Dean was bent over the hood of the Impala, an old blanket protecting the paint from any incidental scratches.

His breath came in breathy gasps as he cursed the man behind him.

“Dammit, Eliot, would you hurry up.”

“Quit yur bitchin’.” I’m goin’ as fast as I can. I have to get it all.” He flipped Dean’s shirt tail out of the way. “Always such a pushy bitch.”

“It’s your fault I’m standing here with my ass in the air.”

“It was my fault last night, too, but I didn’t hear ya bitchin’ about that.” Eliot growled. “’Sides, said I’s sorry.”

“Yeah, well last night you were drillin’ my ass, but not with a load of rock salt!”

With a groan, Dean lowered his head to his forearms, missing the smirk on Eliot’s face as he took the bottle of peroxide out of the first aid kit.