𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒. || 𝘥. 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳

𝟎𝟎𝟑 ⌖ backseat hitchhiker

♫ || problem child ►ac / dc

en route: jericho, california
oct. 31, 2005 // morning

𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 '67 Chevy Impala had a surname, it would be Winchester. There was very little discussion on the matter, mainly because Dean had the end-all opinion and didn't tolerate any dissenters. But also because Sam could care less, and Fitz was contractually obligated to keep her mouth shut.

And to her credit, she had. Once Sammy had packed his things and thrown his bag in the trunk, he'd given Fitz a look that demanded more answers. From Sam, it was more of a polite investigation, a tug at the curtain: does Jessica know?

"She doesn't."

Those were her last words, spoken about two hours ago. She'd attempted to listen to her own music through a walkman, but Dean blasted his metal loud enough to make her ears bleed, and sang even louder than that. Fitz got about one and a half songs through before switching it off and chucking it into her bag. She'd resorted to staring out the window, counting road signs and playing I-Spy by herself as they cruised down the I-5. She was very quiet, and that worked out very well for Dean Winchester.

"Uh, Dean?"

He didn't hear her. Well, maybe he did, but the music was loud. Real loud. Bass-bumping loud, head-hurting loud, heart-thudding loud. And a lot more enjoyable than anything she had to say.

"Dean!" Fitz yelled from the backseat. Reluctantly, his eyes dragged up to meet hers in the rearview mirror, turning the volume down.

Her hair was pulled back now, framing her face, which somehow seemed paler than it did last night. He couldn't tell if it was the bleak winter sunlight's fault or something else entirely. He jerked to attention as she waved something in the mirror — a roll of bandage.

"Can we pull over? I need to fix my stitches."

Dean blinked. Blinked again. Craned his neck back to look at her. Beside him, Sam did the same. "Are you kidding me? You're asking now?"

"Please keep your eyes on the road," she squeaked. Dean did no such thing. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb you—"

Dean glanced at Sam, who nodded and unfolded the map. His slender fingers traced the roadlines before coming to a stop, his brows knit. "There's a gas station just up here. Hey," he said, elbowing Dean. "Eyes on the road."

"Please do," Fitz said. Was her voice shaking?

The older Winchester adjusted his grip on the wheel, his head facing the road but his eyes glued on the woman in the rearview mirror. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Her reflection didn't meet his gaze, instead glancing out the window, absentmindedly, like he was asking her about the weather. "I mean... I figured you didn't want blood on your seats. I'm not gonna bleed out or anything." Her eyes locked onto the gas station as Dean pulled in, gravel crackling on the undercarriage. "I just need five minutes."

Dean's mouth twitched — a half-grimace — his fingers drumming at the wheel. He turned to his brother. "I'm gonna go get breakfast. What do you want?"

"I'm not really—"

"Sounds good."

"Get gas," Fitz mumbled under her breath, but he was already halfway out of the car.