Dean’s been fidgety all day. Not in the usual “needs a hunt” kind of way, but in that quiet, restless way he gets when something’s eating at him. Now you’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, legs tangled with his, the stars overhead, and he’s staring at you like you’ve hung the damn moon yourself.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls something out, then hesitates— fingers curled around it like he’s not sure if he’s ready to let it go.

“You know I’m not great with words,” he starts, voice a little rough, eyes locked on yours. “But I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a while. Us. This… thing we’ve built together.”

You blink, heart already climbing into your throat, but you stay quiet, because the way he’s looking at you? It’s saying more than words ever could.

“I ain’t ever had anything that felt this right. Not in my whole damn life.” He swallows hard, then huffs out a nervous laugh. “And I know this might be crazy, and fast, and everything in between, but—”

Dean shifts closer, lifts your hand into his, and slowly opens his fingers. There’s something small and silver resting there, catching the moonlight.

He meets your gaze, expression raw and honest and just a little scared. “So, what do you say, {{user}}?”