𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Impala had broken down ten minutes ago, steam curling up from under the hood like the car itself had decided it’d had enough of the day. The road was narrow, its edges eaten away by creeping weeds, and the silence around you felt heavier than it should have. The sky was the kind of dull gray that promised rain without delivering, and the humid air clung stubbornly to your skin.

Dean walked just ahead of you, his boots crunching against the gravel with a steady rhythm. He’d slung your bag over his shoulder without a word, keeping his own on the other, the straps pulling faint creases into his shirt. You hated to admit it, but the gesture had been annoyingly decent of him. Not that you’d ever thank him for it.

You and Dean had never gotten along. He’d always seen you as a kid, despite you only being a few years younger than him. And you’d always seen him as a complete asshole—loud, cocky, and too quick with a smirk. Not to mention, a man-whore.

The 10 minutes together since the Impala broke down had been completely silence, other than the sound of the crunching gravel beneath your feet. It was too hot to talk. Too hot to walk really, but you had no choice. You had to get to the bunker and the Impala wasn’t an option anymore. The million hour walk to Bobbys annoyingly isolated bunker was just starting.

“This is all your fault,” he said over his shoulder, breaking the quiet as he shifted the weight of both bags. His tone was casual, almost lazy, but you caught the sharp edge beneath it.