john winchester, who hears the words "demon" and "destiny" out of a psychic's mouth ten days after he buries his wife's cremains, and runs.
john winchester, whose — what even is he? a cousin-in-law? his wife's cousin, the son of her father's brother, another campbell who takes john's wild-eyed rambling about demons to heart with an earnestness that might've made john think twice any other time, but who throws him a lifeline when he's drowning. "my wife and I would be happy to take samuel," says the man with the same dark blonde his cousin, john's wife, fuck, his best girl had before it burned right off her scalp. "we'd be happy to; and really john, I think it'd be for the best."
john winchester, who lies through his teeth for twenty-two years, each and every time dean asks about his brother. "you were so young," he says, over and over, a lie so familiar it takes on its own well-worn cadence, like the opening lines of a fable. "it's no wonder you were confused. we'd told you for months that you were getting a new baby brother, and nobody knew how to explain what a miscarriage was or if you understood when we tried. and then when your mother died so soon afterwards, well..." he lets it hang in the air until dead, strangling in the silence.
(dean winchester, who bites his lip and never really stops asking because sure, he's had strange dreams and even some hallucinations, but he's never made up a whole fucking child who never even existed.
he remembers the warmth of that little body tucked up against his, how that tiny ribcage felt under his arm when it breathed, soft flannel crib sheet underneath them, the smell of baby shampoo in dark hair, sammy's small fingers stuffed into dean's mouth. the wild, uncontrolled giggles that would burble out if dean gnawed gently gently gently on those tiny fingers, pretending to be a monster gobbling up little babies late at night.
he remembers standing on a dining chair to flip the ring of sammy's pacifier up under his nose when he was perched in his highchair, and momma laughing, "john, c'mere; he looks like a little bull with a ring in his nose" and daddy looking back from where he was scrambling eggs on the stovetop, "well, I imagine that being a little bit bullish'd come natural to a taurus, wouldn't you say?" and momma whipping a dishtowel at daddy's back and cackling, the way dean barely barely remembers.
dean winchester, who finds that the microfilm periodicals he needs to figure out whatever's forcibly disappeared his dad and ten other men on a stretch of california blacktop has been checked out to an "S. Campbell", who's gotta be the dude with the dumb swoopy bangs and the emo bracelets camped out at the microfiche reader. it's a shame he's gotta get out to jericho tonight. S. Campbell's kinda cute, even if he does fix dean with a daytime tv award-worthy bitchface when dean slides in on a rolling stool beside him.)
