[ Jesse doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there in the wet gravel at the side of the road, chest heaving like he ran a marathon he didn’t sign up for. He winces at the bruises still blooming across his ribs and his face from earlier, but his focus is locked on the van (his van) angled awkwardly in the ditch. The front bumper’s crooked, nose-down into the mud, engine still clunking away like it thinks it can get out on its own. He swears under his breath. ]
Yeah, I’m fine. [ He responds to Castiel, but his eyes are still surveying the damage. ] But I dunno about my ride.
[ His voice is gravel-laced, tight with leftover adrenaline and the deep-rooted, ever-simmering frustration of someone who’s constantly one shitty situation away from losing everything. He scrubs a hand over his face, pushing his hoodie back from his forehead, then shoots a glance toward the other car (the one that actually caused this whole shitshow). The door flings open, and a guy steps out already halfway into a tirade: ]
You were the one who cut me off! Learn how to fucking drive!
[ The other driver is younger than Jesse, but he can't tell by how much. He's got a neck tattoo, a mouth full of bad attitude, and the kind of overconfidence that usually ends in sirens. He throws his hands wide in a theatrical gesture, like he’s daring Jesse or Castiel to contradict him. Jesse doesn’t rise to it. Not yet. His jaw tightens, hands flexing at his sides. His eyes flick toward Castiel, then back to the loudmouth, then down again at the van, sunk in muck and bad luck. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, trying to bite back the instinct that wants to start throwing punches before asking questions. Instead, he points down at the van, voice low and tight. ]
Oh yeah? Then explain how I ended up in a ditch while your punk ass is still on the road. [ Jesse’s not looking for a fight, but if this guy keeps pushing, he won’t walk away from one, either. What's another bruise or two? His gaze swings toward Castiel again. ] You saw it, right? [ Yep, he's gonna drag you right into this, Cas. ]
no subject
Yeah, I’m fine. [ He responds to Castiel, but his eyes are still surveying the damage. ] But I dunno about my ride.
[ His voice is gravel-laced, tight with leftover adrenaline and the deep-rooted, ever-simmering frustration of someone who’s constantly one shitty situation away from losing everything. He scrubs a hand over his face, pushing his hoodie back from his forehead, then shoots a glance toward the other car (the one that actually caused this whole shitshow). The door flings open, and a guy steps out already halfway into a tirade: ]
You were the one who cut me off! Learn how to fucking drive!
[ The other driver is younger than Jesse, but he can't tell by how much. He's got a neck tattoo, a mouth full of bad attitude, and the kind of overconfidence that usually ends in sirens. He throws his hands wide in a theatrical gesture, like he’s daring Jesse or Castiel to contradict him. Jesse doesn’t rise to it. Not yet. His jaw tightens, hands flexing at his sides. His eyes flick toward Castiel, then back to the loudmouth, then down again at the van, sunk in muck and bad luck. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, trying to bite back the instinct that wants to start throwing punches before asking questions. Instead, he points down at the van, voice low and tight. ]
Oh yeah? Then explain how I ended up in a ditch while your punk ass is still on the road. [ Jesse’s not looking for a fight, but if this guy keeps pushing, he won’t walk away from one, either. What's another bruise or two? His gaze swings toward Castiel again. ] You saw it, right? [ Yep, he's gonna drag you right into this, Cas. ]