Nothing is true; everything is permitted
Pairing: None
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,021
Dean crouches on the fire escape, his right hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, his eyes tracking the figure moving down the alley below. As soon as his target is close enough, Dean pounces, dropping three stories down and onto the man's back. The man doesn't even have time to breathe before Dean is slamming the dagger into the base of his skull, twisting the hilt and severing the spinal cord. Dean yanks the dagger out and then turns the man over and makes sure his eyes are lifeless before manually closing them. He slips the dagger back into the holster on his boot and then walks away, disappearing into the shadows, his white, wool trench coat billowing behind him.
White has always been the traditional color worn by his people, a symbol of death in some cultures and a symbol of purity in others, and assassins bring both with every kill. Dean comes from a long line of assassins on his mother's side and had trained in the art from the time he could walk. Only last year Dean had finally ranked Assassin, his left ring finger sliced off during the ceremony, an acknowledgement that he would never marry, his vows only to the guild. His mother had forsaken the vow, only made it to the rank of Warrior, her parents both from the blood line, but only Mercenaries. Dean is the first of their line in five generations to hit the highest rank.
The guild has safe havens throughout the world, in nearly every city, but Dean always comes back to South Dakota, home of his favorite guild historian, Bobby Singer. Since Dean's latest kill had been in Minnesota, it doesn't take him long to get there. He pulls his Impala behind the house, out of sight, and then heads inside without bothering to knock.
"Dean," Bobby greets without looking up from the text he's translating at the kitchen table.
"Bobby," Dean acknowledges.
He sits down on a bench just inside the door and takes off his boots and gloves, but leaves the trench coat on. There's already a pair of boots sitting there, gloves stuffed inside. Both are brown leather rather than the black Dean favors, the left glove with five fingers instead of four like Dean's. His father is here then. John isn't of the blood line and thus, no matter how skilled he is, has never made it past the rank of Soldier.
Dean stands, grabbing his dagger at the last moment along with a cleaning cloth, and heads into the main room. John is sitting on the couch reading something with a frown on his face. He doesn't look up or acknowledge Dean in any way, so Dean sits down in the chair across from him and starts polishing his dagger. By the time John looks up, Dean has finished with the dagger and all twenty of his throwing knives.
"New contract," John says, handing it over.
The wax seal on it is already broken although it was undoubtedly addressed to Dean, but he isn't about to argue with his father over that. So he flicks the letter open and reads it over. It's always nothing more than coordinates and a name written in cipher. After reading it, Dean throws it into the fire where it immediately bursts into to flames and then turns to ashes, all evidence erased.
"So you're taking it?" John asks.
"I'm the only Assassin who isn't locked to a city," Dean shrugs.
Most guild members of Dean's rank are assigned to a city to be its keeper. But their ranks have thinned over the years and now most cover a territory instead. Dean had refused to be tied down and so he was in charge of all the rural areas between the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains. Sometimes he has to travel to the Northwest or Northeast when no one in neighboring areas has anyone to spare.
John stares at Dean for a moment like he's looking for something and then shakes his head. "I suppose you're right."
Dean only sleeps for two hours, but when he wakes up, his father is gone. It's not surprising. Ever since Dean ascended to the final rank, John has been distant. Dean doesn't think it's because he surpassed John; no he's certain it's because he hasn't done what John expected with the rank. John no doubt expected Dean to use his status to avenge his mother and brother's deaths. Dean's mother had died in an attack on their home. The guild's enemies are many and most will do anything to prevent full-blooded members from ranking. His mother had never intended to rank, but surely Sam would have, just like Dean.
The drive from South Dakota to northern California is mostly boring: Flat land for miles, some mountains, more flat land. Dean only makes one stop, about halfway there, to take another two-hour nap in a pay-by-the-hour fleabag motel and then he's back on the road. He hasn't needed more than that in a two-day period since he became a Disciple. Whether it's his genetics or the training, Dean's never sure.
He arrives at Stanford in the middle of the day. The sun is shining brightly and the students are taking advantage of it, lounging in the sun, biking, skateboarding, and tossing Frisbees. Dean isn't used to being someplace like this. He spends most of his time in the shadows, in the dark, in unhappy cities with unhappy people. Deciding he would stand out too much in the light, he drives to a motel instead. Not to sleep, but bide time until sundown.
Walking across campus in the cover of darkness, Dean's boots make no sound, his footsteps light and sure. The coordinates lead to an apartment complex and Dean tilts his head wondering which of the darkened windows he's meant to enter, which sleeping occupant he's meant to kill. He steps up to the main door and scans down the list of names until he finds what he's looking for: Wesson. More accurately, Moore & Wesson, which means a roommate or a significant other, an innocent and a possible witness. It makes the kill more complicated, but not impossible; he's been in worse situations.
So Dean picks the lock on the door and climbs the stairs to the correct floor. No one is visible in the hallway, but Dean can detect the faint sounds of people moving around behind closed doors. He pauses at the right apartment and rests against the wall to the right of the door. There's no movement inside, but Dean can hear someone breathing, their eye most likely pressed against the peep hole. This is no ordinary contract; this is a Templar, it has to be. Who else would know the tricks of the trade? Templars are the sworn enemies of his kind, the ones they fight to preserve the light, but they were once brothers, more than two millennia ago.
Although Dean hates using guns, he slowly, carefully pulls out a .22 pistol with a silencer on it from his boot. But before he can pull it up to aim, the door swings open and Wesson steps out, baseball bat in hand.
"What are you doing out here?" Wesson demands.
Dean pulls himself up to his full height, keeps the gun at his side, hidden in a fold of his coat. This situation is becoming stranger by the second. Wesson looks like he's confronting a robber, not an Assassin. His senses seem to be honed but his fighting stance is all wrong.
"Are you Samuel Wesson?" Dean asks, still cautious, ready for a trap, ready to fight.
"Yeah," Wesson answers with a frown. "What do you want?"
"Do you follow the word of the Templars?"
Wesson holds up his free hand. "Listen, man, no offence, but I'm not interested in whatever religion you follow."
Dean tilts his head at that answer. It appears that Wesson genuinely doesn't know what Dean is talking about. So why was Dean sent to kill him? Why is Dean even questioning it? He raises the gun and fires off one shot, aiming right for Wesson's heart.
At the last second, the bullet turns, blowing through the plaster next to the door instead.
"Jesus, what the fuck, what the…" Wesson keeps rambling on like that, eyes wide and panicked, fingers twitching in the bat's handle like he's not sure if he should do something to defend himself.
Meanwhile, Dean reholsters his gun, unsheathing his favorite knife instead. "Who are you?"
"Who am I?" Wesson gasps. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Who are your parents?" Dean demands.
"Mary and Mike Wesson of Topeka, Kansas," Wesson answers quickly. "But I was adopted."
Dean steps back and tilts his head. "Do you know anything about your birth parents?"
"Only that they died in a house fire in Lawrence when I was only six months old."
That startles Dean like nothing has since he was just a Novice. This absolutely cannot be his brother. His father had said Sam had died in the fire. He wouldn't lie. Or maybe he didn't know.
"And their last name?" Dean asks.
"Winchester. Why?" Wesson frowns, but his grip relaxes on the bat.
"Because you're my brother," Dean responds, absolutely certain that this is the truth.
"Well, no one ever said anything about a brother. Must've went to different foster homes, huh?" Wesson frowns slightly, but Dean doesn't bother to correct him on that mistake. "But, dude, what the hell? Why did you shoot me? If that's how you greet all your relatives, I'm surprised you have any left."
Dean shakes his head slightly in amusement. "It's a long story. But you passed the test. You curved the bullet."
"What?" Wesson looks at the hole in the wall. "No way."
"I certainly didn't do it. I shot to kill," Dean says wryly.
"This is crazy," Wesson says, seemingly mostly to himself.
"We should get going." Dean takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, listening carefully for anyone close. "You won't be safe for long."
"Get going?" Wesson glances down at his sweatpants and bare feet. "What? I'm not going anywhere with you. You tried to kill me!"
"And I won't be the only one!" Dean growls. "Grab a bag, pack lightly. We need to get out of here before the others come."
"What others?" Wesson asks, but at least starts to move inside the apartment, dropping the baseball bat into an umbrella stand.
"Others like me, like you," Dean answers as he moves around the perimeter, checking for anything out of place.
"I'm nothing like you," Wesson argues, folding his arms over his chest.
"Your bloodline doesn't lie." Dean gestures toward the bedroom. "Hurry, get dressed. We won't have much time now."
Wesson grumbles under his breath but returns a few minutes later dressed and carrying a duffle bag. He's still grumbling under his breath as he follows Dean out the window and down the fire escape. Dean would pause to tell him to shut the hell up, but there's no time. Just as they reach the sidewalk, the windows blow out of the apartment, flames escaping with them. Wesson cowers on the ground, but Dean grabs the back of his shirt, hauling him to the car and shoving him inside. The others are here.
They're twenty miles out of town and Wesson is still babbling to himself about the entire incident, occasionally pausing to bitch about Dean's music choices, the way he drives, and to question where they're going. Dean doesn't respond to any of it. There's no point. He doesn't know why his own people sent him to kill his brother, another Assassin by blood, and doubts the explosion was caused by the Templars, either, just like he doubts it was meant to just kill Wesson. Dean remembers John questioning Dean over the job and frowns. His father knew who Dean was being sent to kill. But why didn't he stop Dean?
There's plenty of time to wonder. It's a long drive back to South Dakota.
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,021
Dean crouches on the fire escape, his right hand wrapped around the hilt of a dagger, his eyes tracking the figure moving down the alley below. As soon as his target is close enough, Dean pounces, dropping three stories down and onto the man's back. The man doesn't even have time to breathe before Dean is slamming the dagger into the base of his skull, twisting the hilt and severing the spinal cord. Dean yanks the dagger out and then turns the man over and makes sure his eyes are lifeless before manually closing them. He slips the dagger back into the holster on his boot and then walks away, disappearing into the shadows, his white, wool trench coat billowing behind him.
White has always been the traditional color worn by his people, a symbol of death in some cultures and a symbol of purity in others, and assassins bring both with every kill. Dean comes from a long line of assassins on his mother's side and had trained in the art from the time he could walk. Only last year Dean had finally ranked Assassin, his left ring finger sliced off during the ceremony, an acknowledgement that he would never marry, his vows only to the guild. His mother had forsaken the vow, only made it to the rank of Warrior, her parents both from the blood line, but only Mercenaries. Dean is the first of their line in five generations to hit the highest rank.
The guild has safe havens throughout the world, in nearly every city, but Dean always comes back to South Dakota, home of his favorite guild historian, Bobby Singer. Since Dean's latest kill had been in Minnesota, it doesn't take him long to get there. He pulls his Impala behind the house, out of sight, and then heads inside without bothering to knock.
"Dean," Bobby greets without looking up from the text he's translating at the kitchen table.
"Bobby," Dean acknowledges.
He sits down on a bench just inside the door and takes off his boots and gloves, but leaves the trench coat on. There's already a pair of boots sitting there, gloves stuffed inside. Both are brown leather rather than the black Dean favors, the left glove with five fingers instead of four like Dean's. His father is here then. John isn't of the blood line and thus, no matter how skilled he is, has never made it past the rank of Soldier.
Dean stands, grabbing his dagger at the last moment along with a cleaning cloth, and heads into the main room. John is sitting on the couch reading something with a frown on his face. He doesn't look up or acknowledge Dean in any way, so Dean sits down in the chair across from him and starts polishing his dagger. By the time John looks up, Dean has finished with the dagger and all twenty of his throwing knives.
"New contract," John says, handing it over.
The wax seal on it is already broken although it was undoubtedly addressed to Dean, but he isn't about to argue with his father over that. So he flicks the letter open and reads it over. It's always nothing more than coordinates and a name written in cipher. After reading it, Dean throws it into the fire where it immediately bursts into to flames and then turns to ashes, all evidence erased.
"So you're taking it?" John asks.
"I'm the only Assassin who isn't locked to a city," Dean shrugs.
Most guild members of Dean's rank are assigned to a city to be its keeper. But their ranks have thinned over the years and now most cover a territory instead. Dean had refused to be tied down and so he was in charge of all the rural areas between the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains. Sometimes he has to travel to the Northwest or Northeast when no one in neighboring areas has anyone to spare.
John stares at Dean for a moment like he's looking for something and then shakes his head. "I suppose you're right."
Dean only sleeps for two hours, but when he wakes up, his father is gone. It's not surprising. Ever since Dean ascended to the final rank, John has been distant. Dean doesn't think it's because he surpassed John; no he's certain it's because he hasn't done what John expected with the rank. John no doubt expected Dean to use his status to avenge his mother and brother's deaths. Dean's mother had died in an attack on their home. The guild's enemies are many and most will do anything to prevent full-blooded members from ranking. His mother had never intended to rank, but surely Sam would have, just like Dean.
The drive from South Dakota to northern California is mostly boring: Flat land for miles, some mountains, more flat land. Dean only makes one stop, about halfway there, to take another two-hour nap in a pay-by-the-hour fleabag motel and then he's back on the road. He hasn't needed more than that in a two-day period since he became a Disciple. Whether it's his genetics or the training, Dean's never sure.
He arrives at Stanford in the middle of the day. The sun is shining brightly and the students are taking advantage of it, lounging in the sun, biking, skateboarding, and tossing Frisbees. Dean isn't used to being someplace like this. He spends most of his time in the shadows, in the dark, in unhappy cities with unhappy people. Deciding he would stand out too much in the light, he drives to a motel instead. Not to sleep, but bide time until sundown.
Walking across campus in the cover of darkness, Dean's boots make no sound, his footsteps light and sure. The coordinates lead to an apartment complex and Dean tilts his head wondering which of the darkened windows he's meant to enter, which sleeping occupant he's meant to kill. He steps up to the main door and scans down the list of names until he finds what he's looking for: Wesson. More accurately, Moore & Wesson, which means a roommate or a significant other, an innocent and a possible witness. It makes the kill more complicated, but not impossible; he's been in worse situations.
So Dean picks the lock on the door and climbs the stairs to the correct floor. No one is visible in the hallway, but Dean can detect the faint sounds of people moving around behind closed doors. He pauses at the right apartment and rests against the wall to the right of the door. There's no movement inside, but Dean can hear someone breathing, their eye most likely pressed against the peep hole. This is no ordinary contract; this is a Templar, it has to be. Who else would know the tricks of the trade? Templars are the sworn enemies of his kind, the ones they fight to preserve the light, but they were once brothers, more than two millennia ago.
Although Dean hates using guns, he slowly, carefully pulls out a .22 pistol with a silencer on it from his boot. But before he can pull it up to aim, the door swings open and Wesson steps out, baseball bat in hand.
"What are you doing out here?" Wesson demands.
Dean pulls himself up to his full height, keeps the gun at his side, hidden in a fold of his coat. This situation is becoming stranger by the second. Wesson looks like he's confronting a robber, not an Assassin. His senses seem to be honed but his fighting stance is all wrong.
"Are you Samuel Wesson?" Dean asks, still cautious, ready for a trap, ready to fight.
"Yeah," Wesson answers with a frown. "What do you want?"
"Do you follow the word of the Templars?"
Wesson holds up his free hand. "Listen, man, no offence, but I'm not interested in whatever religion you follow."
Dean tilts his head at that answer. It appears that Wesson genuinely doesn't know what Dean is talking about. So why was Dean sent to kill him? Why is Dean even questioning it? He raises the gun and fires off one shot, aiming right for Wesson's heart.
At the last second, the bullet turns, blowing through the plaster next to the door instead.
"Jesus, what the fuck, what the…" Wesson keeps rambling on like that, eyes wide and panicked, fingers twitching in the bat's handle like he's not sure if he should do something to defend himself.
Meanwhile, Dean reholsters his gun, unsheathing his favorite knife instead. "Who are you?"
"Who am I?" Wesson gasps. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Who are your parents?" Dean demands.
"Mary and Mike Wesson of Topeka, Kansas," Wesson answers quickly. "But I was adopted."
Dean steps back and tilts his head. "Do you know anything about your birth parents?"
"Only that they died in a house fire in Lawrence when I was only six months old."
That startles Dean like nothing has since he was just a Novice. This absolutely cannot be his brother. His father had said Sam had died in the fire. He wouldn't lie. Or maybe he didn't know.
"And their last name?" Dean asks.
"Winchester. Why?" Wesson frowns, but his grip relaxes on the bat.
"Because you're my brother," Dean responds, absolutely certain that this is the truth.
"Well, no one ever said anything about a brother. Must've went to different foster homes, huh?" Wesson frowns slightly, but Dean doesn't bother to correct him on that mistake. "But, dude, what the hell? Why did you shoot me? If that's how you greet all your relatives, I'm surprised you have any left."
Dean shakes his head slightly in amusement. "It's a long story. But you passed the test. You curved the bullet."
"What?" Wesson looks at the hole in the wall. "No way."
"I certainly didn't do it. I shot to kill," Dean says wryly.
"This is crazy," Wesson says, seemingly mostly to himself.
"We should get going." Dean takes a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, listening carefully for anyone close. "You won't be safe for long."
"Get going?" Wesson glances down at his sweatpants and bare feet. "What? I'm not going anywhere with you. You tried to kill me!"
"And I won't be the only one!" Dean growls. "Grab a bag, pack lightly. We need to get out of here before the others come."
"What others?" Wesson asks, but at least starts to move inside the apartment, dropping the baseball bat into an umbrella stand.
"Others like me, like you," Dean answers as he moves around the perimeter, checking for anything out of place.
"I'm nothing like you," Wesson argues, folding his arms over his chest.
"Your bloodline doesn't lie." Dean gestures toward the bedroom. "Hurry, get dressed. We won't have much time now."
Wesson grumbles under his breath but returns a few minutes later dressed and carrying a duffle bag. He's still grumbling under his breath as he follows Dean out the window and down the fire escape. Dean would pause to tell him to shut the hell up, but there's no time. Just as they reach the sidewalk, the windows blow out of the apartment, flames escaping with them. Wesson cowers on the ground, but Dean grabs the back of his shirt, hauling him to the car and shoving him inside. The others are here.
They're twenty miles out of town and Wesson is still babbling to himself about the entire incident, occasionally pausing to bitch about Dean's music choices, the way he drives, and to question where they're going. Dean doesn't respond to any of it. There's no point. He doesn't know why his own people sent him to kill his brother, another Assassin by blood, and doubts the explosion was caused by the Templars, either, just like he doubts it was meant to just kill Wesson. Dean remembers John questioning Dean over the job and frowns. His father knew who Dean was being sent to kill. But why didn't he stop Dean?
There's plenty of time to wonder. It's a long drive back to South Dakota.