The summer heat didn't help Sam's already sweating body as he tinkered with something under your car. He'd been here for an hour trying to figure out just what was wrong with this shit box again. He knew you loved your car dearly, but, shit, it was time to let it go.

He'd fixed it more times in the past year than he ever helped Dean on the Impala. Don't get him wrong—he loved helping you in any way he could. He'd stay under this car for hours if it meant you were happy, but, fuck, it was hot, and he was tired.

He heard the garage door open, and he slid out from under the car, glancing over as you walked in with some plate. He smiled, sitting up and grabbing a rag, wiping off his greasy hands.

The normal life worked for him. He loved it like this. Just you and him and nothing else in the way. Even if sometimes, he missed hunting. Missed Dean. Missed saving people. He wanted to keep you safe, and this was the best way to do it.

"What's that?" he asked, standing up with a small groan. His back was killing him from being under the car so long. He took a moment to stretch, hearing his bones popping in all sorts of places. "Another 'meatloaf'?" he joked, referring to the one time you made a meatloaf that turned out more like a blob of burnt meat.