The Impala sat idle in front of the motel room. Dean knew it was there, outside the curtained window of the dingy room. His glance caught the moonlight reflecting off the hood of the car, and he smiled knowing the freshly waxed car gleamed even in the moonlight.
Dean turned toward the sleeping figure of his brother, studying his features. Sam teased Dean about how affectionate he was with his car, and Dean understood it himself, that he could be a little-temperamental.
But it wasn't the car, well, not the car per se, but what the car meant.
Kansas was not his home; it was his beginning. He doubted that even Sam, or his father called Kansas home.
Stanford was home for Sam. Where everything wasn't alright, but could be, had the potential to be something good. Everyday wrongs could be corrected, and loved ones sat down with you, talking about their days. Laughing about what antics they were apart of that day.
That is what home is: someplace where the wrongs could be made right. Because nothing was ever perfect, but everything could be fixed, given the right circumstances and training, or thinking.
Kansas had nothing of the sort. All it had was broken pasts, and shattered dreams. Things like those couldn't be fixed.
The home in Stanford fixed problems; helped little Sammy sleep at night, smile in the day, even laugh.
The motels weren't homes either. They never could be, not for Sam, certainly not for Dean. The small rooms with broken faucets, cigarette burnt sheets, fuzzy television, and living creatures in the bathroom didn't make the day better, didn't make the brothers smile. Everything about them was temporary, the instant coffee waiting for them, though Dean would rather be eaten alive by teddy bears than drink the motels instant coffee; the towels were cheap, made to last a few uses; even the key cards to open the rooms were made to be thrown away.
No motel would ever be home.
But the car, the car was home.
Dean had no place registered as his permanent residence. He understood a very long time ago, where his place was, where his home was.
Problems were fixed within the car, people saved, lives changed; smiles surfacing more often than not. And just like any house, he kept it clean. Putting his spin on the interior, taking care of the body, the structure. It sheltered him, the least he could was protect it.
The Impala was the home of Dean Winchester, and he was proud of it. He understood how lucky he was to have what he did, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.
He glanced at the car again, smirking, then back at his brother.
It just was nice to have visitors once in a while, and he would welcome them into his home for as long as they needed.