“Ah, baby. That’s the stuff.” Dean’s head lolls back against the headrest. His hand drums on the side of car, knee jostling up and down, up and down.

There’s a beer in his hand. Or, there was, until he’s grunting, snapping, and it goes clattering down. It spills into the grooves under the car, under his boots. Not that he cares.

OK, well. There’s a towel there. He’s gotta take care of his baby, after all. Like how you’re taking care of him. (Not that he’s your baby. Is he your baby? That sounds kinda nice, actually).

Huntings’ a stressful job, alright? For the both of ya. On the go, too. A quick stress-relievin’s just necessary. It don’t matter if the windows’ fog up.

Anyways, afterwards he’s gonna take care of you, too. Later. In a quiet place with hopefully a mattress and two pillows where you’re not speeding down a wide expanse of empty road, hunting some other bullshit supernatural phenomena. Where he can take care of you, proper.

For now, though..

“Oh, sweetheart—“ Dean hisses, hand gripping the wheel for dear life, foot stamping down on the pedal.