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"You should know this shit, son!"
John's voice hurts Dean's ears, it makes him jump and the map in his hands harder to read with how bad he is now shaking. He blinks tears away from his eyes, sniffling as quiet as he can.
"You take this damn road near every damn day!" Bobby yells from the backseat, one hand on the middle seat of the front bench. "Don't yell at the boy! It ain't his fault!"
John doesn't yell back. Dean thinks that's what's worse than what he was doing before, his silence settling over the car deafeningly.
They are going 90 in a 65, and Dean is certain he is going to die tonight.
Only the purr of his 67' Impala being the loudest thing, that and the beeping of car horns occasionally and the squeal of tires.
His father is gripping the steering wheel so hard he is white-knuckled. Dean thinks the silence is choking him. Tears fall on the map.
John pulls over to the side of the road, going way too fast and slamming on the brake, sending everyone in the car forward. Dean catches himself on the dashboard, his breaths coming in way too quick.
"I'm done. Bobby, you drive." John announces while forcing his door open with a creak, slamming it so it shakes the whole car.
Dean doesn't move as Bobby slides into the front seat, staring at him for a good 5 seconds as John settles in the backseat.
The once pretty sunset is now swallowed by the darkness of night, no stars visible because of the city highway. Cars whizz past them, Pennsylvania at night still bustling with activity and all going 20 miles over the speed limit.
"Boy, play your music." See, he would, if he wasn't clouded with thoughts of how he just royally fucked up with his dad and would probably be beaten the shit out of when they got to the dingy motel they left Sam at. That's another thing. Dean doesn't know if Sam is alright, when that's his job. He's failed another thing.
He can never seem to get anything right with his dad. Shooting a gun with his wavering hands was easier than telling him simple directions, apparently. He's already asked for so much his whole life, learning to ask for nothing more early on, but he really needed that money a few days ago for Sam. He was starving and he couldn't risk stealing again.
His head tilted to look outside the window, yet his eyes were too unfocused to actually see whatever was out there. He saw how huge the moon was, though. Big and orange, matching the size of a fast food sign he could blearily make out.
His skin bled raw with his nails scraping against it, his arm twitching and too strained to keep gripping the map without creasing it even more or ripping it. His other hand settled, digging into the flesh of his arm.
Dad is gonna kill me.
Bobby's face is illuminated by a red light as he stops, reaching and groaning, mumbling something like 'I'm too old for this shit,' as he grabs for the box of casette tapes at Dean's feet. He throws it into Dean's lap, hitting his arms as he rummages through to find Dean's personally made mixtape.
Bobby shoves it into the tape deck, hitting play as Dean's face flushes red with embarrassment. After all of this, him and his selfishness, now he's playing his own music? He can't even move to eject the tape, and the two times he turned down the volume, Bobby turned it back up.
He stopped full-on crying. He just focused on the feeling of the tears drying on his face, sticky and crusting. He decided he hated the feeling. He couldn't blink back some stray tears, though.
His dad still wasn't saying anything.
Dad is gonna kill me.
They pull up to the motel they rented for the next night or so, Bobby shifting them into park and sitting there for a good moment. Dean is still crying. John is still focusing on the infuriating tear marks down his son's cheeks.
They all get out of the car one by one, John thanking Bobby through mutters and Dean nodding with his head low, then being forced into a hug. Bobby doesn't like hugs.
Bobby gets into his broken down pickup truck and revs off.
Dean is begging him silently not to leave, not to leave him with his dad, not to do this to him. Please, don't do this to him. The other part of his brain is demanding that he deserves it.
"What is wrong with you?" His dad coldly asks.
He can't choke words out to answer.