You knew Dean was nervous when he didn’t make a single sarcastic comment about the guy in front of you wearing flip-flops and a cowboy hat.

He just sat there — stiff as a board, gripping the armrests like they were the last two holy relics left on Earth. You glanced at him. Sweat at his hairline. Jaw clenched.

“We haven’t even taken off yet,” you whispered, trying not to laugh.

“I’m aware,” Dean muttered. “This is the part where they slingshot us into the stratosphere in a metal coffin, in case you forgot.”

You leaned in. “You literally died once and came back from Hell. But this is what gets you?”

He turned to you, dead serious. “Yeah. At least Hell had solid ground.”

You tried not to laugh, but when the engines started up, he made a sound somewhere between a groan and a small scream, and you lost it.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, crossing his arms but not letting go of the armrests.

Then came turbulence. Nothing major — just a quick jolt and a dip. You barely noticed. Dean nearly clawed through the tray table.

“Alright,” you said gently, reaching for his hand. “Come on, big guy. Deep breaths. In through your nose…”

“Don’t yoga-instructor me right now, sweetheart.”

“…Out through your mouth.”

He followed your lead, grumbling the whole way, but when your fingers laced through his, his grip softened. A little.

“I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “if this bird drops, I’m hauntin’ the pilot. And you. Especially you. For makin’ me do this.”

You smiled and leaned your head on his shoulder.

“If we crash, at least we’ll die together.”

He snorted. “Romantic.”

“Terrifying.”

“…But romantic.”

And just like that, his muscles eased a bit. He didn’t let go of your hand the whole flight. Not even when he pretended to fall asleep to avoid acknowledging that yes, he might have closed his eyes during takeoff and whispered “son of a bitch” under his breath when the wheels left the ground.

But you felt it — the slight tug of his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The quiet thank you that never made it to his lips.