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A lot of people will tell you that fatherhood is about sacrifice. Most of them don't have any idea what that actually means. Take God, for example. He's really big on sacrifices, but like any other fucking narcissistic, self-aggrandizing prick, he thinks it's everyone else who has to do the sacrificing for him. I mean, really, God wanted everyone to like him so desperately that he wrote two whole testaments of bullshit propaganda just to convince them that he's a swell guy… if you overlook all the plagues, locusts, floods and baby-killing, of course. But Satan, he's the asshole somehow, just for questioning whether God knew what the fuck he was doing.
On paper, he's all our father who art in heaven and father son and the holy ghost but you know as well as I do that it's all bullshit. In reality, he's a deadbeat dad. Sure, he takes a whole week off to create life – but then he just fucks off for a couple of millennia, no child support, no visits, just a couple random calls to leave cryptic messages and controlling commandments. Kill this group of people, save that group of people, go slaughter all the firstborn sons – and wasn't that some bullshit, first he hardens Pharoah's heart, then he goes about sending his winged kids to kill the sons of his nonwinged kids. And don't even get me started on the whole new testament and how he so loved the world that he sacrificed his only son.
Because that shit right there? That's what I'm talking about. No father worth his salt would ever kill his son or ask someone else to do it for him. And sure, kids sometimes kill each other competing for their parent's favor, but that's neither here nor there.
You know who raised Jesus, who gave him those values everyone goes on and on about, the guy who was actually his father? Joseph, that's who. That guy who was there, helping him, guiding him from day fucking one, even though he'd been cucked by God. And did you ever see Joseph asking Jesus to die for him or anyone else? Fuck no.
God may have helped bring that preachy motherfucker into the world, but Joseph was his dad.
And John Winchester may have helped bring Sam Winchester in the world, but me? I was his dad.
Where was I? Yeah. Fatherhood is about sacrifice, all right, but you're supposed to be the one doing the sacrificing. Being there when they need you, not when it's convenient. Long before he was a glint in his parents' eyes, I was there, watching, paving the way. He wasn't even born yet when I helped him get a house. After all, every boy needs a place to call home.
The real estate agent was a pretty little thing. Didn't even feel me slipping in. I gave it to them for a steal, called it a fixer-upper. Too good to resist, even if it was going to strain their finances, make things a little tense. Sure, John would have to work a few more hours, end up drinking a little more to relieve the pressure, maybe squabble a bit with the little woman as a result – but those are choices he chose to make. A roof over their heads. A nursery room.
With a nice, high ceiling. That was important, the high ceiling.
Smoke inhalation can ruin an infant's lungs.
It was a bit harder to keep up after the fire, of course, all things considered, but that's what a good father does. He sacrifices. They learn how to walk, you learn how to run. They learn how to run, you learn how to be there before them to catch them.
And not metaphorically, none of that whole single-footprints-in-the-sand-that-was-where-I-carried-you bullshit you tell someone when you're trying to gaslight them, either. I was there.
The pedophile in the hotel room next to them when Sam was two and Dean was sick with the flu. I brought them chicken soup, tucked them both into bed, and then went and hung myself in my closet before he could even think about touching them.
The little old lady John got to babysit them when Sam was three, the one with the codeine addiction she'd picked up from stealing her dying husband's meds. Hey, don't judge her for that, he beat her on the regular before he got cancer, so dying in screaming agony, too weak to stand up without snapping a bone was exactly what he had coming. But she had that nasty habit of slipping a little bit of codeine into the kids' coke to keep them quiet and docile, and I couldn't let that go.
She burned the whole time I was inside her, but those kids had the best week of their lives. Cartoons, toys, grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Little Sammy loved my tomato soup. I always made sure his bowl had a little something extra to give it that zing, if you know what I mean.
I'd be the first to admit I didn't handle it well when the week was up and John took the boys away. He was supposed to be gone a month – and interaction is so important at that age. And her husband just kept screaming after he fell and couldn't get back up. So yeah, I flayed the skin from his arm, and... So I got a little carried away. So what? Who wouldn't? You've got people you hate, right? You know what I'm talking about it. That's why you're here, talking to me, isn't it? Because you want to figure out the most effective way to stick the knife in and twist.
Eh, whatever. He was dying anyway. I did her a favor. No more hateful hubby and she got a nice bunk with three squares a day and electroshock therapy.
So anyway, where was I? That's right. John took the kids on the road – split custody's a bitch. He started learning more, taking precautions, and I couldn't always be there like I wanted. But unlike God and John Winchester, I understand the importance of delegation. You can't do it all alone. I had a whole army of people out there keeping an eye on him, teaching him the lessons he needed to learn. And they did a damn good job.
Mr. Bensman, his elementary school teacher, the first person who asked him if his father was the one who left those bruises. The one who told him how a father was supposed to act. Sure, Sammy lied like the good little soldier he was supposed to be, but every time he got a new bruise? He remembered that conversation.
Doug, the friend in East Lansing who surreptitiously sent his story into that contest when Sam was too embarrassed to – the kid earned $100 as a prize and a harsh lecture from John on not standing out and attracting attention. Doug told him that was fucked. And you know what? He was right.
Rachel, the girl who took him to the prom and then made sure to break his heart by letting him catch her making out with Dean.
Mrs. Vertner, who made him cookies and asked him why his father never settled down and remarried so he and Dean could have a real home.
Old Bertie, the janitor that let him help out around the school every time Dean and John were late picking him up. The guy helped him with his homework and told him that he was far too smart to waste his life not using it.
Brady, his college friend, who made sure that Sam got comfortable with his new life, then ripped it away at the last minute so he wouldn't stagnate.
Meg, the hitchhiker. My daughter.
And so many others, all reinforcing the values any king needs to learn. Question everything. Know your own worth. Stand up for yourself. Refuse to bow down to any authority besides yourself. Don't take anyone's shit. Don't let anyone else write your life for you.
Be more.
Want more.
Then take it.
He wasn't going to learn that from John. How to shoot, how to kill, sure, but John thought being a good soldier would keep his kids alive, even though it did jack shit for all those people who died beside him back in Vietnam. That boot camp daddy act wasn't just pathetic – it was ineffective as shit. Just look at how his other kid turned out – low self-esteem, unable to form any kind of lasting relationships, happy to take whatever shit his old man shoveled his way, again and again and again. "Let me give up everything for you. Let me die for you. Let me die over and over and over and over and over for you. Blah blah blah blah blah."
I didn't fall from goddamn heaven to watch my son turn out like that.
Worst of all, John told Dean to kill Sam. How's that for fucked up parenting? Ignore that whole Cain and Abel thing in the Bible, it's not bad, not if God tells you to do it. And Dean even thought about it! He was willing to let him die rather than be an addict – that's some cold-blooded bullshit right there.
Sammy, though, he soaked up my lessons and look at him – willing to kill anyone he had to to keep his brother alive, and when then that didn't work, he was willing to burn the whole world down to get revenge. I've never been prouder than when he suggested he and his brother become immortal organ-legging Frankenstein monsters. Now that's thinking outside the box.
See, that's the difference between me and God. God shows you an apple tree and tells you not to eat it. Stay ignorant. Stay obedient. Stay controllable. I say eat that apple. Gorge yourself on it. Learn every fucking thing that anyone tries to keep you from learning and let the juice of knowledge drip down your chin.
Down to the core, Sammy boy. Down to the goddamn core.
Don't get me wrong, I never delegated responsibility for the big moments. I was always there, watching, for the important stuff. Sam's first kiss, Sam's first kill, Sam's first lie – hell, I even piggybacked along with his Daddy once for his first solo hunt, and John never had a fucking clue. And of course, I was there in person at Cold Oak. Was I disappointed that he didn't win my contest? A little, sure, but he got there in the end, didn't he? He got there in the goddamn end.
That's my boy.
And yes, he helped his family kill me, but that's okay, too.
Like I said, a father's gotta make sacrifices for his son.
See, that's what God doesn't understand. Keep asking people to sacrifice themselves for you, sooner or later they'll do it, and then where will you be? Nowhere, that's where. They're not gonna do that a second time.
On the other hand… teach 'em that nothing is worth sacrificing the people you love for, that nothing is more important than their own freedom and free will, and they'll burn down the world.
They'll shoot God right in his goddamn chest to do it.
* * *
The Empty leans forward on his chair, fingers drumming in irritation. "That's all well and good, but I don't give a damn about Sam Winchester. I woke you up to find out how to kill that fucking cockroach angel he hangs out with."
Azazel scoffs. "Castiel? Yawn. He's just like Dean or John any other Winchester besides Sam – you never try to kill him directly. Just give him enough rope and he'll hang himself."
He settles back with a smirk. "Honestly, it's like you weren't even paying attention."