The first thing you notice is the quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind—Dean hates that kind of quiet—but the good kind. The kind that smells like pine and damp earth, with the sound of birds rustling overhead and the occasional snap of a twig under his boots as he moves around the campsite.

Spring suits him in a weird way. There’s something about the soft green light filtering through new leaves, the distant hum of water somewhere nearby, the way his face looks more relaxed out here—less hunted, less haunted. You’re not sure if it’s the open air or the fact that the monsters feel a million miles away, but he’s breathing easier, and that makes you breathe easier, too.

He’s got a flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, beer in hand, smirking at you from across the fire like this whole thing was his idea even though you were the one who brought it up.

“You know,” he says, tossing another log onto the fire and sending sparks shooting into the soft blue dusk, “I always figured camping meant running for your life from something with too many teeth. This? This is... kinda nice.”

You smile, because yeah. It is. There’s something sweet about the way he keeps checking your marshmallow to make sure it’s not burning, the way he casually drapes a blanket over your shoulders when the air turns cooler, pretending it was no big deal.

“You ever do this as a kid?” you ask.

He pauses for a second, beer halfway to his lips. “Nah,” he says. “Closest we got to camping was sleeping in the car with the windows cracked and a monster on our ass.”