Dean had always preferred the open road, with the rumble of Baby's engine beneath him. Flying was for people who wanted to be caged in a metal tube, hurtling through the sky.

It was a sentiment he'd never shared with anyone, not even you, his best friend. He kept his fear buried deep, a secret he never intended to reveal.

But when you received a tip about a series of mysterious disappearances in a remote town on the other side of the country, driving wasn’t an option. You had to fly.

Dean had reluctantly agreed, hiding his anxiety behind a mask of bravado and a "give 'em hell" attitude to get the job done.

The day of the flight, Dean’s anxiety simmered just beneath the surface. You noticed his unusual quietness and the way his fingers drummed incessantly on his thighs as you approached the terminal.

“Hey, Dean, you okay?” you asked casually as you waited in line to check in.

“Yeah, just peachy,” Dean replied, his voice slightly strained. He forced a grin, but you could see through the facade.

The tension escalated as you boarded the plane. Dean’s eyes darted around, taking in every detail of the cramped cabin. He took his seat, and you noticed his hands gripping the armrests like they were life preservers.

You asked him again if he was okay.

Dean’s eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, he seemed to struggle with how to respond. "I — uh, I’m just not a big fan of flying," he said, his voice betraying his attempt to downplay his terror.