Written by: KariGorsuch

I let out a loud curse, rolling out from under the Mustang. "God damn it!" I muttered, wiping my hands on the old, greasy rag I had tucked into my back pocket.

I stood up, glaring at the car. It had been a long couple days of frustration. Bobby and I had unloaded Beauty the day after we got here , and I'd spent the better part of that afternoon jacking it up on bricks, making sure the rims were safe from the ground. The tires sat off to the side, waiting for new ones.

Now, a few days later, I was dealing with the damn fuel tank. The bolts were rusted solid, refusing to budge no matter how hard I tried. My patience was running thin.

Bobby had already told me to take my time, but the truth was, I couldn't. Not with the way Jared and Nick had treated the car- No way was I letting it slide.

"Come on, you bastard," I grumbled under my breath, trying to get the wrench in place. But no luck. The rust was like a damn fortress.

The worst part was, I had no idea what those assholes had done to it. If they'd put sugar in the tank, I'd have a nightmare on my hands. Fuel lines would be clogged, the engine would stall, and that would just be the beginning. I didn't have the time nor the patience to deal with that right now.

I readjusted my grip, teeth clenched, and gave it once last, furious turn. The bolt finally gave, but it felt like a small victory.

"Finally," I muttered, wiping the sweat off my brow. But even as I pulled the tank out, the question nagged at me- what else had they done?

A loud thud came from behind me. I turned half expecting Bobby to be standing there, ready to give me shit. Instead, it was Dean, setting down a set of new Mickey Thompsons.

Dean straightened, brushing off his hands and flashing me a lopsided grin. "Heard you cussing up a storm out here. Figured you'd need these." He gestured toward the tires, their glossy black surfaces a stark contrast to the dusty salvage yard.

I nodded, glancing at the Mickey T's. "Thanks. What do I owe you for them?"

Dean waved a hand dismissively, leaning casually against the side of the Mustang. "Forget about it. Consider it a welcome-to-the-crazy train gift."

I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. "Since when are you the welcoming type, Winchester? You were all for Eve and I returning to a 'normal life'.

Dean smirked, crossing his arms and leaning more comfortably against the Mustang. "Yeah, well, normal's overrated. Plus, you and Eve? Normal's never gonna be in the cards. So, I figure if you're stuck with this circus, you might as well ride in style."

I shook my head, unable to fight the small smile tugging at my lips. "You're full of it, you know that?"

"Part of my charm," Dean shot back, tapping the roof of the Mustang. "So, what's the deal with Beauty here? You're yelling at her like she owes you money."

"Fuel tank," I sighed, holding up the rusted bolts for him to see. "Rusted solid. Finally got them out, but I'm half-expecting to find something worse. Jared and Nick would absolutely be the kind of people to put sugar in the gas tank. I've got to drop the tank so that I can dump it."

Dean's expression darkened slightly at the mention of those names. "Bastards. Want me to take a look? Two sets of eyes are better than one."

I hesitated for a moment. Dean didn't exactly scream "gentle touch" when it came to cars, but then again, he knew his way around an engine better than most. "Fine. Just don't break anything, okay? I've already got enough problems."

Dean raised his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Hey, I'm a pro. Trust me."

I rolled my eyes but stepped aside to let him take a closer look at the fuel tank. He crouched down, inspecting the rusted bolts I had struggled with, and then ran his fingers over the exposed metal.

"Not bad for a couple of amateurs," he said, his voice low as he worked. "But you're right. If Jared and Nick did anything to this tank, we'll know soon enough."

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the car, watching him. "Let's hope it's just the rust. I don't have the time or the patience to deal with anything else."

Dean glanced up at me with a raised eyebrow. "You know, you keep saying that, but I don't think you believe it."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

He let out a breath, wiping his hands on the rag before standing up. "You're stressed. I can tell. Whatever Jared and Nick did to this car is just the tip of the iceberg, Bri. You're letting it pile up—this whole thing with Eve, with everything you've been through lately."

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

"I'm not judging. Hell, I get it. But you can't fix everything with this car," he said, gesturing toward the Mustang. "Sometimes you need to fix yourself."

I froze, the weight of his words settling over me. I'd been trying to hold it together, bury the frustration and worry in the tasks that needed to be done, but the truth was, Dean was right. I hadn't been dealing with everything that had happened.

I swallowed, nodding slowly. "I know. I just don't know where to start."

Dean shrugged, his tone light but his eyes serious. "You're already starting, Bri. You're still here, still fighting. But don't forget to take a breath, okay? You can't fix it all in one go."

I let out a small laugh, though it was tinged with exhaustion. "I guess that's some kind of advice from the king of 'I can fix anything'?"

He grinned, tapping the hood of the car lightly. "Maybe not everything, but most things, yeah."

We fell into a brief silence as we both looked at the Mustang. Finally, Dean clapped me on the back.

"Alright, let's see what we're dealing with here," he said, changing the subject as he crouched down next to the fuel tank again. "If we're lucky, we just need to flush the lines and replace the fuel pump. Let's hope it's not more than that."

"Here's to hoping," I muttered, pushing the worry aside. Between the two of us, the fuel tank was dropped fairly quickly. Emptying the tank, we changed out the fuel filter for a new one that Bobby had picked up.

Dean wiped his hands on the rag and stood, surveying the work we'd done. The Mustang's fuel tank was back in place, the lines flushed, and the new filter securely installed.

"Not bad, Bri," Dean said, a satisfied grin spreading across his face as he stepped back, giving the car one last once-over. "You actually know your way around this thing."

I snorted, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. "You act surprised. You really think I don't know my way around an engine?"

Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "I don't know, you seem to be better at yelling at cars than fixing them."

"Shut up," I muttered, though I couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corner of my mouth.

He chuckled and clapped me on the shoulder. "You've got the mechanic skills, no doubt. Just make sure you don't get yourself too deep into all this. It's good to fix things, but you can't do it all by yourself."

I shot him a look. "Is this another one of your 'take it easy' speeches, Dean?"

"I'm just saying..." He trailed off, glancing around the yard before returning his gaze to me. "You've been busting your ass since we rolled in. You gonna slow down before you keel over?"

I sighed, rolling my shoulders as I wiped my hands on a rag. "I'm fine, Dean. I've been taking breaks. Just not the kind you'd consider breaks." I gave him a pointed look, trying to brush off the concern, but the weight of his words hung in the air between us.

Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah? And what kind of breaks are those?"

I didn't look up as I started sanding the body of the Mustang, the rhythmic motion almost soothing in its simplicity. "You know, the kind where you keep working but pretend you're not. It's called multi-tasking, Dean."

He rolled his eyes, picking up the other sander and starting to work on the other side. "Are you taking this down the primer?"

I shrugged, still focused on the smooth curve of the Mustang's body. "Yep, stripping it all the way down. No point in slapping on new paint if the prepwork isn't done properly."

Silence fell between us, the steady hum of the sanders filling the air as we both worked. The rhythmic motion of the tools was oddly calming, the sound steady and constant, like the world outside had momentarily stopped moving.

Between the two of us, it didn't take long for us to get the mustang sanded down bare metal, and then to put a new coat of primer on.

Once the final layers of dust settled, we stepped back, assessing our work. The Mustang now stood bare, its surface smooth and ready for a fresh coat of paint. The transformation was satisfying—there was something about stripping away the old, the worn-out, and revealing the potential beneath.

Dean wiped his hands on a rag, his gaze shifting from the car to me. "Not bad, Bri. Not bad at all."

I grinned, feeling the weight of a job well done. "Told you I knew what I was doing."

Dean chuckled, tapping the roof of the Mustang. "Yeah, yeah. I'm starting to believe you."

I stood back and admired the work for a moment. There was still a lot left to do—primer, new paint, finishing touches—but for now, it felt like progress.

Dean broke the silence. "So, what's next? You think you'll be able to take a breather after this?"

I glanced up at the setting sun, surprised at how much time had passed. "Actually... I think I'm done for the day. I'll paint her tomorrow."

"Okay, good..maybe you can help me with something." Dean smirked as we both started back towards the house.

The house was quiet, save for the sizzle coming from the kitchen. Curious, I poked my head in and found Bobby standing over his stove, a cast iron skillet sizzling as the smell of something hearty filled the air. "You've been busy," Bobby remarked without turning around, his tone gruff but tinged with curiosity.

"Yeah," I replied, stepping fully into the room. "Got the mustang sanded down and primered, yesterday. She's ready for paint."

Bobby glanced over his shoulder, his sharp eyes giving me a once-over. "And you look like you're ready for a long nap."

I grimaced, deflecting with a grin. "What's cooking? Smells better than gas fumes, I'll give you that."

Bobby huffed, turning back to the skillet. "Hash and eggs. Figured it'd keep you girls upright for another few hours, at least."

I moved to sit at the dining table, catching a small movement out of the corner of my eye, only to realize Sam was awake too, fully engulfed in the book he was reading, either not noticing or ignoring mine and Bobby's exchange.

"You're up early," I muttered, stretching and rubbing my back.

Sam glanced up, his eyebrows lifting slightly, concern flickering in his gaze. "Couldn't sleep. You alright?"

I nodded, forcing a small smile. "Couldn't sleep anymore. My back and ribs disagree with the bed, and my joints don't appreciate the cold. I'm fine."

He set the book down, his gaze narrowing slightly as he sat up. "There it is again. 'Fine.' You know, that word's starting to sound like a warning."

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "I'm fine, Sam. Really. Just sore. Nothing new."

Sam's brow furrowed, his concern deepening into frustration. "You keep saying that, but it's not true and you know it. You're pushing yourself too hard. You can't keep ignoring your body like this."

I shot him an irritated look, leaning forward in the chair. "I'm fine, Sam. I don't need you to babysit me."

"Maybe you should let someone help before you break something," he retorted, standing up from the couch and taking a step toward me. "You're not invincible, Bri. I don't know what you think you're proving, but it's not worth it."

I clenched my jaw, the irritation simmering just beneath the surface. "I'm not asking for your opinion, Sam. I don't need anyone telling me what I can and can't do. This is my problem, not yours."

Sam's eyes flashed, and he stepped closer, lowering his voice but the tension was clear in every word. "You keep saying that, but you're pushing everyone away. Do you even hear yourself? What are you trying to prove, Brianna? Because it sure as hell isn't working."

"Why don't you mind your own damn buisness?" I snapped, standing up straight and shoving my feet into my boots. "You have no fucking idea-"

" - Hey!" Eve's voice struck through the tension, appearing in the office, glaring at Sam's strong, firm stature. She rubbed the back of her head, flipping her hair out of her face, "Sam...back off bro...it's not even 7:00AM."

"Speaking of proving shit that isn't working..." Sam muttered, his voice dripping with bitterness as he glared at us, earning twin glares back. I scowled at Eve when she moved past, earning a pat on the head like a damn dog. "...freakin' books." He grumbled, tipping a pile of books over with his shoe.

Shoving my arms into the jacket that was thrown over the chair, I stormed out of the kitchen, heading to the Mustang, breakfast forgotten.

The steady rhythm of the spray gun was oddly soothing, the hum of the compressor providing a constant backdrop as I moved methodically over the body of the Mustang. The dull glare of the primer was long gone, replaced by a smooth layer of metallic black paint that was slowly bringing Beauty back to life.

I was focused, concentrating on getting every curve and edge just right. My movements were precise, but even so, my mind wouldn't quiet. It kept circling back to the argument with Sam- his words, his damn concern, the way he couldn't just let me be.

The paint dried faster than I expected, and by the time I finished one side of the car, I could already see the subtle differences- a glossy black sheen where once it had been the dull primer. The transformation was starting to take shape, but it wasn't enough. Not for me.

A few hours had passed, and my back was beginning to protest. Sweat dripped down my forehead, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. The mustang was looking damn good, but I wouldn't stop until it was perfect.

Just as I was about to turn back to the paint can, I heard the crunch of boots on gravel behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Sam.

"Thought I might find you here," he said, his voice guarded by still carrying the underlying frustration from earlier. "You've been at this for hours."

"You've been at this for hours." I mocked, turning away from him. My voice grew sharper. "I told you already. I'm fine."

Sam's jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms. "Yeah, you keep saying that, but we both know it's bullshit. You can't keep this up."

I slammed the paint container down, harder than necessary, the metallic clang echoing through the garage. "What the hell do you know about it, Sam? You're so damn sure that you've got me figured out. Newsflash- You don't. You don't even know me."

Sam stepped forward, his arms unfolding, the tension in his shoulders palpable. "Don't know you? Are you serious, Brianna? I watched you face down a werewolf, barely knowing how to kill the damn thing. You got hurt, and then assulted later that same night. Yet you're still here, pushing forward."

I flinched at the reminder of the hunt, and the following events. I could ignore the bruises, pretend they weren't there. My hands trembled, pent up energy having nowhere to go. "I don't need a lecture. I'm handling it my way."

"Yeah? And how's that working out for you?" he shot back, stepping closer. "You're barely holding it together. You use the mustang as an excuse to avoid the rest of us."

"Stop trying to fix me!" I shouted, my chest tightening at his words. My hands shot out, shoving at his chest. "I don't need you to save me, Sam!"

Sam didn't budge, his feet firmly planted as I shoved at his chest. His eyes locked on mine, calm but unyielding. "Again," he said, his voice low, steady, almost daring.

My breath hitched, my fists trembling at my sides. "What are you trying to prove?" I spat, but my voice cracked, betraying the emotion bubbling underneath.

"I'm not trying to prove anything," Sam said, his tone softening, though his gaze never wavered. "But you've got a lot to let out, and I'm standing right here. Go ahead, Bri. Hit me again."

I clenched my jaw, anger flaring in my chest like a fire. "Why? So you can feel like the bigger person? So you can say you helped me?"

"No," he replied, his voice firm. "Because you're pissed, and you need to let it out. And better me than a wall or a car you've poured hours into."

I stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. My chest heaved with uneven breaths as the frustration, the pain, the helplessness surged through me like a tide I couldn't control. Before I could stop myself, my fist shot out, landing on his chest with a solid thud.

It wasn't enough. I swung again, and then again, my emotions pouring out in every hit. Tears blurred my vision as I kept going, my voice breaking with a choked sob. "You don't get it! You don't get how it feels to carry this—to not know if you're strong enough, or smart enough, or fast enough! To have to prove yourself every single day!"

Sam shifted on his feet, his arms coming up to block my next swing, the movement fluid and practiced. "If you're gonna hit me, do it right," he said, his voice calm but with an edge of challenge. "C'mon, Bri. Show me what you've got."

I froze for a moment, the surprise catching me off guard, but the pent-up frustration still burned in my chest. "What are you doing?" I snapped, stepping back but clenching my fists tighter.

"You want to hit something? Fine," Sam said, squaring his stance and holding his hands up, palms open like a sparring coach. "But you're not gonna get anything out of flailing. Fight me like you mean it."

The sheer audacity of his words reignited my anger, and before I could think twice, I lunged forward, pulling from my Army training.

Sam reacted instantly, his hands moving to block my strike, the sharp sound of skin meeting skin echoing in the garage. "Better," he muttered, shifting his weight and dodging as I threw another punch. "But you're still leading with your emotions. Focus."

"Shut up," I snapped, spinning into a kick aimed at his side. He stepped back, deflecting it effortlessly with his forearm. The fluidity of his movements only pissed me off more.

"You're letting your anger control you," he said, his tone maddeningly calm as he circled me. "It's clouding your judgment. If this were a real fight—"

"I know how to fight!" I snarled, charging forward with a flurry of strikes. Sam blocked most of them, but one punch slipped through, landing against his ribs with enough force to make him grunt.

"Good girl," he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips despite the pain. "Now you're starting to think."

I froze for a split second, my breath hitching at his tone. "Don't call me that," I growled, the words low and sharp as I advanced again, aiming a solid jab at his shoulder.

"Stop holding back," he taunted, stepping in close and deflecting my next hit. "If you're mad, be mad. You've got the skill—use it."

I gritted my teeth, my muscles burning with the effort of every swing. "You want me to hit you that badly? Fine!" I spun into another kick, this time catching him off guard as it connected with his thigh. He stumbled slightly but quickly recovered, his grin replaced with a serious expression.

"That's more like it," he said, his voice low, steady. "But now you're leaving openings."

Before I could react, he shifted forward, his movements swift and precise as he swept my legs out from under me, guiding me to the floor.

I hit the ground with a grunt, the impact jarring but not as painful as it could have been—Sam had made sure of that. He crouched over me, one knee between my thighs.

His hands hovered just above my shoulders, not pinning me but close enough to remind me he was in control if he needed to be. His eyes locked onto mine, steady and unreadable, though there was no trace of the smugness that had been there a moment ago.

"You done?" he asked quietly, his tone calm but firm.

I glared up at him, my fingers twitching for the knife in my boot.

Sam's eyes flicked to the movement of my hand, and his brow arched slightly, a warning in his gaze. "Don't even think about it, Bri."

"Get off me," I growled, my voice sharp as I tested the strength of his hold. I shifted, reaching since he wasn't pinning me, not really. Shoving up at his shoulder, I caught him off guard and managed to roll us so that I was on top. Bracing my hands on his chest, I heaved in a deep breath.

Sam's eyes widened just slightly, his expression flickering with something close to surprise and a bit of heat. But that didn't stop him from shifting his weight beneath me, attempting to regain control with practiced ease.

"Not bad," he murmured, his voice low, but there was no trace of victory in it. He wasn't giving up, and neither was I. His hands slid up my legs, settling on my hips.

The air between us was tense, thick with the aftereffects of the fight and the lingering heat of our bodies pressed too close. His hands on my hips felt too intimate, too heavy, but I held my ground, pushing against the primal instinct to react with more violence.

I clenched my jaw, glaring down at him, trying to ignore the wild beat of my heart. "You're not winning this," I said through gritted teeth, shifting my weight to keep my advantage.

He smirked, shifting his hips under mine.

"I already have."

I froze at his words, the smirk in his voice pulling at something deep inside me. My pulse quickened, and the heat between us seemed to intensify. I could feel every inch of his body beneath mine, his hands still resting on my hips, his fingers tightening slightly as though he were holding onto something more than just the moment.

"You really think you have this, Sam?" I asked, my voice dangerously low, trying to mask the shakiness I felt. I wasn't sure if it was the fight or something else—something much harder to admit—that was getting under my skin.

He dropped his hands from my hips, one hand snaking behind my back as the other pushed him up slightly.

"Yeah. I do." Sam smirked, sitting up enough to where I was straddling his hips. His words were a challenge, but there was an undercurrent of something I couldn't quite place.

My heart hammered in my chest, and the shift in the air between us felt like an electric charge, crackling with tension. I couldn't look away from him, not even as my breath quickened. I swallowed hard, trying to steady myself, but it was getting harder to ignore the pull between us. The fight had stopped, but now, there was a different battle waging.

"You're really pushing this, huh?" I murmured, my voice steady despite the heat creeping up my neck. I could feel his breath on my skin, too close, too intimate. My hands hovered over his chest, unsure whether I should push him off or pull him in.

Sam's smirk faded, his expression unreadable now. He didn't say anything at first. His eyes locked onto mine, an intensity there that I couldn't ignore. Slowly, deliberately, his hands slid up my sides, making me tense instinctively, as though ready for another fight. But it didn't come.

Instead, his touch was lighter, almost hesitant. "What's wrong, Brianna?" His voice was a low murmur, barely above a whisper. "Too much, too soon?"

I held my breath, still unsure if I wanted to move away or close the distance between us even more. My chest rose and fell rapidly, my body a storm of emotions I couldn't quite process. I didn't answer him right away, not trusting my voice, not trusting myself.

"You're acting like you want to make this about something else," I said finally, my words laced with frustration and a touch of vulnerability that I didn't want to admit. "But you're not being honest with me."

Sam's gaze softened just a fraction, the hard edge to his demeanor slipping away. "I'm not the one who's hiding, Bri. We both know you're keeping something back."

The words hit harder than I expected. His eyes never left mine, and the way he said it, as though he already knew the truth, made me realize he might've been right. Maybe I was hiding. But I couldn't let him see it. Not now, not like this.

I pushed against him, not with force but with a sudden realization that I needed space to think. To breathe. "Get off me, Sam," I whispered hoarsely.

He didn't immediately respond, but after a long moment, he slowly moved, allowing me to stand up, my legs shaky beneath me. I didn't meet his eyes. I couldn't.

"I didn't mean to push you," Sam said quietly, his voice rough around the edges, but there was no mocking in it now.

I just nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. There was too much between us, too much I wasn't ready to face. And the truth? I wasn't sure I ever would be.