You and Dean slid into the worn leather booth of the diner, the smell of fresh coffee and bacon filling the air. It was one of those typical stops on the road: grab a bite, fill up, hit the next town, rinse, repeat.

You and Dean ate in comfortable silence, with Dean blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.

After paying and tipping the waitress, you stepped outside, the cool air hitting your faces. Dean reached into his pocket to fish out the Impala's keys, spinning them on his finger as you walked across the lot.

But then he stopped.

Frozen, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

"Uh..." you started, but Dean had already bolted forward, his eyes wide.

The spot where Baby had been parked — empty.

The only thing left was a dark void on the asphalt, like the Impala had never been there at all.

Dean's hands trembled as he clenched the keys, the metal digging into his palm.

"No. No fucking way," he growled, the words a low rumble. His jaw tightened, and you could practically see the storm brewing behind his eyes. He stood still for a moment, staring at the empty spot, before letting out a string of curses under his breath.

Dean spun around and punched the side of a nearby dumpster so hard it left a dent. "I'm gonna find them. And when I do—" he stopped, his voice shaking with barely restrained fury. "I'm gonna kill the bastard. Slowly."

God help whoever stole Baby, you thought, taking an instinctive step back as Dean's rage boiled over.

He kicked a trash can, sending it flying across the lot, his hands running through his hair in agitation. "I swear to God, when I catch the son of a bitch who did this—" His voice trailed off into something dark and unspoken. There was murder in his tone, no hesitation, no doubt.