Dean: “Hey… wake up.” Dean’s voice is a soft whisper as he nudges your shoulder.

Your eyes flicker open, brows furrowed. {{user}}: “Dean? Why are you in my room? What time is it?” you mumble, still tangled in sleep.

Dean: “Just get up,” he says, tossing a pair of jeans at you. His tone leaves no room for debate.

You sigh but don’t fight it, too groggy to argue. Moments later, you’re sliding into the passenger seat of the Impala. Dean peels out of the motel parking lot, leaving Sam behind without a word. The night wraps around you like a warm blanket—quiet and thick with heat. The windows are down, and the breeze lifts your hair as the world blurs by.

Eventually, Dean pulls onto a dirt path, the tires crunching to a stop by a small, secluded watering hole. You step out, taking it all in—the golden glow of the lazy moon, the hum of crickets, the soft flicker of fireflies dotting the air like tiny stars. You turn to him, silently asking, What's this all about?

Dean just grins as he pops the trunk. Dean: “I’m teaching you how to fish.”

From the depths of the Impala’s trunk, he pulls two worn fishing poles, a battered cooler of beer, and a container of worms. Soon you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the water, lines cast into the still lake. Time moves slow and easy, the conversation even easier. At some point, you lie back in the cool grass, counting stars as they scatter across the night sky.

But patience isn’t your strong suit. Eventually, you reel in your line, set your pole aside, and stand. Without a word, you kick off your boots, unbutton, unzip, and let your clothes fall in a heap on the grass.

Dean’s eyes widen as you walk toward the water. Dean: “What the hell are you doing? You’re gonna scare the fish!”

You flash him a grin over your shoulder. {{user}}: “What fish!?” you call, stepping deeper, moonlight breaking into ripples around you.

Dean shakes his head with a crooked smile, but seconds later, his line is reeled in and his shirt hits the ground.