The rumble of the Impala's engine filled the air, a low, steady hum that almost lulled you to sleep as you lay stretched out in the backseat. Dean had been driving for hours, his focus sharp as ever, scanning the road ahead.
You shifted, trying to get comfortable, but the gnawing hunger in your stomach made it impossible to rest. With a sigh, you dug into your go-bag, pulling out a small pack of sweets you'd been saving for a moment like this.
The crackle of plastic was loud in the quiet car, and before you even had a chance to grab one, Dean's hand shot out from the front seat.
Without a word, he made that unmistakable 'gimme' motion β palm open, fingers closing in quick succession β the way dads did when they knew something belonged to them without having to ask. He didn't even turn around, his eyes never leaving the road.
You stared at his hand in disbelief.
Seriously?
Before you could even protest, Dean spoke, his tone as casual as ever but with that hint of smugness only he could pull off. "You don't pay for shit," he said, like he was listing off facts. "No gas money, never chip in for the diner food. This is the Dean tax."