Becoming a Winchester
A/N: Just a short on up covering John's history in the Second Hand Sons 'verse from his point of view. If you haven't read Second Hand Sons, you will be lost about half way through this.
I can still hear my old man, scowl on his face, big ass cigar clenched between his teeth, whisky flask in hand, raspy voice rumbling from deep in his chest and filling the room.
"I know you were born into the name, boy, but bein' a Winchester ain't about the blood in your veins. It's about the blood you're willin' to spill."
I remember just sitting there, starin' up at the old man, my eyes wide.
"You come from a long line of tough sonsabitches, boy. Winchesters have fought and bled in every goddamn war this country's ever had since the Revolution. Bein' a Winchester means protectin' the weak. It means duty and honor and loyalty. You don't plan on livin' up that, you might as well change your name to Smith right the fuck now and get your ass right the hell out of my house."
Never mind that I was only six at the time. I was the last of the line and my father was determined that I was gonna live up to it. Not that I ever thought I could, but I was gonna damn well try. That alone set me apart from many of my peers. I came of age in the generation that thought it was smarter than any ever born. They raised nonconformity and rejection of parental authority to an art form. But not me. No… Johnny Winchester went to 'Nam on purpose. There was no question that I would go. Single or not, last damn son of my family or not. It was a matter of duty/honor/loyalty. My country was at war and I was a Winchester.
War, as my father had told me on several occasions, was hell. When I came back, Mary, the love of my life, was waiting for me. I should have known that she would be. I was the inconsistent one in our relationship. I was the one who wanted to call it quits because her father hated me. To pursue her despite that went against everything my father taught me. But it got kind of hard to care when I looked into those blue eyes. God, I loved that woman.
So I married her. It took six years before she finally got pregnant. We'd been trying for four and finally gave up. We were starting to talk about adoption when Mary started feeling sick. We thought it was the flu, until I finally talked her into going to the doctor. Everything was wonderful for the next four and a half months. I painted the spare bedroom yellow and turned it into a nursery. Then one day I came home from the garage and found her curled up on the kitchen floor in pain. I rushed her to the hospital. The doctors tried to keep the baby from coming. It was too early. Nothing they did worked and our first son was born. We named him Dean and held him as he breathed his last. It nearly broke Mary. If I were honest, I'd have to say that it nearly broke me too. I took all the furniture and supplies out of the nursery and painted it white. Stored everything in the garage.
It was another four years before Mary got pregnant again. We were extra careful this time. We watched everything Mary ate, everything she did and didn't begin to relax until the pregnancy was almost over, untill the doctors assured us that the baby would live if he were born. Everything was normal, everything was perfect. I began decorating the nursery again. We started discussing baby names and buying necessities.
The day I came home to find myself standing over my wife's broken and lifeless body, I learned there was another war I had no idea about. Lucky for me, the first weapon I got my hands on was a silver letter opener. After that there was really no decision to be made. It didn't matter that I was the last living member of my family or that I had already avenged my wife and child. There was a war on, innocent people were dying and I was a Winchester.