Dean sipped from the bottle of beer and stared at the box in his other hand, thumb absently moving over the words. He was trying to build up the energy to make the trip to the mailbox, which would send this small package on its way, and could potentially change his life tremendously.

Dad had been gone a year now, died relatively young, which was par for the course for the type of life he'd lived in his twenties and thirties. Mom had passed when Dean was just 15, taken by an aggressive form of breast cancer, discovered too late. For 14 years, it was just him and dad. And now it was just him. Or was it?

He placed the now empty beer bottle on the coffee table, pulled himself off the couch, and headed for the mailbox. Best get to it before the mail carrier gets here. Best get it done before he changes his mind. Also, best get to the supermarket, since the pantry and fridge were looking kinda bare. So, Dean grabbed the car fob sitting in a bowl on a table near the door and headed out. The sun shining through the open door hit a key ring that had a square key attached. It fit the glossy black car in the garage which sat under a dark blue tarp. She had been a classic when his father and uncle crisscrossed the United States in her, and now… she was in as good condition as she could be at nearly 100 years old.

The front door locked behind him, and his car, his Baby, flashed her lights when Dean pressed the alarm and unlock icons on the fob. Barely old enough yet to be considered a classic, she still caught peoples' attention. Dark gray with black detailing, and a rumbling exhaust you felt in your soul, his 2020 Ford Mustang looked at him balefully. It's hard to look like a proper muscle car when you're parked alongside five foot high bougainvillea hedges with neon pink flowers, and covered in pollen. Once again, Dean gave passing thought to either selling the barge in the garage, or at least moving it to storage. He swore he could hear his dad turning in his grave. Urn. Whatever.

Dean walked to the curb, tossed the package into the mailbox, and flipped the red metal flag up. He then slid into the car, and the engine purred to life. Good thing he was making a grocery run. He'd need quite a bit of alcohol to get him through the three to four week wait.

"Hey, Assbutt", Dean called out as he walked through the door, tossing the car fob into its bowl and setting his messenger bag on the couch. "I'm home!"

The sound of nails clicking on hardwood floors accompanied Dean as he headed upstairs to change into running clothes. Deadlines at work left him feeling smacked upside the head, and he needed to shake off the mental cobwebs eight hours in an office created. Changed, he jogged down the stairs and smiled at Assbutt standing at the bottom, stumpy tail wagging, tongue lolling to the side. Dean sat on the last step and ran his fingers through Assbutt's fur, scratching behind her ears and cooed nonsense. With a final ruffle of fur, he went into the kitchen, popped the day's meal subscription into the cooker (cubed chicken breast, zucchini, carrots, onions, pineapple, teriyaki sauce, and a side of brown rice), and wrangled Assbutt into her harness and leash. Twenty minute run, ten minute shower, just in time for dinner. The front door clicked shut, the opening guitar riffs and drums of Run Through the Jungle began pounding in his head, a quick stretch, and he and Assbutt were off.

A few hours later, with the scent of caramelized pineapple lingering in the air, Dean was relaxing on the couch, feet against the coffee table, face lit by the glowing screen of his laptop, and Assbutt softly snoring at his side. He was looking through his dad's digital journal, clicking through the pages that chronicled such a large part of his father's and uncle's lives, when a link on a page caught his attention. He'd read through his father's journal before, and had even read Grandpa John's digitized journal, but he couldn't remember seeing this particular blue hyperlink.

As he moved the cursor to click on it, his email app chimed that he'd just gotten a new email. Dean glanced at the pop up header, intending to ignore it for now, but when he saw who the sender was, he paused. Dean took a deep breath, placed one hand on Assbutt's head for support, and clicked open the email.

"Guess it's been three to four weeks", Dean said to the dog at his side.

He ignored the genetic blah-blah-blah that told him what percentage of his ancestry was Scottish/Irish/and whatever, and scanned the email until he got to the "you might be related to" link. He looked down at Assbutt, who raised an eyebrow as if to say, "well, what are you waiting for?", took a breath, and clicked. Dean sat back on the sofa, staring at the screen. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes until it produced flashes of white lines. Dean then leaned forward, sucking air between his teeth - a habit, Dad said, he'd inherited from his namesake - and read the list. A couple hundred very distant cousins… and a first cousin.

Sonovabitch.

"There's no way I'm going to bed without reading this first, Assbutt," Dean said. He clicked on the name, Ben Braeden, and a brief profile page opened. "Says here Cousin Ben is 44 years old and lives somewhere in Colorado. What the hell am I supposed to write in an introductory message, Assbutt? 'Hey, you're not going to believe this, but according to this DNA website, my dad and your dad were brothers'? Well, I guess that's a start. I mean he DID submit his own DNA, so he's obviously looking."

Dean sighed, leaned forward, cracked his neck and got to composing.

Images flashed and short bursts of sound filled his head. His mother, but not, with black eyes and a knife to his throat. His mother, but not, hissing into his ear about what a mistake keeping him had been. His mother, but not, critically stabbing herself. His mother, but not, vomiting a cloud of black smoke. And there was a man with green eyes walking away from a hospital room.

The images and sound coalesced into a needle-sharp pain in his head, and he jolted awake, clammy with sweat, and his heart pounding. Ben rolled over with a groan and reached for the ever present bottle of bourbon next to his bed. There was barely a mouthful left, but the alcohol coated his brain like the caramel notes coated his mouth. The clock read 4:37 and Ben sighed, sitting up.

"Well, that's a new one," he said to the empty bedroom. Ben swung his legs out of bed and padded barefoot around the room, gathering clothes deciding to start his day early. And it was new. Usually, the PTSD flashbacks were of missions he'd been on, and they weren't picky about traumatizing him with successes where everyone came home, or failures, where he'd lost a member or three of his team.

Dressed, Ben entered the kitchen, powered on his laptop, and while it did its start up, he opened the fridge. Package of bacon, 3 eggs, and to make it fancy, half an onion and a red pepper. The frying pan clattered on the stove, and soon the kitchen filled with the scent of cured meat and fried peppers and onions. As he cracked the eggs into the pan, his laptop informed him he had email. Giving the mess in the pan a quick stir, he opened the email, not bothering to see who or where it was from.

Hey Ben, you're not going to believe this, but according to this DNA website, my dad and your dad were brothers. I know that family was very important to my father, so I'm not sure why he never mentioned you. It's possible my uncle didn't know about you, so neither did my dad. I've attached a photo of them. There's no pressure to have a face-to-face right now, email, phone, whatever, is fine. - Dean Winchester -

Ben closed his eyes against the sharp stabbing pain inside his head. He felt his entire body go cold and then covered in sweat. His heartbeat increased, and he felt a rising nausea. With a shaking hand, he clicked on the image.

He barely made it to the bathroom before hot stomach acid spewed from his throat. He fell to his knees heaving and shaking. With the initial attack over, he turned and sat on the bathroom floor, leaning against the toilet. He coughed to relieve the burning in his throat and opened his eyes.

That name. The green-eyed guy in the photo. Memories locked away came washing over him. Ben suddenly remembered.

He turned quickly and vomited into the toilet again. And then the smoke detector went off, signaling his breakfast, and possibly his life, was going up in smoke.