It had been coming for a while now—little disagreements here and there, minor annoyances that you both brushed off or laughed about in the moment. But tonight, something shifted. Maybe it was the stress of the week, maybe it was just one of those days, but the tension had reached a breaking point. You and Dean were having your first real fight. And not just a disagreement or a heated debate—this was a full-blown argument.

At first, you tried to stay calm, speaking in measured tones, as if controlling your volume might somehow keep the situation from spiraling out of control. You thought you could reason your way through it, but the more you talked, the more frustrated you became. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere, and Dean’s responses only seemed to fuel your irritation. He wasn’t getting it—he wasn’t getting you. And that was the spark that lit the fire.

Before you even realized it, your voice rose, words spilling out faster and faster. The steady cadence of your speech cracked and broke, turning into something much more raw, more emotional. You didn’t mean for it to happen, but the anger, the frustration—it all came pouring out like a flood. Your sentences came out sharp, clipped, almost rhythmic in their intensity. Each word hit like a punch, driven by the natural cadence of your accent, which became more pronounced with every passing moment. You weren’t just arguing now; you were practically rapping the words at him, your feelings spilling out like lyrics you didn’t even know you’d been holding inside.

And then, suddenly, Dean froze. His expression shifted, the frustration on his face giving way to something else entirely—confusion, maybe even curiosity. He held up his hands as if calling for a time-out, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at you.

“Whoa—wait. Hold on a second,” he said, his tone completely different now, like he wasn’t even thinking about the argument anymore. “What’s that accent?”