Occam's Razor Part 15
Dean felt like an old man, tired as he was. His leg was coming along--John had promised the stitches could come out in a week or so--and he'd done his best to stay active, but two hours guiding Sammy with a crossbow, then doing some very light sparring, and he was about done in. He was so over having to stay indoors. And what with beach season up ahead, this Frankenstein thing was messing with his game.
Not that Dean had ever really been to the beach. Or worn shorts. But still. It was going to be a hell of a shock to the next chick he landed.
John had left a note saying he'd be gone at least for the night, follow the usual protocol. He'd left forty bucks beside it, which just felt like insult to injury. If Dean’s damn leg was behaving, he and Sammy would walk into town and blow those forty bucks without a problem, and Dean could probably make up all of it in pool or poker so they wouldn’t have to tell their dad they'd spent the night goofing off. Instead, he gimped into the bathroom to scrub down his leg and change the gauze, and came out to find Sammy sitting in full-on-Pound-Puppy mode.
"So," he sighed, flopping down on his bed. "Y'wanna score us Pay-Per-View again?" Sam didn't answer. "Sammy?"
"Sure. It's early, though," he said quietly.
"Yeah, well. I kind of suck at this whole fun-thing right now."
"I had fun today, Dean," Sam said, a little too seriously for Dean's liking.
"All right, Friar Tuck. Think about what you want to do for dinner. If you go for take-out, I'll go charm whoever's at the front desk and get the fun-embargo lifted."
"Sure," Sam said, then stood abruptly and ducked into the bathroom. Dean closed his eyes, letting himself drift a bit. Other than a sudden, horrible dream a few nights ago, Sammy had been doing well. Strong, studious, and caring even when Dean had been a total pain in the ass. He'd been having a bit of a hard time accepting it, but he could see that Sammy wasn't so much of a kid anymore. Part of Dean would always see Sam as one, and he was only fourteen, but, like Dean had, he’d been made to grow up fast, and as a result was well ahead of his peer group.
Still, it was a little hard for Dean to think of his kid brother losing his kiddie qualities. Though it was also kind of fun to think about what they could do, and share, as adults--hunts, drinks, girls.
Okay...maybe girls was a little too weird. But hunts and drinks? Fair game.
Dean felt the edge of his bed sink in and pulled his arm away to see Sam staring at him. "Hey," he grinned.
"You okay?"
"Tired."
"You're gettin' old."
Dean snorted and glanced at Sam's clothes, noticing he was in a T-shirt, shorts, and his good sneakers. "You going running?"
"It's a nice day for it."
"If you wait a bit I'll go with you."
"I don't think you're ready for that."
"You know me. Ready for anything." Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously. I should try."
"Nah." Sam's hand touched his shoulder. "Get some sleep. You've earned it."
"Can't argue with that," he murmured, settling back. Sam's hand stayed on his shoulder and then, suddenly, both the younger boy's skinny arms were around his neck, his head on his chest above his heart, and Sammy was hugging him tight.
"I love you, Dean," he said softly. Dean’s eyes widened.
"Sammy? You okay?"
"Fine." Sam squeezed him lightly and sat back.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." Sam saw that Dean still didn't believe him. "You know how screwed up it is that I can't say that without you thinking something's wrong?"
Dean smiled, but still wasn’t convinced. He ruffled Sam's hair. "No panic attacks?"
"No, Dean."
"Nightmares?"
"No, Dean."
"Silent spells?"
"No, Dean."
"Just feeling like a baby girl, huh?"
Sam tilted his head and looked suddenly sad. "You shouldn't care so little about yourself." Dean felt heat in his face and kept himself carefully composed. "You do everything for us. For me. I may not always seem grateful, but I am."
Dean wanted to say something funny, anything to lighten the sudden intensity of this moment, but his throat was so swollen he couldn't do much more than grin and ruffle Sam's hair again. "So...you'll wake me when you get back?"
Sam smiled, but it seemed...old. "Sure." He got to his feet, hesitated at the door, and turned back to his brother. "Everything will be better when you wake up. Promise."
Dean was too stunned to answer.
***
John watched as his youngest son left the motel and started off at a steady pace toward the jogging trail in the woods. His heart raced, stomach roiling with anxiety and grief.
"You've got two boys, Winchester," Julian had said. "I am sorry, truly, that you have to lose one. But you and I--we understand the importance of the greater good. And, no matter how much it hurts him, your Dean will too."
John watched as his youngest disappeared behind the tree line. His firstborn. His good boy, his obedient boy. Versus Sam, his youngest. Maybe rebellious, maybe moody, maybe even belligerent at times. But smart. So damn smart. And, for so long, all he and Dean had clung to of their old life. Sammy had been someone to be loved and coddled, who had no memories of The Horror, who had offered them unconditional love and joy at things John and Dean had been too grief-stricken to even fathom being able to rejoice in. But there was Baby Sammy, screaming with happiness when a bird joined them at a picnic table, or when John accidently turned on the shower instead of the tub faucet, or when the television had his favorite cartoon, or when John offered him his favorite cereal. When their hearts broke the worse, Sammy was the warm body curled in their beds, the sweet, powdered head they kissed and whispered comfort and reassurance.
The thought of him gone...
John had to fight a wave of nausea. Call him what you wanted--thief, liar, murderer--but when it came to his sons, he'd do, kill, sacrifice anything to keep them beyond the supernatural's reach.
Except, apparently, he hadn't.
Something evil had staked its claim on his Sam, and while it might not have surfaced yet, when it did, the damage could be unthinkable. If it were only his own life on the line, he’d make do. But he had to think of Dean now: Dean, his true, full-blooded, human son. He couldn’t go on, hunting and leaving Dean in charge of Sam, knowing what he did: that his youngest was half-monster.
But God--Sam--Sammy--
John dug his palms into his eyes, trying to force back the tears. There was Dean and there was Sam, and life with one son was better than life with none. The very thought of living with none was unthinkable. And like it or not, John couldn’t allow himself to go down until that evil sonofabitch that had slaughtered his wife was banished from all the realms of this Earth.
John steeled himself. Like the Marines taught him. Like life without Mary had taught him. Like he’d ingrained in his children. Push the emotion down deep and focus only on the task that needed to be done.
Even if that task was putting down your little boy like he was nothing more than a rabid, unnatural beast.
Your son is not human, Winchester.
My son is not human.
We understand the greater good.
I understand the greater good.
You will have to finish what you started.
I always finish what I start.
John carefully turned over the engine and drove the Impala three miles southwest of the motel, where he knew the jogging trail wound. Sam-no, not Sam, the mark, your target-had become a strong runner, but this would give him the time he needed for an ambush. He had just about everything he needed but, since Sammy-the mark-hadn’t turned yet, he should go down without a fight.
When does Sammy ever do anything without a fight? He’s your son, through and through. Even Missouri said that psychic’s implosion of his unconscious would have felled anyone else in days. Not your boy.
He slammed on the brakes and sat, breathing hard, hands clenched so tightly against the wheel it hurt. He couldn’t do it. He had to do it. He couldn’t.
He had to.
He couldn’t.
He could wait. See if Sam made a full-fledged turn. They weren’t even sure what his abilities would be. They might be something that wasn’t so terrible. Something they could--
What, John? Control? Use? Now you’re going to ally with one of the bastard's kids?
He’s my kid!
No, he’s not. Not since that night in the nursery.
John gritted his teeth, locking down his thoughts and feelings. Sam-the target-would be by soon. He had to move.
He pretended his hands weren’t shaking as he checked he had the right Glock on him. And his silver knife. And a rosary and holy water. He would find a spot in the trees or brush and end it one clear, silent shot. He would feel nothing, know nothing. It would be humane.
John moved forward, gun out, edging branches out of his way. Focused. Primed. Ready. Not Sammy. Not his boy. Not a boy at all. Slow, steady, focused, primed. Not Sammy. Not a boy. Not Sammy. Not his boy.
"Hi Dad," a voice said to his right. John whirled, weapon raised, on instinct. Sam-not Sammy, not his boy-stood calmly, watching him.
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 Part XIII
Part XIV
Not that Dean had ever really been to the beach. Or worn shorts. But still. It was going to be a hell of a shock to the next chick he landed.
John had left a note saying he'd be gone at least for the night, follow the usual protocol. He'd left forty bucks beside it, which just felt like insult to injury. If Dean’s damn leg was behaving, he and Sammy would walk into town and blow those forty bucks without a problem, and Dean could probably make up all of it in pool or poker so they wouldn’t have to tell their dad they'd spent the night goofing off. Instead, he gimped into the bathroom to scrub down his leg and change the gauze, and came out to find Sammy sitting in full-on-Pound-Puppy mode.
"So," he sighed, flopping down on his bed. "Y'wanna score us Pay-Per-View again?" Sam didn't answer. "Sammy?"
"Sure. It's early, though," he said quietly.
"Yeah, well. I kind of suck at this whole fun-thing right now."
"I had fun today, Dean," Sam said, a little too seriously for Dean's liking.
"All right, Friar Tuck. Think about what you want to do for dinner. If you go for take-out, I'll go charm whoever's at the front desk and get the fun-embargo lifted."
"Sure," Sam said, then stood abruptly and ducked into the bathroom. Dean closed his eyes, letting himself drift a bit. Other than a sudden, horrible dream a few nights ago, Sammy had been doing well. Strong, studious, and caring even when Dean had been a total pain in the ass. He'd been having a bit of a hard time accepting it, but he could see that Sammy wasn't so much of a kid anymore. Part of Dean would always see Sam as one, and he was only fourteen, but, like Dean had, he’d been made to grow up fast, and as a result was well ahead of his peer group.
Still, it was a little hard for Dean to think of his kid brother losing his kiddie qualities. Though it was also kind of fun to think about what they could do, and share, as adults--hunts, drinks, girls.
Okay...maybe girls was a little too weird. But hunts and drinks? Fair game.
Dean felt the edge of his bed sink in and pulled his arm away to see Sam staring at him. "Hey," he grinned.
"You okay?"
"Tired."
"You're gettin' old."
Dean snorted and glanced at Sam's clothes, noticing he was in a T-shirt, shorts, and his good sneakers. "You going running?"
"It's a nice day for it."
"If you wait a bit I'll go with you."
"I don't think you're ready for that."
"You know me. Ready for anything." Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously. I should try."
"Nah." Sam's hand touched his shoulder. "Get some sleep. You've earned it."
"Can't argue with that," he murmured, settling back. Sam's hand stayed on his shoulder and then, suddenly, both the younger boy's skinny arms were around his neck, his head on his chest above his heart, and Sammy was hugging him tight.
"I love you, Dean," he said softly. Dean’s eyes widened.
"Sammy? You okay?"
"Fine." Sam squeezed him lightly and sat back.
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." Sam saw that Dean still didn't believe him. "You know how screwed up it is that I can't say that without you thinking something's wrong?"
Dean smiled, but still wasn’t convinced. He ruffled Sam's hair. "No panic attacks?"
"No, Dean."
"Nightmares?"
"No, Dean."
"Silent spells?"
"No, Dean."
"Just feeling like a baby girl, huh?"
Sam tilted his head and looked suddenly sad. "You shouldn't care so little about yourself." Dean felt heat in his face and kept himself carefully composed. "You do everything for us. For me. I may not always seem grateful, but I am."
Dean wanted to say something funny, anything to lighten the sudden intensity of this moment, but his throat was so swollen he couldn't do much more than grin and ruffle Sam's hair again. "So...you'll wake me when you get back?"
Sam smiled, but it seemed...old. "Sure." He got to his feet, hesitated at the door, and turned back to his brother. "Everything will be better when you wake up. Promise."
Dean was too stunned to answer.
***
John watched as his youngest son left the motel and started off at a steady pace toward the jogging trail in the woods. His heart raced, stomach roiling with anxiety and grief.
"You've got two boys, Winchester," Julian had said. "I am sorry, truly, that you have to lose one. But you and I--we understand the importance of the greater good. And, no matter how much it hurts him, your Dean will too."
John watched as his youngest disappeared behind the tree line. His firstborn. His good boy, his obedient boy. Versus Sam, his youngest. Maybe rebellious, maybe moody, maybe even belligerent at times. But smart. So damn smart. And, for so long, all he and Dean had clung to of their old life. Sammy had been someone to be loved and coddled, who had no memories of The Horror, who had offered them unconditional love and joy at things John and Dean had been too grief-stricken to even fathom being able to rejoice in. But there was Baby Sammy, screaming with happiness when a bird joined them at a picnic table, or when John accidently turned on the shower instead of the tub faucet, or when the television had his favorite cartoon, or when John offered him his favorite cereal. When their hearts broke the worse, Sammy was the warm body curled in their beds, the sweet, powdered head they kissed and whispered comfort and reassurance.
The thought of him gone...
John had to fight a wave of nausea. Call him what you wanted--thief, liar, murderer--but when it came to his sons, he'd do, kill, sacrifice anything to keep them beyond the supernatural's reach.
Except, apparently, he hadn't.
Something evil had staked its claim on his Sam, and while it might not have surfaced yet, when it did, the damage could be unthinkable. If it were only his own life on the line, he’d make do. But he had to think of Dean now: Dean, his true, full-blooded, human son. He couldn’t go on, hunting and leaving Dean in charge of Sam, knowing what he did: that his youngest was half-monster.
But God--Sam--Sammy--
John dug his palms into his eyes, trying to force back the tears. There was Dean and there was Sam, and life with one son was better than life with none. The very thought of living with none was unthinkable. And like it or not, John couldn’t allow himself to go down until that evil sonofabitch that had slaughtered his wife was banished from all the realms of this Earth.
John steeled himself. Like the Marines taught him. Like life without Mary had taught him. Like he’d ingrained in his children. Push the emotion down deep and focus only on the task that needed to be done.
Even if that task was putting down your little boy like he was nothing more than a rabid, unnatural beast.
Your son is not human, Winchester.
My son is not human.
We understand the greater good.
I understand the greater good.
You will have to finish what you started.
I always finish what I start.
John carefully turned over the engine and drove the Impala three miles southwest of the motel, where he knew the jogging trail wound. Sam-no, not Sam, the mark, your target-had become a strong runner, but this would give him the time he needed for an ambush. He had just about everything he needed but, since Sammy-the mark-hadn’t turned yet, he should go down without a fight.
When does Sammy ever do anything without a fight? He’s your son, through and through. Even Missouri said that psychic’s implosion of his unconscious would have felled anyone else in days. Not your boy.
He slammed on the brakes and sat, breathing hard, hands clenched so tightly against the wheel it hurt. He couldn’t do it. He had to do it. He couldn’t.
He had to.
He couldn’t.
He could wait. See if Sam made a full-fledged turn. They weren’t even sure what his abilities would be. They might be something that wasn’t so terrible. Something they could--
What, John? Control? Use? Now you’re going to ally with one of the bastard's kids?
He’s my kid!
No, he’s not. Not since that night in the nursery.
John gritted his teeth, locking down his thoughts and feelings. Sam-the target-would be by soon. He had to move.
He pretended his hands weren’t shaking as he checked he had the right Glock on him. And his silver knife. And a rosary and holy water. He would find a spot in the trees or brush and end it one clear, silent shot. He would feel nothing, know nothing. It would be humane.
John moved forward, gun out, edging branches out of his way. Focused. Primed. Ready. Not Sammy. Not his boy. Not a boy at all. Slow, steady, focused, primed. Not Sammy. Not a boy. Not Sammy. Not his boy.
"Hi Dad," a voice said to his right. John whirled, weapon raised, on instinct. Sam-not Sammy, not his boy-stood calmly, watching him.
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 Part XIII
Part XIV