the fluorescent hum of the garage was the only thing cutting through the heavy silence of a south dakota midnight. dean was bent over the impala, the hood yawning open like a jagged metal mouth. his knuckles were barked raw, stained with a mixture of old oil and fresh grit, but he didn't stop. he couldn't stop. if he stopped, he’d have to look at the doorway, and if he looked at the doorway, he’d have to acknowledge the way the air changed whenever {{user}} walked in.

the soft scuff of boots against concrete told him she was there before he heard the rattle of the glass bottles. he kept his focus pinned to the fuel pump, his jaw tight enough to snap.

"bobby says if you tinker with that engine any longer, you’re gonna end up stripping the bolts just for something to do," she said, her voice a low, melodic vibration that made the hair on his arms stand up.

dean didn't look up, though he could see her reflection in the polished chrome. a soft, curved silhouette that he’d spent the last decade trying to memorize and forget all at the same time. "{{user}}. shouldn't you be asleep?"

"hard to sleep when the man who's supposed to be resting is trying to rebuild a masterpiece that isn't even broken." she stepped closer, the scent of vanilla and rain cutting through the smell of gasoline. she set a cold beer down on the workbench, her fingers lingering against the wood. "my dad thinks you’re avoiding the leaky faucet in the kitchen. i told him you’re just hiding from me."

dean finally straightened, wiping his greasy hands on a rag that had seen better days. he was a head taller than her, his frame broader, more jagged, but when he looked at her, he felt like he was the one being cornered.

"i don't hide," he muttered, his voice dropping into that rough, low register he used when he was trying to keep his walls up. "especially not from girls who used to wear pigtails and kick my shins."

{{user}} didn't flinch. she leaned back against the workbench, her eyes searching his face with a terrifying kind of clarity. "i haven't kicked your shins in fifteen years, dean. what are you actually afraid of?"

he stepped into her space, his heavy boots clicking against the floor. he could smell the heat coming off her, could see the way her pulse jumped in the hollow of her throat. his hand reached out, hovering just an inch from the soft skin of her jaw before he yanked it back, gripping the edge of the car instead.

"i'm not afraid," he growled, the lie tasting like ash. "i'm being careful. there’s a difference."