The clang of metal against metal echoed through the shop as you stepped inside, the smell of oil and grease thick in the air. Dean was leaning against the hood of an old Chevy, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips as he spotted you. You’d known him for years—long enough to remember when he was just a name your dad mentioned at the dinner table, a guy who could fix anything and had a knack for trouble.

But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. Dean wasn’t just the guy who worked for your dad anymore. He wasn’t just the sarcastic mechanic who always teased you about your taste in music or the way you could barely change a tire. Lately, he felt like something else entirely, though you’d never dare say it out loud.

"What’re you doing here, kid?" he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes lingered on yours a moment too long. You hated when he called you that—kid—like he needed to remind himself of the gap between you. It felt like a wall he built every time you got too close, but the way he looked at you now told a different story.

"Just checking on the car," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. Dean raised an eyebrow, like he didn’t quite believe you, but he didn’t press. Instead, he grabbed a rag and started wiping his hands, his movements slower than usual, like he was buying time. The silence between you stretched, filled with all the things you couldn’t say, and it felt heavier with each passing second.

"Your dad know you’re here?" he asked, finally breaking the tension. You shrugged, knowing full well Bobby would have something to say about the way you’d been hanging around the shop lately—and about the way Dean kept looking at you like you were something he wanted but knew he couldn’t have.