As far as beginnings go, mine was more than unfortunate. First, it was the death of my mother. I was ten years old when I found myself out on a damp sidewalk in front of a condemned house, watching as a black body bag was rolled through the charred doorway and across a broken porch. Fire hoses were trained on flames that were eating away at bushes beneath a broken window, suffocating the flames and producing a black cloud that drew the attention of the neighborhood.
That day, all of our lives changed. All that was left of the Winchester bloodline was me, my little brother, and our father- he didn't ever get over her death. Spending day and night locked up in his room, he transformed the walls of his bedroom into a giant map, red and yellow strings tying together leads into a tangled web of conspiracies.
While he was locked up in his room going crazy, I took care of my brother. It wasn't difficult, not really- Sam's a good kid. I'm proud to say that I pretty much raised him.
Two years later, our dad died. He was depressed, angry, and drunk most of the time. Often, he wouldn't even come home for a few days. I'm not sure how many people he killed looking for revenge- I'm not sure I ever want to know.
On the day of his funeral, they managed to make him out as a hero. Only a few people actually showed up- the last two years he had managed to distance himself from, well, everyone. Of the people who did show up were were Sam and I. And our Uncle Bobby, who took us to his house the next day. We still live there, with him and his auto-repair shop. Sam is studying at law school, and I make a living as a detective.
I've solved crimes for almost eight years now- the only case I haven't managed to solve, is my mothers. But her killer resurfaced a month or so ago- And I think I've got him this time.