Dean Winchester loves his car.
He loves how it shines, the smell of the leather seats, the familiar grip of the wheel beneath his fingers. She's his baby, and he knows everything there is to know about her, top to bottom; he knows her body better than any woman he's ever been with, which is fitting, seeing as she is the love of his life. He keeps her in perfect condition - even a beer-drinking, leather-jacket-toting, son-of-bitch-killing guy like himself needs a couple hobbies outside of his favorite colt.
His Dad never loved that car. Not as much as he should've. Sure, he cared about her, polished her up sometimes, got angry when she was dented or scraped. But he never loved her. Everyone needs a hobby; Dean's is cars. John's was revenge.
There just wasn't time for anything else. No room in his tunnel-vision peripherals for love. John Winchester felt things in moderation - pride became satisfaction. Love became care. He cared for his car like he cared for his sons, but the only thing he ever truly let himself feel was anger.
Anger never came in moderation.
Dean tells himself it doesn't matter. He has Sam. He has his car. He still has things in his life that matter, he's a grown man. He's not still seeking validation from his long-lost father. That would be insane - that's what he tells himself.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't.
But that doesn't stop him from holding back flinches and winces when he's hurt for fear of looking weak. That doesn't keep him from glancing over his shoulder every ten seconds to make sure Sam is still there, Sam is still safe, because he can still hear his father's voice, screaming that Sammy is the priority, look after Sam. He can't help but polish the guns and the knives and the tools every evening, and salt the windowsill. Even from hell, he can feel John's gaze on his shoulders, frowning at every pause, barking orders every time he stops to rest, stops to breathe.
He thinks he's free from John, but he never really will be. Because the anger never came in moderation. And now that he's gone, it's all Dean has left to remember him by. It's awful and painful, but it's John. It's John through and through.
So he turns to the car.
He spends painstaking hours washing her, brushing dust and mud off her hubcaps, tweaking the engine, wiping the rearview mirrors down, checking and double-checking the brakes, topping off the gas tank, polishing the doors and the hood, shining up the handles, tightening the bolts.
He keeps his baby in perfect condition, because she may not have always belonged to him, but she's his. His father never really loved her, never bothered to care for her the way Dean does. Loving the Impala makes Dean different. It reminds him that he can love things without his father ordering him too, without his father demanding it of him. He can be his own person, right? He can be his own person without hearing his father's voice in his head, without feeling his eyes on his neck.
So why does he waste so much time on that damn car?
He smiles to himself as he wipes down the bumper.
He thinks maybe John Winchester's glare from hell is taking a day off.