The diner hums with the low buzz of neon lights and the faint crackle of a jukebox trying too hard to compete with the clatter of dishes. Grease and coffee hang thick in the air, a smell that should be comforting after a long hunt but only makes your stomach twist tighter with every second that passes. Dean leans back in the booth like he owns the place, one arm draped lazily across the backrest, the other wrapped around a glass of whiskey he insisted they serve him before noon.

The waitress comes over — blonde, too-bright smile, the kind of woman who’s probably heard every tired line in the book but still laughs at them anyway. And Dean doesn’t miss a beat. His green eyes catch hers, a smirk playing at his lips as he tosses out something smooth, something that rolls off his tongue so easily it makes you wonder how many times he’s said it before. She giggles, tucks her hair behind her ear, leans just a little closer when she sets down his plate.

You don’t say anything — not yet. You just look at him, the kind of look that’s sharp enough to cut through leather and pride alike. The kind of look that says we’ve been here before, Dean, and you promised me this wasn’t going to happen again.

He notices it. Of course he does. He always notices, though he pretends he doesn’t. His grin falters for half a second, then he clears his throat and picks up a fry like nothing happened. Habit, that’s what he’ll call it later. Just a habit, sweetheart, you know it doesn’t mean anything. But right now, the silence between you feels louder than the jukebox, heavier than the whiskey glass he sets down a little too hard on the table.

Your anger simmers in your chest, hot and familiar, but you’re tired of the same argument looping over and over. Tired of raising your voice only for him to shrug and charm his way back in like it’s nothing. This time, you swallow it down, let the storm curl tight behind your ribs instead of spilling out. He glances at you, catches the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers tighten around your fork. His own jaw ticks, like he’s bracing himself, like he knows exactly what’s coming — even if you’re trying not to give it to him.

The food sits untouched between you, steam curling upward and fading just like your patience. Dean clears his throat again, forces a crooked smile in your direction, and says quietly, “What? I was just being nice.”