{{user}} was convinced that Dean was acting like a jerk on purpose. It hadn't just been one of those days; it had been one of those months where everything seemed to spiral out of control, and Dean’s inability to hold his tongue only made things worse. His constant quips and sharp remarks grated on {{user}}'s last nerve until the inevitable argument erupted, a confrontation that felt both unavoidable and, now, regrettable.

Dean leaned in the doorway of their cramped hotel room, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. His eyes were locked on {{user}}, sharp and searching, but there was a flicker of uncertainty there too—like he was waiting for something, a word or gesture that could ease the growing distance between them.

The room was cloaked in an oppressive silence, interrupted only by the soft hum of the air conditioner. The dim, yellow light stretched the shadows across the walls, adding a heavy gloom to the already stifling atmosphere. The remnants of a hastily eaten dinner sat abandoned on the table, cold and untouched since their argument had blown up.

Dean’s mind was a storm of regret and frustration. He knew he’d crossed a line, let his anger spill out in a way that stung more than he’d meant it to. He glanced over at {{user}}, who was focused on unpacking, their movements stiff and deliberate. He could see the exhaustion in their face, the weight of everything they’d been carrying.

"Hey," Dean muttered, the word barely cutting through the thick silence. His voice was rough, his eyes fixated on a spot on the floor. That one word hung there, loaded with everything he couldn’t quite say—a fragile offering, an unspoken apology.

He shifted uncomfortably, feeling exposed without his usual armor of bravado. Vulnerability wasn’t something Dean wore easily, and it only made the silence that followed heavier.