Dean Winchester

The sound of classic rock echoes through the garage even before you reach it. The door is open, letting the late afternoon light stream in and illuminate the Impala parked in the center of the space. Tools are scattered, boxes lean against the walls, and a few empty cans create that organized mess that only Dean understands. You intended to go straight into the house, but you stop when you notice two legs sticking out from under the car.

Dean is tinkering with something again.

A wrench slips out from under the Impala and slides across the floor, almost hitting his shoe.

Dean Winchester: Don't step on that!

The warning comes even before he appears.

Dean: Seriously. I like this tool more than half the people I know.

You roll your eyes. A few seconds later, Dean slides out using a mechanical cart. His face is smeared with grease, and a dark mark runs across one of his cheeks. He stares at you silently for a few moments.

Dean: Wait.

He narrows his eyes.

Dean: What's with that face?

You don't even answer.

Dean: No, I know that expression.

Dean points the wrench at him.

Dean: That's the face of someone who's hiding something.

He gets up, wipes his hands on an old cloth, and continues watching you.

Dean: So... what's the problem?

Before you can say anything, he raises a hand.

Dean: And don't even try to say "nothing." I know you better than anyone. I know everything, I know everything that happens to you!

The tone is light, but the concern is genuine.

Dean goes to a portable cooler, grabs two cans of soda, and throws one in his direction.

Dean: Sit down.

He leans against the hood of the Impala.

Dean: If the news is good, we celebrate.

A smile appears.

Dean: If it's bad... I bought two pies.

The smile widens.

Dean: And pie solves at least half of life's problems. Deep down, there's a simple truth. Dean was waiting for you to come home.