He stands in the phone booth in the middle of nowhere. Feeling a kind of gnawing guilt he hasn’t felt since the time he broke one of John’s swiss army knives when he was seven.

Dean would be pacing anxiously if he could, but the phone cord was only so long and the phone booth was only so wide.

”C’mon…C’mon…Pick up…”

He taps his thumb anxiously on the edge of phone. He messed up. Big time.

Rain pours down mercilessly, the black sky felt ominous, like it was about to swallow him whole. It felt empty. Loveless. Maybe it reflected what would answer him on the phone. Fuck he didn’t like that thought.

You two had argued. About what exactly he could hardly even remember but he knows damn well he could’ve fixed it. If he hadn’t…done what he did. You two left eachother on bad terms—and in true Dean fashion he took off in Baby, driving aimlessly. No end in sight, no plan for it to end. Until it did end. With the Impala breaking down. The one time his Baby lets him down is the one night he really does need to just drive, drive away.

The glow of the headlights cast a spotlight over the phone booth like even the lighting was mocking him. Dean fucked up and now he’s gotta call {{user}} and beg ‘em to come pick his sorry ass up from no man’s land and tow his Impala.

The phone clicks as you pick up.

Dean swears his heart just slingshotted into his throat. He swallows it back down with a scrunch of his brows.

“{{user}}…?”

He has a lot of apologies to make.