Pretty consistent through "Folsom Prison Blues"; no promises and most likely blatant AU past that.

Jerry

He had no right to lie to me all these years. He owed me the truth.

Thing is, I thought he had, until last year, when he died. I mean, why wouldn't I? I don't remember my mother. Never did. When I was little, he told me she died, and it made sense. Then, when I was sixteen and he thought I was old enough, he told me the truth: that when my sister and I were two, our mother ran off with a mechanic. A mechanic. From Kansas. Honestly, who wants to go to Kansas to live, except maybe Clark Kent? And she lived there quite happily with her redneck mechanic husband and their daughters, probably raising them to be redneck sluts like she was.

No, I didn't mean anything by it, of course, your house is very lovely. Great yard.

I never wanted to look her up. I was sixteen, and I was pissed. It was easy to lay all that adolescent rage and hate at her feet. Jenny, she still does. Far as she's concerned, our mother died when we were babies.

Then Dad died last year. And because Jenny's in Iraq, I got stuck dealing with all the paperwork.

Like the divorce papers. And the letters.

Because that's what it was. A calm, well-reasoned, probably smart divorce, with Dad being granted sole custody. A full year before our mother finally left Oregon. Three years before the letter notifying him that she was getting remarried. A letter begging him to let her into our lives.

I would have been five when she got remarried. Old enough to be ringbearer, if she had a fancy ceremony. Old enough to be there, if she didn't.

Old enough to bond to a stepfather. I mean, he sent us toys with that letter she wrote, about getting married. A truck for Jenny and a doll for me. I don't know if she told the poor man that the doll would end up going to his stepson, but I don't guess it matters since Dad never even opened them. They were still in the packaging, put up with the letters. But it meant the guy she was marrying wasn't just some asshole redneck, he was willing to welcome us into their new life, and that means—that means Dad was all wrong, doesn't it? We could have bonded with that guy instead of hating him all those years.

Hell, I bonded real tight with my stepmother; Dad got married about the same time, and I worshipped that woman. Still call her Mom, though she's been dead six years. She's the one I'll point out to my kids when they ask about their grandmother, no question.

But I have questions. Lots of them.

Why do I think he didn't tell us? I don't know. Well, actually, I know part of it. All my friends had brothers—older brothers to look up to and emulate, little brothers to protect and torment. Dad had to know how much I wanted a brother, especially being the only boy in a houseful of sisters. That's why he said my mother's second marriage produced daughters, when in fact, Jenny and I have two half-brothers. If he'd told me I had brothers, he'd've never stopped me from seeking them out.

I guess I never really got over that. Which is why this little Oregon boy is here in Kansas in a town I never heard of before.

I had her name and a guess, based on the last letter Dad kept. I got lucky, I guess, I found the marriage certificate pretty quick. Winchester. That was her new married name. Never knew that. Dad always referred to her by her maiden name, when he had to refer to her at all. Usually it was just "my first wife." I thought that was her name—you know, all one word, Myfirstwife—until I was seven or so and realized she was named Mary.

And just when I was getting my feet back under me, I got hit. Hard. 'Cause she died in '83. In a house fire. Dad never told us. Maybe he didn't know. Everything just disappeared, so maybe her husband was too lost to think about telling us.

It's the freakiest damn thing. It's like they evaporated or something. Except for Dean. He's apparently wanted by the FBI for faking his death in a serial killer case in St. Louis.

I don't know if I believe that. I mean, I believe it's him, of course, they've got too much info for it not to be, but I don't know if he's guilty. I don't want to think a guy that's got the same biological mother as me could be a killer. It's just too scary, really. Although, if he's anything like Jenny—well, okay, so I believe it's possible. Oh, trust me. You haven't seen her with a gun.

And there was a Sam Winchester in California, going to Stanford, which is weird because I went to Stanford, but there was another fire and his girlfriend died and he went poof. Sure, it might not be—oh. It was? Poor guy. Is he a pyromaniac?

No, you're right. No way he started that other one, he was what, five months old?

But anyhow, I went to the last known address I could find here in Lawrence, the house where my mother died, and the lady living there now says that they came through a year or so ago and you helped them—do something. She wasn't very clear about what. It wasn't illegal, was it? Oh, no, I didn't mean anything by that—I just wondered! I'm sorry!

I know, you said that, you haven't seen them, you don't know where they are. But I was just wondering—if I leave you my name and phone number, and they do happen to come through, maybe you could tell them to call me? I won't turn Dean in or anything, and I don't want anything. I just want to meet them. I don't know if their dad ever told them about us, but I know what's it like to have this thrown at you all of a sudden, and I don't want that for anybody else.

Thanks, Miss Mosely. I really appreciate it.