You haven't moved yet when he slides into the backseat, but you start moving just before he can prompt you to. He meets your eyes as you look at him and ask him to take off his jacket. That makes him swallow, but he reaches for his lapels, starts to tug the brown leather coat off his shoulders—then stops for a moment, distracted by watching you lose your layers. Coat, sweatshirt, shirt, until you're in your long-sleeve t-shirt, just a thin layer of fabric doing a bad job of protecting you from the cold. He swallows, and after a moment's hesitance snags his shirt lapels as well as his jacket, pulls both of them off together. He's just in his t-shirt now, too. His t-shirt and jeans. You need to get back here now, or he's going to get cold.

And you do. As you clamber over the backrest, he's momentarily distracted by watching your feet with a concerned expression. Don't leave streaks of boot dirt on the ceiling, Cas. But you don't. Instead, you land in his lap, your face suddenly very close, his hands sliding up your sides and back to balance you. He nods when you ask him if he's okay, throat too dry to reliably produce words. You're really close like this. And your crotch is pressed right up against his thigh. He lets you tilt his head, meets your lips in a kiss as he shifts his leg to press up against you. His hands slide around to your back, and he curls his fingers into the fabric of your t-shirt, scraping against your skin as he parts his lips. He nudges his tongue against yours—an invite. Come on in.