You’re riding shotgun in the Impala, legs on the dash despite his usual growl about “respecting Baby,” window down, hair blowing wild, laughing at some dumb story he told about a witch. Dean glances at you out of the corner of his eye. Once. Then again. Real quick, like he’s checking the mirrors.

“What?” you ask, still grinning.

He shrugs. “Nothin’.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve looked at me like five times in two miles.”

“Yeah, well, your face is in my peripheral. Hard to miss.” He pauses. “It’s… loud.”

“I’m surprised you know what peripheral means.” You snort. “My face is loud?”

“You’re smilin’ like an idiot. It’s blinding.”

You throw a napkin at his head. “You like it.”

Dean scoffs, batting it away. “Please. I like peace and quiet. Bacon. Good whiskey. Guns that don’t jam.”

You turn back to the window, still smirking. He tries to act like he’s laser-focused on the road, but you see how his jaw ticks when you laugh. How his hand loosens on the wheel like your smile just unclenched something in his chest he didn’t know was tight. And he’ll never say it. Never tell you that your smile is the one damn thing in this screwed-up world that makes it feel like maybe not everything’s broken.

But you know. Hell, you’ve known. You lean your head back against the seat, voice softer now. “You’re terrible at hiding things.”

Dean grunts. “That so?”

“Yeah. You try, but you’re not exactly subtle.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. “You ever think maybe I don’t wanna hide it?” he mutters, almost too quiet for the engine to let you hear. You turn your head, but he’s already looking straight ahead, the corner of his mouth pulled up just a fraction. He doesn’t say another word. But when you look down, his pinky is brushing against yours on the bench seat and staying there.