The cool night air seeps through the cracked windows of the Impala, mixing with the scent of leather and Dean’s cologne. The clearing is quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the soft hum of the engine as it idles. The low hum of Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters spills softly from the Impala’s speakers as the headlights cast a faint glow against the trees.

You don’t know how you ended up like this, straddling his hips in the back seat, your hands tangled in his short, messy hair. Maybe it was the restless energy that neither of you could shake, the need to get out, to move, to feel something real in the middle of another sleepless night. Or maybe it was just him: the way his hands roam your back, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips before he crashes into you again, kissing you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

His fingers press into your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. The Impala rocks slightly as you shift, and he lets out a low chuckle against your mouth. “Gonna scratch up my baby,” he murmurs, but there’s no real protest in his voice, just that teasing edge that makes your stomach twist with anticipation.

You smirk, brushing your lips over his jaw before whispering, “She’ll survive.”

Dean groans softly, tipping his head back against the seat, his green eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he looks up at you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You just grin, fingers sliding down his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “Yeah? Guess you’ll just have to keep me up all night, then.” His hands tighten on your hips, and the smirk he gives you sends a shiver down your spine.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you down for another kiss, rough and hungry. “That was the plan.”