The motel parking lot smelled like rain and cheap asphalt, moonlight bouncing off the Impala’s sleek black hood. You stood there, arms crossed, watching Dean slam the trunk shut after a long hunt. He wiped his hands on a rag, then glanced at you with that look—the one that said he thought he already knew your answer.

“So,” he said casually, leaning on the car door. “Where do I drop you off? Nearest bus station? Cheap diner?”

You swallowed hard, fighting the sting in your chest. This was it—the part where you were supposed to walk away like you promised yourself you would. But instead, the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean.”

The rag stilled in his hand. He stared at you, brow furrowed, like he hadn’t heard right. “What?”

“I’m staying.” You took a shaky breath, stepping closer. “I’m tired of pretending I can go back to… to normal. I can’t. Not after everything we’ve seen. Everything we’ve done.”

For a moment, the night was quiet except for the hum of the Impala’s engine cooling down. Then Dean laughed under his breath—soft, almost like relief—and shook his head.

“You know what this means, right?” He tossed the rag into the backseat and turned toward you with that grin, the one that always made your heart feel like it was trying to climb out of your chest. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the keys, and tossed them your way.

You barely caught them before they smacked your chest. “Dean—”

“If you’re staying,” he said, voice low and warm, “you’re riding shotgun.”

You stared down at the worn metal keys in your hand. They felt heavier than they looked—like a promise. When you looked back up, Dean was already sliding behind the wheel, smirk in place.

“Well?” He raised a brow, green eyes glinting in the dark. “You coming, or am I gonna have to teach you the hard way why Baby’s got a ‘no backseat drivers’ policy?”