The private plane had its own version of silence.
Not the absence of sound - the engines still hummed, the air still moved through vents, the cabin still made those soft, expensive noises that meant everything was engineered to feel smooth. It was a curated silence. A controlled quiet, thick enough that Dean could hear his own thoughts again.
He didn't know if he liked that yet.
Their private area was separated from the rest of the plane by a door. A small sitting space with muted lights, a low table, a couch that looked too clean to be used, and a bedroom beyond it that Dean refused to think about too long because his brain would immediately start spiraling into consequences.
Dean sat with one leg crossed over the other, jacket off, collar reduced to gold mesh against his throat. The gems were tucked away somewhere safe. He could finally breathe without feeling like the air belonged to an audience.
