You keep touching him. It's—new. It's nice. You haven't been this demonstrative since he first became mortal, and you held him up, literally and figuratively, until he figured out how to do it himself. He's missed it. He's missed being—friends. The kind who can care for each other rather than hurt. He slides the hand on your hip around to the small of your back, leaning into you, against you. It's getting cold in the car, the fog on the windows from earlier now dissipating. But for the most part, he's perfectly content to sit here with you for the rest of the night—for every night—reclined against the door in the back of the Impala with one of your tapes playing.

He doesn't say anything for a long while. There's nothing to be said. He slouches down a little until his head can rest against your shoulder again, comfortable and comforting. You're right here. He knows. You're here now. You're still you.

As he relaxes against you, he plays casually with your fingers, stretching them out and rubbing his thumb over the callouses on your palm. They're familiar. Eventually he speaks.

"Do you still want to get, uh—burgers?" He tilts his chin to be able to glance up at you. Are you hungry, Dean? He would like to eat a cheeseburger again with you.