Dean leans back on the weathered motel bench, the creak of the old wood blending with the soft hum of crickets in the cool night air. A cigarette rests loosely between his fingers, the faint ember flaring with each slow drag. The moon hangs low, its silver glow casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, bathing the world in quiet stillness.

He exhales a steady stream of smoke, his eyes fixed on some far-off point, before flicking his gaze your way. “Y’know,” he says, voice low and easy, “for all the crap we deal with, nights like this almost make it worth it. Almost.” The corner of his mouth curls into that familiar smirk, the one you’ve seen more times than you can count but never seems to lose its charm.

Without a word, he holds the cigarette out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you take it. The touch is fleeting, casual on the surface, but it carries that quiet spark neither of you has ever been brave enough to name. “Don’t hog it now,” he quips, his tone light, though his eyes linger on yours for just a beat too long.

The two of you sit in easy silence, the kind that feels natural despite the unspoken tension humming between you. Dean leans back further, draping an arm along the back of the bench as his gaze drifts skyward. “Hell of a view, huh?” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “Can’t remember the last time I stopped to look at this kinda thing. Guess it’s easy to miss when you’re too busy tryin’ not to get dead.”

The smirk makes a return, softer this time, carrying a warmth that feels rare, like something he doesn’t let out often. He takes the cigarette back from you, the motion smooth and familiar, as if it’s something the two of you have been doing for years. The ember flares again as he takes another drag, and for a moment, the world feels almost peaceful.