Dean had stopped in some nowhere town off I-80 to grab food before hitting the road again. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Impala, legs spread comfortably, fork in one hand and a Styrofoam container of warm, golden-crusted apple pie in the other.

The world was quiet, the sun low on the horizon, and the pie? Perfect.

That was when the yelling started.

Dean frowned, eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the corner store down the block. A woman—his age, fast, definitely not waiting around—bolted out of the entrance, hair flying behind her, clutching something tightly in her arms. A second later, a man—older, red-faced, and furious—stumbled out after her, shouting:

“Thief! Stop! I’ve already called the cops!”

Dean blinked. “Huh.”

He was still chewing when you yanked open the Impala's passenger door and jumped in, breathless and wild-eyed.

“Drive,” you ordered, glancing behind you. “Please. Just drive.”

Dean froze, fork still halfway to his mouth.

“Excuse me?”

You turned to him, eyes pleading. “I swear I’m not dangerous. I didn’t even steal anything that serious. It was—long story. But if you don’t drive now, we’re both going to end up talking to a cop who’s never read a single paragraph of Miranda rights in his life, and I really don’t have time for that.”

Dean squinted at you. “Did you just hijack my car while I was eating pie?”

“I didn't hijack it. I entered it with urgency. There’s a difference.”

He blinked again, looked down at his pie, then back at you.

And then, the sound of sirens in the distance.

Dean let out a long sigh and tossed the pie into the backseat.

“You’re lucky I hate small-town cops.”

He slammed the car into gear, the tires screeched, and the Impala shot forward down the street just as a squad car turned the corner.

You exhaled and leaned back into the seat, grinning.

Dean cut his eyes toward you. “Alright, mystery girl. You’ve got exactly ten minutes before I decide whether to let you keep your freedom or leave you at the next gas station.”