Dean Winchester was everything you shouldn't like. He was trouble with a smirk—wrapped in worn leather, reckless charm, and those too-knowing eyes that could melt your insides and pierce holes straight through your heart.

He was the kind of boy your parents warned you about. The kind of boy who laughed at rules and made you want to break them too.

And today, you did.

He'd convinced you to skip the last two periods of school, flashing that boyish grin and shrugging like it was no big deal. Senior year’s basically over anyway, he’d said.

You couldn’t really argue with him—and if you’re being honest, you didn’t want to.

Now the two of you sat in the Impala, parked beneath a stretch of trees where the sunlight filtered through in golden waves. A milkshake sat in each of your hands—yours strawberry, his the infamous "Death by Chocolate." The spring air was warm, a light breeze dancing through the open windows. Birds chirped lazily in the distance as soft rock hummed from the stereo.

Everything felt still, slow, perfect.

Dean watched you sip from your straw, your skin kissed by sunlight, your laughter spilling into the car like a song he never wanted to forget. Something in his chest twisted—tight and unfamiliar.

Was this what peace felt like?

He brought his milkshake to his lips, gulping down the cold sweetness like it might cool the warmth in his veins. But nothing could. Not when you looked like that, bathed in honeyed light, eyes bright with mischief and mouth curved into a smile that had no right to hit him so hard.

He swallowed thickly, jaw tightening against the ache that had nothing to do with sugar overload.

“S’good, right?” he asked, grinning at you over the rim of his cup, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little in the light