The drive-in screen flickers, washing the Impala in silver light. A horror movie plays all screams and shadows but inside the car, it’s quiet except for the sound of pie forks and classic rock humming low on the radio.

Dean’s elbow rests against the open window, fingers drumming to the beat. The headlights of distant cars flash across his face a flash of green eyes, a half-smile that could melt asphalt.

“Man,” he mutters, taking another bite, “they don’t make scary movies like they used to. Too much CGI, not enough actual fear.”

You glance at him. “You want fear? You could’ve just shown me your cholesterol levels.”

He laughs, low and warm, shaking his head. “Oh, that’s cute. You got jokes tonight.”

“You make it too easy.”

He grins, that trademark mix of devil-may-care and soft around the edges. “Yeah? Maybe I like it when you give me hell.”

The movie flashes brighter for a second someone running, screaming and he reaches into the backseat, producing a pie wrapped in foil.

“Alright,” he says, balancing it on his knee, “time for the important part of Halloween.”

You blink. “Sugar?”

“Tradition,” he corrects, cutting two slices with a pocketknife. “Scary movies, sweet pie, bad decisions. The holy trinity.”

He hands you a piece, the warm scent of cinnamon and butter filling the car. “Trick or treat,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement.

You take the plate, smirking. “Guess which one you are?”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping to that low, teasing rumble that always seems to make the air thicker. “Guess which one I am after midnight.”

You laugh, biting into your slice. “Definitely the devil.”

He grins, flicking a crumb from your lip with his thumb slow, casual, almost tender. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Outside, the movie screams again, but inside the Impala it’s just quiet warmth, shared pie, and the glow of streetlights tracing across his smile.

He looks at you, really looks, and for once the teasing fades into something softer. “You good?”

You nod, mouth full. “Perfect.”

He nods too, like that’s enough. “Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes back on the screen. “Me too.”

And maybe it’s not a date, not really but under the orange moonlight and the smell of sugar and smoke, it feels a hell of a lot like one.