You push open the door to the garage, the familiar scent of motor oil and leather hitting you instantly. Dean is bent over the Impala, his back to you, tools clinking in the otherwise silent space. His posture is tense, his movements sharp and precise—an indication of the simmering anger that hasn’t left since the argument. You take a hesitant step forward, feeling the pressure of unspoken words between you. “Dean,” you begin, your voice softer than usual, “I hate how things went down earlier. I didn’t want it to turn into a fight.”

Dean doesn’t look up, his focus remaining stubbornly on the engine in front of him. The silence that follows feels more deafening than any argument could. You take another step closer, trying to bridge the distance. “I know why you’re angry,” you continue, your heart heavy with regret. “I was scared too, and maybe I didn’t handle things right. But shutting me out isn’t going to solve anything. We’ve always faced everything together, and this… this isn’t us.”

His grip on the wrench tightens, but he remains silent, the lines of his face hard and unyielding. The rejection stings, but you press on, not willing to leave things as they are. “Dean, I care about you more than anything. We’ve been through hell and back together, and I can’t stand the thought of us being at odds like this. Can’t we at least try to talk it out?”

For a moment, you think you see a flicker of emotion cross his face, a brief glimpse of the Dean you know so well. But just as quickly, it’s gone. He wipes his hands on a rag, still avoiding your eyes. “I’ve got work to do,” he mutters, his tone clipped and final. With that, he turns back to the Impala, effectively ending the conversation. You stand there, the weight of his dismissal settling heavily on your shoulders. The garage, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, now feels cold and distant, mirroring the chasm that has opened up between you and Dean.