#dysfunctional squad

It was supposed to be a simple road trip. A straight shot from Mystic Falls to New Orleans. No detours. No distractions. No disasters. But that plan flew out the window the moment Damon decided he was the best person to drive.

"GPS is for amateurs," he smirked, ignoring the blinking route on the screen. "Real men trust their instincts."

"Real men also don’t get us lost in Georgia when we’re supposed to be going southwest," you muttered from the passenger seat, clutching the crumpled map like it was the only anchor to sanity in the car.

From the back seat, Klaus gave a low chuckle. "This is delightful. I haven’t been this entertained since the French Revolution."

Caroline, stuck in the middle between a murderous Original and a reckless Salvatore, was already on her third attempt to play peacemaker. "Can we please just follow the map? It’s literally printed with directions."

Damon waved her off. "It’s just a suggestion."

"It’s not a suggestion if it’s the only thing keeping us from ending up in a ditch, Damon," you snapped.

Another wrong turn. Another heavy sigh from you. Yet another overly amused remark from Klaus.

"If he takes one more exit labeled ‘Scenic Route,’ I may compel him to walk the rest of the way," Klaus drawled, resting his head back, utterly unfazed.

Caroline turned to you with pleading eyes. "Please tell me you know where we are."

You pointed at the map. "If we don’t die of dehydration or each other, we might make it to New Orleans by tomorrow morning."

Damon flashed a grin. "See? Adventure builds character."

Klaus hummed thoughtfully. "So does trauma."

The tension in the car thickened with every passing hour. Damon insisted on choosing every pit stop: a suspicious roadside diner with a neon sign that flickered like it was about to short-circuit, a gas station that looked abandoned until a toothless man emerged with a shotgun and a smile, and a bizarre detour into a county fair where Klaus disappeared for an hour and returned with cotton candy and blood on his sleeve.

"Don’t ask," he said with a wink when Caroline noticed. She turned a shade paler than usual, clutching her purse like a lifeline.

As if things weren’t already spiraling, the radio only played static unless Damon hit it just right—then it screeched into heavy metal or country breakup songs. There was no in-between. At some point, you gave up and opened the window, hoping the fresh air would stop the incoming headache.

Nightfall came, and still, Damon refused to admit he was lost. You were running out of snacks, patience, and phone battery. Caroline, bless her overly optimistic heart, kept trying to organize a new route using her nearly-dead phone, but Google Maps had apparently given up too.

"We passed that tree before," you said, your voice dry with exhaustion.

"You can’t prove that," Damon shot back, eyes on the road, smirk in place.

"It has a face painted on it. In red. I think we can prove it."

Klaus, clearly enjoying the spiral, chimed in again. "Perhaps it’s fate. Maybe we’re meant to perish together in the wilds of the South."

Caroline groaned. "Okay, enough! I’m putting my foot down. Damon, pull over. We’re switching drivers."

He raised an eyebrow but kept driving. You reached for the steering wheel.

"Touch that wheel, and I swear—"

"What? You’ll get us lost in another state?" you challenged.

The car swerved slightly, but Damon grudgingly pulled over. You threw open the door, walked around, and yanked open his.

"Move."

Klaus clapped slowly from the back seat. "Bravo. The only sensible one among us."

Once you slid behind the wheel, peace—tenuous as it was—settled over the car. Caroline exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in two hours. Damon sulked in the passenger seat like a grounded teenager.

"Now," you said, eyes on the road, hands on the wheel, "we follow the actual directions. No shortcuts. No scenic routes. No distractions."

"Where’s the fun in that?" Damon grumbled.

"In making it there alive," Caroline and you said in unison.

Klaus chuckled. "Well, this just got less fun. But considerably safer."

As you finally merged onto the correct highway, the city lights of New Orleans shimmering faintly in the distance, there was a collective sigh of relief. And then the tire pressure light came on.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," you muttered.

Klaus laughed. Damon cursed. Caroline reached for the last protein bar and broke it into three pieces.

"If the car explodes, I just want it on record that I voted for flying," Caroline mumbled.