Raised By Men
Title: Raised By Men (1/1)
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: taxidryer
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, angst, pre-series
Words count: 5,600
Spoilers: Up to 4.06 - It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester
Characters/Pairings: Dean, John, Sam
Summary: Dean never chooses anything, yet he has been chosen. The first part, he wishes he hadn’t gotten used to as much as he did. The second part, he just wishes he understood why.
Posted: sn_fic, supernaturalfic, spn_gen, totaldeangirl.
Disclaimer: Just borrowing.
Everlasting gratefulness: to hucknclem for the beta. And for suggesting that God is that guy from ZZ Top…
Raised by Men
"Maturity is the ability to do something even though your parents
told you to."
-Paul Watzlawick
At least Dean is okay. It could be worse. It can always be worse.
*
Watch out for your little brother, Dean.
Or it’s Dad you’ll have to deal with. Monsters, you can beat. Angry Daddy? You don’t get rid of easily.
When Dean thinks back on how he used to care for Sam when they were kids, what he remembers with the most acuity is the panic. Every time Sam would come home ten minutes later than usual or wouldn’t answer his calls when he wasn’t standing exactly where Dean left him, the same growing fright took over his viscera as the worst-case scenarios took over his mind. The thing he recalls most vividly is the contortions of his stomach, the speeding-up of his pulse and all the alarms going off in his head at the simple idea of Sam being hurt or lost forever. The thought of a world without his whims and tantrums machine of a brother.
Panic at the idea of the unforgiving look his father would lay on him.
Dean can’t escape it. It’s always about fear.
*
‘Man, that sounds so wussy,’ Dean says as he takes a giant bite of turkey wrap (fine gastronomy, for a change).
‘Dad, Dean’s calling me a wuss again.’
‘Dean, stop calling your brother a wuss,’ John says without looking up from his newspapers.
‘I didn’t say you were a wuss. I said it’s wussy, that paleto… pateolo…’
‘It’s paleontology. Anyway, you’re just jealous because if I were a dinosaur, I’d be a velociraptor. You’d just be the big dumb tyrannosaurus that can’t open doors.’
To think that bringing Sam to the theater to see Jurassic Park was Dean’s idea. Bad move, really. Who could have guessed his geek little brother would abandon his fascination for pirates and treasure islands and develop an infatuation for dinosaurs?
‘Whatever. I mean, come on, Sam. You want to keep digging up bones, at least do it for something useful. Dinosaurs bones, you can’t do anything with them except put them in museums.’
‘Boys, hurry up. We still have two hundred miles to go,’ John says, uninterested.
‘But it’s cool!’
‘Dude, so not as cool as chasing spirits.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s useless. Dinosaurs are dead, man.’
‘And so is Mom!’
Dean stops chewing the second the words hit his brain. He takes a quick glance at his father and timidly brings back his gaze to the center of his plate. He can imagine John’s inquisitive stare weighing heavily on his youngest son over the newspaper. The silence seems to last forever before John clears his throat.
‘Finish your plate. You’re digging tonight,’ he finally says, blunt as a guillotine.
Dean is slightly relieved at the idea of skipping the physical fatigue, but he’s distracted by the effort he has to make to keep his jaw from falling in bemusement. Dean would never, ever have dared say what Sam said. Who is he kidding? He would never have dared to think it! He resumes chewing, hoping that by keeping calling Sam a wuss, they’ll all keep not noticing that Dean’s the real wuss.
*
There’s only one road. It’s narrow, drawn in advance and goes straight towards an unknown spot, a destination concealed in the dark, far beyond the point the headlights can reach. You don’t need to know where it goes for it’s the only road there is.
All you can do is step on the gas.
*
John didn’t feel ready to be a father. He knew exactly the kind of dad he didn’t want to be but that didn’t help him in any way to picture the kind he wanted to be. Supposing he wanted to be a father at all. It seemed to him that the way to decent parenthood was hindered by too many closed roads and contrary one-ways.
John knew he wanted to want to be a father and to him, that was a start.
‘You just do your thing, John’, old Tom at the garage had said. ‘You tell them what to do, teach them what you know. Mary’s going to take care of everything. Ask her what she needs, be there for her, and you’ll know what to do. You don’t have to understand kids, that’s women’s work.’
‘Back in your time, maybe.’
‘Yeah, but some things don’t change. The greatest gift you can give your children is to love their mother. Do that and everything will fall into place.’
John believed him because… Loving Mary? He could do that.
So that’s what he settled for. That’s what he did. And that’s what he’s still doing.
*
‘Yes, Sir.’
That’s probably the thing he’s said the most often in his life.
Dean’s not stupid. It’s not because he doesn’t have a brain of his own that he does everything Dad tells him to do.
He could make choices. He just chooses not to.
*
John leaves the engine rolling so that the kids stay warm and slams the door behind himself a little too abruptly, unable to stop the banging that will grant him a ‘Are you mad at me, Dad?’ At least the kid can speak again. One less thing to worry about. Dean will be okay.
Sam, on the other hand, he’s not so sure yet. He’s eaten, been changed, has slept. What more could he want, for heaven’s sake? What could a nine month-old kid want?
It takes John a few seconds before the cold reaches his bones through the leather, making him shiver and swear into his collar. He can’t deal with temperature changes on top of everything else. The next problem he has to add to the list, he’s just going to lay down, wherever he is, and wait for it to go away. He’s going to embrace the maxim of running away as the first rule in self-defense : combat is just an option.
He opens the trunk, allowing Sam’s cries to gain maximum volume. A gas can, a carton of silver bullets, a diaper bag, a handgun, a carton of standard bullets, a bag of salt and tons of useless things. What can he do now with a cooler, a baseball mit, a bag with old clothes he was supposed to bring to the church’s foundation, a portable parasol and a fertilizer container? One by one, he lifts up the artifacts of his old life, the one sandwiched between two wars, and throws them over his shoulder with both hands without looking back. Finally, the wanted rifle appears at the bottom of the now cleared trunk. He’ll need a spare one, he realizes. He can’t continually switch out his ammo to match the nature of his prey. And more salt. A lot more salt. He reaches for the rifle and starts emptying its carriage.
He’s going to kill that son of a bitch.
Sam’s wailing gains in fervor.
John grabs the carton of silver bullets and tears the plastic wrap with his teeth.
Sam isn’t swayed.
John spits the plastic wrap and lets it fall carelessly to his feet. Mary said she’d read somewhere that throwing things on the ground might lead to the end of the world. Never mind. It’s secondary now. Everything is secondary when you only have resources for the primary stuff. When the primary won’t be put off lightly.
Cry all you want, Sammy.
I’m doing this for your mother.
Only, Sam has another view on what is primary and doesn’t hesitate to keep protesting. Sam asks, Sam requires, and nothing in his astonishing precociousness makes him less demanding. John stops his movement, his jaw tightly clenched.
‘It’s for your mother, you hear me?’, he yells. Seconds slowly pass, the echo of his voice lost in the silence of infinite night that only Sam’s complaint still troubles. Doleful and inoffensive, but oh so much more stubborn than any of John’s angry outbursts.
Mary would never let him cry for so long.
John closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of frustration into the cold air. Damn it.
He throws the rifle back down, shuts the trunk, gets in the car and glances into the rearview mirror. Sam’s cries become laments and soon enough dwindle to hiccoughs. Johns pushes the pedal and does a u-turn, rolling away from the odd pile of necessities abandoned in the snow.
*
He who says war means urgency. He who says urgency means efficiency. He who says efficiency means shut up and focus on the road.
*
The bigger picture.
Obviously, if God made men in his own image, he did the same with his messengers. God is a businessman and it’s no surprise he dresses his cherubs according to the Wall Street code.
Dean decides that next time that bastard speaks in parable, he’s going to pluck the feathers right off his back. Surely if he remembered his hours of pain in hell, maybe he would be a little more grateful, but for now he doesn’t and he can’t help but be unimpressed with the Great Bearded.
So, apparently, God is busy. Demons find the time to torture people, one family at a time, but the Lord was in a too important meeting when the Holocauste and the Black Plague scoured the earth.
Apparently, the Eternal has an agenda. Be useful and He’ll send a goon to grab you out of the pit. But hey, you’d better do your job according to the deal (that His Almighty will have decided on all by His Lonesome), or it’s an express dispatch back to the furnace. You get nothing for free. Even God’s law answers to the law of markets.
You got a huge debt, so be afraid and kneel, mortal. Bow down and submit, or we’ll go all Old Testament on you. Forget all about forgiveness and the chirping of doves. Angels lie - but that’s just to better test you, my child - and are as warm as German officers under fascist regime.
Go, man with a tragic destiny. Take a little trip to the past and try to change it. No one will inform you that it’s useless, but it’s for your own good.
‘Destiny can’t be changed, Dean. All roads lead to the same destination,’ Castiel says.
As if he didn’t know already.
*
He who says war means economy. All the pedestrian streets are now shut off, the pleasure functions paralyzed. All the happy, pretty principles of family life learned during this truce called Mary have fallen into disuse.
‘Look after your brother while I’m gone.’
‘But I’m tired of being the babysitter.’
‘Tired of being the babysitter? Are you telling me you’re not going to do what I’m telling you?’ Dean shakes his head manically. ‘That while I’m chasing the freaking monster that might come and eat you and your brother, you’re tired of being the babysitter?’
‘No, Sir,’ Dean says, repentant.
‘Are you telling me you think the monster is going to give us a break because you’re tired of being the babysitter, huh?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘I hope so. And I hope you get that the reason you do what I tell you, the minute I tell you, is because every minute I’m wasting here, the monster might be killing someone else.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to look after Sammy.’
He who says war means that together, we’ll take care of the enemy. No time to take care of what’s happening between us.
*
For his twentieth birthday, Dean receives two things : the keys to the Impala from John and one of the books Sam read in his English class before the teacher was fired.
‘Dude?’
‘You’ll like it. It’s full of explicit descriptions.’
From that moment on, Dean has a new hobby. He sits with his feet on the table and reads juicy passages out loud as Sam tries to focus on his homework and pretends he’s ignoring Dean. Just to see how much time it will take before Sam blushes.
As soon as the door opens and John walks into the room, Dean stops the reading. He waits and waits and waits but John doesn’t seem ready to leave again and Sam might have a chance to finish his essay in peace.
‘Boys, I’m going to the morgue. Meet me outside in an hour,’ John says as he steps outside the room
‘Yes, Sir,’ Dean answers.
‘I’ve got things to finish,’ Sam complains in vain.
‘Ha! I knew you’d rather stay here and keep listening to that fine literature,’ Dean teases.
‘I don’t know how you do it, man’, Sam says, serious. ‘The way Dad treats us, it doesn’t seem to bother you. Don’t you wish you were free sometimes?’
‘What’re you saying, Sam? I’m free, man! I do whatever I want; it just happens to be the same thing Dad wants.’
‘Yeah, right. That’s precisely the most advanced form of idiocy ever.’
‘You don’t know shit.’
*
Freedom in its most elegant form is a ’67 Chevy Impala and Dean owns it.
Freedom is to have four reliable wheels that can take you wherever you want whenever you want. Most of the time, though, the where doesn’t matter. There’s no destination. Freedom is the possibility to get the hell out and go away before the things that do you good start doing you harm.
*
‘I know, kiddo. We’ll have a home again. As soon as this is all over, I promise.’
*
The day Sam outgrows Dean - because yeah, Dean would swear it happened in one day - is like the ultimate sign. Like a nod from the Great Bearded.
You were right, boy. Sam’s blessed, and you’re cursed.
The sulking lasts a few minutes and then one quick glance at Sam and it’s over. If someone is going to be a famous star in the NBA, riding in a limo full of girls tightly-dressed, it might as well be his little brother.
*
The nights are too short, the beds too hard. A chiropractor could do a case study on the number of knots in his nape, his mother would cry to see the way he eats (always more protein, thanks; vegetables are for pussies), and he doesn’t even want to think about Mary’s reaction if she saw the dirt beneath his nails.
But he’s known worse. Like sleeping in mud with a series of explosions for a lullaby.
In fact, it’s a lot better since Sam reached 35 pounds. The time when John couldn’t close an eye at night by fear of squashing the baby boy in his sleep is over. When they can afford a room with a second bed for Dean, John still puts a pillow on the other side of the bed to make sure Sam won’t fall off, but he’s not even sure the boy needs it anymore. Because Sam walks already. And he speaks. Already.
He’s sleeping on his back with his mouth open, not one little tooth visible yet, his breath steady and his dreams cradling him in God-knows-what innocent place. John clears a strand of fine hair stuck to his little forehead and feels a sudden urge to squeeze his small shoulder. So tiny, so fragile; his little, little baby.
He’ll have to be careful with this little rascal. So hurried to run away, to discover the world. He’ll have to watch that one closely.
Thank God, he can count on Dean.
*
Most people reluctantly learn that the ones to whom they become the most attached are the ones that have the greatest power to ruin their lives.
‘Your brother’s going to be the end of me.’
Yes, you’ve been saying that for the past fifteen years now, Dad. You’re also the one who asked twice in thirty minutes that we stop talking about Sam.
‘Tell you what, if he wants to hate me so bad, I’ll give him a good reason to.’
Sure. And that’s going to improve your life so much, Dad.
Dean shakes his head to himself. Obviously it works the other way around too. The ones who ruin your life are also the ones to whom you become the most attached.
*
The first truly positive thought that crosses John’s mind is a matter of such self-evidence he wants to laugh his ass off.
Sam is crawling on the carpet, one knee after the other, slowly making his way toward the faded G.I. Joe lying a few feet from him. Dean is playing a game that involves running around the sofa like a dog chasing its tail before struggling as if he was caught in a net. ‘Oh no, Sammy! They got me!’
He has sons. Sons, not daughters.
Can you imagine if he had girls? He can’t even begin to figure the level of incompetence he would assume, all by himself with two little princesses demanding braids.
It isn’t exactly a "good things can still happen" thought, but a "some good things that happened are still good" thought is better than nothing. What was only a slight preference when Mary was alive now appears as a freaking gift of providence. It’s a 50% chance of catastrophe faced and luckily avoided twice!
Two little heads full of cravings and fears he’ll be able to expect and understand. Two little men he’ll model in his own image, spoil according to his own tastes and be amused by their little rebellions because he’ll have seen them coming years ahead. Only two cocks to watch (because when you have a daughter you have to watch all of them). Exit the nuisance of too-long nails that make shooting clumsy! No chance of heels hindering a run! He knows he’s exaggerating the portrayal, but he still thinks that given the circumstances, it was a close shave.
And for the first time since Mary’s death, he doesn’t go to bed quite as thoroughly pissed at life.
*
Sam isn’t this. Sam may be that.
Sam can be a total loser who studies on a Friday night and succeeds in going to bed later than Greg The Keg by doing so. Sam could outgeek J.R.R. Tolkien and outdork Bobby Singer. Sam can also put on a suit and get whatever he wants from the mayor, his driver, his mistress and their five children.
Sam is physically capable of beating two civilians at a time and leave them in a state that would make them regret not having insurance. Sam is a pacifist who takes all the punches you throw at him, and in his most unwavering refusal to defend himself, he always ends up winning.
Sam listens to the kind of music played by a Russian aids sufferer with a violin. Sam’s shadow is so big it scares little children. Sam can get lost in a five-room apartment. Sam can exorcise demons with his brain.
Sam is scared of clowns. And clowns are pretty fucking scared of Sam.
Sam is just a collection of persons that could be, dormant until woken and revealed to light, causing everyone surprise, amazement, terror and fascination.
Sam is such a bitch.
*
John had thought they’d grow like plants, but that’s not exactly what happened. It’s really the same children, but they’re something completely different from what he expected.
Dean still has the same mosaic of freckles and despite the growing number of "wheres" and "whys", still holds John’s hand tightly when they walk down the street. Regardless of his satisfaction with John’s answers. But every time he sees a colorful poster, he turns his head and keeps staring at the picture from over his shoulder as far as it’s humanly possible, and John can already imagine the day there won’t be a hand to hold him back from running to all the things that will make his head turn.
Sam still has the same little wolf eyes and the same frown, whether he’s concentrating or sulking. But instead of going puddle-jumping on rainy days, he stays home and reads books about the solar system and pharaohs.
Dean, he gets. Sam, not so much. Honestly, John thinks any daughter would be easier to predict than Sam.
Sam doesn’t avert his gaze when John stares at him with his most threatening eyes, exacting submission and respect, immune to the tactic that has always worked with Dean and with every Winchester men from generation to generation. Sam stares back, defiant and fearless and John wonders who the fuck this little man thinks he is.
Kid must be defective. That’s not what John was ready for.
*
Chicks dig bravery, and chicks think Dean is brave, therefore chicks dig Dean. Only, he knows doing the only thing one has always known how to do doesn’t make a man brave.
Must be genetic, because John is capable of world-class cowardice when daring isn’t about risking lives. Like when he decides that it’s time to spy on his eldest son instead of facing him or damaging his pride.
Hello, Sammy. It’s your family. Just checking to see if everything’s alright. Nothing serious. You still pissed? Cause we’re not pissed anymore, although Dad’s still acting like he is. Oh, and we’re still alive, by the way. We’re still in the hunting business, and it’s still a pretty dangerous gig. But we’re the ones checking on you. Cause we sort of raised you, you know… Anyway, take care. Keep beating ’em. Socrates and his buddies rule!
Would that be so hard?
Apparently yes, since John went as far as renting a small Japanese car to go undetected. Really, that’s a lot to say. Way to avoid damaging his pride…
‘There,’ John says and points with his chin without unsticking the binoculars from his eyes. ‘Oh.’
‘What?’ Dean asks from the edge of his seat, narrowing his eyes in hope of seeing his brother at the other side of the park.
John hands him the binoculars with a naughty smile and Dean looks worried as he peers into them.
Holy hell. There’s something new in Sam’s life. A blonde girl - the kind that dazzles the eye before the focus is even adjusted - is sitting between his legs, her head leaning back against his shoulder. Dean notices the way she plays with the black string around his brother’s wrist, the serenity on her face as she maintains a lively monologue Dean can’t manage to read from her lips. He drops the binoculars and blinks a few times. He looks in them again, adjusting the focus right. Holy shit.
This is far from Susan Ford. This is miles from Susan Ford. He thinks back on the slap he gave Sam’s back when he learned his brother was the man who managed to get a date with the only girl Mathlete. But this? This is worth a lot more than a slap on the back. This is worth a fucking punch in the face.
And to be completely, brutally honest, it’s not the way she looks as much as the way she looks at Sam.
Right. Dean swallows the lump in his throat. He looks through the binoculars one last time before giving them back to John.
‘Approved,’ Dean says.
If it was anyone else but Sam, Dean would think it can’t last. Only, that wouldn’t be enough to make him feel better and anyway, this is about his little brother. Sam got the prize for bravery. He had the courage to leave everything behind and jump into the unknown, and he had the guts to do it all by himself. He deserves this… picture-perfect, Dean thinks, while wondering how it’s even possible to get there. Ordinary people seek perfection and don’t believe in ghosts. Dean seeks ghosts and doesn’t believe in perfection. Well, there’s a large variety of perfections named Wendy, Amanda, Eve, Marilyn, Veronica, Natasha he believes in. But perfect reciprocity? My ass.
He tried once. He’s had one. Just couldn’t keep her.
It’s off-route. Another thing that’s gathered far from the road, out where Dean can’t go. There are things like that, just not allowed to you. No reason to it; that’s just the way it is. Like a random curse. Someone somewhere has decided that it’s not in Dean’s cards, condemning him to love them all without having any to love him back. Why be selective about something you’ll never have? Why ask yourself questions that you already know the answers to?
The answer is, he doesn’t have much to offer except a car and a pair of eyebrows. The answer is, he’s not enough; he’s just one thing. He’s nothing but what he appears to be.
Dean is Dean and nothing else. What you see is what you get. And if you’re not satisfied, you don’t get a refund ‘cause between you and me, you didn’t pay too much for it.
But hey, he’s okay. It could be worse. Chicks do dig him.
*
Going to hell was freaking brave of Dean.
He scoffs. Who is he kidding? Not making the deal would have been braver.
*
‘Tell you one thing, we’re lucky we had Dad…’ Sam says, as if it were no big deal.
‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’
‘Well, it could have gone a whole other way after Mom. A little more tequila, a little less demon hunting… and we’d have Max’s childhood. All things considered, we turned out okay, thanks to him.’
Dean comes very close to chanting "Hallelujah." Finally, his mule of a brother admits that John Winchester isn’t Jack the Ripper and that it can always, always be worse.
‘All things considered,’ he contents himself in repeating.
If it only meant that Sam has a new burgeon of maturity, Dean would simply dance and tease, but it also means that things are changing. It foretells a new era. It means the line between those they protect and those they exterminate is fading; they’ll have to act less and think more. Sam is now capable of being grateful to their father, but he’s also capable of moving things with his brain. It foretells that Dean won’t know if he should be scared for Sam or be scared of him.
The secret is, even Dean, in the middle of his adventurous and nomadic life, isn’t that huge a fan of change.
*
"Not alright."
What the hell kind of an accusation is that?
The iron is light in his hand and he feels rage growing from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. Not alright. Doesn’t he have the right to not be okay, too, once in a while?
His palms are aching, his heart beats faster at the idea of the satisfaction the movement will give him. Is someone accusing John right now of not being alright while his soul is agonizing in hell?
Bang! The glass explodes in a thousand pieces.
Alright is an empty word for a world that is now completely wrong. Alright is a wreckage. It’s the ghost of a long gone time he should have appreciated fully because he just didn’t know how much worse it could be.
He’s so far from alright that he doesn’t feel the splinters of glass piercing the skin of his forearm.
For the first time in his life, he had a choice to make. A reaper asked him to make a choice, but once again, John took this opportunity away at the last second with his own sacrifice, his own decision.
Bang! He doesn’t breathe between each full-strength dent he inflicts upon the immaculate surface of the Impala. His baby, his freedom vessel. Take that! Another blow, another gash, deeper with every movement. The trunk now has a concave, damaged shape.
Beyond repair.
It’s never going to be alright again.
The only decision he has left to make now is to kill or not to kill his brother.
If that’s freedom, then screw freedom.
*
Dean never chooses anything, yet he has been chosen. The first part, he wishes he hadn’t gotten used to as much as he did. The second part, he just wishes he understood why.
*
It’s one of those early November afternoons that herald winter. When the lack of smell makes you shiver and dread like the barking of dogs before a storm. John has no intention of staying in Vermont very long, but he can feel winter coming with the daily challenges it adds to everyone’s life.
Dean closes the door behind him and sniffles. His nose is all red, and although there’s nothing childish left about him anymore (except some tendency to talk to himself when he thinks he’s alone and of course, his infamous oral fixation), John can see the kid in him for a second.
With no hesitation, Dean throws his duffle bag on the bed to the left, as usual. He opens a can of dark beer for John and one of amber for himself, then sits in front of the tv as John updates his journal, as usual. They order fried chicken takeout, talk about the repairs to do on the truck John’s considering buying, mock Pastor Jim’s new toupee, choose Rojo for their new credit application for reasons no one else would understand and roll their eyes at the same moments while watching the news.
So damn easy. As if he and Dean speak a unique language of all their own.
‘And then that asshole just shouts, "Hey Winchester! I didn’t know you did jobs on your own now. You sure you shouldn’t be at your Daddy’s side?" and I’m like, "Nah, my Dad’s big enough now. Can make his way without me…’
It’s cold outside, but he room is warm. Sam’s gone, but Dean’s there.
John won’t admit it, because Sam’s departure is a failure and an offense he makes sure to wear like a mourning garment, but right now, right here, he’s glad and he’s freaking proud.
*
‘I know, kiddo. I wish we had a home, too.’
But there’s always a bigger picture.
*
‘In the coming months, you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weigh that’s on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don’t.’
Dean and his great decision-making skills. He highly doubts that’s what he’s been chosen for. He’s on the verge of asking it : why me? And Castiel is already gone.
Always there to provoke the questions, always gone when it’s time for the answers. Even for the ones Dean thought he already knew.
He thought he was nothing more than Dean Winchester, the average hunter who loves life and watches after his brother, and to be honest, he’s learned to like that answer. Not sure he wants it to change.
‘Listen to me, you son of a bitch,’ he mutters under his breath, ‘I don’t even know if you have a beard or not, and I’m not even sure I’m not making a fool of myself by talking to you. For all I know, your angels may be nothing but the work of some twisted trickster. Okay, I get that you’re interested in me in a way no one really has been before. I get that. From what I understand, you also have expectations, and I don’t know what they are. Do you want me to obey or not? And why am I even asking what you want? Anyway. At least, with my father, everything was clear. For all I know, you’re as flawed as he was. So if you hear me right now, if you’re not too busy, keep listening, you prick.’
‘You guys, you do masterplans, you choose war or peace, and while you’re making up your minds whether you adore or hate Sam, I’m just supposed be the pawn, huh? Always at my post. Completely predictable. Yeah, we all know it. Dean’s just Dean. Dean’s fine. No need to explain anything to him, or consult him, or worry about him. No need to deal with him. But there’s one thing you may be right about : things have changed. That’s over. I won’t let anyone tell me what the bigger picture’s like anymore.’
He’s been in the past, he’s been to hell. He’s seen the very worst. and even though he’s never been so unsure of everything, he’s never seen things with so much clarity. The only thing he can’t see is why him.
Dean feels a hand on his shoulder but doesn’t look up.
‘Look around, Dean. They all dream of becoming somebody. Not you. You’re truly humble. People just do whatever they want these days. Not you. Freedom is within you. We all have to submit to someone or something. Mortals are free, but they are sinners. They become truly free from the moment they choose what they will obey. It’s your call : do you choose to obey your sinful nature or a power greater than you?
*
There is only one way. No detour possible, no destination known. You don’t need to know where it goes, you only know you don’t want any other. This one is narrow, drawn in advance, and goes straight towards a white and luminous spot.
The end.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: taxidryer
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, angst, pre-series
Words count: 5,600
Spoilers: Up to 4.06 - It’s the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester
Characters/Pairings: Dean, John, Sam
Summary: Dean never chooses anything, yet he has been chosen. The first part, he wishes he hadn’t gotten used to as much as he did. The second part, he just wishes he understood why.
Posted: sn_fic, supernaturalfic, spn_gen, totaldeangirl.
Disclaimer: Just borrowing.
Everlasting gratefulness: to hucknclem for the beta. And for suggesting that God is that guy from ZZ Top…
Raised by Men
"Maturity is the ability to do something even though your parents
told you to."
-Paul Watzlawick
At least Dean is okay. It could be worse. It can always be worse.
*
Watch out for your little brother, Dean.
Or it’s Dad you’ll have to deal with. Monsters, you can beat. Angry Daddy? You don’t get rid of easily.
When Dean thinks back on how he used to care for Sam when they were kids, what he remembers with the most acuity is the panic. Every time Sam would come home ten minutes later than usual or wouldn’t answer his calls when he wasn’t standing exactly where Dean left him, the same growing fright took over his viscera as the worst-case scenarios took over his mind. The thing he recalls most vividly is the contortions of his stomach, the speeding-up of his pulse and all the alarms going off in his head at the simple idea of Sam being hurt or lost forever. The thought of a world without his whims and tantrums machine of a brother.
Panic at the idea of the unforgiving look his father would lay on him.
Dean can’t escape it. It’s always about fear.
*
‘Man, that sounds so wussy,’ Dean says as he takes a giant bite of turkey wrap (fine gastronomy, for a change).
‘Dad, Dean’s calling me a wuss again.’
‘Dean, stop calling your brother a wuss,’ John says without looking up from his newspapers.
‘I didn’t say you were a wuss. I said it’s wussy, that paleto… pateolo…’
‘It’s paleontology. Anyway, you’re just jealous because if I were a dinosaur, I’d be a velociraptor. You’d just be the big dumb tyrannosaurus that can’t open doors.’
To think that bringing Sam to the theater to see Jurassic Park was Dean’s idea. Bad move, really. Who could have guessed his geek little brother would abandon his fascination for pirates and treasure islands and develop an infatuation for dinosaurs?
‘Whatever. I mean, come on, Sam. You want to keep digging up bones, at least do it for something useful. Dinosaurs bones, you can’t do anything with them except put them in museums.’
‘Boys, hurry up. We still have two hundred miles to go,’ John says, uninterested.
‘But it’s cool!’
‘Dude, so not as cool as chasing spirits.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s useless. Dinosaurs are dead, man.’
‘And so is Mom!’
Dean stops chewing the second the words hit his brain. He takes a quick glance at his father and timidly brings back his gaze to the center of his plate. He can imagine John’s inquisitive stare weighing heavily on his youngest son over the newspaper. The silence seems to last forever before John clears his throat.
‘Finish your plate. You’re digging tonight,’ he finally says, blunt as a guillotine.
Dean is slightly relieved at the idea of skipping the physical fatigue, but he’s distracted by the effort he has to make to keep his jaw from falling in bemusement. Dean would never, ever have dared say what Sam said. Who is he kidding? He would never have dared to think it! He resumes chewing, hoping that by keeping calling Sam a wuss, they’ll all keep not noticing that Dean’s the real wuss.
*
There’s only one road. It’s narrow, drawn in advance and goes straight towards an unknown spot, a destination concealed in the dark, far beyond the point the headlights can reach. You don’t need to know where it goes for it’s the only road there is.
All you can do is step on the gas.
*
John didn’t feel ready to be a father. He knew exactly the kind of dad he didn’t want to be but that didn’t help him in any way to picture the kind he wanted to be. Supposing he wanted to be a father at all. It seemed to him that the way to decent parenthood was hindered by too many closed roads and contrary one-ways.
John knew he wanted to want to be a father and to him, that was a start.
‘You just do your thing, John’, old Tom at the garage had said. ‘You tell them what to do, teach them what you know. Mary’s going to take care of everything. Ask her what she needs, be there for her, and you’ll know what to do. You don’t have to understand kids, that’s women’s work.’
‘Back in your time, maybe.’
‘Yeah, but some things don’t change. The greatest gift you can give your children is to love their mother. Do that and everything will fall into place.’
John believed him because… Loving Mary? He could do that.
So that’s what he settled for. That’s what he did. And that’s what he’s still doing.
*
‘Yes, Sir.’
That’s probably the thing he’s said the most often in his life.
Dean’s not stupid. It’s not because he doesn’t have a brain of his own that he does everything Dad tells him to do.
He could make choices. He just chooses not to.
*
John leaves the engine rolling so that the kids stay warm and slams the door behind himself a little too abruptly, unable to stop the banging that will grant him a ‘Are you mad at me, Dad?’ At least the kid can speak again. One less thing to worry about. Dean will be okay.
Sam, on the other hand, he’s not so sure yet. He’s eaten, been changed, has slept. What more could he want, for heaven’s sake? What could a nine month-old kid want?
It takes John a few seconds before the cold reaches his bones through the leather, making him shiver and swear into his collar. He can’t deal with temperature changes on top of everything else. The next problem he has to add to the list, he’s just going to lay down, wherever he is, and wait for it to go away. He’s going to embrace the maxim of running away as the first rule in self-defense : combat is just an option.
He opens the trunk, allowing Sam’s cries to gain maximum volume. A gas can, a carton of silver bullets, a diaper bag, a handgun, a carton of standard bullets, a bag of salt and tons of useless things. What can he do now with a cooler, a baseball mit, a bag with old clothes he was supposed to bring to the church’s foundation, a portable parasol and a fertilizer container? One by one, he lifts up the artifacts of his old life, the one sandwiched between two wars, and throws them over his shoulder with both hands without looking back. Finally, the wanted rifle appears at the bottom of the now cleared trunk. He’ll need a spare one, he realizes. He can’t continually switch out his ammo to match the nature of his prey. And more salt. A lot more salt. He reaches for the rifle and starts emptying its carriage.
He’s going to kill that son of a bitch.
Sam’s wailing gains in fervor.
John grabs the carton of silver bullets and tears the plastic wrap with his teeth.
Sam isn’t swayed.
John spits the plastic wrap and lets it fall carelessly to his feet. Mary said she’d read somewhere that throwing things on the ground might lead to the end of the world. Never mind. It’s secondary now. Everything is secondary when you only have resources for the primary stuff. When the primary won’t be put off lightly.
Cry all you want, Sammy.
I’m doing this for your mother.
Only, Sam has another view on what is primary and doesn’t hesitate to keep protesting. Sam asks, Sam requires, and nothing in his astonishing precociousness makes him less demanding. John stops his movement, his jaw tightly clenched.
‘It’s for your mother, you hear me?’, he yells. Seconds slowly pass, the echo of his voice lost in the silence of infinite night that only Sam’s complaint still troubles. Doleful and inoffensive, but oh so much more stubborn than any of John’s angry outbursts.
Mary would never let him cry for so long.
John closes his eyes and breathes a sigh of frustration into the cold air. Damn it.
He throws the rifle back down, shuts the trunk, gets in the car and glances into the rearview mirror. Sam’s cries become laments and soon enough dwindle to hiccoughs. Johns pushes the pedal and does a u-turn, rolling away from the odd pile of necessities abandoned in the snow.
*
He who says war means urgency. He who says urgency means efficiency. He who says efficiency means shut up and focus on the road.
*
The bigger picture.
Obviously, if God made men in his own image, he did the same with his messengers. God is a businessman and it’s no surprise he dresses his cherubs according to the Wall Street code.
Dean decides that next time that bastard speaks in parable, he’s going to pluck the feathers right off his back. Surely if he remembered his hours of pain in hell, maybe he would be a little more grateful, but for now he doesn’t and he can’t help but be unimpressed with the Great Bearded.
So, apparently, God is busy. Demons find the time to torture people, one family at a time, but the Lord was in a too important meeting when the Holocauste and the Black Plague scoured the earth.
Apparently, the Eternal has an agenda. Be useful and He’ll send a goon to grab you out of the pit. But hey, you’d better do your job according to the deal (that His Almighty will have decided on all by His Lonesome), or it’s an express dispatch back to the furnace. You get nothing for free. Even God’s law answers to the law of markets.
You got a huge debt, so be afraid and kneel, mortal. Bow down and submit, or we’ll go all Old Testament on you. Forget all about forgiveness and the chirping of doves. Angels lie - but that’s just to better test you, my child - and are as warm as German officers under fascist regime.
Go, man with a tragic destiny. Take a little trip to the past and try to change it. No one will inform you that it’s useless, but it’s for your own good.
‘Destiny can’t be changed, Dean. All roads lead to the same destination,’ Castiel says.
As if he didn’t know already.
*
He who says war means economy. All the pedestrian streets are now shut off, the pleasure functions paralyzed. All the happy, pretty principles of family life learned during this truce called Mary have fallen into disuse.
‘Look after your brother while I’m gone.’
‘But I’m tired of being the babysitter.’
‘Tired of being the babysitter? Are you telling me you’re not going to do what I’m telling you?’ Dean shakes his head manically. ‘That while I’m chasing the freaking monster that might come and eat you and your brother, you’re tired of being the babysitter?’
‘No, Sir,’ Dean says, repentant.
‘Are you telling me you think the monster is going to give us a break because you’re tired of being the babysitter, huh?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘I hope so. And I hope you get that the reason you do what I tell you, the minute I tell you, is because every minute I’m wasting here, the monster might be killing someone else.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to look after Sammy.’
He who says war means that together, we’ll take care of the enemy. No time to take care of what’s happening between us.
*
For his twentieth birthday, Dean receives two things : the keys to the Impala from John and one of the books Sam read in his English class before the teacher was fired.
‘Dude?’
‘You’ll like it. It’s full of explicit descriptions.’
From that moment on, Dean has a new hobby. He sits with his feet on the table and reads juicy passages out loud as Sam tries to focus on his homework and pretends he’s ignoring Dean. Just to see how much time it will take before Sam blushes.
As soon as the door opens and John walks into the room, Dean stops the reading. He waits and waits and waits but John doesn’t seem ready to leave again and Sam might have a chance to finish his essay in peace.
‘Boys, I’m going to the morgue. Meet me outside in an hour,’ John says as he steps outside the room
‘Yes, Sir,’ Dean answers.
‘I’ve got things to finish,’ Sam complains in vain.
‘Ha! I knew you’d rather stay here and keep listening to that fine literature,’ Dean teases.
‘I don’t know how you do it, man’, Sam says, serious. ‘The way Dad treats us, it doesn’t seem to bother you. Don’t you wish you were free sometimes?’
‘What’re you saying, Sam? I’m free, man! I do whatever I want; it just happens to be the same thing Dad wants.’
‘Yeah, right. That’s precisely the most advanced form of idiocy ever.’
‘You don’t know shit.’
*
Freedom in its most elegant form is a ’67 Chevy Impala and Dean owns it.
Freedom is to have four reliable wheels that can take you wherever you want whenever you want. Most of the time, though, the where doesn’t matter. There’s no destination. Freedom is the possibility to get the hell out and go away before the things that do you good start doing you harm.
*
‘I know, kiddo. We’ll have a home again. As soon as this is all over, I promise.’
*
The day Sam outgrows Dean - because yeah, Dean would swear it happened in one day - is like the ultimate sign. Like a nod from the Great Bearded.
You were right, boy. Sam’s blessed, and you’re cursed.
The sulking lasts a few minutes and then one quick glance at Sam and it’s over. If someone is going to be a famous star in the NBA, riding in a limo full of girls tightly-dressed, it might as well be his little brother.
*
The nights are too short, the beds too hard. A chiropractor could do a case study on the number of knots in his nape, his mother would cry to see the way he eats (always more protein, thanks; vegetables are for pussies), and he doesn’t even want to think about Mary’s reaction if she saw the dirt beneath his nails.
But he’s known worse. Like sleeping in mud with a series of explosions for a lullaby.
In fact, it’s a lot better since Sam reached 35 pounds. The time when John couldn’t close an eye at night by fear of squashing the baby boy in his sleep is over. When they can afford a room with a second bed for Dean, John still puts a pillow on the other side of the bed to make sure Sam won’t fall off, but he’s not even sure the boy needs it anymore. Because Sam walks already. And he speaks. Already.
He’s sleeping on his back with his mouth open, not one little tooth visible yet, his breath steady and his dreams cradling him in God-knows-what innocent place. John clears a strand of fine hair stuck to his little forehead and feels a sudden urge to squeeze his small shoulder. So tiny, so fragile; his little, little baby.
He’ll have to be careful with this little rascal. So hurried to run away, to discover the world. He’ll have to watch that one closely.
Thank God, he can count on Dean.
*
Most people reluctantly learn that the ones to whom they become the most attached are the ones that have the greatest power to ruin their lives.
‘Your brother’s going to be the end of me.’
Yes, you’ve been saying that for the past fifteen years now, Dad. You’re also the one who asked twice in thirty minutes that we stop talking about Sam.
‘Tell you what, if he wants to hate me so bad, I’ll give him a good reason to.’
Sure. And that’s going to improve your life so much, Dad.
Dean shakes his head to himself. Obviously it works the other way around too. The ones who ruin your life are also the ones to whom you become the most attached.
*
The first truly positive thought that crosses John’s mind is a matter of such self-evidence he wants to laugh his ass off.
Sam is crawling on the carpet, one knee after the other, slowly making his way toward the faded G.I. Joe lying a few feet from him. Dean is playing a game that involves running around the sofa like a dog chasing its tail before struggling as if he was caught in a net. ‘Oh no, Sammy! They got me!’
He has sons. Sons, not daughters.
Can you imagine if he had girls? He can’t even begin to figure the level of incompetence he would assume, all by himself with two little princesses demanding braids.
It isn’t exactly a "good things can still happen" thought, but a "some good things that happened are still good" thought is better than nothing. What was only a slight preference when Mary was alive now appears as a freaking gift of providence. It’s a 50% chance of catastrophe faced and luckily avoided twice!
Two little heads full of cravings and fears he’ll be able to expect and understand. Two little men he’ll model in his own image, spoil according to his own tastes and be amused by their little rebellions because he’ll have seen them coming years ahead. Only two cocks to watch (because when you have a daughter you have to watch all of them). Exit the nuisance of too-long nails that make shooting clumsy! No chance of heels hindering a run! He knows he’s exaggerating the portrayal, but he still thinks that given the circumstances, it was a close shave.
And for the first time since Mary’s death, he doesn’t go to bed quite as thoroughly pissed at life.
*
Sam isn’t this. Sam may be that.
Sam can be a total loser who studies on a Friday night and succeeds in going to bed later than Greg The Keg by doing so. Sam could outgeek J.R.R. Tolkien and outdork Bobby Singer. Sam can also put on a suit and get whatever he wants from the mayor, his driver, his mistress and their five children.
Sam is physically capable of beating two civilians at a time and leave them in a state that would make them regret not having insurance. Sam is a pacifist who takes all the punches you throw at him, and in his most unwavering refusal to defend himself, he always ends up winning.
Sam listens to the kind of music played by a Russian aids sufferer with a violin. Sam’s shadow is so big it scares little children. Sam can get lost in a five-room apartment. Sam can exorcise demons with his brain.
Sam is scared of clowns. And clowns are pretty fucking scared of Sam.
Sam is just a collection of persons that could be, dormant until woken and revealed to light, causing everyone surprise, amazement, terror and fascination.
Sam is such a bitch.
*
John had thought they’d grow like plants, but that’s not exactly what happened. It’s really the same children, but they’re something completely different from what he expected.
Dean still has the same mosaic of freckles and despite the growing number of "wheres" and "whys", still holds John’s hand tightly when they walk down the street. Regardless of his satisfaction with John’s answers. But every time he sees a colorful poster, he turns his head and keeps staring at the picture from over his shoulder as far as it’s humanly possible, and John can already imagine the day there won’t be a hand to hold him back from running to all the things that will make his head turn.
Sam still has the same little wolf eyes and the same frown, whether he’s concentrating or sulking. But instead of going puddle-jumping on rainy days, he stays home and reads books about the solar system and pharaohs.
Dean, he gets. Sam, not so much. Honestly, John thinks any daughter would be easier to predict than Sam.
Sam doesn’t avert his gaze when John stares at him with his most threatening eyes, exacting submission and respect, immune to the tactic that has always worked with Dean and with every Winchester men from generation to generation. Sam stares back, defiant and fearless and John wonders who the fuck this little man thinks he is.
Kid must be defective. That’s not what John was ready for.
*
Chicks dig bravery, and chicks think Dean is brave, therefore chicks dig Dean. Only, he knows doing the only thing one has always known how to do doesn’t make a man brave.
Must be genetic, because John is capable of world-class cowardice when daring isn’t about risking lives. Like when he decides that it’s time to spy on his eldest son instead of facing him or damaging his pride.
Hello, Sammy. It’s your family. Just checking to see if everything’s alright. Nothing serious. You still pissed? Cause we’re not pissed anymore, although Dad’s still acting like he is. Oh, and we’re still alive, by the way. We’re still in the hunting business, and it’s still a pretty dangerous gig. But we’re the ones checking on you. Cause we sort of raised you, you know… Anyway, take care. Keep beating ’em. Socrates and his buddies rule!
Would that be so hard?
Apparently yes, since John went as far as renting a small Japanese car to go undetected. Really, that’s a lot to say. Way to avoid damaging his pride…
‘There,’ John says and points with his chin without unsticking the binoculars from his eyes. ‘Oh.’
‘What?’ Dean asks from the edge of his seat, narrowing his eyes in hope of seeing his brother at the other side of the park.
John hands him the binoculars with a naughty smile and Dean looks worried as he peers into them.
Holy hell. There’s something new in Sam’s life. A blonde girl - the kind that dazzles the eye before the focus is even adjusted - is sitting between his legs, her head leaning back against his shoulder. Dean notices the way she plays with the black string around his brother’s wrist, the serenity on her face as she maintains a lively monologue Dean can’t manage to read from her lips. He drops the binoculars and blinks a few times. He looks in them again, adjusting the focus right. Holy shit.
This is far from Susan Ford. This is miles from Susan Ford. He thinks back on the slap he gave Sam’s back when he learned his brother was the man who managed to get a date with the only girl Mathlete. But this? This is worth a lot more than a slap on the back. This is worth a fucking punch in the face.
And to be completely, brutally honest, it’s not the way she looks as much as the way she looks at Sam.
Right. Dean swallows the lump in his throat. He looks through the binoculars one last time before giving them back to John.
‘Approved,’ Dean says.
If it was anyone else but Sam, Dean would think it can’t last. Only, that wouldn’t be enough to make him feel better and anyway, this is about his little brother. Sam got the prize for bravery. He had the courage to leave everything behind and jump into the unknown, and he had the guts to do it all by himself. He deserves this… picture-perfect, Dean thinks, while wondering how it’s even possible to get there. Ordinary people seek perfection and don’t believe in ghosts. Dean seeks ghosts and doesn’t believe in perfection. Well, there’s a large variety of perfections named Wendy, Amanda, Eve, Marilyn, Veronica, Natasha he believes in. But perfect reciprocity? My ass.
He tried once. He’s had one. Just couldn’t keep her.
It’s off-route. Another thing that’s gathered far from the road, out where Dean can’t go. There are things like that, just not allowed to you. No reason to it; that’s just the way it is. Like a random curse. Someone somewhere has decided that it’s not in Dean’s cards, condemning him to love them all without having any to love him back. Why be selective about something you’ll never have? Why ask yourself questions that you already know the answers to?
The answer is, he doesn’t have much to offer except a car and a pair of eyebrows. The answer is, he’s not enough; he’s just one thing. He’s nothing but what he appears to be.
Dean is Dean and nothing else. What you see is what you get. And if you’re not satisfied, you don’t get a refund ‘cause between you and me, you didn’t pay too much for it.
But hey, he’s okay. It could be worse. Chicks do dig him.
*
Going to hell was freaking brave of Dean.
He scoffs. Who is he kidding? Not making the deal would have been braver.
*
‘Tell you one thing, we’re lucky we had Dad…’ Sam says, as if it were no big deal.
‘I never thought I’d hear you say that.’
‘Well, it could have gone a whole other way after Mom. A little more tequila, a little less demon hunting… and we’d have Max’s childhood. All things considered, we turned out okay, thanks to him.’
Dean comes very close to chanting "Hallelujah." Finally, his mule of a brother admits that John Winchester isn’t Jack the Ripper and that it can always, always be worse.
‘All things considered,’ he contents himself in repeating.
If it only meant that Sam has a new burgeon of maturity, Dean would simply dance and tease, but it also means that things are changing. It foretells a new era. It means the line between those they protect and those they exterminate is fading; they’ll have to act less and think more. Sam is now capable of being grateful to their father, but he’s also capable of moving things with his brain. It foretells that Dean won’t know if he should be scared for Sam or be scared of him.
The secret is, even Dean, in the middle of his adventurous and nomadic life, isn’t that huge a fan of change.
*
"Not alright."
What the hell kind of an accusation is that?
The iron is light in his hand and he feels rage growing from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. Not alright. Doesn’t he have the right to not be okay, too, once in a while?
His palms are aching, his heart beats faster at the idea of the satisfaction the movement will give him. Is someone accusing John right now of not being alright while his soul is agonizing in hell?
Bang! The glass explodes in a thousand pieces.
Alright is an empty word for a world that is now completely wrong. Alright is a wreckage. It’s the ghost of a long gone time he should have appreciated fully because he just didn’t know how much worse it could be.
He’s so far from alright that he doesn’t feel the splinters of glass piercing the skin of his forearm.
For the first time in his life, he had a choice to make. A reaper asked him to make a choice, but once again, John took this opportunity away at the last second with his own sacrifice, his own decision.
Bang! He doesn’t breathe between each full-strength dent he inflicts upon the immaculate surface of the Impala. His baby, his freedom vessel. Take that! Another blow, another gash, deeper with every movement. The trunk now has a concave, damaged shape.
Beyond repair.
It’s never going to be alright again.
The only decision he has left to make now is to kill or not to kill his brother.
If that’s freedom, then screw freedom.
*
Dean never chooses anything, yet he has been chosen. The first part, he wishes he hadn’t gotten used to as much as he did. The second part, he just wishes he understood why.
*
It’s one of those early November afternoons that herald winter. When the lack of smell makes you shiver and dread like the barking of dogs before a storm. John has no intention of staying in Vermont very long, but he can feel winter coming with the daily challenges it adds to everyone’s life.
Dean closes the door behind him and sniffles. His nose is all red, and although there’s nothing childish left about him anymore (except some tendency to talk to himself when he thinks he’s alone and of course, his infamous oral fixation), John can see the kid in him for a second.
With no hesitation, Dean throws his duffle bag on the bed to the left, as usual. He opens a can of dark beer for John and one of amber for himself, then sits in front of the tv as John updates his journal, as usual. They order fried chicken takeout, talk about the repairs to do on the truck John’s considering buying, mock Pastor Jim’s new toupee, choose Rojo for their new credit application for reasons no one else would understand and roll their eyes at the same moments while watching the news.
So damn easy. As if he and Dean speak a unique language of all their own.
‘And then that asshole just shouts, "Hey Winchester! I didn’t know you did jobs on your own now. You sure you shouldn’t be at your Daddy’s side?" and I’m like, "Nah, my Dad’s big enough now. Can make his way without me…’
It’s cold outside, but he room is warm. Sam’s gone, but Dean’s there.
John won’t admit it, because Sam’s departure is a failure and an offense he makes sure to wear like a mourning garment, but right now, right here, he’s glad and he’s freaking proud.
*
‘I know, kiddo. I wish we had a home, too.’
But there’s always a bigger picture.
*
‘In the coming months, you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weigh that’s on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don’t.’
Dean and his great decision-making skills. He highly doubts that’s what he’s been chosen for. He’s on the verge of asking it : why me? And Castiel is already gone.
Always there to provoke the questions, always gone when it’s time for the answers. Even for the ones Dean thought he already knew.
He thought he was nothing more than Dean Winchester, the average hunter who loves life and watches after his brother, and to be honest, he’s learned to like that answer. Not sure he wants it to change.
‘Listen to me, you son of a bitch,’ he mutters under his breath, ‘I don’t even know if you have a beard or not, and I’m not even sure I’m not making a fool of myself by talking to you. For all I know, your angels may be nothing but the work of some twisted trickster. Okay, I get that you’re interested in me in a way no one really has been before. I get that. From what I understand, you also have expectations, and I don’t know what they are. Do you want me to obey or not? And why am I even asking what you want? Anyway. At least, with my father, everything was clear. For all I know, you’re as flawed as he was. So if you hear me right now, if you’re not too busy, keep listening, you prick.’
‘You guys, you do masterplans, you choose war or peace, and while you’re making up your minds whether you adore or hate Sam, I’m just supposed be the pawn, huh? Always at my post. Completely predictable. Yeah, we all know it. Dean’s just Dean. Dean’s fine. No need to explain anything to him, or consult him, or worry about him. No need to deal with him. But there’s one thing you may be right about : things have changed. That’s over. I won’t let anyone tell me what the bigger picture’s like anymore.’
He’s been in the past, he’s been to hell. He’s seen the very worst. and even though he’s never been so unsure of everything, he’s never seen things with so much clarity. The only thing he can’t see is why him.
Dean feels a hand on his shoulder but doesn’t look up.
‘Look around, Dean. They all dream of becoming somebody. Not you. You’re truly humble. People just do whatever they want these days. Not you. Freedom is within you. We all have to submit to someone or something. Mortals are free, but they are sinners. They become truly free from the moment they choose what they will obey. It’s your call : do you choose to obey your sinful nature or a power greater than you?
*
There is only one way. No detour possible, no destination known. You don’t need to know where it goes, you only know you don’t want any other. This one is narrow, drawn in advance, and goes straight towards a white and luminous spot.
The end.