The morning light poured in hazy and golden through the Impala’s windshield, streaking across the dashboard and the empty stretch of road ahead. The world outside was quiet, all fog and dew and the occasional rustle of trees. Dean hadn’t moved in over an hour. Not since you’d nodded off beside him, your head slowly tipping onto his shoulder somewhere between the last diner coffee and the county line.

He could’ve shifted. Could’ve cleared his throat, nudged you upright. But he didn’t. Instead, he let his arm rest gently against yours, breathing slow, steady—listening to the way yours matched his, soft and even. It had been a long night. Salt, iron, screams. This moment felt like a break he didn’t know he needed.

“I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

{{user}} blinked slowly awake at the sound of his voice, still half-curled against his shoulder, stiff from the awkward angle but warm from the hours spent tucked close. The heat of embarrassment crept up their neck as they started to pull away, but Dean didn’t move. Not an inch. A beat passed. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight.

“You think I don’t notice, but I do.”