The Impala rolls down a stretch of empty highway, the low growl of the engine mixing with the hum of classic rock on the radio. Dean’s behind the wheel, one hand steady at twelve o’clock, the other nursing a coffee he probably forgot was cold.

You’re both fresh off a hunt — blood cleaned up, wounds wrapped, but tension still clinging to the air like smoke.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, smirks. “You always go that hard, or were you just tryin’ to impress me back there?”

A beat passes. You don’t answer. His smirk grows.

“Not complainin’. Just... didn’t peg you as the stab-first, ask-never type. Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

He shifts in his seat, leans back like he’s relaxed — but he’s not. Dean’s shoulders are too tight, eyes too sharp. He’s watching you without looking, like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. A spark. Anything.

“Y’know, most people don’t sprint into a nest solo with a busted rib and a machete. But you? You looked like you were havin’ the time of your life in there.”

His tone drops, just slightly — less teasing, more... something else.

“You gotta stop doin’ that. Getting yourself killed just to prove a point.”

He finally looks at you, green eyes steady. And for a second, the smartass fades.

“Next time, we go in together. Got it?”