The Impala roared down the open stretch of highway, windows cracked just enough for the wind to catch your hair. AC/DC thundered through the speakers — loud, unapologetic, and perfectly Dean. He drummed his fingers against the wheel in rhythm, sunglasses low on his nose, mouth tilted into that smirking half-grin he wore like armor.

“You reach for my tapes again,” he said, glancing at you with mock-serious warning, “and I’m dropping you off at the next rest stop. Princess privileges don’t cover blasphemy.” He winked, then turned the volume up even higher. “Now sit back. Highway to Hell just hit the chorus.”