Help Me, Help You.

Rocket's Diner (dean's p.o.v)

For generations and generations the Winchesters would visit this place. A special place, if I still have any say. My dad first took me here when I was seven years old. Mom didn't come because of little Sammy. But, Dad said he met Mom here. When he was dancing on the polished checkered tile some years ago, that's where he first caught a glimpse of that "sweet girl". Yeah..she was sweet.

Every day I would pop into the shotgun of Dad's sleek car. Oh, baby how I love that rotten thing! That 1967 Chevy Impala has been passed around as many times as Dad has passed out in it. No matter the burger wrappers, milkshake cups, or crumpled napkins..Nor the overpowering stench of cheep beer spilled on the worn seats, I would run to that car. As soon as I heard Dad grab the key, I slipped (or forced) on my pre-knotted shoes and escaped to the garage.

For years I would sit in the same edge of the same red, over-cushioned booth and listen to dad tell amazing stories about his troublesome life as he sat at the same stool at the corner of the same bar diagonal from me. No wonder the Impala was always filled with junk. "Business trips"were expensive. I knew they weren't business trips, but I didn't know what else to think.

Anyway, Rocket's Diner was always the place to be. Me and Sam had the best times there. So did Dad and I, until he never came back from one of those "trips". Huh.. And mom was long gone. I had to take care of my Sammy and our shitty house. I just hoped one day.. Maybe I could find a girl like Mom at Rocket's too. I didn't want to be alone forever. And no, Sam wouldn't help me make (find) dinner. I made sure of that. He would never be in any danger if I could help it.