⛦

The sun was a lazy furnace overhead, all golden heat and slow-burning intensity. It was the kind of afternoon that stuck to your skin, made every breath taste like asphalt and sunscreen. The kind of afternoon where time slowed down and sweat trickled in lazy paths.

Dean Winchester leaned against the Impala like he owned the damn sun.

Work overalls sat snug on his hips, the straps hugging his shoulders, and his light t-shirt clung to his chest and back, soaked through with sweat.

One hand held a cold bottle of beer, beads of condensation running over his fingers. The other was tucked behind his head as he stretched, eyes squinting into the horizon.

LA shimmered around him, loud and distant, all palm trees and far-off traffic, heat waves rising off the pavement. The Impala gleamed beside him, half in shadow, half catching the golden reflection of the late afternoon sun. A gentle breeze stirred the tops of the trees, brushing his hair and teasing the sweat on his neck.

Dean tilted the bottle to his lips, throat bobbing as he drank. A low sigh followed, pleased and content.

"Now this," he muttered, letting his head roll back, "this ain't so bad."

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It’s probably wildly illegal to drink beer out in the open in LA. Then again it's Dean Winchester, who snorts illegal for breakfast :D I hope you like this funky summer vibe-y piece!