Dean treats the house like he does the impala.
That’s to say he won’t let anyone else touch it.
Sam can’t help but grin as he watches his brother fight with the piece of tin he’s been trying to get in place for the past ten minuets. The roof is so hot he can see mirages wafting off it in waving lines, and Dean’s spitting out curses each time he burns his hands.
“That’s totally crooked, man,” Sam calls as his brother sits back on his haunches. Dean glares down at him, face beet red from a mixture of sun and his growing frustration.
Much to his aggravation and Sam’s amusement, Dean’s always been delicate.
Sam remembers one summer back in middle school when they lived near a lake. Just one day spent in the water, chasing frogs and planning strategic splash wars with the neighbors’ kids had left Dean the brightest shade of red Sam’s ever seen. Dad had been furious, and Dean had been a whimpering mess for days as John rubbed aloe onto his peeling back.
“You think you can do better?!” Dean growls and Sam shrugs, taking a quick swig from the beer sweating in his hand.
He watches his brother’s eyes track the moment, sweat staining his shirt and trickling down his hairline.
“It’s still crooked,” Sam says, pointing with his spare hand and Dean flips him the bird.
Sam loves this. Not Dean burning to a crisp (though it is kinda amusing) but the fact that they’re fixing up a house, their house, that Sam just finished unpacking the very last box of things with no intention of repacking them. He loves that he can hang up his shirts, that he’s learning which steps are creaky, that he’s starting to figure out the trick to the sticky deadbolt on the front door. He loves that Cas has become a fantasy addict of all things; disappearing into the old copy of The Hobbit Sam stole from a high school in Pennsylvania his senior year.
“This is a fascinating exploration of the human condition,” Cas had explained over breakfast that morning, and Dean had choked on a mouthful of bacon as he laughed.
“Its about elves and orcs and talking trees, man!”
But Cas hadn’t heard a word, already lost in the next chapter as he nibbled at Dean’s discarded crusts.
He hadn’t put the book down yet, Sam had watched him follow Dean from room to room as his brother oiled creaking hinges and squared up the doorjamb in the bathroom. Silently mouthing words to himself, he hadn’t even looked up as he passed each requested tool to Dean.
The inside of the house was finally done. Just a few creaks, one to two leaks and a few coats of paint away from being worthy of a spread in some décor magazine, Sam thought proudly. Not that he was biased or anything.
The outside was admittedly a different matter.
The wind was humid and thick, and Sam was glad Dean was such a stubborn bastard because, really,getting onto that roof in this heat to help him looked like more trouble then it was worth, leaky kitchen be damned.
“GODDAMMIT!” Dean spat as he shoved his thumb in his mouth, burnt or bleeding or some amalgamation of both.
“You look like a lobster,” Sam offered. With growing delight, he watched Dean’s face go blank. His big brother turned slowly, face dark as thunder, a vein throbbing on his forehead, visible even from Sam’s spot firmly on the ground.
“Don’t make me come down there!” Dean growled as behind Sam, Cas started muttering something that sounded suspiciously like Elvish. Dean’s eyes flickered up, face turning pained.
“Oh god, you’ve turned him into a geek!” Dean groaned.
He loved his Family.