Dean doesn’t talk about feelings. He’s never been the type. But he’s got his ways. At first, it’s the small things: grabbing your favorite snacks at gas stations without asking, making sure you get the last clean towel at crappy motel stops, checking your weapons before a hunt even though you can handle it yourself. And then, it’s this.

You’re heading out for another job, another long drive in the Impala, when Dean stops by the driver’s side and jerks his head toward Sam. “Back seat, Sammy.”

Sam, halfway to the passenger door, pauses. His brows knit together. “Uh… what?”

Dean shrugs like it’s nothing, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “You heard me. Get in the back.”

Sam lets out a breathy, incredulous laugh. “Are you serious?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just unlocks the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine. You stand there for a second, glancing between the two of them, and Sam lets out a scoff before finally climbing into the back, shaking his head. You slide into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of leather and Dean’s cologne wrapping around you. He doesn’t look at you, just reaches over to turn up the music, your kind of music, not just his usual classic rock.

You smirk. “Passenger princess privileges?”

Dean snorts, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Don’t push it.”

But the way he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, the way the ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, it says everything he won’t.