Occam's Razor Part 13
A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:
December 1993. Fractured femur. No adverse reactions to x-rays and other equipment.
*
A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:
May 1994. Discovered penicillin allergy. Responded positively to epinephrine.
***
The 24-hour Kinko’s wasn't, in fact, a 24-hour Kinko’s.
Instead, it was a Kinko’s that closed between 3:00-6:00 a.m., which Sam imagined was prime panic time. He arrived, out of breath and sweat-soaked, in time to see a young woman locking the door while an older man stood by.
"Sorry," the man said as Sam approached, "new shift at six. Plenty of time before class."
"No," Sam gasped, even before he had a lie in place. "I've--I've got to--now."
"Six a.m.," the lady said. Sam wanted to hit her. The man just rolled his eyes.
"No, I--my dad--I told him it was done."
"Done?" the lady asked. The man was looking toward his car.
"My extra credit."
"It's extra. He doesn't need to know. Besides, how'd he let you out?" the man grunted. Sam gave what Dean called his "annoying-as-shit"puppy-look." The woman instantly melted.
"You just need to copy that, hon?"
"Yes, please."
"Dammit, Sarah. I'm not--"
"Well go on ahead. I don't mind. C'mon, honey," she said. No matter what Dean said about his smooth talking charm, Sam's eyes seemed to accomplish just as much.
Sarah helped him align the journal just right and copy it as quickly as possible.
"This is...for school?" she asked, frowning as the copies spat out on her right.
"Yes," Sam lied, flipping to a new page, heart racing. "We've been reading...uh...Lord of the Rings. And the teacher gave us an assignment of...uh...writing in a...made-up language."
"Oh....God, I love those books! Sam and Frodo? Merry and Pippin? Did you know there are experts in Elvish?" Sam had to fight back a smile as she talked. Dean, he imagined, would carry him just about anywhere: though if Sam had a ring causing his paralysis, he doubted Dean would be as willing. He suddenly, achingly, missed his brother, then told himself it was stupid to miss him when he'd been gone less than two hours, and then his heart began to race after realizing he'd been gone over an hour from the motel. He grabbed the rest of the journal pages and bolted for the door, dropped a twenty onto the copier, and told her to keep the change as he sprinted for the door.
"Thank you," he managed, before she could close up, "so much!"
"For Frodo, right?" she called as he braced himself, drew a deep breath, and began a steady run down the street.
"Sure!" he called, thinking of Dean, "for our hero!"
***
Sam was yanking off his over shirt before he even made it to the motel door. He dropped his clothes and dove into the shower, rubbing any and all possible scents of sweat and grime off of himself, then tossed his clothes into the laundry bag, shoving other clothes on top.
He tore the sheets from the shower, where he'd hung them to dry, and re-made the beds, gathered up his dirty clothes and buried them under his other ones in the corner, and shoved his shoes back under the bed.
Then, finally, he buried the copied journal pages in the very bottom of his duffel, and replaced the original inside the secret pocket of the still bloody jacket.
All he could think, looking around, was Dad's gonna know, Dad's gonna know, Dad's gonna know.
The hell he will, his brother's voice rang in his head, awesome as he is, Dad's not a bloodhound, Sammy.
Sam started as a key fumbled in the lock. He hastily shoved the papers under his pillow and shot to his feet. John entered, looking exhausted, Dean hanging on him in a half-drunken embrace.
"...cuz I feel fine, end of the world but I feel fine, so damn fine," Dean laughed. John sighed and hauled his eldest to the closest bed, settling him in before yanking the semi-damp covers away.
"Sam...get your old man a drink, will you?" John asked. Sam hesitated, eyeing his brother.
"Dad...is he--"
"Your brother is high," John declared, at the same time Dean broke in saying, "I'm living on a prayer, Sammy. Just livin' on a prayer. We're all livin' on a prayer." He burst out laughing. "And I feel fine."
Sam poured his dad a glass of whiskey, which he downed in one swallow. "He's okay?" Sam asked softly, as Dean continued to laugh.
"He gave them a hell of a time, so they gave him a sedative on top of a bunch of pain killers." John held out his glass, and Sam refilled it. "I'd say he's the best he's ever been."
"I'm the best that's ever been. Fiddle of gold against my soul and I get the fiddle of the gold and keep my soul. Sonofabitch." Dean laughed. John sighed.
"You did a good job on clean-up," he said, hand resting roughly on Sam's shoulder. Sam tried to hold himself very still, stay relaxed, and not let on that his heart was pounding. Everything in the room seemed like a neon sign broadcasting his discovery--the smelly running shoes, the extra shirt in the laundry, his still-damp hair.
"When I told my old man I was going down to the recruitment office, y'know what he said?" Sam shook his head. His father never spoke about his life before the war. "He said 'Johnny, I hope one day you have a son as bull-headed and gung-ho as you. And then I hope you remember me saying this. It'll be proof the universe dispenses justice." Sam looked from his father to his still-giggling brother. John emptied glass number three.
"Johnny?" Sam finally ventured. John snorted and cuffed him lightly on the side of the head.
"You repeat that and you'll be on grave-digging for the next ten years."
It was a rare moment when exhaustion won over the usual gruffness, and Sam normally would have savored the quiet, close relief of his family together after a hunt, his father tired but relaxed, his brother laughing like an imbecile and humming tunes only his high mind recognized.
Instead, he felt all the more an outsider, thinking of all the moments previous when he'd thought he was safe and accepted and, in reality, was being tested and recorded for any signs of the evil that was growing in him. All while Dean was groomed to be another formidable soldier, an ally for John--and a guard, not of Sam for Sam's sake, for the lives of all those he could turn and slaughter.
Even Dad. Even Dean.
John's hand rested on the back of his neck, causing Sam to jump. "You can crash on the couch if you want, bud. I'll take the bed in here and keep an eye on things."
Sure, Dad. God forbid I can't control myself and start sucking Dean's wounds in the middle of the night.
"Thanks," Sam mumbled, and paused to wish Dean goodnight, though all his brother did was half-snore, half-laugh, in response.
***
Dean was having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. First, he'd woken up because his leg was on fire, his head was being hammered from the inside and out, and his stomach had somehow managed to be hungry and nauseated at the same time. Then, before he'd rectified any of it, his father launched into a lecture on all the things he should have done to prevent being thrown down a staircase and getting his jeans and leg ripped up by a bunch of rusty nails. Then he took off to finish the job that had been Dean's, leaving him with too few pills, a bruised ego, and only two sources of entertainment--the TV and Sammy.
The TV got old. Tormenting Sam was fun for a good hour or so, but then that too got old. Things that would normally get his brother making faces and bitching at him didn't, because Sam was in care-giving mode, which meant he took all of Dean's crap and returned it with a "need anything?" that made Dean want to drink or fight. Maybe both.
He fell asleep instead.
His head wasn't pounding anywhere near as bad when he woke, and his stomach had settled. His leg still hurt, but it wasn't quite as what the hell I'm on fire! and a little more you sonofabitch, don't ever do this to me again, so he counted that as a win. Sam was perched on the bed across from him, bent over a set of papers, making notes and frowning so the world knew geek-boy was caught on a problem.
"Need a hand?" Dean asked. Sam jumped.
"Geez, Dean! How long have you been awake?"
"Like...thirty seconds, dude." Sammy was turning red. "That porn or something?"
"Screw you, Dean," he mumbled, reshuffling the papers.
"C'mon, Sammy, it's a healthy, natural thing. Did you steal it? Tell me you stole it."
"It's homework, not porn!"
"Brunettes, blondes, or redheads?"
"More like science, math, and history. Ever hear of those?"
"Is it a comic? You're not going to be one of those guys who jerks off to Wolverine, are you?"
"God, Dean, shut up," Sam groaned, his face now flaming. Dean was proud of himself for breaking through Sammy's inner mother-hen.
"Sorry, dude. I'm bored as hell."
"Well, I was going to tell you what I did to help, but now--"
"Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. Unless that's what you're into--"
"You are the biggest jerk!" Sam yanked a pillow off his bed and hurled it at him. Dean laughed as it bounced off.
"Alright, Hef, truce! What'd you do for your poor injured brother who bathed and clothed and fed you and read the same three books over and over and stole four bikes in four towns so you could learn how to ride and now just wants a little entertainment in his time of infirmity?"
"I replaced your pills with cyanide. You're going to go slowly," Sam deadpanned.
"Seriously, does my surprise involve pizza?"
"Dad left us money. But he didn't say we could get delivery."
"Screw it, we'll only be here a day more. Get bacon and pepperoni. And peppers and onions. And Pepsis. And see if they have anything with sugar."
"Fine." Sam gave a long-suffering sigh and got to his feet.
"Wait! Tell me what you did."
"Forget it."
"Don't be a bitch. I was just kidding." His little brother's pout was in full-form. "Sammy, my leg hurts, my head hurts, and I haven't eaten in over a day. Cut me some slack, bro. I was just teasing." And goddamn, it shouldn't be this easy, but it was. Sam's face morphed into instant guilt and empathy. He even picked up the pillow he'd launched. "So?"
"It's no big deal," Sam said. "But I went down to the office earlier and said I lost my key. When the receptionist went in the back to get the spare, I hopped on the computer and cleared the ban on Pay-Per-View from C.C. Thompson's account."
"You didn't."
"I did."
Dean burst out laughing. "That's my boy!" Sammy smiled, still blushing, but honestly, shyly, proud. "Hand me the remote, tell the pizza to get its ass here, and we are pulling an all-nighter!"
"Dad will be back."
"The hell he will. He'll take out the bad guy and go to the bar and you know it. Let's watch a fight. You want to watch a fight? Or a movie. Or porn. Seriously, dude, have you seen any yet? Do we have to do the birds and the bees? I'm not into costumes myself, but if Wolverine is what gets you--"
"I hate you," Sam groaned, but was still grinning as the bolted out into the living room. Dean smiled as he flipped to the now viewable Pay-Per-View section. Sometimes little brothers could be awesome.
He and Sammy split the pizza and drank their sodas and Sam had even scored them something that wasn't quite a brownie and wasn't quite cake, but it was sweet and warm and they had a Fork War over the last bite, so Dean counted it as a win. His leg did hurt, still, and his head wasn't thrilled with the wrestling Sam had agreed to watch, but for the first time since Julian, he felt...normal.
He thought back to Missouri sending him to the store, insisting that he needed time to heal, and how angry and suspicious he'd been. He hated to admit it to himself and he'd never tell her to her face--but she'd probably know it anyway, because she was a know-it-all--but she'd been right. He was scared to let Sam out of his sight. Scared his brother would retreat back into that horrible silence, where nothing Dean said or did had any effect. He let his mind wander, very briefly, to Amanda back in Truman, to her claim that he was just a "sad, lonely little kid."
Screw you, Amanda. Maybe he'd thought, from time to time, that that's all he was. But he knew now he didn't even know the definition of scared and lonely until Sam lost his himself somewhere in his own mind and nothing Dean did could save him. He'd take pissed Sam, moody Sam, grim Sam, tired Sam, and sad Sam over post-Julian Sam any day.
"I ate too much," his little brother moaned. And Dean was sick and hurting, dammit, so he indulged and tossed an arm over the kid's shoulders, yanking him close.
"Want to watch a movie?"
"Only if it's funny."
"You're not going to laugh off those calories, tubby."
"I don't want any of your stupid action flicks. Or horror films. Or porns."
"All right, then. My Little Pony it is."
"Jerk."
"Hello Kitty: the Island Adventure?"
"Asshole."
"The Disney Princesses meet in Heaven?"
"I hate you and I hope you die."
"But Sam...my leg really, really hurts."
Sam gave him a half-hearted punch in the ribs. "Fine," he sighed. Dean chuckled, then scrolled until he found a comedy he knew they'd both wanted to see and leaned into the headboard as it started. Sam was unusually twitchy--and that meant a lot, for Sam-- and kept looking back at his neglected assignments to the point that it seemed weird, even for his dumb dork of a brother. "Bro, I hate to say it, but you've lost too much of freshmen year to pass. Just give it a rest--we'll get you caught up, I swear."
Sammy snorted. "Catching me up," he said, sounding almost bitter. "Yeah. That's what I'm doing. Catching up."
"Sammy?"
His brother was quiet for a minute. "Dean, you ever think of keeping a journal of your own? A hunter's journal?"
"Dad's got one. It's the best."
"I know. But your own."
Dean frowned. "I don't need to. Dad's got everything we ever need to know about anything in there."
"You don't ever want to write ideas about what you're hunting, and where? And...who you're hunting with?"
"I'm only ever hunting with you and Dad. I don't need to write that down. Besides, anything too weird or strange, Dad does. Why?"
"Nothing," Sam muttered, staring at the television.
"Seriously, Sammy. Why?" No answer. Dean shut the TV off. "Is this about Julian?"
"No!"
"Really," Dean said sarcastically, gaze focused intently on Sam. "What about the sonofabitch?"
"Dean--" Sam's voice wavered. He refused to look at his brother. Dean squeezed his brother's scrawny shoulder.
"Look, kiddo, if you want to see what Dad wrote about that whole mess, I'll get it for you. Just give me a week or two." A wave of relief passed over Sam's face, and Dean smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, okay? You're strong, you're healthy. We're fine. Everything's going to be fine. I promise," he squeezed his brother briefly, then flipped the TV back on. "So. You sure you don't want to see a good porn?"
Next
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part XI Part XII