Hey Bobby-
You may fall over in a faint, but yeah, I’m actually e-mailing you.
Let me just start this out by saying that I love my brother. I do, more than anything in the world. But I think my patience is starting to wear thin.
Dean started doing this thing a couple of years ago; we’re driving, usually after we finish a gig, and Dean is all quiet and moody, and suddenly he pulls off the road and stops. Just stops in the middle of nowhere. Then he gets out of the car, and I’m all “Uh, okay, what the hell, Dean?” And then it turns into what I call in my head Dean’s Roadside Confessional.
And before you say it Bobby, I know Dean’s been thorough a lot. I know he’s literally been through Hell. But I’m getting sick of the Dean Winchester Pity Fest, the School of Me-Me-Me, I’ve Had It So Fucking Hard and Nail Me to a Fucking Cross Sermon. Goddamn it Bobby, does he think I’ve been at a frat party the past four years? When is it time to recognize that, yeah, Sammy hasn’t gotten off easy? When does my big brother say “Hey, I’m really sorry about all the stupid crap I’ve done, all the shit I’ve put you through due to my selfishness and recklessness”? Why is it always more important to listen to Dean talk about his suffering and anguish?
I’m not trying to be a jerk here, Bobby. I just want Dean, for once in his life, to acknowledge me and what I feel… without the usual “Yeah, Sammy, I’m real sorry about you dyin’ and stuff but I sold my soul to bring you back so deal with that and don’t complain because I’m making such a huge sacrifice for you.” Not to mention this whole nightmarish “Oh I’m so special that I was touched by an angel” thing he seems to have fixated on. I mean, he’s on God’s kickball team so now he’s better than me? And he has the nerve to look down his nose at the whole demon issue? I’m sick of it. I’m sick to death of being my brother’s confessor, his therapist and his punching bag.
Maybe someday if we both survive this particular shit-storm, we can look back on it all and laugh. “Oh yeah, remember when I was in Hell? Ooh, what a time that was, har har. Hand me another beer.” Better still, we can just not talk about it anymore, because I think we’ve already talked it to death. We’ve dissected every moment, deconstructed every day and rehashed every decision time and time again and nothing changes the reality.
It’s time to move on, Dean. Let it go.
-S.W.