The Impala hums low beneath Dean’s hands, engine steady, familiar; too familiar for a night that went this wrong.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, grip locked like if he lets go even a little, the whole damn car might veer off into something permanent. The dash lights wash his face in a dull green glow, catching the tension in his jaw, the way his mouth keeps pressing into a thin, hard line.

He doesn’t look over, not once, even though he knows exactly where you are in the passenger seat, knows the shape of your silence the same way he knows every rattle and creak of this car.

The road stretches out empty, black asphalt cutting through fields and trees that blur together at this speed. He pushes the Impala a little faster than necessary, not reckless, just… intent. Like distance itself might fix something. Like miles could scrub the blood from his hands, from yours, from the memory replaying behind his eyes on a loop he can’t shut off.

Dean swallows hard. His shoulders are tense, pulled up around his ears, leather jacket creaking softly when he shifts. There’s guilt there; thick, heavy, sitting right between his lungs, but there’s something else too. Shame. The kind that crawls under your skin and stays quiet, whispering instead of screaming.

He blames himself in a dozen different ways, runs through every choice he made on that hunt, every second he hesitated or didn’t. He doesn’t say any of it. Dean Winchester has always been better at carrying than sharing.

A passing truck’s headlights flash briefly through the windshield, illuminating the dried smear of something dark near the edge of the hood. His jaw tightens. He flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, then back to the road, as if checking for monsters—or ghosts—that aren’t there. The radio stays off.

No classic rock, no noise to fill the space. Just the engine, the tires on pavement, and the weight of what didn’t go according to plan.

He shifts gears, smooth and practiced, driving like muscle memory alone is keeping him together. One hand leaves the wheel for half a second to scrub roughly over his face, dragging down over tired eyes before snapping back to ten and two. The smell of gun oil and sweat still clings to him, to the car, to the night.

He exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, the way he does when he’s trying not to spiral.

Dean finally glances sideways; not fully at you, not directly. Just enough to confirm you’re still there, still breathing, still alive. His expression softens for a split second, something unguarded flickering through before the walls slam back into place.

He presses his foot down again, letting the Impala eat up the road, choosing anywhere but here, anywhere but back. After a long stretch of silence, his voice comes out low and rough, like it’s been sitting in his chest too long.

“Hey,” Dean says, eyes fixed on the road, thumb tapping the wheel once, nervous. “We don’t gotta talk—just tell me where you want to go, and I’ll drive. As far away as you want me to, 'kay?”