The Rules Are Simple

Unfortunately, Supernatural doesn't belong to me. I mean absolutely no copyright infringement. I am just here to play in the wonderful world that the talented Eric Kripke created.

The rules are simple, Sam. You don't take a joint from a guy named Don and there's no dogs in the car. Episode 8.1 We Need To Talk About Kevin

It wasn't one of Dean's finer moments. In fact, it ranked right up there with the time his Nair prank on his little brother ended up with Sam losing most of his hair and the time he actually got caught stealing peanut butter and bread by a dime store local yokel. Definitely not any of Dean's finer moments.

But, it had happened. And Dean was damn sure it was all Sam's fault that it had. Of course, Sam never even knew about it, mostly because Dean would never tell a living soul- other than his dad and Bobby, who already knew- what he had done. But, if Sam hadn't decided to leave him, to hop onto a bus and make his way to Stanford, then Dean wouldn't have ever been in the position he had been in when he met Don.

The night Sam left had been one of the darkest nights of Dean's young life, both literally and figuratively. Watching Sam leave had taken something from him that couldn't ever be replaced. It had left a hole in Dean that ached relentlessly, no matter how hard he tried to numb himself with alcohol and women. The first month was nothing more than a hazy memory of dive bars, sleazy motel rooms, and needy women. He wasn't proud of the things he had done during that month, but he wasn't completely ashamed, either. He had done what he needed to do to survive the anguish and torment of Sam's leaving.

The second month saw Dean return to a somewhat normal state of being, however Dean's "normal" compared to anyone else's. He slept very little, ate even less, threw himself into whatever job his dad found for them, drank himself to sleep every night, and then woke up and did it all over again. He wasn't living, he was barely surviving.

John Winchester wasn't at all happy with the way Dean was dealing with their new life without Sam. In his eyes, Sam had made his choice, and although he himself desperately missed the youngest Winchester, he figured they just needed to get on with things. He threw himself into hunting even more completely, drowning his sorrows in the executions of whatever monsters were unlucky enough to catch his attention. He would never admit it to anyone, but Sam's leaving had stirred in him a certain disregard for life. He became careless on his hunts- not doing the research appropriately, taking more risks than normal, hunting by himself- and unfortunately, Dean ended up paying the price.

They were on a hunt for a werewolf that had already taken the lives of two children in a small town in New Mexico. His research pointed to it being a lone wolf, but they unfortunately found themselves in the middle of a small pack. Dean was heading up the trail on the search for the werewolf, leaving John to bring up the rear and watch their backs. Taking out the werewolf they had been tracking had been easy. It had been a fairly young werewolf, so Dean had no problem tracking it and disposing of it quickly. Just as he finished burying the young wolf that had taken his silver bullet to the brain, Dean turned to his dad only to find him nowhere in sight.

"Dad?" Before Dean could even call out for John again, he heard a noise off to his right. Aiming his flashlight in that direction, he chilled at the sight of two pairs of glowing eyes not too far away from him. Suddenly realizing that their lone wolf hadn't really been alone, Dean called out for John again. "Dad? I need some help here."

Dean heard rustling coming from somewhere behind him and he hoped that it was his dad and not more werewolves. He couldn't take the chance to look behind him, though, knowing that the minute he turned around the wolves ahead of him would strike. Instead, he pulled his gun out and leveled it in the direction of the glowing eyes. To his relief, he finally heard the sound of his dad's voice calling out to him as he made his way back to Dean through the thick brush.

"Dean? What is it? What's wrong?"

Dean was just about to answer when both sets of glowing eyes suddenly rushed towards him. He was able to get two shots off immediately before something big and furry landed directly in front of him. Before he could fire off another shot, the werewolf swiped him across the chest, leaving a trail of rapidly flowing blood to pour out of him. Dean quickly brought his arms up and pushed against the creature that was trying to tear his neck out. He managed to somehow get his arms up between them, but he was already weakening from blood loss and the creature outweighed him by at least a sixty pounds.

Just as he thought he might actually die, Dean heard the sound of John crashing into the small clearing, followed by the blessed sound of a gunshot ringing in the night. Seconds later, the werewolf's body collapsed onto him, making it even harder for him to breathe.

"Dean!" John yelled as he jumped forward. Dean lay limply on the ground as John wrestled with the werewolf's body, attempting to pull it off of his son. "Dean, are you okay?"

"Define okay," Dean replied weakly.

John quickly examined his son, an unusual look of worry on his face. "Damn it, Dean! What happened?"

Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What happened?" he asked in surprise. "What do you think happened, Dad? Obviously, your research was wrong. It wasn't just one werewolf, it was three. And hopefully there aren't more out there."

John didn't seem to have an answer for Dean's accusation. Instead, he focused on tending to his son's wounds. "We need to get out of here. Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"

"I can walk," Dean ground out as he tried to get to his feet. He hated the fact that he needed to rely on his father to help him up. He hated to show any weakness to anyone, but especially to his father.

"Come on, son. Just lean on me and let me help you, okay?"

It took them almost twenty minutes to make it back to the Impala and another twenty to make it back to the motel room. By that time, Dean's breath was coming in short pants and his head was spinning from the loss of blood. John helped him to one of the beds, laying him carefully back onto the pillows, before heading back to the Impala for their first aid kit.

Once he was back in the room, he quickly grabbed the ice bucket, filling it up with warm water before stopping by the bathroom and grabbing every towel and wash cloth he could find. Dean was being as still as he could on the bed, trying to prevent the rush of pain that occurred with any movement at all. His breathing was shallow and irregular, his heart rate weak and fast. He could still feel the blood trickling out of his wound and was thankful that it had at least slowed down a bit.

"How are you doing, kid?" John asked as he made it back to the bad.

"Wonderful," Dean grunted.

John looked down at his son, wincing at the sight before him. There were giant rips in Dean's t-shirt that correlated with the massive wounds on his chest and the fabric was soaked in blood.

"Dean, I hate to say it, but I'm gonna have to cut your shirt off."

"No way," Dean exclaimed as he tried to sit up. "This is my favorite shirt. I can get it off."

"Stop, Dean," John commanded as he noticed more blood pouring out of the wound with Dean's movement. Dean immediately stopped his efforts of sitting up. "It's already ruined, son. You're not going to be able to save it."

John couldn't help but smile at the pout that suddenly claimed Dean's face. "It's just a shirt, kid."

"It's not just a shirt, Dad. It's my favorite. I got it at the AC/DC Ballbreaker tour in 1996, remember?"

"I remember," John growled. "We were on a hunt in North Carolina and you snuck out and went to the concert after I told you that you couldn't go."

"Yeah," Dean grimaced. "You were pretty mad about that, but it was worth it."

"Was it really? If I remember correctly, you had a pretty memorable meeting with my belt because of that."

"It was still worth it," Dean answered with a cocky grin.

"Maybe that meeting wasn't as memorable as I thought it was," John answered.

"Oh, no… it was plenty memorable, Dad. Just out-trumped by the awesomeness of AC/DC."

John smiled at his son as he grabbed the bandage scissors out of the first aid kit. "Maybe we can find you a replacement somewhere," he offered as he started to cut Dean's beloved t-shirt off of him.

After getting the shirt off and cleaning the wound as gently as he could, John started the arduous process of stitching the wounds up. It took the better part of two hours and by the time he was done, Dean's chest looked like a set of railroad tracks running parallel to each other.

Once Dean was settled back on the bed, finally having given in to his exhaustion, John left the motel to find some much needed antibiotics and pain medication for his son. He usually kept the first aid kit stocked with these necessities, but he hadn't refilled it after the last injury had decimated his supply. Unfortunately, John ran into a little trouble just outside the city limits.

In his worry over the current state of his oldest son, John wasn't paying attention to how fast he was driving. When he finally registered the sight and sound of the sirens on his tail, he pulled over, immediately realizing how much trouble he was in. In his haste to get Dean some medication, he hadn't taken the time to change out of his bloodied shirt or grab his wallet. So, when the officer saw the state of him and the fact that he didn't have any identification on him, he had no choice but to bring the man in.

Unbeknownst to John, they had also found the body of the two werewolves after some campers called in the sounds of gunshots. The sight of someone covered in blood and speeding down a highway was curious, to say the least. John now regretted not taking the time to bury the bodies, but Dean's safety had come first. As the policeman cuffed him and led him over to the police car, John couldn't help but worry about what would happen to Dean.

Dean wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, but by the time he woke up he could see the sun shining through the curtain. Not remembering at first what had happened, he attempted to sit up in bed, only to find himself gasping in pain. Looking down, he was surprised to see his chest wrapped up in a bulky dressing, small amounts of blood showing in several places. Dean immediately remembered the events of the previous night and frantically looked around for his dad.

"Dad?" he called out, but was unsurprised to find the room empty. He knew that if his father had been in the room, he would have immediately been at Dean's side with the first hint of him waking up.

Dean's need to use the bathroom suddenly became the most important thing to him, so he shakily made his way to the edge of the bed, allowing his head to stop spinning before attempting to stand up. After a few minutes of dizziness, he finally felt his head clear enough to attempt to walk. Only stumbling a few times, he made it into the bathroom and took care of business.

Once that was done, he sat back down on the bed, turned on the television, and waited for John to return. After several hours, Dean was starting to get nervous. Where was his dad?

Eventually, Dean remembered to check his phone, hoping that maybe John had left a message for him. He was disappointed to see that there weren't any messages. He was also disappointed that none of his calls to John were answered. Dean finally thought that maybe Bobby might know something about John's whereabouts, but that call went unanswered, as well.

After almost another hour of sitting in the dark motel room, Dean finally decided to check around outside. First line of business was to see if the Impala was still in the parking lot. Dean wasn't surprised when he found that it wasn't. After checking in at the front desk, making sure to pay for another night and asking if the front desk clerk had seen his father, Dean made his way over to the small café on the other end of the parking lot. He really wasn't hungry, but he knew that he needed to keep his strength up.

He ate a quick plate of bacon and eggs, washed down by several cups of coffee, before finally leaving the café. Once he was back outside, he leaned up against a light pole, trying to come up with a game plan. As he unconsciously rubbed at the thick bandages on his chest, he didn't notice the truck that pulled up next to him or the man that was eyeing him closely from the truck.

"Hey, man… Are you alright?" the man finally asked.

It took Dean a few minutes to realize the man was talking to him. "Who me?" he asked dazedly.

"Yeah. You look like you're about to drop, dude. Maybe you should sit down."

Just as the man said that, Dean's knees buckled and he found himself face down on the pavement.

"Whoa, dude," the man said as he jumped out of his truck. By the time he made it to Dean, Dean was already trying to sit up. "Holy crap, man… you're a mess."

Dean felt blood trickling down from a small cut on his forehead and he was pretty sure some of the stitches had busted open on his chest. On top of that, his palms were both scraped up and he had ripped a whole in his jeans on his left knee.

The man gently placed his hands under Dean's arms, helping him to stand up. "Dude, you're bleeding from your chest," the man said. "What the hell happened to you?"

By this time, the dizziness had returned full force, causing Dean to sway a little. The man's grip tightened on Dean's arm as he prevented him from falling again. "I think you need to sit down, man."

"I'm fine," Dean ground out.

"You're anything but fine. You look like a halfway strong breeze would blow you over. You need to sit."

Dean knew the man was right. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to go back to his motel room and throw himself back on his bed. Looking up, he really noticed the man before him. He looked to be somewhat in his sixties, his hair and beard both long and scraggly. Dean smiled at the Grateful Dead t-shirt he was wearing. Couldn't be that bad of a guy if he was into the Grateful Dead, right?

"You're right," Dean finally answered. "I am anything but fine at the moment. I could use a little help."

"Whatever you need, man," the man said with a nearly toothless smile. "I'm Don, by the way."

"Hey, Don… I'm Dean. It's nice to meet you."

"I'd say it's serendipity, dude. You need some help, and I could use some company. Works out for both of us. Now, what can I do to help?"

"I'd appreciate it if you could help me to my room. There's a beer in it for you, if you're interested."

"Sounds good to me. Why don't you hop into my truck? It'll get us there faster."

Dean didn't think it was any faster, since it took almost three full minutes to get him up into the truck, but it at least saved him from having to walk two hundred yards. By the time they made it to the motel room, Dean was completely out of breath and in a lot of pain. His breaths were coming in short gasps and he was trying desperately not to lose the breakfast he had just eaten.

Don helped him over to his bed, being careful not to jostle him too much. "Dude, what the hell happened to you?" he asked again, noticing that Dean's t-shirt was soaked through with blood.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Dean answered.

"Try me," he answered. "I've seen a lot of things in my life."

"Animal attack," Dean finally said. "My dad and I were hunting and a wolf attacked us."

"A wolf in this part of the country?"

"Yeah, it happens I guess."

"I've never heard of a wolf in these parts and I've lived here all my life."

"Well, it was definitely a wolf. Swiped me right across the chest."

"Where's your dad?" Don asked.

"He, uh…I think he stepped out to get some medicine for me," Dean answered. He had no idea if that was true, but it seemed the most likely reason his dad would have left him alone.

Dean struggled to get his shirt off of him before it was too bloody to save. He didn't necessarily want to disrobe in front of the stranger in his room, but he really liked the t-shirt he was wearing. Don just stared at the mass of bandages on his chest.

"Damn, man…. You're really messed up. That has to hurt like hell."

"Well, it doesn't feel good," Dean smirked.

"I hope you're dad's getting you some good drugs, dude."

"Me, too," Dean admitted. He wasn't usually one to take strong pain medications, but his chest felt like it was on fire.

"Hey, man….I have some stuff in the truck, if you're interested," Don offered.

"What do you mean by stuff?' Dean asked cautiously.

"You know… stuff. LSD, shrooms, peyote, weed… You name it, I got it."

Dean almost laughed at the absurdity of having a drug dealer in his motel room. He knew his dad would kill him for letting the man in so easily, but the pain Dean was in had obviously put him off his game.

"I'm good," Dean said, just as a coughing fit overtook him. Within seconds, he was gasping for air, trying desperately to catch his breath. If he thought his chest felt like it was on fire before, he was so wrong. The coughing fit made him feel like his chest was a blazing inferno, every nerve ending burning ruthlessly.

It took him almost two full minutes to get his breathing under control and by the time he did, his body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and his stomach was roiling in misery. Don stood staring at him, a concerned look on his face.

"Dude! You definitely need something to take the edge off. I'll be right back."

Dean watched as Don ran out the door, returning less than a minute later with a bag in his hand. "Here you go, man…. The first one's on me."

Don opened the bag and pulled out a tightly rolled joint. Dean wasn't a stranger to smoking marijuana, having spent three months hanging out with a rough group of kids in Tennessee when he was sixteen. Of course, his dad had put a stop to it the moment he found out that Dean was skipping school to get high, and Dean swore that he would never smoke another joint for as long as he lived after that mess.

But, now he was tempted. His chest hurt so much and the intense nausea he felt was threatening to do him in. Not to mention, he had no idea where his dad was or when he would be back. What would one little joint hurt? In fact, he was pretty sure it would make him feel better.

"Let's do it," he finally said. Seconds later, Don had lit the joint and handed it over to a still pale and sweaty Dean.

John Winchester spent almost a full day in the local jail. After trying to call his son multiple times without success, he finally gave up and called Bobby. Fortunately, Bobby was on a hunt fairly close by, so he headed in their direction to help. Bobby showed up at the motel room they were staying in to check on Dean at John's request before heading over to the jail with John's identification. He had been warned that Dean was in rough shape, so he was surprised to hear the boy's loud laugh the minute he stepped out of his car.

Bobby knocked loudly on the door, trying to be heard over the sound of Dean's laughter and what he thought sounded like a Scooby Doo cartoon. He had to knock several more times before the door finally opened and he found himself face to face with a stranger. Trying to look around the considerable bulk of the long-haired, bearded man, his eyes finally rested on Dean, who was sprawled out on one of the beds, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans.

"Who are you?" Bobby asked the strange man.

"Don. Who are you?"

Bobby tried to move around the man, but he couldn't. Don stood his ground, protecting his new friend.

"Dean? It's me. Bobby." Bobby tried to yell around the man, but his yell was drowned out by the sounds of the television and Dean's boisterous laugh. "Dean!" he yelled even louder.

"Bobby? Is that you? Let him in, Don," Dean finally yelled.

Don stepped aside, letting Bobby enter the room. He immediately made his way over to the bed to check on Dean.

"Hey, Bobby,' Dean said with a laugh. "Did you come to join the party? Don's got plenty to share."

"Plenty of what, Dean? And why does it smell like a Grateful Dead concert in here?"

When Dean laughed again, Bobby just stared. "Boy! Are you high?"

"Well, not as high as Sam, but yeah. I'm 6'1", Bobby."

"Not that kind of high, you idjit. Are you high on drugs?"

"Nah! Weed isn't a drug, Bobby," Dean laughed. "It's a way of life."

"Boy, when your dad finds out about this, you're gonna be in a world of Winchester hurt."

"Dad?" Dean looked frantically around the room. "Is he here?"

"No, he's not here, kid. He sent me to check on you though. I'm pretty sure he didn't expect me to find you like this."

"You can't tell him, Bobby," Dean said desperately. "He'll kill me."

"Well, I can't not tell him, Dean. If he ever found out I withheld this from him, he'd kill me. And I wasn't the one that was stupid enough to get high while he was gone."

Dean groaned, suddenly realizing how much trouble he was in. Before he could say anything else though, another gush of laughter tore through him. Sam would have said that it was a gush of giggles, but Dean Winchester didn't giggle.

"I don't see what's so funny, boy," Bobby growled.

"Look in the mirror, Bobby. Then you'll see," Dean roared. His chest was hurting a little at the strain on his stitches by laughing, but he didn't seem to care. "Your head is huge and your face is covered in dots. Big, giant, blue dots!"

"What the hell?! Just what exactly have you been smoking, ya idjit? You're hallucinating!"

When Dean didn't answer, Bobby turned to Don who was watching everything with a smile on his face. "What did you give the kid?" he asked.

"It was just a special joint. It won't hurt the kid, I promise."

"What do you mean by "special"?"

Don took on a somewhat defensive stance. "He was feeling a little nauseous, so I gave him one laced with a little peyote. It's good for nausea."

"It also causes hallucinations, you idiot. He's only twenty-two years old."

"I was just trying to help," Don said. "I wouldn't give him anything that would hurt him."

"He doesn't need your help anymore, so I think you should leave."

Don looked over at Dean who was engrossed in the adventures of Scooby Doo playing out on the television. Every once in a while, the boy would break out in raucous laughter, unaware of what else was happening in the room.

"Fine, I'll leave. But the boy owes me fifty dollars for the joint."

Bobby stared at the man standing in front of him, but then reached into his wallet and pulled out some money. "Here! Now get out of here he said as he threw the money at the man.

Don turned to look at Dean. "Hey, man….I'm outta here. It was nice meeting you."

Dean turned his face away from the television. "Where are you going, Don? The party's just getting started."

"The party's over, Dean," Bobby growled in a low voice. "Don's leaving."

"Damn," Dean answered. "I'll miss you, Don. You're a good man."

"Thanks, man," Don said as he turned to leave. "You're a good man, too."

Bobby closed the door behind the man, making sure to lock it, too. Turning back to Dean, he shook his head at the sight before him. Dean looked like a sullen teenager who just had his driving privileges taken away from him for a long time.

"It's not fair," he pouted. "Don and I were having a good time, Bobby. Why'd you have to ruin it?"

Bobby didn't even answer Dean. Instead, he searched the room for John's wallet, finding it wedged underneath one of the pillows on the bed. Dean wasn't happy when Bobby turned off the television right in the middle of the show.

"Hey! I was watching that!"

"Yeah, well now you're not. We need to go pick up your dad. He wants us to pack up everything, so you can get on the road right away."

"I don't want to leave," Dean pouted. "I have friends here."

"If by friends you mean Don, then we're definitely leaving. You don't need friends like that, kid."

"He wasn't a bad guy, Bobby. He helped me."

"I can see that," Bobby laughed. "Although I think your definition of help will vastly differ from your dad's."

Dean groaned at that. "Dad's not gonna be happy, is he?"

"Nope! Not at all happy, son."

Dean slowly got up and started to gather his stuff. Bobby couldn't help but be amused by the slowness of his movements of the fact that he continued to have the occasional hallucination. At one point, Dean locked himself in the bathroom, thinking that Bobby was turning into a zombie right in front of his eyes. Bobby spent the next twenty minutes trying to get Dean to open the door. Finally, he picked the lock, opening it to find Dean armed with a toilet plunger. If it wasn't for Dean's slowed movements, Bobby probably would have taken a plunger hit to the head. Instead, he was able to easily disarm the kid of his weapon of choice.

"That was too easy, kid," Bobby growled. "And that's exactly why your dad is going to be pissed. You can't protect yourself if you're high, Dean. You're putting yourself in a dangerous spot."

Dean sobered up slightly at Bobby's words. He knew how seriously John Winchester took his safety and if the man thought for a minute that Dean had somehow jeopardized that, well…. he definitely wasn't going to be happy.

An hour later, John had been sprung from jail, Bobby had spilled the beans on Dean's little adventure, and John's rage had settled over his oldest son like a cloak. Bobby had left the two Winchester's, eager to be out of range of John's anger in case any of it rolled his way. He hated leaving Dean to fend for himself, but the stupid kid had gotten himself into the situation.

Dean watched as Bobby drove off, leaving him to face his dad all by himself. He felt like a kid again, facing John's wrath, wondering if he would come out alive. He had seen his dad angry on multiple occasions, but it had been a while since that anger was aimed at him in such a way. By the time they were face to face, the effects of the drugs had worn off, leaving Dean weak and in pain again. He hoped that maybe the sorry sight of him would calm his father a little, but it didn't. Dean spent the next four hours trapped in the Impala with his dad, who berated him for his stupidity over and over again. Dean even thought for a second that his old man was going to pull the car over for some old-fashioned, John Winchester butt-whooping. Thankfully, that didn't happen.

By the time they pulled over for the night, John's voice was hoarse from all the yelling he had done. And Dean's whole body was hurting from sitting stiffly in the car for so many hours. John led them into the motel room, taking the bed closest to the door for himself. He motioned angrily to the bathroom, telling Dean to get ready for bed. Dean came out fifteen minutes later, toweling off his wet hair and gently tapping another towel against his sutured chest.

"Sit down," John ordered.

Dean sat down on his bed, relishing the feel of its softness. John grabbed the first aid kit off the bedside table and sat down next to his son.

"Here. Take these."

Dean took the bottle of water his dad offered him, as well as the two rather large pills. After swallowing them both down, he drank the rest of the bottle of water. John took the empty bottle from him and threw it in the nearest trash can.

"I should have given those to you earlier, Dean. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Dean said quietly.

"Let's get you patched up again, okay?" John pulled out the suture kit, re-suturing a few places that had torn open. Once he was done, he quickly re-dressed the wounds, trying to be as gentle as he could. He noticed how pale and tired Dean was looking, so he pulled back the blankets on the bed and ushered Dean into bed.

"Dad, it's only seven o'clock," Dean argued.

"You're tired, Dean," John answered.

"No, I'm not. Let's watch a movie or something," Dean tried.

"Nope. You're going to bed, young man."

"I don't want to, Dad," Dean pouted.

"I don't care, kid. Early bedtimes are what happens to naughty little boys, remember?"

Dean groaned at his dad's words. When they were little, John always sent them to bed early when they misbehaved. For a kid as energetic and restless as Dean had been, it was pure torture. And even though he really was exhausted, Dean would never admit it.

"Dad, I'm not a kid. You can't send me to bed early like I'm five years old."

"Hey, you're just lucky that's all the punishment you're getting, Dean. Do you remember what I said would happen if I ever caught you doing drugs again? If you weren't so injured, you and me would be having a different kind of talk right now."

Dean flushed at his father's words. "I'm twenty-two, dad," he reminded his father again.

"I don't care how old you are," John growled. "You're my kid, I'm your father. It's my duty to make sure you don't repeat stupid mistakes. Remember that, okay?"

Dean didn't say anything in reply. Instead, he moved himself further under the blankets, staring angrily up at the ceiling.

John sat down on his own bed and looked at his son. "Dean, please tell me that you learned something from all of this. That we won't be having this conversation again in the future."

Dean looked over at his dad with his patented Dean Winchester cocky grin. "Oh, I learned something, alright," he said. "Two things, actually. I learned that you never assume there's only one werewolf."

"And?" John prompted. "What's the second thing, Dean?"

"You don't take a joint from a guy named Don," Dean answered before rolling over and falling asleep.

Author's note: I know this has been done before, but I had to try my hand at it. Ever since I heard Dean say this in episode 8:1, I've wondered about the backstory of Don. I hope you all enjoyed my version of it. I know it's a little silly, but it is what it is. Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Oh, and one more thing…..anyone out there going to the Supernatural convention in Seattle this month? I'll be there and thought it might be fun to connect.