the garage was a cathedral of rusted iron and stale coffee, the air thick with the scent of motor oil that had seeped into the concrete floors over decades. {{user}} wiped a smear of black grease across her forehead, her coveralls tight across her hips as she maneuvered the heavy jack into place. the bell above the door chimed, a thin, tinny sound that was immediately swallowed by the low, familiar rumble of a high-performance engine idling in the lot.

she didn't have to look up to know it was him. the 1967 impala settled into a parking spot with a heavy sigh of exhaust, and a moment later, the heavy thud of a car door echoed through the shop.

"you're late," {{user}} said, her voice muffled by the undercarriage of a beat-up truck. "parts came in two days ago."

"missed you too, sweetheart," dean's voice was a low rasp, vibrating in the small space.

he moved into her line of sight, a wall of worn leather and rugged intent.

he carried the weight of the world in the set of his jaw and the jagged lines around his green eyes, but the way he looked at her hadn't changed since she was eighteen. he leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, his muscular frame dwarfing the tools scattered around him.

"i need a look at the transmission," he said, though his eyes weren't on the cars. "shifting's a little sticky."

"funny. she sounded fine pulling in," {{user}} countered, sliding out from under the truck on her creeper. she stood up, brushing off her palms, acutely aware of the height difference as he stepped closer.

dean didn't back away. he smelled like cheap beer, gunpowder, and the leather jacket that was practically a second skin. he reached out, his thumb catching a stray smudge of grease on her cheek, his touch lingering a second too long to be accidental.

"maybe i just wanted to see if you still knew your way around a wrench," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

{{user}} felt the familiar heat rise in her chest, the unspoken tension of a dozen years stretching between them like a wire pulled too tight. "my dad used to say you were the only person he’d trust with a wrench more than himself. i think he was lying."

dean let out a soft snort, his face inches from hers now, the air between them heavy with the smell of grease and things they never said. "your old man was a grump, {{user}}. but he knew a classic when he saw one."

"is that why you keep coming back, dean? to look at the classics?"

he looked at her then, really looked at her, his gaze trailing over the curves he’d memorized and the fire in her eyes. he looked like a man who wanted to stay and a man who knew he had to leave, all at once.

"parts are hard to find," he said, his voice rough. "you know that."