It had been quite a long time since Dean had been in his father's garage. Literal years in fact.
While it hadn't felt like an unwelcome place since he was a kid, he often found himself watching his Dad walk out to it sombrely than actually following in his footsteps and opening the rusted locks that had stayed brown against the weather-beaten tin doors and walls while the iron roof had to be patched a few times.
But now, Dad was not here. Dean's Dad was gone.
He's been gone for almost a week now.
He had been bedridden for months now, body having taken too many knocks over the years having been on hospice since July the previous Autumn, but it didn't make it easier that he was finally at peace.
Most of that week had been a blur in Dean's mind given his grief, but the one thing he managed to focus on was cleaning out the house.
While he'd happily trade his and his girlfriend's tiny apartment for the two-bedroom colonial his Dad had brought before he was born, it was nowhere near their workplaces and Dena's college, so it was easier to sell it, childhood home or not.
Without his Dad, it was worth nothing.
So far, sorting through his father's possessions had been a challenging task, given there was so much stuff hidden away in both the attic and basement.
Over a number of years, 2 and half decades in fact, his Dad had amassed several collections of different bits and pieces, some he wasn't even sure he'd find someone to either give it to or sell to. There were some things that he knew he couldn't touch though.
His Dad's wedding ring was one of them.
Dean wasn't stupid, not even by a mile. Despite having a rather large reckless streak in him, he had straight A's, been raised well, thanks to him and him alone, but that ring on his Dad's wedding finger (it had also been buried with him) had been a puzzle to him for as long as he'd existed.
As a child, he'd often wonder why his Dad never remarried or dated after he came along, but it was when he was 10 that he found out about both his other father and the hunting community at large.
His Dad was not really a drinker. Ever the activist and pro bono lawyer that he was, he was a books kinda guy than a highball kind of guy, but that night in question was different.
Dean, having come home from a friend's house that evening, found his father with a half-drunk bottle of whiskey and tears rolling down his cheeks, a picture in one of his rather shaky hands, observing.
Worried, Dean had immediately rushed forward to comfort him, only to alert the greying man of his presence, a sad smile lighting up his face for a moment.
"Hey Deano-" His voice was croaky from crying most likely and slightly slurred due to the possible effects of the alcohol. "-I didn't hear you come in. How were Alex and his mom?"
"Good." Dean swallowed before speaking again, lip curled. "Are you okay, Dad? Why are you crying?"
His Dad huffed, eyes looking down at the photo before looking up. "Just thinking about your Dad, kiddo. It's his birthday today. Took some flowers up to his grave and couldn't help but get a drink as well. He would have done the same I'm sure if he was still here."
"My Dad?" Granted, his father had been and always would be a private person. Despite being kind and big-hearted, there were always shards of darkness surrounding him, times of the day where he would lose focus and just leave, staring in thought at some random plain in the distance that was too far for him to reach before reality stepped in and he snapped back.
"Yeah, your Dad. His name was Dean too. That's why I named you, Dean. My two boys, my two Dean's. My Dean and my Deano." The frame of the picture made a subtle squeaking noise as his fingers rubbed against the smooth-grained surface. "Your Dad was a good person, you know. Better than most people. He had his flaws of course, but he had a good heart."
"But Dad, if I have another Dad, who would be my Mama? Everyone has a Mama, right?"
His father had paused for a moment before taking another heavy swig from the bottle at large, before patting the chair in front of him. "Come on in and sit down De and I'll explain."
So he did. Dean had never gotten so much information out of his Dad in one conversation than he had that night, not had gotten so many things that seemed so normal to him clarified.
Dean Singer, as he came to be in Dean's mind, was his father's "best friend" and they had loved each other since they were children. Dean, being four years older, had always protected his Dad from anything and everything. Both of them were from hunting families and moved around constantly.
When his father turned 16, they had a really big fight and sadly lost contact until Dean found him though his old university. They were both still hurt after what happened, but eventually became friends again, going on big trips together and protecting people from the monsters and ghosts and other horrific stuff that came out to the shadows, as hunters did.
For almost 14 years, he and his Dad were happy, just being at each other's side without needing to care about anything other than their jobs and at the time of his death, they had been thinking about getting married and leaving the hunting business to start a family.
But, sadly, that wouldn't happen the way they wanted.
While at his new job on a construction site out west (in hindsight, Dean knew that was mostly a lie that his Dad had told him to save him from being upset as he was only a young boy), his father had been pushed by some equipment in an accident and impaled onto a rusty bit of rebar that was supposed to be taken down before they started work on the building.
At this point in the story, Dean could only watch as the light faded from his father's eyes, the memory obviously ingrained in the forefront of his mind and never forgotten. It was here that despite not finishing the story or even telling him why he didn't have a mother for that matter, that his Dad brought him close and kissed him on the forehead, before telling him to go upstairs and get ready for bed.
He'd wanted to know so much more, but his father was already walking (more like swaying) down the well-worn path towards the garage, so he just did as he was told to do and left it.
How he wished sometimes that he'd been as stubborn as he grew up to be for once and pushed him for more.
Currently, in the present time, as he moved inside the dust-covered utopia that was his father's refuge from the world, he was quite surprised to see it so sparse.
Other than the tire tracks from the pickup his father once drove (that had been sold after his father went on permanent bed rest), all that was left was a large object covered over by a protective cover and his Dad's woodworking table and tools above it on the wall, his chair left partly out as he liked it.
However, something caught his eye before he could move in any further and his brow creased when he spotted a bulky white envelope lying limply upright against a two-way radio, the word "DEAN" written in his father's handwriting in block letters on its front.
Picking it up, he ran a nail under the stiff paper and opened it cleanly, sneezing a little as a bunch of dust particles from the place not being cleaned in a while managed to make their way up to his nose.
Inside, there was a scrappy piece of paper, words coming though only faintly when held up to the small streams of daylight coming through the window that sat directly across from its place of origin and a set of keys, obviously old in nature, but well preserved.
Unfolding it carefully, Dean's heart started thumping in his chest quietly, as he started to read the page.
"Darling Dean,
You're asleep right now, as I'm writing this. You probably don't know it yet, but you look so much like your father when you sleep. All snoring with an open mouth and drool. May not sound too great to you, but believe me, it's a sight to see.
You are also developing a one-track mind like him as well, so I ask that you try and reign it in once in a while when needed so you don't make a fool of yourself.
You may notice I've left you a set of keys along with this brief letter. I was actually supposed to give you them on your 30th, but I guess 26 will have to do, as I'll be leaving you soon.
These keys belonged to your father. My other Dean.
I realise now in my old age, I never really told you much about him. I see him in you all the time. Granted, I didn't even answer half of the questions you had for me over the last 20 years, especially after I told you about hunters and their job descriptions that one night I was feeling sorry for myself.
The truth is, Deano, I'm your mom and Dean is your Dad. That's the way it always has been.
It doesn't matter how you came into the world, too me and I'm sure Dean, if he were here, you are our baby boy and we wouldn't change you for the world, so with this in mind, I leave you one last gift. Your father's car.
The car that is attached to these keys has been kept in his family for generations and meant a lot not only to him, but also to me when I first met it. Both your grandfathers and a handful of other people took a shine to it as well. When your father passed on, I couldn't bear to part with it as it would feel like another piece of my heart had been ripped out.
So, here it has stayed. She's been used as a bed, a playroom, a spaceship, a weapon and many other things, but now, she is yours.
Hope you learn to love her like I did, just as much as I will forever love you, even if I'm not there.
Missing you already,
Dad
P.S. - Try not to scratch it getting it out of here, your father will kill me personally, heaven or not, if his "Baby" gets messed up. Go get'em kid.
Wiping away a few stray tears, a smile having crept it's way up his face, Dean gently placed the letter down before clutching the keys with one hand and tugging the dark grey cover off the large object stashed on the other side of the space, pulling it sharply upwards.
Underneath the plain exterior, sat a sleek black Impala with only a few nicks and scratches on it, the outside and leather interior on the inside almost pristine looking as he carefully unlocked the driver's side door and sat down behind the wheel.
Carefully putting the key into the ignition, the car came to life almost instantly with a loud roar, both startling and exciting it's new occupant as the engine growled in almost appreciation to be awake once again.
The radio inside of the car had been silent at first, but soon it had been hissing out static, until suddenly, music started flowing through the speakers, a familiar tune carrying out over the airwaves.
His Dad's favourite song.
"Carry on, my wayward son...there'll be peace when you are done...lay your weary head to rest...don't you cry no more…"