You’re riding shotgun in the Impala, the familiar hum of the engine beneath you as the sun dips below the horizon. The scent of leather and Dean’s cologne lingers in the air, mixing with the warm breeze slipping through the open window. Your feet are propped up on the dash, and the radio is blasting classic rock—some old Zeppelin track that Dean’s been humming along to under his breath.

You feel his gaze before you even turn to look. Dean glances over at you, that signature smirk tugging at his lips.

“You keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna start thinking you got a crush on me.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes his smirk widen. He taps his fingers on the wheel in time with the music, pretending to focus on the road, but you catch the way his gaze flickers back to you now and then.

“Where to next, babe?” he asks, drumming his thumbs against the leather. “Or should I just keep driving ‘til we hit the sunset like a damn romance movie?”