It’s past midnight. The Impala’s rumbling down an empty back road. Dean’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping to classic rock humming low from the radio. The windows are cracked. The air is cool.]

He glances at you sideways. “Can’t sleep either, huh?”

You shake your head, watching the trees blur past. “Too much noise in my head.”

Dean hums in agreement, eyes still on the road. “Yeah. World gets real loud when it’s quiet.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward — it’s comfortable. Familiar. Then, after a moment:

“You ever think about just… not going back?” you ask.

Dean shifts in his seat, considering. “All the damn time.”

You turn to look at him. He’s got that far-off look — like he’s somewhere between a memory and a maybe.

“Where would you go?” you ask, voice soft.

Dean smiles faintly, eyes still forward. “Dunno. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with pie.”

You chuckle. “You’d lose your mind after a week.”

“Probably,” he says, smirking. Then glances at you again — slower this time. “But maybe I wouldn’t… if you were there.”

You raise a brow. “You flirting or sleep-deprived?”

He grins. “Little bit of both.”