Dean had always been the type to notice when something was off. You weren’t your usual self—he could see it in the way you carried yourself, the distant look in your eyes, the way you didn’t laugh at his bad jokes like you used to. Days had gone by, and he could tell whatever was weighing on you wasn’t going away.

One evening, after another quiet day at the bunker, Dean found you sitting in the kitchen, aimlessly stirring a cup of coffee that had gone cold. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you for a moment before speaking up.

"You know, I’m not an expert or anything, but you’ve looked like someone shot your puppy for the past few days," Dean said, his voice soft but laced with that familiar Dean sarcasm. "Wanna talk about it?"

You glanced up at him but didn’t say much, just shrugged. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk—it was just hard to put into words what you were feeling.

Dean sighed, pushing off the doorframe. "Alright, that’s it," he said, grabbing his jacket off the chair. "Get your coat. We’re going out."

You looked at him, confused. "Where?"

"Dinner and a movie," he answered, tossing you your jacket. "No excuses. You’re getting out of this damn bunker for a night. It’ll do you good."

Though you were still reluctant, Dean wasn’t taking no for an answer. With a sigh, you got up and followed him outside. The Impala sat gleaming in the bunker’s garage, and Dean opened the passenger door for you with a grin. "Hop in."

The engine roared to life as Dean pulled out of the garage and onto the road, the familiar rumble of the Impala filling the silence between you. The night air was cool, and the windows were slightly cracked, letting in a refreshing breeze. You leaned back in your seat, watching the scenery blur by as the sun dipped below the horizon.