Shattered Lamps

The car's headlights fanned over the road, cutting into the stillness of the night. That is, if the night could be called still—someone was grumbling the whole way.

"Why... why did you even take Hale?" Dean muttered, his voice slurred but insistent. His words were slow and fragmented, yet he still managed to sound demanding, anger in him sparking. "What was your... plan? Huh?"

Dean slouched in the passenger seat, the drugs dulling his body but not his frustration. The cult had taken Adriel's command to keep him "relaxed" a little too literally, dosing him into a haze.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," he mumbled, more irritated this time.

Ein's eyes briefly flicked to Dean before returning to the road. "Relax. Hale's dead. The job's done," he said dryly, not inviting anymore questions.

Dean stirred beside him, his head rolling awkwardly against the window. Nonetheless, he made his point to fix Ein with a sloppy glare from a weird angle.