from the vending machine, a mundane errand that now felt like it had taken forever.

With a frustrated sigh, Dean rose from the bed and began pacing the small room. He couldn't shake the gnawing anger that churned inside him, a beast stirred by the Mark of Cain. Each tick of the clock echoed like a countdown, urging him toward an explosion.

He glanced at the bathroom mirror and was met with his own reflection.

He punched it.

The glass shattered, sending shards cascading to the floor. A surge of adrenaline flooded through him, and for a moment, the pain was a release — a reminder he was still human.

But it wasn't enough.

The rage twisted in his chest, and before he could even register the madness, he knocked the telephone off the wall, the receiver clattering to the ground with a crash.

“Damn it!” he growled, his voice low and primal. He picked up the small TV on the dresser, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It felt good to feel something other than the overwhelming fury.

He smashed it down on the ground, the screen exploding in a shower of sparks.

The lamp followed, flung across the room as if it were a mere toy. Each act of destruction was cathartic, a way to channel the chaos within him.

Just as he was about to throw the dresser against the wall, the door creaked open.

You stepped inside, your eyes widening in horror at the scene before you. The room was a wreck; glass and debris scattered everywhere, and Dean stood in the middle of it, panting heavily, a wild look in his eyes.