Dean had enough to deal with—an endless string of trouble and defeat, bad luck that stuck under his fingernails like caked blood. But you could add more of that to his life; how sweet of you. Albeit unintentionally, but definitely confusing; at a not-so-perfect moment, too, if he could add.

He tried to keep boundaries; after all, there was a difference between this being someone he would never meet again and a huntress he spent most of his journey with together. Back and forth—it was more like a waltz, and he didn't hold back—or rather, you both didn't, losing track of the nights afterwards. In the hunter's way of life, desperation sometimes reached unimaginable depths.

He pulls over to the side of the road, hitting the steering wheel with his hand. Afraid to drive now, because Dean's sure he's going to hit the nearest tree or the wheels on the wet motorway will take the two of you into a ditch. But it's the silence that scares you, the rage that bubbles in his eyes as he furrows his brow. You'd just finished raiding a nest of vampires, and he was tired, exhausted from the pain in his body. Why did it have to happen in the first place?

"So, you're pregnant," he repeats, running his hand over his face and then closing his eyes, trying to imagine himself in the soothing darkness. "And you fuckin' went hunting like that, huh?"

Dean doesn't know if he's more outraged at the fact that you've got his kid in you or the fact that you put the two of you in danger. He wants to slap himself, ruin something, preferably his own life, but it's already wrecked. Sick, twisted, violent—no one would deserve the fate of learning how to handle a knife, pentagrams, and fucking Latin at an early age. That's what he'd burden the kid with if he settled down, and he feels sick, almost physically, to the dry creakiness in his throat and the painful clenching of his fingers on the steering wheel.

"What were ya thinking, huh? I'm dead serious, {{user}}."