Occam's Razor Part 17
Normally, a run like this would have been kid's play. But with his damn busted leg, it was worse than a marathon. In Texas. In summer.
For years, he hadn’t even thought of that stupid book. There was the journal that covered everything, their whole lives, and that was all that mattered. When Sammy had talked of his dreams, his nightmares, Dean had just assumed he was drawing conclusions from the memories Julian had unleashed. Surely, if John truly believed Sammy was anything but theirs, he'd have known…right?
But then why was that stupid little journal reappearing? Why was Sammy setting out like it was his last run? Why the hell was Dean still determined to believe that John loved and did what was best for them both?
Because you're a hunter at heart. Because you think with your mind, not your gut. Because you know the simplest explanation is the truest, and a monster breeds monsters, and a monster was in your brother's nursery, encoding evil within his head, and no amount of fancy leaps or gut feelings will save your family from that.
Dean stumbled, grabbed a tree for balance. He wouldn't believe it: whatever his own unconscious pushed, whatever years of ingrained hatred of the supernatural, belief that there was nothing to do but put monsters down like the rabid beasts they were, he wouldn't yield his faith in Sam.
But has Sam yielded his faith in himself?
It was his darkest dreams come alive: Sammy, in danger, somewhere in front of him, and his damned body refusing to move as he willed it.
Suck it up, he thought, trying to channel the pain as his father had taught him. Because this...this is nothing compared to what you'll feel if you fail.
***
John really believed his hand wasn't shaking. He really believed he could face down this creature: his most lethal, his most well-disguised. He had every reason to end it.
But seeing this...fledgling monster, this…thing in the guise of a child...in the guise of his child...
He'll kill Dean. Kill you. Kill hunters. Kill everything and anything in its path.
End it. Kill it first.
And there Sam stood, arms loose at his sides, eyes closed, breathing hard and shaky. One tear escaped, and then a second, but still, the boy--his boy--stood firm. Waiting. Willing to sacrifice himself, for the good of his brother, the convenience of his father.
For God's, Christ's, Mary's, the Devil's sake, what more do you need!
What rang through him went beyond the voice of Julian, of his drill sergeants, of the endless mythological texts, of even his own father. It was a solid, gut-wrenching certainty that no psychic, no demon, no principle could ever disprove:
This is your son.
Your son, who would stand and face death rather than harm those he loved.
Your son, who would give his mind, conscious and unconscious, for the cause.
Your son, who planned thoroughly and methodically for his family's well-being and peace in his absence.
Your son, who is stronger, smarter, and more selfless than you will ever be.
Your smart, belligerent, rebellious, and all too human boy.
John lost his grip on the gun. He lost his grip on the sobs in his chest. He fell to his knees, grabbed Sam by his shoulders, and gripped hard. Sam gasped still attempting to maintain his bravado.
"Sammy," John said, voice breaking. "I am...so, so sorry."
"Please...get it over with," Sam managed. John shook his head.
"No, son. There won't be any 'over.'"
"What?"
"I don't care what it takes." John grasped the side of his boy's head and held fast. "I'll save you, Sammy. Your brother and I...we will find a way to save you."
Sam's eyes widened. "No! I can't--I won't go back to waiting. I won't! You can't imagine what it's like to wait to die, Dad! And not know when it's coming...I'm ready. I'm ready now!"
"No," John murmured, stroking his son's hair. "No, Sammy. You're not going anywhere. Not by my hand. Not by anyone's, so long as I live."
"But...your journal. I read it. I know--"
"I was wrong."
"No! Julian--"
"I don't care!" John grabbed Sam's shoulders and squeezed so hard the boy winced. "Whatever happens, you, me, your brother--we take it together! No more of this--Sam...I won't. I can't. I swear."
"Don't do this," Sam's voice broke. "Dad, please, please don't torture me. Just do it now. I'm ready now!"
"Shhh, it's over, Sammy. It's over," John forced a smile. "We'll save you. Dean and me, we'll save you."
"You can?"
"We can."
"How?"
John swallowed, hard. "I don't know, kiddo. But we will. I swear we will. We will or we'll die trying. The three of us," he snapped, before Sam could protest, "we will die trying."
Sam let out a sob and began to cry, in earnest. "I don't want to be a monster, Dad."
"You're no monster," John pulled his youngest--scrawny, trembling arms and legs and all--into him, and held tight, pleading silently for Mary to forgive him for ever thinking of this child as anything but his own. "You never will be, Sammy. I swear to you. It will be all right." His voice broke once more. "It will be all right, baby."
And Sam, after all these months, finally hugged him back.
***
Dean had been running for so long and so hard that his chest, legs, and back ached. His throat felt unnaturally cold and painful when he gasped for breath, stumbling over rocks and pitfalls in the road.
"Sammy!" he called. He'd lost track of how many times he'd yelled to the woods and the dark to give his brother back. He should have known. He should have left hours earlier, should never have let Sam leave the motel.
If--when he found him, he'd never ever let him out of his sight again. He'd follow the damn kid everywhere. He'd get a goddamn leash and lock it up with iron and protective sigils.
"SAM!" he howled, and tore deeper into the woods, rounding a corner and freezing.
Sam was there, held tight in their father's arms, rocked back and forth like he was a baby. Dad's face was pressed into the long brown strands, his body shaking as he cradled his youngest. Dean stumbled forward, expecting the worse, relief almost bringing him to his knees when Sam looked up and smiled at him.
"It's okay, Dean," he soothed, just as he had before closing the motel room door.
Dean dragged his stupid leg forward and tore Sam away from their father. He seized Sammy's head, then briefly ran his hands down over his shoulders, chest, looking everywhere for wounds before, finding none, pressing his brother against his own chest. "Sammy," he said, as if saying his name made his brother real, made them safe. "Oh God." He pushed him away, holding fast to his shoulders. "You're all right?"
Sam just shook his head. "I'm sorry," he gasped, voice cracking with hurt. Dean couldn't contain his own tears and yanked his brother close once more.
"Shhh, it's okay, you're okay," he murmured, glaring over his brother's shoulder at John. Because they would have words, oh yes, and John was going to get them at full-volume. Dean had been quiet, the voice of both Winchester brothers--the voice of the good sons--for far too long. He was going to be his own voice, and his own voice was going to have a whole hell of a lot to say about his father's judgments.
But not here. Not in front of Sam.
"Everything's all right," he whispered. And his leg hurt, and his chest hurt, and his head hurt, and Sammy was crying against him, but he meant it. If he had to flip earth upside-down, goddammit, he was going to make it right.
***
John walked his sons back to the car. Dean kept a firm arm around his brother and suspicious eyes on his father. John knew his eldest had things to say. And for once, in all humility, he'd hear them. They were deserved. All was deserved. And then some.
Dean took a place on the back seat. Words weren't needed to know he wouldn't be leaving it anytime soon.
Back in the motel parking lot, the boys exited through opposite sides of the car in silence. They shut their doors in unison and moved, almost as one, toward their room. Partway there Dean stopped, pulling out his cell, and placed a guarded arm around his brother while he answered.
John had killed the ignition and gotten to his feet when he sensed his son's eyes turn toward him. He shoved the keys in his pocket and marched, tired and guilty, toward him.
"It's Bobby," Dean said, shoving the phone into his hand before turning, Sammy under his arm, and leading him back toward their room. John watched his eldest, struggling on his bad leg, leaning on his younger son--because Sam was his son, dammit!--as they made their way to the door. Drew a deep breath and answered.
“It’s John.”
“Julian Masters is dead.”
“You love a dramatic entrance, don’t you Singer?”
“Shove it.”
“How’d he die?”
“Damndest thing-housekeeper went to get him for dinner and found him pinned to ceiling of his study, bleeding from the stomach. Then claims he burst into flame. She’s being treated for PTSD and his charred corpse is set for cremation. Imagine it won’t take long.”
John took a shuttered breath, forcing his mind not to wander to his wife's charred bones. “Sonofabitch.”
“It got him all right. And now we know--it's a demon, John.”
John leaned against the Impala. “Serves him right. He told me he communicated with the SOBs for info.”
“More than communicated-he was offering up poor bastards as vessels every time he needed a favor. Call a plumber, carpenter, painter-demon gets a free ride out of hell, he gets the answers no one else can get.”
“Until he called the wrong one,” John sighed.
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Bobby said carefully.
“Whaddaya mean?”
"This thing ain't no Newt Gingrich or Jerry Falwell. We're talking Hitler and Stalin level. And this...'Masters' disturbed its handiwork.”
“Handiwork?”
“He damaged the wards. The locks that were put in place on Sam’s mind.”
“You think it was…what, protecting him?”
"You said Sam's not the only kid this thing went after. And Masters seemed to understand what had been done. The only question is why. This thing's plans don't end with your kid. And this demon can't have some rogue psychic going around trackin' and bustin' down the doors of its creations. We've got something big coming. And I hate to say it, but Sam may be the best chance we got at getting a jump on the damn thing."
John drew a shaky breath. “Thanks, Bobby. I owe you one.”
“You owe me so damn much it ain’t never getting repaid. But you can start by salting down that room you’ve got your boys in. We don’t need it going after you or Dean next. And we sure as hell don't need it snatching Sam because it could do a better job of raising him.”
"At this rate...I wonder that myself."
Bobby sighed. "John, you're a stupid, obsessed sonofabitch. And you ain't gonna win Father of the Year anytime soon. But you've raised two of the best kids I ever met, and that don't come from nowhere. Wherever Mary is, and whatever she would’ve done different, there's no way she ain't proud of how those two turned out." He chuckled slightly. "Even with their asshole daddy."
***
Sam showered away the day--the run, the smell of whiskey and aftershave--Dad--the smell of shampoo and sweat--Dean--and pulled on sweat pants and a T-shirt. Dean was already in bed, propped against the headboard, eyes on the TV although, Sam knew, his attention was rooted to wherever his brother was. He didn't make any of his usual comments or even roll his eyes when Sam slid onto the bed next him, just tossed a far-too-casual arm across his brother's shoulders and hauled him close, thumb rubbing absently along his arm.
Sam's faith in his father had been shaken down to nothing. His faith in himself had been annihilated. But Sam's faith in Dean was what it had always been--absolute. When he couldn't speak, Dean had stayed by him, reading, humming, and loudly defending him. When he couldn't read, Dean had bought books and newspapers and magazines and spent hours explaining them. When he couldn't swallow, Dean had prepared manageable food and held him when his fear threatened to overwhelm his stomach. Regardless of the time, the place, or any of his own needs: Dean had given it all to be there for him.
And right then, Sam was tired--down-to-the-bone tired. He didn't want to think, or dream, or anything else for a good week. And he couldn't say he'd mind if Dean was vigilant in his big brother duties. Somehow, he knew Missouri would approve. Somehow, he knew Dean would understand.
Warm and comfortable and feeling so perfectly safe tucked against his brother's side, it didn't take longer than a few minutes before his eyelids grew heavy. Dean lowered the volume and jostled him, ever so gently.
"You know, geekboy, you were wrong about Occam's razor."
"Yeah?" Sam mumbled.
"Yeah. Only amateurs say it's 'the simplest explanation is true.' Real scientists know it's more. It's ‘we should tend towards simpler theories until we can trade some simplicity for increased explanatory power.' In other words, we should only believe what's easiest until we know better.”
"You so memorized that from somewhere," Sam said with a smile.
"Doesn't matter. You're wrong and I'm right. As always."
“Occam wanted to keep people from trying to over-complicate theories in an effort to disprove them.”
“No, Occam made it up because scientists like to wank a billion theories at a time and say they’re all equal, so he was like ‘shove it, we’re going with the most obvious.’ But that doesn’t mean it’s true, just that it should be labeled ‘true’ until a more elaborate truth could be stated simply.”
“Like, ‘I’m a monster.’”
“No. Like, you’re an idiot who doesn’t know the definition of a monster. One day, when you really understand it, you’ll see you’ve never been one and never could be. And then the simplest explanation will change, just because you’ve outgrown it.”
Sam felt a lump in his throat. Of all the annoying, irritating, maddening habits his brother had, his steadfast love was the best.
Epilogue
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI Part XII Part XIII
Part XIV Part XV Part XVI