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She purrs under Dean's attention, when she gets it. Car washes are her favorite part of it all, Dean's slow, soapy, methodical strokes on the dirty windows, singing softly off-key under his breath as he works. The muggy warmth of his breath fogging the window-glass, one callused hand secured to her frame as he moves with strong glides of his biceps. He talks to her sometimes, sings to her, sleeps in her. He talks to her about his hopes and dreams, his fears, all while sponging away flaking dried blood on the windows, or gently rubbing away the grimes caught in the spokes of her tires. Sometimes, she thinks there's a part of her that shelters a Dean no one can ever truly know—the real Dean, the soft Dean that aches in the night and forges iron out of his flesh during the long days.
She's resting in the garage after a particularly long hunt, and she's tired, more tired than usual. Her engine feels strained and wired out, and she knows that Dean knows she's weary. He seems to be even gentler with her as he scrubs the blood from her windows, the grooves of her leather seats, dry splatters on the dashboard, gunk caked in the windshield wipers.
Today, however, a new voice joins them, filling the empty and companionable silence between them.
"Dean?" someone asks, from the entrance of the garage.
"Hey, Cas," Dean says without stopping his work, but his hands seem to glide smoother now, the scrubbing more vigorous—almost like he's nervous, on edge.
Cas. Yes, she knows this one. He's not hers, not the way Sam and Dean are, but she's grown familiar with his voice, the stiff shape of him unyielding to the mold of her worn leather seats. Sometimes, after hunts when Cas was badly hurt, Dean would cradle him in her backseat while Sam drove, his blood dribbling, soaking into the leather.
"Can I help with anything?" Cas asks, drifting closer, socks shuffling on the cement floor. It hushes through her tires.
"Nah," Dean says, slopping the sponge against the front windshield and leaving it there for a moment. Hesitating. Another nervous tic. "It's okay. You should be resting, anyway."
"I'm tired of resting," Cas informs him, clipped and sullen. "I've rested enough, I'm practically usel—those shorts look nice on you."
Dean lets out a choked sound and his forehead thumps momentarily against her sturdy frame. His skin is warm against the metal, too warm. He's embarrassed.
"Yeah, uh. Sorry about that," Dean says, clearing his throat. He resumes his work, curving the sponge in his palm so he can rub away blood on the rearview mirrors. "Just makes things. Easier, I guess."
"Hmm," Cas says, and his feet shuffle against the garage floor again. More silence.
"Thanks for all your help on the case," Dean says, and the sponge vanishes, much to her disappointment. She hears him drop it in the soapy bin. "Seriously, man, couldn't have done it without you."
"Of course, Dean," Cas says, and she feels his proximity now, feels it as Dean does, the brush of something against her skewed rearview mirror, a disjointed limb Dean still has yet to fix—a blanket against her, wool of some kind. "You know I'm glad to help."
"So," Dean says, and his voice is teasing now. He backs up against her, his backward palms pressed flat to her front door. His stance is relaxed, easy against her. "You been doing a lot of Netflix and chill then?"
"I've been watching plenty of Netflix," Cas says, solemn. "And I've been very chill about it."
Dean laughs, and she loves the sound. It rings through her warmly, as familiar as it always has, even when he was little and buckled securely into a booster in her backseat. She remembers John and Mary, reaching back as they drove to grab his toes until he'd shriek or break off into a fit of giggles. John had been tough, worn in like an old leather jacket, rough and frayed around the edges, spice and wood. Mary had been warm, tender, a presence like roses. Together, they'd complemented one another. They'd made her the beginning of a home.
"Wish you could've come with us," Dean says, and one hand leaves her—presumably to touch him.
"Me too," Cas says, and she feels him take a cautious, tentative step closer. "I get worried when you're away."
"Mmm," Dean says, more like hums, and both hands press flat to her again, supporting him. A moment later, a more unfamiliar hand meets the window-glass—a large hand, a soft hand, one that reminds her of the open sky. Then the other hand joins it, palmed flat against the glass, pressing Dean back into the frame of the car. Dean's warm, so warm, thrumming with energy and love and heat, his hands still glued to her side as he kisses Cas.
Cas' hands slip on the glass, both with sweat and the remaining suds from Dean's wash. Dean reaches out to grab him, his hands leaving her just momentarily to reel him in.
Now, she's far used to Dean touching people like this, touching people near her, on her, in her—she knows Dean probably more intimately than he knows himself.
But this seems…different to her, somehow. She can't quite parse out why. Maybe because she's familiar with the subject on the receiving end of Dean's physical affection, his focused desire to please and to worship and to love. She knows him, trusts him, has learned the sturdy shape of him over the years, the presence that's always seemed too big to fit inside her—a presence that fills and overflows like a hurricane in a bottle.
She trusts him with Dean, her Dean. She's watched Dean fix him the same way he's fixed her over the months and years, with the tender ministrations of his hands and his voice and his touch.
Dean slides along the side of her frame, car wash forgotten (no, she's not annoyed), dragging Cas with him until his hand fumbles for the door-handle. He misses it the first few tries, so she takes mercy on him and unhitches the back-door lock. Dean's strong, callused fingers fasten around the metal handle and tug, and he and Cas tumble backward into the backseat, the door still kicked open behind them.
This shape, the shape of them together, is new to her—it's warm, it's entangled and fascinating and right. The rolls of Dean's shoulders into the leather, the tight clench of his fingers onto the headrests, his hands slipping helplessly on the dewing glass, his knees spread to bracket Cas between them, feet planted to the seat-bottom. She doesn't mind. She likes being a house to Dean's love. It's been her purpose, after all, for him and Sam.
Cas, the new one, takes care of him. Murmurs soft, adoring things she could never voice into his ear and his hair and his neck and his chest. Makes Dean shake, makes him sob, makes him clutch for purchase, makes his skin warm and slick against the leather.
Yes, she is a house to Dean's love. To Dean's family. This, she can give him.
When Dean whispers to him, soft and ragged, "baby," again into the hollow of his neck, "baby," she hums to life, keeping them warm.