Won't Always be My Father's Son
AUTHOR: Spacemonkey766
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: POV, angst
DISCLAIMER: All characters in this story belong to Eric Kripke and the CW and the other brilliant minds behind Supernatural. The characters are not mine, as much as I'd like to keep Dean and Sammy for a little bit to have some fun with them, I cannot. I'm simply borrowing them and have every intention of returning them...if i absolutley must.damnit.
CONTENT WARNINGS: umm…Sammy POV
SPOILERS: none i can think of
SUMMARY: Sam has some issues with his father. And he remembers exaclty when those issues became all he saw when he looked at John Winchester.
AUTOR NOTE: i wanted a reason for the whole constant fued between Sam and John becuase i think this all happened way before the idea of Sam going to college came up.
I can remember the exact moment the relationship between my father and I changed. From one of admiration and respect…to hostility and resentment.
Don't get me wrong. I love my father. But, at the same time, I cant stand the man.
Growing up I always questioned him. But like any good son who looked up to his dad, I left it at just questions. My older brother said I asked too many and told me to just listen to what dad said since I was going to end up doing it anyway. I never stopped asking, but I always did what I was told.
Then it all changed. I couldn't take it anymore. I refused to just accept what he told me and follow blindly.
It had nothing to do with my age; that whole teen rebellion thing.
There was a reason. A very specific reason that pushed me over the edge; to see all the feelings I had pushed aside in my duties as a 'good son'. A definitive reason that made me realize all those things I hated in my father.
It was Dean.
I was fifteen. My brother almost nineteen. It would be another year before I could accompany my dad and Dean on the intense hunts. At that age I was limited to easy hunts, or staying in the car or at the motel while Dean and my dad hunted.
That night was supposed to be an easy one. Routine vengeful spirit. It wasn't until we were at the edge of the woods where the spirit was terrorizing campers that Dean had discovered something in Dad's journal. Something that revealed the possibility that maybe this was something more complicated to kill. With that, my dad drew a circle of rock salt around the Impala and I stayed inside, waiting for them to return.
About thirty minutes after Dad and Dean left, I heard my father shouting my name from outside. I turned in the backseat to look out the window of the Impala and saw my dad carrying a limp Dean in his arms.
I scrambled out of the car and waited as my Dad neared. The closer he got, the more I could see the shape my brother was in. His head hung back over my father's arm with his body held tight to Dad's chest. Blood and dirt caked his hair and skin and stained his clothes.
"Dad?" I said, scared for my brother and unsure of what to do.
"Help me get him into the back, Sammy," my dad said. I immediately climbed into the back of the car as my dad lowered his eldest son. Between the two of us we were able to maneuver Dean into to the car and lay him across the backseat, his head and shoulders resting upon my lap. Seconds later my dad was in the drivers seat and we sped to the nearest hospital.
If the doctors asked, the Kowalski family (according to Dad's fraudulent insurance card) had been camping when Dean had fallen on accident. In truth the Winchesters had been hunting an alleged evil siren that had attacked Dean and thrown him down the ravine.
And there Dean lay, his head wrapped in bandages, a cast on his left wrist, a brace on his right leg, and bandages wrapped around his upper chest all the way down to his stomach. Concussion, broken wrist and forearm, wrenched knee, three cracked ribs and a half a dozen bruised, internal bleeding in his kidney and a multitude of cuts, gashes, and bruises.
The doctors had stopped the bleeding and expected Dean to make a full recovery. But for a couple of days Dean would be in a drug induced coma to allow his body to heal. And all I could do was sit by his bedside, holding my older brothers uninjured hand, watching him sleep and keep a vigil.
"Doctors say you can hang out here. Sleep in the extra bed," my Dad interrupted, walking into the hospital room. "I'll be back soon."
"You're leaving?!" I asked incredulously at the idea.
"I have to finish the job, Sammy."
"Well, cant it wait?"
"Sam. This thing is more than what we thought it was. I need to find out more about and then I can kill it. It'll only take me another night or so. Three tops."
"Dad. Dean's in a coma. He could have died out there."
"The doctors said he's going to be fine. He's outta the woods Sammy. I'm not gonna sit by and watch him sleep when I've got a job to do."
"Unbelievable! Are you fucking kidding me?" I couldn't help but channel my brother's language. I couldn't believe what my father was saying.
"Hey! Watch your mouth with me boy!"
"Dad…"
"No, Sam." he declared. I shut up and settled on a piercing stare, anger apparent in my face. My dad sighed, lowering his voice. "Look. I'll be back as soon as I can. Just…look after your brother." And with that my dad turned and left the hospital.
And it was in that moment that I, Sam Winchester, determined that my father was a selfish son of a bitch. I hated how the job came first. Always. Dean and I never being able to stay at one school for a whole year, the constant training of weaponry and combat, the lack of stability. But that wasn't what pushed me over.
The willingness of my father to put our lives in danger. That the demons and spirits weren't the only danger to the Winchester boys…but the man who led them. And John Winchester's apathy at the possibility of sacrificing Dean. That's what did it.
At age fifteen I realized this. I saw it happen many times after that incident too. Thirteen other instances where Dean ended up in a hospital, from a broken ankle to another coma, in six years. I mean, I had my fair share of visits, but Dean took the prize. Then I couldn't take anymore of my fathers controlling, manipulative actions and I left for school. And Dean went to the hospital four additional times while I was at Stanford.
And now, eight years from that night, I find myself in the same position. Dean is unconscious in a hospital bed, two cracked ribs, concussion, and a broken collarbone. Dad had sent us coordinates leading us straight into the lions den and back here in another hospital.
Dean would be fine. He just needed rest.
Leaning forward in my bedside chair, clasping my hands over my knees, I watched the steady rise and fall of my brother's chest. It was comforting, reassuring me that in fact, Dean was fine. But that comfort did little to suppress those familiar feelings of hatred and hostility for my father, our would-be protector.
'No,' I thought. 'Not my protector.' No, that title belonged solely to the man lying unconscious before me.
John Winchester was not our protector.
Dean was mine. And if our father wasn't willing to protect Dean, then I would more than happily appoint myself the honor to return to Dean what he had done for me my entire life.
The two of us would be fine. As far as I'm concerned, my dad was more than welcome to re-join his two sons when he's willing to step up to the plate and live up to the obligation of the title of Dad. Until then, it would remain Sam and Dean. And that was fine with me. That's the way its always been. And I have a feeling that's the way its always going to be.