You knew this was a sacred moment the second he handed you the wrench. The one he always uses when working on her. The Impala sits in the middle of the Bunker garage, hood up, engine still warm from the short drive back. The smell of grease and motor oil hangs in the air, and the sunlight from the wide, open garage doors filters in just enough to make the chrome gleam. Dean stands beside you, arms crossed, a faint smudge of oil on his cheek. “Okay,” he says. “You ready to learn how to change the oil in the most beautiful car on God’s green earth?”

You give him a look. “You mean your other girlfriend?”

His mouth quirks into a smirk. “She’s not the jealous type.”

You take the wrench. “Let’s get started before she changes her mind.”

He laughs and leads you to the front of the car. “Alright. First rule? Be gentle. She’s tough, yeah, but she’s got quirks. Like me.”

“So she stalls at awkward moments and runs on whiskey?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “You’ve been paying attention.” He walks you through it slowly: popping the hood, checking the oil level with the dipstick, explaining the difference between clean amber fluid and the dark sludge of “she’s overdue.” He makes it sound simple, but there’s a reverence in the way he talks about her, like he’s introducing you to a family member.

You kneel beside the front bumper, a little unsure, hands already a little greasy. “Okay, where’s the drain plug?”

Dean leans over your shoulder, close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. “Right there,” he says, pointing under the oil pan. “You’ll need to slide under and loosen it. But not too much-unless you wanna wear it.”

“Tempting,” you say. “Is this part of the hazing?”

“Nah,” he grins. “Hazing comes later when you spill it all over the floor.”

You slide under, awkward but determined, and after a few grunts and a bit of swearing, you feel the plug start to give. A warm splash of oil trickles down your wrist. “Gross,” you mutter.

Dean crouches beside you, clearly enjoying himself. “Welcome to the club.” Eventually, the oil drains into the pan, and Dean helps you replace the filter, carefully, his hand brushing yours now and then, his eyes watching you more than the car. When you finish refilling the oil and lowering the hood, he leans against the side of the Impala with that satisfied look of his. “Not bad,” he says, tossing you a rag.

“Not bad?” you echo, wiping your hands. “I didn’t spill anything. I deserve a medal.”

Dean smirks, eyes bright. “You want a medal, sweetheart? Or you want a ride?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re gonna let me drive her?”

He pushes off the car and steps close, hands slipping into your back pockets like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Not tonight,” he murmurs, dipping his head. “But maybe someday. If you keep impressing me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll just have to keep teaching you.” He kisses you soft, sweet, and a little oily, and you lean into it, smiling against his mouth. Somewhere behind you, the Impala ticks as she cools down, like she’s watching. Approving. Or at least tolerating. You pull back and glance over your shoulder.

“Think she likes me?”

Dean grins. “She doesn’t let just anyone under her hood.”

“Neither do I.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “That’s why this works.”