He was born on January 24, 1979 the year of Highway To Hell and Hell Bent for Leather. Which probably means something. His father is John. His mother is Mary. His brother is a pain in the ass. He loves his family, his car, and his job. Not always in that order. He's a sucker for long legs, big tits, and a cold beer after a long day. And, as far as he's concerned, there's nothing better than the thrill of the open road. He knows how to kill a werewolf, the best way to exorcize a demon, how to draw a devil's trap and he can plug a nickel from 500 yards with a .38. He may be trapped, but he's been in worse fixes than this. He's stared down death, battled evil, and lived to tell the tale. He has his memories and his wits and he will win this battle, because the alternative isn't even an option. Do your worst, he thinks, and takes a deep breath, then lets it out. I'm ready. Sam will be here any minute.
Here is forgiveness, respite, atonement. Move with me, he murmurs, and shivers in her arms when she wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him down. The heat of her burns away regret, questions, inadequacy. With her, he feels, if only for a few moments, worthy of his father's sacrifice.)
His name is Dean Winchester. He got his first blowjob when he was 14 her name was Sharon. She was a senior in high school, and the prom queen. He lost his cherry to her later that same night. He fucked her sister two months later. His first hunt came when he was twelve, the first time his dad had taken him along instead of leaving him and Sam. That night was the first time he'd ever felt like he had Dad's approval. Memories are all anyone has in this world, yet people discard them every day, like waste, like they're not precious but, not to Dean. Good and bad, his thoughts and memories are the currency of his world. And he won't give them up without a fight. Hurry your ass, Sammy, he thinks, and bites his lip around the pain. I can't hold her off forever.
(Sam's a comforting, hulking presence beside him as the flames climb higher; seem to reach up into the stars, into infinity. Neither of them says anything but, then, what is there to say. Dad's gone, and a few hastily thrown together words won't bring him back and won't make it seem real. All they have now are what Dad's left them, the only possessions that mean a damn his teachings and actions and strength. All Dean has are Dad's final words, the memory of them searing into him as effectively as the bitter taste of ash on his tongue as it rains over them, coats them in shades of grey. A benediction. A curse. Look out for your brother, Dean. Save him if you can... I will, Dad, I promise. I'll save him if it kills us both.)
His name is Dean Winchester. He was four years old the night his life ended in flames, the night his real life began. He still remembers what his mother's arms felt like around him, remembers the clean, fresh scent of her. He remembers that he could still hear her moving around the room months after she was gone. A benevolent ghost. He remembers the first time he held a gun in his hand, the grip too big for small fingers, Dad behind him, steadying him as the first, violent shock of the recoil blasted through his frame. He remembers his dad's voice, low and steady, telling him and his brother to respect the weapon, its power, its purpose, its protection. He remembers a time when Sam used to look up to him, to Dad, like they were heroes. This is who you are, he tells himself, repeating the words like a talisman, a shield. Never forget.
(...omnis satanica potestas... Sam growls at him to hurry the fuck up, dammit, he can't hold this demon down forever, and the words flow automatically ...omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica... a benediction, a prayer. The only religion Dean's ever known. This is his calling.)
His name is...is...Dean Winchester. He has a long, jagged scar winding from his shoulder to his lower back, courtesy of a pissed-off bitch of a harpy. He still remembers Sam stitching him back together, the sight of his blood on Sam's hands. He broke his wrist in a fight over a bet during a game of pool. Dad gave him hell for it before driving him to the hospital. He hadn't been able to drive his baby for two of the longest months of his life. He's been banged up, bloodied, cheated death twice, and he will never, ever admit defeat. His brother will find him. This is who his family is.
(I want out, Dad, Sam shouts, and each word is a laceration, a scar. I'm sick and tired of this life. I don't want to be like you, like Dean... John's reply is forceful, controlled, but Dean's not paying attention to the words. He never does when they go at it. Their fights are predictable, a dance, and Dean knows his steps by heart. Except tonight the steps are different. Because Sammy's really doing it. He means it. And, behind the anger over the fucked, pussy-ass way that he's going about it, when they're already battered and bruised and broken (but not out, oh no, they'll get the sonofabitch, this isn't over yet), behind the absolute rage over the casual dismissal of everything Dean holds dear, the fact that Sam really is that selfish, that he's leaving Dad, leaving him... Under it all, buried so deep it's only a flicker, is a single, shameful feeling. Envy.)
His name is...Dean...Dean Winchester. He remembers the first time he heard "Houses of the Holy"...the first time he heard "Back In Black". He remembers that his father used to hum along to the radio when he thought Dean and...Sam, Sam, goddammit...were asleep. He remembers his father. His gruff voice, his steady hands, how he always seemed larger than life. His father was the greatest hunter that ever lived. You won't bleed me dry, he vows silently, and curls up into a ball of protection. I won't let you.
(The silver glints in the sunlight as Dean catches the keys readily with one hand. Be careful with her, John says gruffly. She was a gift from your mother. I know, Dean replies, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and clutches the keys until they brand his skin. A mark, a talisman. He vows never to forget.)
His name is...Dean...Win...Winchester. He was named after an uncle he's never met. His...his brother was named after the prophet. He was loved by someone once, someone who used to sing to him. But he can no longer recall the tune. Hurry, please hurry, but he no longer knows who will listen.
(One more lap, boys, John calls, and Dean searches for that extra burst of energy even as he slows to keep pace with Sam's shorter strides. C'mon, Sammy, dig down, let's get it done. Too long... No, it's not. C'mon. We'll do it together. Promise? By your side 'til the finish line, I promise.)
His name is...is...Dean? Defende nos in prζlio et colluctatione, quζ nobis adversus principes et potestates -- Is he a priest? Sammy, I swear Who is Sammy? I'm proud of you, son Where is his father?
(Mommy's too big for Dean to crawl into her lap now, so she's taken to sitting on his bed to tell him stories and sing to him. When he asks how long it'll be before his baby brother'll be ready to come out of her belly, she always laughs, gentle fingers smooth on his brow, and tells him not soon enough. Every night, he's lulled to sleep by the sound of her voice, her heartbeat against his ear, and when his baby brother kicks against his splayed out hand in time to the lullaby, it's like he's in on the secret, too. Every night, he gives his mom's belly a kiss and tells his brother he can't wait to meet him.)
His name is...
"It's alright now, Dean, I've got you," Sam says, hands stained black with dirt and blood as he carefully cradles his brother's face. "What do you remember?" "Nothing." Glassy eyes stare back at him in blank confusion. "I don't remember anything." "It doesn't matter," Sam replies, and feels the tears course down his cheeks. "I'll help you." "Who am I?" Sam never knew his heart could shatter so completely. We'll get through this, he vows silently, and folds cold hands into his own. "Your name is Dean Winchester..."
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