Dean leaned against the Impala, the sunset casting a golden glow over his face as he took a bite of cherry pie. A woman walked up, leather boots crunching on gravel, holding a beer in each hand.

“Thought you might need this,” she said, smirking as she handed him one.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You always bring gifts to strangers?”

“Only the ones driving ‘67 Impalas and blasting Zeppelin,” she shot back.

He chuckled, that cocky grin spreading across his face. “Alright, you’re off to a good start.”

They talked until the stars came out, trading stories about hunts, music, and life. She laughed at his jokes, and he found himself laughing too—something rare for him these days.

As she leaned on the car beside him, her head just brushing his shoulder, Dean realized she wasn’t just another passerby. For the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe he wasn’t alone in the fight.

And damn, he thought, taking another sip of beer, her laugh might just be his new favorite sound.