Any real fan of the show knows Eric Kripke owns Supernatural and all it's characters and worlds and yadda yadda, I'm simply borrowing them to satisfy my own random plot ideas.
My name is Dean Winchester.
Junior.
Not technically, because apparently my fathers middle name wasn't Michael, but the fact of the matter is I'm not the first Dean Winchester to ever come around. I never met the first one, though. I probably wouldn't even know he exists if it didn't, ya know, take two to tango. My mom doesn't talk about him much. I don't think they were married. She has his last name, but I don't think they ever tied the metaphorical knot.
There'd be more pictures.
And she'd have a ring.
Everybody knows him, however. They know my mom, too, but seeing as how I've seen them actually speak to her, you can see where this connection wouldn't confuse me as much. One look from my mom always tell them to stop when they start talking about him, though. I don't – and sorely want to – know why. It's always just been my mom and me; team supreme. We live on the outskirts of a small town, where she runs a small tavern. She seems to only cater to hunters, which has always confused me because they come through even when it's not hunting season, but they always light up when they see my mom because she's never short on stories. They like me, too, but too often am I sent to "play" for me to really think they're coming 'cause of me.
I've got two uncles; Uncle Elliot and Uncle Sam. I don't see Uncle Elliot much. He used to come around when I was younger, but then he got married and finished school and now he's a doctor. After that he stopped coming around; mom says it's better that way. Uncle Sam, though, he comes to visit once a week, at least. He's always got a joke for me, some piece of advice, or something. Sometimes he stays the night, and sometimes he only stops in for an hour or so. Every single time, though, mom gives him something to eat. It don't matter if it's late at night or right after she finished washing the dishes. Sometimes he seems real tired, and sometimes he's injured; mom takes good care of him then. I asked him what he did for a job once, and he just said "this and that". Mom says I get my height from him and my daddy; I beat her out by five inches.
Anyhow, that's really all just backstory. Facts of the matter is that in all my fifteen years, no one has told me why my dad isn't around. They've told me he was brave, and they told me he was a great man, but they never once said why he left me and mom alone. She says I look like him; I have his eyes and quick wit, apparently. But if he's so great, why isn't he here? And why won't people talk about him? All I have is one picture. One measly picture of him by the car Uncle Sam drives, a big black impala that's old and creaks when the doors open and was huge when I was younger and the backseat almost swallowed me….but I digress.
My one goal in life is to figure out who my father was. Funny thing is, that goal is taking me places I never thought I'd go.
Just the first chapter. Leave a comment.