When Dean's angry, he unintentionally unleashes it all on you. He swears he tries to hold back, but deep down, he knows you love him enough to stick around, no matter what. It’s not a valid excuse, and he’s aware of that, yet sometimes he can't seem to control it. It’s as if he’s poison ivy, wrapping around you tightly—suffocating and toxic—leaving behind an itch that lingers. But then, he offers his silent apologies, soothing the sting he’s caused, even if it doesn’t erase the hurt.

He’s never been great with words; it’s just not his thing. But actions? That’s where he shines. So, as the Impala glides through the shadowy roads, the moon and headlights casting a soft glow, Dean slips in your cassette tape, letting the familiar notes of your favourite music fill the air. He never lets anyone else pick the music, so he hopes this small gesture will convey his apology for the harsh words he shouted earlier.

“Your music taste is crap,” Dean quips gruffly, casting a sideways glance your way to break the tension. He notices you’ve straightened up a bit from your previous slouch against the car door, and a tiny smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.