Chapter Text
"Making a tape is like writing a letter – there's a lot of erasing and rethinking and starting again. A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do."
Rob Gordon
High Fidelity
BOISE, IDAHO 1985
The first time Dean remembers making a mixtape, he was seven, and he just got back from school. Sammy getting a fever had worried him the whole day but Dad told Dean that he should still go to school.
He’d skipped the last class by slipping out through a high window in the bathroom and then going under the chain-link fence he’d noticed was loose when Dad’d enrolled him. He found Dad sitting on one of the motel’s double beds, cradling Sammy’s head on his lap. He was holding something clasped loosely between his palms, his head bowed. There was a familiar shoebox at his feet with a row of neatly labeled tapes: his dad’s prized possessions. He’d been told repeatedly that the cassettes were not toys but handed a pistol in the next breath for target practice.
Dad noticed Dean standing unsurely by the doorway, his eyes narrowing at the boy and then looking at the time. Dean looked at his dad sheepishly, realizing that he’d planned the entire break-out-of-school poorly and that Dad would’ve known. He rushed to sit beside his dad, but Dad’s hand clamped tightly on his shoulder before Dean could make any sudden movements once he was close enough. With a significant glance towards Sammy, his dad released Dean and put down the cassette with the rest of the tapes in the box.
In the background, the sound of a tambourine and an acoustic guitar broke out, shifting from a soft sad piano melody into something more upbeat: Na, na, na, na, na, na. Dad reached carefully across to the radio beside the shoebox, switching from cassette to FM. The strain of That’s What Friends Are For filtered through before Dad grimaced and turned it off entirely.
Uncomfortable with the abrupt silence, Dean fidgeted but felt the heavy weight of his dad’s eyes on him, waiting for an explanation. Dean settled with: “I remember that song, sir.”
Dad shook his head, acknowledging the evasion for what it was. “I should think so. It’s been playing on air whenever we pass a store or someone messes with the Impala’s radio.”
Dean frowned, shaking his head, his hand carding through Sam’s hair. “No, I meant… na, na, na, na, na, na,” Dean imitated and half hummed through the remembered melody. It seemed familiar somehow, like an old friend.
His dad was silent for so long that Dean thought the conversation was over. When he glanced at Dad, he was blinking rapidly, his eyes red and a pained expression on his face. “Your mother sang that instead of a lullaby to you and Sam because—” Dad’s voice broke before he cleared his throat and continued, “—it was her favorite Beatles song.”
Amazed, Dean hoarded this information along with everything else he learned: she believed in angels, she loved pie, and she smelled like the roses from their neighbor’s garden. Dean remembered this because Dad would bring home a rose for Mom when he was away for a long time, and though she would complain about the expense, she always lit up like the fourth of July when he presented it with a flourish. Dean leaned on his dad’s arm, and he felt his dad stiffen at the contact, even as the man allowed it.
“What are you doing, Dean?” his dad whispered, still careful with Sammy.
“I’m helping you cry, Dad,” Dean whispered back.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Dad before he gently settled Sam onto the bed. Dad leaned over Dean, a hand on the boy’s shoulder, the grip firm but not painful. Dean waited expectantly for what his dad would say, but no words came to fill the silence. There was strain in his dad’s eyes and hints of tiredness. It was not easy learning to be a hunter and taking care of two boys. His dad had explained this all to Dean some time ago.
There was a loud bang from one of the other motel room doors, making Dad look at the windows sharply. Sammy shifted positions, but he didn’t stir. Moment broken, Dad collected the shoebox along with the radio and set them on the cramped table. He exchanged the tape for another, which Dean saw was a Beatles album. Dad then checked the leaf that came with the cassette before flipping it to the other side and rewinding. Once satisfied, he took a blank cartridge and, using a pencil; he wound it a little before setting it on the other deck.
“This circle is the record button, son. You press it together with the play button so you can make a copy of the song playing on the other tape to this one.” With a click of the play button on the left, Dad started the cassette from the beginning, filling the room with white noise..
Dutifully, Dean pressed both buttons, the click sounding loudly in the room before Hey Jude played. Once the song had ended, Dad stopped the recording and ejected both tapes before he handed his son the tape. “If you find songs you like, we can add it at the end so you have your own special track.”
Dad told Dean the story of how he and his mother met and gave Dean his first Led Zeppelin tape for his birthday. Dean remembers that year because it was also the time that Dean became proficient with the gun and the moment his dad started to give Dean more and more responsibility with raising Sam. By the end of the next year, Dad learned he could leave Dean in charge of his younger brother for short periods of the night during evening hunts. He didn’t take off for more than a day and never during school days.
That ended three years later when his dad left them with Bobby when he knew he would be gone for longer periods of time. The hunt and Mary’s killer proved to be a stronger siren song than parenthood and his boys. The same year while waiting for John on a long case, Dean completed his mixtape: Dean’s Amazing Tracks. It was filled with abrupt stops, loud clicks from when he was turning on the record, and the last song was truncated because he hadn’t quite realized that he should have planned for the length of time before recording. But it was his, and he played it with a second-hand Walkman when he went to school.
SIOUX FALLS, SOUTH DAKOTA 1992
The first time Dean created a mixtape for someone else, he was thirteen. It was because Christmas was coming up, and he didn’t have money to give anyone gifts. He recorded mixtapes from old cassettes that no one played, and he would create more as the years went by. These first three were lost (mostly through frequent moves and explosions), but his recipients remembered, and that was all that mattered.
He made time for it after school between cooking for Sam and waiting for Dad to come home from the hunt. He recorded John’s songs effortlessly because he knew his dad’s favorite tunes, like his choice of breakfast food and hunting gear. Once he finished that, Bobby’s went just as smoothly. Bobby’s taste in music was sort of dad-adjacent. So it was a mix of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Johnny Cash, and Lynyrd Skynyrd with a dash of Tori Amos, to add flavor.
Now, during Sam’s tape, he wavered. While Dean preferred classic rock, Sammy hadn’t shown a preference one way or another yet. So Sam’s gift was a combination of eclectic pieces that Dean sometimes wrinkled his nose at. But hey, Sammy might be a Gin Blossoms or a Green Jelly guy. There was no accounting for taste.
Some original melodies from the old tapes bled through, but it was pretty decent work. Dean had already learned how to space the songs and gotten a general feel for the transitions and the cohesiveness or the lack of it... for the most part. He was proud of the work and wrapped it up in a newspaper.
When Christmas break finally came around, Dad made it toward Sioux Falls. It was close to a terrible hunt that he’d been called about in Rochester, and Bobby’s was on the way.
Dean tucked the cassette in his dad’s shoebox before Dad drove off. Bobby had a disgruntled air of half an argument when his eyes settled on the Winchesters. But the tightness evened out into the gruff sour look they often associated with him.
Bobby sighed before inclining his head towards the stairs. “You know the drill boys. Go on. Your dad said he’ll try to be back before supper tomorrow.”
Sam dragged his feet across the rickety boards, being a bit petulant about the entire move, but Dean helped him to get settled. Tomorrow was Christmas morning, but Sammy wasn’t used to celebrating the season, and Dean himself barely remembered Christmas cookies and baked apple pies.
Once they got to the spare bedroom, Sam heaved himself heavily across the single bed and pouted. “Your face is gonna get stuck that way, Sammy,” Dean teased, pulling out fresh clothes for Sam to change into before bedtime.
“Amy from my class said that she asked her dad for a pony this year,” Sam stated randomly, flopping on top of the sheets and staring at the ceiling. It was the first Dean’d heard of an Amy. Sam was usually talkative about school; he didn’t make lots of friends, the nature of kids who moved a lot, but he shared most of his days with Dean. So, Dean figured, this little tidbit was more about the request than the person.
He shifted Sam to make room for himself on the bed, sitting on the edge. “You know Dad does this to save all the other kids so they have homes to return to and get to ask for ponies for Christmas.”
Sam folded his arms across his chest and pouted even harder. “He could have stayed for Christmas morning and then left.”
“We ain’t big on holidays, Sam,” Dean tried to reason, putting a hand on Sam’s arm. He was the older brother, and he was supposed to make peace. And there were plenty of families that didn’t celebrate Christmas or birthdays, Dean told himself. Sam didn’t complain much, but he was around children his age and picked up fast. Dean had actually been steeling himself for the moment to come sooner rather than later.
It was important that Sam felt loved more than anything. So Dean pulled up his bag, rummaging around for a second before tapping Sam’s shoulder with the mixtape wrapped in newspaper.
Sam’s eyes widened before tearing the paper away. “Did you make this for me?”
Dean grins. “Is there any other Sammy in the room?”
Sam flipped the tape over and checked the label that Dean’d plastered on over the old one: Sammy’s Music Mix. “Do you think Dad will let me play it in the car?”
Dean scrunched his face. Not with the type of songs that were on there. “Weeeell, you could borrow my Walkman sometimes.”
Sammy giggled but frowned when he looks at the time. “But it’s just Christmas Eve, I should have opened it Christmas morning!” Apparently, Sam was the type of kid who hoarded presents and waited for Christmas morning before opening them. Good to know.
“It’s our special tradition then, Christmas Eve.” Sam smiled before he got ready for bed.
The next day, Dean presented his tape to Bobby and received an awkward hug for it. Dad never made it for Christmas. A chupacabra held him up by a state over, but he did call in to say that he enjoyed the gift.
HURLEYVILLE, NEW YORK 1995
The next time he made a mixtape for someone else, it was in Sonny’s Home for Boys, and he wanted to give it to Robin after the school dance. Their tastes in music were vastly different; she liked acoustic guitars you could sing with, and he wanted to be a rock star. He took the time to listen to songs that would work beautifully in acoustic before plotting out his tape. At that point, Dean had learned that he should plan the sequence so that the spacing was just right. He had a pen and paper with a watch, timing his choices and deciding between a 60-minute or a 90-minute blank tape.
After he’d decided on the target length and had a list of songs, he was ready to record. He didn’t have a double-deck cassette in Sonny’s and didn’t have tapes for her music anyway, so he waited for the DJ to play the songs. He brought a boombox when he wasn’t with Robin. He carried it during chores, sat beside it while he worked on homework, and played it before bed. The only occasion Sunny didn’t allow it was during dinner when Sonny told the boys to socialize with each other.
He painstakingly waited for each song on the radio, pressing record when the DJ finally deigned to choose the song next on his list. Sometimes he cursed heatedly when the DJ talked through the ending of the particular piece causing another wait.
The entirety of side one was mostly Dean’s life reflected before the police had sent him to Sonny’s and therefore before he’d met Robin. He started out with Tears in Heaven because it was how he felt when he first came into the place: that he didn’t belong there. He placed Everybody Hurts in between because he was that anxious and awake at night just thinking about what was happening. That song kinda made him raw. It was a song that reached out to teens who suffered through hopelessness, and it made him think about what could have happened if Sonny hadn’t taken him in. He put in Creep before he could change his mind about it.
Side two was more positive, with songs like Wonderwall, which was about being saved. It has such nice easy chords but with difficult strumming, so Dean tried to practice it a couple of times when he had Robin’s guitar. He finished side two with the newly released You Were Meant for Me. Which was upbeat and just perfect for Robin to sing… even if it was kinda presumptuous and cheesy. He placed the entire thing in his pocket before he fixed his tie to go out for the dance.
He never did get to give the tape to Robin before his dad took him away for the job.
INTERSTATE - 80 1996
Like his dad, he kept his tapes in a shoebox labeled with a black Sharpie. He used it when his dad let him pick a tape for their drives or between classes when he had time. He smiled proudly at himself when Dad ordered, “turn up the volume, son,” while one of his mixtapes was on. Once the recording ended, Dad grinned and nodded. “Go ahead and choose another one.”
Dean beamed all the way to their next motel while Sam was playing with his airplane in the backseat. Sometimes his dad would listen to his recording and give him advice on how to improve. “The first rule of mixtapes, son, is never add anything from the top 10 hits,” John proclaimed.
Dean listened to those pearls of wisdom and included them with the essentials: take care of Sammy and always bring salt. “You want it to be special, you don’t want something you could just tune in any time on the radio to listen to.”
Years passed, and Dean still made mixtapes, but none to give out. He’d been in and out of school, so he had no one to make them for, let alone the time to do it. Especially since Dad had brought him out to do more hunting.
When his dad died, he felt he wouldn’t be able to record mixtapes anymore. After hunting, the shared love of music and the Impala were his father’s gifts to him. And though his love for the Impala was fierce and undying, creating mixes was about baring a piece of your soul. He thought he’d lost the ability to create or to find joy in it.