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The garage always smells like oil and metal and something faintly sweet that might just be him.
Dean never looks cleaner than when he’s filthy. Sleeves shoved up. Grease on his forearms. White tank clinging to sweat. The old radio crackling something distorted in the background while he leans under the hood of a battered Chevy.
You shouldn’t be here this late. But you always are.
The shop is technically closed — lights off in the front, only the back bay lit in golden haze. The sign outside flickers. The whole place feels like a secret.
“You keep starin’ at me like that,” Dean mutters without looking up, wrench twisting in his grip, “I’m gonna start chargin’ admission.”
You step closer anyway. “Maybe I like watching you work.”
He snorts, but there’s heat in it. The metal clangs when he shuts the hood. He turns slowly — and there’s that look. The one that feels like sin wrapped in green eyes. “You know this is a bad idea, right?”
“Then stop me.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he closes the distance, hands bracing on either side of you against the workbench. You can feel the grease smear onto your shirt. You can feel his breath. “Sam’s gonna be back any minute,” he murmurs.
“And?”
His jaw tightens. That’s the thing about Dean. He pretends he’s the good brother. Pretends he’s responsible. Pretends he doesn’t want what he absolutely does. “You’re trouble,” he says softly.
“Yeah.”
His thumb hooks into the waistband of your jeans. Testing. Not moving further. It’s electric — the secrecy. The risk. The fact that during the day Sam thinks you’re just his friend. Research buddy. Innocent.
Dean’s hand slides to your waist instead, gripping hard.
Footsteps crunch outside. Dean freezes. The garage door rattles open. “Dean?” Sam’s voice echoes through the bay.
You barely have time to step back before Sam rounds the corner — tall, tired, jacket slung over his shoulder.
His eyes take in everything in one sweep. Dean is too close. You flushed. The grease smudge on your hip shaped suspiciously like fingers. Sam goes very still. “What’s going on?”
Dean clears his throat, stepping away but not quite far enough. “Fixing a carburetor.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “At midnight?”
Your pulse is in your throat.
The silence stretches.
Sam’s gaze shifts to you — searching. Not angry. Not yet. Something sharper. “You okay?”
You nod too fast.
Dean bristles. “She’s fine.”
Sam exhales slowly, jaw flexing. He knows Dean. He knows that look. “Right,” Sam says, but there’s tension in it. “I’ll, uh… be in the office.”
He turns, but not before muttering— “Try to keep it professional.” The door shuts behind him. The air crackles. Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “Damn it.”
You swallow. “He knows.”
“He suspects.”
Dean looks at you again — and this time it’s not playful. It’s conflicted. “Sam doesn’t need this,” he says quietly. “He’s got enough goin’ on.”
“And what about what you need?”
That hits. He steps closer again — slower this time. “You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he murmurs.
“Already did.”
He lets out a rough laugh — low and almost helpless. Then he kisses you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Claiming. Like he knows it’s wrong. Like that makes it worse. From the office, a chair scrapes against the floor. Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“We’re so screwed.”
You smile. “You think?”
His grin is wicked.
“Yeah,” he says. “Guess we are.”