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brosedshield The longer I watch SPN, the longer I believe that John Winchester gave his sons two parts of his personality, and divided it, the good and the bad, between them. Below is a poem (a rather prosy poem? i think it's a poem? I am determinedly NOT checking to see how close I got to iambic pentameter)
Definite SPOILERS through S2.01 and rather vague spoilers through...S5? Really really vague. I will resist the rambling commentary until I can maybe make it less rambling.
What John Winchester Bequeathed to his Sons
He never could multitask. To love his sons and love his hate in the same breath was beyond him.
John gave them a life on the road, the Impala’s low growl and a codependency he used but never planned.
He gave them guns, and knives and a hundred different ways to kill and reason why, and left them.
He left them Christmases without gifts and Halloweens that hunched over on themselves, dreading November. For saints and angels, Winchesters never gave a damn, but on All Soul’s Day they mourned the death that mattered.
He gave up his soul for one son, and—for his own good—lied to the other: though Dean was never good enough, and Sammy should have shut his mouth and done what he was told.
He gave them orders, expectation and criticism. He gave them a hard world, and was the rock they beat themselves against and tried to be.
He gave them phone numbers he never answered, a life he didn’t want for them, and a sure knowledge they could never replace or recreate the life they lost with Mary.
Each day of their lives, John built saving people into their bones, taught them about right and wrong, black and white, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the monsters were always real.
He gave Sam obsession, and gave Dean despair, and bailed before he knew how much they mattered to the world.
Or how badly he had fucked them up.
Definite SPOILERS through S2.01 and rather vague spoilers through...S5? Really really vague. I will resist the rambling commentary until I can maybe make it less rambling.
What John Winchester Bequeathed to his Sons
He never could multitask. To love his sons and love his hate in the same breath was beyond him.
John gave them a life on the road, the Impala’s low growl and a codependency he used but never planned.
He gave them guns, and knives and a hundred different ways to kill and reason why, and left them.
He left them Christmases without gifts and Halloweens that hunched over on themselves, dreading November. For saints and angels, Winchesters never gave a damn, but on All Soul’s Day they mourned the death that mattered.
He gave up his soul for one son, and—for his own good—lied to the other: though Dean was never good enough, and Sammy should have shut his mouth and done what he was told.
He gave them orders, expectation and criticism. He gave them a hard world, and was the rock they beat themselves against and tried to be.
He gave them phone numbers he never answered, a life he didn’t want for them, and a sure knowledge they could never replace or recreate the life they lost with Mary.
Each day of their lives, John built saving people into their bones, taught them about right and wrong, black and white, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the monsters were always real.
He gave Sam obsession, and gave Dean despair, and bailed before he knew how much they mattered to the world.
Or how badly he had fucked them up.
* * *
