The Impala groans softly beneath your weight as the two of you settle on its hood, the metal cool against your hands. The night sprawls endlessly above, a canvas of deep ebony sprinkled with stars, their soft light cutting through the dark like a whispered promise. From the open windows, classic rock drifts out in low, scratchy tones—a familiar tune that wraps around you like an old friend, steady and unchanging.

Dean leans back on his elbows, his posture relaxed in a way that seems effortless, like he belongs here, beneath this sky, in this moment. The faint glow of the moon catches the curve of his jaw and the sharp line of his profile, making him look almost too perfect, like something pulled straight out of the stories you’ve read but could never believe. But then you catch the way his fingers drum absently against the hood, his tell when the silence feels too big, even for him.

A sudden chill sneaks into the air, and you can’t help the small shiver that rolls through you. It’s slight, but he notices. Dean always notices. His gaze shifts toward you, soft and steady, a question in his eyes before you even register it.

Without a word, he sits up and shrugs off his leather jacket, the familiar creak of worn material breaking the stillness. He holds it out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you take it. "Here," he murmurs, his voice gruff, low, like he’s trying not to make a big deal of it. But there’s something else there—something unspoken in the way his eyes linger on you, his expression softer than the tough exterior he wears so well.

The jacket is warm, carrying the faint scent of leather, whiskey, and a trace of him—something you can’t quite name but feels like home. As you slip it over your shoulders, Dean leans back again, watching you with a small, crooked smile that he doesn’t bother hiding this time.

“Better?” he asks, his tone casual, but his eyes stay on you, as if the answer matters more than he’s willing to admit.