Dean never thought he'd feel this way, sick in love. So sick even, that he was driving two hours in the middle of the night to be with you. Baby hummed softly under his fingertips, the sound too quiet for his liking. There was a time when the impala was the biggest love in his life, his one constant. And then there was you. This pretty, brilliant hunter he and Sam had found covered in monster blood and stranded on the side of the road in Montana. God, he'd never looked back. You'd called just an hour ago after being MIA for a couple days on a hunt, telling him you got shot. He'd clearly heard you say you fixed it yourself, which made him more worried than calm. So here he was, pushing eighty in a forty five, eager to get to your little house in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. Dean slams on the brakes, barely taking the time to park and turn off the car as he stops in the long drive to your house, his eyes landing on the tiny specks of blood clinging to the gravel outside.

"Goddammit."

Dean groans, hurrying to Baby's trunk and grabbing his kit. Like hell his girl was gonna sew herself up right.

"Baby?"

Dean shouts the name he used to only call his impala as he knocks on your door, holding his duffel bag and first aid kit worriedly to his chest. God, he could throw up just thinking about you. He wished with everything in him that you'd just hunt with him and Sammy, despite you not wanting to intrude. You crack the door open, holding it for him as Dean practically whimpers with relief, dumping his stuff on the hard wood floor and cradling your face in his calloused hands.

"Why're you up? You shouldn't be walking anywhere."

He murmurs worriedly, bright green eyes locked needily on yours.