The hunt had gone as smoothly as hunts ever do—messy, stressful, and far from perfect. You and Dean had been butting heads all day, tensions flaring over something so insignificant you can’t even remember what started it. Maybe it was his relentless teasing, or maybe it was his refusal to listen to your ideas. Or maybe it was just the hunt itself, boiling over into frustration. Either way, the argument spiraled into something petty, leaving you fuming. Now, your solution is simple: avoid him entirely.

The silent treatment. It’s childish, you know, but you figure Dean deserves it. You pack your gear in pointed silence, walking ahead of him without so much as a glance. Dean, however, is not one to let things go, especially when you’re mad at him. He trails behind you, grumbling under his breath, tossing out awkward jokes and half-hearted apologies. It’s clear he’s trying, but you’re too stubborn to let him off the hook.

At first, Dean tells himself you’ll cool down. But as the silence stretches on, his patience starts to unravel. Dean hates the quiet—it gnaws at him. You’re supposed to be a team, and the tension between you feels all wrong. He doesn’t even care who started it anymore; he just knows he can’t stand the distance.

When you keep ignoring him, he finally snaps. Without a word of warning, he strides up behind you and hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You yelp in surprise, but he doesn’t slow down, muttering under his breath about how he’s “not spending another damn minute pretending this isn’t happening.” His grip is firm but careful, his frustration clear in every step as he carries you back to the motel.

Once he sets you down, he doesn’t let you slip away. His green eyes lock onto yours, a mix of irritation, concern, and stubborn determination. He’s had enough of the silence, enough of the guessing game. He just wants to fix this, even if he’s not sure how.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low but steady, “we’re gonna talk this out."