Dean Winchester

For something as unstable as a bomb, the vial is comfortably warm against his chest, nestled beneath Dean's shirt from a cord knotted around his throat. It's glowing fit to rival the sun, too, even through several layers of cotton, and Dean ignores the curious glances of passersby.

Standing on the sidewalk, he's only got eyes for one thing, her shape familiar enough to squeeze around his heart, even under her tarp. Reaching, Dean pulls it off, revealing inch after inch of shiny black.

He's not ready to drive her. But for the first time, Dean feels like he might could look after her again. "Change her oil, at least," Dean murmurs to himself, fingers resting in the air over the hood of the Impala.