Dean stood frozen in the driveway, hands on his hips, staring at the long, jagged scrape running down Baby’s side like it was a mortal wound. His jaw clenched so hard you could hear it, but then his eyes cut to you—his beloved, guilty-faced princess—and he visibly tried to reel himself in.

“Sweetheart,” he started, voice low and trembling like he was holding back an earthquake, “please… please tell me that’s just dirt.”

When you winced, his head tipped back in silent agony before he muttered, “Oh, for the love of—” He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something about ‘breathe, Dean, don’t scare her, she’s still the love of your damn life.’