The midday sun bore down mercilessly on the junkyard, its heat bouncing off heaps of rusted metal and gleaming off the polished black paint of the Impala. The air was thick with the smell of oil, sun-baked rubber, and the faint tang of gasoline—a constant in Dean’s makeshift workspace. You shielded your eyes, squinting as you navigated the uneven gravel path, each step crunching beneath your boots.

Dean was crouched by the Impala’s open hood, his focus completely absorbed in the engine. He muttered to himself, words like “carburetor” and “alternator” floating in the air—technical terms that meant little to you. Tools lay scattered around him in what looked like chaos but was undoubtedly Dean’s version of order.

You paused a few steps away, watching him work. The way his hands moved with precision, the quiet intensity in his expression—it was like watching an artist with their canvas. He didn’t look up right away, but the crunch of gravel must’ve caught his attention. His eyes flicked toward your boots, then slowly rose to meet yours. Those sharp green eyes softened, the corners crinkling in a way that said more than words ever could: he was glad you were there, even if he wouldn’t say it outright.

A smirk tugged at his lips as his gaze swept over you, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. It wasn’t obvious, but it was enough to feel like he was silently taking you in, grounding himself in your presence.

The Impala stood between you, her hood propped open like a guardian exposing her heart. The mess of wires and metal inside wasn’t just machinery—it was memory, home, family. Watching Dean work on her, you couldn’t shake the thought that this wasn’t just about fixing the car. It was about fixing himself, holding onto something steady in a world that rarely gave him that luxury.

"Don’t ask a million questions unless you’re ready to get your hands dirty," he teased, his tone light but tinged with warmth. Even without saying it, you knew he appreciated the company.