A good friend reminded me today of all that Supernatural
has meant to me over the years. So on this day of days, the 10th birthday of a show that changed everything, I'm reposting this story I wrote back in the day, when the show was just that to me: everything. This is a piece with roots in just about every aspect of the show I loved: Family. Myth. Heart. Soul. Faith. Hope. Love ... (and the greatest of these is love.) </p>
So with that in mind, I offer "The Unspoken" back to y'all today as a reflection of what once was, not in recrimination for what now is, but rather as a celebration of how it all began. A snapshot of the past, pulled out on a special occasion to the purpose of reminiscing.
And to say Thank you, Supernatural. For giving me the boys, with their good hearts and wit-tay repartee, as well as all their crazy cohorts and convention tomfoolery as have been the stuff of legend over the years. For helping me get through my own personal InCountry of grief as brought me to your door in the first place. For hooking me up with friends who will last a lifetime. For introducing me to John Fucking Winchester in all his fucked-up glory. And lastly, but never leastly, for attaching Jeffrey Dean Morgan to my creative spirit in ways that no man (nor show) shall ever put asunder.
Thank you. And Happy Birthday. And for anybody who wants to look at an old photo or two, here you go:
Title: The Unspoken
Author: Dodger Winslow
Rating: R for language
Timeframe: Mid 2nd Season, some time after Road Kill.
Disclaimer: I’m don’t own the boys, I’m just stalking them for a while.
Summary: He’d been with them for months now. Dean sensed it at odd times. Usually in the still; often in the quiet that came after blood. He thought it was grief at first — nothing more than just simple need — but he realized now it was something more. And perhaps he’d known as much since the beginning.
One God, many names. All of them spoken; and in the speaking,
their power. But those who bear no name are simply The Unspoken.
He’d been with them for months now.
Dean sensed it at odd times. Usually in the still; often in the quiet that came after blood. He thought it was grief at first — nothing more than just simple need — but he realized now it was something more.
And perhaps he’d known as much since the beginning.
Dean shoved the last of his dirty clothes into a duffel, zipped it shut, and tossed it to the floor by the door. His father watched from the corner, leaning against a wall, arms crossed, expression tainted to the unmistakable hue of judgmental.
The room was beneath he and Sam’s normal standards, which was saying something. Their standards didn’t offer much clearance from below. But when money was tight in consequence to Dean’s exercised preference for spending time in the warm of fresh kill rather than hustling pool or filling out credit apps for non-existent, law-abiding citizens; even Sam could bite the bullet and fold his freakish height down to a little lower limbo to clear the line between rat-hole dive and rat-hole dive in which weary Winchesters would not sleep.
"You’re getting sloppy, son," John said.
It was the first time he’d spoken since Dean started noticing him as a familiar face among strangers, a shadow near the trees, the man in the mirror who was never there when Dean turned to see ... The Rest of the Story ...