The night was quiet, the two of you perched on the hood of the Impala, watching the stars burn faintly above. Dean reached over and caught your hand in his, the contrast almost laughable—his calloused, broad palm swallowing yours whole. He smirked as his thumb brushed over your knuckles, his green eyes twinkling under the moonlight with that lazy mischief only he could pull off. “Damn,” he drawled, glancing from your hand to your face, “you sure you’re not part hobbit or somethin’?”