I can't believe there're people out there who think I'm making money out of this.
An old friend of Dad's
He's already in the parking lot when you pull in, waiting for you. Not quite as tall as you are, let alone Sam, with too-long dark hair and lines in his face. He doesn't have the grim hardness that marked Dad, but you suspect he did, once. He was a soldier too, in a different war, true, but a soldier nonetheless.
And he saved Dad's life. Not many people have ever had that rather dubious honour.
He comes up to you with a smile and a hand extended to shake; you take it.
"Dean Winchester. Good to see you again. And Sam of course. Fraid my last visit was too early to meet you in person."
Sam shakes hands as you did, his smile slightly forced. Not many people would pick up on it. You understand his hesitation, his caution. This last year, every time you've met an old friend of Dad's it's come back to bite you in the ass in one way or another. Secrets and lies, two things the old man was extremely good at.
"Deacon," Sam's saying. "How'd you know who was who?" The amusement in his voice doesn't fool you; you can hear the edge, the wariness, even if Deacon can't.
Deacon smiles. It's a strange sort of smile, to your mind. Then, a beat later, you realise that it's not strange at all, just affectionate. Fond, even.
"Even at three, Dean looked just like Mary," he says. "Good to see you've kept her car. She loved it."
And without further ado, you decide you like him.