Fighter: Dean Winchester (REVAMPED VERSION)

love wιll вrιɴɢ yoυ нoмe; pαrт oɴe

November '08

The boys and I are on our way to my family's cabin in Montana. Thanksgiving is in two days. Even when Mom was alive, we spent it with Bobby, Ellen, and Jo every year. Everyone either has to make a dish or bring something—no one can show up empty-handed. It's one of those little traditions that always stuck, even when things felt like they were falling apart.

We have dinner together like any other family, and we go around saying what we're grateful for. It's the most grueling part of the evening, and it only became part of the tradition when Irene and Dad married. 

After dinner, we sit by the fire under the stars and listen to Bobby and Dad's crazy hunter stories. We've heard practically all of them by now, but it never gets old. I think it's because we all know how rare those stories are. 

Not just the kind of stories hunters share, but the ones about our family, about the things they've seen and survived. Sometimes, when I look around at the people I'm with, I can't help but feel a little lucky. Despite everything, we still have each other.

Thanksgiving is the only holiday I really look forward to because we don't celebrate Christmas. Dad's Jewish, so we never took part in any of that. He's also not particularly religious or kosher, so we never celebrated Hanukkah either. But he does try to avoid burying bodies on the Sabbath. I think that counts for something, in his own way.

How did my Jewish father end up marrying my Christian, angel mother? I don't know. I've asked them about it a couple of times, and they always just smile, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

It never seemed to be an issue in their marriage. Mom agreed not to celebrate Christmas, but Dad still let her get a tree, decorate the house, and fill our stockings with goodies. He was never really big on the holiday, but I think he enjoyed seeing her happy. And maybe, in the end, that was enough for him. I think Mom just liked the Christmas spirit more than anything else—the lights, the decorations, the warm feeling of giving.

I invited the boys to Thanksgiving this year. Sam's game for a break after everything with Anna, but Dean insists they keep hunting. 

He's not doing well. After Alastair, he's a mess. He finally confessed what he did in Hell to Sam, but I can see that it only made things worse. It's like the confession took a small weight off his shoulders, but now all the guilt is pouring in, and he can't escape it.

Poor guy's spiraling. I can see it in his face, hear it in the cracks of his voice. Sleeping less, smiling less. Always eyeing that flask. If it weren't for me, I honestly think he'd be drowning in it by now. Part of me feels guilty like I'm trying to hold him up when maybe he needs to fall a little to find his way back. But then I remember what he's been through—what he's still going through—and I don't want to risk losing him to the darkness.

I know the last thing he wants to do is be around happy people, especially now. He'd never admit it, but I think it would do him some good. A change of scene, a reminder that not everything has to be dark and heavy. But naturally, he insists otherwise. He's too proud, too stubborn to let himself just be, even for a day.

I can see it in his eyes, though. He's just like Sam in so many ways, both of them trying to redeem themselves, trying to prove they're worth something in this world. Hunting and saving people—it's the only way they know how to feel like they're doing something right. I think they both believe that if they don't keep fighting, they'll lose what little they have left of themselves.