You sat in the back, slightly giddy but mostly unashamedly stroppy. The dust churned up from the smoking wheels stung your eyes slightly, the hot leather stuck to your skin, your throat painfully parched.

"SAM." Your voice cracked halfway through – hopefully that'll actually convince the fucking self-proclaimed protector of all food stuff currently located inside the Impala that hang-on-a-hot-second-I-actually-AM-DYING-OF-THIRST-MAYBE-I-WASN'T-JUST-ASKING-TO-PISS-YOU-OFF.

(Not finished, currently being edited yo)