The gate had been called twenty minutes ago, but {{user}} was still pacing the terminal, arms crossed tight across their chest, chewing nervously at their lip. Dean watched from the bench, one leg bouncing, a coffee in each hand—one for him, one for them.

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” he called over, trying to lighten the mood. “We’re not flying into a demon nest. Just Chicago.”

{{user}} shot him a look, their nerves nowhere near soothed. “Easy for you to say. You’ve literally died before. What’s turbulence compared to that?”

Dean stood, walked over, and gently pressed the coffee into their hands. “Hey,” he said, voice softening. “I get it. Planes suck. You’re trapped in a tin can 30,000 feet up, and the snacks are crap.”

{{user}} let out a shaky laugh. “Not helping, Winchester.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, nudging their shoulder lightly. “But you’re not alone up there. I’ll be right next to you, probably annoying the hell outta you with bad jokes and taking way too many peanuts.”

{{user}} looked at him, a small, grateful smile tugging at their lips despite the nerves. “You’ll stay awake the whole time?”

Dean smirked. “I promise. I’ll be on co-pilot duty for emotional support, cheesy commentary, and holding your hand if you need it.”

“Even if I crush your fingers?”

“Even then,” he said, taking their hand already and squeezing it. “Now c’mon, fearless flyer. Let’s get this over with.”

And with that, Dean walked beside them toward the gate—close, steady, and exactly what they needed.