January 24, 1990

On his eleventh birthday Dean received a letter in the mail. Now, most boys were used to getting mail on their birthdays. Cards with swirling letters wishing 'Happy Birthday' filled with gift cards, notes of endearment, and just plain money. This was the accepted norm for most eleven year old boys. Not Dean. This whole letter business was simply strange. First of all, Dean had never received a letter in his whole life, at least none that he could remember. Secondly, this letter came to him at night, with no postman in sight. Sammy was asleep on one of the twin beds in the motel room, curled up with the thin flower-print comforter. Dean had been watching late night television- reruns of Thunder Cats. A loud tap at window startled him enough that he knocked an empty Dr. Pepper can off of the small coffee table in front of the couch. The tapping continued, sharp, pointed sounds, and Dean scrambled over the couch to his bed where he kept his gun.

The smooth metal of the sawed-off shotgun under his palm calmed him, and Dean inched toward the noise. As he stepped closer, the tapping became hummingbird fast. Dean wondered what was outside, hidden behind the dark purple curtain strung across the window. A ghost? Shapeshifter? Zombie? They had never faced a zombie before, and despite the tingle of fear that crept up his spine at the thought of an undead, Dean couldn't help but thinking a zombie would be awesome. He'd be the first Winchester to face off with poised, Dean grasped the edge of the curtain in his hand and slowly pulled it to the side.

The sight of a soccer ball-sized barn owl, all fluffy white feathers and coffee-brown eyes, made Dean fumble two steps backwards. "What the hell?" he exclaimed, then quickly looked towards Sammy to see if he had awaken. Nope, he was still knocked out. That moppy-haired kid could sleep through anything. A screeching hoot made him swivel towards the window again. The owl's wings flapped hard, the tips brushing against the glass on their forward sweeps. Dean tightened his fingers around the gun and inched closer.

His nose bumped into the window and he stared. The owl stared back. Its angled dark eyes locked onto his and it bobbed its head. Is it possessed? Dean wondered. His eyes followed the slight up and down motion of the owl's body for a minute, and then, as if the owl became impatient, it swooped forward and stuck the window with its beak. Dean jumped backwards; the back of his legs slammed into the empty bed by the widow. "Son of a bitch!" he let lose, and then flashed a guilty look towards Sammy. Dad didn't like it when he cursed in front of his brother. Dean never pointed out the words Dad used in front of both them when he was angry.

The bird tapped against the window; the sound ricocheted across the room. Sammy grunted and rolled over. It's going to wake him up. Dean scowled. Moving forward again, Dean used the gun as a stick and tapped the glass. The owl rolled its eyes. Dean's jaw dropped. It hooted loudly, and began hopping around, midair, like it was having a seizure. Jesus, it's got rabies, Dean thought. Then he saw a flash of red. Tilting his head, Dean lowered the gun and stepped closer. His stomach pressed into the window ledge. It was a ribbon— no, a strap. There, held on by the red strap, was a letter.

Now that he had spotted it, Dean couldn't believe he hadn't seen the letter to begin with. As if the owl had read his thoughts, it let out a short hoot and waved its leg at the window. Slowly, Dean scooted his way towards the hotel-room door, his eyes never leaving the owl. Unlocking the door with one hand, the other firmly gripping the gun- just in case- Dean cracked open the door. When the owl didn't come swooping over, Dean opened the door a little further and slipped outside.

The low rumble of nighttime highway traffic rolled over Dean, and the chilled January air made him shiver. I should have put on shoes and my jacket, he thought. A gust of wind whistled past his ear and Dean turned to his right. The owl hovered, wings flapping, mid-flight. It stared at him, and he stared at it. It flapped a little closer and Dean reacted. "Christo."

The owl stared at him like it had no idea what he was saying. Of course it doesn't, dumbass. It's an owl, Dean berated himself. His eyes traveled past the fluffy white feathers down to the red strap and envelop. "Is that for me?" he asked, shifting side to side. The owl stuck out its foot. Hesitantly, Dean stretched out his arm and pulled open the strap. Like most letters, this one could not fly, and once deprived of its security, it gave in to gravity and fluttered to the ground.

With one eye locked onto the owl, Dean bent down and scooped up the letter. It was an off-white color, about three inches tall by six inches wide. There, written on the front in neat, flowing script was his name- Dean Michael Winchester- followed by the address of the motel- Red Roof In, Room 118, Corbin, Kentucky, United States of America. Dean's mouth popped open. Who knows exactly where I am? he worried. Dad wouldn't like that someone knew where Dean was living. Dean didn't like that someone knew where he was living. They had only been here two weeks, while Dad was hunting a werewolf, but apparently that was long enough for someone to find them. Dean read the front of the letter once more, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. The words didn't change.

He flipped it over. Dead center, where the flap of the envelop came to a point, was a round, red wax seal. Dean didn't know people still used wax seals. He ran his thumb over the hard wax, tracing the large 'H' that decorated the mold. Confusion swamped him. He pushed his thumbnail into the wax and wiggled it around. Red flakes broke off the seal, dusting the back of the letter like glitter.

A squeaky high pitched hoot tore his attention back to the owl. Entranced with the strange letter, he had forgotten the animal. It had settled on the thin metal banister that caged the ground floor. Its brown eyes glowed with intelligence, and when it shifted, Dean unconsciously tightened his grip on the shotgun. The rounded eyes snapped to Dean's hand, the one with the gun, and Dean hissed out, "What do you want? I took your damn letter." Its beak opened, like it was going to shout at him, but instead it just fluffed up its feathers. It hopped a step to the left and stuck out its leg. The one with the red strap.

Dean looked around, down the empty hallway, seeing nothing but concrete sidewalk and battered overhead lights. He looked past the owl, out into the parking lot, only to see the same three cars that had been there when Sammy had gone to bed. Nothing was new; Dean was missing something. "Do you have something else to give me?" he asked. The owl hooted and twisted its head. Dean took that to mean 'no.' "Then get out of here," Dean said with the wave of his hand, forcing the edge of the gun centimeters from the bird. It gave an indignant squawk, snapped its beak at the gun and flew away. Dean watched it until the little white body disappeared into the night sky.

Feeling somewhat apprehensive, Dean turned his attention back to the letter. He picked at the wax seal until all the red pieces had fallen to the ground or were stuck beneath his nail. Then he slid his finger under the upper right corner and pulled until the letter opened. Inside was a folded piece of yellowed parchment that would have been home in one of Bobby's ancient books. Fearful of ripping it, Dean slowly pulled the paper out of the envelop.

Ignoring the cold seeping into the soles of his feet, and the hair rising on his arms, Dean read his letter. Heartbeat loud in ears, blocking out the sound of his sluggish breaths, Dean read and reread until the words blurred. Finally, when little shivers shook his body, Dean, clutching the letter in one hand and the shotgun in the other, went back inside. The door clicked close. Dean gave a sparring glance to Sammy then sat down on the couch. Words such as magic and Hogwarts Schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry and England flew through his mind. Parchment crinkled between his fingers, and he looked down at the letter in awe.

I've been accepted into a magic school, Dean thought. Then he said it aloud, "I've been accepted into a magic school." Even as the words echoed through the room they sounded doubtful. It wasn't that Dean thought magic was fantasy. No, he knew magic was real; he just didn't believe he was magical. Or that there was an actual magic school.

Dad had always taught him that magic was evil. Witches used magic for their own gains, and hurt others in the process. Something about Dad's statement always bothered Dean though. Doesn't Dad use magic when drawing runes and chanting the Latin spells? Dean thought. It's true that it wasn't traditional magic, like turning a person into a frog or conjuring fire from nowhere. It wasn't even the same magic he'd witnessed that witch in Utah use. She'd been casting love spells on men, and they'd ended up killing each other. Dean always thought Dad's magic was just different. Good. Once, he'd asked Dad about it, but Dad just grunted and told Dean to finish practicing his knife throws. Also, whenever they went to Bobby's, the use of magic seemed everywhere. Runes decorated his house from top to bottom, and Bobby had told Dean they were a part of magic. Not to mention the hundreds of books the older man had littering his place. Dean knew, from sneaking looks, that there were spells in those books.

Magic is just magic, Dean concluded. It's the people who use it that made it bad or good. There was no way Dad or Bobby were evil, and they used magic. Dean wondered if they had ever gotten a letter to go to magic school. Besides, he thought, if magic was all evil, there's no way there'd be a whole school to teach it. And there's no way they'd send invitations to complete strangers. His head bobbed in agreement with his thoughts.

Carefully, Dean folded up the letter and stuck it in his jean pocket. The paper poked his thigh through the cloth, but he ignored the discomfort. Thoughts crowded his head. Questions of why and how were foremost. Why had he received the letter? Why had an owl delivered it? Why wasn't Dad home to talk about it? How was he supposed to get to England? How was he going to see Dad and Sammy if he went to school far away? How would learning magic help hunt demons? Each thought was heavier than the next. Sooner than he would have liked, his eyes began to drift shut. Blinking hard, Dean turned around to look at the small alarm clock sitting on the nightstand between the beds. One twenty-six.

Dad said he'd be home tonight. Then again, Dad never really knew how long a job would take. Yawning, Dean padded over to Sammy's bed and gently rolled his brother over. Sammy gave a short, huffy snort then cuddled back into his pillow. He could really be cute sometimes, even though he was bratty. Sliding in next to his brother, Dean wiggled until he was comfortable. He felt like he'd spent the night chasing down a ghost. Sammy felt warm next to him and quicker than he'd expected, Dean drifted off into dreamland. His last conscious thought was, It'd be awful cool to learn magic.

***

Dean woke to the soft putt-putt-putt of water boiling in the coffee maker. An instant later Dean pushed himself up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Sammy's weight was missing, and Dean quickly checked the room for his little brother. He smiled when he found him.

"Dad!" Dean cried in happiness. He swung out of bed and gleefully bounded over to the small kitchen table. Sammy was busy stuffing his mouth with Lucky Charms, his face alight with sugar-happiness. Dad sat next to Sam, the local paper spread out in front of him. At Dean's cry, Dad set the paper down and pushed out his chair.

"Come'ere," Dad said while holding out his arms. Dean darted in. Strong arms closed around his lightly muscled frame, and Dean drank in the rare hug. He knew he was getting too old for hugs, but they were nice after Dad had been gone for so long. One large hand came up and ruffled his hair.

"Dad's back," Sammy said, mouth filled with cereal. A drop of milk dribbled from his mouth.

Dean reached over and ruffled his hair. "Duh. I can see that dufus." Instead of whining about being called a name, Sammy just smiled. He's glad Dad's back too, Dean thought with a smile of his own. He went to the counter and grabbed a bowl of cereal for himself. Then he slid into the seat next to Dad and across from Sammy. After his first bite, he asked, "What time did you get in?"

"Around five." From the dark circles under his eyes, and the slow drag of his words, Dean could tell his dad hadn't slept yet.

"You got it." It was a statement. Dad was always successful. The coffee stopped bubbling and Dad got up to pour a cup.

"Yeah. Hunting the thing took forever, but once I found it, it was a done deal," Dad said and came back to the table. Steam rose from the dark liquid and the man released a groan of appreciation at his first sip. Dean never took his eyes off him. "Anything happen here?"

Dean shook his head. "Not really. It's been boring. Sammy and I went to the school up the block. It's a real small place. Sammy's classroom is in the same building as mine."

"My teacher, Miss Kenderson, is really nice! She gave the whole class cupcakes on Friday because it was her birthday!" Sam chirped. At the word birthday, Dean suddenly remembered the letter. He pressed his hand into his pocket. The outline of the folded parchment was easy to feel. Sam continued to tell Dad about the wonders of Miss Kenderson, but his voice became nothing but sound. Dean ran his finger around the edges of the paper and let the pointed corners poke into his flesh.

I need to talk to Dad about this, he thought. He took the last few bites of his cereal then stood. Carrying the bowl to the sink he quickly rinsed it out. Decision made, he stuck his hand into his pocket and snapped up the letter. Turning, he caught the tail end of Dad's yawn.

"Tired?" Sam asked. Dad gave a curt nod.

"I'm going to hit the hay for a few hours, and then we'll pack up and be out of here. I think we could all use a dose of Pastor Jim's mashed potatoes." Sam nodded eagerly and Dad walked towards the beds.

"Hey Dad?" Dean called out. The eldest Winchester turned around and focused his sleepy eyes on Dean. Something Dean couldn't understand flashed across the man's eyes and then Dad was walking towards him.

A large arm wrapped around Dean's shoulders and drew him close. Dean buried his nose Dad's side and let the smells of gunpowder, sweat and a hint of coppery blood comfort him. "I'm sorry Dean." Dad's chest rumbled with his words.

Dean pulled back in surprise. "What are you sorry for?"

Dad's brown eyes stared warmly down at him. "I'm sorry for leaving you to take care of everything while I'm away. I'm sorry for being gone so long."

"Dad! I don't mind taking care of Sammy! And I know you're doing important work. You save the world while hunting," Dean heaved, "I understand."

Dad's chest heaved. "God," he said, "what would I do without you?"

Parchment crumpled in Dean's fist. Dad reached out ruffled his hair. "Sometimes I think you're all that keeps this family running." Dad gave him a worn, loving smile then went back towards the bed. Dean watched his dad collapse and drift off to sleep. Sammy finished his breakfast and put his dishes in the sink.

"Wanna play army men with me?" his brother asked.

Dean looked down as his closed fist and thought about the magic school. He thought about all the wonderful things he could learn and all of the questions he could have answered. Then he looked up at Sammy's hopeful face. "Sure, go get them out." Sammy's eyes lit up. He scrambled to his bag and yank out the army men. Dean shoved the letter back into his pocket.

"Which one do you want to be?" Sammy asked, holding out two little green men.

"You can choose," Dean replied.

Sammy handed Dean a man and they settled down on the floor to play.

Who needs magic school anyways.