Supernatural Sister Imagines

Imagine #99: A Rant

Imagine: Sam and Dean take the reader to visit John's grave and she rants to him about his sons.

Age: 16

WARNINGS: angst, tears, language

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     "I really don't feel like I have any right to be here. I barely knew him." You murmured as you stepped from the Impala alongside Dean, Sam coming around the car to stand on your other side. The cold winter wind nipped at your cheeks relentlessly, causing them and your nose to pink as you squinted your eyes against the bite and wrapped your long, black peacoat more firmly about your frame. Sam and Dean glanced at you and your beautifully windswept features, the breeze pulling at your hair as you looked around the graveyard.

     "But he was your father," Sam said sympathetically, putting a gloved hand on your shoulder, "I get this is probably hard."

     "Hard?" You responded sarcastically, shoving your hands deeper into the pockets of your coat, "I've never gone to see him before. This is practically impossible."

     "You'll be alright," Dean said, his voice nasally and gruff, "Now come on."

     You gave a huff that sent a white cloud whispering into the air as he took off down the path and you and Sam followed, your legs pumping hard to keep up with the eldest Winchester as he practically ran toward his father's grave.

     You saw it coming up in the grass before anyone even had to tell you it was his. Your eyes flicked across the headstone, reading what was written, and suddenly all you wanted to do was run away. Dean came to a stop close to the stone and you instinctively pressed yourself close to him and his warmth. He cast you a side-eyed glance, but didn't say anything. You didn't mind, you knew what he must be going through.

     And honestly, you were going through things too as Sam came to stand on your other side, and soon you had ditched Dean's warmth and slipped your hand through Sam's arm instead. You hadn't known your father personally, but you had heard stories; the stories that Dean had told you when he was drunk out of his mind in the bunker, lying in his bed with his head in your lap and ranting about every problem he'd ever had with John. The stories that Sam told when tears tore at his eyes and he needed someone to turn to. You were there for them, and in their memories you soon grew the idea that you didn't like John Winchester.

     In fact, you hated him.

     Sam gave his father a small hello, neither of the younger Winchesters acknowledging the fact that the eldest didn't bother to do the same, rather stood stoically and silently. You could tell by the way he was poised, ready to flee at any moment, that he didn't want to be there any more than you did. But Sam, being ever the empathetic, loving of the Winchesters, forced the two of you to come along during his visit.

     It was after a few minutes of silence that you decided you were ready to turn the tables. With everything that Sam and Dean ever wanted to say to their father, with everything they told you instead because they trusted you and knew they could talk to you, you were more than ready to give John a piece of your mind.

     "Boys, can I have a moment?" They looked to you as you let go of Sam and rocked back and forth on the balls of your feet, glancing between the two of them. Sam gave a solemn nod, but once again Dean bothered not to respond.

     "Sure, Y/n," Sam said, clasping his brother's shoulder and leading him away, "we'll be at the car if you need us."

     "Thanks, Sam." You murmured as the two of them walked away, waiting until they were out of earshot before turning back to the grave, reading the letters carved so neatly and so pristinely in the stone. It almost made you angry to read them.

     "You around right now?" You said to it, sitting down in front of the headstone and propping your elbows on your knees, your long coat flowing out on the grass around you, "There's so many fucking things I want to say to you, John Winchester, and I don't even know where to begin."

     You paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before chuckling to yourself. "Hell, maybe you aren't hearing any of this. Maybe I'm just talking to a fucking rock."

     Another pause, this one longer as you looked away, yours eyes falling on a distant tree as you bit your lip. "But something tells me you're here."

     You looked back to the stone and shifted around. "I've heard stories about you, John Winchester. And I want you to think about something. I want you to think about the fact that those stories? They're what made me stop calling you 'Dad'. Sounds pretty bad, huh?"

     You glanced at the grass between your legs, watching the individual blades blur together as your eyes filled with tears. "What did those boys ever do to deserve the life you gave them? Why do you get to be okay? Why do you get to die?"

     You gave another chuckle, your gaze rising to the sky as the first of tears broke from the edge of your eyelid and traveled down your cheek. You swiftly, angrily wiped it away as you continued. "How fucked up is that? You're the lucky one, because you died. You're the lucky one because you get to go on and live the apple pie life that those boys never had in Heaven. That those boys will never have. In what world does that make sense? The way you treated those boys when you were alive almost makes it okay that you're dead."

     You gave a bitter laugh. "Let me tell you something, John Winchester. Sam is an amazing man. He's a smart man, he's a strong man, and he loves me and he loves Dean more than anything. And you know why he's like that? Because he had Dean, and he had Bobby, to help him grow up. And Dean, my God the things Dean would tell me about you. I'll tell you, you crazed hunter, you haven't met a broken man until you've looked into the eyes of Dean Winchester when he stays up during the night and tells me about you. The nights when he's lying in bed in a cold sweat with the flashbacks of the life he had before and the nights when he's got me tight in his arms because it's the only thing that blocks out his nightmares."

     You momentarily raised your voice before remembering that Sam and Dean were nearby and lowering it again. "What sort of life is this? What sort of life are they supposed to live? What sort of fucked up, heartbroken world have you put them in? Being trained to use weapons before they could even talk right, endless T-shirts thrown away because they've become too torn and blood-stained to wear? Motel rooms that reek of sex and nightmares so fucked up they sleep with guns beneath their heads? You know, John Winchester, I tried to love you. I tried to love you so damn hard, and for a long time I did, but then the whiskey would run out or the dark would claw its way closer and I'd hear stories; I'd hear so many awful stories."

     Your face contorted into an angry sob, you're voice all but a growl. "Why is up to them to be the heroes? Why is it up to me to be the hero? Why were those beautiful, beautiful boys never good enough for you?"

     "They saved the world, John Winchester. They raised me from the ground up, the right way. They became more than you ever were. They went through so much pain, and so much agony. You made them live the life that Mary never wanted for them, and now I'm living it, too."

     You tilted your head to the side. "But I suppose they don't get to be like you. I suppose Sam doesn't get to marry; Dean doesn't get to settle down and life the apple pie life he tried his damn hardest to give to me. We're just supposed to be the heroes."

     You gave a long sniff, standing up and wiping at your cheeks curtly. I was always there for those boys, John Winchester."

     "Where the hell were you?"