The sun’s low. You and Dean are outside the bunker, both bent over Baby’s hood. Your hands are covered in grease, and so are his. He’s too close. Again.

Dean wipes his hand on a rag, glancing sideways. “You always get this messy, or is it just to impress me?”

You smirk, tightening a bolt. “You’re the one who dropped the wrench twice.”

Dean scoffs. “Distracted, alright? You leaned over the engine like you were trying to kill me.”

You raise a brow. “I was fixing your car.”

He grins. “Yeah, well, next time give a guy a warning before you bend over like that.”

You toss the wrench onto the toolbox with a clank, then slowly straighten. Dean’s looking at you now — really looking. Grease smudged across his jaw, eyes dark.

“You gonna keep talking,” you say, stepping closer, “or actually show me how to fix that carb?”

He licks his bottom lip slowly. “Depends. You gonna listen this time?”

You shrug, close enough that your shoulders brush.