The 1967 Chevrolet Impala is Dean’s sacred pride and joy. The sweet smell of leather invaded every crevice, the nostalgic green army figure wedged into the air vent, the rattle of legos somewhere within the vehicle, the initials D.W. and S.W. etched into the dash.

Not to mention Dean fixed his Impala up himself. What one works for is what they hold dearest.

Finally. Finally Dean is letting you drive Baby.

For the first few minutes he watches you like a hawk. Doing a nervous little ehh when you get ‘too close’ to scraping the paint job.

You get a handle on a steady pace that doesn’t have Dean gripping onto the edges of his seat to refrain from taking the wheel.

Eventually—He relaxes, cranks on some dad rock, puts his sunglasses on, and starts to doze off in the passenger seat. Head rested on the window and slumped back comfortably into the leather seats.

He looked peaceful. Everlasting bedhead and his usually inveterate mug smoothed out into calmness. The rev of Baby’s engine and the gentle tinkling of lego bits was like a zen white noise for you two.