Occam's Razor Part 1

Jan 23, 2011 00:00



A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:
December 1983. Mixing holy water in formula. No visible reactions.

*

A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:
February 1984. Feeding with solid silver spoon. No visible reactions.

***

Late 1997
"No."

John Winchester sighed. "Just--hear me out."

"I'm hearing a whole lot of stupid on this end, John Winchester. You don't have a clue what you're doing."

In the Motel's backlot, Sam and Dean were sparring, Dean in charge. He heard Sam's indignant shouts, and Dean's laughter. "He checks out. Said he may be able to get a picture of whatever was in the nursery that night."

"And how exactly does he plan on doing that?"

"He didn't say."

"You mean you didn't ask. You're willing to let him bust open your boys' heads without a second thought."

"Missouri," John rubbed his eyes. "It's been fourteen years, and I don't have a single lead."

"You have no idea what you could open up," Missouri warned, her voice suddenly lower, darker. "You could damage your children permanently."

"Or we could finally have something to go on. Something to track and kill."

"You think Mary would let you risk her boys like this? Even for her?"

Dean's angry "hey!" and Sam's laughter filtered through. Seconds later he heard "no, no!" and glanced out to see his youngest tucked under his eldest's arm, twirled in a violent circle as he laughed and kicked weakly against him.

"Stop! I'm gonna puke!" He hollered, still laughing. Dean dropped him and pounced, pinning him easily. John felt something he'd never acknowledge as envy twist inside him.

"They're my boys too," he snapped.

"John--"

"Goodbye, Missouri."

He slammed the phone shut. Sam was still pinned, still laughing. Dean was grinning back, and a moment later sat up and yanked Sam to his feet, a universal sign of "truce."

"Dean!" John barked. Sam's grin vanished. "Load up. We're moving out in ten."
Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. Dean tossed a casual arm over his brother's smaller shoulders and strode easily back toward the Motel room.

***

Dean and Sam had been bickering for the past fifteen minutes. What had started out with Sam trying to negotiate with Dean to let him ride shotgun had somehow evolved into a list of grievances involving the shower, hair, Dean's razor, Sam's toothpaste, and something about quarters. John never paid much, if any, attention to his boys' quarrels: they seemed to sort out their issues easily, and the rare times they hadn't, the pressure of training had forced them back into a rhythm.

"Enough," John barked. "Listen up." He could feel Sam's eye roll, just as he felt Dean straighten by his side. "We're not going to Bobby's for you two to mess around. We're going to meet a psychic."

"A psychic?" Dean raised his eyebrows.

"For what?" Sam said. Eying him with suspicion. Something that never came out of Dean.

"A very well-respected psychic. Aided a lot of hunters. Specializes in the unconscious. Catches glimpses of things that have been repressed or occurred to early for witnesses' to remember."

"I thought this last one was a salt and burn, Dad," Dean said.

"We're not going about that."

The boys shared a glance in the rear-view mirror. "You don't think--"

"He's going to take a look at you. See if there's something either of you saw that might help us get on the trail of it."

No need to define 'it.' The boys knew what he meant: whatever killed Mary.
"What makes you think we know?" Sam demanded.

"For starters, it was in your room."

Both boys straightened--Sam, ready to fight; Dean, ready to defend.

"Dad, it's not Sammy's--"

"You said I was only--"

"This is not a discussion!" John roared. "You're going to let him look and you're going to say what you see. If it's nothing we're not worse off than we are now."
Sammy slumped back, arms folded, jaw set. Dean nodded dutifully. He couldn't tell which annoyed him more.

I'm hearing a whole lot of stupid on this end, John Winchester. You don't have a clue what you're doing.

John stomped on the gas. The boys remained silent, the whole three hour drive.

***

Julian Masters--or so he was known in hunter's circles--sat calmly in Bobby's dusty study. The boys exchanged pleasantries, John overseeing. Julian simply looked from Dean to Sam, than rose and beckoned the elder Winchester brother to his side.

Julian looked over Dean slowly, leering close to his face to inspect his eyes. Dean threw a WTF? look to his brother that had Sam stifling a laugh. The psychic shook his head and smirked.

"You...are many things. Several of which are unpleasant." Sam couldn't stifle that laugh, even when John shot a furious glare his way. "But at your core..." he frowned slightly, and then his features softened. He nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry. You don't have any further memories that could be of help."

"Told you," Dean mumbled. John sent another death glare his way. Sam crossed his arms and did his best  'angry-Dad'  face, causing Dean to snort. Julian turned to the younger Winchester, his smile kind.

"Your turn, son." Sam swapped places with Dean, bouncing off his brother's playful shoulder-bump as they passed. The psychic took his chin gently in his hands and began the same inspection he'd given Dean. He focused his dark, intense eyes on Sam's, his face carefully still in that way Sam had seen Dean do when he was nervous and hiding it.

"And you think I'm unpleasant, Doc--"

"Dean," John warned. Sam wanted to roll his eyes but couldn't seem to break from Julian's hold. The man leaned even closer, drawing in a deep breath, and Sam watched Dean's face changed from amused to wary, shoulders stiffen, ready to start swinging at a second's notice.

"I can't read this boy," Julian declared.

"You think he saw whatever it was that night?"

"If he did, it's sealed in the unconscious."

"Can you get to it?"

Julian gave Sam a strange look. "I'm not sure."

"What are you seeing?"

His eyes were scanning Sam's once more. A strange, almost surreal glimmer shimmered over them, and for a moment, Sam would have sworn they looked almost yellow.

"His unconscious is locked."

"Locked?"

"Sealed. Warded."

"Can you open it?"

The psychic squinted, eyes moving from left to right, as if reading something intently. "I may be able to loosen it."

"We just need a peek. A picture of what it was."

"Is it dangerous?" Dean asked.

"Possibly."

"Then forget it."

"Dean, be quiet."

"Dad, if it's locked, shouldn't it stay that way?"

"Not if the thing we're hunting locked it. There could be an answer in there."

"It's not a safe, Dad, it's Sammy's head!"

John ignored him and turned to Julian. "You think you can get a picture?"
"I may. I won't be able to tell until he's under."

"So we put him under."

"Fine," John said, at the same time Dean said "No."

"Dad, you said--"

"This is not a discussion, Dean."

"Or a Democracy," Sam mumbled.

"You watch your tone." Sam frowned for a beat before nodding and mumbling a half-hearted "Yes sir." John turned back to the psychic. "Putting him under...what does that mean?"

"A state of deep hypnosis. He'll go to sleep, I'll attempt to open a window or loosen a door enough so we can see what was there."

"You think you can?" Julian turned back to Sam. His younger son shivered. His elder moved closer, ever-ready to protect, defend. As if John were incapable. "And it won't hurt him?"

"No."

"Sammy?" Sam turned to Dean. "Look at me," John snapped.

"Sir," Sam nearly spat.

"Well?"

Sam glanced between his father and psychic. "Fine," he mumbled.

***

"You sure this is a good idea?"

John slammed the trunk of the Impala. "Don't tell me what to do with my boys, Bobby."

"I'm just sayin'," he hunter drawled, "yeah, guy's got a good rep among breakin' witnesses, but no hunter's ever stuck around to report on the aftermath."

"Meaning?"

"We don't know for sure what 'opening a window' or 'cracking a door' is going to do to the kid."

"I'm sure that whatever the aftereffects, we'll handle it as a family." John stalked forward, over-night bag in hand. "Hunting this...thing has been our goal for over fourteen years. If this is what finally ends it, it's worth it."

"Damnit, John, you're playing fast and loose with the minds of your children!"

"You have a hell of a nerve telling me anything about raising children," John spat. He meant it to hurt. It worked.

"This goes wrong," Bobby hissed, "it's gonna be on your head. And your soul. And I and many others will wrestle those boys from you so fast you won't know what hit you."

John stomped up the stairs. "We'll be gone by morning."

"You see that you are, or I will," Bobby snapped.
***
Julian had set-up in the living room. Sam was lying on the couch, Dean hovering by the desk. Sam seemed far calmer than his elder brother: Dean fidgeted, clenched his jaw, and glared as they walked in the room.

Bobby felt like doing the same. Dean's instincts were solid: he'd been raised as a hunter, and he took to it like a fish to water. He smelled peril and danger easier than most men smelled sausage and bacon. And not intervening on a potentially dangerous situation for his brother went against every instinct--hunter or normal--that he possessed.

Bobby had long seen how Sam, who was ferociously independent, chafed under Dean's equally ferocious protectiveness. But for all the times he'd fought for independence, there were many more times where he gave it up and retreated to Dean, confident and safe in his elder brother's care.

It wasn't right to put so much responsibility on Dean. The same way it wasn't right that Sam gravitated toward his brother for safety rather than his father.

Bobby had never been a brother or a father, but he didn't know how John couldn't see what was happening to his sons, and how it would shape the rest of their lives.

"Sam," Julian said, "I'm going to count backwards from five. When I get to one, you will be in a state of deep sleep. Completely relaxed. alright?" His hand hovered over the Winchester boy. "Now...five...four...three...two..." Sam's body went limp: his breath, steady, "one."

Sam lay relaxed, hands at his sides. Dean was rigid beside him. Bobby lay a gentle hand on the elder Winchester brother's shoulder, only to feel him start. Dean glanced at him, met the elder hunter's eyes, and nodded in grim acceptance.

"Sam," the psychic murmured, low and gentle, "can you hear me?"

"Yes," Sam murmured.

"Do you know where you are?"

"Bobby's."

"What's your last name?"

"Winchester."

"What's your brother's and father's names?"

"Dean and John."

"Good," Julian smiled. "Okay. Sam. Your father has been training you as a hunter. Yes?"

"Yes."

"You know a lot of different creatures. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Julian frowned. "I want you to look back to that night in the nursery. When you were a baby. Six months old."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Why no, Sam?"

"Don't want to."

"Just a look."

"Can't. No."

"Can't?"

"Can't. Locked." Sam shuddered. "No. He says no."

"He?"

"No."

"Sam. Who's 'he?'"

"He says no."

"Who. Is. 'He.'"

Sam twitched, tossing his head, breathing increasing. "He...he says...says...no. " He flinched suddenly. "He says...stay...stay...back."

Julian nodded. "I understand, Sam. But I'm going to push a bit. I'm going to try and open a window in your mind."

"No. He says...he says...he won't."

"He won't what?" Sam flinched again, more violently. "Sam?"

"Get--back!"

"Just a small window. And then--"

"No. He says--" Sam gasps. "His eyes--"

"What about his eyes Sam?"

"His--no, I--" Sam began to toss and turn, as if attempting to dislodge something from his mouth. "No, it--it's not--he's not--" he gasped again.

"I'm going to push harder, Sam."

"No--he'll--he's--no, no no NO!"

"Sammy--" Dean moved forward, only to have his father stop him. "Stop it!" he pleaded.
"Sam, tell me what you see," Julian ordered.

"Get--back--no. No! NOOO! HELP ME!" Sammy shot up, papers and books flying. The fire shot up unnaturally high and burned so yellow the four men had to turn from it. "NO, NOOO! HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP ME!"

"Sammy!" Dean shouted, lunging for his brother. Bobby grabbed him and pulled. "Let me go--Sam--SAMMY!"

"What are you seeing?" Julian demanded. Sam screamed again, and the room filled with that unnatural wind.

"Stop it, STOP IT!" Dean bellowed, breaking the elder hunter's grasp and rushing to his young brother. "Sam, it's okay, don't--" but Sam's scream sent him flying back into the wall and earned him a ferocious smack on the head.

"HELP ME, HELP ME, OH--NO NO NO!"

"Wake him!" Bobby demanded, helping Dean to his feet. "Now!"

Julian put a hand before him and said calmly "and 3...2...1..."

Sam gasped and jerked, as if seizing, before collapsing back into the bed. His eyes slid open weakly, damp and skittish.

"What did it look like?" John demanded. Sam flinched away from the sound, gasped, and began to writhe, a terrible, weak mewling noise coming from his throat.

Dean broke free of Bobby and made it to the sofa in three quick strides.

"Sammy," Dean gasped, grasping his brother's still-flailing arms, "Sammy, Sammy it's okay, it's okay--"

Sam gasped, fingers digging into his brother's green shirt.

"It's me, it's me. It's alright, buddy. I gotcha--"

Sam let out a gut-wrenching sob. Dean leaned down, scooped his brother up, and pulled him into his arms. He hushed him gently, rocking ever so slightly as his younger boy shook and sobbed against him. Dean's eyes drifted toward Bobby, who said cooly "guest-room's made up," as Dean coaxed the trembling Sam to his feet and, arm still around him, guided him up the stairs.

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character: bobby singer, teen!chesters, character: john winchester, spn, fic, character: missouri mosely, occamsrazor, pre-series, h/c, supernatural

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