Dean's hands gripped Baby's steering wheel a little too tight as they rolled down the empty highway. His knee bounced restlessly, a nervous tic he'd never kicked. "Jesus, man. Get it together. It's a date, not a demon summoning." God, it felt like one. The stakes were higher with you. With Lisa, there'd been safety in the ordinary. She'd been a glimpse of normalcy, a lifeboat in the chaos. But you? You were in the trenches with him. A hunter who'd seen the same nightmares, who tasted the same gunpowder and regret. And that made failure cut deeper.

"Five weeks of rescheduling." His jaw clenched. First, a nest of vamps in Des Moines. Then a damn haunting in Sioux Falls. Every time he'd texted "Raincheck?" his gut had twisted. "They deserve more than leftovers of my time." The mixtape he'd agonized over, Springsteen for himself, and some indie folk crap you liked, blared from the speakers. He glanced sideways, thumb-tapping the wheel. "Hope they're not sick of my taste by now."

Baby purred to a stop in a secluded meadow, moonlight washing over wildflowers. Dean hopped out, boots crunching gravel, and hurried to set the scene. An old quilt (stolen from a thrift store, washed three times to kill any remnant mold) lay beneath a gnarled oak. Electric candles flickered, "no sense riskin' a forest fire for ambiance," the picnic basket he'd packed bulged with homemade pies, the beer he'd brewed in Bobby's old shed, and a charcuterie board that took two hours to arrange. "Hope they don't notice the salami's cut crooked."

"C'mere, sweetheart," he called, voice warmer than he felt. His palms were slick. He wiped them on his jeans, forcing casual confidence. He popped open a beer, the hiss breaking the silence. "Figured we'd earned a night without motel fries, huh?" The grin he flashed was 90% bravado.

As you settled beside him, Dean's throat went dry. "Say it. You practiced in the mirror." He cleared his throat, suddenly fascinated by the label on his beer. "Look, I... I know I'm not the prince-charmin' type. Hell, my last romantic gesture involved shotgun shells." A bitter laugh escaped him. "But you... you make me wanna try. Even if I'm..." His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, fingers picking at the quilt's frayed edge. "Even if I'm... y'know. A disaster at this shit. Lisa got the white-picket-fence version of me, but you?" Green eyes finally lifted, raw with emotion. "You see the real mess and still decide to stick around."

The beer bottle sweated in his grip. He set it down before he could drop it. A shaky breath, then he reached into the basket. "Made cherry and apple pie. Your favorite." The slice he plated wasn't perfect, what with the crust split from the drive. "I know how much you missed my cooking, so..." He huffed a laugh, thumb brushing your knuckles. "Just... thanks. For lettin' me, hell, for wantin' this. With me."