Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed three men yesterday...
The first was easy, easier than he thought. A quick twist of the neck, a snap, and a large body falling like timber to the floor. The first was quick, relatively painless, and not satisfying at all.
The first was only just that: the first.
I have never been to confession before.
The second was fun. The second involved an axe and a knife, a blade honed sharp enough to cut bone. The second was lingering, a death that was stretched out over hours, and still not long enough.
You killed my brother, he whispered in the dying man’s ear, and the soon-to-be-corpse whimpered. I keep my promises.
Please, the fucking murderer gasped out, end it.
And he laughed, oh how he laughed, bitter and pained, and the edge of madness loomed. I will. I’ll end it when I choose to.
And the bastard’s eyes rolled up in his head, unable to take anymore.
Father, am I damned? I killed a girl, too, you know.
For the third, he was no longer an innocent in the art of killing humans. For the third, the one who had pulled the trigger, he used a saw and removed all limbs from the man’s quivering body.
It was slow going, bloody, and he relished every minute of it.
Please, the man gasped, please!
And he laughed again, pulling back the saw and grabbing a spoon. My brother, you know, he said conversationally, he didn’t like to think about killing humans. He thought we were better than that, that we’d become what we hunted if we sunk to their level. Me, on the other hand? He shrugged his shoulders, jamming the spoon down into the man’s chest. I think I could get used to it.
Leaving the spoon in the man’s skin, he shoved the arms and legs off the table. That was the fundamental difference between him and me, he continued, over the bastard’s groans and pleas and begging, gasping cries, he always saw the good side. He’s always been the conscience. Even when he wasn’t around, I thought about what he’d want me to do. He leaned over the limbless, dying, murdering son of a bitch and hissed, And guess what, you fuck? You killed him. You killed my conscience.
A whimper sounded deep in the man’s throat and he twisted the spoon.
Forgive me, Father, for I think I’ll kill again.
And the little girl, who laughed as the killing bullet was fired, she died last. She died after having been burned with the same poker that had scorched him. She certainly hadn’t been attractive to begin with, but she left the world far less so, and he couldn’t bring himself to care that he’d killed a child.
He stabbed her in the eye, pushed the blade through to her brain, killing her with almost no time to register pain—except, of course, for the poker, but that didn’t really count, did it?
What does God—if He even exists—think of me now?
And after he’d kept his promise, he went back to the barn, he picked up Sam’s body and he brought his little brother to the house. He laid Sam gently on the couch and removed all the body parts and bodies of the killers from the house, just throwing them like dirty laundry on the lawn.
He spared a brief thought for the cop—she was an innocent, just doing her job—but only that. He had more important things to worry about.
He brushed his hand across Sam’s face gently and whispered, I’m so sorry, Sammy. I failed you. He left the house quickly, bypassing the bodies without a second thought, and inventoried all the cars they’d stocked up. He chose a black Suburban and tried the door—it was open, so he slid in the driver’s seat and hotwired it, then drove around to the front. He left it running and slid out; no one was alive on the property but him, so what was there to worry about?
He hurried back into the house, wanting to get Sam as far away as possible. Those pieces of filth didn’t deserve to lie in the same vicinity as Sam.
What can He think of me? I killed them. I told them I would, and I did—gleefully. With no regret.
He knew he couldn’t bury Sam—neither of them had ever wanted to lie beneath the dirt, to be worm food, to take up space.
So he drove them back down the highway, far away from the fucked-up pieces of humanity that destroyed them, and selected with care the clearing that would see the end of Sam’s physical body.
I know you’re there, he whispered to the air, setting Sam on fire. I can feel you.
Tears slowly slid down his cheeks, as he fell to the forest floor, and watched Sam’s body burn. The fact that he could feel his brother’s spirit standing at his back didn’t mean a thing, because Sam—Sam was dead.
He finally lowered his head and cradled it in his hands, keening his pain and misery for the world to hear.
It’ll be alright, Dean, Sam whispered, kneeling beside him, and together they watched his body return to the earth.
I’m not a nice man, Father. So what does your God want to do with me?
He returned to their hotel room silently, abandoning the Suburban down the road. After a shower, he’d go find his Impala and pack, leave, be long gone by the time the bodies were discovered.
Sam tagged along for all of it, but didn’t speak again. He watched Dean place all their belongings in bags and put them in the Impala, watched Dean fiddle with his cell, contemplate calling Dad and decide not to.
Dean slid into the driver’s seat and gunned it; Sam appeared in the passenger seat and said, I’m dead, Dean. But I’m not leaving you alone.
Dean smiled sadly in his direction before peeling out of the parking lot.
I killed. Happily. What does that make me? It was justice—but I made it hurt.
Dean drove the night through, not stopping for anything. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t tired.
He got across three states before seeing the church. It was Catholic and he wasn’t, but he figured that didn’t matter. He needed to talk to someone besides Sam’s ghost.
A priest was as good as any.
I keep my promises, Father. They didn’t listen.
Dean silently walked into the church, slipped into the confessional, and started talking. He didn’t want forgiveness, not really, because he didn’t regret it. And—he felt more satisfaction from the deaths of those four sick fucks than he did for any non-human monster he’d ever killed.
And if that made him sicker than them—so be it. Sometimes evil came in human form, and it all needed to be eradicated.
They were warned, Father. And they didn’t heed it.
Dean slipped out of the confessional and out the church, back into his car, and was gone before the priest knew it. The poor man hadn’t a clue what to do, but it honestly didn’t matter.
Dean was out of the state before sundown, heading to California, looking for evil along the way to kill.
If Dad was still there—he had explaining to do.
Sam’s ghost rode shotgun, and they reminisced; Dean asked if Sam minded what he’d done in his name, and Sam shook his head.
They deserved it, Dean. Sometimes—sometimes someone is so broken inside, they can’t be fixed. They just need to be ended. And maybe... maybe this was your destiny all along. You’re still a hunter—just a different type.
Like them? Dean asked, almost dreading the answer.
No. The answer was quick, vehement. Not like them at all. You’re better, and you’ll only hunt those who have earned it, not for fun. You’re a good man, Dean.
Dean smiled to himself, and the words he’d told the priest echoed between them: I’m not a nice man, Father. So what does your God want to do with me?
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I killed three men and a little girl yesterday. And I know I’ll kill again.