Oh yeah, things were definitely said.
Among them, “If you go, don’t come back.”
John Winchester is not the first father to ever say this.
Sam Winchester is not the first son to ever throw his clothes and his big curved knives into a duffle bag and stomp out. Okay, maybe the knife thing is unique, but the rest, not so much.
Dean stood by his father, if only by his silence, because he’d been taught his whole life that was the best way to keep Sam safe. But Dean’s twists and turns are a whole different road trip and, here and now, we’re not going there.
A little less usual: John doesn’t see his younger son, except at a distance (“But even when you two weren’t talkin’ … he used to swing by Stanford whenever” [“Bugs,” 1-8]), for four and a half years.
Here’s where we pause again because if John was afraid of what would happen to Sam out on his own, away from the protection of his family, and since it’s clear he didn’t stay mad for that entire time, why didn’t he come up with a compromise? A way for Sam to still be a part of the family?
He could have sent Dean to be with his brother and keep an eye on him. John didn’t need Dean to be a part of finding the thing that killed Mary; they were already hunting separately and, what’s more, as soon as he got a good lead, he ditched Dean for Dean’s own safety.
Sam could have hunted during the holidays. He’d have had access to new research materials that could have helped with John’s primary hunt. Later, it certainly wouldn’t hurt, all things considered, to have a lawyer on the team.
John admitted he wanted more for his boys than the obsession that ruled his life. I think he saw college as Sam’s chance to get out. To have the kind of life his mother would have wanted for him. It’s the only logical reason why John kept his distance all those years.
Why didn’t Sam pick up the phone? Well, we’re not taking the road trip through Sam’s psyche right now either.
And when they finally got back together again? John knew what Sam was-or more accurately, could be. His younger son could be or become the kind of evil John had been hunting obsessively for twenty-three years and yet this knowledge, while it might have been breaking his heart, didn’t change his feelings toward Sam-the love, the pride, it was all still very evident.
And for Dean? John was not only willing to give up his life-and again, not the first father willing to do this-he was willing to give up the thing that had defined him since Mary’s death: the chance to destroy the thing that killed her. He’d always expected to die on this hunt; he’d long since come to terms with his own death. Given that he knew Hell existed, and given the things he’d done, he’d likely also come to terms with ending up somewhere that had turned out to be less metaphorical than most people think. But he had never even considered that he wouldn’t, someday, take out the thing that killed his wife …
… until he offered the Yellow-Eyed Demon the Colt in exchange for Dean’s life.
In the end, when it comes right down to the bottom line regarding both his boys, John Winchester is a father first.
Not a great father.
Not without flaws.
But he taught his sons how to be strong, how to fight for what they believed in, and how to stand up for people who couldn’t fight for themselves. There was gentleness and laughter when they were adults and that says that, as well as the fight, there was gentleness and laughter when they were children.
He loved them and, more importantly, in spite of all the other things he couldn’t say, they knew that.
It wasn’t the life he wanted for them, but when circumstances gave him no choice in the matter, he did his best.
SAM: Well, I’ll tell you one thing-we’re lucky we had Dad. DEAN: (surprised) I never thought I’d hear you say that. SAM: Well, he could’ve gone a whole ’nother way after Mom. A little more tequila, a little less demon-hunting, and we would’ve had Max’s childhood. All things considered, we turned out okay-thanks to him.
DEAN: (pause) All things considered. (He gets in the car.) (“Nightmare,” 1-14)
TANYA HUFF lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner Fiona Patton, seven cats, and an incontinent Chihuahua. Her twenty-third novel and the fourth Torin Kerr book, Valor’s Trial, came out in June 2008 from DAW. She’d give a kidney to write for Supernatural, mostly because that’d be easier than what she’d have to do to actually get a shot at it.
While upbringing, shared experiences, and a common goal ensure the characters of Dean and Sam Winchester are similar in many ways, much of Supernatural’s drama stems from the brothers’ essential differences: the nonconformist and the conformist, the hunter and the would-be student; one embracing the fantastical while the other clings to the everyday.
But that’s not the only dichotomy the boys represent. Dodger Winslow examines how Supernatural’s chalk and cheese brothers can be seen to symbolize these two extremes of perception: the fantasy of how we’d like others to see us versus the reality of how we’re actually seen; the fantasy of who we’d like to be versus the reality of who we actually are. Do we think it’s all about Dean when really it’s all about Sam? Is Dean the fantasy and Sam the reality?
DODGER WINSLOW
THE BURDEN OF BEING SAMMY
(A Parenthetical Discussion of Self-Perception Versus Reality)
He’s kind of like the cute chick on The Munsters, only taller and with better hair. Or in Kripke world, he’s Luke Skywalker to Dean’s Han Solo in the far, far away of rural America as the two of them tool down Route 66 through infamous hives of scum and villainy in the coolest landspeeder ever.
He’s the Holy Grail, the vessel, the hero, the point. He’s clearly John’s favorite. He’s an emo bitch and a spoiled brat who throws selfish tantrums and stomps away in guy-like hissy fits. He’s the prodigal son, the rebel without a cause, the journey that matters, the poster child of him and all the children like him. He’s Captain Obvious and Geek Boy. He likes anemic pop crap and won’t shut his cake hole; he’s a pain-in-the-ass kid brother who’s too smart, always cautious, usually right, and still manages to need saving on a regular basis. He’s a pudgy twelve-year-old, the teen who left home in a stomp, the guy who fights with his dad because they’re too much alike to ever get along, and the man who grieves the murder of his lover by developing a bit of an unholy thirst for vengeance. He’s the one with plans, dreams, hopes for the future. He’s the one looking for love, willing to show love, striving to be normal, wanting to fit in, bonded to his family, but also independent of his family.
He is Sammy; and he is Us.
Oh come on. Admit it. We all want to be Dean. But the truth of the matter is, we’re all much closer to being Sammy, aren’t we?
Yes, we’d love to say we’d fall on our swords for the sake of family. But if they told us we couldn’t move out of the house when we hit age, we’d still go, wouldn’t we? Yes, we’d all love to be preternaturally smooth and successful with the opposite sex. But really, aren’t most of us just a little insecure and more looking to bunk up with someone we like, rather than just someone with qualifying equipment?
And yes, absolutely, every one of us would want to be Dean cool, wouldn’t we? Look Dean good in a leather jacket? Have a Dean swagger vibe that owns any room into which we walk? Be Dean bold and Dean rebellious in the face of all authority figures? Be Dean tortured to the roots of our very souls … something we’d hide with Dean wit and Dean stoic forbearance and just enough Dean attitude so everyone loves us Deanly because they can’t ever really touch us, we’re just that Dean special and that Dean aloof and that oh-so-Deanishly Dean?
But the truth of the world we live in is never quite the way we’d write it if we were Kripke and in charge of creating our own state of being.
The truth of who we are is Sammy. It’s Sammy sorta-smooth and kinda-smart but just a bit geeky for it. It’s Sammy in baggy clothes with an occasional opportunity to look really hot in nothing but a towel … if we stand just the right way
, in just the right light, and if whoever is looking isn’t so singularly Dean-struck they don’t even freaking notice us. It’s Sammy normally abnormal, Sammy I-can-fit-in-but-I-have-to-be-nice-and-polite-and-work-at-it-a-bit. It’s Sammy “yes, sir” to the cops, and Sammy “are you sure we should be doing this?” to any overt breaking of the rules that holds the potential to get us busted big time.
And most of all, it’s Sammy hurt-us-and-we-cry, Sammy cut-us-and-we-bleed, Sammy feel-the-love-and-we-hug.
Give it up, girlfriends. We’re all Sammys, we just want to see ourselves as Deans.
And oh, the burden of being Sammy. The burden of being the center of the universe upon which every story ever told turns. The burden of being the fulcrum of your family, to whom the others must connect in order to make you a family. The burden of being the one who is always, at the very foundation of it, to blame for every tragedy that has ever befallen those you love.
Oh, wait … isn’t that Dean?
And herein lies the gold of self-perception. And equally, the gold of a storyteller who tells his story not only in terms of how we perceive ourselves to be, but also in terms of who we actually are.
Perception first. From our perspective (the viewer perspective), we perceive these to all be things more truly said of Dean than of Sam. Why? Because they are all things said of self in the worldview of self-perception, and because we want to see ourselves as Dean instead of Sammy.
In this way, we see it oh so clearly: Every story is about Dean, no matter who it is really about (because our lives are about us, no matter who else might star in them on occasion). Sam and John can only connect through the midpoint of Dean. for he is the glue who holds the family together (because we are all the most important cog in our own family dynamics, whether the rest of those yahoo relatives realize it or not). And Dean, in failing to save those he loves from inevitable tragedy, will always wrongfully blame himself for the pain they feel, even if he was only four years old and couldn’t possibly have saved his mother (because we all blame ourselves for the things that happen to those we love-for our failure to see it coming, or our failure to be hero enough to stand in front of it when it arrives-even when we can see how wrongful that blame is in the logic of what actually happened).
But from the storyteller’s (external) perspective, is that person Dean or is it Sam?
Ah, now there’s the rub. The storyteller is telling the hero’s (your) story. He’s just telling it in such a way as to allow you (the viewer) to experience yourself both as you are perceived by others (Sammy) and as you aspire to be perceived by others (Dean). Or, perhaps more germanely, how you actually are (Sammy) and how you think you are (Dean) or wish you were (again, Dean).
So to adjust an aspirational self-perception to a more accurate external perspective, every story is about Sammy (you) even though it really should be about Dean (not really you) because he’s way more cool and interesting and good-looking than Sammy (the real you), mostly because he is too Dean to be anyone other than Dean (not really you).
Likewise, Dean (the way you want to be seen) and John (your family who knows you too well to fall for that crap; and who is, by the way, just like you even though neither one of you will admit it, because you both want to think you’re much more like Dean than that selfish, emo bitch Sammy) can only really connect through the midpoint of Sammy (the you they know, emo bitch that you’ve always been since the day you were born) for Sammy (you) is the glue who holds the family together (because you are the most important cog in your own family dynamic, whether the rest of those yahoo relatives realize it or not; all of them wanting to come off like a bunch of Deans, even though they are really just a bunch of Johns, which is nothing but another way of saying they’re just a bunch of Sammys).
And lastly, in failing to save those he (you) loves (John the family, Jess the love) from inevitable evisceration and ceiling pyrotechnics (loss, either of life or love, and the subsequent pain of that loss) by a Demon (events outside your control) either known (should have seen it coming) or unknown (should have been able to stop it when it arrived even if you didn’t see it coming), Sammy (you, again) will always rightfully (because the world turns around you, thus the self aspect of the concept selfish) blame himself (yourself) for the pain they (those you love, including yourself) feel, even if it wasn’t him (you) who actually caused the tragedy (because, hello? event outside your control) so much as simply Sammy (you) being the reason the Demon (tragic events outside your control) came after his (your) family in the first place (because the world turns around you, and every story told in the context of your life is about you, no matter who else might star in them on occasion).
So self-perception and external perspective: Who is the hero and who is the star? Logical assumption to the contrary, in Supernatural, they are not one and the same. The hero is who the story is about. In the case of Supernatural, that would be Sammy (you). But the star … ah, the star. The star is whom the viewer perceives the story to be about. And in the case of Supernatural, that is almost universally Dean (not really you).
As Kripke says: Luke Skywalker to Han Solo.
So how can the hero not be the star? It’s not that hard when self-perception and external perspective share the stage in individualist form to put to flesh the storyteller’s agenda of making a statement on the difference between the way we want to see ourselves and the way we actually are.
Huh? you ask. In answer, I give you Sam and Dean. I give you Luke and Han. I give you yourself and who you would like to be. One is life; one is larger than life; but both are storyteller turns on the subject of self-perception versus external perspective. With this as the context for discussion, let’s look at season one in terms of Sammy, love, and family … and how the burden of being Sammy is very much the burden of not being Dean.
On the subject of Sammy and love, let’s talk Jess.
By talking Dean. (Because you can’t talk Sammy without talking Dean.)
You realize Dean (not really you) would have been way cooler than to actually fall for Jess (love, as in romantic love, as in the love of your life, not just a one-night stand) in such a way that her loss could cripple him, right? That’s one of the whole points of Dean (not really you). He’s wounded by life. He’s emotionally distant because that’s the heroic way he deals with his pain. He lives the emo life inside, where it belongs, rather than outside, where it can embarrass him or make him vulnerable. And he does it because he is just that strong and just that stoic and just that much the hero (and just that much Not Really You).
Not to put too fine a point on it, but Dean (not really you) is the antithesis of Sammy (you) when it comes to the subject of love. Why? Because on no subject are our own self-perceptions more reflective of our desire to be stronger (better, faster) than we actually are than when the subject of love is put on the table.
As an aspirational reflection of our desire to be strong, in control, and above the emo bitchness that defines the very essence of our human nature, Dean (not really you) doesn’t really fall in love so much as drift in and out of lust (emotionally distant). Such is the life of the mythic hero (and the perception of self that prefers to be in control of love rather than controlled by it, and to leave rather than be left). Yet still, there is always hope (hope springs eternal, thus fanfic) that the hero (you perceive yourself to be) will find true love (usually on a white steed from across a crowded room); and if he (not really you) did, he (not really you) would fall (in a manly, heroic way; though not incestuously or slashily so) in love.
This is not how Sam (you) loved Jess. To show the contrast, let’s walk Dean (not really you) a mile in Sammy’s (your) shoes on the road of Jess (love). Because again, to speak of Sammy (you), we must speak of Dean (not really you) and how the difference between these two perceptions-put-to-flesh-as-individuals plays to the storyteller’s agenda to speak to the differences between who we (the viewer) are and who we-rightfully or otherwise-aspire to be.
So for the sake o
f that contrast, if Dean (not really you) actually did fall in love with Jess (love, as in the love of your life, not just a one-night stand), he (not really you) would do so in such a way that if she (love) did die (was lost), it wouldn’t cripple him. At least, not the way it would cripple Sammy (you).
Everyone knows Jess (love) could die (be lost) at any time (it’s happened before, when you were younger, through no fault of your own). Because to be perfectly honest (get a clue), although inarguably tragic to those involved, love (Jess) crashes and burns and bleeds from the ceiling (dies due to events beyond your control) every day all over the world. All of which begs the wise viewer to realize that Sammy (you) being in Jess (love … get your mind out of the gutter) means that Jess (love) might die (be lost) because a Demon (events beyond your control) targets her (love) for death (loss) for no other reason than being with Sammy (you, because every story is all about you, no matter who else stars in them on occasion). So this is a life fact (love hurts) of which both Sam (you) and Dean (not really you) are aware; but it is a life fact only one of them (you and not really you) will heed (emotionally available versus emotionally unavailable).
We all aspire to learn from the lessons of love, but few of us really do.
Heeding the warning of the impermanent nature of love (he’s older, wiser, cooler, and wounded by the world enough to know), Dean (not really you) would be smart enough (having already experienced this at least once, and having learned from that experience) not to invest himself emotionally (love, as compared to lust) to such a degree that losing Jess (love) would put him to his knees (make him cry like a baby in front of the girl he is trying to impress). Sammy (you) on the other hand-being the selfish (real), emo bitch (human as compared to heroic) that he is (you are)-does fall for Jess (love) hook, line, and sinker (emotionally committed to the nines). So when she (love) dies (is lost), as so often happens (life sucks), he’s (you are) crippled by it.
In the Hunt: Unauthorized Essays on Supernatural Page 3
