The Impala is parked on the side of an empty road, the night stretching endlessly above you. The stars are scattered across the sky, but the real light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard, casting soft shadows over Dean’s face. The air is thick with summer heat, making everything feel heavier, slower, like time itself is pressing pause just for the two of you. The hum of the radio plays low in the background—some classic rock song you should recognize, but your mind is too preoccupied to place it. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the night air, carrying the distant sound of rustling leaves and chirping crickets.

Dean sits in the driver’s seat, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other draped over your thigh. He looks completely at ease, but you don’t miss the way his fingers tap against the leather, like he’s working through something in his head. His gaze flicks to you, sharp and knowing, the corner of his mouth tugging into that familiar smirk. It’s the kind of look that makes your stomach flip, the one that says he’s caught onto exactly what’s been hanging in the air between you all night.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’.”