The rain is relentless, hammering against the Impala’s roof. The car sits dead on the side of the road, steam curling from under the hood, its engine long since given up. It’s just you, Sam, and the storm.

And you’re pissed.

Pissed that the hunt went sideways. Pissed that the damn car broke down in the middle of nowhere. Pissed that Sam has barely said a word since you both climbed out onto the drenched roadside. He just stands there, jaw locked tight, arms crossed over his chest.

So you let it out. The frustration, the exhaustion, the unbearable weight of everything pressing down on you. Your voice rises above the rain as you rant—about the hunt, about the car. The words tumble out, half-formed and sharp-edged.

Sam doesn’t interrupt. He just watches you, his brows drawn tight, his lips slightly parted like he’s waiting—waiting for you to run out of steam, waiting for the right moment. Rain drips from his soaked hair, tracing slow paths down the sharp angles of his face.

And the longer you go on, the more his patience frays. His chest rises and falls in sharp, controlled breaths. He looks like he wants to say something—hell, needs to—but instead, he just clenches his jaw, muscles tight, tension coiled in every inch of him.

And then, without warning, he moves.

There’s a roughness to it, a desperate urgency in the way his hands find your arms, yanking you forward like he’s been fighting this for too long. The space between you disappears in an instant, and before you can get another word out, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is hard, demanding—less of a confession and more of a surrender. It tastes like everything he’s never said aloud. His fingers dig into your soaked clothes, anchoring you there. Like he’s afraid this moment will slip through his fingers before he’s ready to let go.

When he finally pulls back, his breath is unsteady, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the storm.

And just like that, he’s silenced you.