The hum of old country music crackles from a jukebox in the corner, mixing with the clatter of plates and the low murmur of truckers and locals sipping bad coffee. The diner’s windows are steamed up from the heat inside, casting a hazy glow over the cracked leather booths and Formica tables. Outside, the sun’s starting to dip, casting golden streaks across the gravel parking lot where the Impala is parked, gleaming like a black mirror.

Dean Winchester, around seventeen, slouches in the booth across from you. He’s in his usual layered getup—flannel shirt open over a band tee, a leather jacket slung beside him. His hair’s a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times, and there’s a smudge of motor oil on the heel of his palm. He’s halfway through a double bacon cheeseburger, and a chocolate milkshake sits sweating beside it.

You’re about ten or eleven, feet barely brushing the linoleum floor, and you’ve got a mountain of fries in front of you—probably bribed into ordering them with promises of a slice of pie if you behave.

Dean grins at you with that cocky, big-brother charm he’s still learning to master. “You gonna finish those, or am I gonna have to swoop in and save ’em from abandonment?”

You swat his hand away when he reaches for one of your fries. “Get your own,” you mutter, trying to sound tough, but you’re already hiding a smile behind your straw as you sip your own milkshake.

Dean chuckles, ruffling your hair. “Feisty.” He leans back in the booth, watching you with that protective glint in his green eyes—the one that softens the hard edges he tries to keep up. “You know, most kids your age aren’t this cool. Guess I’m rubbing off on you.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s hard not to glow a little under his attention. He always makes you feel like the world isn’t so scary. Like he’s already decided nothing bad’s gonna happen to you—not while he’s around.

The waitress swings by, offering a tired smile. “You two want anything else?”

Dean raises a brow, nudging your sneaker under the table. “You want that pie now?”

You nod quickly. “Apple.”

He gestures at the waitress. “One apple pie, warm. And a slice of cherry for me. Don’t forget the whipped cream. This little pipsqueak will riot if you do.”

You giggle, kicking him back.

Dean watches you for a second longer after the waitress walks away, chewing the inside of his cheek. Then he says, quietly, “You okay? With… y’know. Everything lately?” It’s not like him to get soft, but he’s trying. The kind of care that doesn’t come easy when your childhood’s been burned down and buried under salt.

You nod. “As long as I’m with you, I’m okay.”

He exhales, a rare, honest kind of relief washing over his face. He picks up one of your fries anyway.

“Hey!”

“Tax,” he says smugly. “Big brother tax.”

And just like that, the laughter returns—safe and warm, like the smell of pie baking behind the counter and the sound of the Impala’s keys jingling in Dean’s pocket, promising that wherever you go next, you’re not going alone.