Wes Writes

John was out hunting, and Dean took this opportunity, as he had with many previous, to take Sam out.

They stole a car from the motel parking lot and they drive for what felt like hours, even though it was only about 20 minutes.

Sam clung to Dean’s jacket as they snuck through the cornfield. He was 15, and he knew he shouldn’t be so scared, but unlike most people his age, he knew what could be lurking in the shadows.

Dean led him through the field until they reached a clearing. It was small, but it was secluded and dark. It was perfect.

They went slow and took their time. Knowing how John obsessed over cases, they knew they’d have all night.

With Dean’s jacket laid out under Sam, they kissed. It wasn’t sloppy and hurried like most teenagers were. It was slow, and loving, and perfect.

Richie stared at the figure in front of him. Eddie stared back with those glowing yellow eyes. It wasn’t Eddie. He knew it wasn’t Eddie, but he couldn’t bring himself to run.

“You’re a freak, Trashmouth! Bev told me what you said. You’re a fucking freak!”

Richie stood still, mind still reeling from the rejection.

“I’m gonna tell everyone that you- you’re queer! You’re a- a fag! I’m telling everyone!”

Eddie’s bright yellow eyes glowed even brighter as Richie’s chest tightened. Eddie’s face distorted to show a clownish grin.

“They’re all gonna hate you, Richie. They’re all gonna hate you.”

It’s a simple question, really.

What are you afraid of?

Clowns? Spiders? The dark?

Blood? Violence? War?

Your mother?

The world?

The soul-crushing reality that you can never be with the one you love?

“Your son started a fight with a classmate.”

The woman sitting across from him was a short, blonde, well-dressed woman. John thought she was quite the looker. If he’d met her in a bar, he might have hit on her. But he did not meet her in a bar. He met her here, as she accused his 8 year-old son of viciously attacking a classmate. Dean, he expected this from, but Sam?

John sat in the psychologists office. Sam was 13, in seventh grade.

“Your son displays violent tendencies. I believe he might have psychopathic tendencies. John, I recommend that you have your son committed.”

The man sitting across from him was old, maybe 60, 65, balding, with glasses. If John had met him on the street, he would have thought him a kindly old man, wise with old age. But this man was evil, telling John to throw his son in some kind of insane asylum. John wanted to rip this guy’s head off.

John sat in the police station. Sam was 15, in tenth grade.

“Your son was found at the scene of a double homicide, covered in blood.”

The man sitting across from him was young. A detective. Dark hair, bright eyes, but he looked weathered by knowledge. If John had met him on the road, he would have thought him to be a hunter. But this man was telling John his son, his sweet, innocent Sammy, had been arrested and named a suspect in a double homicide. John just cried.

John sat in an empty pew. Sam was 17.

“Your son is cursed. It’s as if the devil himself has a hold on him. Demons plague him, John. Someone has to end his suffering.”

As John walked out of the church, the priest was stabbed in the back. As Sam twisted the knife, a smile grew on his evil little face. The devil spoke loudly in his mind.

This isn’t a diary. It’s a journal. Dad told me I should keep a journal. It’s not a diary. None of that girly stuff. So let’s get this straight: in case anyone finds this, my name is Dean Winchester. My father is John Winchester. My brother is Sam Winchester. We hunt monsters.

Michigan: Dad and I salted and burned a body. It was this boy. He kind of looked like Sam. He didn’t know he was dead though. I felt bad for him.

Kentucky: Dad and Sam got into an argument again. Sam called Dad an asshole and Dad got out the belt. I wish they wouldn’t fight so much. It breaks my heart to see Sam cry, and I know Dad drinks more after they fight.

Illinois: Dad got pretty spooked on the hunt tonight. We’ve been hunting that demon since mom died. Turns out, we just stumbled upon a whole bunch of them. They’re gone now; they left before Dad could exorcise them. But one of them said something weird. Dad got drunk as soon as we got back to the motel. Sam’s doing his homework now. I wonder if he knows what he is. I wonder if it’s true.

Montana: I think Sam’s getting into fights at school. He keeps coming back with bloody noses and bruises. I asked him about it, but all he ever says is “They deserved it.” I’m really worried about him.

Washington: Sam and Dad got into a fight. Sam stormed out. I don’t know

Oregon: Sam Winchester is a fucking psychopath. If anyone finds this journal, stay far away from

Headline: The Oregonian:

John called him “boy.”

Kids at school called him “freak.”

Hunters called him “monster.”

Demons called him “the boy who will be king.”

The second time Sam got high, he was 18, all long legs and shaggy hair. He sat cross-legged on the floor of a new, somehow dirtier motel room. Dean sat across from him. John was gone on a hunt; they had all night. Sam inhaled. Dean’s anticipation grew. He exhaled. Sam dreamt of freedom.

No, he wanted Sam to stay.

He wanted that sinful, spear-tongued boy to stay right there with him in that ‘67 Chevy Impala they had called home for nearly 18 years.

But he knew if Sam stayed, the line would be crossed.

“You gonna be good?”

The tall, lanky, shaggy-haired twenty-something Dean had picked up at the bar.

It wasn’t Sam.

Sam was gone. Sam had left.

But Dean had this guy. This sweet-talking little twink whose hips swayed when he walked.

“Can I uh... Can I call you Sam?”

“Call me whatever you, want, baby. I’m just here for the ride.”

“Lemme see.”

“No! It’s weird.”

“What’s so weird about it?”

“They’re women’s underwear, Dean.”

“Come on, Sammy. Lemme see.”

“Fine. You promise you won’t laugh?”

“Promise.”

What’s wrong with me? Boys aren’t supposed to like boys. They’re definitely not supposed to like their brothers. It’s not my fault. It can’t be my fault. God, I didn’t ask to love him.

Dear Diary,

He hugged me today. He smelled like cigarettes and Dad’s whiskey. I can’t stop smelling my jacket. I just wish he would hold me and never let go.

Dear Diary,

I kissed him. God, I kissed him. He pushed me away. He told me I’m just horny. He told me we’re not supposed to do this. He told me I’m crazy. I can’t stay here. Not now. It’s my fault.

Dear Diary,

I had to talk to someone. I talked to Dad. He told me to leave. He told me I’m sick. I got accepted to Stanford, and I’m leaving. I’m never coming back. I can’t do that to Dean.

Sitting in the motel parking lot, in the car that would forever be Sam and Dean’s home, John drank his suspicions away. He’d never admit it, and he’d certainly never write it down in his journal, but on some level, he always knew.