The rumble of the Impala’s engine is a familiar comfort as it purrs beneath you, the open road stretching endlessly ahead. Sammy’s back at the motel, down for the count with some nasty bug, leaving just you and Dean to handle this vampire nest. Not ideal, but you’ve both seen worse. Dean’s got one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absently on his thigh. His usual classic rock mixtape is playing low, but the second you slide into the passenger seat, he flicks his eyes toward you, then back to the road.

“Go ahead,” he mutters, nodding toward the glove box.

You raise a brow. “Go ahead and what?”

“Pick the music.” You pause, searching his face for any signs that he’s joking. He isn’t. Dean Winchester does not let just anyone touch the Impala’s sound system. He barely lets Sam have a say, and that’s only because Sam’s got the patience to argue him into submission.

So this? This is his way of saying something without actually saying it. This is the closest thing to a damn love letter from Dean himself. You don’t acknowledge it, not out loud. Instead, you flip through the cassettes, eventually settling on something he won’t hate but still leans more toward your taste. When the first chords of “Simple Man” starts playing, Dean glances at you again, just for a second, before huffing a quiet laugh.

“Not bad,” he admits. The tension between you two is always there, coiled like a live wire. Neither of you will ever address it, but it lingers in the shared glances, the way he always moves just a little closer than necessary when you’re loading your weapons, how he makes sure you get the last of the hot coffee in the morning. And now, the way he’s letting you take over his music. You lean back, stretching your legs out a little, watching the lights blur past outside the window.

“Thanks, Dean.” He doesn’t say anything, just taps his fingers against the wheel in time with the beat. But when the song hits the chorus, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch, just enough to let you know he heard you.