Occam's Razor Part 11
Winchesters, Dean decided, don't grocery shop.
At least, this Winchester didn't grocery shop. So far, Dean had hit a meat-locker, two refrigerators, and a geriatric with an unbelievably loud mouth, all because of the stupid, unwieldy shopping cart. Granted, he'd also been trying to check his cell each time, but only working mothers and Sammy-level geeks could do that level of multitasking. Not to mention Missouri's list was clearly designed to steer him from the aisle he was in to the one farthest away, and then to circle back.
He just wanted to end this and get back to Sam. He knew his brother was fine, probably sitting on the porch scuffing his sneakers on the railings and reading some dumbass book, but Dean would feel so much better if he could see him, in all his geek glory, and know he was just as he left him, with a healed head and a working voice.
To think of returning to a scared, silent, clinging Sammy--his breath hitched. He set his jaw and tossed a pack of graham crackers in, making it two aisles over before he realized he was supposed to grab Saltines.
Sam's fine. Sam's healed. Christ, Dean. Get a grip.
He felt hot suddenly. Wished wildly that it was Bobby's he was going back to, Bobby who was watching over his brother. It wasn't that he didn't like or trust Missouri; it was that her home didn't feel like home the way the junkyard did. And more than that, Bobby had always seemed to understand the unspoken codependence between the Winchester brothers, and he never questioned or pushed them toward any independence that didn't come naturally.
Independence that had been completely undone by Julian Masters.
Dean sighed as he dumped the graham crackers back on a shelf and grabbed the blue and white box of Saltines. He hated to admit it, but Missouri was right. He'd gotten used to Sam not being farther than an arm's reach away. He’d let go of his inhibitions and came to be comfortable with his brother's scrawny chest and sharp elbows pressed against his ribcage while they read, watched TV, or slept in the shared bed. Dean didn't wish for a second for his brother to still be struggling and hurting, and he dreaded the long stretches of silence that had left him feeling bereft and alone, but he realized it was going to take time before he was comfortable with his brother being out of his sight. Christ, a few months ago he was trying to sweet talk blondes into going into midnight showings of bad horror movies and banging them in the backseat of their Volvos afterward, stumbling in at three or four while Sam did homework and went to bed by ten.
Those days seemed like some type of crazy high now. How many times was Dean going to have to nearly lose his brother before he was able to remember to do his damn job and always be prepared for the worst, from anyone?
Even, he thought, narrowly avoiding crashing into another meat-locker, John Winchester.
***
Missouri's hand lay steady between Sam's shoulder blades as John trudged slowly up the porch. He was tired--and hungover. Sam knew, several weeks ago, even before Julian, he wouldn't have known. Would have only thought he was surly. As usual.
"Missouri," John said, his voice a deeper growl of Dean's. "Sammy."
Sam turned to stare back at the yard. Missouri clucked her tongue.
"Two salt and burns and five extra whiskeys, John Winchester?"
To Sam's shock, his father chuckled ever so slightly. "The whole way over here, I was wondering if there were some way of blocking off my mind."
"Then you realized if there were, I’d of told you."
Sam cast a quick, wary glance toward his father. The smile dropped off John's face, replaced with age and fatigue. Missouri's hand stirred on his back once more.
"I'll put some fresh coffee on. Sam, you take your father to the parlor. I'll be along in a minute. John, you do us all a favor and keep your damn trap shut when he speaks. And Sam, you think before you do. You hear?"
"Where's Dean?" John asked, and if Sam's gut hadn't been threatening to climb out of his throat, he would have laughed. His dad was honest-to-God nervous.
"Buying up the west-side grocer and buying you some very undeserved time. So you two sit yourselves down and come to an understanding before he rolls in and starts hollering." Sam hesitated. Missouri's eyes flashed to his. "No texting, Sam. He'll be back soon enough. Parlor. Coffee. Git." She pushed open the screen door and made a 'shooing' motion with her hand. John nodded to his youngest, and Sam obeyed, even as his gut churned further as he turned his back to his father. Missouri's warm, gentle hand rested lightly on his neck as he passed her, and seconds later he heard the sharp sound of a smack on his father's arm as he followed along.
"Is that necessary?" John grunted.
"Could kill a bull with that drinkin'," Missouri snapped.
Sam smiled, turning briefly at the parlor door to catch the psychic's wink as she headed to the kitchen. He felt a deep relief, a feeling of protection he'd only ever felt before with his brother and father in the same room, long before Julian. He wondered if this is what it would have been like if his mother had lived. Wished he had some memory--any memory--other than a brief kiss and her yellow hair in flames.
"Sammy," his father said, hesitating at the door.
"It's Sam," he snapped without thinking, and instantly felt a blast of displeasure from the kitchen.
Think before you speak.
"Sir," Sam added awkwardly.
John shucked off his coat, laying it carefully down on one of the chairs. "You're better?"
Sam nodded, reluctant to leave the doorway. "She fixed the hole." His father nodded. "You were hunting?"
"Easy salt and burns. Not even overly-restless spirits."
"Dangerous?"
"No. Just...the Old Barn Restaurant will be missing its stable-hand, and a family three counties over will lose their bid for 'Unsolved Mysteries.'"
"It could have been good for them." Sam felt bitterness churn in with the anxiety. "But that's not your worry, right? It's supernatural, it dies." Soldier or civilian, right, Dad? It's the enemy, it goes.
John sighed and sank onto Missouri's sofa. "Last night, before I went to the bar, I drove back to our old house. The one your mother died in." He smiled slightly. "I abandoned it, you know. But a couple bought it and rebuilt the side that burned down. Where your nursery was."
Sam clutched the doorknob at his back. Willed Missouri to hurry up.
"It looked...so nice. How I remembered it. The siding was a little different, a lighter blue, but...I thought of pulling up there with Dean in the backseat, and your mother pregnant with you. We got out of the car, and you know what your brother said?" Sam shook his head. "He pointed and said, 'home!' First time he'd ever said that. We'd dragged him to all sorts of open houses, and back to the place we were renting, and he'd never said 'home.' That was it. Your mother looked at me and said, 'Well? You heard the boss.' I was filling out the paperwork before we saw the second story."
"You let me remember her," Sam managed, his throat swelling. "You let me remember the worst moment of your life and you wanted me to be all right, and share it, like it was just some other case."
John shut his eyes. "Sammy--"
"You thought I was less committed to finding what killed her because I couldn't even talk about what I remembered. You left me with Dean and let him think he was doing something wrong because he hadn't stopped the reading and he didn't know how to get me to speak again. You left," his voice cracked. John half-rose, then sank back helplessly. His grief pulled hard at Sam's own chest.
"I'm sorry," he said, softly. Sam knew he meant it. But he also felt that the apology still rested on the condition that sacrifices had to be made on the hunt, and Sam would have to learn to accept them.
"I don't know what you did in Vietnam, but even if you had to--end civilians--if Dean and I had been--"
"No!"John roared and leapt to his feet. "I really--dammit, Sammy, I really thought, if we could just--see this thing--we'd know--we'd be able to--I could--stop. And you and Dean would have a home. And you could go to school. And...it would be..."
"It can't be like it was--I don't even remember how it was!" Sam nearly shouted. "I remember motels and tons of schools and hours of training and now my mother burning to death! And every time, you running away!"
John's mouth opened and closed uselessly, and then he sank back onto the couch. "You're right," he said. "You're right. I'm sorry. I--it's not what--I didn't think it through."
Sam snorted and turned away, only to feel Missouri's voice in his head once more. He understood: he didn't want to. As a son, it was his right to expect his father to protect him. To plan for these instances. But John Winchester understood planning only in terms of war. And even if he'd given him so little, he'd at least provided him with Dean, who was infinitely more capable of attachment and protection and emotional support than anyone--least of all Dean himself--acknowledged him of being.
There was a part of him that wanted, raged to hate his father. Especially with the addition of memories of his father's tests, a secret journal that Sam still had to hunt, and a brother wracked with guilt anytime he dared wish for something of his own.
And the other--the suddenly new, awakened, maybe even psychic part, just couldn't look on a man who was so tired and gripped with guilt and grief and obsession, and feel anything but pity. Even if it felt weak to give into it.
"Dad--" Sam managed, halting himself before his voice broke. John didn't look up. "Not even...Missouri...knew. What it...was. She just said...said it was...evil."
"But it looked human?" John said, dark eyes snapping up, back in the hunt.
"Yes. But...its eyes were...yellow. Golden, really. Like a...cat."
"That's all?"
Sam swallowed, found himself barely able to meet his father's eyes. Forced himself to look and try and compose himself, as Dean would.
"Yes," you lying, journal-hiding bastard, "that's all."
***
Dean had barely left the parking-lot when he knew, knew something was off. His phone hadn't buzzed and didn't need to--he felt it in his gut. He had the groceries in his arms and was making the trip from the garage to Missouri's porch when he spotted the Impala a good half block away and broke into a run, brown bags dropped and heart thundering in his chest and ears.
"SAMMY!" he bellowed, slamming open the screen door and nearly knocking the inside one off its hinges. No one answered. Dean took off to the living room and nearly barreled into his younger brother, who held out his hands and caught him by the t-shirt.
"Dean! I'm okay."
"Jesus, Sammy. I saw--" His heart clogged his throat as John Winchester got to his feet. "You--" he growled, and launched forward, stopped by his brother' frantic grip on his jacket.
"Dean--it's fine!" Sam pleaded. "We talked--"
"Did you convince Missouri to send me away? To get a full recap of whatever you let that psycho yank out of his head?"
"You're right to be angry," John said slowly, "but you--"
"I won't watch my tone or calm down or--"
"Dean!" Sam yanked his brother backwards. "Please, it's fine. It's fine. We're fine."
"Sammy, shut up and go in the kitchen."
"No--"
"Do it!"
"No! Everything's fine! You're over-reacting!"
"Over--" Dean huffed a sarcastic, indignant laugh, "I'm not ever being told that again."
"Dean--please. I'm fine." Sam pushed his brother roughly into the door, hands fisted in his shirt, eyes locked on his brother's. "I'm fine," he repeated, softer.
Dean looked from his father, to his brother, and back again. Swallowing heavily, he lightly shoved Sam back. "I know, dummy," he said, though it fell flat. Sam smiled and turned to stand side by side with his brother. He was wracking his brains for a way to break the tension when the ever-present Missouri suddenly took her cue and let out a loud, indignant huff from the front door.
"Dean Winchester!" she bellowed. "Boy, you want to tell me why the hell there's fruit all over my front lawn?"
Next
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X