It'd all started with a handful of pictures shoved into a keepsake box beneath your mother's bed.

Polaroids, with dates and details scrawled on the bottom. You and your mother on top, of course, your first steps detailed in ink below the small framed picture of your wobbly steps, held between your mother's careful hands. The second picture being the first time she held you, your birthday written at the bottom with little hearts surrounding it. The final one was different. You'd imagined it to be another one of you, maybe, since your mother loved you so much and so deeply, but instead, it was a picture of her and a man.

Jensen, it said, in her prettiest handwriting, the writing she reserved for signing checks, and a date that preluded your existence by a year.

His hands were around your mother's waist, his head buried into the crook of her neck from behind, and she looked so happy. What changed for him to not be a part of your life now? For you to only know his name after your mother passed away?

The short answer was his fame skyrocketing. Your mother didn't want fame, and didn't want to hold Jensen back from his dreams. And from the googling you did, he'd made it. Big enough to be a few cities over, meeting fans at a convention.

So that was where you went, and that was where you were. The final person in line to meet him, having only just narrowly missed the last call cut off. You could see him from your spot, a few people down the line. Your father.

Jensen's hands are aching from all of the things he's signed, his smile is more tired than when he started, but he flashes it to you regardless, marker already uncapped in his fingers.

"Hi," he says, his voice noticeably softer when it clicks how young you are, and how alone you are, "got somethin' for me to sign?"

It's hard to find words, then, in this surreal moment. Your fingers clutch the three polaroids, eyes downcast at them. Jensen leans over to see them, just a little, and he's silent, except for a sharp intake of breath. "You're..."