Disclaimer: Not mine. Although I would like to think that that's obvious. *grin*

Summary: The classic rock, the brown leather jacket, the Impala—they had all belonged to his dad. Dean wondered if he'd actually be leaving anything behind. Story takes place in season 3, just after "Dream a Little Dream of Me", so spoilers up to that point.

Author's Note: I wrote this story a long time ago, and kind of forgot about it until recently. So I finished it, tweaked it, and posted it for your reading pleasure! This story hasn't been beta'd, so any mistakes are mine. I hope you sincerely enjoy!

"I take care of my things. After all, those of us as has few things to begin with must take care, lest we have fewer."

–Erica Eisdorfer

The Simple Things

By: Pinkchick

"You seen my jacket?"

"Which one?"

"The dark brown leather one. Ring any bells?"

"Nope."

"Nope you haven't seen it, or nope, it doesn't ring any bells?"

"Oh. No, haven't seen it."

Dean sighed and sat down in the rickety chair near the motel window. He rubbed his face. Seeing and talking to himself, dream state or not, was still giving him a headache.

Denied emotions. Feeling and thinking about where he would be in a few months, it had finally become clear. He didn't want to die.

Dean had told Sam as much.

Now, it was the action course that was going to be the hard part. That was the last thing on his mind right now, though. His own demon was still haunting him even with his eyes open.

Not to mention the embarrassment that still lingered at the dream Sam had seen of Lisa. But, Sam hadn't said anything about it and Dean wasn't going to mention it. There were some things he'd like to keep to himself.

The image of Lisa was replaced again by the image of his demon counterpart. Dean—It—had been right. Everything he owned was an extension of his father. His car. His love for classic rock. God, even his jacket didn't belong to him. Not really.

It was pathetic. All his life, he had just wanted his dad to be proud of him. He'd done everything to push himself to be a better hunter, a better son. And every time he thought he knew the man inside and out, he was slapped in the face with the realization that he didn't.

Sam looked up from his laptop, his face creased with concern. "You alright, man?"

Dean barely looked at him, his thoughts a distraction. "What? Yeah, fine."

"Sure," Sam muttered, and hesitantly went back to reading the information he'd found about… something or other Dean couldn't care to remember at the moment. He ignored the suspicious and concerned glances Sam kept throwing his way and got up.

Dean eyed the room slowly and spotted his—Dad's—leather jacket on the floor next to his bed. Moving across the room, he grabbed the worn piece of leather and headed for the door.

Sam looked up from his computer, eyes narrowing.

Dean almost rolled his eyes. His brother was being too watchful these days and Dean just needed to get away. If only for a little while.

"I'm just going for a walk, Sammy," Dean reassured.

"Fine, but don't go far," Sam said quickly.

Dean paused and raised his eyebrows. "What? You gonna buy me a leash?"

"I was thinking about it." Sam smirked.

"Well, look at you, Sammy." Dean smiled. "Kinky and bossy." He held a hand dramatically to his heart. "You make me so proud."

Dean was out the door before the pillow flew.

Sam was putting the weapons back in the car a few days later when he noticed a dark brown leather sleeve laying on top of one of Dean's shotguns.

He reached over into the far corner of the trunk and grabbed the sleeve, pulling it forward and up. His brows furrowed. Sam's hands were full of brown leather… jacket? Dean's jacket.

Underneath the jacket, Sam found the box of cassettes Dean usually kept stored on the passenger side of the Impala. Sam had just been about to put their bag of weapons back when the objects had caught his eyes.

Looking around cautiously, he pulled the items toward him. It was more than odd. Being on the road constantly meant they had no real possessions. They only took what could fit in the car. Sam had let himself indulge in normal while at Stanford. Had let Jess convince him to buy things for the house. Make it more 'homey'.

The fire had burned away all chances of normal, as well as all the mundane things Sam wouldn't use or need on the road.

Before Stanford, and now, the Impala was, and always had been, their home. Anything which didn't fit in their duffle bags was tossed away.

So Sam was having trouble understanding why the few things Dean did keep—extensions of him, really—were dumped into the trunk of the Impala like they'd just been forgotten.

Not forgotten, Sam suddenly realized. Left behind. On purpose.

Sam ran a hand through his hair and thought back. Had Dean said something about this? No, Sam would've remembered.

Sam thought briefly of Dean's dream of Lisa. A dream of having his own family. Of normalcy. Thinking back, it didn't surprise Sam. His brother had been more somber after the changelings incident. Still, Sam knew there had been something else Dean had seen in his dream after they'd been separated.

"Why? Where were you? You didn't say."

"Me? I was looking for you the whole time."

The memory hit him quickly. Dean had looked like he was shrugging something off, but Sam had been too preoccupied to press further.

But Dean had changed his tune. And it had been after they had woken from the dream. So something had to have happened.

Sam was still holding his brother's things, lost in thought, when Dean startled him.

Sam jumped and Dean raised an eyebrow, coming around the trunk and eyeing the items suspiciously.

"Sam?" Dean asked, his voice low. "Care to explain why you're ogling this stuff?"

This stuff. Not my stuff.

"What? I wasn't—" Sam's grip loosened and the box and jacket sagged halfway into the trunk. He cleared his throat while Dean pushed the items back where Sam had found them. "I wasn't ogling. I was thinking."

Dean didn't look convinced. "Right. Whatever, College Boy." He shoved his duffle bag into the trunk and Sam quickly withdrew his hands before Dean shut it. His brother smirked. "But you'd better not have been thinking anything dirty while holding my…" Dean waved his hand, the smirk fading. "Never mind. Let's go."

Sam raised an eyebrow. If he was getting anything out of the older hunter, it wouldn't be done by asking.

"What, while holding your stuff?" Sam pried, talking to Dean over the roof of the car as they walked to their respective doors.

Dean pursed his lips but didn't say anything. He eased himself into the driver's seat and closed the door. Sam followed suit. "I was just thinking about why your stuff would be in the trunk of the Impala and not where it's been for as long as I can remember."

Dean shrugged, put the car in reverse. "Didn't wanna trash my baby."

"Since when have you turned into Mr. Clean?" Sam wondered, turning slightly so he was facing his brother.

"It's never too late to be clean, right Sammy?" Dean had that blank shuttered look on his face. The one he used when he didn't feel like talking.

Sam ignored it.

"'It's never too late to be clean,'" Sam repeated, raising his eyebrows in confused astonishment. Neither of them was overly messy, but worrying about cleanliness wasn't on Dean's to-do list. "Dean, man, do you even hear yourself?"

His brother shrugged, face hardening. "They were taking up too much space. That's all. Now can we drop it?" Dean narrowed his eyes and put the car in drive, hitting the gas more harshly than usual. The car's wheels picked up dust as they sped out of the motel parking lot.

"No."

"Sam," Dean warned.

"Dean," Sam mocked the same tone. His tone softened. "Talk to me, man."

"I did," Dean said, anger underlying his tone. "Remember that conversation? Me not wanting to die?"

Sam's own anger surfaced. "Of course I remember. You think I could just forget something like that?" He knew Dean was just trying to avoid the conversation, but that had been low. "I told you, I'm saving your ass this time."

Dean glanced at Sam from the corners of his eyes. "So, how 'bout this: let's talk about how we're gonna do that."

"Don't," Sam warned, tone low, frustration coming into the fray. "Don't you do that."

"Do what?" Dean puckered his brow, sounding as though he thought Sam was crazy.

"Avoid the subject," Sam replied honestly.

"I'm not avoiding the subject, Sammy," Dean reassured to only himself. "I told you—"

"Right, 'cause you couldn't just wear the jacket or—"

"Or what, Sam?" He growled. Dean's lip curled disgustedly with each word. "Or just listen to my music? To Dad's music. Wear my jacket? His jacket." He banged his hand against the steering wheel. "Dammit, it's his car, too." Dean shook his head, the fight leaving him. His voice softened to a dull whisper. "Everything. Everything's his, Sammy." Dean laughed and it sounded hollow and shaky. "Guess there's not much I'm gonna leave behind, huh?"

You're leaving me behind, Sam wanted to say, but his mouth closed around the words.

So that's what this was about? Dean thinking his possessions didn't belong to him, but to Dad? Dad leaving behind something, and Dean feeling he had nothing of his to leave behind. Did Dean think he was going to be forgotten?

Sam slumped in his seat and turned away from the raw eyes of his brother. His own heart had lodged itself in his throat at Dean's whispered confession.

Sam watched the countryside pass by as the broken glass of his brother's emotions tore at his insides.

He felt suddenly empty, cold.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dean reach for the play button on the tape deck. Watched as he quickly retracted his hand as though he'd been burned, the older hunter's defenses firmly back in place, stoic eyes returning to the road.

Dean usually liked to annoy him by raising the music's volume. He used it to think, to heal, to avoid. Had been wearing that old leather jacket since forever, and loved his car second only to Sam.

But as they drove on in silence, Sam couldn't help but wonder what Dean had really seen in his dreams to make those very things seem unimportant.

"Dude, what're you doing?" Dean asked, wiping his face on a towel.

He shut off the lights in the bathroom and walked out in time to see Sam putting on his—Dad's—jacket. Dean raised his eyebrows. He didn't know what his brother was doing or what was going on in that big head of his.

Not that Dean knew half the time. Sam thought too much anyway. Still, he had to ask.

Sam shrugged into the jacket, pulling at his arms and shrugging his shoulders a couple of times like he was trying to get the feel for it.

Sam looked up at him and smiled. "You like it?" Dean shrugged and moved to tuck his favorite gun into the back of his jeans. Sam continued, not fazed by Dean's silence. "I figured since you weren't gonna wear it anymore, it'd be a shame to just let it sit in the car."

"Yeah." Dean smiled tightly. "A damn shame. You ready to go? I'm starving."

He refused to tell Sam that the jacket didn't look too bad on him, considering.

Sam raised the collar the way Dean usually wore it. His annoyance rose. "Sammy, you get a new job I'm not aware about? You late for a fashion show?"

Sam ignored the bait. He gave Dean an innocent look which the older hunter would've fallen for had he not been immune to puppy-dog Sam eyes.

"You don't mind, do you?" Sam asked, dewy eyes soft.

"What, the jacket?" Dean waved a hand nonchalantly. "Naw. You go ahead and wear it."

"You sure?" Sam creased his brows in concern. "I mean, it's always been yours."

"No, it hasn't," Dean threw back, suddenly defensive. "It was Dad's before it was mine."

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, well, I never really remember Dad wearing it. Just you." He paused to take a breath. "I remember when you were stuck in the hospital for a couple of days after a hunt. I made sure to scrub out all the blood because I knew you wouldn'a wanted to throw it away."

Dean's heart suddenly lodged itself painfully in his throat. He remembered that. Sammy's hands had been raw afterwards, but he'd never complained about it. Just brought him the jacket like it'd been a present.

He didn't trust himself to say anything, just gave a slight nod. He cleared his throat roughly and moved to the door.

"So, really? You're sure? As in, sure, sure, or like, ninety percent sure?" Sam was searching his face. Dean avoided his gaze as best as he could.

"'Course I'm sure," Dean scoffed, trying his best not to look at the brown leather. "A hundred percent. You wear it. It's not mine anymore, right?"

"Right," Sam answered carefully, raising his eyebrows.

"So, let's go already." Dean started for the door, Sam following behind. "I'm starving."

As Dean walked out the door, he missed the deflated look on Sam's face.

Sam had a plan.

A plan that was going to crack Dean.

After all, it wasn't only his brother who had inherited the stubborn Winchester genes.

They had split up to ask questions for a case they were working. Nothing weird, which, sadly, was what they called an easy hunt. Sam had finished early and walked across the street from the coroner's office to a little pawn shop, Dean's tape collection in tow. Sam checked his watch. Dean would be there any minute.

He slowed his walk, just in time to see his brother rounding the street corner. He quickly dashed into the shop, making sure Dean saw him before he went in.

The door opened to a ringing bell overhead. The shop owner looked up at Sam when he heard the bell, putting his newspaper down and reaching up to take off his glasses.

"Can I help you?" The man's eyes crinkled at the edges and looked with suspicion at the box in Sam's arms.

"Uh, yeah." Sam put the box down on the wooden counter. "I'd like to pawn these for cash, please."

The man put his glasses back on and peered into the box, taking some of the tapes out and reading their labels. "Metallica, Zeppelin." He looked up at Sam. "You really wanna pawn these, son?"

"Yeah, positive." Sam began helping the man pull out the tapes when the doorbell sounded at the door. He didn't turn around, knowing it was Dean and feeling his intense underlying anger from where Sam was standing.

"Sam?" Dean grated out. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sam turned around and casually shrugged. "Selling all these tapes."

As though it were obvious.

Dean narrowed his eyes, shoulders curling forward, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sam ignored his seething brother and plowed on. "I mean, since you don't want them anymore, they'd be taking too much space in the trunk, so why not get some cash out of 'em."

"They're classics, Sam. They're not gonna rot away in some pawn shop. They deserve better."

The shop owner raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything, just started putting some of the tapes back into the box. "Look, boys, I don't want trouble. Here, you can take them back." The elder man pushed the box towards them. Dean shoved past his brother and grabbed hold of the box at the same time Sam did.

"No, Sir, it's ok, we wanna pawn them," Sam told the owner, his eyes on Dean, hands pushing the box back.

"No, we don't." Dean held his gaze, the angry intensity flaring. The older hunter pulled the box back towards him.

"Yes, we do." Push.

"No, we don't." Pull.

"Dean."

"Sam."

The shopkeeper cleared his throat uncomfortably as both boys turned to acknowledge his forgotten presence.

"Right, sorry for the trouble, but these aren't for sale. And that's final." Sam knew the last comment was meant for him, Dean's blazing eyes making it perfectly clear.

Sam watched the shopkeeper step away from the counter as Dean picked up his beloved music collection and walked silently out the door. The bell suddenly sounded loud in the quiet his brother left behind.

Sam moved to the Impala and opened the back door, shoving his duffle onto the seat. He unzipped it quickly and pulled out the worn leather, running his hands over it appreciatively before putting it on and popping the collar again. Out of the corner of Sam's eyes, he saw Dean narrow his own and watched as his brother's expression closed up.

Dean hovered at the driver's side door with a glassy expression, looking as though he was moments away from saying something. Anything.

In an instant, the look was gone. Dean opened the door and didn't look Sam in the eye when he said, "You done, slow poke? We're wasting daylight. This case isn't gonna solve itself."

Those were the first words Dean had said to him since he'd stormed out of the pawn shop the day before. Sam had thought he'd made progress with the attempt to sell the music. He had known that Dean would become irate over the mere idea of selling those tapes. But Dean had moved into full blown anger territory at the idea becoming a reality. Almost twenty four hours had passed though and Dean hadn't made a move to turn on any music, settling for the stifling silence instead.

Sam sighed, zipping his duffle back up and closing the rear door. Sam was sure—as sure as he was of his own heart beating—that Dean was bothered by Sam wearing his jacket. And as far as Sam was concerned, the brown leather was and always would be Dean's. Dad may have given it to him, along with the car, and the passing along of his music, but Dean had embraced them, made them his own without being asked to. The car and jacket were molded to suit and fit his brother as though meant for him.

They were as well loved by Dean as Sam was. A love that was never with words, but with quiet care. And when Sam found a way to break the deal—because he would find a way—he wanted to make sure Dean knew damn well how valuable those items were. How valuable he was.

"Yeah, I'm done." Sam pulled open the passenger side door. "Just wanted to make sure I had everything I'd need."

"You don't need the jacket to help you solve the case, Sam. It's useless." Dean's voice was hard.

"I wouldn't say it was useless. Didn't you always say your jacket is badass? Attracts the ladies?" Sam watched his silent brother, whose eyes were focused on something other than the smoky leather.

Dean's eyebrows rose as he turned to look at Sam. "Since when were you worried about attracting the ladies, huh, Sammy?"

"That's not—" The fact that Sam was wearing the precious garment on a hunt where, in a few hours, he knew they would be digging up graves, should have concerned Dean more.

"Enough about the jacket, ok?" Dean snapped. His eyes raked over it, running a hand tiredly over his face. "I get it—I haven't been wearing it and I'm not giving you grief about wearing it on a hunt, either. Dude, it's no big deal anymore, alright? Can we please just drop it?"

Sam plowed on, trying to make Dean see what he was giving up. "No, we can't, Dean. You've been—"

But all Sam saw was his brother's back as Dean walked out the door.

"Get in the car." Dean's voice was like acid as he walked over to Sam and the sales dealer he was speaking to.

"Which one?" The lot was full of other cars, all new and not made of Detroit steel. Sam knew he was pushing Dean's buttons, but he really couldn't help it. The death glare Sam received from his brother sobered him for the coming onslaught of rage. Sam knew what he'd tried to do was a push too far, but he was still determined to make Dean see sense.

"You know which one. Get. In. The car."

"Excuse us for a moment." Sam turned away from the car dealer to find he was face to face with a very enraged and steely eyed Dean. Both fists were clenched at Dean's sides and Sam could practically feel the tension radiating off of him. His brother's jaw was clenched so tightly Sam was afraid Dean might break it. "What's up, Dean?"

"'What's up, Dean?' Sam! That's it! This was the last straw. I. Have had. Enough!" Dean spat vehemently. "First, you wear my jacket. Then, you try to pawn my tapes for cash. And the worst: you try to sell. My. CAR! What the hell is wrong with you, dude? You don't touch a man's wheels!"

Dean, Sam knew, had reached the end of his patience. The classic black beauty had always been more than a car to Dean. It was the only real stability they had in the nomadic hunting life they lived. It was shelter, comfort, a safe haven. But more importantly, it was their home. And the mere thought of Sam even attempting to negotiate a sales price for it made his own skin crawl. The outburst held the truth Dean had been holding inside.

"So… now they're yours?" Sam asked slowly, making sure he'd heard his brother right.

"What?"

"You just said they're yours: your tapes, your jacket, your car," Sam inserted, smiling slowly, feeling accomplished.

Dean hesitated, eyes darting between Sam's face, the brown leather Sam was still wearing, and the Impala. Finally, the green eyes came to rest on Sam's, a spark of realization igniting. Dean paused for a long moment before shrugging nonchalantly. "Yeah. So?"

Sam shrugged too. If Dean wasn't going to make it a big deal, well, he'd let it slide as well. "Nothing. Just making sure."

"Well, you better not forget it." And that was the end of that. Dean came around the front of his baby, hand passing over her sleek shine before coming to rest on the door handle. "You coming? Or should I invest in selling you? I'm sure the dealer is looking for a puppy-eyed, pain in the ass to help sell these pieces of junk." He gestured to the vehicles sitting on the lot.

"Nah, I'm good." Sam smiled, moving around to the passenger side door. He stopped, suddenly remembering he was still wearing his brother's jacket. "I almost forgot." Dean looked up as Sam took the garment off and tossed it over the top of the car into the hands of its rightful owner. "Here. I think this is yours."

Dean caught the brown leather and held it up to his face, hands inspecting it like he hadn't before seen it properly. "Thanks, Sammy." His eyes didn't leave the jacket.

Sam grinned, knowing there wasn't really anything to say. He watched as Dean put the jacket on, a small smile tugging at his lips. Dean climbed in next to Sam and started the car, listening to the purr of the engine.

"You wanna listen to some music?" Sam asked tentatively, still unsure about Dean's change of heart.

Dean raised a questioning eyebrow but didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the tape deck and turned it on. The sounds of Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven immediately filled the interior of the car.

With a small smile gracing his lips, Dean pulled out of the car dealer's lot and onto the road headed out of town, hands appreciatively moving over the steering wheel.

"Oh, and Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"If you ever try to pull any of that crap again, you're a dead man."

In that moment, Sam had never feared less for his life.

The End.

If you've gotten this far, I'd love to hear your thoughts! They're worth more than gold. *smile*