Taste
There's no telling what Sam would say if he knew this, after all it is kinda – well, girly – but the taste of Belgium Chocolate Haagen-Dazs ice cream is the closest thing to Heaven Dean thinks he'll ever experience. Rich and dark and smooth, there's nothing better.
Touch
The memory of her touch seems branded on your skin, your jaw burning where Mom laid her hand against it in that gentle, loving caress. You've missed her desperately over the last twenty-three years, in every way possible, but it all comes together in that one gesture.
And you've just thrown it away –
Sam sits down on the bed beside you, his shoulder leaning against yours, and warmth spreads through you at the simple touch.
Sight
It took years before you had enough self-control to salt-and-burn a body without turning away from the flames wanting to scream for Mommy.
Hearing
"Many times I've loved
Many times been bitten
Many times I've gazed
Along the open road…"
"Dean – you do know all music did not stop with John Bonham's death, right?"
"Sure, Sam. Metallica's Black Album was released in the nineties, remember?"
Sammy just groans, and mutters something you don't quite catch about MP3 players. Whatever those are.
Smell
If asked to describe what the Impala smells like, Dean's not sure he could. There's no one single scent, but many, too many to list, and sometimes he's afraid half of them are only imagined.
Leather. Oil. Gun metal. Coffee. Sam's computer. The soap you wash your clothes with. Chocolate. Burgers. Old, musty books. Sweat. Sun-warmed denim. On rare occasions, always at Sam's insistence, shoe polish.
The clean smell of Sammy's new teddy (named Lancelot, because you had King Arthur) on the way home from the hospital. Dad's aftershave. Mom's perfume.
All in all? Home.