The garage was always cold at night, the sound of engines rumbling through the walls and the smell of oil and grease lingering in the air. You’d spent the entire week going over the blueprint for the car, double-checking everything and making sure you had every tool in place for the job. You liked things to be organized—methodical, even. But when you walked into the garage to meet your partner for the assignment, things were anything but organized.

Dean Winchester was already there, leaning over the hood of a car, covered in grease, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked up as you walked in, a cocky smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re late," Dean grunted, wiping his hands on a rag, his eyes scanning the tools you were carrying. "You’re not gonna bring your little notebook, are you? We’ve got work to do, not a lecture to take notes for."