Occam's Razor Part 16
Dean couldn't sleep. He'd wanted to, told himself he was overreacting, that Sam was just being his overdramatic self and nothing was wrong.
But goddammit, something was wrong. He had vague memories of a little Sam insisting they say "I love you," before they'd fallen asleep, but he'd outgrown it quickly. The bonds between them, and between their father, were carried out in actions, deeds, not words. For Sammy to suddenly say that before going on a run? Because Dean had been showing him bow hunting?
Maybe in some parallel universe. Maybe in some version of their life Before the Fire, Before the Road.
But not in this life. Not in this reality.
He got to his feet, ignored his throbbing leg, and laced up his sneakers. So he was still in jeans--their father had taught them to run, swim, and fight in whatever they were wearing. He could follow Sammy without a problem. He could follow Sammy anywhere. It was what big brothers did. It was what Dean did. What he was made for.
His father’s voice told him to stop, think, plan. He attempted all the John Winchester distillation principles, with no result. Logic wouldn't cure this. Screw Occam, screw John. Instinct, gut. Bobby had told him to trust it. Missouri had proven there was more to the mind than science could ever chart and study. Dean had seen enough, to know there was more in life than he could chart and study.
He knew his gut, and his gut was telling him that something was wrong with Sammy.
He gimped to the other side of the room, grabbing his key off the table when he noticed his father had left his duffel. That wasn’t all that unusual, except that he’d also left it open, just a bit. The clenching in his gut reached siren levels. Dean scooped the bag up and pulled it open.
Two books. Two journals, side by side. The hunter’s journal his father took everywhere, and another, smaller black one. Dean swayed on his bad leg. Then he abandoned all he knew of logic and reason and planning and safety and did what his mother would do, which was slam the door behind him as he took off running, completely uncaring if he was racing straight into hell itself if it meant saving his brother, yet again, from the flames.
***
"Sammy," John sighed, lowering his pistol slightly.
"Concentrated silver bullets, powder and salt mix?" Sam asked. John's gripped tightened on the handle. "And what kills a monster like me, Dad? Head shot? Heart shot? Or were you just going to blow out my throat and hope it knocked me out long enough for you to get a machete?"
John winced. "Sammy. You've got to understand. This is never what I wanted."
"You don't think I'm human.”
Hearing it said that way hurt more than it should have. John took a deep breath. "Sam, listen. Please. What you read--it was to protect you." Sam shook his head, eyes filling. "Listen--when I first hit the road with you boys and met my first hunters, all of them were focusing on you. You weren't the first, Sammy. There were rumors that some...thing was moving through nurseries, slaughtering parents and turning infants. The journal...it was to show them, to prove to them, that nothing had touched you. That you weren't going to turn. That you were nothing but a normal kid." John's voice wavered. Sam glared at him.
"No, Dad," he said, voice like steel. "You believed it too. If you hadn't--if you really thought I was just...normal, you wouldn't have found Julian. You wouldn't have given me to Julian."
"Julian said he could get a look at what killed your mother. That's all."
"You're lying.”
"He said--"
"You gave me to him because you thought I was one of that thing's kids!" Sam's hands clenched into fists, and the ground beneath John seemed to shudder. "You thought Julian would make me spill its secrets to you. And then what, Dad? You would have just killed me in Bobby's living room? In front of Dean? Or Dean would have just stood back and let you? I would have just sat back and let you? Knowing I was just a freak?" Sam's voice hitched. John took a deep breath.
"Sammy--I've told you I didn't think it through. I just wanted to kill the thing that burned your mother alive." Sam flinched. "And finding out what it was--if anything did happen to you that night, then--in order to help you, we had to see, know, what's out there that's doing this. You were our best resource, Sam."
"I was your son," Sam's voice cracked, eyes filling. John felt a horrid wrench in his own gut. "You were my dad. All my life you talked about putting blood first, family, watching out for each other. And all that time..."
"No!" John roared. "It was to protect you, save you! Prove to the other hunters you were normal!"
"You never believed that!" Sam shouted, thin hands shoving John a step backward. "You made me a test subject! You came here to kill me!"
They looked at one another. John's hand tightened on the pistol, gut lurching. "Sammy...I never wanted it to come to this. Please, you have to know that."
A tear slipped out of Sam's right eye. He stepped slowly away. "I have conditions," he said softly.
"Sam--"
"Listen!" Sammy shivered once more. "You've got to cover up how I died. I don't care how you do it, but if Dean never sees my body, he'll believe I'm somehow still alive. He won't stop looking. It will drive him crazy. So I don't care how, but you frame it so I'm found, but don't let him find me. Let me be clean and in the morgue before he sees."
John's throat ached, but he managed a weak nod. "Sammy--"
"He'll want to test me for everything. You need to let him. Make sure he realizes it's really me, and not some thing made to look like me." John nodded. "And Dad...you've got to stay with him. You can't keep taking off for days or weeks at a time. Take him with you, make him a full-hunter. But only when he's ready. When...when he sees that it is me...he'll need time. Take him to Bobby's. Or Missouri's. Let him have stability for a little bit. Please, Dad. He--" Sam's voice hitched. "It's going to be hard for him."
John couldn't even see his youngest through the tears he fought not to let fall. He knew his Sam was right, but that didn't make it easier. Losing his boy would be hard enough, but watching Dean's frantic search efforts...and his denial...and the aftermath as he realized his brother was gone, John wasn't sure he could bear it. If there was anything this mess with Julian had taught him, it was just how far Dean would go to provide for Sammy. He thought of Dean, glaring up at him over his shoulder as he shielded Sammy under his arm--Dean, holding and rocking Sammy as he sobbed and fought, more asleep than awake; Dean, opting for the back seat instead of the front, settling his brother's head on his leg; Dean, who took such pride, such true happiness, in caring for Sam. He'd wanted a brother since the moment Mary and John explained a baby was on the way. When had arrived at the sitter’s to collect his young son and announce that his Mom and new baby Sammy were fine, Dean had immediately insisted they make two "Welcome Home" signs: one for his mother, one for his new brother. "So when Sammy can read, he'll know we wanted him to come home," he'd explained.
Hundreds of memories flashed in front of John: Dean carefully holding the baby when their mother had been lost--showing him picture books in the back of the car--smiling when Sammy splashed in the tub and soaked him--holding out his arms while a barely-balanced Sam ran, full-force, somehow managing to stay upright long enough to land safely in his big brother's embrace.
Dean, growing more and more terrified, as the hours go by and Sam's missing...calling in all their contacts, foregoing sleep and food and the still-dull ache in his leg trying to find his kid brother...denying the body with the fatal bullet-wound is his kid brother?
For Dean. You have to do this for Dean. For your good soldier, your good son. And for Sam. Sam would never want to hurt him. Sam would want go to heaven, see his mother. Not land in hell because some evil thing damned him. Mary will see that he gets home.
"Sam," John's voice cracked. "You've got to know that I--I was so, so happy to be your father. That I have always been so proud of you. And I will take care of Dean. And your mother, I know, will take care of you." Sam's bottom lip shook as his eyes filled. "And I swear to you on Mary's grave, that every word you read was to protect you. That ever since I've heard, all I've wanted is to save you."
Sammy nodded, curling his shaking hands into fists. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered. John lost his battle with tears, but smiled even as they rolled down his face, trying to will the love for his son into his expression.
"Will it hurt?" Sam managed, and John could barely keep himself from sobbing as Sammy lifted his chin and tried so, so hard to look brave.
"No, son," he murmured, raising his pistol. "I promise."
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 Part XV