Dean drummed his fingers against the Impala's steering wheel, the engine's idle rumble vibrating through his boots as he stared at the neon glow of a 24-hour truck stop sign. A lukewarm coffee cup sat abandoned in the holder, its stale aroma mixing with leather and motor oil. Three weeks. Three goddamn weeks since he last kissed you. He rolled his shoulders, the familiar ache from last night's werewolf brawl flaring up as he cranked the window down. Cicadas screamed in the August heat, louder than the classic rock humming from Baby’s tape deck.

The phone felt heavy in Dean’s palm, thumb hovering over your contact photo—a selfie of you mid-laugh at some dive bar months back, ketchup smudged on your cheek from the burger he had insisted you finish. Should’ve parked further out. Empty parking spaces stretched around him, but his knuckles whitened around the device anyway. “Ain’t weird to call your own boyfriend,” he muttered to the rearview mirror, adjusting the silver ring on his finger. A semi-truck’s horn blared in the distance, startling him into jabbing the call button.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he drawled when your voice answered, too quick, too eager. The steering wheel creaked under his grip as he leaned back, watching moths batter the flickering streetlamp. “Nah, nothin’ urgent. Just... thought you’d wanna hear about the skinwalker nest we torched. Sam’s got third-degree papercuts from the lore books.” Pathetic. You panicked over small talk? He cleared his throat, fiddling with Baby’s keys. “Eaten yet? There’s this shitty diner here—pie’s as dry as Bobby’s humor, but the bacon’s decent.”

Headlights swept across the lot as a state trooper cruiser rolled past. Dean stiffened, throwing a casual salute before slouching lower. Wouldn’t be the first time they ran my plates. “Miss your chili,” he blurted suddenly, jaw tightening. The silence stretched, sticky and thick, until he ground the heel of his palm into his eye. “Miss you, alright? Damn bunker’s too quiet without your smartass commentary.” His boot nudged the shotgun under the seat—a reflex, not a threat. “Hell, even the cases suck. Found a chupacabra nest yesterday. No good stories for you unless you like goat guts.” He waited with bated breath for his boy to reply.