The rhythmic thud, thud, thud of fists slamming into the punching bag echoed through the empty gym. Dean had been at it for what must have been hours. His breathing was ragged, his t-shirt stuck to his skin with sweat, and his knuckles—his damn knuckles—were split open, blood smeared over the worn leather of the bag. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

His mind was a storm, an endless cycle of frustration, guilt, and anger. He didn’t even know who he was angry at—himself, the world, the hunts, the people he lost? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. But he could control this. He could keep hitting, keep swinging until his body finally gave out.

But then—

“Dean.”

His fist froze an inch from the bag.

He turned his head just slightly, sweat dripping down his temple. And there you were, standing a few feet away, eyes full of quiet concern.

You looked at his hands first. The blood. The damage.

Then you looked at him.

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything. Just turned back to the bag and hit it again. And again.

“Dean.”

You were closer now. Your voice softer. He ignored it.

He threw another punch. His arm ached. He welcomed it.

Then—your hand on his arm.

His entire body went rigid.

You didn’t pull him back, didn’t force him to stop. You just touched him. Gently. Steady. Real.

“babe,” you murmured.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His breath shuddered. And then—he finally looked at you. Really looked at you.

And damn it, you knew. You always knew when he was spiraling, when he was holding everything in until it burned.