A/N: SPOILERS for 11x4, "Baby". So if you haven't watched the last episode yet, I reccommend you wait to watch before reading this. My take on the last scene as the boys drive off. I do not own the boys, just playing in the sandbox.

We Are Home

"You know what? We are home."

I watch as Sam pats Baby's dash affectionately, a small smile creeping across his face, bloodied and bruised after our latest fight. And I feel a lump forming beneath my throat. I had always seen the Impala as home. It where we'd roughhoused as kids while Dad drove us to another hunt; where Sam had begrudgingly admitted he'd had his first kiss. It had been our bed in the days when motel rooms were out of the budget.

I had always known that Sam had liked Baby. I mean, come on, who wouldn't think a classic '67 Impala wasn't a beautiful specimen? But I had always believed Sam thought of her as just a car. Asthetically pleasing, yes, but for the most part, a means to get from one Point A to Point B without having to hitchhike or spend cash on a bus ticket. Of course, those four months I was in Hell and the year I was in Purgatory, Sam had definitely thought more of Baby. She was a part of me. He had admitted that there were times when he had almost put her in storage; she reminded him too much of me, and it physically hurt him to drive (not that Sam had opened up that much, but I could fill in the rest without much difficulty). What kept him from doing it was the fact that locking her away seemed unfair to me. He'd remembered his promise from years earlier: take care of my wheels. And he meant to do just that, even if it meant driving her rather than locking her away.

But I had always assumed that his devotion back then was for my sake. That he was holding on to his big brother's car as part of some form of obligation. Never had I believed that my Baby had meant that much to my little brother.

But now, I see Sam, lovingly patting the dash of a car who had definitely seen better days: busted out back window, blood smeared everywhere, crumpled front fender. And I want to cry. Because Sam does see that old '67 Chevy as more than just four wheels and chrome; he sees comfort, safety, love. He sees home.

But I don't smile back, give my brother an affectionate squeeze of the shoulder. Instead, I turn the key, pump the gas, and pray under my breath that my girl starts. And of course, Baby's engine rumbles into life, like she always does. But as she idles, I switch on my old cassette tape to "Night Moves." I'm sending a message to my brother, loud and clear, with the simple opening chords. That this old car, battered and bruised, is home. And that there is no place I'd rather be than behind her wheel, my brother by my side.