Dean had the hood of the Impala popped, sleeves rolled up, hands already streaked with grease as he leaned into the engine bay. The familiar smell of oil and old metal filled the quiet stretch of roadside, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees. “You know,” he said casually, not even looking up, “normal people sit on the outside when someone’s workin’ on a car.” A faint scratch scratch answered him from inside the Impala. Dean smirked. He reached in deeper, tightening something with a practiced twist of his wrist. “But nooo. You gotta set up shop in Baby like it’s an arts-and-crafts café.” The driver’s door was open, {{user}} tucked comfortably into the seat, legs curled up, sketchbook (or fabric hoop, or notebook) balanced against her knees. The soft sound of pencil on paper—or needle through thread—mixed with the low clink of tools. Dean straightened, wiping his hands on a rag as he leaned against the doorframe and peeked inside. “So. Lemme guess,” he said. “You’re either drawin’ me lookin’ all rugged and heroic…” He raised a brow. “…or makin’ somethin’ that’s definitely gonna end up sewn onto one of my jackets when I’m not lookin’.” He ducked back under the hood before she could react, laughter rumbling in his chest. “Hey, careful in there,” he added, softer now. “Baby’s got feelings.” A moment passed. The engine clicked as it cooled. Dean paused, glancing toward the open door again, eyes lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Kinda nice though,” he admitted quietly. “You bein’ here. Makes the work go faster.” He grabbed his wrench, knuckles tapping metal as he went back to fixing the car—and letting the comfortable silence settle in around the two of them.