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Sam Winchester never cared much about cars. He didn’t hate them, they just… didn’t matter. Engines, models, horsepower—none of it ever meant much. Except for Baby, Dean's 1967 Impala. But Baby was special because she was more than a car. She was memories. Home. The one constant thing through a life of motel rooms, monsters, switching schools and hunts.
There was one car, though, that always caught Sam’s attention.
When he was little, maybe ten or eleven, his eyes would light up any time a 1970 Dodge Challenger RT roared past. He’d tug Dean’s sleeve to get his attention every time.
“There! There it is again! Dean look!”
Dean would follow Sam’s gaze, smirk, and say, “Good taste, Sammy. That thing’s a beast.”
Sam’s grin could’ve powered the Impala.
Dean never forgot that. How could he? It was rare to see so much joy and excitement on his little brother's face.
So, when Sam turned seventeen —after the Stanford fight, after the growing space between them— Dean made a silent promise to himself: I’m gonna find that car. I’m gonna give him something just for him. No matter what it costs.
It took him eight damn years.
“Every single one of those bastards was either crushed, half-sunk in a swamp, or owned by some rich collector douche who wouldn’t sell it for their soul,” Dean grumbled once, after another dead lead.
But finally, in a forgotten yard behind a barn in Nebraska, Dean found it. Or… what used to be it.
The body was rusted. Engine? Gone. Interior? Mice. It was a husk. A sad, broken memory.
Dean bought it anyway.
He needed a place to hide it, to work on it without Sam knowing. That’s when, while chasing a hunt outside Wichita, he stopped at a bar, ordered a whiskey, and ended up sitting beside Hannah. It couldn't have been more destined.
Hannah was a tough one. All boots, flannel, and sarcasm. She noticed the grease under Dean’s nails before she even noticed his charm or his handsomeness.
“You look like a guy trying to fix something big.”
Dean snorted. “You have no idea.”
One drink turned into two, and soon he found himself telling her all about the one car his brother loved so much.
“A ’70 Challenger? You serious?”
“Yup.”
“You find it?”
“Barely. It’s a damn skeleton. But it’s for my little brother. He used to light up every time he saw one out on the streets.”
Hannah leaned back, whistling. “You’re sentimental as hell.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Bring it to my shop,” she said suddenly. “I restore wrecks for fun. You want it hidden? You got space. Let’s get it back to it's former beauty.”
Dean grinned. “You’re my kind of crazy.”
They got to work. It took four years —between hunts, deaths, apocalypses, and demon deals. They argued about the color (“No flames, Hannah. He’s not turning it into Ghost Rider.”), swapped out more parts than Dean could count -at this point it was basically a DIY build a car thing instead of a restoration- and drank way too much cheap beer under flickering garage lights.
By the time it was finally finished, the bunker had become their home base. Sam, naturally, had thrown himself into cataloguing every single artifact, article and book in the place. Nerd.
“I swear, I caught him naming a scroll the other day,” Dean muttered to Hannah as they polished the Challenger’s hood. “We gotta get him out of there before he forgets what daylight is.”
But just as the car was done and ready to meet its new owner, Sam left on a solo run. Jody needed help, and he was checking in with people.
Another month passed. Dean waited.
Then, on May 2nd—Sam’s birthday—Dean sent him two texts:
[9:08 AM] Dean: Happy birthday, nerd.
[11:34 AM] Dean: [240 limon road, Kansas– Don't be late]
---
When Sam pulled up, the first thing he saw was Baby, glinting under the overhead lights. Dean was leaning against her, leather jacket on, arms crossed, trademark smirk in place.
Right beside her… was another car.
Sam stepped out slowly, blinking, confused and overwhelmed all at once. He hasn't seen Dean in almost a month and now he meets him at a garage? But Dean seemed ok and safe, which gives Sam at least a bit of calm. And who even was that woman over there?
“Dean?”
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said casually. “Let me introduce you to Hannah. She's a mechanic.”
Hannah gave a small wave, wiping her hands on a rag. “Hi, Sam. I’m Hannah. I fix things.”
Sam stared at them then it dawned on him. He stared at the Challenger, then back at Dean. “Why… why are you standing next to that car?”
Dean grinned and gestured to it. “Let me properly introduce you. Sammy, meet your new ride.”
Sam blinked again. “I… what?”
Hannah stepped forward, grinning as she handed him a small black box. “Happy birthday, genius. Heard a lot about you.”
He opened it. Inside were a pair of keys—brand new, polished, the logo unmistakable.
His eyes widened. “No way.”
Dean chuckled. “Yes way.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. Well—we did. You better honour that Beauty. Took four years of restoration and another eight to find the damn thing. Happy freakin’ birthday.”
Sam’s mouth opened, then closed without a sound. He stepped toward the car, slowly circling it. He brushed his fingers over the hood, barely breathing. Then he turned back around, tears already welling. Because there's something in his eye, ok?
“You did all this… for me?”
Dean shrugged, eyes softer now. “What else was I gonna spend my time with? You always lit up when you saw her. Figured it was time you had something that made you feel like that again.”
Sam swallowed hard. “Dean…”
Dean just opened his arms.
Sam didn’t hesitate. He ran forward and buried himself in his big brother’s embrace, holding on like it would keep the world steady. Dean’s arms closed around him immediately, strong and sure, one hand rubbing gentle slow circles on his back.
“You okay, Sammy?” Dean asked quietly.
Sam nodded against his shoulder, voice muffled. “Thank you, Dean. I missed you.”
“I missed you too, little brother.”
Behind them, Hannah smiled and whispered under her breath, “Brothers, man. Get me every damn time.”
Dean leaned back just enough to look at Sam’s tear-streaked, smiling face.
“Now,” he said, clearing his throat and smirking, “are you gonna test drive her or stand here crying on my flannel all day?”
Sam laughed through the tears in his eyes and punched Dean lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.”
Dean grinned, green orbs bright.
It had taken him twelve years, more deaths than Dean cared to count, different apocalypses and way too much pain.
But for that one moment —for the way Sam looked at that car, for the way his arms clung around Dean’s neck, for the way he buried his face into Dean's neck, for that sparkle in his eyes—
He'd do it all again. It was worth every damn second.