Born of Ill Intent.
Please read warnings from chapter one.
Chapter Eleven.
It was turning out to be a long wait. The poly had stopped moving some time ago; no more laughter, no banging noises, and apparently no more tunnelling.
Dean suppressed a yawn and shook himself to fully awake. Standing up straight at his hiding post by the gap in the wall, he stretched his back and neck, trying to get comfortable.
Once again, he checked his gun over, flicked the safety on and off a few times.
On the other side of the one way glass, Sam appeared to be undisturbed, sitting against the wall and biding his time. Dean wished like hell he could talk to the kid right now; reassure him that he was safe. The silver mirrors would be a deterrent to the poly, but humans could easily break through during a skirmish and the faults would automatically seal shut behind them.
Once the poly arrived, Dean wasn't going to wait around for Sam to shoot it. He was going to smash through the silver glass and fire on the bastard, and keep on firing until it was dead.
That was if the fucking thing even bothered to show up.
He checked his watch for the thousandth time.
This was getting stupid.
Junior was still playing with them, fucking with their heads.
Little bastard's trying to lure us into a false sense of security…
"And it's working, ain't it?" Came a young voice, right by Dean's ear.
"Howdy, Dad."
Dean froze.
"What?" The voice suddenly dropped the attitude, instead sounding sad and lonely. "Nothing to say to your own son before you kill me, huh?"
Dean turned slowly to face the poly, and felt all the blood drain away from his face.
The kid looked around fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, a few inches shorter than Dean, and beautiful in the way that only the young and precocious can be. He also had Dean's vivid green eyes, a light dusting of freckles over prominent cheekbones, and possessed of Sam's strong, stubborn jawline, which at that moment was tilted in just the same way as when Sam was angry or hurt. His hair was like Sam's, too, chestnut in colour, longish and gently curled round his ears, just brushing the collar of his plaid shirt.
Dean couldn't stop staring. This… this was Sam, and Mary, and John, and a little of himself, all wrapped up in one teenage, poly-nightmare package.
A battle waged in his mind, the hunter and father in him fighting for dominance. His fingers itched to drop the weapon, every protective instinct screamed at him to grab the child and hold him close, keep the world at bay, keep the kid safe…
"I never wanted to hurt anyone," the boy suddenly whispered with sincerity that Dean somehow found himself believing. "I just wanted to live. To get to know my parents and go to school…"
Next thing Dean knew, he was pinned to the rocky wall, cold fingers wrapped round his neck, his gun slipping from his hands.
"…all I wanted was my own name!" the poly spat in his face and tightened his grip. "You couldn't even give me that! You were gonna let me die without a name!"
All Dean could manage was a gurgle of protest, while his oxygen supply was slowly shut off and black dots danced the fandango across his vision. This was most definitely not his finest hour.
Angry eyes bored into Dean's.
"You wouldn't name your own child, you callous son of a bitch," he hissed, tears rolling down his face. "You'd never even met me, and you wanted me dead."
His voice broke on the last word, coming out as more of a sob.
The young poly blinked a few times, confusion, sadness, and fury flitting across his handsome face then, just as suddenly, loosened his grip.
Dean spluttered and choked, furious at himself for letting his guard down.
"Oh you little bastard!" he growled, weakly, and made an aborted attempt to reclaim his gun but the poly kicked it away.
Expecting another attack, Dean braced himself but the young shifter surprised him yet again.
"Why?" the kid begged softly, hand falling completely away from Dean this time. The poly backed away, hands raised in surrender, eyes sad and wet. "Why do you hate me?"
Dean sagged back against the rock wall, still choking and coughing, and tried to get a grip on his emotions. He had to find the strength to do what was right, but the poly – his son – was staring back at him, looking so genuinely hurt and betrayed that it began to tear at Dean's heart.
Little wonder there were laws against incestuous relationships, if this was the kind of fucked up shit that came of it. And, Dean had to admit in all fairness, it wasn't the boy's fault. Not by a long shot.
This sucked.
"Look, kid," said Dean, rubbing his bruised neck and pushing himself back into an upright position. "This is nothing personal, ok? We don't hate you."
"Then why do you want me dead?" the boy asked, voice trembling. "I've done nothing wrong. Why can't you give me a chance?"
This was tricky. Dean hated himself for hurting the kid's feelings, but it had to be done. Child he might be, but he was dangerous. Dean couldn't afford to let the kid get to him anymore than he already had.
"You're a monster," Dean told him, bluntly. He sensed movement from nearby, and guessed that Bobby and the others were closing in. "You came about for all the wrong reasons, and in all the wrong circumstances. A polymorphic shifter raped my brother, Sam, wearing my face and skin, and it nearly killed him." He pointed at the boy. "You were the result."
The kid stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. "B-but…"
"That makes you dangerous," Dean continued, slowly moving towards him, hands raised, palms out. "You've already hurt Sam, practically tore your way out of him."
The kid seemed genuinely shocked, and opened and closed his mouth a few times before he was able to respond.
"I-I didn't mean to. Didn't know what I was doing," the young poly stammered, shaking his head violently. "I just… I'm so messed up!"
Dean let him have that one; babies couldn't be held responsible for puking on your shoulder or peeing in your face during a nappy change, so he supposed they equally couldn't be blamed for turning on their parent with murderous intent… however weird that sounded.
The boy suddenly clutched at his head, hands digging into his hair as if in pain, and wailed forlornly. "I don't… can't … what's wrong with me?!"
Dean began to understand. Poor kid was being buffeted by conflicting shifter instincts and human emotions. A consequence his polymorphic parent obviously hadn't considered and wouldn't have cared much about anyhow, being the love 'em, beat 'em, drown 'em, and leave 'em type. And now he had no one to guide him through his shifts or teach him how to properly control them. He was all alone in a world that would never welcome his kind.
Good news was that the youngster had a conscience after all, and it was something Dean could work with.
"It's your basic instincts," said Dean, keeping his voice low and unthreatening. "You can't help it. You're genetically programmed to kill any humans around you once you're born."
The shifter slowly released the bruising grip on his hair and shook his head. "No… that's wrong… it's all wrong!"
"Is it?" asked Dean, curiously. "You tried to kill Bobby."
"Only 'cos he was going to kill me," the boy replied, in despair. "I could see it in his head…"
"You tried to kill all of us," Dean persisted.
"No… I…"
"You were going to kill me. Your own father."
Dean's statement came out like a gunshot, sharp and angry, and the shifter fell silent with shame and remorse. It was obvious the youngster was beginning to understand the crux of the problem.
As had been said before, kid sure was a fast learner.
The two of them stood there staring at each other for a long moment, until the young poly spoke up again.
"I'm sorry," he said, softly, voice filled with deep and genuine regret.
Dean sighed. "So am I, kid. Believe me. This ain't something I wanna do."
"I know. And I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to hurt you." The boy sniffed and glanced around, looking so young and lost. "What happens now? How do we do this?"
And that was a question and a half. Well, two questions, and neither of them were easy. Silence stretched out between the two of them as they stood there, staring at each other. Sadness, desolation and loneliness rolled off the boy-shifter, almost tangible in the darkness of the tunnels.
Before Dean could finally answer him, Bobby stepped out of the shadows, shotgun raised and aimed straight at the poly's heart. Patch and William stepped out from behind, weapons trained on the kid's back.
The boy gazed helplessly at Dean, eyes filled with fear and resignation. Dean felt his heart crack just a little down the middle, his own eyes growing damp.
"Knew Sam wouldn't be able to do it, and neither would you, Dean," said Bobby, voice gruff with apology. "Sam's idea was a good one, but there was an obvious flaw. Figured this kid," he jerked his chin at the poly, "would avoid the silver room, 'specially after I shot him in the head already. If he couldn't get to Sam, seemed to me like he would head for you instead."
Dean couldn't even raise a single thread of anger at being Sam's substitute without being told, since he was too busy feeling torn in two. He knew what had to be done, Bobby was right, had told the kid himself, but… but…
"No!"
He moved quickly, grabbed and pushed the boy behind him, and backed up against the rocky wall.
William and Patch lowered their weapons immediately, but Bobby kept his raised, cross-hairs fixed over Dean's shoulder, waiting for a glimpse of the shifter.
"Dean," Bobby growled, warningly. "Don't be stupid!"
"I said no!" Dean snapped back. "If anyone's gonna do this, then it'll be me." His voice lowered. "I owe him that much."
He turned when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. The poly gazed at him with soulful eyes.
"You don't have to," he told his father. "Just…" he faltered and ducked his head in a manner so reminiscent of Sam that it hurt Dean to look at him. "If I'm going to die, I want to die with a name. Given to me by my parents. That's all I ask."
Put so simply and by a mere child, thought Dean, sadly. The odds were stacked against the poor kid right from the beginning.
"John," came a weak voice from the tunnels.
Some scuffling noises followed, and Sam appeared, shouldering his way carefully along the low, rocky walls, Taurus dangling limply from one hand. He'd clearly heard everything, because his face was wracked with pain and grief, and fresh blood trickled from beneath his bandages each step he took.
"How 'bout John?" he croaked again, and stumbled towards Dean, who caught him in a one-armed embrace.
William tutted quietly and muttered something about burst stitches and stubborn fools, but everyone ignored him. Patch merely remained silent and watchful, ready for the slightest hint of trouble.
Dean considered Sam's idea. A part of him was dismayed at the thought of naming a shifter after their father. The boy was a monster. Sure, he clearly wasn't inherently evil like a true shifter and he hadn't actually killed anyone yet, but it was only a matter of time before his poly instincts became too strong to repress.
But then, he figured, maybe for that reason alone it was ok to give him their father's name. So far, the kid was an innocent and deserved something good out of life. Something special given by his human parents to remind him that he wasn't all monster.
"John it is," he said, hoarsely.
The newly named John cocked his head to one side for a moment, then nodded.
"Thank you," he whispered, gratefully.
John stared at Sam and Dean, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. "I know you won't believe me, but I love you both."
Sam heaved in a sharp breath, feeling amazed and wondrous at the love coursing through him, the bond with his son not severed as theorised by Patch, but stronger than ever.
Dean smiled through his own tears, and felt a glimmer of hope about the whole thing. Maybe there was no need for all this.
Maybe the kid would be ok after all. Maybe…
In one swift move no one could have predicted, John snatched the Taurus out of Sam's weak grip.
"John no!" he cried out.
Both Sam and Dean lunged to stop him but it was too late. John pressed the muzzle to his own chest, just over the heart, and squeezed the trigger.
The young shifter collapsed to the floor, eyes turning silver and blank in an instant, while the loud gunshot echoed round the small group and bounced off the walls with finality.
The silence that followed seemed to last forever.
Everyone stood stock still, paralyzed with shock, the fallen boy at their feet.
It was finally over, Bobby realised with relief, then glanced at the Winchester brothers and changed his mind.
Sam's eyes were wide and damp, utterly stricken with grief. His mouth was hanging open, dragging in raspy, ragged breaths, and his legs were trembling. Only reason he was upright was because Dean had him wrapped up tight in his arms. The older brother was barely hanging on, blinking back tears, his face ashen.
Both boys were a mess. Both boys had seen their son kill himself.
Bobby eyed them, worriedly. Given the recent fallout from their father's death, he just knew this wasn't going any place good.
They gently laid him out in the silver room, sprayed accelerant and salt, and watched him burn. Patch, William and Bobby left in silence, while Sam and Dean stayed until the ashes had grown cold. Not a word was uttered, not even in passing.
Hours later, the Winchester brothers simply turned and walked away from their son, disappearing into the gloom of the underground tunnels. The sound of stone grinding on stone followed their retreating footsteps as the silver room became a burial vault, and sealed itself forever.
The house would take care of John from now on, as it took care of everything else.
When Sam and Dean finally resurfaced in the world above, the house was as good as new, as though nothing had happened. The extensive library of books and journals was intact, the fine wine collection was undisturbed and covered in a layer of dust, and a nice fire roared in the hearth.
It could have been their first day in the mountains all over again.
There was even a pot of stew bubbling away quietly in the kitchen and sending out a wonderful meaty smell that set everyone's gut a rumbling.
Well, everyone's except Sam's. He was exhausted and in too much pain to really care.
Once William checked him over, re-stitched and re-bandaged his stomach, Dean eased Sam down onto his bed and gently tucked him in, somewhat surprised by his little brother's lack of protest.
They had some talking to do, Dean guessed. Besides the grief and sadness, he could almost see the thoughts swimming around Sam's mind, and he didn't like it. The kid was drawing too many parallels with John Junior.
Dean looked round when a hand landed on his shoulder. Patch offered up two glasses of amber liquid.
"Here," he murmured with a gentle smile. "Help you both relax."
Dean eyed the whisky glasses suspiciously. Thanks to a quiet conversation with Bobby, he was now all too familiar with Patch's particular variety of therapy.
"What's in it? Something to block the memories?"
"Would that be so bad?" Patch chuckled at Dean's face, then became serious for a moment. "No, boyo. That would be doing you both a disservice for it's not only the good stuff in life that's important. But," he winked, "it will take the edge off a little."
Dean nodded his thanks, and watched Patch saunter back to the kitchen, where Bobby and William were chatting quietly among themselves.
Sam said nothing, just sipped at his drink.
Dean glanced around the room and up at the walls, not for the first time wishing their father was here, and thought he spied something up in the far reaches of the roof. It had shone and twinkled for a brief moment and then was gone so fast, Dean could almost believe he'd imagined it. He stared hard into the shadows, at the dark shelves disappearing upwards, perhaps into the stars, or eternity…
His brother's rasping cough as the whisky went down the wrong way brought Dean back down from such fanciful thoughts, and he forgot all about it.
"Sammy, you ok dude?" he asked him, softly, once the kid was settled.
Sam nodded but avoided eye contact. "I'm fine," he replied, unconvincingly.
Dean sighed and perched on the edge of the bed.
"Look, I…"
"We don't have to talk about this," said Sam, not unkindly.
"Yes," said Dean, after a moment's thought. "We do…"
"Dean…"
Dean cut off his protest with a growl. "Button it, sasquatch."
Sam sighed and nodded for him to carry on.
Dean stared at his hands, then looked up at his brother again.
"He looked just like us, huh?"
Sam swallowed a lump of grief. "Yeah, he did."
"And smart, too."
"Definitely."
They fell silent for a while, until Dean spoke up again. "I think… I think he was a good person, Sammy. Maybe he had a bad start, and not much of a future, but…" he shook his head, not entirely sure what he was trying to say.
Last thing he wanted to do was bring up the whole 'Yellow Eyes' crap again, especially the stuff about his plans for Sam, and all the other children like him, but figured he didn't have much choice, here.
"Look, Sam, I'm just gonna say this the once," he said, forcefully, nostrils flaring a little. "He had no choice, ok? He took the bullet because he knew there was no other way; he knew his shifter instincts were stronger than his human ones, and that made him too dangerous. But you're different. You so much as even think about taking the same way out, and I'll..."
"We know from Yellow Eyes that I'm not so different," Sam said urgently, and grasped Dean's shoulder. "We just don't know how. I could be just as dangerous…"
"No!" Dean hissed back at him. "You're fully human. You have a choice in this, John didn't."
Sam shook his head, sadly, too tired to fight. "Somehow, I don't think that's what it's gonna come down to," he murmured.
Patch nodded when he overheard that. It almost mirrored his earlier words to Bobby.
Choice wasn't the issue. Whatever the yellow eyed demon had in mind, it wasn't going to be as simple as saying no and walking away.
Every hunter knew it like a mantra. Demons like to screw with your head and, if necessary, they would screw with everyone else around you to get what they want.
But that was something for another day.
Sam and Dean talked well into the night. They talked about their father, their son, the sacrifices both had made for them. They spoke of their differences, their strengths, and all the things that made them who they were.
After a while, Bobby, William and Patch drifted towards them one by one, and the discussion continued. The following day, no one was quite sure what conclusions they'd drawn from it all, but seeing how the brothers had relaxed a little and even smiled a few times, Bobby figured they'd accomplished something good.
Besides a hangover, of course.
Between them all, they'd made quite a dent in Patch's single malt collection, but not once did Dean recall what he'd seen on the distant shelves that previous night.
But Patch remembered. After all, that sort of thing was his job.
TBC.
What did Dean see up in the roof?
What does Patch know about it?
Final chapter/epilogue coming soon.
Many thanks for all your wonderful support so far.
Love and hugs,
ST xxx