John Doe

Chapter One

Two a.m is an odd time. Because, well, at two a.m, a sane and healthy human being would probably be asleep. But most sane people aren't addicted to classic cars, fireball whiskey, and busty anime porn. Based off of that criteria, Dean Winchester is the most recklessly insane person you could ever meet. Everyday, right on schedule, he would climb downstairs and two in the morning and take a seat at the counter with his brother's laptop - because Sammy surely wouldn't care - opened to some unnameable website, two fingers of fireball whiskey, neat, and an old 'Respect The Classics' car magazine flipped open beside him. Unexpected flaws were deeply embedded into that schedule, however. For instance, he never would have expected Jessica, Sam's girlfriend, to slowly tap her way into the kitchen in search of a glass of water she never set out, one particular night.

Jess was an incredibly nice and caring person, with blonde, curly tendrils of hair and bright, intelligent eyes. She was thin and polite, but if you pissed her off - like most women in Dean's life - she refused to forget and would make the offender's life a living hell... for a while, at least.

Dean liked Jess. She knew how to handle herself. She reminded Dean a little of his best friend - and makeshift sister - Jo. Maybe it was the blonde hair and snarky personality...? Whatever the reason was, he enjoyed having her around. He was glad that  Sammy had snatched her up. She was family to them, and family was a coveted thing in the Winchester household.

No matter how much he liked her, though, Dean didn't expect her to walk in and chat with him while he was watching his... program?... at two o' clock in the morning. She stayed with him making awkward and sleepy small talk for at least thirteen minutes - Dean was counting - before mockingly strutting her way upstairs. She winked at him as she went, and wished him a "pleasant evening, Dean." Needless to say, his daily routine... shifted a bit after that.

~~~~

"Samantha! I swear on my life, if you don't hurry up, I will murder you." Dean yelled, pounding on the door of the bathroom he shared with Sam and Jess, with all of his might.

Why did they buy such a small house? Well, there was a perfectly reasonable explanation buried in the details. It was just buried deeply and no one cared to uncover it. Dean bought the house for himself. For Dean. But when Sam applied to Stanford and got in, he needed a place close to campus. Dean should've moved a little farther away. Or had the will power to say 'No,' every once in a fucking while. Anyway, Dean bought the place for Dean, Sam moved in, yada yada, Jess and Sam fell "in love," a concept Dean didn't buy into, and Jess moved in with Dean and Sam. No big deal. Right? Right, well, it would be right if the plumbing in the house had been okay. Now the upstairs bathroom was the only working one, and that meant Sam, with his luscious, flowing locks, Jess who wasn't very fussy about how she looked, and Dean shared a bathroom. One. And for Dean, that was not good. He had to be at Singer's Salvage Yard by 9:45, at the latest, and it was 9:15 already. "Sam! I'm a man of my word!" Dean shouted again.

"Shut up, Dean." wass the inevitable, slightly muffled, response that finally came.

It took another ten minutes, but finally Sam opened the door, and stepped out, defiant bitchface firmly locked in place. Dean rolled his eyes and pushed past him into the bathroom. He stripped down wasting no time and started the shower, praying for hot water. He ran a hand through his surprisingly terrible bed-head, and allowed himself a yawn. He stepped into the shower, and pulled the curtain closed. No hot water. Of fucking course. He grumbled curse words under his breath.

Dean let the freezing cold water run over himself in hopes to adjust to it, which he didn't. He eventually soaped up his hair and accidentally sang a song by Metallica, forgetting that the walls were paper thin. He rinsed the soap from his hair, washed his skin quickly, still humming, and stepped out from the shower faucet. He flipped off the water, dried himself off, and brushed his hair dry.

He gelled his hair just perfectly and went digging through the laundry hamper for a clean-ish shirt. He found one and, with a cautious sniff, threw it on. He soon after pulled on his boxers before noticing he hadn't brought any jeans with him. He opened the door partially and peeked his head out . He looked both ways down the hall before sprinting to his room. He grabbed the first jeans he saw and slid them on over his narrow hips. He grabbed his work boots that sat by the door, and ran out to the Impala barefoot. It was 10 o' clock by the time Dean got to work at Bobby's.

Bobby was a surly looking man, and he played the part well, it was just that he was only as intimidating as a  large, overstuffed teddy bear. He was more of like a father to Sam and Dean, especially after their biological father, a rude man named John Winchester, up and left them. Bobby was the kind of nice that was real nice. The kind of nice where he's not afraid to call you out on your bullshit but he might feel bad about it later. (The same kind of nice that Sam was.) Sam and Dean had known Bobby their whole life. He was such a good person he even offered Dean a job, and refused to fire him, no matter how many times he fucked up. And he fucked up a lot. He showed up late to work more than he showed up on time, and he was never early.

Dean liked his life in California with Sam and Jess and Bobby. He didn't want anything to change. He was happy. Comfortable. Secure. He liked to joke with Sam and Jess about them "getting out of his house," and "growing up without him," but - and he would never admit it - if they weren't with him, he would be the kind of miserable lonely that never left the house.