Flummox means to be bewildered
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Buffy in any way, but use the characters for entertainment purposes only.
There is something comforting in the smell of leather, salt, and oil. I have never understood why it eases my fears, doubts, and pain. No one I have met has had this combination of scents, but whenever one scent comes my way I can’t help hoping that the other two coincide. This never happens, of course, who would smell of salt, leather, and oil all at once. For some reason, I have always yearned deeply and desperately for this strange inclination. Sometimes, I wonder if maybe I have forgotten something or someone. It wouldn’t be surprising with the things I have seen, done, and have been sent my way. Why do I feel this incredible longing and misery whenever these three scents aren’t combined? It doesn’t make any sense since the three have nothing to do with one another.
This may be silliness on my part, but sometimes I dream that another person is my father instead of Hank. In my dreams, my father has green eyes like mine and sings Metallica for my lullaby. He is never alone, though. The other man is more taller, more serious man with shaggy, brown hair. Beyond these vague images and sounds, nothing makes sense and reveals any hidden truths. Maybe these dreams are a part of the Slayer package. Maybe I will meet them one day and they will make everything okay again. Or, it could be just the lack of Hank’s presence in my life. Why stick around when your kid is crazy and you have a young, hot secretary to remind you of your begotten youth? Sometimes, I wish the man in my dreams was my real dad that way I wouldn’t have this hollow, empty feeling whenever I’m reminded of the brokenness of my family and the cause of it all. I bet that the man in my dreams would have been a great dad, that he would have loved me despite my “juvenile” ways, and he would have believed me when I told him about my Slayerness.
My mom will mention how alike my father and I am, but then she becomes sad and closed-lipped when I ask in what way. Maybe the sad, dejected way my mother looks at me sometimes means something. Hank really isn’t my father, but then what had happened to my real dad? Where did he go? Why did he leave? Didn’t he love us? Perhaps, I am making too much of a little thing, but I can’t explain this awful suspicion that refuses to see reason. My father is Hank Summers, who may be a world-class bastard, but he did raise me. I know the truth. I really, really do know that Hank is my father.
Note: I have returned!! Or, at least, for the time being I have. It seems my life has revolved my obligations for so long. Well, as you have noticed, I have started the "Dean is Buffy's real father" story going, which was inspired by Snapshots. As you can tell in this chapter, Buffy doesn't seem so convinced by her final statements that Hank is her real father. Ahhh, I love cliff hangers, don't you?