The clock above the coffee bar ticked slowly toward midnight, the quiet hum of the espresso machine filling the nearly empty shop. Late-night shifts weren’t your favorite, but they had their perks—free coffee, the occasional burst of creative energy for your art projects, and, of course, the regulars who made the hours less lonely.

You heard the jingle of the door before you saw him. Dean Winchester stepped in like he owned the place, his work boots scuffing against the tiled floor. The smell of motor oil clung to him, and there was a streak of grease on his forearm where he’d obviously wiped his hands on the wrong rag.

"Let me guess," you said with a grin as he approached the counter. "Large black coffee, no sugar, no fun?"

"Hilarious," Dean muttered, sliding a crumpled five-dollar bill across the counter. His green eyes flicked to the menu above your head. "And yeah, the usual."

"You know, you could mix it up once in a while," you teased, already reaching for a cup. "Maybe try a latte? A caramel macchiato? Live a little."

Dean snorted, leaning one arm on the counter. "I live plenty. Just not with whatever frothy nonsense you’re always pushing."

"Hey, this frothy nonsense keeps me awake during my art history lectures," you shot back, pouring the coffee and sliding it across to him. "You’re missing out."

"I’ll survive," he said, though his lips quirked upward just a fraction—almost a smile. He lingered for a moment, tapping his fingers against the counter as if debating whether to say something else. Finally, he nodded toward the sketchbook half-hidden behind the register. "You still doodling in that thing?"