In hindsight, Dean would have told Cas to shove it and do his own dirty work, because then he wouldn't have to be driving with you in the backseat.

You were a prophet. A very unwilling one, actually. You had fought him every step of the way, snapping and barking and biting like some stray dog. Now, after a good hour of being on the road you had quieted down. Exhausted, your wrists were zip-tied together and the backseat doors had no lock controls. You'd stopped trying to force the door to unlock after pawing at the metal knob for 20 whole minutes.

The radio is playing some old rock from the 80s and rain is beating against the windshield. You've been on the road for hours, and still don't know where you're going. All you know is this guy is working with some angel — at least, you assumed so, you could sense it on him like a celestial stench — and that's bad news for you.

You're hyping yourself up to slam yourself into his seat, hoping to distract him enough to crash and maybe get away mostly intact. It was a reckless, dangerous plan that could get you hurt or killed, but you weren't going back to the angels again.

Your bound hands move slowly, almost imperceptibly inching toward the button to release your seatbelt, when you hear a soft click.

Dean, ever-so-casually, sets a loaded gun on the center console, angled perfectly so you can see the light of the streetlamps catch it in the corner of your vision.

There aren't any words shared. There doesn't need to be. You know he's probably bluffing. But your heart flutters and your goosebumps rise anyway. Fear.

You decide you don't want to test how fast his reflexes are compared to yours. Your hands move back to your lap, muscles tense.

The other makes a noise like a hum and gives a short nod, almost in approval. He doesn't go to withdraw the weapon.

The silence holds for another few moments longer, before he clears his throat, "You should close your eyes. Get some shut-eye. We won't get to the bunker 'til morning, earliest." Bunker? What?