The Box on the Left
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In the trunk of a 67 black Chevy Impala, under a secret compartment on the left hand side is a box. The box is actually an old square metal tin, that once held candy. The tin is dented here and there from being thrown around by the rough road, and there is sign of rust along the edges. On the lid is an old faded sticker, a picture of a rose in the right hand corner. Written on it in a tiny scrawl is 'To my love, Mary. From, John.'.
Inside this tin, are the contents of Dean Winchester's life. They are the things that he holds close, and are what make the memories he holds even closer. A life of a father and mother. To a life with a father and brother. A life of training and hunting. To a life of fast cars and faster women. Inside this tin is Dean Winchester's life.
A single red rose bud. The petals brown with age, and loosely strung throughout the bottom of the tin. John Winchester had handed two roses to him at his mother's funeral. When his father had turned away from the coffin, Dean placed one of the roses on its closed lid. The other he slipped off the stem, and hid in his pocket. Dean doesn't no what drove him to do it, or why he kept it all these years. His memory tells him of a time when his mother once said how much she loved the color red.
A silver bullet. The proof of the success of his first hunt with his father. It was supposed to have been a simple salt and burn. It had turned into a showdown with a rouge werewolf. It was luck, that by mistake, Dean had loaded his pistol with silver bullets. It was even more luck that the bullet struck the beast in the heart. Before his dad showed up, Dean had taken out his knife to pry the bullet from the creatures heart. He had been nine at the time.
A folded piece of paper, now yellow with age. Unfolded the paper reveals a picture done in crayon. Blues, yellows, and greens. A sniffling seven year old Sam had come to him after school. The young boy trying desperately no to cry in front of the older.
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"What's wrong Sammy," Dean said pushing his homework aside. "Did something bad happen at school."
Sam merely nodded his head, the tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.
"What happened," Dean urged.
"W-W-We h-had art today," Sam began. "The teacher said for homework we had to draw a picture of our house. We don't have a house Dean."
"Oh Sammy," Dean whispered opening his arms. Sam had climbed onto his lap, letting his older brother rock him while he cried. The tears soaking the older's tee shirt.
That night Dean sat with his brother, describing the house they once had in Lawrence. Sam had listened carefully, picturing the house in his head.
The next day Sam had come running to his brother. "Dean," he shouted.
"What is it Sammy," Dean asked, afraid something might be wrong again.
"Look," Sam had said, holding out the picture. "It's for you." Sam had a smile from ear to ear.
It was a picture of their house. In the picture Sam had drawn their dad, him, and himself. Something caught Dean's eye. "Sammy," he asked, pointing to one of the houses windows. "What's this?"
Sam looked down at his shoes whispering something, but Dean caught what he said. "I drew mommy in the house."
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The last thing Dean ever placed into the tin was an envelope. He had pulled it out of the trash one night after the motel room had grown quiet. His father off to the local bar. His brother. On a bus somewhere. The letter reads...
Dear Samuel Winchester,
It is with great pleasure, that we welcome you to Stanford...
He never told Sam he kept it. He probably never will. Sometimes while in the trunk he'll pull out the letter, and read it. His heart swells, and his eyes burn. He was so proud of his brother. He is still proud of him.
Inside an old metal tin, that once held candy. A tin that had once been gently held by his mom. A tin filled with memories, is the life of Dean Winchester.
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