( I know the feeling of being on the end of that. He says nothing, but there's a gentle wince in his features, just for a moment. He knows the role he played in all that, the role he's played in the lives of a lot of things he had narrow opinions on. He's gotten better over time, for the most part, but... he really was his father's son for longer than he cares to think about. He won't apologize here, now — it'd be a stupid and pointless platitude, it won't change anything, but...
He knows. He's not proud.
He does almost let slip: you might be surprised. Of the two of them, though Dean's always been far more dutiful to John, Sam's always been far more like him fundamentally, and the way he got along with Benny...
But still. She's right. He's not just some random vamp that caught a lucky break out of Purgatory. Sam's not gonna cut him out of the will or anything. The real problem is that the thought of talking to Sam about it makes him look at himself through a lens he used to force himself to wear, it takes him back to being the guy who lived and died for even one iota of his father's approval, his company, his attention, his time. Telling Sam is like telling John through an echo and knowing he deserves better than the consequences but not feeling like he deserves better than the consequences.
There's a lot wrapped up in this that he couldn't articulate even if he went to six months of group therapy and started a Feelings Journal.
Ironically, the answer is to do something else John baked into him: just man up about it. Take responsibility, take accountability, and just do what needs to be done. So he sighs, and he nods — more earnest, this time. )
no subject
He knows. He's not proud.
He does almost let slip: you might be surprised. Of the two of them, though Dean's always been far more dutiful to John, Sam's always been far more like him fundamentally, and the way he got along with Benny...
But still. She's right. He's not just some random vamp that caught a lucky break out of Purgatory. Sam's not gonna cut him out of the will or anything. The real problem is that the thought of talking to Sam about it makes him look at himself through a lens he used to force himself to wear, it takes him back to being the guy who lived and died for even one iota of his father's approval, his company, his attention, his time. Telling Sam is like telling John through an echo and knowing he deserves better than the consequences but not feeling like he deserves better than the consequences.
There's a lot wrapped up in this that he couldn't articulate even if he went to six months of group therapy and started a Feelings Journal.
Ironically, the answer is to do something else John baked into him: just man up about it. Take responsibility, take accountability, and just do what needs to be done. So he sighs, and he nods — more earnest, this time. )
I will. I'll tell him.