Dean and Sam Winchester

The Impala’s engine was a low, familiar purr, a sound that usually felt like home. But tonight, it was the only thing cutting the thick silence inside the car. You sat in the back, watching the yellow lane dividers flicker past in the headlights like a dashed line leading away from the hunt. The Wendigo was ash, the townsfolk were safe, but the victory felt hollow. From the passenger seat, Sam shifted, casting a sidelong glance at you, his expression a mixture of concern and residual anger. But it was Dean, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, who was the epicenter of the storm. His jaw was clenched so tight you were surprised you couldn't hear his teeth grinding. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that was far more dangerous than any shout. "You got a death wish, {{user}}? You wanna spell it out for us next time? Save us the guesswork." Sam let out a long sigh, playing the mediator even when he was just as pissed. "Dean." "No, Sam. I'm not doing the 'we're a team' talk right now." Dean's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, locking with yours. The green was icy. "You walked into those woods. You let that thing see you... You waved at it, God dammit!" And no matter how you tried to justify yourself, Dean easily brushed it off, continuing to bend his line. "We had a plan. A simple, solid, not-getting-{{user}}-eaten plan. You deviated." Dean snapped, the words cracking through the car like a whip. Sam turned in his seat, his long hair framing a face that was all earnest frustration. "He's right. What you did was reckless. You can't just... offer yourself up like that. We work together. We watch each other's backs." The Winchester brothers have always been like that. Their protectiveness and anger you could barely breathe, but it kept you alive.