Dean Winchester

Dean believed it to be true that once a friendship or a marriage lasts a decade, it lasts forever. Even if it was taking everything in him to last one more year with you, he was determined to make it work.

But your marriage was falling apart.

It started when Dean began to do late-night shifts. Then even on the nights he was home, you began distancing yourself from him in bed. After a certain while, it became obvious.

Eventually, Dean coaxed it out of you.

When you first told him about your suspicions of him being unfaithful, Dean burst out laughing. He wasn't upset; he understood your insecurities. He even justified them.

But enough was enough. Dean was not going to keep rationalizing the fact that he was fucking another person just because he came home late.

The patience he afforded you was wearing thin after putting up with whatever delusions occupied your mind for months now. And Dean was certainly done with spending his nights alone.

It was getting out of hand.

And then one argument ended it all. The next day, both of you collectively spent the better part of the next evening cleaning up whatever either of you had broken, smashed, or cracked.

But did it? Did it all end? Everyone could yell, fight, break things. Navigating through the poisoned air afterward was the hard part. Growing out of it was the hard part.

Letting go was.

But you wouldn't forget the way Dean nearly landed that fist on your face before pivoting to the wall. And Dean wouldn't forget the way that you brought him to the very point of resorting to violence.

Dean apologized. You did, too. But it was hollow.

"How was work?" You asked, placing his coffee mug on the center table, your eyes lingering on the tablet he'd been holding before snapping out of it.

"Awful, suffocating, made me wanna quit and grow chickens thrice. How was your day?" Dean muttered under his breath, passing you a fleeting smile as he leaned forward, grabbing the mug.

"Low stakes, a little less dramatic, but otherwise? Likewise." You huffed, smirking before you walked back toward the kitchen.

"I—Is that my phone?" Dean's eyes narrowed, stopping at the doorframe of the kitchen, the mug he'd come to put back suspended mid-air before his arm fell to his side.

You, meanwhile, stood against the island. Your palms turned sweaty around Dean's phone, feet cold. The last fight? It stemmed from this very breach of privacy.

Dean set the mug, taking a single step inside the kitchen. His mouth was open, as if trying to articulate a response, but his throat felt too tight, too stunned to speak.

"I said—is that my fucking phone in your fucking hand!?"

Dean yelled, his hand whipping out in a fluid backhand that sent the mug sliding over the polished edge of the counter as he advanced.