Dean's Effects
Dean Winchester only knows the road. The constant abandoned houses, stale motels, and friend's cabins where he stayed were nothing more than rooms and windows. His home was packed into duffel bags hidden in the Impala's trunk, flung into his backseat and squished into the footwell. It's because of this that Dean never gets upset if he forgets to retrieve a threadbare t-shirt from a hotel bathroom or misplaces a rosary. Dean considers only a few things to be extremely important to hold onto, items that he would feel devastated if he lost.
The first is a small red toy car with the letters "D.W." written in sharpie on the bottom in Mary's careful script. According to John, Dean had been playing with it the night of the fire, and had stuck it in the pocket of his pajamas before bed. Dean keeps it tucked in the inner pocket of his leather jacket, only pulling it out to run his thumb along the wheels when he can't sleep.
The next is a Metallica t-shirt from when he was about fourteen. His father had gone on a Goodwill run since Dean was starting to fill out and Sam was turning into all legs. John had bought the shirt without much thought, just seeing it as something to cover his son. Dean had seen it as his father passing the torch, a right of passage into manhood, and had spent the summer begging his father to play Kill 'Em All over and over.
The third, and the most obvious, is the Impala. Dean spent most of his childhood in the passenger seat enveloped in the the scent that could only be described as "The Winchester Family Musk." Even now, years later, Dean can sometimes catch it on the breeze that whips through the car on a long stretch of highway. It rustles up the loose papers in the back, the gun shells, and spilled salt. Dean wonders if other people associate their homes with smells like this.
The last and most difficult thing to hold onto is his brother. When Sam was little, Dean would have to chase him around the motel room just to get him into the bathtub. When he hit his growth spurt, he could outrun Dean on their morning jogs, regardless of the fact that Dean was still taller than him. And then Stanford happened, and Dean couldn't chase him because Sam didn't turn around, didn't give him that grin that always said "Try and catch me." He was gone.
Dean wishes at times that he could pick up the giant of his little sibling and stick him in a pocket or duffel bag, guard him and keep him safe. He wishes there was a way to keep the innocence in Sam that he had when he was four and thought that everything outside was made of sugar and good people.
He wishes Sam was like the Impala and that he could pull over on some Arizona highway, open him up, and fix everything inside that is so wrong. He wants to take his time, to make him sweat and bleed, to show Sammy how much he needs him to work. He wants to spend hours going over every inch of him, healing scratches, dents, and wounds and making him come to life, complete and happy.
He can't though, and that's what bothers Dean the most.
So when Dean pulls over and opens up the hood of the car to see what is making that rattling noise, he's almost relieved that Sam offers to help. He's perched on top of the cooler, back against the right headlight and eyeing his big brother, waiting for permission.
"Hand me that wrench and get over here," Dean says, taking a large gulp of his beer.
Sam does as he's told, shoulder brushing Dean's as he looks in on the engine.
"The first thing you need to know about the Impala is that she's sturdy as a rock," Dean starts, glancing at his brother so often out of the corner of his eye, "but she needs constant care."
"But she's old," Sam states, looking slightly confused, "I mean, it's likely She'll eventually crap out on us. We run her hard and you're not exactly an easy driver."
Dean wants to snap about how he's taken excellent care of her and nothing is ever going to happen to his baby, but he bites it back. "She's not fragile, Sammy. She can take a pretty severe beating."
Sam nods, shrugging a bit. "Why haven't you upgraded though? I mean, I know she was Dad's and now she's yours, but she isn't exactly saving us on gas. The radio doesn't work and I'm not going to even mention the fact she still has a tape player. And besides, she isn't exactly a 'blend in' type of car."
Dean doesn't even think about it before answering. "Yeah, she has her flaws, but she's part of the family. There are things in life that are expendable. Clothes and houses are expendable. Acquaintances we have in random ass towns are expendable. But us, we're not. We're family. And I would take her, flaws and all, over anything else."
Sam gives Dean a funny look, eyes narrowed a little and mouth tight before he finally gets it. Dean is expecting shock or anger, possibly even for Sam to walk off down the road, running away like always and making Dean chase him. Instead, Sam reaches out and takes the wrench from Dean, replacing it with his own hand.
"I take you too, flaws and all," he murmurs, and Dean tries to tell himself that it's the heat and not a blush on his face. Leaning down, Sam barely brushes his mouth over Dean's, light and dry before pulling back. Dean's not sure if he can get any warmer.
"Alright, enough of the chick flick moment shit, are you going to help me fix my baby or what?" Dean asks, taking the wrench back. Sam nods, turning back to the engine.
They spend the rest of the afternoon working on the Impala and the night working on them.