Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hasperkynipples) wrote2009-04-24 11:15 am
hasperkynipples) wrote2009-04-24 11:15 am
Entry tags:
[MWR] Mrs. Doubtfire quote
“Ever wish you could freeze frame a moment in your day, and look at it and say ‘this is not my life’?”
Dean was coming to the stark and not at all new conclusion that he just couldn’t win when it came to John. It wasn’t a matter of not trying hard enough, or not wanting it enough. Dean wished he couldn’t care about the fact that John had kept that they had another brother secret from them, or that John had actually been a father to the kid, or that Sam seemed to have fallen all too comfortably into John’s mindset while Dean was doing everything he could to try and be more like his father.
Dean did everything his father ever asked, and Adam got everything that Dean had ever wanted. Baseball games and birthday parties, and everything that Dean probably would have had if Azazel hadn’t turned their life to shit. Instead, Dean got the missed birthdays, barked orders, and barely an hour with their father at a time. He took care of John his whole life, and all he ever got was an “I’m proud of you” right before John died. If his father hadn’t sold his soul, he was relatively certain that he would never have heard it. And this kid—this person who John didn’t even know was there until Adam was all of twelve years old got more than Dean had ever asked for, just by existing.
Dean wanted to be angry. In the beginning, he was. He was fuming that something would manipulate his father like that. He was ready to go after Adam, full tilt, and in hindsight he should have—the Adam they met wasn’t human, and he probably would have saved Sam a lot of blood loss. But he knew that in the back of his mind, Adam shouldn’t have been the direction of his anger. It wasn’t Adam’s fault that John was a bastard. It wasn’t Adam’s fault that John was trying to let him have a life.
He wanted to be angry at John. He wanted just to rage and hate, to feel something other than this overwhelming weight that was sitting on his shoulders, but he couldn’t. He wanted to scream at the world, ask that All Powerful Douchebag up there when people were finally going to stop dumping things on Dean Winchester—when he would get his chance to be happy, but he couldn’t. Above all else, he was just tired. Tired of being counted on, tired of being chosen, tired of this responsibility. And on top of it all, he knew that he didn’t have the right to be angry at everyone else, when he knew that the bottom line was that he just wasn’t good enough, and he never had been.
If John hadn’t been such a stubborn bastard, Dean wouldn’t be in this mess. If John had been the one to break like he was supposed to, John would have been the one brought back from the dead, John would have been the one to have to save the world, and John would be strong enough to get it done. Thoughts like that slipped into his mind and twisted in the pit of his stomach, and he hated that he was at the point where he was wishing his guilt and pain on someone he had loved as much as he did, but right now, he couldn’t help it. John had inadvertently placed yet another responsibility on his son’s shoulders, just like he had done when he was alive, but instead of running off to be with the normal kid, John was dead. Dean couldn’t even try calling him on the fucking phone in order to get some kind of help, and all this new information just seemed to keep things spiraling more and more out of control.
Sam was asleep on the bed next to him, arms stitched up from the arterial cuts and sleeping off the blood loss, while Dean just sat against the headboard of the bed, staring at the wall across the room from him. John’s journal was in his lap and as he flipped through the pages, searching for more clues of things he may have missed, things he should have seen but didn’t, he came to the realization that the control he’d had once upon a time was slowly slipping through his fingers, almost to the point where he wasn’t sure if he was there anymore. He was starting to think that maybe, somewhere along the line, he’d fallen asleep, and this was just some fucked up dream that he couldn’t seem to wake up from.
He wished that he could just take a step back from it all and say that this wasn’t him—this wasn’t who he was. Instead, he had had the apple pie life, the one where Dad had taught him to play baseball, Mom made him sandwiches, and Sam had his girl and his happily ever after. No ghosts, no demons, no apocalypse. Just family. That was all Dean had ever really wanted.
For that moment, all he wanted to know was when his real life was supposed to start. Because this was one of those moments where he was hoping that this wasn’t it.
862 words
Dean was coming to the stark and not at all new conclusion that he just couldn’t win when it came to John. It wasn’t a matter of not trying hard enough, or not wanting it enough. Dean wished he couldn’t care about the fact that John had kept that they had another brother secret from them, or that John had actually been a father to the kid, or that Sam seemed to have fallen all too comfortably into John’s mindset while Dean was doing everything he could to try and be more like his father.
Dean did everything his father ever asked, and Adam got everything that Dean had ever wanted. Baseball games and birthday parties, and everything that Dean probably would have had if Azazel hadn’t turned their life to shit. Instead, Dean got the missed birthdays, barked orders, and barely an hour with their father at a time. He took care of John his whole life, and all he ever got was an “I’m proud of you” right before John died. If his father hadn’t sold his soul, he was relatively certain that he would never have heard it. And this kid—this person who John didn’t even know was there until Adam was all of twelve years old got more than Dean had ever asked for, just by existing.
Dean wanted to be angry. In the beginning, he was. He was fuming that something would manipulate his father like that. He was ready to go after Adam, full tilt, and in hindsight he should have—the Adam they met wasn’t human, and he probably would have saved Sam a lot of blood loss. But he knew that in the back of his mind, Adam shouldn’t have been the direction of his anger. It wasn’t Adam’s fault that John was a bastard. It wasn’t Adam’s fault that John was trying to let him have a life.
He wanted to be angry at John. He wanted just to rage and hate, to feel something other than this overwhelming weight that was sitting on his shoulders, but he couldn’t. He wanted to scream at the world, ask that All Powerful Douchebag up there when people were finally going to stop dumping things on Dean Winchester—when he would get his chance to be happy, but he couldn’t. Above all else, he was just tired. Tired of being counted on, tired of being chosen, tired of this responsibility. And on top of it all, he knew that he didn’t have the right to be angry at everyone else, when he knew that the bottom line was that he just wasn’t good enough, and he never had been.
If John hadn’t been such a stubborn bastard, Dean wouldn’t be in this mess. If John had been the one to break like he was supposed to, John would have been the one brought back from the dead, John would have been the one to have to save the world, and John would be strong enough to get it done. Thoughts like that slipped into his mind and twisted in the pit of his stomach, and he hated that he was at the point where he was wishing his guilt and pain on someone he had loved as much as he did, but right now, he couldn’t help it. John had inadvertently placed yet another responsibility on his son’s shoulders, just like he had done when he was alive, but instead of running off to be with the normal kid, John was dead. Dean couldn’t even try calling him on the fucking phone in order to get some kind of help, and all this new information just seemed to keep things spiraling more and more out of control.
Sam was asleep on the bed next to him, arms stitched up from the arterial cuts and sleeping off the blood loss, while Dean just sat against the headboard of the bed, staring at the wall across the room from him. John’s journal was in his lap and as he flipped through the pages, searching for more clues of things he may have missed, things he should have seen but didn’t, he came to the realization that the control he’d had once upon a time was slowly slipping through his fingers, almost to the point where he wasn’t sure if he was there anymore. He was starting to think that maybe, somewhere along the line, he’d fallen asleep, and this was just some fucked up dream that he couldn’t seem to wake up from.
He wished that he could just take a step back from it all and say that this wasn’t him—this wasn’t who he was. Instead, he had had the apple pie life, the one where Dad had taught him to play baseball, Mom made him sandwiches, and Sam had his girl and his happily ever after. No ghosts, no demons, no apocalypse. Just family. That was all Dean had ever really wanted.
For that moment, all he wanted to know was when his real life was supposed to start. Because this was one of those moments where he was hoping that this wasn’t it.
862 words