Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7621738.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Bobby_Singer, John_Winchester, Mary
      Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Slave_Dean, Set_at_start_of_season_two
  Series:
      Part 1 of Four-Five
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-29 Completed: 2016-10-16 Chapters: 26/26 Words: 78968
****** Four-five ******
by geenajay
Summary
     Sam stared at the documents in his hands: the ones that meant he was
     literally holding his brother's life in them. For Dean wasn't his
     brother. In fact he had been John's slave. And now he belonged to
     Sam.
***** A NEW AMENDMENT *****
The year was 1865, and the 13th Amendment to the Constitution finally brought
slavery in the United States to an end. And the people rejoiced. Well, most
people. The slave owner’s, whether they were the fortunate ones to have
received compensation for their loss or not, didn’t. For they could see their
profits plummeting and envisaged the end of their way of life.
So slavery went ‘underground’. Hidden and whispered of behind locked cellar
doors or remote and barely accessible plantations where visitors were
discouraged, or in the more urban areas, large plain buildings with few or no
windows and only one small entrance.
And the majority of the people forgot.
Occasionally they would be reminded: every once in a while, one or two of the
forgotten, because that’s who the slaves now were, would escape, only to see
their stories be shouted down as lies. Occasionally a few at once would be
discovered in their enforced squalor and rescued, but general opinion was that
had to be just the work of a sociopathic individual. It couldn’t be something
organised by many for the purposes of business, for slavery just didn’t exist
anymore. Not in this country. Because it had been abolished.
But as over the years more and more stories began to emerge, and as what could
once have been dismissed as rumours began to resonate as knowledge and fact,
backed up with proof of human beings living appallingly short lives in
horrendous conditions and dealing with brutality on a daily basis, then slowly,
finally, did the public began to mutter and mumble, and the mumble grew into a
rumbling, and the rumbling turned into an outcry.
But this time the government could see that slavery would not be an easy thing
to strike down. And the way of life of the country as a whole would not be an
easy thing to forsake. The politicians recognised that the ease of the many
rested on the bleeding and broken backs of the few. And that perhaps, if it
would ensure prices being held down while maintaining a high profit, then
perhaps allowances might be made, for the greater good of the majority.
And so finally in 1890 there was a repeal of the 13th Amendment. One that gave
the States the power to regulate the transportation or importation of voluntary
servitude. Nobody could be born into slavery. Or be forced into it against
their will. But they could sell themselves into it.
But not just to anyone. It had to be done correctly. It had to be properly
regulated.
With that consideration, a set amount of Auction Houses were set up and granted
licenses to trade, and they were the only way to enter the system as a slave.
It was the Houses that decided how much someone could sell their life for and
authorised payment; they were responsible for creating and registering the
required Deeds of Sale and other associated documents necessary for owning a
slave; it was the Houses who filled in the forms to have the required tattoos
put on, and later the microchips inserted into, the slaves; it was them who
took responsibility for arranging and holding the auctions and making sure that
all owners were registered with their new possessions; it was them who
meticulously made the system run smoothly. The Houses were under tight
regulation and they made sure their job was done professionally and
responsibly, with all medical examinations of the property within the clearly
defined limits of the Amendment done and recorded, all paperwork done and filed
correctly in triplicate. Some remained small, localised and independent: others
became vast and extremely wealthy institutions.
There were set rules for the new owners. They had to guarantee fair treatment
for their slaves: there was to be no excessive punishment upon penance of vast
fines and possible imprisonment for themselves; their slaves had to be fed
regularly, at least once a day, with decent food fit for human consumption;
they had to be housed somewhere safe, dry and warm; and at least once every
five years the slave had to be brought for medical examination by a designated
licensed official. Simply put: they were to be treated humanely.
There was some protection for the slaves should they be unlucky enough to get
an owner who was overtly violent or abusive. If an owner could be proved to be
using excessive, exceptional and unnecessary violence, force or cruelty towards
a slave, then they could be tried in law with the possibility of imprisonment,
and an up-to a lifetime ban of owning slaves. Or be handed a large fine.
There was protection for the owners as well of course. If a slave should kill
or seriously injure his or her owner then the law would immediately be upon
them with extreme prejudice and the consequence was an almost immediate death
sentence as a deterrent for any others. Although if a slave gave themselves up
without any form of resistance at once to a registered medical official in the
service of the government, or alternatively to an officer of the law, and prove
that they had been treated with disproportionate brutality then they might get
leniency and instead of a death sentence, only get alife sentence in prison.
This was a very rare occurrence, only recorded in a handful of cases, (and
poured over by students of law).
No slave could marry. Period. If a slave had a child with a free man or woman
then that child was the sole legal responsibility of the free parent: the slave
parent had no rights. If two slaves had a child together, then it was
considered advisable that they get the child legally adopted by a third party
as neither would have any rights to the child. And neither would the child have
any rights as officially they would not even exist. And never would if not
adopted.
If a master/mistress died then their beneficiary had seven days to re-register
their slave in their own name or call the nearest Auction House and have them
returned into the system. If they weren’t registered in the designated time,
then an alert would be triggered, the authorities would get involved and the
slave immediately brought in by force if necessary. This was either because the
beneficiary didn’t want the slave, or there was no beneficiary. It was
advisable for the slave therefore to hand themselves in immediately or be
treated as a runaway, which was a very serious crime punishable by up-to and
including a death sentence. At the re-registration, all slaves had to have a
full medical examination to prove that they had been treated well enough and
they were also given the chance to ask to be taken back into the main system
again, the rights of a beneficiary to claim a slave being nowhere near the
importance of physically buying a slave in the eyes of the law. It was possibly
the only situation where a slave could refuse to go with a new owner.
Once in the system a slave could buy themselves back out. But it was a long and
complicated process set out in the Amendment that included compensating first
their current owner for the price paid for them as well as out of pocket
expenses that could stretch over years, then the original Auction House for all
their administration as well as their original cost, and finally the government
itself for all its administration. It was very rare for a slave to escape the
system once he or she had agreed to enter it. Freedom could not be granted by
anyone, it had to be bought.
Slaves could own items gifted to them by their masters, up-to and including
property. What an owner gave a slave was his or hers own business. But it all
had to be registered correctly against the slave’s information in case the
slave find him or herself accused of being a thief, a crime punishable by up-to
and including a death sentence, and the items or property confiscated by the
government.
So it was decreed.
And to just about everyone but the politicians’ and those who had applied to
run the Auction Houses’ surprise, there was a steady stream of those willing to
sell their lives away. Especially after the Panic of 1893. There were those who
needed the money for their families and were willing to do anything to get it
for them; those who had absolutely nothing so were grateful for a roof over
their heads and a daily ration of something edible; some who had lost someone
or everything and just wanted to forget; and those who had just given up. The
old slave owners had a new supply of bodies to do the least pleasant and most
necessary jobs. Everyone was satisfied.
Then as always in such things, loopholes began to be exploited and legal waters
began to get murkied. Minors had no rights until they were twenty-one years
old, (from 1971 eighteen years old), so a legally recognised relative could
‘give’ their consent for them to be sold for them. And unfortunately many did,
selling one or more of their children to try and provide for the rest; selling
an unwanted step-daughter or son out of the way; bargaining a child’s freedom
away often only for the price of a month’s supply of whatever addiction the
parent had. And this gave such a good supply of young and strong able bodies
that nobody in the intervening years had felt the need to challenge it.
Of the owners, most were good and treated their slaves fairly. But there were
the exceptions: those who enjoyed having the power of possession over another
human being, those who sadistically enjoyed handing out punishments of extreme
force or brutality and didn’t care about the possible consequences; those who
would use bribes or extortion to avoid the regulations; those who had enough
power or influence that ‘eyes were averted’ from their, often open,
mistreatment; a few who simply didn’t care.
There was no such thing as a legal sex slave, it being seen as immoral and
abhorrent from every point of view: slaves could only be sold to do a job of
work, usually for a cheaper cost than a paid worker or one that most others
would not want to do, or to be treated as a part, or pet, of a family. But
tattoos could be removed, microchips cut out. And if a slave happened to be
declared ‘dead in an unfortunate circumstance’, no proof or even a body
required, then they could simply be slipped through the cracks in the system
and never be seen in public again.
There were those who fought slavery of course, those who rallied and petitioned
and protested. But most prided themselves on their innocence, counted their
blessings, enjoyed the spoils from the new government sanctioned voluntary
servitude, and managed to forget that such a thing actually ever existed.
***** JOHN AND MARY *****
John was on his way back to his house. But he didn’t want to be. Because it
didn’t feel like home. He would and usually did do anything to avoid going
there. After work drinks or three with the boys; late nights doing overtime
that didn’t actually involve much working; drinks on his own for the hell of
it. Anything to avoid going home.
It hadn’t been the happy marriage that he had expected. They had had a
whirlwind romance, almost cliché: everything was perfect, he and Mary had
declared their undying and desperate love for each other, refused to heed any
and all warnings about ‘why so fast?’, and gotten married.
Only to realise, almost as soon as the first night was over, that they had
absolutely nothing in common. Tastes, hobbies, idealisms, hopes, dreams:
nothing. Sometimes John wondered about it with incredulity: what had he
actually seen in Mary? He wasn’t even sure that he lusted her, let alone loved
her. Had it not been his life, his real life, he would have snorted at the
circumstance of their romance as being as unrealistic as a fairytale, with him
at least, if not both of them, as being under a spell of the most controlled
and evil kind.
The only good thing was that Mary had immediately gotten pregnant, and that at
least gave them both something to focus on, something to have in common. That
baby boy, and it was a boy, he felt sure it was a boy: that baby boy held both
their hopes and dreams and would give them a strong base as a family. But it
had turned out that the foundations were as shaky as he had too belatedly
realised, as, precisely on the last day of the second trimester, Mary had begun
to bleed and the loss of the tiny life had taken with it everything else.
His wife had blamed herself for the child only surviving for exactly six
months, and, although John tried not to, he blamed her too. They had both
mourned the loss of their son, for Mary had also been sure the child was a boy
and she was desperately upset for the loss of her ‘angel’. And what shared
future they might have had; what combination of dreams they might have had,
disintegrated to dust in between their tearful blinks and left them both
miserable, unable to talk properly to each other, drowning in their own
individual grief.
Which was why he didn’t want to go home. Because his wife would be there. But
only physically as her mind, even three years later, was still devoted to
thoughts of wherever their son had gone. But he supposed he had to, although he
had so often felt so much like just driving past and away and never returning.
With a sigh he opened the front door. He could hear the little sobs, the low
sniffles. Again. And suddenly he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Come on, let’s go for a drive.”
And to his surprise, she blew her nose and agreed.
John didn’t know where they were going. But they went. Eventually they found
themselves following a steady stream of cars: to where, they had no idea. But
they followed them anyway and eventually found themselves parking in a rough
field outside a weathered old barn that had a sign on it.
‘SLAVE AUCTION TONIGHT.’
Mary hissed: “These things should be banned. Disgusting.”
John nodded, but they were trapped against the tide of cars pulling in through
the gate. Just for something to say out loud, he murmured: “To be fair, I’ve
never even been to one.”
“Actually, me neither.” His wife admitted.
So somehow they were getting out of the car and joining the murmuring throng
crowding into the smelly old barn to see the viewing pens.
It was obvious from some of the comments around them that there was a definite
mixture of humanity there for that evening’s transactions. Some like them,
disgusted but drawn in like moths to an open flame. Others eyeing the lots with
practised eyes, picking out the perfect, and hopefully cheapest, prize. Some
there out of pity, hoping perhaps to be good Samaritans and rescue the
helpless. Men and women in suits, from big businesses, wanting strong bodies
for a forced workforce. Others, smartly dressed, reason for being there
unobvious.
And in the pens were the slaves: men and women, mostly dressed in ragged old
clothing. But all dressed as there was no such thing as a legal sex slave
trade. Some young and still fit, others in later life and worn out, sold on as
their usefulness to their previous masters and mistresses ended. A few still
hopeful of finding a good life even as a slave: most sullen with sunken eyes
and overcome with despair.
John felt Mary take his hand as they wandered the pens. He understood and held
hers tight: no matter how badly things were going for them, at least what they
had was better than this. Nobody deserved this. What could have driven these
poor souls to choose this?
They had all but had enough, couldn’t stomach any more, when they found
themselves beside the smallest temporary pen right at the rear of the barn.
John half recognised the elderly couple standing on the opposite side of it:
they had been the subject of a lot of local rumours since not only were they
newcomers to their small town, but also as they were obviously both in their
late fifties or perhaps early sixties yet had a little daughter who had just
started at school with the son of one of John’s friends.
John and Mary could see the excitement in both of their eyes as they studied
the occupants inside the metal barriers. It was human instinct to look and see
what had caught their attention. Both caught their breath as they saw.
There were five children in the cage. Five young children.
“Oh John.” He could almost hear his wife’s heart through the air, it had
suddenly begun to pump so loud and so fast in her chest. Or was that just his
own?
The five were raggedy and thin. They huddled together in the furthest corner
away from the noise and interested eyes examining them as nothing more than
commodities. There were two older ones, both boys, each perhaps five or six
years old. One little girl: she could have two or three years old although it
was hard to tell because she was so unnaturally small. There was a curly haired
little one who was barely past the toddler stage, still plump from that stage
of his life. And although they all must have been terrified of what was
happening around them, and all had marks on them that looked suspiciously, in
even that dim light, like bruises from fists, they were all being kept calm by
the fifth child.
It was this one that both the Winchester’s had instantly been drawn to. He was
small. Smaller than the other two boys, probably no older than the girl whose
small body he had his arm protectively around. The toddler was lying clumsily
half across his lap, managing to sleep away the horror of the auction due to
the security and sense of protection that that other was somehow managing to
convey as he absently rubbed his back. The watching adults could hear his
whispered murmurs to the other children: “It’ll be ‘kay. We’ll find all of us
‘gain. We’ll do it. You’ll see.”
Sensing the interest of the adults he looked up and straight at them: John
caught his breath as the boy’s eyes glittered in the harsh lighting and
revealed them to be green: a soft meadow-sweet green that precisely matched the
colour of Mary’s. The child somehow had a look of her about him as well as he
stared at them defiantly and turned away in obvious disdain. ‘I know why you’re
here’ the look managed to convey: ‘are you proud of yourselves?’
As the other children also became aware of the gathering would-be buyers around
them, they huddled in closer to each other and clung together, and to the boy
in the middle, in desperation. And somehow despite the baby hampering his
movements, he managed to get his arms around them all, his mental strength and
courage already shining through for one so young. “We’ll be ‘kay. We knew this
was comin’. We’ll be ‘kay.”
“Look Sarah. She could be a good sister for our Jenny.”
John was roused from his rapt focus on the small green-eyed boy as he half-
heard the whispers of the elderly couple that were now standing beside them. He
couldn’t help feeling guilty about listening to all the gossip despite never
having met them before. “Can I just…. I’m sorry, but….is this where your
daughter came from as well?”
The older woman drew herself up straight and gave him a withering look: “Just
because they’re slaves doesn’t mean they have to be denied a good life! Just
because theirnatural families have let them down, doesn’t mean that’s the way
their life has to stay.”
“No! No.” He hastily agreed. “I just meant… I think it’s wonderful. I really
hope you can help at least one of them. They don’t deservethis.” He gestured at
the enclosure.
The couple glanced at each other and shyly smiled. “We’re considered too old to
adopt.” the woman leant forward and confided. “We tried. For so long. Were
promised and then let down and then, sorry, too old. Then we suddenly realised
that, this way, at least we could help. Even if it’s just one or two. To get
them out of this…” Her voice trailed off as she again watched the small girl as
the child sniffled and huddled even more into the tight arms of John’s boy.
Why had he just thought of him as his boy? John caught his breath as he
realised what he had just done and glanced at Mary. He knew immediately that
she had the same thought echoing in her eyes. And another glance at the
children revealed that the boy was also watching them closely as if trying to
work out the non-verbal communication between them.
And for the first time in a long time, he smiled a genuine smile at his wife
and she returned it. Were they really going to do this? But….just how much
would a small boy cost?
Mary was pulling at the sleeve of one of the traders. “Excuse me. If we want to
bid, how do we go about it?”
“Just register at the table there, ma’am. They’ll take your details and give
you a bidder ID. If you’re successful, you’ve got until 5pm tomorrow to pay.
Only then can you collect their papers, register your ownership and take them,
but our team will help you with that if you’ve never done it before.”
“Thankyou. And can you tell us about the small boy in the middle there. How old
is he?”
The man glanced at the group with a smirk. “Four-five? Handful that one! Took
us months to teach him to kneel respectfully the way most masters expect: the
little shit will rather take the blows than do as he’s told.” His expression
softened suddenly and unexpectedly. “But he gets under your skin. Good with the
others, just look at him, even though he’s one of the smallest we’ve ever had.
Not many kids are sold into slavery, I’m glad to say. Not throughus anyway. I
doubt the boss would get rid of him if he had a choice but his wife’s
insisting.” He shook his head at himself. “Doesn’t do to get too attached. That
answered your question, ma’am?”
“How old is he?”
“Not sure.” He looked at his list. “According to this, he’s nearly three. The
end of next month. Twenty-fourth if his mum was to be believed.”
His duty done, he wandered away to deal with other bidders not noticing the
effect his words had had on Mary and John. Twenty-fourth January! The due date
of the child they had lost. The very day of the very year!
“Do you believe in fate?” Mary whispered.
“I did when I met you and somehow I forgot it again. But now…” And with that,
it was decided.
By the end of that evening, he belonged to them. Or at least, he would as long
as they could raise the payment for him. To both their surprise, and rising
desperate panic, the price had gone far higher than either had expected. It not
only meant the loss of all of their savings, but they would have to go to the
bank first thing and ask for a loan. Or beg and borrow from everyone that they
knew. But somehow they knew they would get it. Somehow he was meant to be
theirs.
“It’s because of his caring nature, they all want him as a son.” Mary whispered
to her husband with tears of joy. “But he’s ours, John. He’s ours!”
But John had been watching the interested eyes around the pen. He had studied
the faces of the other bidders, noted their expressions when they had watched
his boy, was aware of the predatory licking of their lips. It wasn’t only
because of his striking green eyes: it was because the boy himself was already
beautiful, and the auction house worker’s description of him as stubborn and
defiant to all the enquirers, and there were many enquirers about him,
certainly would have helped to tick a lot of boxes that had a dominatory-
inclination. John felt his stomach heave at the thought of the life his boy
might have had. Might still have if they couldn’t raise the payment for him in
time.
He had been the last of the children to be sold and was obviously the one who
had attracted the most interest, which was lucky for the elderly couple as they
had managed to purchase their second little daughter for not too high a price.
The toddler had been purposely woken up and, to the accompaniment of much
derisive laughter and insults aimed at the staff, had promptly screamed the
barn down proving he had a fantastic pair of lungs. The auction staff had
eventually given up and called the little blonde green-eyed boy into the ring
to come and comfort him, which he had managed to within a few minutes, holding
the baby tight and whispering soothing words into his ear until he had settled
back to a sniffly, snotty sleep in his arms. It was all he could do to carry
the child out again, but he wouldn’t give in or let go until he and his heavy,
half-his-size charge were safely out of that fishbowl arena with all its
watching eyes.
There were only a couple of small bids for the baby: after all he was so young
that he would mean a lot of hassle and expense. But when it was all over, both
John and Mary were thrilled to see that his buyers had been the same couple who
had bought the little girl. At least they would be together. Even as the man
paid for them, the woman knelt down to their little boy and whispered to him a
promise to look after them both and give them a good life. Even John’s eyes
watered as the green eyes shone with relief and hope.
The two older boys had both been brought by a business man in a suit. They
would be on their way to a factory somewhere. John hoped that it would be one
of the better ones that followed safety legislations and looked after the
worker’s needs. He did a quick calculation and realised that their boy had cost
as much as the other four put together. And more than all but the strongest
youngest adults.
They managed to get the rest of the money from the bank. Neither wanted anyone
else to know what it was really for so they had to tell a lot of little white
lies. And a few outright big ones. And they had decided during a long excited
conservation that had lasted most of the intervening night that they should
move somewhere else where they weren’t known, preferably to a house they could
better afford so they could pay the debt off as quickly as possible. One that
could properly be a family home. Lawrence seemed a good place to start looking.
But all that could wait until after Christmas for they had a son to pick up.
He was on his own in the pen when they returned. He had obviously spent the
night in it alone. There was just one thin blanket to give him warmth, no sign
of food, he had nothing but the clothes he was wearing, the same ones he had
had on the previous evening. Once sold, the slave traders had no more
responsibility towards him. He had spent the night alone in a pen in an old
barn in December. But he stood straight and stubbornly proud to watch as they
walked back through the entrance, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
It went through John’s head that, despite the boy’s age, he not only fully
understood what was happening to him, but he had been watching them the
previous night as they had bought him and was waiting for them.
“Four-five! What should you be doing?”
Both John and Mary stared at their boy as he reluctantly obeyed the trader and
knelt where he stood, sitting up on his heels so he could still see through the
horizontal bars, his hands resting on the sides of his thighs.
“It’s okay, boy. We won’t hurt you.” John tried to convey the truth of his
words by keeping his tone gentle. But Mary was already climbing over the bars
and throwing her arms around their child with a larger smile than John could
ever remember seeing on her face even before their marriage.
“We’ve bought you! You’re safe now. We’re going to be your mom and dad!” And
with those words, she was picking him up in a tight unbreakable hug, carrying
him back over the bars and heading for their car without a backwards glance at
anyone.
“Here’ya sir.” And John was being handed his receipt and bill of sale, the
newly amended deeds that he had signed and now showed him to be the boy’s new
owner, and the required medical documents that by law meant that any slave for
sale had to be examined by a government licensed medical official and any
health issues be recorded along with any identifying marks of both natural and
deliberately caused origins.
He also was given the child’s dog tag that would have to be kept with the
paperwork and gave his identification number from that particular auction
house: 451140. Although his full slave number stored in the national archive of
slave records would probably be seven or even eight digits long, and both of
them would be recorded on the microchip surgically inserted in beneath his
spinal cord as well as on the small tattoo beneath one of his arm pits.
“They’re putting all your details in to the computer system now sir, so, if
he’s picked up anywhere that he shouldn’t be he will be returned directly to
you.”
“You expecting him to run away?”
The trader paused, looked across at his wife, then turned his body enough to
say his next words directly to John without any chance of them being overheard
or interpreted by anyone watching.
“I’m the owner of this auction house, sir. And given my choice, I would have
kept Four-five. He can be sweet, if you get my drift. Especially when I
promised to make sure that his friends were sold to a reputable firm: you
probably didn’t notice some of the other would-be buyers complaining that I’d
not seen their bids in time. But no, instead they’re going to a good ranch in
Texas: they’ll be treated hard but fair, have schooling, good meals, they’ll be
okay. And the two little ones? Well, I saw that couple and their ‘daughter’
around the town when I fetched some supplies yesterday. Recognised the little
girl from when I sold her last year. She looks good, happy. I deliberately
ignored one of the farmers who wanted her; why he would want a little girl....”
“How do you mean, sweet?” it was the only word that John had really heard.
“Sweet enough that my wife warned me to get rid or else! Something about that
one, his head’s far older than his body somehow. And he’s quick. Don’t let him
fool you, he don’t miss nuttin’ and he’s a good little actor. And stubborn as
shit.
No.” He finally returned to the first question. “I’m not expecting him to run
away. But he attracted a lot of interest in the sale. And last year, I got
offers for him when he wasn’t one of the lots. Good offers! And some of the
buyers tonight: they don’t usually come to small sales like mine. You might
have outbid them, sir, but not all like to lose. That’s just my advice, sir.”
And with a smile he was walking away to see to the final few owners waiting to
take their purchases. John stared after him, then walked across to join his
wife and their new son who were both in the rear seat of the car.
“What we going to name him: he can’t be Four-five!?”
Mary looked at him flirtaciously: for the first time in three years he felt his
body respond without needing manipulation. “I was thinking, maybe ‘Dean’?
That’s what I was hoping to name....”
John grunted. “Dean is good. You okay with that, boy?”
The green eyes stared into his through the rear-view mirror, then the child
nodded with a small smile.
“Dean it is, then.”
So they took him home, kept him a secret at first in their old house but
proclaimed him proudly as their son once they had moved to Lawrence. And
settled into life as a family, although it took some time to convince the boy
tonot kneel every time John entered the room.
It was obvious that he loved Mary immediately from that first moment she had
hugged him in the dirty enclosure. And she him: they somehow had formed a bond
that couldn’t have been closer if they were naturally mother and son.
Too close of a bond. He would follow Mary everywhere if he were allowed and she
would have to chase him out of the house to go and make friends with the local
children. So close a bond that John never fully felt part of it, never got to
feel that Dean was properly his. And while he had hoped that it would repair
their marriage, it hadn’t. The purchase of the boy had repaired his wife and he
was glad to see her happy, but there was still something missing in their
relationship. If he were honest with himself, he still couldn’t see why he had
married her.
He could understand it from the boy’s side in a way: sometimes in unguarded
moments, which on one so young were worryingly few, he would catch the little
boy’s eyes shining and know he was thinking of another set of faces. Of another
family formed naturally through blood. And whether he had been loved or treated
well by them made no difference: that was where his heart called him to be.
Not to be at the auction house or the life he had had there. No, that was why
he was so good and obedient, why he tried so hard to be the perfect son.
However much he loved Mary, however much he tried to love John, he knew he had
to be good. And he had to be good because, always, always, at the back of his
mind would be the doubt that if he messed up, he might be returned as unwanted.
So John gradually went back to staying out for late night drinks after work, or
just not returning for a day or two, or three, because he knew that Mary would
be alright as she had Dean. Her Dean.
That’s not to say that occasionally life wasn’t good. And it was in one of
those brief spells that another baby was conceived, and as they were both so
desperate not to lose this one John became fine with Dean constantly being at
his wife’s side, ready and willing to assist with everything.
If they could have this son, because again, he knew it was a boy, then perhaps
everything might be complete. He could be a real father to this real son, and
life would get better for the Winchester’s. He was sure of it.
***** IT’S ALL BEEN A LIE *****
Sam Winchester stared at the paperwork in his hands. He just couldn’t take it
in, couldn’t takeany of it in. Twenty fours ago, just twenty four hours ago,
his life had been so different. Everything had been so different. He just
couldn’t take it in, couldn’t even begin to compute it. How could this be?
Where could he even start to deal with this? How could he possibly deal with
this? How could he possibly be expected to deal with this?
He stared blankly at the papers in his hands. This was impossible. It
wasimpossible. How could this be? This had to be wrong; a mistake; a really,
really sick joke. What sort of joke was this? But a glance at his brother’s
face told him that this was no joke. So it had to be a mistake. It had to be.
Otherwise... He couldn’t deal with this. There was noway he could deal with
this. Not after the last twenty four hours.
Twenty four hours ago he had had a father and a brother. A brother lying in a
hospital bed with his internal organs all but ripped apart inside him. A
brother whose soul was trying desperately to hide from a reaper. Because he was
dying, Sam’s brother was dying.
Twenty four hours ago, he had been praying for Dean to survive. For a miracle.
For anything that wouldn’t take his loud, annoying, beloved beautiful big
brother from him.
And twenty four hours ago he had been fighting with his father, a father who
had been more concerned with finally getting revenge on the thing that had
killed Sam’s mother and girlfriend than he had in staying beside his eldest’s
son bedside as he lost the battle against death.
Or at least Sam had thought his father hadn’t been concerned about Dean.
Not until his brother’s injuries, horrific unnatural injuries, had suddenly and
mysteriously repaired themselves and he had opened his eyes to smile at Sam.
Only for them both to break down and cry a few minutes later when their
father’s body had been found in another room. Attempts of resuscitation by the
emergency team had been futile. But Sam had immediately known that: the
coincidence had been too strong. One life had been used as payment for another.
And he had never felt such grief in all his life.
And he had never felt such shame.
Because his immediate reaction, and he didn’t even want to admit it to himself,
was a surge of relief that it had been his father. Because if he had had to
choose between the only two members of his family that he had left, then he
would have chosen to keep his brother without hesitation; he would have clung
tightly to Dean every time.
Even if he had known it would have meant losing his father, he knew he couldn’t
lose Dean. The pain of watching him in that hospital bed had been worse than
anything that Sam had ever known. It had even knocked the pain of losing Jess
into second place. And losing his father came a distant third.
But this? He didn’t know how to deal with this!
He stared at the paperwork again. He still couldn’t take it in. How could this
be?
He turned in his seat in Bobby’s small kitchen and looked at Dean who had been
watching him anxiously since he had shown him the papers that he now had
scrunched in his large hand. Sam had never seen Dean so anxious before. Well,
he quickly corrected himself, that wasn’t quite true: Dean had been anxious
ever since he had come to find his younger brother after their father had gone
missing. For the first time Sam properly realised why.
And John hadn’t been their father. He had been Sam’s father.
Because Deanwasn’t his brother. He was a slave. A legally bought slave. Bought
as a child. Rescued by his parents. No. Rescued by Sam’s parents from a life
that would probably have been unbelievably cruel and horrific. But he was a
slave nevertheless.
And the paperwork that Sam now held was literally Dean’s life in his hands.
Because, on the death of a master, his or her beneficiary had just seven days
to register their claim on the now ownerless slave before the authorities
would, without any doubt or leeway whatsoever, send bounty hunters to forcibly
retrieve the slave and throw them back to the nearest Auction House to be sold
on in the next sale.
So Sam stared at the paperwork in his hand. The paperwork that Dean had
hesitated to bring to him from where their, no, Sam’s, father had left it
stored away safely at Bobby’s in case of need. But he had brought it to him as
he needed Sam to know. He needed him to decide what he was going to do about
it.
If anything.
Because Sam now only had six days left to decide whether to sign to take
ownership of the very existence of his brother.
Or not.
So he stared at the paperwork in his hand. While his brother. No. While his
slave knelt anxiously at his feet and watched his lack of comprehension at the
events of the last twenty four hours.
“Sam?”
He couldn’t believe the complete change in Dean’s voice. How worried, and
scared he sounded. How afraid he was of what would happen if Sam didn’t sign
those papers in time.
“I... Please.... I have to ... It’s important that you decide quickly. ‘Cos the
nearest regional registration office is a full day’s drive away..... I.” Dean
stopped talking suddenly. Sam watched as his face turned white and his
expression filled with fear as the thought struck and sunk deep into his soul.
“Unless you don’t want to keep me? Sam, do you not want to keep me?”
***** THE ORDER GIVEN *****
Dean sat on the steps outside Bobby’s house with his head in his hands. He had
dreaded this day. Dreaded it for years. John had given him strict instructions
to never tell Sam the truth until he had no choice, but... Well, that was great
for John because he would be dead.
John wouldn’t have to face Sam. Wouldn’t have to tell Sam. Wouldn’t have to ask
Sam. Wouldn’t have to beg Sam.
But perhaps Dean wouldn’t even bother begging. He could still see his brother’s
face from just a little while ago and okay, so Dean hadn’t known how to tell
him or even where to start, and he had probably messed the whole thing up like
he usually did by just giving him the paperwork to look through because if
there was one thing that Sammy was good at, it was looking through paperwork.
But... His expression when he had realised what he was looking at... There had
been no surprise; no questions; no anger at Dean for keeping this a secret: he
had had no emotion at all that Dean could see. He had just looked at the papers
and looked at Dean, and looked at the paperwork some more. All without a
flicker of anything. All without saying a single word.
So perhaps he didn’t want to keep Dean.
And Dean supposed he couldn’t blame him for that. Sam was clever. He could go
back to College. He was determined to go back to College. He should go back to
College. And in no way would having a slave be anything but a burden if he did.
Of course he wasn’t even considering keeping Dean.
Dean was being stupid. Possibly, probably, John hadn’t even intended for him to
ever tell Sam the truth. Perhaps he had just meant for Dean to simply collect
his paperwork and return to the nearest Auction House, and just quietly vanish
out of Sam’s life. It would have helped if he had told Dean that. It was
probably the only thing that he didn’t give Dean clear instructions on, about
what to do when John died.
Perhaps he had intended to. But he had died before he could have.
He had died. John had died. The man that Dean had thought of as his dad had
just died. He would always think of him as his dad. And Dean was being selfish,
worrying about himself. No wonder Sam was looking at him so blankly. For it was
him who really had just lost his dad. It had been Sam’s dad who had just died,
and the only response that Dean had had was to present him with the paperwork
that proved he was a nothing. Hell, he hadn’t even tried once to contact Dean
when he had gone away and that was when he thought he had been his brother.
God, Dean had just really messed this up.
He should just go.
That’s what he should do: he should just slip away somewhere out of the way for
the rest of the day, wait until tonight then return to retrieve the paperwork,
his paperwork, and walk until he could cadge a lift to Pierre and hand himself
into the City Hall there. Yeah, that’s what he was going to do.
But.
But if he did that, then how would he manage to keep protecting Sam? That had
been his job, his reason for being allowed to stay with John, for being so well
taken care of by him. And in that last few minutes that he had seen his dad,
(because Dean had called John ‘dad’ for over twenty years and that was going to
be a hard habit to break), that very last time when his dad had slipped into
the hospital room and stood by his bedside while the doctors were still
scratching their heads, mystified by his sudden miraculous recovery. Before he
had put two and two together and realised that he owed John far more than the
original price of his life. When his dad had stood by his bedside and looked at
him with such an unusual expression on his face that Dean had never seen before
from him: almost a mixture of love and pride. Although Dean knew that that
couldn’t have been for him: John must surely have been thinking about Sammy.
And then he had whispered his last ever order to Dean. The order that, if it
were necessary and if there was no other way, that Dean was to kill Sam. And to
be as ‘careful as possible not to get caught, boy’. Because, ironically, a
slave could be as murderously inclined as any free man or woman and get treated
the same by the law, but if they should kill their own master then that was as
near to an immediate death sentence to get as was possible. And that’s what
John had ordered Dean to do: if it became necessary.
So.
Dean frowned. So dad, John, must have been expecting him to stay with Sam. Or
at least try to. Because he would not be able to have a chance of obeying that
order if he was returned to the slave auctions. Even though he really didn’t
want to obey it. So... Perhaps he had been correct to give Sam the deeds.
Although probably he should have waited a couple of days. Tried to bring up the
subject some other way.
Dean sighed and scrubbed at his face with his hands. But he felt slightly
relieved: John must have been wanting him to stay with Sam, or he would have
never given him that final order. So that was what Dean had to try his best to
do. Fight to stay with Sam even if the young man didn’t want him, and hope with
all his heart that it never became necessary enough to kill him.
He was startled by a loud explosion of sound from the interior of the house.
“You gotta be shittin’ me! He’s a slave!?” It was Bobby’s raised voice.
Dean sighed. Obviously Sam had managed to break his silence to talk to him. He
didn’t know what to do so he just stayed where he was.
It was a few minutes before the door opened and the elderly man appeared in the
frame, looking out into the brightness of the afternoon sun. He appeared
relieved to see Dean sitting there, as if he had been worried that he would be
nowhere in sight. Carefully he approached and sat slightly heavily beside Dean
on the steps.
“Sam’s just told me. You okay, boy?”
His tone was low and cautious. Dean didn’t know what to do or say, so he did
neither.
“If I’d known, then... I don’t know, boy. Perhaps I could have adopted you or
something? Got you out of the system.”
Dean stared at him, not sure if he was being serious or not. But he really
appeared to be. “Bobby. You couldn’t have adopted me. A slave is a slave.
Nothing more. Never allowed to be anything more. You’d have got in trouble if
you’d tried. But... Thanks. Thanks for thinking of it.” These last words were
said in little more than an embarrassed mumble.
Bobby huffed. “We’d have found a way, boy. Slavery! Makes me mad. Should never
be. And you! We’d have found a way to hide you, Dean.”
“I know you’d have tried, Bobby. But they’d have been after you. Believe me.”
The other man nodded and blinked back tears. They sat together in a long
silence.
Bobby finally broke it. “So. What happens now? There’s a time limit on being
claimed by a relative of the ....deceased, isn’t there?”
“Seven days from the moment of death.”
“So, we’ve only got just over five whole days left now. And where have you got
to be?”
“Preferably the big Auction House over in Minnesota. It’s also the regional
centre so they’ll have a direct link to the computer systems in Washington.
Pierre’s City Hall might well lose the info in transit, and any delay, no
matter what, will...”
“Will mean that you’re forcibly removed from us.”
Dean shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah.”
“That’s not going to happen, boy. Not on my watch. And your brother knows that
as well. He’s just completely stunned. So am I. He doesn’t know what to do or
think at the moment, but he will, don’t you worry. He just needs a little time
to get his head around it. But don’t you go worrying yourself. You’ve both been
through enough these last few days.”
Despite himself Dean smiled at him. He loved this old man so much. “Thanks
Bobby. Should I go and talk to him, do ya think? Or just...” He trailed off,
uncertain of what to do.
“Just give him a while on his own, boy. Come and help me in the storeroom, I
need some heavy boxes moving and I can’t manage them by myself. That is. If you
don’t mind, boy.”
“No sir.” And Dean was up on his feet, glad to have something to do.
***** IN THE BAR *****
They were still in the storeroom when Sam finally managed to get his thoughts
straight enough to be able to even stand up. He felt like he had been
physically knocked out by a sudden, completely unexpected blow that had struck
right into the centre of his head. He had found himself unable to speak, unable
to think, unable to do anything but stare blankly at those papers that Dean had
so hesitantly asked him to look at. Bobby had had to almost prise them out of
his hands to see what they were.
At College he and Jess had gone on rallies protesting against slavery. They had
attended meetings calling for action to have it finally and permanently
abolished, with no possibility for repeal this time. And all this time, his
brother had been.... Dean had been one of the victims of that evil system.
Still was one of the victims of it. And his own father had been one of the
slave owners that Sam so detested.
Sam felt sick to his stomach. He had had some fights with his dad, but this? If
he had known about this? He would have left years before.
And taken Dean with him.
All those years of watching his brother being spoken to like he was nothing: of
watching him try to please their father and never succeeding; never being good
enough; not fast enough; not capable enough; not training hard enough; not
being anything enough. Sam had hated his father for how he had treated his
brother. And he had gotten angry at Dean for not standing up for himself:
shouted at him so many times that he shouldn’t just blindly do what he was
told, or try to please John because their dad was an ignorant son of a bitch,
and why didn’t Dean just walk out? Why was he so stupid to just put up with it?
Because he didn’t have a choice, Sam now realised. Because he had to take
everything that John threw so unfairly at him. Because he was a slave. Still is
a slave. He wasn’t his brother. He had never been his brother. Just a slave.
Sam felt his legs wobble beneath him and he had to sit down again. He just
couldn’t believe it. He needed some air. He needed to get out of there. He
didn’t care to where.
With a sudden decision he folded the papers that he had all but crushed in his
shaking hands, he had been holding them so hard, and put them safely into his
jacket pocket. He couldn’t bear to even think about them or look at them
anymore, but he knew how important it was not to lose them. The deeds to his
own brother. What the.....? How screwed up was that? He had to get out of
there.
It took all his effort to get out of the chair again and start walking. But
once he had, he couldn’t stop. He had to get out of there. Had to just go
somewhere, anywhere, and think. Think about this calmly before he started
screaming and ranting about his slave-owning father and what he had done.
Because if he did that... well then, John wouldn’t hear him, John wouldn’t care
what he said or thought. No, the only effect it would have is that it would be
even more upsetting for Dean who had loved the man so much, wouldalways love
the man so much, despite everything. And Sam couldn’t bear the thought of
distressing his brother any more than he already must be over the death of
their dad. Because, no matter what, he would always be his dad. And he would
always be his brother. He didn’t need to share blood to be his brother.
So he kept walking. He walked out of the house and into the yard full of old
beat-up cars. Vaguely he noted movement that gave the clue as to where Bobby
and his brother were, but he didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to see
Dean, in case he opened his big stupid mouth and overwhelmed him even more than
he already had. He had seen Dean physically shaking as he had got up from his
position on the floor beside him and silently left the room. Before that he had
noticed his voice stuttering slightly as he had spoken those few words about
having to register the claim before the time limit was reached.
Sam had read numerous cases of slave atrocities during his four years at
Stanford. The barbarism of some of the cases that had come to trial, and the
brutality and injuries inflicted on those who had been found without making it
that far had taken his breath away. Tattoos cut off, microchips carved out.
Often other mutilations so the body could never be traced to a number, and the
number could never be traced to a name of an owner. The only crimes that came
close to paralleling them in the ‘free’ world were the gruesome deeds of some
of the worst serial killers, and there were plenty of documented instances of
those where they had honed their taste for sadistic violence on helpless pets
or slaves.
No wonder Dean was so afraid of being returned. Sam had never,never, in all the
years seen his big brother afraid for his own life. But he was terrified of
this. Sam could see fear in his eyes as he had looked at him. Probably with
very good reason. And there was no way in hell that Sam was going to risk
upsetting him any further by stating aloud his own views of both slavery and of
his goddam bastard, slave-loving, son of a bitch father.
So he turned and walked in the opposite direction. As far to the end of the
cluttered yard as he could, until he had nearly cleared the piles of rust-
buckets and could see the dry and dusty track ahead, stretching out beyond
Bobby’s land until it joined the main road. His eyes wandered aimlessly over
the heaps of old metal and tyres. Would any still work?
That one might be worth trying. And he needed a drink. He desperately needed a
drink. Before he had finished thinking the words, the car had been hotwired and
he was on his way. He wasn’t sure where he was going. Just to anywhere that he
could get a drink and some space to think.
The bar he found was as rough as his emotions. But at least the barman wasn’t
too worried about his youthful looks as long as he had his fake ID with him,
although he did pointedly indicate that Sam should sit in the rear of the room
in one of the darker corners. That suited Sam fine. He took his beer and sat
gratefully at the rough, wooden table, and just allowed his thoughts to consume
all of his attention.
He sat a long time, only stirring from his position twice to get his glass
refilled. He was so deep in his thoughts that it startled him when a tray was
suddenly and carefully placed on his table. A tray complete with a few glasses
full of the most perfectly clear dark amber coloured drink.
He looked up in a slight daze from his beer.
“Don’t worry, son.” A deep, softly spoken, calming voice soothed him. “Only
one’s for you. You look like you could do with something stronger than what
you’ve got.”
Sam stared. The man obviously wasn’t local: he was dressed in a business suit.
A very smart, expensively cut, exquisitely tailored, business suit that showed
off an extremely well-toned figure beneath that belied the man’s maturity. He
must have been in his forties, perhaps even a few years more. His hair was dark
brown and beginning to grey at the temples, but it suited him. He was good-
looking in a chiselled-cut cheek boned sort of way, and his dark eyes were
twinkling as he smiled down at Sam.
“Mind if I join you? You look like you could use a sounding board. And you know
what they say about how it’s easier to talk to a stranger than to a friend...”
He gestured at the chair opposite Sam and the young man found himself nodding.
He studied him as the man sat down: noting his diamond and platinum tie pin,
obviously expensive; the rich musk of his cologne, obviously expensive; his
understated jewellery, a simple plain wedding band on the left hand and a much
larger item on his right, a solid gold signet ring set with some sort of seal
or symbolic crest engraved into it, obviously expensive; his platinum and
diamond cufflinks set with the same symbol, obviously expensive; his gold,
diamond and platinum watch, obviously very expensive.
“They do a very good whisky here in case you’re wondering.” The stranger
motioned to him to try one of the shots and Sam obeyed, taking a careful sip.
His new friend was right, he decided. That was the smoothest whisky he’d ever
drank in his life.
The other sighed reverently as he took a sip from his own glass. “Worth taking
a detour for.” Then he sat back on the rough seat and studied Sam. “Let me
guess. Girl trouble?”
“No.” Sam felt somewhat bound to answer him. “Actually... Actually my father’s
just died. It’s been somewhat of a shock.”
The other was immediately sympathetic. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Had he been
ill?”
“No. It was...right out of the blue. I can’t. I just can’t. And now, there’s
other things. Other things I should have known. Things that should never have
been kept from me. And I can’t deal with it all at the moment, I just can’t.”
“I’m so sorry, son. Have another, you look like you need it.”
Sam gratefully took another glass and savoured the taste.
“I’d have put you as a College boy. There’s something about you that doesn’t
belong here.”
Sam appreciated the attempt to change the subject and grinned. “I was thinking
the same about you. Not the College part, obviously.”
The man smiled, a warm, open smile that lit up his face. “Touché.”
“I was at Stanford for a while.” Sam confided. “But there...was an accident. A
fire. My girlfriend got killed. I couldn’t.... I had to come home. And then
this.”
The man blinked. “Sounds like you’ve really been through it, son.” Thoughtfully
he sipped on his last drink, then motioned to the bartender to come to the
table. Sam noted absently that this was a different man that he had brought his
drinks from. To his surprise, after he had poured the drinks, the barman didn’t
return to his station but stayed standing waiting quietly beside their table.
But his new friend was picking up two glasses and handing one to Sam as if to
make a toast. “To your girlfriend and your father, may they rest in peace.” Sam
felt like arguing about the latter, but he appreciated the sentiment as he
downed the drink.
“So then,” the man commented as he reached for another shot. “Will you be
returning to your studies at Stanford? You must be a clever young man.”
“I got a full scholarship” Sam admitted. “I’d like to. It’s my dream to. But
I’ve missed over a year already and...things have gotten very complicated.”
“I’m sure it would make your father proud if you did.”
Sam snorted despite himself. “Him? He hated it. Told me never to come back if I
went.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“Believe it!” Sam couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. “He tried to stop
me! I left and hoped never to go back. And now I find out that he’d been lying
to me my whole life! And forcing my brother to as well! I’m so mad at him I
could...!” He stopped. He hadn’t meant to say all of that. But the other’s eyes
were sympathetic and friendly.
“Sounds serious.” He offered another drink. The glasses were refilled.
“I’m sure your father would have been proud. I’m a father myself: we don’t
always say or show what we mean in the right way. But I bet he would have been
very proud of you once you’d graduated. Why don’t you try and go back?”
“I’d love to. But. Would I be able to? And if I’ve lost the scholarship... I’d
never be able to afford it.”
“You could find out. Go back. You’ve just told me the only one holding you back
was your father... Go and find out, Sam.”
Sam felt the hope begin to rise inside him as he had another whisky, then
despair as it immediately crashed again. “I can’t. There’s another complication
now. And I’ve probably lost the scholarship anyway.” ‘A yellow-eyed demon’ he
wanted to add. ‘I’m gonna kill a yellow-eyed demon before I think about doing
anything else.’
Miserably he sought another glass of whisky. His new friend nodded at him to
take one but seemed deep in thought as they both drank. “How much would it
cost?”
“Excuse me?”
“To finish at Stanford? Thirty grand a year? Fifty? How many years?”
“I. I’m not sure. I’ve lost a year so...”
“I like you, Sam. I’d like to see you graduate and make something of yourself.
I’ll pay. Whenever you decide to go back, I’ll pay.”
Sam stared at him, ready to laugh. But the man seemed serious. “That’s...
that’s ridiculous!”
“I’m serious. I’d like to see you make something of yourself. I’m a good judge
of character and I think that you would. Make your old man proud. Or spit in
his face, whichever incentive you want. But I’m serious, I can afford it and
I’ll pay when you decide to go back.”
Sam didn’t know what to say. “But. No! That’s incredible of you to offer, but I
could never pay that back. I don’t even know you, and I could never pay that
back!”
The other man hmphed and sat back in his chair, then almost immediately leant
forward again, his dark brown eyes open and wide. “So we’ll not make it a debt.
Sell me something. What have you got? I’ll buy it for enough that you can
finish at Stanford!”
Sam was overwhelmed by his generosity. “I don’t have anything. Seriously,
nothing.”
“You must have something, Sam. Your father’s belongings, didn’t he leave you
anything? Anything you could sell for your future? And graduating Stanford
would give you an incredible future, it really would!”
“ I...I.” Sam was flustered, trying to think clearly through the happy haze of
whisky he was now in. “There’s nothing. He left me nothing! He had nothing! His
old truck I suppose. And he’d already given the car to my brother but that got
wrecked in the crash.”
“Dean crashed?” The man was sitting forwards in his seat.
“I crashed! I wrecked his car! Oh god, he’s there at the yard now. I bet he’s
found it! I should go.” He began to try and get up, felt a wave of drunken
dizziness and sat down again.
“Hold on Sam, because we’re still trying to think this through. There must be
something you can sell. It doesn’t have to be important. Can be something,
anything, that you wouldn’t even miss.” Was it Sam’s imagination or was the
tone of the man’s voice slightly sharper than it had been? “Are you sure you’ve
gone through all your father’s papers? There might be something you’ve missed.
Some old paperwork that you haven’t read properly yet.”
Sam was frowning. There was something niggling him at the back of his whisky-
soaked mind. What was it?
His drinking friend noticed and sat back in his seat again with a sigh and an
easy smile once again. “I’m getting too pushy, aren’t I? Sorry, I just like to
help people that I feel would appreciate it. And I like you, Sam, I feel you
would appreciate it and really make something of yourself. It sounds like
you’ve been through enough already. You deserve a good life. Isn’t there
something you could think about selling...”
“There’s nothing.” Sam shifted in his seat, he was getting uncomfortable about
something and he didn’t know what. The movement caused his jacket to catch on
the table, the crumpled deeds that he had stuffed into his pocket rustling as
they were crushed even more. He noticed the other man’s eyebrows shooting up in
response to the sound.
He didn’t want to pull the paperwork out of his pocket, but somehow the
inquiring expression on the face of the man made him do so. That and the new
glass of whisky that he was pouring for him.
“He only left... this. I can’t believe...this.”
“Aren’t those...?” The other was now leaning forward, recognising the
distinctive style and lettering on the forms. “You have a slave, Sam! Would he
be enough to pay for your education?”
“Oh no! I couldn’t do that! I would never do that!” Sam was aghast at the
thought. “I never even knew he was... It’s come as a shock.”
“It must have done. But...don’t you see, Sam. You do have something you can
sell! To pay for your education. Give you an amazing life. Make your father
proud!”
“But. No! I couldn’t do that. It...He’s. ..No.” Sam’s head was now pounding. He
wanted to stand up, but wasn’t sure if he could. How much whisky had he drunk?
Definitely way too much .And there was something, something that was screaming
at him from somewhere inside his head that he should have noticed, something he
was missing, something important.
“Come on Sam. Think it through. You’re obviously an intelligent young man.” The
man’s voice turned very persuasive: “You canbe something. Your brother would
understand that: he’d be pleased for you. Sell Dean to me and I’ll give you
enough money for you to go back to Stanford and fulfil your dreams. All your
dreams.”
Don’t be ridiculous, Sam thought. He’d never sell Dean...
And there it was suddenly: that thing that had been nagging at him. How did
this man know Dean’s name? How did he know Sam’s name? Sam couldn’t remember
telling him his own. But he was damned sure that he hadn’t mentioned Dean’s. Or
that his brother was the slave in question...
Desperately he tried to get himself sober enough to get to his feet and stay
there. “I think I better go. I’ve drunk far too much. I think I better call my
brother to come and get me.”
Even as he was saying the words he was looking around the bar for the first
time since he’d arrived. And he was suddenly realising that all the locals had
gone, every single one. Even though it was now early evening and people would
be dropping in for a ‘quick one’ before heading home. The original barman had
gone. And the only people in that entire room were the well-dressed but now not
so pleasant stranger sitting with him; the man standing to attention beside
them and another watching attentively from a separate table that Sam hadn’t
previously noticed, but who were obviously both with his drinking companion,
and Sam himself. And another man who he suddenly realised had been standing
guard at the door, ensuring that they weren’t interrupted. Shit.
The man leant forward on his chair and put both his elbows on the table,
touching his fingertips together to make an inverted ‘V’. He looked excited,
Sam realised. His dark eyes were glinting with excitement. No, they were
shining in anticipation.
“I think that’s a good idea to call Dean, Sam. It looks like you’ve brought all
his paperwork with you. Or the important bits I’d need anyway. Two hundred
thousand dollars. Straight into your bank. Or however you want to be paid.
That’s a promise, Sam. Call Dean here and I’ll take him with me now.”
“He’s not for sale.” Sam could feel more than the whisky churning in his
stomach now. Far too many whiskies. How could he have been so stupid?
Desperately he began backing away towards the door, hoping he could perhaps
make a run for it despite the fact that he could hardly see clearly now.
“I don’t think you’re listening, Sam. I’m not actually asking you anymore.
You’ve just shown me the deeds. Dean isn’t officially yours, because you
haven’t registered your claim on him yet. Should that paperwork go missing in
the meantime, then he’s up for sale again. I might even get him cheaper! Should
you go missing in the meantime....?
So be sensible and take the offer. I’m an honest man: you’ll get the money if
you just hand the deeds over like a good boy. But I will be taking him with me
today.”
***** TRAPPED *****
Nausea hit Sam hard and he nearly gagged, trying to keep the whisky, whiskies,
down inside his stomach. But it wasn’t just caused by them: it was caused by
the sinking feeling that he had let his brother down. Dean would have known
immediately how important it was to get that paperwork dealt with. That was why
the first thing he had done on returning to Bobby’s was fetch the box with all
their father’s papers in and then he had stood and waited nervously to try and
find the way to get Sam to look at them, hovering around the room until Sam had
all but snapped at him to sit down as ‘he’d only just come out of hospital
himself really and what the hell was all that in his hand?’
Clarity hit Sam even harder than the nausea had. As soon as he had realised
what the paperwork was, what itmeant, he should have been there on the floor
besides his brother hugging him as hard as he could, and assuring him that he
would never be letting him go and that they would be going that day to get this
sorted. But he hadn’t, he’d just sat there. He couldn’t even remember if he had
spoken anything to Dean: he couldn’t recall saying even a single word.
No wonder Dean had looked so....the word upset just didn’t come close enough.
Perhaps broken, but that would be the last word that Sam would ever think of
using to describe his brother. He had gone dead white, almost as pale as when
he had been lying in that hospital bed so short a time before, he had even
stumbled a little as he had stood up, and Sam would never forget how his
brother seemed to be trembling as he had quietly left the room.
Sam had been concerned about him as he had watched him walk away. He should
have gone after him, but he had just been so stunned by the revelation of what
he was to be able to think clearly. And now Dean probably thought that he
didn’t care, that he didn’t want to keep him. That he’d sell him to a man like
this.
The first thing Sam had to do was find Dean and put him right.
No. The first thing he had to do was get himself out of this situation that he
had been so stupid as to have got himself into. Not for the first time in his
life did he wish with all his heart that his brother was there.
“Sam? You okay?”
Tears prickled in his eyes as he realised that yet again his prayers had been
answered. Then they were immediately blinked back as he caught the expression
in the stranger’s face as Dean moved fully into the room, putting himself
protectively between his younger brother and danger.
And it was danger. Sam had faced monsters before, but the predatory self-
satisfied look on this man’s face as it settled on his brother took Sam’s
breath away with fear.
“Sam. Why don’t you go and wait outside? Get some air.”
For a moment he almost did, he was so used to following Dean’s instructions
without question. But something about that look on the man’s face made him
desperate to get his brother out of there as well, so instead he reached out to
touch his slightly wandering hand to Dean’s shoulder. “We’ll go together.”
“You can go, Sam.” His drinking buddy wasn’t even looking at him any more: his
intense gaze was fixed solidly on Dean. “Just leave the papers. You’ll get your
money, don’t worry.”
Even as Sam was snapping his response, he noted Dean’s shoulders drooping a
little at the man’s words: “I told you already, he’s not for sale. He will
never be for sale.”
“Oh Sam. And I thought you were intelligent.” The smartly dressed man was
getting up to walk around the table towards Dean, his men unobtrusively
shadowing him, both heavily muscled and lean. Why had Sam not realised that
they were goons? Why had he not noticed them arriving? “You tell him, Dean.
Make him listen. I’ve made a good offer for you, it will set him up for life. I
was hoping he wasn’t going to be as obstinate as John.”
The man was tall, Sam realised suddenly. As tall as he himself was and a good
three or four inches taller than his brother as he came to a stop right in
front of Dean, looking down at him with that same self-satisfied, predatory,
lustful expression on his face that he had had since the moment Dean had come
into the room. And he was fit beneath that suit. Sam had noticed he was toned,
but he was fit. He stepped forward deliberately right into Dean’s personal
space, forcing the smaller man to look up at him. But Dean didn’t flinch or
back away from the intrusion, instead he drew himself up to his full height
defiantly and stood his ground.
He didn’t move even when the other deliberately ran the back of his manicured
fingers gently down Dean’s cheek in a seductive caress. “Look at you. Not many
get better with age, Dean. I gave up buying beautiful little boys a long time
ago, they too often disappoint by growing into ugly young men. But you? I
should have followed my instinct all those years ago and kept bidding. Those
eyes.” He kept his hand resting gently against Dean’s jaw as he leant down so
close that he could stare down into the deep green well of them, their noses
almost brushing against each other’s. “And those nights when you had to pay
John’s debts for him? You give addiction a bad name, Dean.”
Sam exclaimed and started forward, but his brother, without looking, swung his
right hand behind him and up to meet Sam’s chest hard and stop him in a
definite gesture of warning.
“Listen to your brother, Sam.” Neither of them turned to look at him. “Go back
to your studies. Leave the deeds on the table behind you.”
“Go to hell. And get your hands off him.”
The man smirked. “You have no ideas about how to handle a slave, do you?” His
hand moved suddenly to roughly grasp a handful of short hair at the back of
Dean’s head, pulling it and him backwards and down in a painful and unnatural
arch of his body. Dean couldn’t help giving a grunt of pain but his only other
response was to keep his hand tight against Sam’s chest to stop him from
drunkenly rushing in.
“That’s right, Dean. Control your brother.” His eyes glittered towards Sam to
watch his reaction as he flattened his tongue and slowly and sensually licked
up Dean’s exposed neck and around to his left ear. Sam expected Dean to explode
with anger at the unwanted explicit touch, but he didn’t move a muscle apart
from his left hand tightening into a ball of angry, white-knuckled tension by
his side.
Nor did he didn’t react when the man moved his mouth down to his Adam’s apple
and nibbled at it. Not even when he caught the skin beneath between his
surgically perfect white teeth and bit Dean hard enough to make him flinch.
Still he didn’t respond.
Sam was sobering up fast, and he had never been so angry in all his life. How
dare this man humiliate his brother like this? But still Dean’s hand held firm
against his chest as if to warn him from interfering.
“Mmm. You taste as good as I remember. Was John satisfied with that twelfth
century samurai sword I smuggled into the country for him?” Again a long slow
lick up the other side of Dean’s neck, the tongue finding its way into his ear
to begin exploring, the man’s entire mouth covering it with moist warm droplets
of breath. “I’m having my bedroom remodelled to keep you in. Everything we’ll
need will be in there, you won’t ever have to leave it. We won’t ever have to
leave it. Unless you’ve been really, really good and you deserve a reward… But
you’d have to prove to me how good you can be.” His lips left Dean’s neck to
hover above his mouth. “Once you’re mine, I intend to spend every minute of
every day inside you.”
Dean finally responded, his voice rasping slightly from the painful position he
was being held in by the man’s tight grip. “I bet your wife would love that.”
“She won’t care as long as she gets her pretty things. It’s not only slaves who
can be bought. Expensive jewellery, the cost of a good education. Talk some
sense into your brother, Dean. Be the means for him to make something from his
life.”
Sam finally exploded in temper, Dean wasnot going to hold him back anymore.
“He’s not for sale! He will never be for sale as long as I’m alive!” He winced
as Dean’s hand against his chest suddenly fisted into a tight warning grip on
his shirt and the skin beneath.
At the same time his still slightly fuzzy whisky-fused vision cleared enough
for him to realise that there were more than just the three bodyguards in the
bar. The man must have travelled there with an entourage of trained heavies as
one more was stepping out of the shadows in the corners by the rear exit. And
another had been leaning seemingly idly against the wall beside the filthy
window, but now he sprang to attention ready to serve if needed.
The man had come ready to take Dean with him by any means, which meant he and
Dean were heavily outnumbered. His brother would had known how outnumbered they
were as he had stepped in between them, that’s why he was trying to warn him,
and from the unpleasant expression on the businessman’s face, him not being
alive to register the claim on his brother would only serve to save the man the
trouble of having to make the payment.
Of all the stupid things he had done that day, he realised bitterly, making
that statement counted as one of the most stupid.
“How much did he offer you for me, Sammy?” The abruptness of the question
brought both the others attention back to Dean. “Did I hear two hundred
thousand? How long have you got left at Stanford?”
“Dean. Don’t you dare!”
“Three years? More? I know someone who would probably pay half a million, you
should go and talk to him.” He smirked up at his tormentor with satisfaction as
he watched the dark eyes glint with sudden angry understanding. “And to be
honest, I might not mind that deal!”
His grip on his brother’s shirt was ripped away as the impeccably dressed man
finally showed his true colours, grabbing him around the neck with both hands,
picking him up and physically slamming him on his back down onto the nearest
wooden table with an impact that was felt through the floor beneath.
The sudden violence and sheer physicality that manifested in the previously
pleasant man took Sam’s breath away. He wanted to help his brother, to stop
this, but he was now almost sober enough to realise that Dean had provoked this
deliberately to get the attention away from him. All he could do was watch as
his brother’s body was pulled up once more by his neck, shaken violently and
again slammed back down onto the hard unyielding surface beneath.
The other leant right over him, lips drawn back over the perfect white teeth in
a snarl. He was so incensed that he covered Dean with spit: “Has he ever
touched you? Tell me!”
Despite the hands tightening around his throat, Dean croaked a laugh. “Do you
think you’re the only one that John used me as payment for? The man knew a meal
ticket when he had one!”
His laugh was cut off as the grip around his neck ceased suddenly, only for his
right ankle to be seized instead and yanked at sharply, resulting with him
being dragged right off the table and onto the floor, hitting the back of his
head on both as he went down. Even as Dean registered that there was warm
liquid beginning to trickle down to his neck, the hair on the top of his scalp
was caught in a viciously tight grip and he was forced up onto his feet before
again being picked up physically and slammed back down on the table.
“The damned man made you feral. You’ll bloody well learn how to control
yourself or I’ll take great pleasure in beating it out of you. I’ll beat it out
of you anyway.” It was a hiss into his face: the man was so manic that his wide
pupils made his eyes look almost blacker than a demon’s, Dean thought, and
almost twice as frightening.
“You touch him again, ya bastard, and I’ll end ya.” It was Bobby’s voice. Sam
turned in relief.
It wasn’t just Bobby standing in the doorway. The original bartender was there,
and a man who was obviously the owner as well as more than a few local men, all
with rifles and shotguns ready and aimed at the smartly dressed man and his
bodyguards.
Not that he had needed any of them, Sam thought as the man released his grip on
Dean’s throat and took a step away from him. He had shown his own violent
strength and ability in the assault on his brother. Sam hurried around the
other side of the table to help Dean as he tried to get up, wincing as he saw
the fresh blood glinting against the wood and the already blossoming mass of
darkening bruises around his neck.
The man put his hands up with a smile, his face back to the pleasant, jovial
expression that Sam had first seen him wearing. Sam wondered why he had ever
thought the man’s eyes were friendly as the smile didn’t come close to reaching
them. “I’m sorry about that. It was just a little argument that got out of
control.” He was glancing around at his men, shaking his head at them not to
pull any concealed weapons out. A man like that didn’t want his name linked
with any trouble in a rough place like this bar, and there were enough men on
both sides for a lot of blood to be shed.
“Bullshit.” The owner snarled. “Brad called me in a panic. You were paying off
those who were in and threatened him to go, leaving just a boy in there on his
own with you and your men. I raced here and was calling the police when his
brother and Bobby arrived. I wasn’t happy about letting him” with a nod at
Dean, “come in on his own but he insisted. And I don’t like your version of a
friendly argument. Time you settled your bill and left.”
“I brought my own drink with me. I wouldn’t wash my feet in the shit you serve
in here!”
Every single gun in the doorway was now trained on him.
“Still, time to settle up. And don’t forget the tip!”
The smartly dressed man drew himself up, straightened his suit and tie and
nodded to his men to leave. He knew how to be patient. He knew there would be
another time. He moved across to the seats where he and Sam had sat for so long
and retrieved his bottle, handing it to Dean who was sitting up on the table
with his hand to the back of his head, as he passed.
“They reckon wild mustangs are the hardest to break and the most fun to ride,
Dean. I will have you. The offer is now quarter of a million.” His words were
low but clear.
“No deal.” Sam muttered through clenched teeth.
“Think about it.”
He moved to the group of men in the doorway whilst getting his wallet out of
his pocket and thrusting a wad of notes at the owner. “Here, get the place
redecorated. Something tasteful.” He motioned to his men and they followed him
silently out through the doorway past Bobby and the locals.
There was silence as all eyes watched the men leave. Then while the others
laughed and cheered, Bobby was hurrying over to Dean.
“You alright, boy? He was slamming you around pretty good.”
“I’m fine, just sore. You took your sweet time, I was beginning to run out of
ways to stall him!”
“Took longer to round help up than I thought, boy, you were right about how
many we would be up against. And I don’t like your way of stalling him. Looked
like you were taking a pounding to me! Is that blood? Let me see your head!
Jesus, you’ve only just been released from hospital! It’ll need stitches, let’s
get you back home.”
“It’sfine. As long as I was playing sub, he was enjoying showing off. If I’d
fought back, it would have been far worse. If he’d got his men involved, we’d
have been in trouble once he knew he could take me and the proof of ownership.”
“I’m sorry, Dean.” Sam‘s voice was small.
“Not your fault, Sammy.”
Dean stretched his back out and tried not to show the wince, but neither of the
other men missed it. “If you bring Sam, I’ll take the old buick that he used
back.”
“No way you’re driving with that head!” “I’d rather come with you.” The
simultaneous responses were both equally ignored as Dean was already turning
and walking far too upright to be natural out of the bar, wiping his bloody
hand on his denims as he went, and handing the bottle with the last remnants of
extremely expensive whisky to the owner as he passed him.
Sam sighed and began to follow, glad to finally be getting out of that dark
room. Then, as the cooling evening air hit him, the joint effects of recent
events and far too much drink caught up and to his shame he suddenly and
uncontrollably vomited just outside the door. He could hear the grumbles and
jeers from the men who had come to rescue him. “Great, just great!” “Can’t hold
his liquor, poor kid!” “Oh crap, now I’ll have to clear that up.” “Fancy
wasting that good stuff on a kid, where’d that bottle go?”
Then the door was shut behind him, he had a vile taste in his mouth, his
brother and the old car he had borrowed were long gone out of sight and he was
left with Bobby standing glaring at him.
“Great! No wonder Dean volunteered you to drive with me. He’s gone and I’m left
with the idgit!”
***** SO WHO ARE YOU? *****
The journey back to Bobby’s was short enough that Sam managed to keep from
losing anything else from his still unpleasantly churning stomach, but long
enough that he had time to tell the older man everything that had happened in
as much detail as he could remember. Bobby was silent for a long moment when he
had finished.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“So you’re telling me that this man knew about your dad dying and Dean not
being claimed yet? John hasn’t even been dead for forty-eight hours.”
That brought Sam up short. He felt a chill go down his back despite his
pounding head. That man, whoever he was, had come to that bar deliberately.
Because he had known that Sam would be there. He had known who Sam was and how
to find him. His stomach turned again but not from the effects of the whisky
this time.
“And Sam?”
“Yeah Bobby?”
“You serious? He offered quarter of a million dollars for Dean? I don’t know
about the price of slaves but…”
“He was serious, Bobby. And very, very rich. And obviously used to getting what
he wants, and that was the price of me finishing at Stanford, and to be honest,
his watch alone probably cost nearly that, but… Yeah, Bobby, I know. That’s a
hell of a lot of money, I don’t think slaves are usually anything like that!
And he went nuts when Dean mentioned somebody else. I mean really nuts: you saw
the marks he left on his neck. It was like Dean flipped a switch in his brain
when he mentioned him.”
“Do you think Dean knew that would be the reaction?”
“I’m fucking sure of it.”
“Watch your mouth, boy.”
“Sorry Bobby.”
By this time they were pulling into Bobby’s yard. Sam breathed an audible sigh
of relief that hurt his own head when he saw the old car that he had borrowed
sitting where it had previously been. Bobby glanced at him briefly: “Did you
think he wouldn’t come back?”
Sam felt his face redden. “I just. After the way I’ve behaved today. And that
man….touching him in the way he did. Not the violence you saw. But before. Dean
had to take it to protect me. I was just worried that…”
“That he’d run away, Sam? No, I seem to remember that that was more your forte!
You think you’ve got it tough? Well, real father or not, that boy loved your
dad, couldn’t have loved him any more if he was his natural son, and he’s not
only suffering because John’s gone, he’s…well, he’s got all this to deal with
as well. Two days and that man found him. Imagine if he’d taken him. Where is
Dean going to run to with men like that after him?”
Sam felt his shame burn within him. “I think Dean loved dad more than I did.”
he admitted. “Much more. I was just grateful that he had survived. Am I a
terrible person, Bobby?”
Bobby gave a massive sigh and smiled despite his sadness for the boy. Forboth
the boys. “You want my opinion Sam? That boy out there’s been your dad since
the moment he carried you out of that fire. He’s been your big brother, best
friend, baby sitter and dad all wrapped in one. So you’re not a terrible person
for him meaning more to you than John did, Sam. Just… Dean’s needing you to do
right by him. And the sooner the better before whoever this other man is comes
looking as well.”
They were both clambering out of the van by this time. Sam paused as he felt
the world spin on its axis as soon as his feet were on the ground. He took a
moment to steady himself. Bobby looked through the windows of the vehicle and
muttered a cuss beneath his breath before coming round to see if he needed help
walking into the house.
Sam shook his hand off and purposely began to make his way to the door. His
head hurt so much and he had been so useless earlier. He was never going to
drink whisky again. He never even wanted to look at a bottle of the stuff
again! As he gratefully felt the solidity of the doorframe beneath his hand, he
finally felt able to speak.
“As soon as I’ve registered the claim for him, Bobby, I’m going to sort out a
will and leave him to you. At least you’ll know about this and what to do.”
The older man sniffed noisily: “Well boy, I hate to hear you talk about you
dying, but, yeah, good idea.”
Sam was relieved. “I’m gonna brush my teeth and have a shower, and brush my
teeth again. Then can you drive us? Let’s get this done.”
“Sure thing, Sam. As soon as you feel up to it.”
He felt a lot better after he had been upstairs, his head had almost cleared:
all he needed now was coffee, lots of coffee. He wandered back down into the
kitchen to get some, looking through into the sitting room as he did. “Where’s
Dean?”
Bobby was leaning against the counter munching a chicken sandwich. He reached
to fetch the boy a mug as he replied slightly hesitantly: “He hasn’t come in
from the yard yet Sam. I think he needs some time on his own. Here, I made it
fresh.” He turned back round with the full mug to find he was talking to
himself. “Balls.”
It took Sam some time to find his brother. The fading light didn’t help, but
eventually he saw him, kneeling beside some tyres, absolutely motionless,
staring across at the remains of the destroyed Impala.
He didn’t even turn his head to acknowledge Sam as he approached: he just kept
staring at the mangled wreckage, lost deep within his own thoughts. The younger
man carefully lowered himself beside him, stretching his long legs out in
front. He waited for Dean to say something but eventually he had no choice but
to break the silence.
“Do you think it’s fixable?”
Dean stirred and finally turned his head to look at him. “What?”
“The Impala? Do you think you can fix it? Or have I totally destroyed it?”
He was surprised at Dean’s expression: confusion, doubt, disbelief, hope? “Will
I be.… here to get the chance to?”
It was Sam’s turn to go through confusion, then sudden realisation. He twisted
onto his knees and was launching himself at Dean to gather him into the largest
hug he could manage before the other had time to react.
“Of course you’ll be here! I meant what I told that bastard! You’re my brother!
No way I’m selling you, or letting anyone like that take you, Ever! Didn’t you
realise that? Oh god Dean, have you been out here worrying about that? I’m
never letting you go, you’re stuck with me, you moron!”
He felt Dean stiffen slightly . “You really mean that, Sammy? I can stay?” His
voice still sounded unsure.
“Oh god, Dean! You’re not going anywhere without me! Oh, you idiot! How could
you possibly think otherwise?”
“You won’t regret it, Sam. I’ll be good, I promise.”
Sam knelt back on his heels with amazement. Dean was serious. This was a Dean
that he had never seen before and that realisation shook him more than all the
rest of the day’s events put together. He caught his brother’s face between his
hands and made him look straight at him. “You. Are. My. Brother. It don’t
matter you’re not blood, you’re my brother. My big, ugly, can’t-sing-for-toffee
brother.”
“Hey! Not so much of the ugly, bitch!” There was the Dean he knew.
“Jerk!” Sam leant forward, enough to gently touch their foreheads together.
“Dean?”
”Yeah, Sammy?”
“I’m not going to let you go until I get a hug back!”
He felt the snort of laughter rather than heard it, then Dean’s strong arms
were hesitantly coming around him. Quickly he once again wrapped his brother in
a hug, savouring the couple of seconds he knew he could get before Dean got
embarrassed. He was right, the older man almost immediately pulled away again:
nothing had changed there.
“Enough chick-flicking, huh?”
Sam smiled at him and sat back down beside him. “As soon as my stomach can deal
with Bobby’s van’s bad suspension over a long distance, we’re going to get your
registration sorted out. I should have realised how important it was, I’m
sorry, Dean.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Sam. Dad. Your dad didn’t want you to be told. Made
this worse than it should have been.”
“Your dad too, Dean.”
“Okay, Sammy. Thankyou.”
Sam felt his heart hurt a little inside him. This quiet, nervous hesitation was
throwing him. It felt almost that Dean had two personas: the loud, self-assured
confident one that Sam had been used to for all of his life, and suddenly,
underneath, there was another one, that Sam was catching glimpses of and didn’t
recognise at all. Which one was the real him? This was going to take some
getting used to.
“So. Do you reckon you’ll be able to fix the Impala?”
Dean looked at it in the near-gloom of twilight now and shrugged. “I can try.”
“If anyone can, you can.” Sam told him and he meant it. “Come on, let’s get
inside. How’s your head? Blegh!” As he leant to help Dean up and his head and
stomach reminded him that they hadn’t yet fully forgiven him for drinking so
much whisky.
Dean caught at Sam and helped him up. “You okay?” His voice as full of concern
as it always was.
Sam smiled. “Never drinking again! Period!”
“Come on.”
They made their way inside to the warm kitchen, where Bobby had made a couple
more sandwiches and was heating some canned soup on the stove. “Though you boys
might need warming up.” He greeted them with a smile that concealed the fact
that he had been checking through the window for them just about every single
minute since Sam had followed Dean outside. “Dean. Let me see that head of
yours.”
“It’s fine, Bobby. I wrapped one of your ice packs in a towel and was holding
it on it for a while. It’s only a small cut, the blood made it look far worse
than it is. I must have caught it on the edge of the table as he dragged me off
it.”
But he sat and let the older man examine it, because he knew he’d get no peace
until he had. “Hmmph. Still a stitch or two might help. But it’s stopped
bleeding anyway.” He paused, glanced at Sam for approval as he asked. “So who
was he?”
“Nobody that matters.”
“Dean?” Sam had been burning to ask the same question.
The other paused, considered how to answer. “I don’t want you involved, Sam. Or
you Bobby.”
“But...”
Dean sighed. The two other men could tell he didn’t want to answer, didn’t want
to be there at that moment to answer. But eventually he forced himself to speak
again.
“I… They…” He stopped then tried again. “My job was to protect you, Sam, That’s
why I was allowed to stay, dad made that clear. And if I tell you about them,
then I won’t be doing my job. So… No, I’m not going to tell you.”
Defiantly he brought his head up to face them both and waited for whatever
response that might be coming his way.
Sam frowned and sat opposite him at the table. He desperately wanted to know
who that man was today, in fact he had so many questions that he didn’t know
where to start. But his head was already beginning to pound again, and he knew
that Dean’s must be hurting: the cut might not have been as bad as he had first
thought, but the bruised lump beneath his brother’s hair definitely was.
“Okay. But if there comes a time I need to know, then…”
“I’ll tell you immediately. Scout’s honour!”
Despite himself, Sam snorted: “Since when were you a scout? You’d have eaten
all the cookies!”
“That’s girl scouts, Sam.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” He grinned at Dean, but the smile faded as he
again saw a Dean he had never known before: an anxious, serious Dean. On
impulse he reached out and covered his brother’s hand with his own. “I think we
both need something to eat and some sleep, then first thing tomorrow we go and
do this, okay?”
The other nodded. “Okay.”
“You both want soup?” Bobby had decided to take his lead from Sam. The younger
man felt his stomach churn at the thought and winced, but decided to pick at
the sandwich instead. Dean took a bowlful and sipped the thick, hot liquid
carefully. They ate in silence for a while.
“So.” It was no good, Sam couldn’t help himself. “Who are you really?”
Dean paused from scraping the bowl with his spoon and looked at him blankly.
“Your name? What’s your real name?”
“Never had one, Sam.”
“But you must have had one. Before… What did everyone call you? Before you
were…”
“Sold? I was young, Sam. I’ve never known another name but Dean.”
“But you must have!”
Dean sat back in his seat and steeled himself to answer the coming questions
openly even though he didn’t want to. His past was his past: he didn’t want to
think about it, he certainly didn’t want to talk about it. But he owed Sammy
this at least for not pressing him on the previous subject. So: “Four-five. I
remember being called that.”
“What the hell sort of name is that, boy?” Bobby was incredulous.
“It’s a number, Bobby. My number. Initials of the Auction House, then 451140.
That’s me!”
“You gotta be kidding me!?”
But they could both see that he wasn’t.
“Do you have a family?” Sam could barely bring himself to ask.
Dean just shrugged. “I don’t know Sam. I was only young. I’m sorry but I don’t
know.”
“And you’ve never tried to find out?”
Dean sighed but Bobby was already there. “That’s not fair, Sam!”
The younger man reddened in shame. “Sorry Dean. I just…”
“S’okay Sammy.”
Bobby handed him his sandwich and they both watched him begin to eat it in
silence. Eventually he gave up trying to convince himself that the questions
had finished and tried to anticipate the next ones.
“I sort of remember the auction house. I remember Mr Johnson the boss, I
remember him all right. Remember the beatings. I still occasionally have
nightmares about it. I remember your mum and dad buying me: I was willing them
to buy me ‘cos your mom looked so nice. And when she came back the next day to
get me, she just swept me up in her arms and would hardly ever let me go. That
was nice. She was nice. That’s all I really remember of her, but she was nice
and I loved her. And your dad. He treated me right. Shouted a lot and
threatened to send me back occasionally, but he never did.”
“So, how old were you when they bought you?”
Another shrug. “Not sure. Two? Three?”
“It should say on your record! It will have the date of your sale so we can
work it out!” Sam was already fishing in his pocket for the deeds and
paperwork: he swore under his breath at himself when he realised how badly he
had crumpled it all up. The budding lawyer in him was disgusted at how he had
mangled such important documents, and he as Sam was ashamed all over again at
how his casual carelessness of the deeds must have looked to his brother’s
eyes. Carefully he laid them down on the table and began to try and smooth them
out.
“Here’s the date of your sale, in December 1981. And here’s a photostat copy of
your original registration details when you were bought by the House!”
His excitement was short-lived. The copy was barely legible and incomplete:
whoever had sold Dean into slavery hadn’t been bothered to fill most of it in,
or where they had, they had written so faintly that it had faded into nothing
on the duplicate. The only two things clearly readable were the fact that he
was male, and the date of his birth, but it was immediately evident to Sam, and
to Bobby and Dean as they looked over his shoulder on seeing his reaction, that
the latter item had been written over in a much stronger pen, and didn’t seem
to match up to the figures beneath from the scratched, all but illegible,
original date below.
“That’s Mr Johnson’s writing.” Dean recognised it. “Check it with where he
wrote the distinguishing marks section on my medical form.”
He was correct. The auction master had written inappropriately over the
original record to fill in a legible but incorrect date of Dean’s birthday.
“He would have had to put something in,” Dean wasn’t overly concerned. “For
legal reasons. The factories can only buy slaves over five years old so all the
paperwork has to match exactly. If there was a mistake and an underage slave
was sent to a factory, there’d be hell to pay: the House might lose its license
to trade.”
“Yes, but...” This was the last straw for Sam: between his aching head and
stomach, and the terrible events of the last few days, and then this, he could
feel himself wanting to break down and cry. “But they don’t match! What he’s
put in doesn’t match with what was there originally!”
“Well, yeah. He probably made it up. Looks like he picked a date at random. No
big deal, Sam.”
“It is, though, Dean. Itis a big deal!” He was fighting the tears away now that
were accompanied by his migraine-level reaching headache. “That’s not your
birthday! It’s all wrong! All of it! You don’t have a name, or an age, or a
family, or a birthday! All these years, and we’ve even been getting your
birthday wrong! It’s all been wrong, and we don’t know who you are!”
Dean looked at him in consternation then suddenly put his arms tight around his
little brother and held him until the shaking that had accompanied the
increasing hysteria had subsided.
“I know who I am, Sammy. I’m your big brother. I’m Dean Winchester. And unless
you decide you want me to have a different name or be somebody different, well
then, that’s who I damn well am going to be!”
***** THE NEXT DAY *****
They left as early as they could the next morning to get to Minnesota. It would
either be a long day of driving there and back, or mean a stopover somewhere.
Either way it was important they got there.
Sam had got himself so worked up the night before that he had triggered the
start of a migraine. Dean had had to help him up to Bobby’s small guest room
and settle him in the bed with some painkillers. “Sleep it off, Sammy.”
He thought he heard Sam mumble something in the darkened room as he closed the
door behind him. “I love you, Dean.” Nah, that couldn’t have been what his
brother had said, he must have misheard him.
He had returned downstairs to set up the small camping cot bed that they took
turns to sleep on in the main room, though he guessed it would probably be his
exclusively from now on. Now that Sam knew the truth about him.
“Hold on.” And Bobby had made him sit still while he had put a couple of small
neat stitches in the wound on the back of his head and dressed it carefully so
it wouldn’t get infected or catch on anything during the night. Then he had
insisted on examining Dean’s back where it had been smacked hard against the
unyielding wood of the table in the bar. He heard Bobby inhale a deep breath
when he looked but he had no need to ask why: he had felt every painful inch of
the deep coloured, sore bruises with every slight movement that he had made
since the assault that afternoon.
Carefully the old man had strapped him up. “You need rest as well, boy. It’s
been a hell of a day. Here.”
Dean had taken the offered painkillers and the glass of whisky to wash them
down with a grin. “Don’t tell Sam.”
“Our secret.” Bobby’s smile was sad. “Night, son.”
And Dean had tried to sleep, although the small bed was uncomfortable for his
back no matter how he lay, and his neck was so sore, and his head pounded no
matter how slight the contact between the fresh tender lump on his head and the
canvas. But eventually he had managed to drift off.
Only to be woken in the early hours of the morning by the cot suddenly creaking
and dipping to one side as his brother was somehow getting on it with him.
“Sam?”
“Move up.”
“How?”
“Come here then.”
And Sam had pushed and pulled at him until he was being spooned in his arms,
the hammock effect of the bed holding the length of his back fully against
Sam’s chest, the side of his head resting gently on Sam’s bicep with his
brother’s other arm tight around his torso. “Am I hurting your head?”
“Nah. It’s fine.” Dean wasn’t quite sure what was happening, but the warmth
that Sam’s body was giving off was really soothing. He could feel his eyes
closing despite himself.
“Dean? If anyone wants to take you, then they’re going to have to go through
me. Now go back to sleep.” He was only just aware of the whisper as he had
finally slept deeply.
It had been a struggle to slide out of the camping cot a few hours later
without tipping it over or waking Sam up. But he had managed it eventually and
gone for a shower. His entire body hurt so much that the idea of sitting in a
near stationary position in a car all day wasn’t appealing at all, but his
anxiety over being forced back into the slave auctions was enough to over-ride
any obstacle. If Sam and Bobby only knew...
He strapped himself up again as best as he could and went to see if anyone else
was awake. Bobby was in the kitchen gathering supplies for the trip. “How is
Sam in the cot?”
“He was sleepwalking. I took the sofa.” It seemed less strange than the truth.
Perhaps it reallywas the truth? Because otherwise why would Sam have got into
his bed? And for some reason he didn’t want to tell Bobby that he had.
“Hmm. As soon as he’s up, we’ll get going. It’s going to be a long day.”
That turned out to be an understatement. It took a good six hours just to get
there, plus another to find the Auction House. Then while Sam and Bobby dealt
with the registration and his brother filled in the forms, and handed over
proof of his identity as well as of their dad’s death, and signed for new
ownership, Dean had to undergo the medical that every slave hated: an
intrusive, impersonal, intimate perusal and examination of every inch of his
skin, with every new mark, scar and bruise, of which there were many even
before the previous day, noted and for which he had to give an explanation that
didn’t incriminate John as being a brutal and abusive slave owner. And by
implication, his son and new master to be as well.
The medical examiner was less than convinced: “Are you being forced to stay
with him? Is he threatening you? Because this is where you can walk away. He
can be prosecuted if he’s been violent towards you.” He was examining the
remains of the burn just under Dean’s left collarbone with a frown.”This wasn’t
an accident. What was it, a hot poker? A brand of some sort? And that there
looks like a bullet wound for god’s sake. And did he do that to your neck?
Jesus. You don’t have to stay with him if you’re afraid of him: this is your
one chance to get away and take another master.”
“It was an accident. I’m just clumsy. And I want to stay with Sam. Please.” He
remembered to add just in time.
But finally it was over and Sam carefully and reverently placed the new deeds
for his brother into a hard-cased document holder that he had purposely bought
with him. No way was anything happening to these.
By this time it was late in the afternoon. “So.” Bobby asked as they finally
left the huge, imposing soulless building behind them and were walking back to
the old car that he had decided to use that day. “Get a meal, find a motel? Or
just get back?”
The decision turned out to be unanimous. They all just wanted to go home.
***** THE BLACK LIMOUSINE *****
Two days after Sam had registered his claim on Dean, they had a call to say
that the Coroner’s Office was allowing the release of John’s body, cause of
death: 'Unknown', and they could go and collect both it and the full Death
Certificate. (An interim certificate being immediately issued if the deceased
is a slave owner for re-registration purposes and the government department in
Washington given notification of the time of death to the exact minute.)
They had brought his remains back to Bobby’s and given him a proper Hunter’s
Burial. Sam was surprised when many other hunters had somehow known and arrived
to show their support. His father may not have been well liked but he had been
well respected.
He was also surprised by how many of the others Dean knew, and how they were
all immediately and spontaneously coming to comfort him. His brother was well
liked. As well as respected a lot.
For the first time Sam regretted leaving to go to College, because he had
missed out on being a part of this by doing so. It might be a lonely, hard
profession, but it was a community of lone, hard-working professionals. And,
whereas he was getting the customary, meant to be consoling nods and words of
sympathy that were immediately forgotten by both sides, Dean was getting the
promises, the pledges of support at ‘any time’, ‘just you call immediately’,
‘will drop everything’, ‘you keep in touch, do’ya hear’ stipulations that would
help him, the both of them, to get through this and what was to come.
But they were both glad when it was over and the others had drifted back to
wherever they had each been ensconced, leaving only them to watch the remains
finally burn out: just the two of them as it had always been. And Bobby of
course.
It was only then that Sam had finally felt himself tear up: “Did he say
anything to you?” he had asked his brother.
“No. Nothing” had come the response.
The very next day, Dean had gotten up early and begun to work at restoring the
Impala.
He had returned to being more of his normal self after being registered: it was
obvious that the worry of being returned had been a massive strain on his
emotions and the relief that Sam had wanted to keep him even greater, but there
was still a new quietness about him that threw Sam every time.
Whereas Dean previously would always have been doing something: working getting
information on a case; cleaning weaponry; cooking for Sam or helping him with
his homework, (until Sam had overtaken him in just about every subject), or
just general scivvying for their father; Dean was always doing something, and
always doing it full focus.
But now? Sam couldn’t put his finger on it. But there was something different.
The smile was back, although not often. So occasionally was the laughter and
definitely the quick wit. But somehow different. As if the past wasn’t yet
past. The problems of what he was might have been postponed, but it would never
be past. Despite Sam having already been to a local lawyer and making out not
only a will that left his brother to Bobby, but also gave him power of
attourney should anything else that might affect his possession of Dean occur.
It was as if Dean couldn’t relax because he knew that his past would never be
allowed to be past.
He hadn’t spoken a word to Sam about Sam all but squashing him in the camping
cot that night. Neither had Sam, although he had agreed about going along with
the ‘sleep-walking’ excuse. After all he had a track record in doing so as a
child and with the stress of their father’s death as well as the shock of what
had come after, it wasn’t too far-fetched for Bobby to believe that it had
manifested again.
But he definitely hadn’t been asleep.
Nor, as Dean probably believed, had he gone to him to make sure that he was
alright after the distressing events of the day. Although the satisfaction he
had felt when he had realised that Dean had actually fallen asleep in his arms,
and into such a deep sleep that had lasted for quite a few hours, far longer or
deeper than he had known Dean to sleep for since, well, since he had picked Sam
up from Stanford, was a more intense feeling than he could have ever
contemplated.
No, Sam had gone to his brother because he had needed to for himself. Because
right until his young teens, Sam had always slept with Dean. No matter what bed
they separately started the night in, he had always moved to join his brother.
No matter if it was them squashed together on the back seat of the Impala, Sam
had always slept in his brother’s arms. And although he hated to admit it, it
was the only place in his whole life that he had ever slept properly and
soundly.
It had been that way as long as he could remember: right from a tiny child. He
needed to know his brother was there; needed to know he was alive; needed to
know that the one tiny bit of normality they had in their crazy, monster-
chasing, never in one place for more than was necessary, often bloody or
broken-boned, nomadic, lonely life had survived another day. He needed to know
that the one, the only, constant in his life, that Dean was there, with his
strong arms around him: safe and sound within the motel or car, and making Sam
feel safe as well.
They had done that right up until Sam was eleven, perhaps even twelve. Dean had
grumbled and teased before then of course, but he had always slid across
whatever bed and made room for Sam. Until the night he had been told not to.
The night that John had stood and yelled and told Sam in no uncertain terms
that he was far too old, and what the hell was he thinking, and they would both
get a damn good hiding if he ever saw Dean with his arm around him again.
And that had been that. Dean hadn’t even disobeyed when John hadn’t been there
to see: if Sam crossed to his bed, Dean would move to Sam’s. Or simply go out.
In fact he had begun to mostly just go out and stay out in the evenings anyway.
To get away from Sam, the younger boy had always thought. Of course, now, he
could see why Dean had. The fear of being returned to the auctions would have
meant that he didn’t dare to even think of disobeying his master.
But it had still hurt.
Had still felt like rejection. And still was a good reason enough for him to
start to wish he could leave. But he had missed Dean’s always so strong arms at
night, and his warmth. And the way he smelled of the Impala and gun oil and his
own natural musky scent. Sam had tried to convince himself that he hadn’t
missed any of it: that it was weird, and wrong, and warped, and sick.
But he had missed his brother.
And when he had woken in the early hours of that night, still groggy from the
last throes of the whisky and the last remnants of the migraine, he hadn’t
thought twice about following his instinct and going to find him. Although he
had quickly realised that the days of him lying in Dean’s arms were long gone,
unless he wanted to spend most of the night with his long legs dangling nearly
fully over the end of the bed.
But the other way: with his arms around Dean? That had worked. The same warmth,
the same comfort, the same security. And the pride that he had felt when his
brother had simply trusted him enough to just settle back into sleep? He had
never felt anything like that trust even with Jess: that was just cuddling, it
may have been intimate, extremely enjoyable, and the start and finish of great
sex, but it was just cuddling all the same.
But that night he had lain awake for a long while, intently watching Dean
actually sleep without being troubled by bad dreams, before falling into an
unusually deep and dreamless sleep of his own.
No, Sam had been thinking this through and he had realised what he wanted to
do: he wanted to somehow give Dean that same assurance that Dean had always
given him as a child; that same constancy, that same security; that same
feeling of protection that his brother’s arms had always held for Sam and still
did. He wanted to be the somewhere that Dean felt safe.
But he didn’t know if he could ever dare suggest it, that sometimes, not
always, not every night, but sometimes, if Dean ever needed it.... he didn’t
know how the other might react. Would he feel there was something really,
really wrong with Sam in the sickest sort of way possible? Would he feel it was
an order? An order to come to bed by his master, wasn’t that exactly what that
man had intended? Would Sam be able to explain that he had a completely
different reason? Or, Sam worried, had Dean simply been through too much bad in
his life that the two intents would just be put into the one box in his head,
and he definitely did not want his big brother to think of him in the same
terms as he thought of those men whoever they were. And how would Bobby react
if he caught them in one bed no matter what the reason? Sam wondered himself if
he was sick in the head for thinking it: for wanting to be in his brother’s
bed, to hold him at night, to allow him to relax enough to sleep.
And to allow Sam to sleep as well, without his usual nightmares about Jess or
horrors about what might still be to come before they managed to finally end
this whole terrible situation with the yellow-eyed bastard.
He needed to somehow talk to Dean about it. Perhaps one day when the Impala was
fixed and they were back on the road on their own again?
Or perhaps simply never.
And as he pondered and worried so the week went on, and they settled into a
routine of sorts.
Dean was concentrating on fixing the Impala: his time could be defined as being
fairly evenly split three ways; working on his Baby; looking up spare parts on
the internet to buy for his Baby; and eating, sleeping (as much as Dean was
able to sleep), and helping Bobby with whatever the old man needed help with.
The working bit of it proved at first to be hard, physical, manual-labouring
work, and originally Sam tried to help. But he quickly came to the realisation
that Dean would be far better, and far happier, working on it himself. And he
knew Dean had come to the same conclusion probably even quicker. It wasn’t that
he wasn’t capable of working physically: it was more that he really did not
have a clue what he was doing. No. Sam would wait until he could hand Dean the
designated tools as asked for from his or Bobby’s full tool boxes: he could at
least be helpful then.
So he took the (first not so and then extremely obvious) hints to go away and
leave his brother to his work. At least he could admire him while he kicked at,
and walloped with a sledge-hammer, and pounded the pieces back into something
like the shape that they had been in before the crash. And slowly, steadily,
with back-breaking persistence, something that looked like the old Impala rose
from the debris.
Sam’s routine therefore was even more simple: to learn as much as he could from
Bobby’s tremendous collection of old books while he was able to; to regularly
supply his brother with cold drinks, clean rags and nag him to replenish his
sunscreen because he was pretty much outside all day, every day, in the full
glare of the sun; and to help Bobby with whatever the old man needed help with.
And to try and remember the symbol on that man’s ring and cuff-links. Because
no matter how much Dean had wanted him to leave it alone, there was no way Sam
was going to. That bastard had hurt his brother. And hurt him in other ways as
well. And Sam was going to at least find out who he was, if only he could
remember that symbol on the jewellery. He was so angry at himself: he had
noticed it on both pieces but not seen it. And as he prided himself on his
ability to visualise and recall details it had become something of an obsession
for him, as well as a matter of getting possible revenge for his brother.
He was sitting idly sketching it out yet again, trying to remember the shapes,
the form, if there were any straight lines, when he heard footsteps approach.
Quickly he hid his sketches beneath an old book in case, but on looking up was
relieved that it was Bobby, not Dean, standing there.
The older man watched him cautiously. “Careful he don’t see you doing that,
boy.”
Sam reddened: “I don’t, I just...”
“You and me both, Sam. I’d like to have just a few minutes alone with that
bastard as well without his goons. But. Dean wants it left. This is something
he doesn’t want us involved in. We have to accept that.”
“Yeah. I guess. Okay, Bobby.”
“At least just be ready to hide it better than that, Sam!” The young man had to
smile: Bobby really did know him so well. “Do you fancy giving me a hand to
remove the radiator on that old cadillac up by the gate? I’d ask Dean, but he’s
busy trying to put the cylinder head on the Impala back together.”
“Sure thing.” Sam followed him outside willingly. This would also give him a
chance to speak to Bobby about something else that had been bothering him.
Sam could see how impressed the older man was by how hard Dean had been
committed to working on the Impala, and really the skill needed, work ethic
shown and sheer speed in putting it back together had more than impressed Sam
about his brother as well! But he also knew that any praise from him was just
treated as so much noise and dismissed, whereas if it were Bobby saying it...
He just wished the man would say it out loud to Dean as he knew it would mean
everything to his brother: he held the man in the same high regard as he had
their dad.
Bobby listened as he tried to explain. “Of course, I cantell him, Sam. But he
knows I love him. He knows how proud I always am of him.”
“I’m not sure he does, Bobby. I don’t think he realised that dad loved him.
Because he did: now I’ve had a chance to think back on things, he really did
love Dean, he was just awful about telling him that. And to be honest, I don’t
think Dean knows how muchI love him. He has no self-worth at all. Not only
because of...what he is, but because we’ve all been so fucking useless at
telling him!”
“Son of a....” Bobby had to momentarily blink away some dust that had blown
into his eye. “You’re right, Sam. I’ll start making sure he knows how proud I
am: that’s a damn fine job he’s doing on that car. Damn fine.”
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“And Sam? Watch your mouth.”
“Sorry Bobby.”
“Now hand me that socket wrench while I....What the? Sam?” The other
immediately looked up from searching the tool box for whatever a socket wrench
was and followed where he was looking.
There was a limousine. Parked on a very rough, small track that ran down the
side of Bobby’s property, out of view of the main house. A track so rough that
even Bobby had grumbled about having to take his old pick-up down it. But now
there was a limousine parked along it. A black, stretch limousine, gleaming as
if it had only just been polished despite the dusty, bumpy track that it had
just been driven down. Gleaming chrome bumpers, blackened windows. Just parked
on the track.
“Now what in God’s name is that thing doing there?”
“How did it even get there?”
“It’s not moving, they can’t be lost. And why turn down there? It’d be smoother
to try and ride a wild grizzly than take a vehicle down there! Especially a
vehicle like that!”
“So why is it there?”
They were both moving forward to the edge of Bobby’s perimeter fence while
trying to work this out. The only thing for sure was that the limousine was
there deliberately because it wasn’t somewhere that anyone would end up
accidentally. But why...?
And then as they got closer, a glimpse between some of the stacks of cars in
Bobby’s yard suddenly gave them the clue.
The Impala.
And Dean.
He was still working under the bonnet and was having to lean right into it to
try to tighten, or loosen, or do whatever he was pre-occupied in doing. He had
gotten so hot in the process that he had undone the top half of his coveralls
and tied the sleeves around his waist. And then that hadn’t been enough so the
t-shirt beneath had gone as well, leaving him topless as he concentrated on
putting his Baby back together.
As he worked, Sam and Bobby could see every single muscle rippling in his back.
Even the scars that marked his body were being highlighted by every twist and
flex of motion as he fought the stubbornly immovable pieces of the damaged
engine, and every inch of his skin was glistening from his own sweat in the
bright sunlight as if he were covered in golden oiled glitter. There wasn’t a
trace of fat on him anywhere, just solid, ripped flesh. And then there was his
ass as he bent to reach right to the rear of the engine...
“The fucking bastard’s watching him!”
Bobby was right, Sam realised. Whoever was in the limousine had stopped
deliberately so as to give them a perfect vantage point of where his brother
was working, but was far enough away so as not to be immediately noticeable
should he happen to sense eyes on him. They would probably have binoculars: he
would have been hampered by looking through stacks of cars from a lower
position. It was only that Bobby and Sam had walked up the rough ground to the
gate that they had noticed the presence of the unwanted visitor.
“Where’s the shotgun? I didn’t bring my shotgun with me! I’ll kill the
bastard!”
Sam wasn’t sure which of the two of them was the most angry. He himself was
already running down between the stacks to his brother to warn him of the
intrusion. He could hear Bobby cussing and following behind him as quickly as
he could.
“Dean! Dean.”
The other turned, immediately alert and ready for…whatever Sam was so worked up
about. “What is it?”
“You’re being watched! Someone’s parked out there!”
“What?” But it wasn’t a response that conveyed complete surprise. Sam came to
an immediate halt and stared at him.
“You knew!”
Dean realised what he had done and went red in the face. To try and give
himself a moment to think he caught at his discarded t-shirt and used it to
wipe the worst of his perspiration away from his face and back. By this time
Bobby had caught up with Sam and also paused, feeling the sudden tension
between the two younger men.
“How long has it been there?”
“Sam?” This was Bobby.
“How long, Dean? How long have you known that they’ve been watching you? How
long?”
“I…”
“And were you going to tell us? At all? Is it that man from the bar? Tell me!”
Sam towered over him angrily as Dean tried to look away. “And why? Why are you
not wearing anything?” He now had a tight grip on Dean’s arm and his sudden
loss of temper was surprising both the other men.
His brother tried to prise his large hand from around his bicep. “I’ve been
concentrating on doing the Impala, Sam! And I took this” he held up the soaking
wet t-shirt “off because it’s wet through and as filthy as the rest of me! And
yes, that fucking car’s been there on and off for the past few days! Why do you
think I’m killing myself trying to get Baby back on the road so we can get away
from it! And no, I didn’t realise he was there today: he must have arrived just
now. I’ve been busy on thecar!”
“Get inside!”
“What?”
“Get in the house! Now!”
Dean stared at him: his face incredulous. So did Bobby but he knew to remain
silent as the brothers… No, as Sam asserted his authority over Dean. He
wondered if the other would argue, but instead the older of the two boys fought
down any response, stepped sharply back to pull himself clear finally of Sam’s
strong grasp, and moved past without looking at either of them to go towards
the house. Bobby could see anger coiled in every flex of his still naked back
as he walked away, but he obeyed the order.
“Sam?” Bobby kept his voice deliberately low.
“That bastard’s been there all the time, Bobby. And Dean hasn’t wanted to tell
us. I’m going to find who it is and kill him!” He started towards the gate as
if to go out and face down the occupant of the limousine.
Bobby caught at him in worry: “Just calm down, Sam.”
“What if he’d taken him, Bobby! What if one day I’d come out and Dean had gone?
I don’t even know who that bastard is! Dean won’t tell me! How can I keep him
safe if he won’t let me?”
He was still only halfway to the opening by then, but paused as the limousine
suddenly began to reverse back up the track, seeming to be running on the lumpy
dirt as smoothly as it would have done on a city street.
“Jesus, what sort of suspension do they have on that thing?” Despite his anger,
Bobby had to admire. “And you can hardly hear the engine!”
“Bobby, I don’t care about the fucking engine! It’s after my brother!” Sam was
fighting off tears of anger and worry. Bobby looked at him with a sigh.
“Well, it’s gone now, Sam. And Dean’s safe inside.” The limousine was now back
on to the smooth tarmac of the main road and pulling away out of sight.
“Yeah. Yeah I guess. Shit Bobby. I didn’t mean to yell at him like that! Do you
think he’s gonna be mad at me?”
“I think you surprised the both of us, Sam. But. You’re his master! Whether you
wanted the job or not! And he’ll do anything for you anyway, you know that.” He
paused, “And he’d do anything to keep you safe. Without hesitation, or thought
for himself.”
“I know, Bobby. And I hate it. Hate what he is. Hate what he’s had to do. Shit,
what a mess.”
***** PRESENT OR PAST? *****
Chapter Summary
     I am not a mechanic! I apologise to all mechanics! Don't hate me!
The package had been left right outside the back door. Bobby stared at it in
disbelief: somebody had come right up to his house during the night and left a
parcel right outside the goddam back door! A package addressed simply to ‘Dean
Winchester.’ No address, no ‘return to sender’, just the two words written in
an almost calligraphic flourish.
The older man sidestepped it cautiously and went to check on Rumsfeld. He was
relieved as well as irritated to find the dog alive but asleep in his kennel,
the clue of what had happened in the incriminating bony remains of a t-bone
steak beside the snoring animal.
“Fat lot of use you were, ya good-for nuttin…. I may have you to protect me
from monsters, but I don’t expect you to let people walk right past you
instead!” He left him to sleep the drugged meal off and retraced his steps to
the house.
He wasn’t surprised to see that Dean was already up and grabbing some coffee
from the kitchen when he opened the door. Since the revelation about him had
come out, Dean had spent just about every waking hour working on the Impala in
some form or other, with the exception of yesterday of course. Bobby could
understand both the boys’ point of view: Dean was desperate to get the car
finished because of the watching eyes on him, while Sam was now getting
increasingly paranoid about his brother being out of his sight for the same
reason. Today was going to be interesting and not in a good way.
“This came for you.” He held out the parcel and watched the other’s reaction.
Dean glanced at it then did a double take as he obviously recognised the small
but fancy handwriting. His face noticeably paled but he said nothing as he took
the package from Bobby and ripped into the wrapping without hesitation.
Inside was a carved, lidded wooden box. And inside the box, nestling in red
velvet padded luxury was a seductively curved dagger in a beautifully ornate
scabbard, the blade sharp and shining, as if it had only just been created from
the high quality silver that had been used, and engraved with Islamic symbols
all down the thicker edge; the ivory handle was interlaid with ebony; the
silver and wooden scabbard carved and engraved on every inch with geometric
patterns. The whole thing was weighted beautifully to be of maximum use for
least effort in the hand. It was an item of exquisite quality, obviously rare,
and presumably very expensive.
“Shit.” Bobby barely caught the word that escaped amidst Dean’s deep inhale of
breath.
“Is it from him?”
“Not a word to Sam. Please Bobby.” And Dean was screwing up the packaging
quickly and hurrying out of the door to burn it in the portable incinerator.
Bobby stood at the open door and watched him catch it with his lighter, torn
between the two feelings of being desperate to know and wishing that he never
would at the same time. Only when he was sure that it had all been destroyed
did Dean return to the kitchen and begin to examine the blade.
“Was there a note?” But Bobby already knew the answer even before the younger
man glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. No note had been needed:
whatever the message was, it had got through.
And then Sam was there, yawning and stretching his long arms and looking
reproachfully at his brother. “I told you to wake me: I’m coming to help you
with the car from now on. What’s that?”
Dean glared at Bobby momentarily as he held out the box. “Just came in the
mail. Must have been following me around the country for a while.”
Sam put down his full mug of coffee and took the box with a frown. His eyes lit
up at the beauty of the weapon within and his voice turned reverent. “What is
it?”
Bobby bit down his sigh as Dean’s face immediately relaxed into a wide grin at
the sight of his little brother’s appreciation of the dagger. “You like it,
Sammy? It’s a Persian Zirah-bhonk, originally created to go though chainmail
but used by an Iman a couple of centuries ago for the annual Eid el-Adha. Dad
was trying to negotiate to get it, but that was way before he disappeared even.
I’d forgotten about it. But it should kill most things, being holyand silver.
He must have really called in a few favours to find it.”
“Oh it’s beautiful! Look at the workmanship on it. And the history! How old is
it?”
“Not sure. Might be a few centuries, perhaps back to the Crusades even. But
it’ll do us!”
“Oh, it’s more than ‘it’ll do’! How on earth did dad manage to get hold of
something like this? He must have called in more than a few favours!”
Dean shrugged, sent another warning glance at Bobby. “We’ll probably never
know. You want to research it while I start on the car?”
“Yes. No!” Sam had been distracted but not quite enough. “I don’t like you out
there on your own, Dean. Not now.”
“How’s aboutI help him, Sam? The work will go quicker with two of us, and, how
do I say this? You’re useless when it comes to engines!”
Despite himself Sam laughed before immediately returning his appreciative
attention to the dagger. “Okay. I’ll bring you both out drinks in a while.
Thanks Bobby. Wow, I can’t believe dad managed to find this!”
“I can’t believe your dad did either, boy.” Bobby murmured to Dean as they both
went out the door.
But he didn’t ask and the other didn’t tell. Although Bobby was desperate to
ask: not just about this, but what had happened the previous night. Because
something had happened, he had heard the boys arguing about it. No, he had
heardDean trying to argue, and Sam was having none of it, whatever ‘it’ was.
But it had been a strange conversation.
He had expected a full-scale argument to break out when Sam had managed to get
himself calm enough to follow Dean into the house the previous day. But instead
he had simply gone to sit at the kitchen table and watched while Dean had stood
at the kitchen sink and scrubbed to remove the rest of the oil and grease on
his hands.
Neither had spoken for a long time, and neither had Bobby. Not until Dean had
felt he had got the worst off, and the obvious tension in his still bare back
had mostly dissipated, and he finally felt enough in control of himself to turn
and face Sam, wiping his hands on a filthy old towel as he did.
Only then had Sam broken the silence. “Is that…Him… in the car?”
His brother sighed and remained silent for a moment: “I’m not sure, Sam. He has
a limo like that, but so does…. It might not have been.”
“It could have been this other man that you mentioned in the bar?”
Dean shrugged but didn’t answer.
“But whoever it is, they’ve been watching you since we got back here? Dean?”
The other studied his dirty and broken fingernails. “Yeah. Not all the time.
Just occasionally, just to let me know they were there. I didn’t want to worry
you.”
Sam bit at his bottom lip so hard that Bobby could see a small trickle of blood
escape his mouth. “It’s my job to worry about you, Dean. And I do! I can’t bear
the thought of you being hurt, especially not by people like that! I won’t
fucking let them hurt you! But please! You have to help me: just tell me when
something’s worrying you. Please.”
“Yeah okay Sammy.”
The younger brother sighed in exasperation and exchanged a look with Bobby:
they both recognised the insincerity in that promise. Sam decided to leave it
for the moment. “Look. Go and get a shower. Call that it for the day. I’ll help
Bobby get dinner ready.”
“I left the hood up on Baby, Sam. And my tools are all out.”
“I put them back for you.” Bobby finally spoke up. “And your car’s secure.”
The glance Dean flashed him wasn’t a grateful one, but he went upstairs to the
bathroom without any more argument. His younger brother sighed and scrubbed at
his face with his hands. There was a long silence in the kitchen.
Finally: “What do’ya fancy then, Sam?” as Bobby opened the cupboards. He
glanced around to see why there was no response, only to find himself suddenly
on his own. Grabbing out some packets, he set some water to boil. Then
curiosity had gotten the better of him and he followed the two boys up the
stairs.
Dean had turned the water off by the time he had crept to the top of them.
Bobby paused there as he could see Sam waiting right outside the bathroom. The
moment Dean opened the door he was grabbed by one of his brother’s large hands
and marched with forceful determination to the small bedroom. “Sam?”
“Get in there! And just listen!” The door was shut behind them as Bobby crept
closer to listen. He had felt guilty about eavesdropping, but there was
something….
He could hardly hear anything for a few minutes then Dean’s voice, rising in
disbelief. “You’re serious, Sam? You can’t be! This is crazy!”
“You tell me you didn’t sleep the best you have for ages?”
“Yes, but….. No. No! Not happening!”
“Yes it is. No argument, Dean. Itis happening, starting tonight! I need to know
you’re safe! And if we do this then I will! Plus I think it will be good for
the both of us. And if you hate it, then the moment we’re out of here and away
from Bobby’s where they can’t find you then you don’t have to. But here? You
are going to.”
“But…”
“No buts. Look.” Sam’s voice turned cajoling. There was a thud against the
bedroom door as if one of them had been physically backed into it. “Dean,
you’re my brother. You will always be my brother, no matter what. And I know
you’ve always looked after me, but now it’s my turn to look after you! So
please...Let me. I’m not going to let them take you, so just tell me when
they’re around, or if there’s something I should know.Please. And, yes, from
now on you are in this room, safe at night,every night. And I’ll be there as
well to make sure: I’ll tell Bobby I’m bringing the cot up here.”
“Yes, but.” He was hesitating. Bobby had to almost put his ear to the door to
hear him now.
“Dean. Trust me.”
“I always have done, Sam. I always will.” It was barely more than a whisper
through the wood. Bobby strained his ears. “But.”
“Enough Dean.” Sam’s voice was also low but close through the door, as if he
were leaning over and talking right beside his brother’s ear. “You’re doing
this. Just let me keep you safe. Okay?” There was a pause. “Okay?”
Finally a deep sigh and then Dean’s raspy voice. “Okay.” He didn’t sound happy
about whatever it was. Bobby decided to move away from the door, suddenly
conscious of how it would look if the boys emerged, and headed back downstairs
to cook something to eat.
He hadn’t mentioned anything when first Sam and then Dean had come to help with
the meal. They had eaten in relative silence. But it had been a strange
silence, and Bobby still wanted to know what they had been disagreeing about to
have caused it. And then this? This unexplained parcel? But he couldn’t bring
himself to ask about either.
They had made good progress on the cylinder head and had started to try and
replace the destroyed pistons with some of the new parts ordered when Sam came
out with some cool drinks for them. He seemed in a good mood considering the
events of the past week or so, and Bobby had to smile at the eager young man as
he offered the tray to him. The he wandered around to the other side of the car
to wait for Dean to come out from beneath the car as Bobby stepped away for a
moment into the shade.
“Damn crankshaft’s bent, I’ll have to get it out! No wonder they’re not fitting
right!”
Dean was sliding out with an explosion of annoyance and took the chance to
stand up and rest his already aching back. Bobby sighed and moved to join him.
“There’s a couple more chevrolets in the yard. One of those might fit. I’ll
have a look.”
“”Yeah, I’ll come.”
“Grab a drink first. And have you put sunscreen on this morning?”
“Jeez, Sam, what are you? My mom?”
“Idgits.” And Bobby began to walk away from the two of them. The he decided it
would be more sensible to wait for Dean as he could climb up any stacks as
necessary to see if any parts were suitable, so he returned to the Impala,
walking around the rear of it.
He paused though when Sam good-naturedly butted his brother’s back with his
large shoulder and caused him to cough and spill his drink over himself. “Sam!
What’s with you?”
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah, I.... guess. But..?”
And then he looked up from trying to wipe his t-shirt off and was caught in the
full force of his younger brother’s dimpled smile. Bobby stood at the back of
the car and watched Dean’s bad mood melt away at the sight, and thought not for
the first time that Sam had got him wrapped round his little finger and the
younger man knew it.
“Okay.” Dean was conceding. “I slept well. But it’s still weird.”
“We’ll get used to it. Now, sunscreen!” And with another shoulder-butt, this
one hard enough to knock Dean forwards a step or two, he was pushing the bottle
into his brother’s greasy hand and returning to the house.
It was some time later that he returned. “I got something: it’s one of dad’s
old phones. It took me a while but I cracked his voice mail code. Listen to
this.”
“Who’s Ellen?”
“I don’t know, but I got an address.”
The box with the dagger was laying where they had left it in the main room when
they returned, having found and met both Ellen, her daughter Jo, and Ash, as
well as getting sidetracked by a successful hunt for a Rakshasa.
“I’m going to take a shower.” Sam declared.
Bobby watched from where he was sitting at the table as Dean stared at the box,
his expression an impenetrable mask.
“Can’t we send it back? Tell...whoever it is that it’s no longer needed”
“It don’t work like that, Bobby. Their side of the deal has been kept so....”
“But you’re the payment, aren’t you boy? That aint right.” He paused. “Is it
Him? Is it him you’ll have to ....”
Dean shrugged and shook his head wearily. “No time like the present. Can I
borrow the car again? Just tell Sam an old friend called with a problem that
needed sorting and I had to go.”
“He aint gonna be happy about this, Dean.”
“You think I am, Bobby?”
“If we told him...perhaps he could stop it! John’s dead, you can’t be held to a
deal a dead man made!”
“Bobby! You’ve seen these people! I.” Dean fought down his sudden anger and
tried to speak calmly. “It doesn’t work like that. Payment has to be made. And
I don’t want Sam or you involved with this. Please.” The last was a direct plea
to the older man.
Bobby sighed and nodded unwillingly. “I can’t lie to him if he works it out,
Dean.”
“I know Bobby.”
“Why don’t you wait until the morning? Get a good night’s sleep first. Say the
call came first thing.”
Dean gave him a slight tired smile and nodded. “Okay, Bobby. I’m just going to
check the Impala before I turn in. Don’t wait up.”
Without another word he was gone through the back door and out into the yard.
Bobby sighed and poured himself another coffee, wishing that he could think of
someway, somehow to help Dean. The whole situation was beyond anything that he
could have dreamt of in his nightmares.
His thoughts were disturbed by noises from outside in the yard. Bobby frowned
and got up to cross to the back door, where he stood and listened for a while.
It sounded like...it sounded just as it had when Dean had been pounding the
Impala back into shape. Except that he had all but finished that now, and
anyway why would he be doing something like that now? He would be more likely
to break something in his present state of mind....
And then it came to Bobby with sudden clarity. It was Dean making the noise.
And he was taking out his frustration and his buried hatred and pain, and
shame, and probably grief, out on the Impala. Bobby could hear the glass
breaking in all the windows now. With an exclamation he began to hurry to stop
the boy from destroying his car all over again.
Then he just as suddenly came to a stop.
His car.
The Impala was the only thing that Dean owned: John had given it to him, had it
included on his deeds as belonging to him and Sam had made sure it had stayed
there when he had registered his claim on his brother. It was the only thing
that was Dean’s. He would never be allowed to own any form of weaponry as a
slave. And the chance of him owning property or anything else of any importance
in the future was so unlikely as to be unthinkable.
It was only the car that was his. And therefore it was the only thing that he
could take his frustration out on, the only thing that nobody could hold
against him as it was his to destroy if he wanted. And if Bobby ran out like he
had so nearly done and stopped him, then he would be taking that one bit of
control that Dean had in his life over something, possibly the only thing in
this whole terrible situation that Dean had any control over, away from him.
And Bobby couldn’t do that. Not to Dean. It just wouldn’t have been fair on
him, not after everything else.
And so instead Bobby returned to the table and his now cold coffee, and just
sat and listened to the crashes and smashing sounds that came from outside.
And it goddam broke his heart.
***** SIX DAYS *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sam yet again glanced over at his brother instead of watching the road ahead.
The other was huddled in the passenger seat, his face turned defiantly away
from Sam to stare out of the side window, deep within his own thoughts. He had
spoken so few words to Sam since the younger man had finally managed to track
him down the previous day, and was showing no signs that that was going to
change any time soon.
Sam thought for a moment, then reached his long right arm so he could cover
Dean’s left hand with his own larger one. He meant it to be taken for support,
for acknowledgement that words didn’t matter as long as his brother knew he was
there, but Dean flinched at the touch, glanced down and removed his own hand
immediately to lay across his own right knee and out of reach of Sam when he
was driving.
The younger man sighed but he couldn’t blame the other. He might have an idea
of what had happened the last few days, but he would probably never truly know.
And he wasn’t sure that he would ever want to.
This last week had seemed one of the longest of his life. They had returned
from talking to Ash with new hope that they could find the yellow-eyed demon,
and Sam had new hope that now he knew Dean was being watched he would be able
to keep him safe. Just as long as his brother would actually tell him if he saw
anyone around. But he was hopeful that if he kept on enough at him, and kept a
far better eye on Dean as well, then he would be safe from that man. For the
first time since their dad had died, he had gone to bed that night in an
optimistic mood.
A mood that had only got better when Dean had followed his instructions without
complaint for the first time and joined him in the small bed. He had even not
grumbled when Sam had wrapped himself around him, but instead had actually put
his own arms over his brother’s and held them even tighter to him, almost as if
afraid that that might be the last time he ever would. Sam had been wondering
about it when he was falling asleep, but he would wait and ask in the morning….
Only to find that Dean had gone. At some point in the night he had taken the
old car and left, to god knows where and for why.
Sam had awakened, surprised and more than a little annoyed to find himself
alone in the bed when he had given specific instructions to his brother to wake
him. He had hurriedly dressed and run outside, determined to help Dean finish
the Impala. Only to find it in a far worse state than it had been the day
before and no sign of his brother.
Bobby had come running at the sound of his panic. “They’ve taken Dean! They’ve
smashed the car and taken Dean!” He was already back in the house, finding his
weaponry: as many guns and ammunition as he could. “Dean’s gone!”
“I know he has, Sam.” Bobby’s quiet voice stopped him in his tracks. “But he
hasn’t been stolen from you. The old car’s gone. He said he was going last
night.”
“What? What are you talking about? And what the hell’s happened to the Impala:
it’s…..”
“That was your brother last night. He…had more than a few issues he needed to
work through and that’s the only thing he could take it out on. He said he’d be
back as soon as he could.”
Sam was pissed. His language was as bad as his mood, and he wasn’t going to
apologise to Bobby for what he said to him about trust, and how he was
responsible for Dean not the old man, and how he shouldn’t be backing Dean up
because it wasn’t his place any more, but all with a few more words involved.
And Bobby stood quietly and sadly, and took all of his abuse.
Then Sam had tried to call Dean on his phone, but his brother had turned his
off, and instead he had thrown a few things around the small bedroom, and tried
to call Dean again, and sworn some more and determined to do something to get
his brother under control. How dare he just go off somewhere: wasn’t he worried
at all by being watched? What the hell was he thinking? Sam just couldn’t
understand it at all.
Then because he couldn’t do anything, and didn’t know what to do anyway, he had
ignored Bobby for the rest of the day and instead had spent the entirety of it
on his laptop trying to trace any sign of the car, or any symbol or emblem or
anything matching that man’s ring that he could think of, and trying Dean’s
cell phone at least twice an hour, every hour.
Finally he had pulled across the box with the dagger and began to research
about the weapon.
Bobby had been sitting at the table watching him by this time. He could tell
the exact moment that he made the connection between its arrival and his
brother’s disappearance.
Sam had been muttering away to himself in vicious frustration: “Look at the
price of something like this! This is rare! Even a new copy is in the
hundreds.... how could dad ever have afforded something like this? And who
could he have called in favours from? Nobody liked the man: he’d fallen out
with everyone! I never thought I’d miss him as much as I do, but, the man was a
bastard. Lying to me about Dean like that. Using him as a trade for....”
All the colour suddenly drained from the young man’s face. Bobby thought he was
going to collapse as the last vestige of youthful naivety was ripped away from
him. “Dean’s the trade for this, isn’t he?”His voice had suddenly gotten barely
louder than a whisper. ”My dad traded my brother for a night, or longer, with a
man like that man for this...thing. That’s where Dean’s gone, isn’t it? Isn’t
it, Bobby? Why the hell didn’t youtell me? Why didn’t he?”
The expression of sheer horror on his face would remain with Bobby for the
remainder of his life. “Oh God, where has he gone, Bobby? I’ve got to stop him!
We could give the dagger back...”
The old man sighed. “I suggested that already, Sam. But he said it was too
late, that their part of the deal has been done. Even if we threw the thing in
the trash, they had done their part! Dean just wanted to get his part over
with...”
“And you just let him go, Bobby?!”
“I didn’t want to, Sam. I hate this. I hate the thought of... But he knew the
moment he opened that package. He knew he didn’t have a choice or they’d be
coming here...”
“There must be a return address! We could send it back! Say it never got here!
Where’s what it came in?”
“There was nothing, Sam. It was hand-delivered. Right outside the door there.
They know Dean got the dagger alright.”
Sam stared at him. Bobby would never forget that expression for as long as he
lived either.
“Are you telling me... they came right to the door?” This was said in a
definite growl of anger that Bobby felt through his entire body. “To here? What
about the dog, I thought he was a guard dog?”
“They drugged him. And he’s old and wary of everything after that demon bitch
threw him across the yard and broke his leg.“
“But they came here? Right up and into the yard and here? They could have bust
in, right into the house! My god, I’ve been afraid of monsters all my life, and
all along it’s been fucking humans that are after my brother and I can’t
protect him from them!”
“He doesn’t want you to, Sam. He wants you to stay out of it and be safe.”
“Like I’m gonna do that, Bobby! Are you? Now you know about him? Are you going
to stay out of it?”
“No Sam. No I’m not.” The older man lowered his head. “And I tried to stop him,
wanted him to tell you, but he was worried they’d come for him anyway and you’d
try and get in the way.” He paused, felt tears prick as he sighed. “I’d hoped
it was over when you registered him. Probably so did he. And then that damned
parcel arrived and... God knows what he must have been thinking about it all.”
“That’s why he smashed the car up last night.” Sam flinched suddenly at another
thought, and if it were possible, paled even more to an almost grey colour. “He
let me hold him last night, Bobby. As if he knew he might not be coming back.
I’ve got to find him, Bobby. And I’ve got to find a way to stop this. How do I
stop this, Bobby?”
“Hold him how, Sam? Never mind, it don’t matter. I don’t know, Sam, but we
will. And once he returns, we’ll find a way to keep him out of the hands of
those men and to keep him safe.”
But it had been another six days before they finally heard from Dean.
Six days that neither of them had hardly eaten or slept during, and were both
too afraid to say out loud what they had been each secretly dreading. In the
end, it was just a simple text to Bobby’s cell phone: Back in a couple of days,
tell Sam not to worry.
Sam immediately had been frantic.
“He would have come straight back if he could have, not texted. He’s hurt and
laying up somewhere so I don’t know how bad he is.” He was already fiddling
with his laptop as he was speaking, his long fingers flying over the screen
faster than Bobby could watch. “Damn it, Dean Winchester, if you’ve turned your
phone off on me again, I swear I’m gonna.... There!”
“What’s that, Sam?”
“GPS signal. From his phone. It’s locating him.”
“I thought you needed a password to do that? Surely only Dean would have it?
How did you...?”
“Oh I hacked into his phone months ago. He’s in California! Can I borrow your
van, Bobby?”
“No, but you can drive us.”
“I’m telling you he’s hurt, Bobby. I might have to stay with him a while.”
“Then you’ll need someone else to drive his old heap back. I’m coming Sam. No
argument.”
It had been a long, hard, best part of a twenty-four hours straight drive
through the night to get there. Sam kept checking the satellite signal, but
Dean, or his phone at least, hadn’t moved in the meantime. They followed it to
California, then eventually the grid on the screen had magnified into a county,
then a road map of a town, until by the next evening they had followed it
straight to a small motel where there found the old car parked.
Bobby went to make enquiries at the desk.
“They recognised him. Arrived here five days ago. Paid straight up for a week.
Went off in a smart black limousine that evening, they couldn’t see who was in
it. They saw the limousine again early yesterday but didn’t notice if he’s
returned yet. Room 12a on the first floor. I’ve got us a room further along.”
Sam picked the lock of the door marked 12a while Bobby stood guard.
Bobby had had a long hunting career, and Sam a short intense one. They had both
seen some terrible things that would haunt them for probably the rest of their
lives. But neither had been prepared for entering that room.
The smell of stale blood had hit them the moment they entered. The beams of
their flashlights had revealed Dean to be beneath the covers on the bed. Sam
hurried to check his pulse and was relieved to find him alive but as near to
being unconscious as it was possible to get. An open container of maximum
strength, over the counter, pain-killers on the bedside table was probably part
of the cause of that.
While Bobby hurriedly counted how many were missing from the bottle, Sam was
pulling the sticking sheets down from his brother’s back. He had winced and
looked up at Bobby, his eyes wide with horror.
They had both studied the bruises and dark welts that once again Dean was
covered in: there were vivid ligature marks around his neck and wrists where it
looked as if manacles and, Bobby had felt his stomach twist and lurch inside
him, it looked like a tight collar of some sort as well had been used to
restrain him. He had obviously been snake-whipped as well as beaten. But there
had been nothing done that would permanently mark the skin; nothing deep enough
to cause a scar; nothing that a slave-owner could sue for damage to his
property for: whoever it was that had done this had been in complete control
and knew what they were doing.
Sam hesitantly pulled the sheets lower: the staining on the bed and Dean’s
clothes showed where the aroma of blood was coming from. Bobby felt bile start
to rise uncontrollably as he not only took in the scene on the bed, but also
the expression on the younger man’s face as he visualised what had been taken
as ‘payment’ for that dagger. Suddenly the fate of the yellow-eyed demon that
had killed their mom and dad, as well as his girlfriend, was looking safe in
comparison to what was to come to the man that had hurt his brother.
Sam had motioned for him to return to the door where they had conversed in
whispers.
“I don’t think he’s overdosed, Sam. They’re just strong meds, but he looks like
he needed them.”
“I’m not going to try and move him, Bobby. I’ll see how he is when he wakes up.
I’m staying here with him.”
“I guessed you would, boy. I’ll bring you some food.”
“No. I just want to see he’s okay first. I... thanks, Bobby. I’m sorry for how
I’ve been, I didn’t mean to say all those things...” Sam hesitated but then
couldn’t hold his anger inside any longer. “I’m going to get this bastard,
Bobby.”
The older man had studied his face: he could suddenly see John in the young
man, he had the same single-minded hatred in his eyes. Bobby could only pray
that he wouldn’t throw away everything else that he had as his father had done,
just to get revenge.
“You and me both, Sam. Text if you need anything.”
Sam had closed and locked the door behind the older man and shrugged off his
shoes and enough clothes to climb into bed with his brother, ignoring the
stained and sticky sheets without a single thought about them. All that
mattered was that he be in physical contact with Dean and to try and reassure
him somehow that he wasn’t alone anymore.
His brother stirred a little as his long arm wound round his waist. “Sam?” The
other could hardly hear him, his voice was so cracked and pained.
“Shush. Yeah, it’s me. As soon as you’re well enough, I’m gonna kill you. But
now just go back to sleep.”
“Sammy, I ...”
“Shush, don’t you worry: I’m going to find who did this and take care of them.”
“No, Sam.” Dean was trying to wake himself up enough to argue. “This was dad!
He made the deal. You’re not to do anything. You’re mine to protect, and I’m
telling you to let it go.”
“Go back to sleep, Dean. You’re safe now, I’m here.” He had tightened his arms,
pulled Dean’s battered and bruised body to his chest and felt him relax with
the warmth and the contact between them. Soon Dean was breathing regularly
again as healing sleep once more overtook him.
Sam had watched him for a long time, scared of looking away in case this had
just been a horrific dream that he had found him and not reality. Eventually he
had nuzzled Dean’s ear with his lips before trying to get some sleep himself:
“And you’re mine to love,” he had finally responded. “And as for letting this
go? There aint no way in hell!”
All these images were still running through Sam’s mind while he was driving
Dean back to Bobby’s. This time when he reached out his hand to his brother he
sharply slapped Dean’s leg with the knuckles of his hand. Dean turned
immediately to stare at him. Sam wasn’t taking a refusal this time: he
pointedly held out his hand and indicated for Dean to let him take his own.
Dean glared but obeyed, letting Sam lace his long fingers between his own
smaller ones and hold them together as one.
“In answer to this morning’s: ‘why did you even bother to come to find me,
Sam?’ I always will, Dean. Always.”
There was no response at all from his brother.
“You okay?”
Dean shrugged, but didn’t reply.
“Dean?” His tone was sharper than he intended: he could hardly imagine, he
didn’t want to imagine what the last few days had been like for his brother. He
felt even guiltier as Dean sighed, swallowed a couple of times and struggled to
respond.
“I’m okay, Sammy,” His voice was harsh and wrecked, as if his throat was still
incredibly sore inside and causing him a lot of pain. “I’m sorry, I had no
choice.”
“I know.” It was all Sam could manage to say. He wanted to shout. A lot. But
not at Dean: there was nothing to shout at him about. Well...no, not at that
moment anyway. Somehow Sam was going to stop this. “Is that it? Are there any
more deals I should know about?”
His brother considered: Sam sighed as he again glanced over and saw how tired
and drawn he was. “I don’t think so, Sam.” He had to stop and try to moisten
his throat again before continuing. “But... But I had forgotten that one. I
just hope there’s not.” He paused, his thoughts consuming him. Sam saw his
green eyes swim with moisture for a moment “Why did he do it, Sam? Why save me?
For this? Why couldn’t your dad just let me die, then you’d never have had to
know about this? He could have lived. Why did he die for me?”
He winced as his brother’s fingers tightened around his hand, but Sam needed
him to listen: he had had the same thought ever since their dad had died and
the truth had come out about his brother. And he needed Dean to understand. “He
loved you, Dean. He really did! And he was so proud of you: you were his son.
No matter what you think. And I’m so glad he let you live, becauseI couldn’t be
without you. Believe me on that.”
“He loved me, huh?” The sudden bitterness in Dean’s raw voice stunned him.”
Where am I sleeping tonight, Sam? Like father, like son eh?”
Sam didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to understand. And he was too
tired to worry about it. But he continued to hold Dean’s hand tight and kept on
driving as the other once more turned away to stare out of the window.
Finally they drew up outside Bobby’s house. Sam parked and went to help Dean
out, but he was ignored as the other painfully pulled himself to his feet.
“Let’s get you inside.” Sam grabbed the bags and headed for the door. He looked
back and swore under his breath as he realised that Dean wasn’t following.
Instead he had headed off in the direction of the Impala. Sam sighed, threw the
bags in through the door of the house and followed him, catching up to where
Dean was standing staring at the damaged car.
“Bobby tried to repair some of it for you.” Sam murmured. “But he couldn’t get
the dents out of there. Or there. It looks like you went at it with a crowbar
or something. But we swept all the glass out, and replaced the windows…”
“Thanks.” For a minute Sam thought Dean was going to fall, he hurriedly put his
arm around his waist in support. Dean’s eyes were once again tearful. “I never
wanted you to know any of this, Sammy. Especially when I became part of the
deals… I’m sorry for what I said in the car. I’m sorry for not letting you know
I had to…. He should have just let me die. I wish he had.”
“I’m glad he didn’t. Of the two of you, I need you. Come on, let’s get you
inside.”
“Sammy, if I really work hard on Baby, can we get out of here? Please? Just get
back to what we were and get away from here?”
Sam smiled down at him. “Of course we can. But we’re going to work on the car!
And you’re going to rest up! But Dean. You’ve got to tell me everything in
future. Whether I like what I hear or not, I have to know, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Dean. You tell me.”
“I will, Sammy.”
This time he allowed Sam to help him into the house.
He managed to do as he was told for the rest of that day: he was still in too
much pain to argue. But early the next morning found him once again working on
the Impala, with his brother appearing an hour or so after with a few curses
and threats aimed in his direction.
And a few days very hard work saw the Impala well on her way back to her
original pristine shape. He noticed Sam often glance around as they worked,
just checking that they were really alone this time. But at least there was no
sign of anyone at all watching for now.
And if Dean should just happen to occasionally notice the sun glinting off the
lenses of high powered binoculars in the distance, well then, he kept that
information to himself.
Chapter End Notes
     Thankyou so much for all the lovely comments. I didn't realise how
     many chapters it would take me just to get here, but to know that
     people are enjoying it means a lot : )
***** FORGOTTEN MEMORIES *****
It was incredible, Sam reflected, just how powerful human senses could be, and
how just the slightest thing could trigger such instantaneous memories and
emotions. The merest whiff in the breeze of a particular perfume could bring
him Jess’s smile as clear as if she were standing there in front of him. The
‘not quite musty but almost’ aroma of an old book transported him mentally to
exactly where he was now, in Bobby’s house with its piles of fascinating and
well cared for volumes.
And the sound of the roar of that engine as if it finally turned over and
caught made Sam feel almost tearful because it meant everything would be
alright. Because it was Home. And Home meant his brother, and security, and
strangely and somewhat to his surprise, it meant normality. Not in any way to
do with his father, he thought idly as he searched the icebox for the last
remaining few cold cans he had been sent inside to fetch, but in every way with
his brother. The Impala and Dean were the two parts of one complete unit: if he
had given up and scrapped the one while Dean was in hospital, it meant he would
have been giving up on the other and was preparing for his brother to die also.
And he would have never done either, despite any advice to the contrary.
But now he had been vindicated because the one had survived and had brought the
other back to life also. And as he stood in Bobby’s kitchen and listened to the
deep rumble of that engine as she purred her eternal love for her owner, now he
could feel that everything would somehow be alright. He would get Dean out of
there, hide him away in numerous nondescript motels, make him sleep whichever
side of the bed was furthest from the door so Sam could protect him.
Yes, Sam thought with a huge sense of relief, it was all going to be okay.
He hurried back with his batch of drinks, biting down a sharp pang of annoyance
at seeing Bobby sitting in his side of the car and laughing with his brother,
whose relief at bringing his Baby back from the dead with all his hard work was
obvious all over his grinning face.
And he had worked hard.
Sam had tried to help, but had quickly realised that even with his full health
he couldn’t keep up with Dean’s strength, grit, bloody-minded determination
and, unfortunately as Sam recognised all too well, sheer desperation to get the
car fixed and get out of there. Even with all the physical injuries he was
carrying.
Sam just wanted to get him somewhere to rest. Somewhere to feel safe, although
he didn’t know where anywhere could possibly be that his brother might feel
safe. If it were Sam, it would be simple: safety was just being with Dean, it
always had been. But where could he take Dean for him to feel able to relax? To
let him finally have some time to heal? And that was just to help with the
wounds and bruises that still covered his body: how Sam was going to help him
deal with the mental scars he had no idea. But he knew he would have to
somehow, would have to try and make his brother discuss it before all of Dean’s
internal emotional baggage built up and imploded into extreme irrationality.
But that could all come later: it was enough right now to see him smile
genuinely for just about the first time since their father had died. And now
Bobby was smiling at Sam through the repaired windscreen and moving to allow
him his rightful place beside his brother in the Impala where he belonged. Sam
found himself taking a deep breath as he got in: they were Home.
“She sounds good!”
Dean grinned at his enthusiasm but shook his head. “Nah. She’s trying to be
good for me, but she still needs a lot of work, don’tcha, Baby? But I’ll get
you perfect again.” He patted the dashboard lovingly, his eyes giving the lie
and showing the strain of emotion that he had been working under. Sam hadn’t
missed the quick glances at seemingly nothing that his brother gave
occasionally and the slight increase of tension that resulted in his body: it
didn’t matter that Sam himself could never spot what Dean so obviously had, he
had such complete trust in his brother’s incredible instincts that he had no
doubt at all that he was being watched again already. “I’ll work on late
tonight if that’s okay Sam? Perhaps I can get her done for tomorrow if I do.”
“As long as you need, Dean. Just don’t overdo it: you still won’t let me check
those wounds on your back….”
“They’re fine.” But it was too quickly answered, the subject too suddenly
changed. Sam sighed, but left it alone as Dean clambered somewhat stiffly out
from behind the steering wheel and went to open the bonnet so he could monitor
the engine as it was still running. Sam stayed inside the Impala, savouring the
feelings that she was conjuring up in him.
And if she was doing it to him, he suddenly realised, what must they be doing
to his brother? If she felt like Home to Sam, then…well, to Dean she was Home.
All he had ever really known was this car, apart from the five years of being
with their mom and dad, that is…but… Sam’s happy thoughts broke off as the
truth finally succeeded in breaking through his previously held beliefs and
knocked aside even his ridiculous childish jealously that Dean had had that
precious few years with their mom that Sam had never got. None of it had been
deserved or was even true.
In fact, Sam realised with sudden complete and total clarity and shame, he had
known and had memories of Jess for far longer than the two or so years his
brother had known their mom for, and even then, Dean had only been five years
old when she had died. And he had never said a word to contradict Sam, or had
never been allowed to, even against all the teenage angst and vitriol that his
little brother had thrown at him….
He stared with blurring eyes through the screen at Dean and realised he was
watching him back with a frown on his face. Sam shook himself out of his sudden
morose mood: he had so many questions for the other man, and a few apologies to
make as well, but they could wait for another time. Or, if he knew Dean as he
thought he did, never.
Quickly he climbed out of the car and joined the other two to look under the
bonnet and try and pretend that he understood any of what he was looking at.
But soon enough he was picking up the not so subtle hints that perhaps he would
be of better use elsewhere, anywhere else, and went to do some research inside
with the promise of returning with yet more drinks in a while. And with a
patronising but loving grin for his brother, possibly some bacon sandwiches as
well.
He wasn’t going to risk researching that emblem this time though: he had
noticed Bobby’s face and knew that he wordlessly agreed that Dean should come
in sooner rather than later before he drove himself into a state of complete
collapse. Although his lifelong habit of disappearing off into the bathroom or
bedroom for twenty or so minutes every so often still seemed to reinvigorate
him. Until their father’s death Sam had always attributed it to Dean’s
seemingly endless sexual appetite and had made his disgust at his brother’s
disappearances known at every opportunity. Now, however, like everything else
about Dean, he wondered just what was the truth.
No, for the time being he was careful to restrict himself to researching
demonic activity, with the private hope that therewas none, if only for a few
days to give his brother time to properly rest. Then he moved on to researching
possible jobs, checked his emails to see if any of his friends from Stanford
had been in touch, then he got on with his designated position of caterer for
the other two, dropping a few strong hints about leaving the car for now and
carrying on the next day.
Which were of course ignored until he had no choice but to order his brother
into the house for the night, which wasn’t well received by the other at all.
And despite his best efforts, Dean had long since been up and outside working
when he awoke early the next morning. But he was in a good mood because he felt
the Impala was finally ready to go, and Sam, despite his frustration at him,
felt relieved as well.
“Okay. Rest, then lunch with Bobby to say goodbye. Then we can give her a
proper run.”
“I’m ready to go now if you want, Sam.”
“Rest, Dean. Or I’m driving her first.”
That was the ultimate threat. Dean went off grumpily to have a shower and, Sam
hoped, a powernap as well. But he didn’t hold out too much hope.
He was surprised therefore when all went quiet for a while upstairs. Sam crept
up to peer in to the small bedroom that they now shared, but to his concern
there was no immediate sign of his brother. Carefully he stepped fully into the
room to check.
He was just turning to yell for Bobby when he realised that Dean was behind
him, on the floor behind the door. He was in the same stance that he had gone
into when he had first brought his deeds to Sam: kneeling with a straight back
and resting on his heels, hands laid against the sides of his lower thighs, but
this time his eyes were closed calmly and his breathing was even.
Sam studied him momentarily, this was definitely something new, but then…. It
began to go through his head that this wasn’t new. This was actually something
that Sam had seen before. Many times. But from years before.
He had sudden glimpses of memory, flash-backs of a much younger Dean and of
himself seeing it from a much lower view-point, laughing and wanting to kneel
with Dean, and of their dad shouting at him that he wasn’t to do that ever and
to get up now! Of watching Dean kneel like this in moments of silence, but from
a horizontal angle: Sam supposed he must have been viewing from the bed of
whichever motel room and had been presumed to be asleep but wasn’t. Of night
after night of seeing Dean meditate like this in this, yes, this habitual
position of his; of even seeing him knelt beside his father’s chair the nights
that he had been there with them: sometimes they would be quietly discussing
hunts, other times not talking.
Of one night watching as their dad had looked strangely and emotionally at Dean
and had gently begun to run his fingers down his back. Of Dean coming out of
his trance with a slight start and looking up questioningly at the adult, his
green eyes illuminated like two small living flames against the fire light of
the cabin they were in that night. Of their dad cupping the back of Dean’s head
in his large hand and gently but firmly holding him still while he himself
leant forward to bring their two mouths together….
Sam came to with a start. That memory had suddenly made him feel ice-cold
inside and he felt the need to try and physically shiver the feeling off. It
was only then that he realised that the green eyes were open now and staring at
him, and although his brother hadn’t moved an inch from his position on the
floor in any other way, he was watching him curiously.
“You okay, Sammy? You’ve gone really pale.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Dean shrugged. “Bobby’s decided to have a bath: I usually go in there out of
the way.”
“Why? You don’t need to. I mean…why in the bathroom?”
“Dad’s orders. You started trying to copy me. It’s a slave position, he didn’t
want you doing it anywhere! You might have got in all sorts of trouble. So I
was to keep it hidden until you grew out of that stage. By then though you’d
started asking all sorts of questions, so I just kept it out of the way.”
“It’s a what?” Sam was lowering himself down to sit on the floor beside his
brother, his long legs only just managing to fit in the small space between the
wall and the bed.
“It’s just… It’s how we’re meant to sit. Well, kneel to attention. They beat it
in to us to do it. But it finally becomes habit. Then somehow it became
comfort.” His surprise seemed genuine. “I find it relaxing. Just to kneel
quietly and think of nothing: helps me control….”
“Pain?” Sam made sure he sounded calmer than he felt at this admittance.
Dean grunted. “Just helps me cope, Sam. But I’ll try and stop if you don’t like
it.”
“No! No. You can do it whenever and wherever you like, Dean. You don’t need to
hide it from me…in fact, would you mind if I joined you? I used to do yoga.”
His brother shrugged, but made no objection. Sam tried to settle himself and
his long legs into a cross-legged pose and they were both silent for a while.
Sam idly watched as rays from the strong morning sun managed to filter through
a gap in the blinds and lit a patch on the wall close to his brother, who had
his eyes closed again.
Then his back began to ache and he fidgeted, eventually deciding to copy how
Dean had settled. That seemed better. The silence extended.
“Who was ‘us’?”
“What?”
“You said ‘it was beaten into us’. Who was ‘us’?”
Dean shrugged, didn’t bother to open his eyes. “There were a few kids there.
They’d be gotten ready to be sold then they’d be gone. Most I don’t remember.”
“But you do some?”
“Vaguely.”
“Tell me about them.”
Dean sighed but kept his eyes closed even as he frowned in concentration.
“Seven. Seven was there with me.”
“Who was he?”
“She.”
“Was that her slave number? Why does she only have one, when you have two?”
Another shrug. “I’m 451140. She was Four-five one one something or other as
well. It would have got confusing. And the slavers who looked after us said she
was too pretty to be a four so they nicknamed her Seven.”
“So she was close in number to you? Is that because she was sold at roughly the
same time? Is that how it works?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it must have been. Same age as me, but I was the oldest. I think.”
“And she had no other name but Seven?”
“No. I told you, Sam, I’ve forgotten if I had one even. I was a kid. We were
all just numbers. Well….except…. B….Billy.” He said the name as if he was
pulling the letters that made it up one at a time out of a long ago locked up
and secreted away box in his head.
“Who was Billy?”
He watched as his brother seemed to tense a little. The frown increased as he
tried to think back. “He was the baby.” There was something in his tone that
told Sam that this wasn’t anything that Dean wanted to talk about.
“Baby?”
“He was only a baby, Sam.” Dean was now hardly whispering, his eyes had opened
and Sam could see the intense sadness in them. “A year, eighteen months
perhaps, younger than us. Only a baby. And his name was Billy, but I don’t know
why I… But I do remember it. And him. I remember him. And Seven. And he used to
call me something as well but I can’t remember….. Only that when you got old
enough to try and talk, Sam, you probably won’t recall it, but you used to call
me ‘De’: ‘wuv oo De’,” Sam smiled at him and the memory, “but when you did, it
always hurt deep inside somehow because I couldn’t help but think of Billy.”
He blinked a couple of times as Sam had no choice but to ask: “Do you think he
was your brother? Your real brother?” That felt so strange to say, and he felt
ashamed of being more than a little jealous.
“I don’t know, Sam. I can’t remember. And…” He shook himself out of the
miserable mood and tried to put on a smile. “I’m never going to know anyway. I
haven’t dared to let myself think about any of this or…. Not for years.”
“But we could find out! There must be records somewhere?”
“In the Department of Voluntary Servitude in Washington that holds the national
archive. But you don’t just walk in and ask to look at records of slaves!”
“No, but… I bet they’re all on computers somewhere.”
“No. No, Sam! Don’t even think it! They’re the most secret department in the
government, they’re renowned for it! And they’ve got so many resources: they
can call on all the others at will… You do not want to be getting their
attention in any way! Or the attention of their fucking Bounty Hunters! They’re
notorious! You don’t outrun them! Ever! Leave it alone. It’s past history, I
mean it Sam.”
“But don’t you want to know?!”
“No! Not if it means you getting yourself in a lot of trouble with people that
make monsters look like tiny little lap dogs! I mean it, Sam. It’s past. All
done. Leave it alone, Sam. Promise me!” He was angry and worried, glaring at
Sam.
It was the other man’s turn to grunt: “Okay.”
“Promise me, Sam. Don’t you mess with these people. Not for me!”
“O-kay!” The word was all but spat at him.
Dean watched him in a manner that reminded Sam far too much of their father. He
fought down the instinct to argue and instead shifted his aching back and limbs
to sit in a loose, legs bent up position leaning back against the wall, trying
not to give away the fact that he could no longer feel either of his feet. He
mutinously stared at them until Dean had finally turned away with a deep sigh.
Then Sam couldn’t help the smirk that curved up the edges of his lips. He had
got away without actually promising. Because he was damned if he would. If
there was just the possibility of finding out if Dean had a real brother, and
then perhaps evenfinding him…. Sam knew he was good at hacking computers, and
ifhe couldn’t get into this one, well then, he had met someone just last week
who was really good at them. All it would take was a private word with Ash, and
a promise of payment of some sort….
He hadn’t meant to upset Dean though. “For what it’s worth,” he hesitantly told
him. “If Billy is your brother then he’s missed out on having the best big
brother in the entire world. And I’m so grateful he did. Even if that is a
terrible thing to say. I need you in my life. I always have, and for all my
life. I mean that, Dean.”
The other snorted, but didn’t respond. Instead he closed his eyes once more and
pointedly tried to return to his meditation, but Sam smiled to himself as he
noticed him sit up even straighter with pride.
Sam hugged his legs with his arms to try and shake off the pins and needles
sensation in his feet. “Who else do you remember?” He heard the frustrated sigh
from his brother, but chose to ignore it. “What about the owner? Mr Johnson,
was it? What was he like?”
Again he noticed the other man frown. More than a frown, he could see Dean’s
whole body stiffen with a surge of underlying anger. “Him? You don’t want to
know what he was like, Sam. I guess that’s how it makes you, dealing in flesh
for a living. We weren’t anything to be worth getting emotional about. But…He
never should have…” He sighed again as an unwanted and unpleasant memory
wandered to the surface of his mind. “Anyway…just as long as he never touched
Seven.…”
Sam didn’t understand. Decided it was yet another thing he probably didn’t want
to. “Anyone else?” He was now trying to rub his ankles back into their normal
state of existence without Dean noticing.
“One of the men who looked after us. Nate. I think he was called Nate. He was
okay: made sure we were fed. Didn’t knock us about too much as long as we
behaved. Some of the others were too handy with their fists, even with Billy.
He always came to me when he was upset. They just left me to get on with it,
but that was okay.…”
He paused. Waited. Realised Sam still wanted more details. Sighed loudly.
“And there was Mr Johnson’s wife of course, if you could call her that. She was
blonde, and, erm, big in a busty sort of way. She had a number as well though.
She was known as sixty-nine.”
“Why, was she a slave as well…?” Sam began. Then he stopped, thought about it,
and finally looked across at his brother. Only to find that Dean now had his
eyes open and was watching him with a grin of sheer devilment on his face. Sam
looked down at his feet again and bit at his lower lip trying desperately not
to respond, but slowly, and despite himself, he couldn’t stop his own wide
smile from appearing in response.
He laid his head back against the wall momentarily as he laughed. Then glanced
back towards Dean just as the ray of warm sunshine shifted enough to fall
across his face, lighting up his eyes to make the soft meadow-green sparkle in
such a way as to make the brightest, most brilliant emeralds jealous. It made
Sam’s breath catch at the sight: even the increasing lines in the corners of
Dean’s eyes didn’t detract from the fact that he really was an incredibly good-
looking man, and rather, they served to add more and more to his intrigue. Sam
could fully understand how someone could get obsessive about his brother and be
willing to pay such a huge sum of money to take him. Because he himself was
already as obsessed about him, and would willingly kill anybody who dared to
try.
“Sam?”
He shook himself out of his thoughts and began to try and get up, his feet and
lower limbs complaining as he put weight on them. “You ready for something to
eat and then we’ll get going?”
To his amazement, Dean got up from his knees in one easy, smooth motion and
came to help him up. “Been ready for ages. Let’s just go.”
“You fancy checking out some mysterious cow deaths and a decapitated human in
Montana?"
Dean shrugged and smiled easily. “As long as it involves taking my Baby and
getting the hell out of here, bring it on!”
“Okay then. Bobby! We’re going now! Thanks for everything!”
“You two take care of each other, do’ya hear?”
“Yes sir.”
The older man watched them as they each carried their bag of belongings to the
Impala and murmured fondly to no one in particular: “Idgits!”
***** BACK ON THE ROAD *****
Gordon Walker.
Gordon Walker....
Sam lay quietly, thinking through everything that had happened since they’d met
Gordon Walker earlier. The man was so obsessed with killing any and every
vampire that he just wouldn’t listen to reason. So much hatred; so much of his
life and energy spent on revenge; such a waste of an existence that never had
succeeded in bringing his sister back but only caused more pain when he
eventually had to kill both the monster inside her, and her, himself.
Sam could only be grateful that his brother had actually listened to him and
trusted his judgement. At least he hadn’t had to take that final and awkward
step of ordering him to obey him as, although Dean hadn’t been happy about it,
he had backed Sam up when he had made the call. Not only that but once the
piece of shit known as Gordon Walker had been dealt with, Dean had acknowledged
that he had come to agree with Sam’s decision. That meant more to Sam than he
would ever be able to explain to anyone: his father’s praise had meant nothing
to him, Dean’s meant everything.
Sam was sure that he would never, never, despite all the terrible things that
had happened to him in his life, spend the rest of it in such a pointless
exercise as to throw everything away for the sake of revenge. Like Gordon
Walker had done.
Like his father had done.
No. Sam knew he could never be like them. Not while he had Dean to rely on: he
would find that demon and stop it from killing others like it had done everyone
else that he had loved, but he would never lose himself in such a destructive
desire for revenge.
Never.
Although he was definitely goIng to find that bastard from that bar despite
Dean’s entreaties not to and make him wish he’d never touched his brother, but
that was just protecting Dean: it was nothing like single minded lust for
revenge. Not like Gordon Walker.
Not like his dad.
Nothing at all like either of them.
Sam’s thoughts were disturbed as Dean mumbled a little and tried to turn in his
sleep in the small bed. Sam relaxed his arms enough to allow him to move: he
was already used to this even after only a couple of weeks. Dean would get too
hot and try to wriggle away from him, but if Sam just waited a few minutes
before attempting to hold him again, Dean would then resettle back into deep
sleep. He might always be up earlier than Sam as if embarrassed every morning
to stay beside him once awake, but he at least was getting a few hours much
needed sleep just about every night since Sam had insisted they start doing
this.
So Sam waited and expected Dean to move away. Instead he was slightly surprised
when Dean tried instead to lay on his front, his habitual sleeping position
ever since Sam could remember, and all but knocked his younger brother from the
bed in the process as his face grimaced with pain and his hand moved
involuntarily to touch a spot at the side of his lower back even in his sleep.
Sam felt irritation rise within him as he noticed the movement: he had thought
that Dean had been carrying an injury even before his fight with that bastard
Gordon Walker. Why the hell would he never just admit it?
Even before he had realised what he was doing, his hand was replacing Dean’s
and he was gently massaging the spot where the pain had encroached even through
his brother’s dreams.
“Sam?”
“Shush.”
And Dean did, relaxing at the touch until his breathing was once again
rhythmical. Sam felt his own eyes gradually become heavier and as he was still
balanced precariously on the edge of the small bed, he gently and carefully
moved across until he was right over his brother’s body with his own, his hand
still soothingly rubbing the ache away and keeping it from disturbing Dean once
more. Sam’s last coherent thought, as his mouth found a comfortable place to
rest against the top of Dean’s neck and he also sunk into a deep dreamless
sleep, was that he was probably going to be heavy on his brother in the night
but at least Dean wouldn’t find it so easy to sneak out of the bed in the
morning….
And so apart from their new nocturnal arrangement, they tried to get back to
what they had been before. To just about the whole world they were brothers.
The Winchester Brothers. And only they, Bobby and at least one sadistic bastard
knew the truth.
They carried on hunting the yellow-eyed demon.
They carried on looking for the Colt that would kill the yellow-eyed demon.
And Sam carried on trying to find out who that man was. Because he would find
him one day: he was one hundred per cent determined of that.
Dean was loud and self-assured when out on a job or in a bar, seemingly exactly
the same to anyone whom had known him before. To Sam, back in the motel room or
in the car, he was quieter, more self-contained. He would kneel not only to
meditate, but to do other things such as work on the laptop. And he was anxious
about something: constantly and persistently worried about someone or something
that his brother wished he would talk to him about. And not just to do with him
being a slave, there was something else praying on his mind: something to do
with their dad perhaps. But he would never speak to Sam about it, not any of
it, no matter how much the latter tried….
But whatever it was, it only intensified when Sam began to have visions that
came true. As his headaches grew, so did Dean’s anxiety. As if he knew
something Sam didn’t. But still he wouldn’t talk to him.
But in the meantime they just carried on working. They kept finding trouble and
trouble kept finding them.
A simple five minutes for Sam to mourn at his mother’s grave while Dean waited
respectfully a short distance away was enough for them to become involved with
hunting down a murderous zombie.
They exorcised a poltergeist in Kentucky which only ended after Sam had been
thrown down a flight of stairs, only narrowly avoiding having any broken bones.
In Philadelphia, Jo led them to a case that at first excited Sam greatly
because of his intense fascination with serial killers, but lost its appeal
somewhat when Ellen blamed his brother for nearly getting her strong-willed and
rebellious daughter killed. He wanted to protect Dean: none of it had been his
fault, but the woman’s mind was already made up and Dean wouldn’t let him
interfere.
They literally sniffed out and killed a witch in West Virginia who was testing
new spells hidden in the exclusive aromatherapy products used on the
unsuspecting clientele of a health spa.
Dean was arrested yet again for his past record as they tried to solve two
murders in Maryland, only to find himself nearly another victim of the same
murderous, drug-dealing, human police officer who saw him as being the perfect
patsy to lay the blame on. No one would have bothered to ask questions if a
slave had got shot and killed while trying to escape....
The brothers dug up and burnt the bodies of three sisters in South Carolina who
were still carrying on with their petty sibling rivalry even after death. It
hadn’t been without incident though: Dean had taken the role of playing
distraction while Sam salted and burned the last one, and had ended up
unconscious for a while after being hurled head first against a granite head
stone while his brother was in the act of lighting the remains. Sam had to help
him back to the car and spent a restless night in the motel worried that he
should have taken him to the nearest hospital instead.
They tracked down a pair of werewolves who were working their way across
Tennessee leaving a trail of missing persons and bloody remains behind them.
Although they had nearly come to grief when Dean had had, unusually for him, a
lapse of concentration that meant he nearly didn’t get through the back door of
the abandoned and derelict farmhouse in time to help Sam, who had, instead of
dealing with two cornered and trapped beings with his brother, suddenly found
himself facing both sets of snarling teeth at once, on his own.
And boy, was he was mad about it.
“What happened? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don’t know, Sam.” Dean was uncharacteristically quiet and ....confused. “I
don’t know what happened. I suddenly was there but I didn’t know why. It wasn’t
until I heard you shout that I came running. But I don’t know what happened.”
“Well, it better had not fucking happen again, Dean! If I can’t trust you to
have my back, then what’s the fucking use of you?!”
He was sorry immediately he’d shouted those words. He saw his brother wince and
turn away, his head down. But he was still too angry for the moment to
apologise. Instead he had pushed past Dean and limped back to the Impala, while
cursing loudly at his ripped and bloody leg where it had physically gone
through a rotten floorboard as he had tried to jump out of the way from the
collective onslaught of claws and fangs, and ignoring any suggestion of
assistance the other man offered.
He had remained righteously outraged and mute for the journey back to where
they were staying, and even into the rest of the night, moodily staring down at
Dean as he knelt and silently cleaned the deepest cut and sewed it together
with minute and precise stitches before carefully bandaging the rest of the leg
up.
“So what happened?”
Dean didn’t even look up. “I don’t know, Sam.”
The sheer misery and wretchedness in his voice finally melted the last of Sam’s
anger away. He sighed and leant forward to hug his brother, surprised and upset
now to feel a drop of warm wetness land on his neck. “I didn’t mean what I said
earlier. I never meant to say that, Dean. I’m sorry.”
“You were right to say it, Sammy. I nearly got you killed today.”
“You saved me. Two shots: two dead werewolves. Dad would have been proud.”
“He’d have busted my ass. Sent me back to the auctions. I would have deserved
it.”
Sam pulled him closer, into the space between his legs, wrapping his limbs even
tighter around his brother to try and console him. “He would have never done
that, Dean. Neither would I. I’m sorry for saying something as stupid like
that. But....what happened?”
Dean paused and tried to pull away, but Sam was having none of it and if
anything, held him even closer. He felt Dean’s body tense a little before he
managed to force himself to try and relax. But his voice was still worried and
unsure when he replied.
“I don’t know, Sam. I...It was as if I was awake suddenly. Awake and standing
up, with a gun in my hand. But I couldn’t remember why I was there. Or what I
should be doing....I just couldn’t think why I was there.... And then I heard
you yell and I came running... “
Sam blinked: that didn’t sound good.
“Do you think it’s a spell of some sort? Or, did something attack you outside,
something that made you forget...?”
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“We’ll go back tomorrow. Check it out in case there was something else there.
And I’m sorry, Dean.”
And that’s what he had every intention of doing.
Until later that same morning when they had both awakened again.
And he had realised that Dean couldn’t remember a thing from that day.
***** SOMETHING’S WRONG *****
He had almost thought it was just a joke at first.
He had been awakened suddenly by Dean all but tumbling from the bed and
snatching for his clothes in a hurry. “Jesus! Look at the time, Sam! It’s the
last full moon tonight: if we miss it and miss them, then we’ll have to wait a
month to be sure!”
Sam blinked blearily at him. “What the hell are you talking about? Come back to
bed. Shit, my leg’s killing me!” as he lay back down and pulled the covers over
his head.
“Sam! Come on! We’re going to miss catching those werewolves if we don’t go
now!” And Dean was tugging the thin blankets away and depositing them in a
messy pile on the floor. He paused as he saw the bandages around his brother’s
lower leg. “What’s happened? What have you done?”
And at almost exactly the same time Sam was asking: “What are you going on
about, Dean? We got them. Yesterday. You got them: you killed them both.” He
stared at his brother, almost waiting for the punchline to be delivered. But it
never came. Instead Dean frowned, wobbled a little where he stood and stared
back at him.
“What?”
Sam was getting up out of the bed by now and catching hold of his hand. “Sit
down, Dean. You look like you’re going to fall. Please!” as the older man
instinctively began to pull away from the contact. “We got the werewolves
yesterday, Dean. Don’t you remember?”
Dean slumped down on the now empty mattress with a soft thud. “No. No I don’t,
Sam. Are you sure?”
“Well, yeah! I all but fell through the floor of the old building we cornered
them in. You stitched me up last night.” He indicated his leg and the recently
applied dressings: Dean looked bewildered and stared down at them. “You were
acting strange yesterday as well though. I think there may have been something
else there besides the wolves. I’m gonna go back and take a look. But I want
you to stay here safe. Okay?”
He was reaching out for his own clothes, seriously unnerved by this turn of
events. Dean moved to stop him as he began to pull a clean pair of untorn and
unbloodied jeans on. “I had to sew you up?”
“Yeah. Yes you did, Dean.”
“How bad were you hurt?”
Sam paused from doing his buckle up and smiled at him. Even now, concern about
him over-rode everything else in his brother’s mind. He sat back down on the
bed and reached for Dean’s hand with both of his. “I’m fine. Just a couple of
cuts: only one that mattered. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Let me see.”
Sam sighed at him but knew it would be easier and quicker to put Dean’s mind at
rest about his state of health than it would be to argue. So he simply bent to
roll up and pull at the base of the denim until it was up over his knee and sat
quietly and waited while Dean knelt on the floor in front of him, drew the long
bare foot into his lap and carefully undid the bandages above. He stared at the
neat stitches for a long moment.
“This is my work. But why don’t I remember doing it, Sammy?”
“I don’t know, Dean. We’re going to find out. But I want you to stay here while
I go.”
“No. If it took my memory, then what if it takes yours? No. I’m coming.” He was
reaching for clean dressings even while he was disagreeing, and expertly
wrapping Sam’s slim, if somewhat bony limb up once more.
“No you’re not. If anything happens and you forget even more and wander off...
No. You’re to stay here safe.”
“Like hell I am.”
“I’m telling you you are!”
“You try and stop me.” He glared up defiantly at the other and pointedly pulled
at the leg of Sam’s jeans until it was back down where it should be. “You
ready?”
“You’re staying here!”
“Screw you.”
He was on his feet and had his boots on waiting at the door before Sam had
finished dressing fully. The younger man was silently furious but wasn’t sure
how to react. Just a short couple of months ago, an exchange like this would
simply have meant a completely silent car journey until one brother broke or
needed to ask something important. And, he reflected ironically, it would
usually have been him because his elder brother could glower for the American
Olympic team if pushed enough.
Now though.... He knew Dean was only worried about him going alone, but he also
needed him to.... obey Sam...
And he hated that he was even thinking that.
“You ready?”
“Dean. I would be happier if you would remain here safe. Please.”
“Discussion’s over.”
And Dean was exiting through the door, unlocking the Impala and clambering into
the driver’s seat. Sam checked he had the motel room key and slammed the door
behind him with extreme prejudice. He almost thought about slamming the Impala
door as well, but decided that that would probably result in a murder if he
did: his! So instead he controlled himself enough to carefully close it and
turned to Dean, ready to have another go about him staying behind.
Only to pause at the slightly dazed expression on Dean’s face as he stared
blankly first at the dashboard and then at the car key in his hand.
“Dean?”
“Sam? Wasn’t I...? How am I...? What am I doing here? And where...? Oh, yeah.
We’ve got to get the werewolves, haven’t we? Sorry.... I...”
He stretched his arm to use the keys, but Sam quietly put out his hand and
stopped him. “I think I better drive, Dean.”
“Where we going, Sam?”
“Where every other sane, normal person would have gone to first, Dean. I’m
taking you to hospital.”
“No Sam. We don’t do hospitals: they’re more trouble than they’re worth. I’m
fine.”
“Get over your paranoia of hospitals, Dean. And no. No, I don’t think you are.”
***** UGH – HOSPITALS! *****
Chapter Summary
     This chapter got longer than I intended: I've been trying to work out
     how to split it, but then I thought 'meagh' - I like it as it is!
     And I've tried to get the medical details realistic. I apologise
     unreservedly to all doctors and nurses if it's wrong.
Sam sat in the hospital corridor with his head in his hands. He had just
finished leaving a message for Bobby via his cellphone and needed a few minutes
for himself to catch his breath before he felt able to return to the single
room that his brother had been put into.
Now he understood why Dean hated hospitals.
On their journey in, the brothers had quickly sorted through the selection of
‘borrowed’ details that they had a cache of in the glove box and Sam had picked
out one with a short name that he could write discretely on Dean’s hand in the
hopes that even if he couldn’t remember the chosen fake name, he might be able
to work it out enough not to give away the fact they had false insurance
details. But he had hardly time to fill in the forms at the reception before
his brother’s obvious dazed condition had caught the attention of the medics
and he was being ushered through to the main emergency department to be seen
immediately.
Sam caught up with him just in time to see Dean grumbling about being helped
into a hospital robe, and being given the routine check with the microchip
scanner. Sam had often seen it done, he had had it done to him before: it was
part of both hospital and police station routine to check all new arrivals to
see if they were slaves or not. The scanner was simply run down the centre of
whoever’s back as the microchip could be implanted anywhere beneath the spinal
cord. Sam had never taken much notice before, but as the female nurse used it
on Dean it bleeped loudly, enough to make her start and read text wording on it
with surprise and obvious concern.
Which she very quickly hid from Dean as he also turned to look at it in
surprise: “It doesn’t usually make a noise like that: there’s usually only a
single beep!”
By this time the resident doctor was also glancing at the message and removing
it out of Dean’s view. “New machines.” He explained simply. “They’re so noisy
they’re driving us nuts!”
But was it Sam’s imagination, or did they both suddenly look really tense?
Then he was distracted as Dean complained at being stuck with a sharp needle
and having blood taken for numerous tests. Sam couldn’t hide his grin as he
crossed to stand by his side: his brother could sew inches of his own skin
together without flinching but show him a medicinal needle being held in
anybody else’s hand and he turned into the biggest baby of them all.
“Don’t worry, it’s a cannula: you only have to suffer it the once as long as
you leave it alone.” And Dean was sulking as the doctor retrieved the needle
leaving the thin tube still inserted into the vein, put the cap securely on and
taped the whole thing expertly to his arm covering it with protective bandages.
“Just try and relax, Mr Deakin. We’ll look after you in here.”
Dean grunted. Sam was relieved that he hadn’t already forgotten their chosen
alias. “I’d rather be anywhere else but here!”
The nurse stroked his arm. “Well youare, but at least you’re safe.” Dean looked
up at her and instinctively turned on the ‘Dean Winchester smile’: Sam rolled
his eyes as the young woman immediately flushed and became a little flustered,
knocking the trolley beside her with her leg.
Dean noticed the resident looking at her reaction and automatically gave him
the charming smile as well. His eyebrows rose as the good-looking, blue-eyed
man in scrubs also turned a shade of crimson and ducked his head. ‘Well well,’
he thought, ’it might not be so bad here after all’.
He grinned to himself as he looked back down at the bandage around his left
arm. It wiped the smile off his face a little: he hated needles, and blood, and
injections, and the smell of the place. In fact, he hated hospitals, period.
Why had Sam insisted he come here? They should be out chasing the werewolves.
Although, hadn’t Sam said in the car that they had already killed the things?
How could they have done that? It was impossible: Sam must be mistaken. And why
was he limping slightly as he had gotten out of Baby? Had he injured himself
somehow: what had he been doing? And now Dean’s head was hurting. Really
hurting. Why was it hurting? And….
What had he just been thinking about? Oh yes, they were getting ready to get
after the werewolves. He just had to load the guns with the silver bullets and
they could be on their way. He only had to fetch the ammunition from the bags
and….
What the fuck?
He was just in the motel about to check the weapons….Wasn’t he….? How did he
get here? And where was here? And why was he wearing a….Oh God, he was wearing
a hospital gown! And there was something sticking in his left arm! Get it out!
He hated needles! Get it out!
“Dean? Dean! Are you okay? Calm down! I’m here! You’re okay!” That was Sam’s
voice. How did Sam get here? How did he get here? And get this fucking thing
out of me!
And even as he tried to pull the cannula out of his vein, Sam was lunging at
him desperately, trying to stop him. He had seen Dean’s face change to that
expression of complete confusion again and knew that this was possibly the
worst place for his brother to suddenly find himself in. “Dean! It’s alright!
You’ve got to leave that in! They’re going to work out what’s wrong with you,
but you’ve got to calm down!”
“Sam? How did we get here? We were in the motel…..weren’t we? We were just in
the motel! What the hell?!”
But now Sam had a tight and painful grip on his right hand and arm and was
putting all his weight on them to try and stop Dean from ripping at his left
arm, while the doctor and nurse had also grabbed at Dean and were holding him
in the chair. And Sam was talking at him, trying to sound calm though his own
expression was anything but: “It’s okay, Dean. Just let them do some tests on
you. I’m here with you, I’m not gonna go anywhere, just take a deep breath.
Deep breath, Dean. Come on….”
And he was trying to obey, trying to be good. Even though he could feel his
heart pounding, trying its hardest to escape his ribs as frantically as he
wanted to escape this hospital. But he took the deep breaths, and held on to
Sam, and tried.
“Shit!” Sam still had a strong grip on his brother’s arm with one hand, but his
other was now around Dean, rubbing his back, trying to get the panic to
subside. He looked in desperation at the resident doctor: “What the hell is
wrong with him?”
“Has he hit his head at all?” The Attending Physician was coming across,
attracted by the scene. And a senior resident. In fact they were all looking.
It seemed that everyone in the large multi-sectioned room and beyond was trying
to look around the edge of the small cubicle to see what was happening.
“No. Nothing. He’s been fine. Until this suddenly started.”
“It needn’t have been today, or even yesterday. Anything in the last few weeks?
Anything that you can think of? Especially at the front of the head? It
mightn’t have even seemed important at the time.”
Sam flinched and went pale. “Oh god, the headstone!”
“Headstone?”
“But that was over a week ago! Longer!” He thought fast. “We travel around from
job to job. Take whatever comes along. Anything. This time we had one and there
was a shortcut across an old graveyard. Dean tripped, went headlong against a
headstone. He said he was okay. He said he was okay!”
“Where did he hit?”
“The middle of his forehead. You can still see the slight mark of it.”
“Did he go unconscious?”
“I’m not sure. He was already getting up by the time I realised he wasn’t with
me anymore.”
“Have you ordered a CT Head?” This was to the first doctor, who stood almost to
attention as the Physician addressed him.
“I will, sir. But it’s busy today.”
“Take him straight down there yourself. I’ll make the call: they’ll be ready
for you.”
“Erm, sir?” And to Sam’s surprise, and concern, he was showing his senior the
scanner with the message on it. Sam watched as the mouth tightened in anger on
the Physician and he didn’t miss the quick glance aimed at himself. Not a
particularly pleasant glance. Then it was hidden again behind a professional
smile.
“Let’s get his head checked. Will you be accompanying your….?”
“Brother.”
“Okay.”
And in an undertone to the younger medic, “Make sure Security meets you down
there. And sedate our patient if you feel you need to.”
“Yes sir.”
To Sam, it seemed a long wait for the results of the scan. As directed, the
resident doctor had found a wheelchair and pushed Dean down to the Scanning
Department himself, where, as arranged, he had been taken straight in while Sam
waited outside. Along with two of the hospital’s Security team, who had just
happened to be already in the waiting area and didn’t seem very inclined to be
leaving.
Although strangely they did as soon as Dean was being taken up to a small
private room. Sam moved to close the door as the doctor left them with a
promise to return soon, and noted the two guards now standing in the corridor
outside.
“Does that machine give your police record?”
Dean looked at him in confusion and Sam realised that he had forgotten about
the scanner and the wording appearing on it. He decided against explaining: it
would only worry his brother more, and whatever it was that was happening, when
he got anxious it just seemed to make his sudden memory losses happen with more
intensity.
Instead he crossed to him. “Come on, up on the bed.”
“I don’t like this, Sam. We shouldn’t have come here. Dad tried never to bring
me to hospitals: they always have so many questions as soon as they know what I
am.”
“We never had trouble before.”
“You were never my owner before.”
Sam wondered about that comment. But he didn’t labour the point. Instead he
took a seat in a soft chair beside the bed and they waited for what seemed like
hours. And waited.
“Mr Deakin?”
Sam stirred. He must have dozed off in the chair. Dean had also fallen asleep
on the bed. Sam quickly got his feet and crossed to the now open door where the
Senior Physician who had arranged the scan was standing. “Have you got the
results? What’s wrong with him?” Absently he noticed that in reality, only an
hour or so had gone by.
Then he didn’t care about the time as he took note of the two men standing just
outside the door. He might not have known them, but he recognised their ilk
immediately. After all, he and his brother had imitated them often enough.
“What are you, FBI? What is this? What’s going on?”
The two men exchanged glances: both smartly dressed in dark suits, polished but
comfortable shoes. Both fit and muscled: ex-military standard fit and muscled.
One was older than the other: probably late forties, possibly early fifties, at
first glance a friendly countenance with clear blue-greyish eyes and laughter
lines; the other younger, possibly about Dean’s age, perhaps even early
thirties, dark latino features, dark brown, almost black eyes, and his
expression when he looked at Sam.... it was pure contempt. And Sam could feel
himself shrinking at the scornful hatred in it.
“Mr Deakin?” The older was speaking. “That is your name? Mr Deakin?”
“Yes. And who are you?”
Both men got their identification badges out to show him. “We’re from the
Federal Bureau of Voluntary Servitude. It’s been flagged up that a slave with a
high ‘at risk’ status is in the hospital. But he doesn’t belong to a Mr Deakin.
So, sir, I’m going to ask you your name again.”
“A high at risk status? What does that mean?”
“It means,” the younger agent was all but hissing the words as he spoke for the
first time, “it means that the poor bastard is at a high risk of being abused
by his owner. Our medic wasn’t happy at the number of unnatural and possibly
intentional scars at his last examination, so put out a general alert to watch
for him. And here he is, in a hospital in Knoxville, with a fractured skull and
bleeding on the brain.”
“He’s got what!” The shock of the last few words had all but driven out the
rest of the inference from Sam’s head. “Bleeding on the brain! Oh God! Tell me
you can do something!” This was to the Senior Physician.
“Ford!” The elder Federal Agent was chiding his colleague. The younger man
glowered but fell silent, his dark eyes still burning hatred at Sam. “Your
name, sir.”
“What?” Sam couldn’t believe this.
“I’m asking you to confirm your name, sir. And are you the owner or not?”
“He’s a him, you piece of shit! I’m his owner! And his brother as well.” This
last was addressed to the Attending Physician, whose eyes were flashing his
disgust at this exchange despite the rest of his face remaining expressionless.
“Sir, I would caution you to remain calm…”
“Sam? What’s going on?”
They all turned to stare at Dean, who was standing in the doorway of his room,
having hastily dressed back in his jeans and shirt but minus his boots, cannula
still in his arm, taking in every detail of the men and of his younger
brother’s distraught face. The elder FBVS man recovered himself to speak first.
“You must be Fou...Dean. It’s good to meet you Dean. If you’re up to it,
perhaps we can have a little chat.” He stepped forward, his hand outstretched
as if ready to shake Dean’s hand, but it was ignored.
“Sam? You okay?”
“They’re saying... they said you’ve got a fractured skull.”
“They shouldn’t have said anything at all.” The Physician spoke up suddenly.
“You’re a patient, and despite what authority they think they have, they
haven’t any in here. But we shouldn’t be discussing this here.” He motioned for
them all to step into the private room. “It’s not as bad as they made it sound.
But if we could establish who your owner is, then I will have to discuss your
treatment with him or her…” He smiled reassuringly at Dean, who fixed him with
a glare but didn’t move a muscle in any direction.
“So why are you here?” This was all but barked at the two Federal Agents.
“You’re on a watch for ‘at risk’ slaves. The scanner set it off and we came
immediately.”
“I’ve been in a police station recently. You didn’t come then!”
“We’re not interested in your misdemeanours, only your well-being: the Bureau
takes that very seriously. We’ve found that slaves with criminal records have
usually been forced into it by their masters anyway, and besides...”
“Besides what?”
“Besides, it gives the morons in FBI something to do out of our way!”
Dean stared at the older man, who met his glare calmly. He felt his lips twitch
despite himself and noticed the other’s grey eyes laugh in response. Dean
nodded and relaxed a little. “I’m good at getting hurt. But Sammy’s never
touched me. He never has, he never will. You’re barking up the wrong tree with
him. And I sure ain’t going anywhere with you!”
“Explain this injury then.” The younger FBVS agent was stepping forward
aggressively.
Sam tensed but forced himself to remain calm after a glance from Dean. ‘Please
let him say something close to what I made up’, he thought. “How did you bang
your head, Dean?”
“It must have been in the graveyard.” Dean didn’t even blink, he was so
determined to defend his brother. “It was a shortcut. I was trying to keep up
with Sam. Look at him: his strides are three of mine at least. I tripped on
something and hit a headstone. Simple as.”
“Did you lose consciousness?” The Physicican asked at exactly the same time as
the elder FBVS agent spoke: “So Mr Deakin was definitely in front of you? In
your view at all times?”
Dean glared at him, his previous animosity fully restored. “Sam didn’t push me,
if that’s what you’re suggesting! He’s never touched me. Never! And I don’t
know if I lost consciousness: I just know it fucking hurt and still does.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me!” Sam was incredulous. And angry. And guilty:
he should have known. Why would Dean never just tell him when there’s something
wrong.
“It didn’t seem important, Sam. It’s not terrible, just still aches.”
“And on that note, gentlemen.” The Physician was pulling himself up to his full
height and showing why he was in a position of authority. “You have heard my
patient. It was an accident. I think you’re done here.”
“Not quite. We haven’t established where your owner is, have we, Dean?”
“To be fair,” the medic agreed. “I will need to know that as well before we can
proceed with any treatment.Is it this young man here?”
Sam desperately caught Dean’s eye. The other gave him a little nod: this was
not the time to get caught in any lies. He sighed and went for full honesty.
“My name is Sam Winchester. Dean is my slave, although I didn’t even know that
he was one until our father died three months or so ago and left him to me. And
as for the scars? We’ve both had a tough upbringing: if you want to examine me,
you’ll see I’m covered in them as well.” He was pulling up his own shirt as he
was speaking and showing them his own marked torso. “That’s unfortunately how
it went. But I’d never hurt him, and he knows that. No matter what you’re
thinking. He was brought up as my brother, and to me, that’s what he’ll always
be.”
“You think we’re going to believe that…?” The younger agent, Ford, wasn’t
convinced and was still spitting with contempt, but the other caught at his arm
and pulled him away. “Hamill….!”
“Enough!” Their partnership obviously wasn’t built on mutual respect, but the
elder agent continued speaking calmly enough. “As long as you don’t think you
need us, Dean. But here’s my card in case you ever do.” He handed the business
card over, while his partner stepped up to the Physician, staring him down.
“He’s to have a full medical and any new injury recorded with photographic
evidence. I’ll be looking for the report first thing in the morning. From you.
Personally.”
“Of course. I’m sure you can find your own way out.”
The brother’s glanced at each other at the pleasant sounding tone of the
medic’s voice: neither were fooled, and Sam couldn’t help but be grateful the
Senior Physician was on their side.
That all changed slightly the moment the three of them entered the single room
that Dean had been put into. The moment the door had closed behind them, he was
holding his hand to the front of his head in agony: “Shit. Shit! What is this?”
The Physician caught Dean as his legs buckled beneath him and pushed him
towards the chair, it being an easier height to get him safely onto. “Get the
nurses!”
Sam obeyed immediately and the small room suddenly seemed full of people in
scrubs and bleeping machinery. The younger Winchester could only wait as his
brother was manually lifted onto the bed, redressed in the hospital gown, and
connected up to the main monitor that hung above the bed.
“Blood pressure’s coming back down.” “Sats seem good.” “Heart rate’s steadying,
a much better pace.” “Here he comes.” “What can you remember, Dean? Your
brother’s there, the other side of the bed, don’t worry. Just tell us what you
can remember.”
“I was in the motel… How am I here?”
“And what day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“Okay. You just rest there. I’m going to talk with your brother for a moment.”
One by one the rest of the medical staff went until only the Attending
Physician, one nurse and the original resident doctor were left in the room
with Sam and Dean. “I’m writing a prescription for him to be kept sedated for a
while and he’ll be put on something to lower his blood pressure as well. It’s
important we keep it under control from now on.”
“So,” Sam could hardly speak. “What’s happening? Does he have a fractured
skull?”
The Physician gave a tight smile. “No, Mr Winchester, he doesn’t. There’s a
slight crack in it, at the front where you thought, but it’s not that that’s
the problem. That will heal on its own with him hardly being aware of it, an
ache that will gradually go: the bone will repair itself in time just like any
other bone in the body.” He paused. “Just like it has done before….
What is the problem, and what is causing his symptoms, is that he has a small
bleed in his brain beneath that just won’t quite stop. It’s trying to, but
every time he gets agitated or anxious, up goes his blood pressure and, to put
it in the simplest terms, the clot that has naturally formed to stop the
bleeding is ripped away under the extra force of blood flow, and the bleeding
starts up again.
We’ve just had a prime example of that, thanks to your two new friends in
suits. How he even managed to walk back into this room before collapsing is
amazing. But it’s meant even more blood where there shouldn’t be in his brain,
causing pressure to build on his frontal cortex, and that controls the short
term memory, hence the sudden and extremely abrupt episodes of memory loss."
“But he can’t seem to get past Tuesday?”
“That could well be the last clear memory he had before the pressure built up
too much. Did anything happen that day to make him more anxious or agitated
than previously? Remember, we’re talking tiny amounts of blood in his brain,
but enough where it shouldn’t be can cause a massive problem.”
“So what can you do?”
“What I’d like to do, is do an ICP. It involves a minor procedure that will
connect your brother directly up to a monitor that will precisely measure any
change happening inside his head. Forty-eight hours with careful medication to
keep his blood pressure low, and a lot of rest, will let us know whether it can
heal naturally on its own. Which is much the preferable outcome. The
alternative is that it’s not going to be able to heal itself, and he’ll need to
have an operation to, er, go in manually as it were.”
Sam stared at him. “You mean…. operate on his brain?”
“Yes. Obviously that comes with risks, so I’d rather try the ICP and make sure
he definitely needs it first. But….”
“But?”
The Physician sighed. “I really do hate this part. But. You signed paperwork as
Mr Deakin and supplied insurance documents in that name. Would I be correct in
assuming that they were false?”
“Oh God.” Sam felt that the small room was decreasing in size and height round
him. “Yes. Yes, they are. I’m sorry. But it’s my fabrication. Nothing to do
with Dean. Please just help him.”
“I’d like to, but without valid insurance, or payment…. I’ll destroy the false
documentation: nothing has been claimed yet. But I will need real details, Mr
Winchester. And I’m afraid there’s already quite a bill.”
Sam nodded: “I’ll call my uncle. Perhaps he can help.”
So Sam sat in the corridor and left a message for Bobby, hoping that the older
man could come to their rescue yet again. Really, how much did they owe their
surrogate uncle? Neither of them could ever thank him enough before this, and
now Sam really hoped that he could come through for them yet again. Because Sam
had no idea how to pay the medical bill otherwise.
And he’d decided that he now hated hospitals.
He ran his hands through his hair and put his head in his hands, then he went
for a short walk to get some much-needed fresh air. A trip to the bathroom and
cold water splashed on his face and neck completed the only Sam-time he dare
take before he inhaled a deep breath and headed back to the private room where
he had left his brother asleep.
To his surprise the Attending Physician was in there as well, sitting talking
to Dean. He greeted Sam with a nod: “I’m just explaining to Dean what we’re
going to do. And how if he can manage to remain calm and keep his blood
pressure down, then it should help to stop the memory loss and consequential
disorientation that he’s been experiencing.”
“You’re going to do this…whatever it is?” Sam was surprised and relieved.
“ICP? Yes. Whoever you contacted has already paid all the fees so far, and has
left instructions that anything else required be paid as well. Even if it means
a full operation, Dean’s covered. I’m making preparations for this to be done
as soon as possible.”
“Oh ... thank you Bobby!” He smiled at Dean and wondered why the other didn’t
look quite so happy about it…. But then, he was facing a possible brain
operation, so Sam could understand that he wasn’t.
The next couple of days seemed to stretch for months. Sam hadn’t quite realised
that the ‘small procedure’ entailed of attaching the tiny monitor directly to
the brain anyway, and he was horrified when his brother had been returned to
the room looking pale and sick, part of his head shaved and the newly made tiny
hole in his skull covered with a bandage. Although Dean had quickly recovered
once he had woken up, and as long as he didn’t go out of the range of the
recording device that had also been brought back to the room, he could get up
and move around a little, with Sam fussing over him at every step.
And they had another problem. Because it seemed that sleep was somehow another
trigger for his memory to be affected as his brain tried desperately to heal
itself, and as he was kept lightly sedated, every time he did wake up he had
forgotten once more where he was and most, if not all, of the previous few
hours’ events.
And that he was supposed to be resting.
And as usual he had quickly become the centre of attention whether he wanted to
be or not. Many female nurses came to ‘take his blood pressure’, and flirt
shamelessly with the extremely good-looking and charming patient. Most ignored
Sam: hospital gossip had spread quickly that he owned Dean and he was left in
no doubt of their opinions, even without any of them saying a single word. He
couldn’t blame them: just three months ago he would have had exactly the same
reaction.
And the original resident doctor who had first seen Dean when they had arrived,
also came to join the brothers once he had finished his shift, offering to sit
and keep Dean company for the evening if Sam would like to have a break.
“And, erm, Mr Winchester?” Sam turned as he was heading off to the restaurant
to get a good meal and to let Bobby know how his brother was doing. “I was just
wondering if...Dean was allowed to see people. You know...once he’s not a
patient anymore? Do you let him go on dates? I mean, if I asked him and he
wanted to?”
Sam stared at the doctor. Was he serious? Was he really asking if he could see
Dean? Asking Sam if he could see Dean? “No.” He heard himself say. “No. I’m
sorry. That’s not going to happen.”
And the young - hell, no he was older than Sam, he was probably the same age as
his brother - the young man was nodding sadly and turning away to sit and talk
to Dean anyway for the little time that he could. And Sam was walking away
wondering why he had reacted like that, but no way was he turning back to
change his decision....
But both the brothers were relieved when it seemed that Dean wouldn’t need a
full operation. He was just under orders to rest for another couple of weeks
and the Physician emphasised complete rest: no stress, no over-exertion, no
alcohol. At all. The monitor was removed and he was given good to go the next
day.
Sam wandered outside to call Bobby and give him the good news, only to feel
tears in his eyes at the sight of the old man walking across the car park to
meet him. Before Bobby could speak a word, Sam’s arms were around him in a
tight hug and he could feel the stress that the boy had been under in every
tightly-wound muscle in his long body. He hugged him back momentarily.
“Okay, ya idgit, break it up. How is he?”
“Oh Bobby.” Sam sighed loudly. “It’s getting better. It’s much better already
with the medications. But his memory is still going, though at least he could
remember some of this morning earlier. But he forgets that he’s not supposed to
be doing anything! Even in the hospital with all the distractions, it’s been
like trying to watch a two year old. I’m dreading getting him back to your
place. We’re going to need eyes in the back of our heads!”
Bobby grunted: “Just think what it was like for him watching you as a two year
old. And him only seven himself and worried about where the hell your dad had
gone off to for this week…”
Sam stared at him and looked abashed. “Sorry Bobby. You’re right. It’s my
turn.”
“No,I’m sorry Sam. That wasn’t fair to direct it at you. I guess I’m still mad
at your dad for a lot of things. I always will be for what you two boys have
gone through because of him.”
The young man nodded. “You and me both, Bobby.”
They turned to walk into the hospital together. “Thanks for sorting out the
fees, Bobby. It must have run into thousands. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay
you.”
“That’s what I was about to ask, Sam. I’ve raised what I could. But I don’t
know how we’re going to pay the rest.”
They stared at each other as each of their words sunk in. “It’s already all
been paid, Bobby! And more promised for the operation if he’d needed it. I
thought it was you!”
“Wasn’t me, Sam. I’ve been worried sick about how in hell we’re going to manage
to raise the money for the medical fees!”
“But then, who paid them for Dean? And why would someone..?”
And then they stopped, and stared at each other in horror.
Because they had both suddenly realised who.
***** ONE CONVERSATION LEADS TO ANOTHER *****
Chapter Summary
     I nearly named this chapter 'A Lot of Conversation': I hope there's
     not too much!
Dean was having that dream again.
He hadn’t had it for a long while, but that night it seemed as if his battered
and muddled brain wanted him to suffer the memories once more. And he hated it.
It wasn’t a nightmare, nothing as terrifying as a nightmare. But he hated that
dream. And he couldn’t stop it: once the faces began to flow through his mind,
he was helpless to stop the parade.
Always.
Always.
She was first.
He could never get her into focus. He tried so hard, every time, to get her
into focus so he could see her properly. But he never could. He could never
quite see the features: blue eyes or brown, or green like his, full lips or
narrow, blonde hair or light brown. And he always reached for her, he could see
his own arms; small, podgy arms; desperate for her to reach back for him.
Desperate for her to smile and take him with her. And then she was standing up
and moving away. Leaving him again.
Then the other faces would start. John Winchester’s, sometimes smiling, usually
moody and shouting, then changing, his eyes looking at Dean strangely, his lips
coming closer. Too close. And Drayton, much younger than in the bar. Smiling in
a way Dean didn’t like, his mouth and his hands where they shouldn’t be and
Dean not being able to do anything to stop it.
Then a whole stream of other faces, mostly men’s faces. Too many for Dean to
count. So many that they became blurred together, merging and melting into a
procession of mouths and hands and penises and every single other part of the
human body that he could be forced to lick or suck, and the feeling that
everything was out of Dean’s control. Occasionally he would be able to
recognise one or two: Drayton or his siblings again, Mr Johnson, John
Winchester, the prince. But mostly it was just a jumble of out of his control
emotions, causing shame and self-loathing, and a mixture of extreme agony and
orgasmic pleasure that combined so closely he couldn’t tell which was which.
And now added into the dream there was Sam. Sam looking at him in the way their
father had done. Sam’s hands on him, his mouth on him. He could see his own
naked body, his own arms reaching out in reaction.
And that terrified him most of all.
Because he wasn’t sure whether he was about to desperately try to push Sam away
out of the same dread as he had felt with all the others…. or was about to pull
him closer.
He awoke with a start, panting as if he had been running for his life
throughout the night. He could still feel the breath of all those men on his
body, on his face. He could still feel all their hands on his skin. His heart
pounded once more from his own revulsion at himself.
And then he suddenly realised that there was warm breath against his face, and
there was a large warm hand idly stroking and teasing the naked skin above the
edge of his sweatpants. And Sam was waking fully next to him with a start and
pulling him even closer into his arms with alarm. “Dean? What is it?”
Dean could hardly speak: he couldn’t even catch his breath. The images of the
men, all the men, played across even his waking vision now. He felt ill at the
thought of all of it: everything that he had done, everything that they had
done to him. Panic set into his chest and blackness started to cloud around the
edges of his sanity.
But then Sam was there. “Dean? Dean! Calm down. You’ve got to calm down.
Christ, your heart’s racing!” And he was aware of his brother’s hand now
resting over his ribs, feeling the bones shake enough to almost crack at the
force of the muscle inside trying to break through them. “Dean! Listen to me!
It was a dream. Just a dream. Look at me, Dean. Just look at me, baby. It was a
dream. Deep breaths: in, out. And again. Come on, Dean. You’ve got to slow your
heart rate down.”
And Sam was climbing on and over him, knocking his legs carelessly out of the
way until he was covering Dean’s body with his own, holding Dean’s chin and jaw
firmly with his left hand to make sure his brother was focused on him and him
only, while his right hand clamped down on Dean’s chest as if it would reach
inside him and stroke away the stress on his heart if only it could. “You’re
safe, Dean. Nothing’s going to get to you without going through me first. But
deep breaths now. Nice and calm. It was only a dream. It was only a dream.”
Sam watched as his brother finally began to calm down and get control of his
breathing again. It was rare for Dean to have a panic attack like this,
although Sam could clearly remember one morning from years before and their dad
talking his then teenage brother out of a similar one, telling him that it was
okay and he’d never have to do anything like that ever again. ‘This is because
of those agents’ he thought. Dean had been doing so well keeping his blood
pressure down for over a week at Bobby’s and then they had come along…. Please
don’t let this have done anything to affect his brain again…
It was with relief that he felt the rhythmic vibrations through his long
fingers slow to a steadier rate and his brother’s chest no longer rise and fall
with panic for a breath. “You okay?”
Dean looked dazed but nodded.
“What day is it today?”
“What?”
“The day. What day is it today? Come on Dean. Tell me.”
Dean stared up at him and nearly told him what a fucking stupid question that
was. But something about Sam’s anxious expression caused him to stop and try to
think. And to his surprise he really did have to think about it. “Last night,”
he said eventually. “Last night when we came to bed, you told me it was
Thursday. I wondered why you’d bother to say that. So today must be Friday.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully. “That was actually the night before, Dean. It’s
Saturday today. But at least you didn’t say Tuesday! I got really bored of
Tuesdays so quickly!”
“What?”
“You’ve been ill, Dean. Your memory has been affected. Is still affected. But
you’re getting better. Just as long as you getting anxious over this bad dream
hasn’t caused any damage.” 'If it has,’ he added silently to himself, ‘you’re
going straight back to the hospital, no delaying it this time.’
“Sam?”
“Yes, big brother?”
“You going to get off me?”
Sam started as he realised. He was lying full length on top of Dean, taking
some of his weight on his own elbows, one hand still holding Dean’s face so he
could look straight down into, and lock with, his eyes; the other hand wedged
between their bare chests, the steady thudding of Dean’s heart now echoing
through his fingers and rippling down into the rest of his body. His first
thought was a slight embarrassment: his second was that he didn’t really want
to move. The third was the realisation that his brother, given the way he was
lying with his rest of his weight pressed between Dean’s legs, was fully aware
of the response of his body to their position and could feel every long inch of
him.
Sam’s face flared red as he carefully slid off Dean and moved to lie beside him
on the bed. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of his brother so
instead he pulled him across and into his arms, ignoring the grumbles as Dean
tried to stop him. “Just come here and shut up.” Dean gave in with a bad grace
and let himself be held.
They lay in silence in the increasing light of dawn for a while. Sam hoped that
Dean might have been able to go back to sleep but slowly became aware of the
other’s long eye lashes faintly brushing against his skin every time he
blinked. “Do you want to talk about the dream?”
He felt Dean shake his head rather than saw it. “It was just a dream.”
“Yes but…”
“Just a dream, Sammy.”
The silence stretched on.
“Sam?”
“Hmm?”
“That, erm, that…. Your hard-on.”
“Oh God, Dean. I’m sorry about that.”
“Was it because you were thinking about Jess…?”
“Of course it was, I’d been dreaming about her.”
“That’s okay then.”
Sam knew he shouldn’t feel upset at the relief in Dean’s voice. But he did.
“What, did you think it was for you….?”
“I was worried.”
“Seriously? You’re my brother for fucks sake, Dean!”
“No I’m not.”
Sam wasn’t quite sure what emotion he felt at that: sadness and a slight
shocked surprise definitely. But also was there….hope? “What?”
“Face it Sam, I’m not your brother. Not by blood, not by any legalities. No
connection at all really. Although we’re closer than probably most brothers
will ever be. I…. was just worried that you might be realising that.”
“I don’t swing that way, Dean!”
“Who are you trying to convince, Sam? You used to call my name out in your
sleep and wake us both with your wet dreams. Why do you think dad finally told
me not to let you into my bed, and suggested I just go out of the way every
night? ‘Go out and stay out if you can, boy.’ In case you found out what I was
and realised that you had a right to….to…. Well. He was worried about what
you’d do.”
“Dad knew?”
“Of course he knew.”
“Oh Christ.”
“But it’s okay, Sam. If you were dreaming about Jess…..You were, weren’t you?”
No response.
“Sam?” Dean wriggled out from beneath Sam’s armpit and raised his body up
enough to look at him. Sam stared steadily at the ceiling, his face a definite
shade of scarlet. “Sam? I have to say this. Especially if my memory’s as bad as
you’re saying it is.”
“What?”
Dean hesitated momentarily, then ploughed on before he could talk himself out
of speaking. “I know you, Sam. No one will ever know you better. And I know you
loved Jess. You met her at what… you were eighteen, nineteen? And I know you:
you’d have been faithful to her until the day you died. That’s you. That’s the
happy ending you’ve always dreamed of. And I’m proud of you for holding onto
that. But…”
“But?” Sam still wouldn’t turn his head but he was listening intently.
Dean closed his eyes, forced himself to carry on. “If you were thinking of
me….I’m not saying you are. But… Anyway. Just in case you ever do. You have to
understand that I can never be faithful to you. I wish I could. But… what I am…
I have to pay any debts owed. Or give whatever I have to, if it’s needed. And I
would do, Sam. Without hesitation: I’d do whatever to anybody for you. And I
need you to know that. I would never be your ‘happy-ever-after’. I couldn’t
ever be. I… I just need you to know that. Even if I’m completely wrong about
the subject.”
Dean slid off the bed, grabbed his yesterday’s clothes and headed to the door
to go and get a shower.
“Dean?”
He paused but didn’t turn. “Yeah, Sammy?”
“The way your memory is at the moment…. You’re probably not even going to
remember this conversation.”
“To be honest, Sam: the way I can’t even think what day it is....I’m kinda
banking on not being able to remember this particular conversation!” Dean
hesitated momentarily then as he went out through the door, added: “But you
will!”
Sam’s thoughts returned yet again to those words later that night as he watched
his brother sleep. He was relieved that the nightmare hadn’t seemed to cause
any relapse at all: Dean’s memory was steadily improving as his body began to
deal with any residue of blood left in his brain, and as it decreased, so did
the pressure it had caused, and consequently so did his symptoms. He was down
to losing hours at a time rather than days when he woke; sometimes a few, other
times only a couple; although whether he would ever regain the majority of
events during these last two weeks of his life was anyone’s, including the
Attending Physician’s, guess.
Although Sam knew Dean well enough to wonder how much he might really be
remembering during the last few days. Because his brother was a very good liar.
But he hoped with all his heart that the previous day’s visit from the FBVS
would be one of the things forgotten as it had upset Dean so much.
And it had caused Sam to question just about everything he had ever done.
It was ironic in a way: all his student life he had raged about ‘the system and
how it should be looking after the rights of slaves and the injustices against
them’, and now, despite the proof that the system actually did, he wished with
all his heart that it was not focused on Dean. Sam was seriously unnerved to
think just how much attention they were suddenly seeming to be getting paid by
everyone.
For the first time he wondered if he should have listened to his brother and
not asked Ash to try and hack into the National Archive…. But he still wanted
to try and find out the truth about Billy. But perhaps it would be sensible to
back off for a while…
He had just returned from picking up supplies from the store when they had
arrived: it was only fair that he buy the food while they were staying with
Bobby rather than them eating the old man out of house and home. Bobby had come
out to help him unpack the Impala to Sam’s immediate concern: “Where’s Dean?”
“He’s fine. He’s in the kitchen. We had a rummage through the cupboards and
found some out of date cans of fruit filling. We’ve opened a couple: they
seemed fine so he thought he might as well make some pies. At least that will
keep him out of mischief for a while.”
“Dean? Baking?”
“He’s never baked for you, Sam? My old neighbour taught him years ago when John
used to dump….erm, leave him with me occasionally. She used to tell me to
encourage him: said he was a natural pastry chef. Nah, he knows what he’s doing
alright. If I take these bags, you okay with those?”
“Sure, Bobby.”
Then they had both paused as the huge, brand-new, gleaming black and chrome
four-by-four had pulled into Bobby’s yard and driven straight up to park behind
the Impala.
“Shit.” Sam felt he could barely breathe as the two agents climbed out, dressed
in informal civilian clothes and showed their badges. Bobby went pale as he
recognised the shields: the reputation of this Bureau made the FBI seem like
boy scouts.
“We just came to see Dean.” Hamill was speaking for them both. “We had a few
questions that we thought he might be able to answer. May we see him?”
Bobby and Sam glanced at each other, but knew they daren’t refuse. “Carry a bag
each then!” Sam winced at Bobby’s blatant brashness, but the two agents good-
naturedly took one each before following them in.
“Dean? We have visitors!”
He was relieved, as well as amazed and slightly amused, at the sight of his
brother calmly rolling out homemade pastry on the flour-dusted table. He had
actually shed his usual couple of overshirts and was just in his plain black t-
shirt and jeans, using his bare, freshly scrubbed scrupulously-clean hands and
arms to work the pastry to the perfect thinness: one greased pie dish waiting
beside him ready to be filled, and from the aroma that was beginning to fill
the kitchen, one already in the oven. Dean turned as they all entered, his
eyebrows rose at the sight of the two agents but he didn’t say a word.
“Hello again, Dean. You probably don’t remember us. We met a couple of weeks
ago.” They showed their badges once more. He remained silent. “We’d just like
to have a talk with you, if Sam says that’s alright?”
The brothers exchanged looks, and Sam nodded, although he was not happy. As
Bobby took the supplies from the agents and began to noisily unpack the bags,
Ford crossed to sit at the table beside Dean while his partner took the chance
to look around the kitchen. His attention was immediately caught by the notes,
of which there were many. All written on paper over the duration of the last
few days and stuck to the most obvious positions in the room.
Thus the sink had a note reading: ‘DEAN. BOBBY WILL REPAIR THE WASTE DISPOSAL.
YOU ARE NOT TO TOUCH IT!’
The back door had more than one stuck to it: ‘DEAN. DO NOT THINK ABOUT MOVING
ANYTHING AROUND OUT IN THE YARD. OR THINK ABOUT FINDING ANY PARTS FOR THE
IMPALA IN THE YARD. IN OTHER WORDS: STAY OUT OF THE YARD!’
Or, written on another one: ‘DEAN. THE IMPALA IS OFF LIMITS FOR THE TIME BEING.
DO NOT EVEN THINK OF TAKING HER FOR A DRIVE. AND SHE DOES NOT NEED ANY WORK
DOING ON HER’. Underneath had been added in a different pen: ‘NOR DOES SHE NEED
A WASH!’
Hamill chuckled aloud as he read a few: “I can imagine it’s been pretty hard
work looking after a Hunter who keeps forgetting he’s sick!”
The tension in Sam and Bobby rose: what had he just said?
“Yeah,” Hamill continued. “We’ve been finding out everything there is about all
of you. Weird things happen, usually involving violent deaths or
disappearances, then the Winchester brothers, or their ‘uncle’, roll into town
and all the nastiness stops. Didn’t take too long to make the connection. And
people are always too happy to talk to us. You’ve never tried to impersonate
us, have you, Sam? Mr Singer?”
Bobby swallowed hard: at least he could answer truthfully. “No sir. And I’ve
never been one for shooting at unarmed animals.”
“Mr Singer...you know what I mean when I talk about Hunters.” The agent shook
his head at him. “We’ve seen a few things. Seen the remains of slaves used as
bait for a few as well. Don’t put us in the same category of stupid as the
FBI.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
“That’s good. That’s good! It explains a lot of Dean’s injuries as
well....How’s he doing?”
Why is this agent being so nice? Sam had wondered. And why is his partner not
saying anything? It’s almost as if this one’s....distracting us.
He immediately turned where he stood. And he was right. Even while Dean’ hands
were completing the crust of the next pie, his attention was on photographs of
individuals and other paperwork that the other FBVS agent had quietly produced
from the folder he had brought in and was showing him. Ford was watching him
carefully as he looked, and Sam knew he was noticing what he himself instantly
did: that his elder brother’s expression had turned completely and purposely
blank and his whole body had stiffened with tension.
Then his attention was caught by the agent’s cell phone that had casually been
discarded on the table for a moment, and his long legs had taken him across the
small kitchen to snatch it away before Ford could react. There on the screen
was the symbol that he had been searching for: the one from the cufflinks and
the ring of that man.
It was two Greek letters superimposed, he realised. The uppermost one was an
upper case ‘A’, and designed to lie just beneath it was a stylised lower case
epsilon, but one that had a tail curving back against the direction that the
normal letter would normally be finished in. The two figures were the same size
as each other, and combined to form a very unique and stylish emblem.
Beneath it was a small rectangle that contained of lots of parallel lines,
exactly the same length but irregular widths that reminded Sam strongly of a
bar code on a grocery product. He could just make out small numbers beneath it,
and both images were set on a strange beige or flesh-coloured background,
making them not as sharp as they would probably be on paper but still clear
enough if somewhat softer around the edges.
“What’s this? What is this symbol?”
The younger agent sat back in the hard kitchen chair and studied him intently.
Dean’s head drooped a little: he did not want to look at Sam at that moment.
His younger brother could almost hear him willing him to leave the subject, to
let it alone. But there was no way Sam was going to do that.
“Answer me! What is this?”
Ford considered his response. He glanced just once at Dean, and it flashed
across Sam’s mind momentarily that the agent was trying to protect his brother.
Then he carefully replied. “That. Is the emblem of one of the most secretive,
and most ....let’s call it self-serving, group of people in extremely high
positions of power that you could imagine.”
“Who are they?”
“That’s what we would like to know.” Hamill responded from behind him. “And
most of the other Bureau’s as well. You can imagine our surprise when we saw
that.”
By this time Bobby was also studying the image on the small screen with a
frown. “What’s the other thing? The thing like a bar code?”
The two agents stared at him in silence. Then they stared at Sam as if trying
to decide whether he knew what it was or not. Finally Ford answered. “That’s
not important. It’s the insignia that caught our attention. For the group to
come out in to the open and use their emblem. And their name on a document.
That’s rare.”
“What document? And what is this group? Who are they?” Sam stared at the both
of them in frustration. “Dean!” His brother physically jumped as his name was
barked sharply. “If they won’t tell me, then you will! Whatis going on?”
“That’s enough, Mr Winchester.” Hamill was now coming across to join the others
at the table: Sam noticed how he had deliberately moved to put his own body
between him and his brother. The agent reached to take the folder from his
partner and withdrew a photostat copy of a form. “Is this your signature, sir?”
Sam took the form and studied it with bewilderment. At first glance it looked
to be a legal document, but he didn’t recognise it, or remember signing it.
“Yes. It looks like it. But what is this?”
“Notification of a Possessory Lien in regard to the use of the property
identified as Four-five-one-one-four-zero as security against the concluded
monetary payment, detailed below, loaned to Samuel Winchester, and any future
loans to Samuel Winchester, monetary or otherwise that might become necessary,
in condition subsequent of Samuel Winchester assuming possession of the
aforementioned property upon the demise of his father John Winchester....”
Bobby read it out from over his shoulder. “Wait! What is this? And who or what
is the Alpha Exousia?”
“A...E! That’s the emblem! But what....?”
“That is your signature, sir?”
“Yes! But what...?”
“Thankyou, sir. That’s all we wanted to confirm.” But neither agent looked
happy as they retrieved the copy from him and slipped it back into the folder.
“But I don’t understand...What payment loaned? I’ve never even had a loan! And
who are the Alpha Exousia? I’ve never heard of them. And I don’t remember
signing that!”
Ford sat up straight and met Sam’s angry eyes without hesitation. “As I said,
Mr Winchester, they are one of the most secretive organisations that we have
ever met. Where they started, how they started, who they are is unknown. But
you name it: they probably have at least one member that is involved in it
somewhere. The criteria for selection to join seems to be that you have to be
personally very rich; very high in status; extremely well connected; and very
ambitious, for both yourself as an individual and for the AE. The Alpha Exousia
work together for the good of only themselves: that’s the idea behind its
existence. The name translates roughly as the ‘Right to Absolute Power’, which
pretty much sums them up. And that’s about all we do know.
Because we’re not sure who any of them are. Neither do the FBI. We have ideas,
and we were hoping Dean might be able to help us with that today, but....” This
was with a glance at the slave, who wouldn’t look up to meet any of their eyes.
“We’ve commandeered all of the other Bureaus’ files about them. They don’t know
much about them either. But the FBI are hopeful of something happening soon as
their sources indicate a big shake up going on inside the organisation at the
moment...
There seems to be a massive power struggle between two really major players
which is turning increasingly bitter and vicious. And bloody. It’s making the
other members nervous: apparently these are both really powerful individuals
and it’s forcing the others to take sides. By all accounts, the two men
involved really hate and detest each other with a vengeance and have even
recently come to blows over a common love interest!
And as to whether you remember signing that, sir, the fact remains that you
did.”
But Sam had hardly heard any of that as he had been looking over at Dean. And
although his brother’s head was still lowered, he could see the glint of the
tear that was just about to drip from his jaw. He had moved around Hamill and
had his hands on Dean’s shoulders before the agent could step to block him
again.
“Dean?” He made sure to keep his voice gentle this time. “You knew about this,
didn’t you?”
There was no response, if anything, Dean’s head tipped forward even lower. Sam
caught his jaw, wiped the next couple of tears away from his cheek with his
thumb and made him look back up, straight into his own concerned face. Dean’s
eyes were glistening with tears that made them shine and sparkle in the
afternoon light. “Tell me.”
“I didn’t want you to know, Sammy.”
“There’s been a lot of things lately that you didn’t want me to know. But
they’ve all been coming out the woodwork anyway since dad died. So tell me.
Dean?” As his brother’s eyes looked away. “Tell me. What is this paperwork?”
His brother sighed a deep sigh that was ripped directly from the centre of his
heart. “It was your scholarship.”
Sam frowned. “My scholarship? What, to Stanford, do you mean? No, I applied for
and got one when I sat the SAT tests.”
He felt Dean’s shoulders droop beneath his large hands and instinctively
stepped forward to wrap his arms protectively around him. “Okay. What do you
mean, it was my scholarship?”
His brother’s voice emerged from being buried against the top of his chest.
“You got an outside scholarship, Sam. Did you never wonder why you never had to
worry about paying it back when all the others on university scholarships were
desperate to find jobs to help support themselves?”
“No. I was relieved. I was so grateful that I got the full amount, no strings
attached. It meant I could concentrate on my studies...”
And then he realised what he had said.
“No.” He unwrapped his arms and stepped back, catching at Dean’s face with his
hands this time and forcing him to keep looking at him. “No! You were the
strings? You’ve had to.... You’ve been paying for me all the way through
College? With...yourself? Because of my scholarship? With that man?”
“No! No, Sam. It didn’t become something I’ll have to...pay until the moment
you registered yourself as my owner. It didn’t come into force until then so
don’t put that on yourself. I can deal with them. It don’t matter what I’ve got
to do: just as long as you wanted me to stay with you.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God!”
And then he was pulling Dean tightly against his chest once more and he was
never letting go of him again. Never. Not to anyone. Sam felt the anger flow
through him almost physically, he could feel the blood in his veins heating up
to more than normal human temperatures. He was going to find these sick
bastards that took all human life as being so insignificant, and slaves, his
brother’s, as being even less than that, and destroy them with extreme
prejudice.
And if his blossoming powers could help him do that, then he was fucking well
going to use them to protect his brother, no matter what Dean felt about him
doing that. In fact he suddenly wanted to use them: the desire to see just how
much damage he could do to another being with them surged through him like a
dam of hatred being released in his mind...
He forced himself to calm down. To think clearly. Not to say anything with the
agents here listening that might incriminate him in the future with what he was
going to do. “So, what do we do? If I didn’t know what I was signing, what can
I do about it?”
“They have the best lawyers. Believe me, the very best. Ours have already been
over this with a fine toothcomb since we found it with Dean’s ownership
details. It will stand until you can pay all the money back for your
scholarship, plus interest accrued, plus anything else since. That probably
includes the latest hospital bills, and god knows what else has been added on
in the intervening time. You really should have checked what you were signing
when you were going through all the forms for College: didn’t your dad ever
tell you that?”
Sam bit his lip: their father had always been on about never signing anything!
As far as he had been concerned, lawyers were taken from the same cut of cloth
as the Devil himself. ‘Verbal contracts and handshakes are binding, but never,
never, put your real name to anything in writing, son....’
“But I didn’t sign this!”
“Unfortunately you did, sir. And with no stipulations or limits of access added
at all in your favour.”
Bobby spoke up, his voice cracking with emotion: “But why the group name on
this document? If it’s just him?”
“Anonymity perhaps, Mr Singer, it can’t be traced back to one individual? We’re
not sure why. But why would someone bother to do this, just to get their hands
on a slave? No offence, Dean. But you really do seem to have caught someone’s
interest. If you tell us who, we could help?”
Hamill sighed as the green eyes flashed in his direction, but otherwise there
was no response.
“Well, we know about it now. And we don’t like slaves being abused. By legal
owners or otherwise. Or used as commodities in a transaction. The FBI can
handle the AE: our priority is Dean. We could take him into protective custody
if you’d prefer, Sam.”
“They’d find me,” Dean warned. “They always do.”
“Well then, the entire Bureau is going to be available at extremely short
notice if you need us. Because we Do. Not. Like. This.”
The two agents stood up to leave. Ford grabbed the oven towel and used it to
bring the cooked pie out of the oven and put the newly made one in. “They smell
good. Hope you enjoy them.”
Dean shook his head against Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s arms were still tight around
him, his chin resting against the top of his brother’s short hair. “Got no
appetite for them now.”
“We’ll be in touch. Erm... Mr Winchester?” Sam rested his cheek against Dean’s
head and glared at him. “Don’t think about doing anything stupid. Dean can
probably tell you better than anyone how unpleasant these people can be...”
Sam’s thoughts went through that conversation as well that evening as he sat
and watched Dean sleep.
He had still had so many questions for Dean; had hoped that he might finally
get some answers, but Bobby had forestalled him from asking by suggesting that
Dean try and rest. It was only then that he had realised that his brother was
physically shaking: the remains of his illness and that visit from the agents
combining to overwhelm him.
In the end, Sam had made him take his medication from the hospital earlier than
usual, and then had simply lain and held him in their small bed, worried about
his health and feeling increasingly helpless as Dean had finally trembled
himself to sleep. Really, Sam thought, it should have been obvious that he
would have a nightmare after.
He now couldn’t help but wonder exactly how many times his brother must have
been held down in a bed and forced to do things against his will, or chained up
somewhere and abused, because of their father.
And now how many times would he be because of him?
And then, to cap it all, his obvious arousal at being so close to his brother
that very morning had freaked Dean out. Of course it had: Dean was getting
nervous, understandably so, of what he might be forced to do next. Even by Sam.
Sam knew he should leave him alone because he wasn’t being fair.
But he just couldn’t bring himself to set up the small cot and sleep in it
beside Dean’s bed. Sam wanted to hold him; he wanted to feel Dean’s heart beat
beside his own; he wanted to inhale the natural musky scent that Dean exuded,
he wanted the tickle of his warm breath on the hairs on his chest during the
night, he wanted to feel the warmth of his scarred bare skin, he wanted.... his
brother.
He was ashamed that he wanted him.
But he did.
So he sat and watched Dean sleep, going over and over both the conversations in
his head until he felt his own eyes begin to close. Then with a sudden
decision, he slipped out of his clothes and slid beneath the warm covers,
pulling Dean’s back tight against his bare chest and sliding his arms around
him, slipping his hand beneath his brothers t-shirt to enjoy the warm muscled
skin there.
Dean had got used to him sleeping beside him, so that’s what he would continue
to do. But nothing more. He would just have to be careful not to let his body
betray him like it had done that morning: Dean must never know the true
thoughts he was having about him. He would just have to keep reminding himself
that Dean was his brother, and emphasising that to Dean as well. Just keep
everything normal.
He and Dean were just brothers. They would always just be brothers.
And Sam would have to try very hard not to think about the fact that, really,
they weren’t.
***** HE TOLD YOU TO WHAT? *****
Sam stared at his cell.
It was Dean calling again.
He sighed yet another sigh. He knew how worried his brother would be that he
had left in the night,and he knew that he would be thinking that Sam might not
want him anymore, which was breaking Sam’s heart at the thought of it.
But he also knew that Dean would be more devastated if he knew the real reason
Sam had gone.
He stared at what he had driven all this way to find. A pile of burnt remains
of wood and ash. Some parts of large branches still whole and sticking out in
ragged sections, most disintegrated to nothing and blown away in the wind. The
remains of a funeral pyre.
John Winchester’s funeral pyre.
He had driven all this way because this was the closest he could get to his
dad. This was the last place that the man had been, even if it had been just
his earthly remains. He stared at what was left of the pyre and got ready to do
what he had come specifically to do.
He raised the sledge hammer that he had deliberately bought with him to do
this, and began to smash the last few pieces of the pyre to tiny,tiny little
bits.
And while he was destroying it, he was shouting and yelling his complete and
utter contempt for his father as loudly as he could. He had got over his
disgust at him owning a slave, but only because he loved his brother so much
that he couldn’t imagine what his life would have been without him.
But the way John had treated Dean? It had been bad enough that he had always
seemed to be shouting at him; had left his brother so many times in charge of
Sam, from a far too early age; had always pushed for more. No child should have
had the pressure put upon them that his dad had put upon Dean.
But that had been the least of it.Now Sam knew what other pressures their dad
had been putting on Dean. And he was sickened by it. And it seemed like every
week, another and even worse revelation was still bubbling to the surface
despite his brother’s best efforts to conceal all of it, to never let Sam know
what a complete bastard their dad had really been.
Which was why Sam had come here to destroy the last of the pyre. He couldn’t
tell his dad personally what he thought of him, although he so wished he could.
Because their dad should never have treated Dean the way he had.
And when the pyre was completely smashed, he turned his attention to the
surrounding trees and an old fence, taking his pent up frustration out on
everything except the one person who deserved it. And all the time he was
yelling: “How could you? How could you?
How could you do that to him? How could you treat him like that? Didn’t you
realise what you were asking him to do in your deals? Didn’t you care? He gave
everything for you? He still would!
And how could you have putthis weight on him? Telling him he has to kill me if
he can’t save me? Have you any idea of what that’sdoing to him? Do you realise
how ill he’s been? All this stress! All this pressure that you’ve put on him!
No wonder he was getting worse every time I had a vision! But you won’t care,
will you? You didn’t care last year when I kept calling you to tell you that
he’d only been given a couple of weeks to live: why would you care how ill he’d
been now?
But he cares aboutyou! It’s eating him up! That fucking demon bitch told him
you were suffering in Hell: it’s eating himup! He’s blaming himself, dad!
Blaming himself for your death! Says you should have just let him die! Wishes
you had, so he wouldn’t have to suffer at the hands of those men, dad! Just
that one hurt him so bad. How many have there been? How many men have you done
deals that included Dean with? Did you know how bad they treat him? Did you
ever see the wounds, the humiliation in his eyes? Did you know what theydo to
him? Did you do that to him? Did you, you bastard?
He was your son!
Do you know what I hope about you in Hell, dad? I hope you’re suffering! I hope
they’re torturing you every single minute! I hope they’re never leaving you
alone! Because you don’t deserve peace, you bastard! You shouldn’t havetreated
him like that!”
He had shouted himself out. He had smashed and pulverised everything he could
destroy. Sam’s arms and shoulder muscles were aching from raising the sledge
hammer, his chest was heaving with the effort, the callouses on his hands were
covered in brand new blisters, his throat was sore and dry from all the
screaming...
And his cell was ringing again.
This time he nearly answered it, to try and ease what must be his brother’s
near panic by now. But if Dean should realise what he had done and how much he
now hated his father, then that would break his heart worse than all of the
abuse put together. Because Dean had and still so loved his dad so much, and
had always loved Sam so much, and the thought thathe had been the cause of the
loss of love between the two of them would be too much for him to bear….
No, Sam would instead go to the Roadhouse. He wanted to ask Ash if he could
help him track down other children like him. And he wanted to ask Ash if he was
having any luck hacking into the National Archive: Sam so wanted to find Dean
his little brother…
With a sigh, he started to head back to the car that he had stolen. He just
wanted to get this done so he could get back to protect Dean. “From the men
that you let have him, dad! You gave him to them! Would mom have wanted you to
do that? To do that to her angel? You bastard!”
In the end it was Dean who found him. And luckily just in time to stop Gordon
Walker from killing Sam, because word about the younger Winchester’s increasing
powers, and apparent resilience to a frightening new virus, was getting around.
Something about Sam wasn’t ‘normal’. And not being normal in Hunter’s minds
made him a target.
Once Sam had dealt with this first threat, both the brothers knew they would
have to be careful from now on.
Just as in all the rest of their lives, they could only really trust and rely
on each other.
And Bobby, of course.
***** THE TUXEDO *****
Even while they were looking for the yellow-eyed demon, the brothers felt the
need to save people who needed help: it was what they had been brought up to
do.
So they dealt with a deadly little girl ghost who wanted an eternal best
friend, even if the intended friend wasn’t actually dead. Yet.
Another ghost had Sam threatening Dean if he so much as set foot inside the
graveyard where the woman’s remains were, memories of him being smashed against
that headstone and the consequences being far too raw. Only to it to register
as he was salting the remains in the grave that he had jokingly handed his
brother a poetry book that they had found in the old house with an order to
read it… a book that bore the same inscription on the inside cover as the name
of the headstone… He went tearing back to the motel in a panic, to find an all
but destroyed room and an irate Dean cursing fucking pointless literacy, and a
pile of burnt papery ashes.
Then the slave’s police record caught up to them both in a bank that had them
trappedinside with a shapeshifter by a SWAT teamoutside. Who now wanted Dean
for armed robbery. Which Sam by now was realising actually counted against the
master’s police record.
They spent a long couple of days searching a couple of hundred acres of wood,
tracking down and waiting for a possible Sasquatch to finally show itself, only
to realise that the female human was in hiding because of her love-rival’s
spell. Once they had trapped and killed the witch she returned to normal,
although she would probably always going to need to shave her body hair daily
in future.
Sam got excited by the possible proof of a real life Angel, only to lose more
of what faith he had when it turned out to be just the ghost of a priest,
issuing his own brutal brand of justice for people’s past demeanours.
A series of bloody murders had them trawling local bars of a College campus for
something that was feeding off the fresh and very willing meat. Sam was in his
element: he had missed this life so much. He thought Dean was enjoying himself
as well as he flirted furiously with all the long-legged, short-skirted girls
that flocked around the charming and handsome ‘older’ man. Perhaps when they
had found the yellow-eyed demon and finished this, Sam could return to
Stanford, taking Dean with him this time...
But a mysterious text to his brother’s phone had him turn suddenly serious and
leaving the bar alone.
Sam followed him and was surprised to find Dean sitting against the hood of the
Impala, staring down at his cell with an anxious expression.
Sam leant beside him. “What is it?”
“Nuttin. Let’s just get this done and over with.”
And his brother was getting up and going back inside. Sam stared after him:
that was weird. What had that been about?
But it went out of his mind when he got back inside and noticed the predatory
leer of the young man now at the bar: Sam had seen enough vampires by then to
recognise one when he saw one. And a glance at Dean told him that he had seen
the thing as well.
Trouble was, it had seen them as well, and recognised them as Hunters. It had
disappeared again before they could get across the crowded room, but at least
they now had a face to look for.
It took them the rest of that night and most of the next morning to track it
down. Sam even suggested that they take a break and try again that evening, but
Dean refused. He was determined to get the job done and finished.
Irrationally determined.
He disappeared for a while, his brother eventually finding him in an extremely
rough squat surrounded by the drugged-up inhabitants. But one of them, with a
wild claim of a man climbing up the side of a local building, gave them the
clue that meant they got it eventually.
Sam was relieved to finally get back to the motel: it was in the late afternoon
by then and he just wanted to sleep, eat and shower. Probably in that order.
So it came as a nasty shock when he opened the motel room door and stepped
inside, only to come to an immediate halt. He stared across, not believing his
eyes.
There was a tuxedo hanging in a clear suit cover from the bathroom door frame.
And beside the door was set a pair of polished, expensive looking black shoes.
Sam checked the lock, saw the light scratches of it having been picked and
hurried to check that nothing had been stolen from their few possessions. By
this time, Dean was also in the room but his only reaction was to cross to the
door frame with a sigh and lift the suit cover down, reading the note that had
been pinned to it: 7 PM. BE READY. A.
“What the hell?” Sam was snatching the piece of paper from him. “Who’s ‘A’?
What is this? How did that get there?”
“It’s payment time.” Dean mumbled. “For the hospital bill.”
Sam stared at him as it clicked into place: “That text. That’s what that text
was about. From that man? That bastard in the bar? That’s why you wanted to get
the job done, because you knew you’d have to be ready to go. I’ll kill him,
Dean. You know I will!”
“No you won’t, Sam.”
“Why not? Give me one good reason why not, Dean?”
“Because you’d be dead before you got anywhere near him, that’s why. This
is….what I got to do. It’s just a payment in a deal: we’re used to deals, Sam.
It’s just payment for a service, nothing more.”
His brother gestured at the smart black suit that definitely had not been there
when they had left early that morning, “How did it get in our room? How didthey
get in our room? Have they been watching us all this time? Watching you all
this time? I’m not living like this, Dean. You’re not either! When this bastard
gets here, I’m gonna finish this. Period.”
“The deal’s been made, Sam. You can’t back out. If you never listened to dad
about anything else, you understood that. Once it was agreed, it was bond.”
“I didn’t agree! I have never agreed!”
“You signed the lien, Sam. That was you.”
“I didn’t know what it was!”
“Then you’d have made a pretty crap lawyer.”
Sam glared at him: he was so irate. That bastard had got into their room to put
a damntuxedo of all things in it with a written order to be ready, and Dean was
just going to follow it?
Over Sam’s dead body was he fucking going to follow it.
“You are not to doanything with that…and you are not going anywhere with him.
And if I see him, then I will kill him.”
Dean sighed and tried desperately not to say anything that would make Sam even
more enraged. “I have to, Sam” he muttered eventually. “And you know I have
to….
And even if this was Dray…that man from the bar, then you wouldn’t stop him or
do anything because that would get you killed. Because these people do that. If
there’s one thing I do know, it’s that human monsters can be the worst sort of
all. So, if itwere him, then you wouldn’t do anything. Because I wouldn’tlet
you do anything. Not when I can just go and pay the debt for the deal that was
agreed…
But, this isn’t Drayton, Sam. This is…. This is the other one. The other man
you keep asking me about. So there’s nothing for you to worry about, Sam.
Nothing at all.”
“Nothing for me to worry about!” Sam was incredulous. “I don’t know who these
people are, but I know how badly you were hurt last time! How many times have
they done that to you, Dean? How many times?”
“It don’t matter, Sam. Just let me deal with it.”
Sam marched to the motel room door and leant defiantly with his back to it,
determined to physically stop his brother from getting out and anyone else
getting in. He was so angry that Dean was arguing with him: he had given him an
outright order that he was not to go but Dean was insolently going to disobey.
Sam was furious: he had to get Dean under control. And there was no way he was
going to let him get hurt by whoever this other man was either. No matter what,
Dean was not going through that door tonight.
How was he going to convince Dean that he knew best and was doing this for his
own good? He glanced moodily at his brother and saw him standing tensely, his
stubbornness obvious in his stance.
Okay then, Sam, make him change his stance. He relaxes when he kneels. When he
meditates. Okay then: make him kneel, and try and talk some sense into him.
“Come here!” He was still so angry it came out as a snarl. “Come here! Just you
kneel down there and you listen to me!”
“Sam?”
Why did his brother suddenly sound worried, all the defiance gone?
“I said, get here! Do as you’re told and get down there.” He gestured by his
feet. “On the floor, Dean. Now!”
Dean bit his lip but obeyed. Gone was the usual act of being loud and
confident, it had been switched off as abruptly as it had been that first time
when Sam had realised that he was a slave: this was Dean as he really was,
nervous and apprehensive about what might be about to happen. He crossed to
where Sam was angrily standing and knelt where Sam had indicated in front of
his brother, trying not to panic as Sam towered above him.
“Dean. I’ve tried not to do this but you have got to start listening to me and
doing what you are told. That is what you are meant to do when all’s said and
done. And despite your worry over what will happen if you don’t, you arenot
going with this man tonight: I don’t care what he thinks he can or can’t… what
the fuck are you doing?”
Dean hesitated as he looked up from his position on the floor: he had already
undone Sam’s belt and had his fingers at his top of his brother’s jeans,
pulling them open to release the growing bulge beneath. “I…I. I assumed you
wanted to mark your territory, Sam. Like dad used to before I went to pay his
debts... I thought that was why you called me over…to remind me and them who I
belonged to.”
Sam stared at him aghast. What the…What had he just said? What…? He suddenly
realised what a terrible mistake he had made. But Dean still had his hands on
him, and was looking up at him with those eyes, and those lips slightly apart…
What happened next took even him by surprise.
He was on his brother before he could think what he was doing, his own large
hands catching at Dean beneath his armpits and all but physically lifting him
from his knees to a standing position. Then he was propelling him backwards
across the room, Dean trying to stop himself from tripping as Sam half carried
him, half pushed him until he fell backwards onto one the small beds.
Sam was immediately manhandling him fully onto the mattress and climbing on
top, pushing his legs apart before falling full length on him, his lips seeking
out Dean’s with some urgency.
It was a violent first kiss.
Sam just wanted to taste every bit of his brother and he plunged his tongue
into his mouth as deep as he could, wanting to claim every single piece of him.
Dean washis.
Nobody else’s.
Then Dean was recovering from his surprise and kissing him back with fully
returned passion, moving his hands to run his fingers through his brother’s
long soft locks. And his legs, even as restricted as they were in their tight
denim covering, were wrapping around Sam’s back, making Sam moan loudly at the
implication of the intimate movement.
Then one of Dean’s hands was leaving his hair, catching slightly in a couple of
strands that had wrapped around his work-roughened fingers, to instead rub
against his groin. Sam moaned again as he again felt the caress against the
cloth of his boxers, followed by the warmth of Dean’s hand as it crept inside
to hesitantly seek its first ever association with the sensitive and very ready
flesh waiting there.
He couldn’t believe how they were suddenly here like this. He had tried so hard
to contain his growing desire for Dean, but his rage at being so helpless in
this continuing situation combined with the disgust he felt yet again for his
father had simply exploded him into action. Action that he hadn’t realised how
desperate he was for.
And he was so relieved that his brother seemed to want it as much as he did:
every bit as much, if his fingers and the way he was using his body to
encourage Sam were anything to go by. Even as Sam was reaching to undo Dean’s
clothing, by feel only as his face was otherwise occupied with kissing every
inch of Dean’s neck; biting and nibbling at his flesh; sucking his mark onto
him, he couldn’t contain his relief that his brother was arching his back and
neck for him, moaning and gasping with every new inch of warm exploration.
Accepting his touch, allowing Sam to take control of the situation and of
him...
Allowing him.
He was allowing Sam.
Because he would. Whatever Dean really felt about what was happening, he
wouldlet Sam do whatever Sam wanted to him. Because that’s what he would do.
Because that’s what he knew hehad to do. That’s what he had always had to do.
Because he was a slave.
That was his life; was still his life. Because of Sam’s blunder with signing
that lien, it might always be his life. But even though he should be furious
with Sam…he should be furious with Sam…he would still give him everything. Let
him take everything. Whether it was what he wanted or not.
How was Sam ever to know ifhe was what Dean wanted or not?
And what if he wasn’t?
It took all Sam’s mental determination to force himself to get off his brother.
It took everything he had to pull himself out of his brother’s incredible
touch. It took every last bit of resolve that he had in him to not just accept
the gift however willingly or unwillingly it was being given, and instead to
make himself move across to the bathroom without turning, in case he lost the
impetus to keep walking, and lock himself in. There he ran the cold tap and all
but plunged his head beneath it, trying to get back in control of his lust.
What the hell had he nearly just done?
It was a long few minutes before he felt able to re-emerge. He didn’t even want
to look at Dean in case he lost the battle within himself completely this time.
It didn’t help that his brother was now kneeling beside the foot of the bed,
biting his lip and looking anxious that he had upset Sam somehow.
Sam snapped at him before he could ask what he had done, desperate to resist
the urge to put his arms around him again and hold him beneath him, to have his
incredible tasting lips so close and open to his own… “You better go and get
ready if that’s what you think you should do, Dean. Get yourself ready for your
bastard. Go on! Get in there out of my sight!”
He couldn’t bear to see the worry in those green eyes increase at the harshness
in his tone. Instead he just made himself turn away, snatch up his laptop and
slump in the chair. If he looked round, just once, and saw Dean’s tears, then
he knew he wouldnever be able to stop himself from simply ripping his brother’s
clothes off him there and then, pulling him up into the bed, and never letting
him leave it ever again.
It was with relief as well as terrible shame that he finally heard Dean slowly
get off his knees and move across the room, then the bathroom door close gently
and the shower turn on. At least, just for the next few minutes, Sam could let
himself cry as well without his brother knowing.
The next hour or so passed in complete silence. Sam tried to concentrate on the
screen: it had been the same screen since he had turned the laptop on,
sometimes slightly blurry, sometimes fully obscured by his still watering eyes.
But as long as it looked as if he was engrossed, it didn’t matter...
Dean stayed in the bathroom a long time, only slipping out to get some things
from his bag and the suit, readying himself for whatever he would be expected
to do that night, making the preparations as required by this ‘other’ man. Sam
thought through all the ways he could kill him as he arrived. As the hour
approached, he wondered perhaps if he would be better off not seeing this
latest bastard who expected repayment for his brother’s hospital bill. But his
curiosity, and his instinctive desire to have a face to rage his hatred
against, forced him to stay.
The knock at the door occurred promptly at seven pm. Sam started and wondered,
then got up to answer it. The man on the other side was nothing like he had
expected.
To be fair he didn’t knowwhat he was expecting, but the man was nothing like it
anyway. He was small for a start. Shorter than Dean in height. Definitely
shorter than Sam, who felt like a gorky giant looking down at him. He was
probably about Dean’s age: no older than late twenties. And petite, but in no
way did that detract from his masculinity. Probably about 5 foot ten; slim
features; huge dark brown eyes; short but not cropped hair; a small well
maintained moustache and beard; full lips, nearly as full as Dean’s; and a
confident, charming smile. The words ‘a living Arabian knight’ went through
Sam’s mind before he could blink once at the stranger.
And the man was smartly dressed in a fitted tuxedo and white shirt that showed
off the slim but well-toned physique beneath. His hands were manicured, his
accessories were expensive: platinum Rolex watch; a gold and diamond stud in
one ear; gold cufflinks and signet ring that proclaimed his affinity with the
accursed Alpha Exousia; hand-stitched Italian shoes. In his hands, he was
carrying a small case.
He was stepping inside the door before Sam had managed his second blink. “You
must be Samuel Winchester: you’re even taller than you look in all the
surveillance I’ve got of you. Very nice. But not my type. Aah...there you are.”
And now he was moving smoothly past Sam and heading for Dean who had emerged
from the bathroom as soon as he had heard the door. Sam felt his heart hurt as
soon as he saw his brother inhis tuxedo. God, he looked so handsome, even if he
hadn’t done the jacket up yet. Even better looking than usual.
And then his anger was returning as the stranger, despite his petite
appearance, gave away his hidden strength by physically pushing his brother
backwards into the wall behind him, lifting himself up on his toes and claiming
his mouth for an intense and extremely passionate kiss. Sam saw Dean’s eyes
flick to him for a moment, and his brother’s blush begin and deepen as he was
forced to return the embrace.
Eventually the man pulled back and smirked at him. Small but perfectly in
proportion long, slim fingers smoothed Dean’s face, calming the red flush away.
“No embarrassment tonight, Dean. You’re on show withme. You know my rules:
leave your inhibitions at the door. But you’ll be fine. Youare fine. I bought a
spare tuxedo in case your new master destroyed this one, but I’m glad he
didn’t. I had them both tailored especially for you, but I prefer the material
in this one, it’s silkier...
How are the injuries? Did that bastard leave any marks on you? I’ll kill him if
he did, you know I will. He shouldn’t have touched you last time like that: it
took the four of us to track down that Zirah-bhonk, not just him. He paid for
what he did once we’d broken that door down: him and his damn brothers. Have
you any scars still from it? Never mind, I’ll find out for myself later. It’s a
good job we’ll have to get a move on to get to the Dinner on time or I’ll be
having your master thrown out of here for an hour and finding out now!”
This was all spoken in a concise, English public school educated accent, and
just as his lips hadn’t stopped moving for the last minute since he had stepped
into the room, neither had his fingers: they were all over Dean, from stroking
his face and neck to slipping inside his pristine white shirt to touch and feel
beneath.
Sam couldn’t help himself: “Get your hands off him!”
“Now, now, Samuel.” The deep brown eyes turned in his direction with genuine
amusement. “You should be grateful I paid his bills for you in Knoxville. If I
hadn’t, then who knows, you might be in prison by now for fraud. A fitting end
for a would-be lawyer. Not your slave though, he’d have been out on the streets
all on his own. Unattended. You should be nice to me. And while I’m on the
subject, you had better learn to take more care of him. I don’t want my Dean
permanently damaged by your recklessness:Hunting? He’snot to be hurt. And if
anything ever should happen to his face... I would hold you responsible,
Samuel.
Anyway.” He turned back to Dean and held out the case. “Just the final couple
of touches and we had better get going.”
Dean sighed and took the case, moving to the nearest small bed to lay it down
while he opened it. Sam saw his expression as he looked down at the contents.
He crossed the room quickly to see for himself.
Inside was a cummerbund, exactly the mellow shade of meadow green as Dean’s
eyes. And three other items that Sam couldn’t work out for a minute what they
were: all similar in shape and style, but different in size. Hinged bands of
fused platinum and gold, each about two inches wide. One was large, the other
two smaller. Each had a soft green velvet lining covering what would be the
inside when the hinges were closed, and there was a small lockable clasp on
each, and strangely a small enclosed loop rising from the outer surface of
each, formed from the worked metals.
But it was the colours of the embedded stones that caught Sam’s attention the
most. Each of the three bands were studded with glistening and glittering
stones, all green, most again a near perfect match for Dean’s irises. The
largest brightest stone was on the big band, though, as the stranger reached to
retrieve it from the case, it still didn’t sparkle as brightly as Dean’s eyes
did as he blinked back tears of humiliation in front of his brother.
“That’s a green diamond. From one of my mines. I had the collar commissioned
for you as soon as I saw it. I paid for the slave who found it to be freed: do
you know where he is now, Samuel?”
Sam stared at him blankly as he finally realised what the items were. The man,
a blood-diamond mine owner probably amongst a lot of other things, continued
speaking as if he hadn’t really been expecting an answer.
“He didn’t want to leave the other slaves: they were his friends. So, even
though he’s free, he now works at the mine and is responsible for their well-
being. Having been one of them, he knows best what they need. I’m not a bad
slave-owner, Samuel. I’m just used to having the best. Of everything. And I
don’t settle for less.”
He was fastening the slave collar around Dean’s neck as he was explaining. And
locking it with a small set of keys that he took from his pocket. “It should
fit perfectly without marking: I took the measurements when you were coming
round from Drayton’s asphyxiation game. Once I’d finished with him for doing
that to you of course. The other stones are a mixture: opals, alexandrites,
more diamonds. It’s only the colour I’m interested in. I wanted these to be
perfect for you.”
He was now locking the wrist bands in place. Then he tied Dean’s bowtie
himself, making sure that it and the collar of the shirt were loose enough to
show off the sparkling and restrictive slave band beneath. “There. Hand me
that.”
Sam passed him the cummerbund in a somewhat stunned silence and watched as the
man positioned it to his satisfaction around his brother’s waist and buttoned
his jacket for him.
“Okay. Everyone will know who you’re with.”
“Drayton will be really angry about this.” Dean’s voice was low and anxious.
“Oh, I’m counting on it, Dean. It might give me the excuse to finallykill the
bastard this time. Go and wait in the car.”
With a hesitant glance at Sam, Dean obeyed, heading out to a dark blue Ferrari
that sat outside along with two large black vehicles filled with suited muscle.
The man paused momentarily, his eyes fixed on the slave: “I’ve wanted Dean
since I first saw him as a teenager. My father had him flown out to us as part
of a payment for a Sultan’s shamshir. Bastard had him drugged and held in a
cage without water for the entire trip: my poor Dean was so sick when he
arrived but he still tried his best to please. I never forgave my father for
that. Whatever Drayton offered you for Dean, I’ll double it. AndI’ll make sure
he’s looked after. Think about it.”
And with that, he had gone.
It was early in the morning after the morning after, when Dean finally
returned.
Sam had hardly slept the last thirty six or so hours, worried about his own
more and more uncontrollable feelings as well as being afraid for his brother’s
well-being. It was with a considerable relief that he heard the door’s lock
being picked and a step that he immediately recognised as Dean’s entering the
room. He lay quietly and listened while the other man quietly undressed in the
gloom and went to climb into the opposite single bed.
“Come here.”
Dean turned in surprise, Sam could see how tense his body suddenly was in the
dawn light, but he obediently crossed to where Sam was holding the covers back
ready and slid in beside him. Even as he began to turn away, now well used to
sleeping while being spooned by his younger yet much larger brother, Sam
stopped him, instead pulling at his waist with his hands until Dean was lying
facing him instead.
They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.
It was Dean who broke the silence first: “You still angry at me, Sammy? I’m
really sorry for what I did.”
Sam raised his hand enough to gently stroke his brother’s face. “Did he hurt
you?”
“No.” It was a genuine shake of his head. “He’s not like that. He likes
control, yes. And dominance. But not the violence that Drayton likes, not me
having tobeg for... So, no: he didn’t hurt me.” He hesitated. “He said he’d
made an offer for me. If you are considering selling me, then... I’d prefer it
to be to him rather than Drayton. If I’m allowed a choice: I know I’m probably
not. That’s if you’re thinking about it now after...” The next words came out
together in a sudden rush of panic: “I’m sorry for whatever I did wrong, I’ll
try not to do it again, Sam. Whatever it was!”
“You did nothing wrong, Dean.I did. And I wasn’t angry at you, I was angry at
me.” He knew Dean didn’t understand by the way the crease between his eyes
furrowed deeper. Sam carefully moved even closer, stretching his left arm out
so Dean could rest his head on it, still stroking his face with his right hand,
running his thumb over his brother’s lips even as he continued.
“I love you Dean. No, let me talk a moment.” He gently covered the other’s
mouth even as it opened. “We’re brothers. Always will be no matter what. I will
always worry about you, always have your back, always be there to take care of
you. And I know you’d give everything you have for me, even your life if it
came to it. I know that.
But I also...I think I also….I want to…do things to you. Maybe I shouldn’t have
started us sleeping in the same bed, but I love it too much to stop. I love
your body being next to mine. And when you were beneath me… I want that
again….so much. And I know I shouldn’t.
Because you don’t want that.
Oh, I know you’d let me.” As Dean tried to speak again. “You’d let me do
anything to you. But you don’t want me like that. And I will never force you.
But I came so close...so very close to just taking you, whether you wanted me
or not. I was angry atmyself, Dean. But I was, and will never be, angry at you.
You might be my slave but you are not my possession. And I will never do that
to you if you don’t want it. And I am never going to sell you. I’m just gonna
have to find a way of dealing with my feelings about you. But that’s my
problem, not yours.”
Dean nodded thoughtfully and with a lot of relief. At least Sam didn’t want to
get rid of him. He wriggled even closer so his head was tucked right in beneath
his brother’s against the top of his chest and neck. Sam could feel his soft
short hair tickling against his chin and their bodies pressed together all the
way down. His arms tightened automatically and held Dean there, and he knew he
would have struggled to let go even if Dean had asked him to.
So it was lucky Dean didn’t ask, but instead hesitantly spoke: “Sam. I
don’tknow what I want. I guess that’s why I have so many one-night stands with
the ladies: at least I know what is expected of me and I never have to see them
again if I didn’t do it right. And I’m…”
“In control?” Sam felt even more guilty. And angry that Dean felt he had to
explain. To anyone.
Dean shrugged against him. “But when I have to… with them? And now you? I don’t
know what’s expected of me, not by any of you. I’m sorry if I keep letting you
down. But I’ll do anything as long as I can stay with you, Sam. You just say
what…”
“Don’t be sorry, Dean. And there shouldn’t be anything expected of you. Not
byany of us. Period. Come on, I doubt you got a lot of sleep these last two
days...” He felt his brother snort a little, it tickled against the hair on his
naked chest. “And I didn’t either, because you weren’t here safe with me. I
need you heresafe with me.” It felt natural for him to kiss the top of Dean’s
head and even more natural not to move his lips away. “Let’s settle down for a
while. We’ll work this out together, okay?”
“Sam?”
“Yeah, Dean.”
“I do….you know… I really do…”
He could almost feel Sam’s dimples against his head, his brother’s smile got so
wide: “Yeah Dean, I know you love me too. Now shut up and go to sleep.”
***** TALKING ROUND IN CIRCLES *****
Sam stirred and stretched his arm across the bed, looking for the solid body of
warmth that he expected to be there. He came to with a blink when it wasn’t and
sat up with a start.
He was relieved when he saw his brother was safe: Dean was kneeling fully
dressed on the floor beside the small couch, working at his laptop which he had
balanced on the low coffee table.
“Hey.”
“Mornin’.”
“What time is it?” Sam groggily turned to see the red digits of the clock
beside the bed. “Jesus! It’s nearly noon! Why didn’t you wake me?”
Dean glanced round with surprise and shrugged. “You said you hadn’t slept, Sam.
Why would I wake you?”
Sam didn’t know why. But he wished that Dean had. No, he wished that Dean had
still been asleep in the bed beside him when he woke. He loved watching his
brother open his eyes first thing in the morning...
He lay back down on his back, then hurriedly twisted onto his side with sudden
embarrassment as he realised the height of the tent that he was making beneath
the covers. Crap. Despite all his honourable intentions, he was as hard as ever
for his brother.
“You want some help with that?” To all intents and purposes Dean was engrossed
with a page on the screen; he hadn’t even looked round. But he didn’t need to,
to know why Sam was wriggling in the bed.
“What?”
Dean looked down at his hands, then across to meet his younger brother’s eyes
without flinching. “Would you like me to give you a blowjob? Because I would,
Sam. And I’m good at it.” He laughed at himself humourlessly: “Believe me, I’ve
had enough practice! But it wouldn’t be a bother. Not for you.”
“Wouldn’t be a bother.” Sam closed his eyes and tried to fight the prickling
feeling in his eyes. That’s how Dean saw doing something as intimate as that:
‘it wouldn’t be a bother’. “Not the most romantic suggestion I’ve ever had!”
He heard the sigh that his brother made from across the room: it was so deep
and heartfelt that it sent shivers rippling through him that seemed to
concentrate in one particular part of his body. Then a touch at his shoulder
made him start: he hadn’t heard Dean move from his position at all but now he
was kneeling beside the bed. Kneeling beside Sam. Staring at him with those
damned haunting green eyes.
“I tried to tell you at Bobby’s, Sam. And I tried to tell you early this
morning. I know I’m no good at words. Not like you. But...if you want romance,
Sam, then don’t look for me. I’m a slave. I’m your slave. I’ll do whatever you
want, whenever you want, to keep you happy. And not ‘cos I want you to keep me,
but because I like to make you happy!
And I’ll go with anybody that I have to, to keep you safe.
But... you’ve always dreamed of white picket fences and having dogs running
round, and loads of kids, and thanksgiving with a large family around a table.
That won’t be with me! I’ll be the slave on the floor in the corner. Or you’ll
have already gotten rid of me....”
His hand tightened on Sam’s shoulder as the younger man began to argue. “I just
need you to face up to what we are, Sam. What I am. I ain’t your brother. Or
anything else that you think you want. Just... don’t look for me like that.”
Sam stared up at him, his eyes filling with tears. Before he could think,
before he could question the sanity of what he was doing himself, he was
reaching up with his hands to pull Dean’s head down, bringing his mouth within
range of Sam’s, joining their lips together, trying to tell Dean everything
that he couldn’t do with words in that moment.
It was the most wonderful kiss he’d ever had in his entire life.
But then Dean was pulling away, leaning forward to touch his lips to Sam’s
forehead instead, and getting up to return to his laptop. No, to the keys to
the Impala which were beside it on the table.
As he reached for them he sighed: “You don’t want me, Sam. Not the way you
think you do. This has all been too much: we’ve gotten too close. You need to
really think about this and be sure. Because I’m not what you want, not really.
I’ll never be what you want. After all, I’m such a slut!”
His face smiled as he threw back all of Sam’s old insults aimed at him, but his
eyes were sad. Sam sighed as he remembered how many times he had called his
brother that, and found himself wondering how many times he had been actually
going out to pay a debt.
“I’m going to grab some lunch. Coffee?” Sam nodded, unable to bring himself to
speak, and then Dean was gone. With a sigh, Sam got out of bed and headed for
the shower. A very long, cold shower.
He had just finished drying his hair by the time Dean was back with containers
of chicken, and fries for him and a salad for Sam, and coffees for them both.
They sat and ate in silence, side by side on the small couch.
“At Bobby’s!”
“Hmph?” Dean tried to respond through a mouthful of chicken.
“You tried to tell me at Bobby’s! You remember that conversation! You
lying...son-of-a-bitch!”
His brother flushed a deep red and swallowed his food down with a reluctant
gulp. “I was hoping I wouldn’t remember...”
Sam twisted in his seat to stare at him. “So? What else do you remember from
when we were at Bobby’s? What about the visit from the FBVS? Any of that?”
The even deeper shade of red that covered Dean’s face gave him the answer. Sam
swore at Dean without malice and took his container of chicken away from him,
putting his large hand against his brother’s chest when Dean tried to reach to
get it back.
“No more until I get some answers, Dean. Time for the truth now.”
Dean glared at him but sat back. He knew he couldn’t get away with feigning
illness this time. Not that much of it had needed faking: the shivers caused
from the bad memories had certainly been real enough. Although he might have
emphasised them just a little....
Sam considered: where should he start? He had so many questions that he had
wanted to ask his brother ever since he had found out all of this.
“This....Alpha Exousia?” He decided eventually. “How did you? How did dad? Get
mixed up with something likethem?”
Despite himself Dean snorted. “That was the easy bit, Sammy! Believe me!” His
smirk died on his lips as he saw Sam’s serious expression: okay, time to tell
what he could. Without even realising he was doing it, he lowered himself off
the couch and onto his knees down to the floor in front.
Sam watched this and nearly reached to pull his brother back up to sitting
beside him, then realised that this was actually what he had wanted Dean to do
that couple of nights before: to get settled into a ‘safe’ position in his
mind, one that he felt he could talk from. So instead he also went down on to
the floor, leaning back against the small sofa with his long limbs stretched
out in front of him.
And he waited.
“It’s not really that complicated, Sam. I’d had the mark of the AE years before
I knew what it was. You…just don’t get how hard it was to survive. When we were
young, I mean. Dad just wanted to get that thing and he needed supplies and
weaponry and information, and he had the two of us and we needed clothes and
food and medicine and everything else… it was hard, Sam.
And I tried to do my job, which was to look after you. That was how I could
help, could best serve my master. And to be honest, if I hadn’t, then I doubt I
would have been there that long: dad made it so obvious that I was mom’s
choice, not his…
Anyway… Apparently… I don’t know why… I caught their attention. I mean, what’s
so special about me, Sam? But anyway, it’s kept us alive, kept us warm, paid
for things you needed.”
“What are you on about: the mark?”
“Oh, my tattoo. Dad was mad as hell about it: he didn’t realise they’d do that.
Making sure they staked their claim…” He was undoing his top shirts as he was
speaking and removed them as well as his t-shirt to expose the upper half of
his lean, muscled body. Sam had to swallow a couple of times as he felt his
mouth start to water but he tried to concentrate on what Dean was saying.
His brother raised his right arm up above his shoulder, bending it at the elbow
to rest his hand behind his head. Sam shifted his body closer so he could study
the exposed hairless armpit, leaning right across his brother’s naked chest as
he recognised the inked marks that he had first seen on the FBVS agent’s cell
phone a couple of months ago.
He couldn’t believe how he had never noticed before. There they were: right in
the crease of Dean’s underarm. Of course, he had never known his brother not to
wear something that didn’t have sleeves in some form, or not that he remembered
anyway, and the few times they had managed to go swimming, Dean must simply
have always kept his arm down. But there they were. Dean’s slave tattoo. And
the emblem of the AE.
"How have I never seen this?” He couldn’t help himself from touching, resting
his right hand against Dean’s chest to stop himself from falling into his
brother’s body. Dean hitched away as his long fingers tickled him.
“Would you advertise that you were a slave? No. That’s kept hidden. The slave
houses chose the underarm because it would be so painful to cut the tattoo out
from: nobody would be able to do it to themselves. They didn’t count on
unscrupulous owners doing it though…”
“And the AE?”
“Mm, yeah. They put that on. Marks me as theirs. Despite your lien, Sam: don’t
you worry about signing that. You may be my owner in the eyes of the law, but
they have a claim as well. As far as they’re concerned, they always will.”
“But… How?” Sam’s hands were now sliding around Dean’s body to hold himself
steady.
Dean sighed, studied his knees. “Drayton Emerson, Sam. He doesn’t like to lose.
Not at anything. And his father, who was as high up in the AE as anyone could
get…
They were at that auction all those years ago. Somehow I’d caught the attention
of them and a few of their acquaintances who were… ‘partial’…. to boys, shall
we say. Of course once Drayton and one of his brothers started bidding on me,
the others stopped. Nobody was going to get on the wrong side of their old man…
But he was angry at his sons: going against each other in public like that. So
he told them to quit it. And that’s how mom and dad bought me. Just dumb luck,
nothing else.
But Drayton doesn’t like to lose. And he can get obsessed when he wants
something. And you’ve already seen how possessive he is. Even when I don’t
actually belong to him…
Dad told me that that night: the night of the fire where mom… Well, we were in
a room in the hospital. We had nowhere else to go: everything but what we stood
up in and the car, had burned. Anyway he turned up there. Drayton. Wanted to
buy me that night. Dad told him where to go. But he left his card. In case dad
reconsidered…..”
Sam couldn’t believe this. That bastard must have been watching Dean his whole
life!
“And dad told me he did consider it, Sam. Said he had done for a moment. Then
you started crying and I comforted you and you stopped. And he realised that he
needed me there because of you. So you saved me, Sam! If you hadn’t cried then,
God knows what would have happened...
And of course, dad had drunk the insurance money for the house away so it
wasn’t covered. He’d drunk most of everything away before anyway... So when he
realised he would need weapons and normal ammunition, and silver bullets, and
the rest of the stuff, then… I don’t know why or when he got in touch with him.
Probably going to sell me. But Drayton’s old man intercepted the message...
Fuck, that man was frightening, Sammy. He remembered me from the auction: knew
the interest in me...knew his son’s interest in me. But Drayton was engaged by
then: bringing a child slave to the bedroom every night wouldn’t have been a
good start to the marriage. And old man Emerson wanted the connections that
that wedding would bring…
So he set the deals up instead. Dad needed anything: he could contact the AE
for assistance, and I could ‘spend a little time with them’ to say thank you.
Simple as that. Drayton was furious but he didn’t dare go against his father
while he was alive.
Dad did try, Sam: he tried to keep me away from them. He knew what it meant,
what would happen. You probably don’t remember us shivering all one winter in
an old cabin that we’d broken into because he couldn’t afford us to stay
anywhere. Course you wouldn’t: you learnt to walk in that old place. No heat
except the open fire: got fucking freezing when it went out. Hardly any food.
And dad would go and take any work, anything to try and get some money. Left us
alone because there was no one else. And then he nearly crashed the car on some
ice trying to get back to us, and couldn’t work at all for three weeks. We
would have starved then, Sam. Truly. It was up to me to step up. And….I didn’t
like it, but I knew I had to.”
“From how old? How old were you, Dean? When this started?”
“It don’t matter, Sam… I…It had already happened anyway. At the Auction House.
A slave’s a nothing: we’re not important. I didn’t like what they made me do at
first, but I did it. For you. For dad. And then as I got older, I learnt how to
get pleasure out of it myself, so it’s turned out okay.”
“You’re talking shit, Dean. And this isn’t okay. Sex slavery is illegal!”
“So they call it something else, Sam. Wake up!”
“It’s sex slavery! What else can you call it?”
Dean sighed: “it happens, Sam. You can wave all the placards you want, but
that’s what slaves get used for…”
“Yes, but….” Sam suddenly stopped. “You know I went to demonstrations against
slavery?”
Dean glanced at him. ”One of the AE’s main houses is in California. I always
came to check up on you on the way.”
“I never knew. I wish you’d come to see me. I…missed you.”
“You’d tried to leave before, Sam. I still have the scars from dad’s anger at
me losing you. Then four years without a word from you. We’d probably never had
spoken again if I hadn’t come to ask for your help. You’ll be looking to go
again. This life isn’t what you want. I’m not what you want.”
And there they were: back at the beginning of the discussion again.
Sam sat up, his hands having slipped down to curve around Dean’s naked waist as
they had been talking, his own body close enough for his long legs to be
resting up against and slightly over his brother’s knees. He bit his lower lip
as he stared at his brother. “You’re wrong, Dean.”
“How many men have you been with, Sam?”
The directness of the question made him blink with surprise. “I never have,
Dean. There’s only ever been one that I’ve wanted, you were right about that.
And I still do.”
“Don’t give me that, Sam. I saw what you wanted. I only actually met Jess for a
few minutes but she was sweet and…. pure. And innocent. Completely the opposite
of everything we are. That’s what you want. You go and find another Jess, Sam.
You keep looking: she’ll be there somewhere. Go live your white picket fence
life.”
And with that he was pushing Sam’s hand away and getting easily to his feet,
leaving Sam feeling slightly stunned sitting on the floor. And uncomfortable,
not only from the thinly carpeted hard floor, but from the effects of staring
at Dean’s ripped and very available body.
That had been strange: was Dean upset because his younger brother was lusting
after him…or….was it….?
And then suddenly he realised just how badly his running away to College had
hurt the older man. When Sam had decided to leave, he’d tried to convince
himself that Dean would be alright, that his life would be what he wanted
because he wanted to stay with their dad as a Hunter. And Sam had deliberately,
and stubbornly, not contacted his family since. Not even Dean.
But really he had known even then that he had only been selfishly thinking of
himself.
And now of course he knew just how wrong he had got everything: Dean had never
had any choice but to stay. Even when his younger brother had abandoned him
without a thought.
And if Sam had abandoned him once, then he could do it again.
For the first time he understood what Dean was trying to tell him: his brother
could sleep with him without a thought because he was a slave, and in his
words, that’s what slaves did. For a deal made, for their dad, he would for Sam
as well if that’s what Sam wanted. But he knew that Sam would always want more
than just a pleasurable night because Dean had brought him up to be better than
that.
So Sam had to besure.
Because if Dean allowed himself, just once, to have feelings for Sam that went
beyond the usual brotherly bond, hell: beyond the usual slave/masterly bond….
And if Sam still left him even after that….?
Sam was scrambling to his feet: how could he explain? How could he convince
Dean that he was serious about him? That no matter what, even if Dean could
only see him as a brother, he was never going to leave him, would never abandon
him like that again. That this wasn’t about the slavery, but about Sam’s
definite and strong feelings for Dean. That his brother need never be afraid of
Sam just disappearing without a trace again and leaving him.
But even as he was trying desperately to think of the words, he was brought up
short by Dean turning from the small sink where he had run a glass of water.
Turning without any expression, without any flicker of emotion. It had all been
bottled up and buried deep somewhere inside his soul, yet again. And Sam knew
the moment to speak had been lost for the time being.
Instead Dean picked up his discarded laptop. “There’s a hotel in Pittsburgh.
Two guests found dead in similar circumstances. No sign of how they died but
their faces were frozen in fear. Locked rooms from the inside. Window shut both
times…. Thought we might take a look?”
“Okay.”
So they went. It turned out to be a lethifold that had crept into the new free-
standing mirror that had just been delivered into the room. From there it had
found it easy to seize it’s victims as they had slept, to deliberately give
them nightmares and feed on their terror.
The only weapon that could kill it? The Zirah-bhonk that those AE bastards had
obtained for their dad. Even as Sam used it to stab the lethifold repeatedly
out of existence after his brother had lost the game of ‘rock, paper, scissor’
and lured it in to his sleeping form, he was imagining using it on Drayton and
all the other men who had enjoyed the price Dean had had to pay to obtain it.
And when he saw Dean’s wide eyes immediately look for him when he had managed
to finally awake him from his troubled sleep, he knew he was right in thinking
that his brother was as much afraid of him leaving him as he was of Sam selling
him.
He was determined to somehow convince his brother that, no matter what, he was
never going to just leave him again. Not ever, no matter what happened between
them.
And then Dean’s worst fears came true.
Sam just vanished without a trace.
***** AND ON AGAIN *****
It took Dean a week to track Sam down.
He was relieved to find him: he had thought that…. he had wondered if Sam had
just had enough of him again. It wouldn’t have surprised him if his brother had
just walked away: he couldn’t follow the order that Sam had given him not to go
with Drayton or the prince, or any of the others from the AE, because they had
a claim on him. If he refused, then the money that Sam had agreed to take would
come due for repayment. And Sam simply had no idea of just how unpleasant men
like these could be…
He knew that Sam thought he was simply being disobedient. And who wants an
unruly slave? Certainly not someone who until a few short months before had
been following his life’s dream at College, and then had found himself playing
nursemaid to a very ill as well as a very badly trained one.
He was expecting Sam to go again. He knew he would: it was only going to be a
matter of time. He was only waiting for the decision of abandonment, or of
selling him. Because why would anyone want to keep such a useless, disobedient
slave as he was?
But at least he had found him for the moment: he would just check that Sam was
alright, and if he was, then just leave him if that was what he wanted.
Watching from a distance of course: he still had their dad’s order to save or
kill him to follow…
Dean was surprised when Sam couldn’t remember anything from the last week. Even
more surprised when they’d realised that he’d beaten a fellow Hunter to death.
Even more surprised when Sam hit him with the gun after he had refused to kill
him.
All of which was nothing compared to Sam’s emotions when he finally regained
control of his own body at Bobby’s and realised that he had shot his brother
while under the demon’s control. Even while Bobby was patching Dean’s numerous
wounds, Sam was hovering around them both, fighting to resist the urge to just
push the old man out of the way so he could tend to Dean himself: not just by
wiping away his blood, but wiping away the fears that he could now see so
clearly in Dean’s eyes; holding him tightly and telling him that he hadn’t left
deliberately, that he never would, that he wanted Dean in his arms, wanted him
in his life. And no matter what Dean had to do in the way of service to the AE,
Sam was always going to be there with him.
But with Bobby around, perhaps that conversation would better wait until he
could get Dean alone.
So they went to investigate strange occurrences at a College, stopping on the
way to their motel to speak to the janitor there.
But Sam’s hopes that here would be the place that he could at least start to
try to convince his brother that his feelings for him were real and that
perhaps Dean could relax enough to allow himself to…maybe start to even feel
something back for Sam…: well, it all went pear-shaped for some reason.
Everything went wrong. They just fought all the time which they never normally
did. And for the first time in a long while, they slept in separate beds.
It took Bobby’s arrival, and logic, to tell them that they were being tricked.
And they were both embarrassed about how they had behaved in the meantime. But
a tension had been created between them that Sam couldn’t see his way around
for the moment…
So they decided to try and find a ghost that appeared regularly once a year.
Only for her to find them instead. The main problem being that she didn’t
realise she was dead….
And Sam still couldn’t find the words to say to Dean. He had even got nervous
about asking to hold his brother at night again, worried about appearing to
order him, nervous about upsetting him. Although he really did miss Dean’s
strong body in his arms so much.
The only thing that relieved the slight tension was to keep moving on.
”There’s been a killing in San Francisco. Looks like something a werewolf might
do.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
***** AFTER MADISON *****
Dean helped Sam back into their motel room.
The younger Winchester was distraught: he had stayed the night with the
beautiful Madison, had had sex with her, but it had ended with him having to
kill her because she had chosen death rather than remain being the werewolf
that she had been turned into by circumstances out of her control. She had
already killed: she didn’t want to risk doing it again.
She knew she couldn’t control the monster by remaining alive: the only way she
could take control of it was through death.
And Sam could see the similarities with his own situation and knew he was
facing the same decision.
Or worse, having to put the weight of the decision on his shoulders of his poor
brother.
He sighed heavily and slumped with his back against the door.
He couldn’t look up as the other re-crossed the room and put his hands around
his shoulders. “Sam?” Then Dean was stepping closer, reaching to pull Sam down
into his hug. Sam’s arms went around his waist in response as his tears began
once more.
And his senses were all suddenly heightened as his face settled and nuzzled
against Dean’s shoulder: he breathed in his musky scent; he felt his warmth; he
felt his brother’s strength as their chests closed together; he was aware of
Dean’s heart steadily beating against his own body.
He had liked Madison. And Dean had encouraged him to stay the night with
her,really encouraged him, which he had found upsetting as well as a relief.
And he had liked Madison. And their night together had been good…very good.
But…
Here was everything that kept him determined to keep living, to keep fighting.
To keep being determined to be human. It was all here. Everything that was
right about his life. All here in his arms. And he had had enough of trying to
resist how he felt.
Before he could think about what he was doing, his hands were raising as if of
their own accord to cup Dean’s chin and tilt his head to meet Sam’s as he
straightened his own position enough to find his brother’s mouth with his own.
“Sam?” But it was a breathless sound.
“Dean. I need you. I know what I said about not wanting to force you, but
please....I need you. Please.” And he was extending the kiss, begging for Dean
to open his mouth for him by running his tongue along his lips.
And Dean did.
Dean finally broke the kiss, he could feel his brother’s desire pressing
against him. “Sam. Are you sure? I don’t want you to hate yourself...”
“It’s never been about me hating myself, Dean. It’s been about you hating me. I
don’t want to force you, I will never force you to sleep with me just because
you’re my slave… but… I need you, Dean. Right now I really need you. And I’ve
always wanted you. Always. I always will. And I will never leave you. But
please. If you hate the idea of being with me then I’ll stop. I’d never hurt
you. Not like this, I’d never hurt you like this. But please, Dean. Please. I
need you so much, baby. Please.”
By this time his mouth was everywhere on Dean’s face and neck, his brother’s
body arching in his arms to allow him access as he bent to reach even more of
the man that he had wanted his entire life.
“Tell me to stop and I will, Dean. Tell me you don’t want this and I‘ll never
ask again. I swear, Dean. I don’t want to be like those men. I don’t want to be
like dad. But you’ve got to tell me, now baby please, before I can’t stop
myself because I want this so bad. I need you so bad right now.”
Sam felt the tears prickle again in his eyes as Dean suddenly pulled back from
his arms. He was being rejected: he should have expected it. The one thing he
had always wanted but could never have. Then his breath was being exhaled with
a squeak of surprise as his brother’s right arm swept around the back of his
thighs and he was being picked up, bridal style. He had always known Dean’s
arms were strong, but now they seemed doubly safe as well.
His brother always made him feel safe. He always had.
Dean carried him to the nearest bed and deposited him onto it, immediately
clambering next to him. “Really, Sammy? Are you sure you want this? No going
back after.”
But even as he was beginning to straddle the larger man, Sam moved to block his
legs by lifting his own. With a small twist and a pull, his long legs were
wrapping around Dean’s back, high on Dean’s back and he was pulling his
surprised brother down onto him and deep into his embrace.
“Sam? Are you sure? You’ve never been with anyone, let alone let them…”
Even as he was reaching up with the top half of his body so he could lock their
lips together again and his hands were sliding inside his brother’s denims and
boxers to explore, Sam was whispering into Dean’s mouth: “I’m sure, Dean. Never
been so sure. I want this.No regrets, Dean. I know you’re my slave, but I want
to be yours. Make me belong to you, baby, please. I want to be yours.”
***** A KNOCK AT THE DOOR *****
Dean pushed the door that he had just come through closed with a quiet click. A
noise behind him had him turning in immediate response but not fast enough as
he suddenly found himself meeting the wood with his face and unable to move.
Even as he gasped for breath, he was being caught at with strong hands and
forced to turn around, only to find himself trapped and all but crushed: the
solid door at his back and the even more solid wall of a large body pressed
against his front, his hands now being held high above his head in a vice like
grip.
He looked up at his captor with some surprise.
“Sam? Are you mad at me?”
“You disappeared into that trailer all afternoon, Dean. I know you were excited
about being on the film set. Butall afternoon? Do you have idea of what I was
feeling? How close I was to breaking the door in and dragging you out of there?
Do you?”
He sighed as his brother blinked with truly genuine surprise, then watched as
the gears in Dean’s brain finally began to click into place. “Oh God, you’re
upset at me. I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t think…”
“You never do, Dean.” Evilly, he leant his weight even more against the smaller
body that he knew he must be getting close to squashing, and rubbed his own
abdomen and groin area against the other man. The sigh of pleasure that Dean
involuntarily gave almost made him forgive him.
Almost.
“I know you have looser morals than I do, Dean. I know that.And I know why. And
you warned me that I’d have to accept it. But knowing you were in there, with
her….ithurt, Dean. I got jealous. Really jealous.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. I’ll try not to do it again…” The other was eager to reassure
him, but Sam wasn’t fooled. He reached his hands up further, using their long
length, and his unbreakable grip around Dean’s slim wrists, to force his
brother almost up on his toes in his position against the motel room door.
Forced him to arch his back a little to try and keep his balance, forced him to
be pressed against more of Sam’s immovable length as Sam got impossibly even
more into his personal space.
There wasn’t a single gap to be found anywhere between their bodies as Sam
finally relented enough to run his tongue along Dean’s lips to ask for access.
Which was willingly and immediately given.
Sam smiled to himself as the kiss deepened. It shouldn’t have surprised him but
it had, at just how much his brother took for granted that he was to be
dominated in the bedroom. Of course he would: he was a slave. He did as he was
told, no matter what he was told, and he had done for just about his whole
life.
But it had still surprised Sam, who had been used to hearing the satisfied
sighs and moans through countless thin motel room walls from numerous girls;
many of whom on realising that Sam was related to Dean had smugly informed him
that his big brother was a very gentle, generous and thoughtful lover and that
Sam could do no better than to try and copy him.
Which indeed he had, all his life.
So it had been a surprise when Dean had turned out to be almost completely
submissive when it was the two of them. Although he was now satisfied that Dean
was more than willing to be with him and wasn’t feeling pressured in any way,
he had allowed Sam to lead to the point where the younger man had had to hint,
ask, beg and finally give outright orders for his brother to obey and follow.
He knew why, he understood why: the bloody outlines of tight slave collars
around his brother’s neck and wrists were a memory that haunted him still.
But it now meant he had been learning about finding his own Dominant side in
the process, which was something that Sam had never thought of himself as
having, but actually was very much going to enjoy exploring. (And doing a lot
of research about when he was meant to be identifying possible jobs….)
Although they hadn’t gone very far in the way of exploration yet. Sam had
already promised himself that the first thing he was going to do as soon as,
indeed if ever, Dean relaxed enough to genuinely allow him to, was hold his
brother against a wall and make love to him until he had melted into a puddle
of sated bliss. But for now, just a passionate kiss would have to be enough,
before he encouraged his brother to move to the bed with him…
By this time, Sam’s mouth was on Dean’s neck and throat, and his hands were
undressing them both as they still stood against their door.
Dean lowered his arms as his brother released his wrists to instead wrap them
around Sam’s broad shoulders. Just as every other time he was amazed, and
relieved, at how gentle and patient his brother was with him: Sam could and
should be taking him by force, demanding him as hisright, which indeed Dean
was. But Sam seemed willing to wait for Dean to be completely ready before
taking that final step between them: something that Dean knew he didn’t warrant
or deserve.
He held Sam tightly as his mouth explored Dean’s body: he had grown up into
something that Dean was incredibly proud of, even though he knew it had nothing
to do with him. But he loved the younger man so much that he knew he’d follow
his Sammy anywhere, to Hell itself if he had to, or even better, somehow take
his place.
Sam smiled as he felt his brother grow increasingly compliant against him as
his touch got even lower.
“I’m sorry I upset you, Sam.”
“You didn’t, Dean. I just get jealous. I expect you to make it up to me,
though.”
“Whatever you want, just say it.”
Sam’s mouth was back on his: “You’re what I want. Come over here.” He started
to walk backwards, pulling his brother with him, heading approximately in the
direction of the beds but reluctant to break from Dean enough to look where he
was going.
“I didn’t realise you were so insatiable, Sam.”
“I didn’t realise that being with you would be so incredible, Dean. But, man,
you are amazing….you’ve ruined me…and I want you to take me. Right now. That
car ride back was far too long: I was almost making you park your Baby up
somewhere and dragging you into the rear seat!”
By now he had found the nearest mattress. With a push from his long arm, Dean
was falling onto it with Sam immediately following.
Even as he managed to get Dean completely naked, his brother muttered at him:
“Did I ever tell you you’re a needy bitch?”
Sam smirked: “Shut up and work your magic, jerk. And no more disappearing into
trailers unless it’s with me!”
“Okay, Sammy.”
And so their life together went on. They were still looking for the yellow-eyed
demon, but in a way, they were both hoping they would never find it. Or it
them. In case the price of doing so was more than either of them were willing
to now pay.
They exorcised a poltergeist in Louisiana that was terrorising a family-run
hotel: the spirit was angry that its previously almost reclusive existence with
just the one elderly, recently deceased, female inhabitant of the large house
had been shattered by it being sold with the resulting noise and bustle of
three meals a day and lots of customers. Even as Sam was reciting the exorcism,
he was eyeing up the large double bed of the room they were presently in and
wondering how much it would cost to stay there. A treat for his brother on his
un-birthday perhaps…
“Mind on the job, Sammy!” as his brother tried to fend off an old freestanding
wardrobe that was impossibly and seemingly intent on smashing him through the
wall.
“Sorry.” But he still found out the price before they left.
Then to his chagrin, they ended up in prison.
Deliberately.
And Sam found himself watching how his brother just seemed to fit in. How did
he do that? And why wasn’t he worried about how well he fit in?
And Sam tried not to think about how small the cell was and how intimidated he
felt by the lack of space, and he tried not to complain as he knew it must be
nothing compared to how being chained to a wall for days or weeks, or years, at
a time must feel. Or being held in a cage. How small had the cage on that plane
been? Even that second, smaller AE bastard seemed to have been disgusted by
that. And would he ever be able to ask Dean?
And would Dean ever tell him?
But he was glad to finally get out of there. And especially to get away from
the FBI agent now determined to hunt down his brother. And by implication, as
he was Dean’s master, him as well.
But his worry over being caught by the law went out of the window when Dean
failed to return from checking out some old warehouses one night. Sam was
frantic, searching them all desperately until he had finally found his brother,
barely alive and at the mercy of a djinn.
His anxiety only barely decreased when he realised that Dean had had to undergo
the horrific ordeal of killing himself in his enforced dream-to-death as the
only way of saving himself. And to save the girl that he had realised was also
in trouble…
Sam was pacing with the phone in his hand.
He replaced the receiver and smiled at his anxious brother: “She’s going to be
okay, Dean. You managed to save her in time. Now, how are you?”
Dean nodded, too emotional to really be able to reply. Sam came and sat next to
him, putting his arm around him.
“Why is it our job to save everyone, Sam? Haven’t we done enough?”
Sam bit his lip. He had asked himself that very question all his life. Had
argued it with his brother and their dad so many times. But ithurt seeing Dean
question it. It hurt far more than he could ever have realised it would.
“It’s worth it, Dean. It is. And I’m glad you dug yourself out.”
Then he couldn’t help himself: he had to ask. “Did you want to stay?”
He felt the warmth of the breath against the top of his chest as his brother
sighed. “Even when I knew it wasn’t real, I wanted to stay, Sam. You were happy
with Jess, even though you and me weren’t close. Not like here. We weren’t even
proper brothers there: you couldn’t stand me. But… I’d have liked to see you
married, and happy. Like you want to be…. And mom was there….But it wasn’t
complete. So I had to come back.” He came to an abrupt halt in what he had been
about to say and removed himself sharply out of Sam’s grasp, getting up and
wandering across the small room.
“What do you mean?”
“Nuttin. Forget it.”
“How do you mean, it wasn’t complete...? Oh.” Dean reddened as Sam stared at
him in sudden understanding. “He wasn’t there, was he? Billy wasn’t there. The
djinncouldn’t put him in your fantasy because you don’t know what he would look
like. You’re still looking for him, aren’t you?”
“Just forget it.” But Dean’s head was lowering and his voice was now muffled.
There was no way that Sam wasn’t going to him: he was across the room in two
long strides and had Dean back in his arms before the smaller man could block
him.
“Dean. We’ll find him. Let me help. Somehow we’ll find him.”
“No good trying, Sam. Just forget it. I’m just tired: gonna get some rest.”
“No, I can help. Dean, let me help. Please.”
“Stay out of the National Archives, Sam. We’ve got enough trouble with the
FBVSand the FBI without you bringing anymore down on us...”
“But...”
“I said no, Sam. Just forget it.”
Sam released him and stepped back with some considerable irritation. But ithad
reminded him that Ash didn’t seem to be making any headway with the search,
even though he had been really excited about the challenge of breaking into one
of the most secure Archives that there was in the country. But every time Sam
had asked him about his progress, Ash always seemed to be in a rush to go
somewhere or do something, and would contact Sam another time... which to date
he never had.
Sam determined to call him the moment Dean had fallen asleep that night.
Dean leant against the wall and looked at his feet. Then he nodded as if making
a decision and fumbled for his wallet. “Sam. I know you want to help. I’m sorry
I snapped at you. But....well...I’ve never shown anybody this... Never told
anyone…”
He was interrupted by a low knock at the door. The brothers looked at each
other in surprise, then Sam stepped towards it, checking through the peephole,
but unable to see clearly who was outside.
He opened the door.
Only to find a gun pointed straight into his face and a large muscular hand
against his chest forcing him backwards into the room. Behind the man were
others, all with guns. And behind them was...
“Drayton.” Sam heard his brother’s voice catch with fear as he saw the man.
The man was as immaculately dressed as he had been the last time Sam had met
him. But there was no way that his eyes could be mistaken for friendly this
time.
He stepped past Sam without a single glance, focused only on his prize. Dean
stood straight to face him as he approached, very aware that they were in
serious trouble. Then the tall man was in his personal space and he was being
forced to look up at him.
“Finally tracked you down. Did you think you would stay off the grid for long?
You must have known how angry I would be that you let him bring you to the
Society Dinner. Ofall people, you let that little bastard bring you. And did
you stay the night with him after? You fucking little slut.”
“I didn’t have a choice. Youknow I don’t have a choice. Not in any of this.”
Then Drayton was leaning over Dean, backing him into the wall behind him. “Then
I’m going to give you a choice. You come with me. Now. Or I kill him.”
He gestured in the direction of Sam, who responded angrily. “You get out of
here. You are not hurting him again!”
His words ended with a cry as the gun that had been pressed against his face
was used suddenly to strike against his temple. The pain caused him to fall to
his knees, only to find himself jerked to a halt as the muscular hand caught a
handful of his long hair and forced him to remain kneeling with the gun once
more against his forehead.
“Your choice, Dean. And he’s going to accept it this time. When you leave this
room, is your ‘brother’ going to be alive? Or dead?” He raised his hand in a
signal to his man to pull the trigger.
“Alive!” Dean managed to choke his words out amidst a rush of panic. “He’s
going to be alive. I’ll come. I’ll come with you, Drayton.”
He was knocked off his feet by the force of the blow to the side of his head.
“It’s Master! Or Sir. You need to be taught manners, Dean! And you had better
learn fast!” His hand was in Dean’s short hair, pulling him up to his feet only
to knock him down again.
Dean fumbled the wallet he had still in his hand and dropped it, automatically
reaching to pick it up again. He cried out in pain as his hand was deliberately
stamped on.
“Leave that! You don’tneed anything! You have nothing. Youare nothing. You will
do as you’re told. Or I will send my men back for him, do you understand?” He
had dragged Dean back to his feet yet again and was banging his head sharply
back against the wall to emphasis every sentence he had just spoken.
Dean tried to get his tongue to work through all the blood in his mouth. “Yes
s...Yes Sir.”
“That’s better. Get the collar and cuffs!”
This was an order to one of the other men who was carrying a case: Sam
recognised what it was for this time. But these bands weren’t decorated or made
from expensive metals: these were formed from cold hard steel with no padding
to protect the wearer at all.
And they were tight. Dean’s feet were kicked out from under him and he was also
made to kneel as the bands were forced upon him. Sam felt tears form in his
eyes as he saw his brother wince, his skin catching in the tight join as the
collar was fastened around his neck and locked securely into place. The wrist
bands soon followed.
Then the chains were being produced. “Short or long, sir?” Sam recognised the
tone for what it was: all these men were slaves. All were terrified of their
master.
“Short. Get his hands up behind his back and chain them to his neck. Let him
choke himself for a while, it will keep him quiet on the journey. And I want a
secure lead put on him.”
Even as the strong chains were being slipped through the purposely included
spurs of metal on the slave bands, Drayton was leering into Dean’s face. “Get
used to these. You won’t be out of them again for a long time.”
His man handed him the thick rope lead once it also had been fastened to the
neck collar and he used it to force Dean to his feet, whipping him with the end
of it when he wobbled slightly against the wall, the back of his head already
dripping with blood. “Don’t try anything as we leave, Dean. Any shout. Any
notice taken of you at all. By anyone. And your ‘brother’ dies. Here, Sam.”
And Sam was flinching as something small and hard was thrown at his face. He
looked down and saw a dollar lying against his knees.
“Payment.” The man sneered. “That’s my offer this time. I’m taking it you
accept. I don’t care if you don’t: you should have been more sensible and taken
the last one. I’ll be arranging to have the new ownership forms drawn up in my
name.”
He nodded to the man still holding Sam down on his knees. Before Sam could
tense, the gun was again used as a cosh and Sam was out cold.
“Say goodbye to him Dean.” Drayton mockingly whispered in his new possession’s
ear. “You won’t ever be seeing him again. But whether he has a long and happy
life, or meet a very abrupt ending, is up to you now.”
***** HELP FROM AN UNEXPECTED SOURCE *****
The pounding in Sam’s head was worse than anything he’d ever known. He felt
nauseous, worse than nauseous, and didn’t want to open his eyes. Something had
happened. Something terrible. But he couldn’t think because of the pounding in
his head.
Then it hit him. Or rather: he knew what had hit him. And he knew why.
They had taken Dean.
That bastard had taken Dean.
And Sam was going to find him and kill him at the very least, because if that
bastard hadhurt Dean, then he was going to be made to wish that Sam had just
killed him.
Just as soon as Sam could force himself to open his eyes and sit up without
throwing up.
He tried to move and heard himself groan from the pain hammering through his
temple. Carefully, gingerly, he put his hand up to touch the weeping, bruised
lump, wincing despite himself. He moved his arm back to his side and grasped
the sheets beneath him in his large fist, desperate to fight down the pain. He
needed to get through it. He needed to get after Dean. To get after that
bastard.
And kill him.
Why were there sheets beneath him?
Sam gripped harder. That was definitely the material of motel-thin sheets in
his fist, and he could now feel the lumpy softness of the mattress beneath him.
Yet he had been on the floor when he had been struck, hadn’t he? He had been on
his knees on the floor. He was sure he had been.
So how was he on the bed?
With an effort, and a groan he couldn’t contain despite himself, and a fresh
wave of nausea at any slight movement, and an overwhelming smash of agony at
the brightness of the light as it hit his tortured eyeballs, he opened his eyes
and tried to sit up.
“Ah, you’re awake. Take your time, Samuel. Everything is being taken of.”
That voice…? That was….? Desperately he tried to get his vision to focus from
double to single images. And stared.
There, sitting calmly in the chair beside the small bed he was now lying on and
sipping from a small cup on a saucer, was the second AE bastard that had
brought the jewelled slave bands to collar his brother with. Dean had referred
to him as the prince, and from what Sam had seen of his money and power, and
the amount of muscled bodies that he was realising were also in the room, he
found himself believing his brother. “What..? How…? They took Dean! He….took
Dean!”
“I know Drayton did, Sam. I apologise: I thought he’d probably try something
after the Dinner, but he took my men by surprise.”
“Your….men?”
“Oh yes, I’ve had Dean under constant surveillance ever since I returned him to
you. They were supposed to report to me every morning and evening. When they
didn’t last night, I sent Nine-twenty there,” he indicated one of the numerous
men at attention in the small room: Sam didn’t like the look of him, he thought
that even Dean would have struggled to take him in a fair one-on-one fight, and
he got the impression that fighting fairly would be the last thing this tall,
strong man would do. “I sent him to find them. Their throats had been slit. He
immediately came here and found you, but not my Dean. But don’t you worry, my
pet poodle is on it.”
“Your…..pet.…poodle?”
Sam felt that he was in a dream. It had to be: he must be dreaming that his
room was full of large, muscled men and a prince of wherever sitting drinking
tea from a cup and talking about poodles? Had he himself been got by the djinn?
But why would he dream this?
And where was Dean?
“Can I have a drink of water?” He had to shake off the dizziness and nausea so
he could start to think clearly.
“Serve him!”
All the men immediately stood straight as the order was snapped, and one
hurried to the small sink to fetch a glass and fill it. As the crowd of dark
suits parted, Sam gaped in amazement.
On the small table was his open laptop. And leaning over it, hard at work at
something was the FBVS agent Hamill.
“You’re working with him?” But as the man glanced up from his work and bit his
lip with obvious embarrassment, Sam realised the truth. “No. You’re working for
him! That’s how he knew Dean was in the hospital! Because you told him!”
“You needed the bills paying, Samuel. What would have happened if I hadn’t?”
The prince was unperturbed, even amused.
“I’d have figured something out,” Sam snapped at him. He couldn’t believe this!
“Of course you would have.” The sarcasm in the bastard’s voice made Sam want to
beat him like he had that Hunter when he had been possessed. But he wanted to
remember every blow he struck this time.
“Yes, I fucking would! Dean’s the most important thing in my life and I would
have got him the best attention somehow! And I will find him and get him back,
so you and all the other bastards from your elite little club can stay the hell
away from us! I’m telling you: no more deals! It’s over! They’re done! And so
are you!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me, Samuel. I don’t appreciate it.” The deep brown
eyes glittered with more evil than any black-eyed demon’s could. “Dean will
tell you what I ordered to be done to the last person who was stupid enough to
talk to me like that! But you’re upset. And hurt. So I’ll let it go this once.
And as for you finding Dean…. You have no idea where he is. And you wouldn’t
stand a chance against Drayton’s men: he will have his own army there by now.
And I must say, I don’t think you’re looking after my Dean very well. It took
you long enough to find him when that creature took him: I was very nearly
having to give the order for my men to go and get him out anyway, it was
getting that close. And letting my gorgeous man go to prison? No, I’ve tried
not to interfere: tried to let you learn how to look after the beautiful pure
soul that Dean is. But you’ve been failing at it. Miserably. We will be
discussing what is best for him when this is over.
But don’t worry, we’ll get him back soon. My little pet there is finding Dean
as we speak, and my men will go and fetch him back. And Drayton will no longer
be a concern that you need worry about. You can take my word on that.”
Sam fought himself to remain calm. How dare this arrogant slimy little bastard
talk to him like this? And how dare he refer to Dean as his? Over Sam’s dead
body would that ever happen. He wanted to tell this bastard that. But…
He had to admit that he had no idea where to even start looking for his
brother. And Sam had no doubt that Dean was being hurt wherever he was,
possibly seriously as the man had been so angry at him, which meant the quicker
he could find and rescue him the better. So if this piece of shit, with his
fucking stupid little cup and his fucking stupid pet names, could help, then
Sam would be sensible to let him.
He bit his tongue almost in two as he fought his anger down to controllable
levels. That could wait: Dean, rightly, was the only priority here. For both of
them, himself and this little ‘royal’ AE bastard. Focus on that, Sam.
“How will we find him?”
“We?”
Sam felt even more blood fill his mouth. “Sorry. How will you find him?”
The prince smirked. “The advantages of having money, Samuel, is that it can buy
tremendous assets. Ones that few others can have: ‘pets that can access the
FBVS network and request for trackers to be turned on’ assets.”
Sam choked on his glass of water: “Trackers?”
The amused patronising glance that the other gave him nearly caused his temper
to spike again, but he fought it back down. “Why do you think the FBVS have
such an incredible reputation? Especially their feared ‘Bounty Hunters’ that no
slave dare run from?” He laughed outright now. “There’s no such thing, Samuel.
The Bureau doesn’t need them. Not when every single slave has a tracker
included in their chip.”
“Wait! What?”
“Every single slave in this country has a tracking device implanted in their
spinal cord.”
Sam resisted the temptation to smash the stupid little cup in the other man’s
stupid bearded face. “So, you can turn it on and we can find Dean?”
“Correction, Samuel. He can turn it on.” He nodded in the direction of Hamill.
“Although I am starting to wonder what’s taking him so long!”
This last was said in a raised voice: not quite a shout, but in a sharp tone
and with enough forceful anger in it that Sam started from sudden surprise
almost as much as the FBVS agent did. As did all the other men in the room:
obviously the temper of the prince was something to be avoided. At all costs.
“Nearly there, your Highness.” Hamill hurried to reassure him. “I’ve needed to
bypass a lot of red tape and regulations to get the signal sent to this laptop
and only this one. It’s taken time to falsify the necessary authorisation.”
“Why only my laptop?” Sam finally felt the nausea to have gone down enough to
be able to slide his body to the edge of the bed and put his feet down to the
floor.
“I don’t want it coming back to me, Samuel.” Sam blinked at the implication
behind the prince’s scornfully spoken words. “And it’s only to one laptop
because we don’t want any other agents of the Bureau picking up the signal and
joining us while we’re getting Dean out of wherever he is. That would make
things very complicated.”
“So if they realise their system’s been hacked, then I’ll get the blame?”
The other met his concerned expression straight on with something close to a
smirk: “It’s your laptop, Sam. Who do you think they’ll be coming after?”
“There, your Highness. The request has been authorised: the tracker’s been
turned on. The signal’s coming through now.”
The agent looked very small in his chair as suddenly all the other suited men
in the room were crowding around him, watching the screen as a steady bleeping
noise began to be heard, and an image that looked like the USA as if viewed
from a satellite flashed on the laptop and quickly zoomed in and down to a
group of buildings that Sam didn’t recognise at all as he hurried to join them.
“It’s the ranch.” The other men had: they were already on the move, gathering
their bags and cases which Sam now realised were filled with assault rifles,
revolvers and other weaponry that the men had been occupied in checking while
they were waiting. “His ranch in Texas: he’s taken the slave there. Get that
thing to pinpoint where the guards are.”
Hamill reddened in the face at the order from the prince’s large slave
bodyguard but obeyed, working the image and filtering it to highlight any
infrared image around and show the heat of any humans, guards or otherwise,
around the set of buildings.There seemed to be a lot of red dots concentrated
around where the signal was: Sam felt his heart sink.
“Take it out.” Again Hamill obeyed and drew the image back enough to show the
perimeter of what was a large fenced area. With what would probably be guards
all the way round.
The tall slave with a number for a name was already on his cell to someone:
“Yes, we’ve got the trace. It’s the ranch in Texas. We’ll need some info on the
lay-out, can you get us what we need? Meet us there: stay out of view, we’ll
group up first. We’ll have to remove some of the exterior guards before
launching a full offensive. Yes, we’re on our way now. Highness?” This was
addressed to his master, waiting for permission to get the rescue under way.
The prince nodded. “Go. My Dean is not to be harmed in any way, or you will all
pay, do you understand?”
“Highness.” And they were going. All of them. The prince as well.
Sam was stunned. “Wait!” There was a pause as they all turned to stare at him.
“I’m coming! You’re not getting Dean without me!”
The prince came towards him, almost with a humouring expression of
condescension on his face. “Dean would want you safe, Samuel. Always: you are
his priority, his pride. He will do anything if there is the slightest hint of
a threat made towards you. Stay here safe. I’ll bring him back to you as soon
as I’m satisfied he’s well enough.”
His words were cut short as Sam drew himself up to his full height of six foot
four and angrily stared him down. “You are not listening to me.I am getting my
brother back. It is you and your organisation, and your bloody ridiculous feud
with this Drayton that have put him into danger. So I am not asking, I am
telling you.I am getting Dean. And God help any of you who are so stupid as to
get in my way!”
He could feel the tension increase in the room, knew that there was a good
chance that he would be killed before the men had got back into their cars. He
didn’t care. His brother was in danger and Sam was going to rescue him, and
Death itself wasn’t going to stop him. He was going to get Dean away from these
men for good.
The prince regarded Sam for a long moment. Then he nodded: “You’re correct,
Sam: this is my fault. I should have kept watch on Drayton as well and made
sure he didn’t get near Dean. So my men are going to get him out of there as
soon as possible, and I will be making sure he’s kept safe from now on.”
And with that he was departing, along with his entourage of muscled bodyguards.
Sam swore in consternation and grabbed up his boots and the keys to the impala,
desperate to try and follow the two huge four by fours as they left. But the
powerful vehicles sped off at well over the speed limit even as he was still
getting the car door open.
Sam slammed his hand down on the top of the hood in frustration and threw one
of his boots across the car park.
“He really means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”
Sam started and turned: he had forgotten the presence of the FBVS agent. Hamill
was standing in the open doorway of the motel room, holding Sam’s laptop in his
hand.
Which was still bleeping.
“He means everything. Can we follow that?”
“Of course. But his highness is right. These are two extremely dangerous men
going up against each other, Sam. Getting in the middle isn’t a sensible place
to be.”
“Don’t you get it? My brother’s in the middle of it! They put him there!
Somehow he’s become the trophy of a twisted winner takes all!”
“He’s just a slave, Sam.”
The agent never saw the blow coming but he felt it break his nose. Even as he
collapsed with a squeal and tried to contain the immediate gush of blood, Sam
was snatching the laptop and trying to work out how to extend the signal onto a
virtual roadmap so he could follow it.
“Son of a bitch!” Hamill was struggling to his feet, still with his hands
covering his face. “You’ve got a kick like a mule!”
He shut up quickly as he realised there was a revolver aimed directly at him,
held by a very steady hand. “It’ll mean a world of trouble if you kill me, Sam.
You’ll be the rest of your life in prison.”
“If I lose Dean, then I might as well be dead. He’s my whole life: he always
has been. So I’m going to find him, I’m going to get him out of there, and
you’re going to help me. Isn’t that what your Bureau is meant to do?”
The agent snorted and wished he hadn’t, given the flow of blood from his nose:
“Save that speech for my partner! His dad was a slave: owned by the same family
for thirty years, treated as one of them, allowed to take a lover and have Ford
and his sister. Until some jewellery went missing, then his old man was strung
up from a tree faster than he could blink. Turned out the woman’s seven year
old granddaughter had borrowed the stuff to play ‘dress-up’. Ford saw his dad
die: he would free every slave if he could and imprison any slave abuser. Me?
I’m getting closer to when I can retire and looking for a nice top up in my
pension!”
“Well, if you want to live to see that pension, then you’ll help me.”
Hamill stared at Sam. The threat in the snarl had been serious. Deadly serious.
The gun was cocked, ready to be fired. And Hamill was suddenly in no doubt that
it would be.
“What is it about this slave? I know he’s good-looking, even I’ve noticed that,
but what is it that they will kill for him and you’ll die for him? ‘Cos you
will die if you get in the way.” But even as he was muttering the questions in
annoyance, he had wiped the worst off his face and was crossing to the laptop
and adjusting it so the signal could be followed.
Sam didn’t want to risk not keeping the gun on Hamill, but he was also trying
to quickly gather together his and Dean’s few possessions as the agent worked.
Luckily they had been brought up to always be ready to move on at a moment’s
notice: it had only taken once or twice of losing childishly cherished items to
have learnt to pack everything away in their bags immediately they had finished
using it, so he soon had everything together.
Risking a final look around the room, Sam realised Dean’s jacket was slung on
the back of the door. As he hurriedly crossed to unhook it, he kicked something
that was on the floor. It was his brother’s old and very battered wallet: the
one Sam had jokingly promised to throw out and replace many times because for
some reason Dean couldn’t bear to be without it. He had even known Dean to put
himself back into dangerous situations to look for it. It was almost his second
greatest love after his Baby.
Well, perhaps that honour went to pie. But the wallet was a close third.
Sam picked the scruffy and faded leather object up with reverence. He was going
to find Dean and return this to him: nothing was going to stop him. “That thing
ready?”
The agent nodded: “We can follow the trace. It will lead us right to Dean. As
well as a whole lot of trouble.”
“We?”
Hamill looked down at his still bloodied hands and went to the basin to wash
them. “I don’t like the way they’ve been treating Dean either. I can see your
point: they’ve got him caught him between them in some sort of weird one-
upmanship contest. But he doesn’t belong to either of them! He’s yours! And I
think you’re crazy. But I’ll come, if only to try and talk you out of whatever
you’re going to do.”
“That will be difficult.” Sam commented as he made his revolver safe and stowed
it away in the back of his pants.
“Why? Because you’re determined to die for your slave?” Hamill was picking up
the laptop and following him as he led the way back to the Impala.
“No.” Sam told him as he stowed all the gear in the trunk. “You won’t be able
to talk me out of it, because I really have noidea of what I’m going to do.”
***** AT THE RANCH *****
Chapter Summary
     Warning for violent and unpleasant scene. Although I’m guessing that
     if you’ve already read this far, you’re kind of expecting it!
It was a long, tiring, non-stop journey to Texas.
The only breaks they got was when the Impala needed gas, and either or both of
them would grab whatever sustenance the station had to offer or run to the
restroom. Sam was driving as fast as he dared over the speed limit, hoping that
having a FBVS agent with him would be useful if he got stopped for speeding.
For the first few hours they sat in complete silence aside for the constant
bleeping of the screen on Hamill’s lap.
“Will it make that noise anyway? Or is it connected to Dean somehow?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he okay? Is it telling me he’s okay? That he’s still alive? Or will it just
keep making that noise even if he’s….?”
“He’ll be okay, Sam.”
“How can you know?”
The agent sighed. “I may not understand their fascination with your brother,
but the fact remains that they both are. They’re infatuated with him. And it’s
not just to spite the other: they each really want him as theirs. Drayton might
be angry at Dean: he might even be abusing and hurting him as we speak. But he
wouldn’t do anything to risk permanently damaging him or mutilating him in any
way, because he wants him to…. Well, you know what he wants him for.”
“And that’s meant to make me feel better, how?”
Hamill was silent again for a long moment. Sam got the impression that he
wanted to say something else but was hesitating.
“What?”
“The prince may be desperate to get Dean out of there because of his own desire
for him, Sam, but at your motel I was getting the impression that this is far
bigger even than that. The others from the organisation are watching and he
needs to save face if he wants to be their leader. Snatching Dean may prove to
be Drayton’s undoing, because…well, if hedoesgo too far and kills him, then I
think he’ll have the entire AE down on his head.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sam, I don’t think you realise just how long Dean has been around these
people. He’s grown from a boy into a man in front of their eyes. We know your
father did his deals with old man Emerson, but he never saw the other
individuals, or very rarely. But Dean… he knows them. All of them. He’s been at
their most secret meetings. He may have been there as the entertainment for the
night, courtesy of your dad, but he’s been there.
And people like these don’t leave witnesses walking around, trust me on that.
There’s only two possible reasons I can think why your brother is still alive:
one, that they all trust him. They trust him not to breathe a word about them
no matter what. And for what I saw of Dean when I met him…. He’s far too
intelligent to open his mouth about them: I doubt he ever will, even to you.
And if you were ever threatened to try and force him to…. well, there’s enough
people like me on their payroll to counteract that.”
“And the other?”
The agent sighed. “You probably won’t like this, Sam, but... it… well, it’s
almost as if…. It sounds strange but despite what they do to your brother, it’s
like he’s the group’s pet.
Seriously. If Drayton’s stupid enough to kill Dean, then I get the feeling
he’ll have far more to worry about than just the prince. And if the prince
can’t get your brother out alive, thenhis position in the AE will seriously be
in question. Especially when it was him who caused this situation in the first
place….”
There was another long silence in the car.
“So….” Sam was trying to think this through. “So what are the ‘rules’ in the AE
about two members going up against each other like this? Isn’t that the whole
point of organisations like this: that they’re supposed to have each other’s
back no matter what?”
“I would guess this is unprecedented in their history. As I said, it’s not a
good situation to get in the middle of, even as much as you obviously love
Dean. He wouldn’t want you to put yourself there, Sam.”
“He might not want it, but I’m doing it. And actually, right in the middle
might be the very best place to be…”
Hamill stared at him but Sam was done talking. He had a lot of thinking to do
and a good few hours still to drive….
Sam decided thathis idea of a ranch and an extremely wealthy person’s idea of a
ranch were two entirely different things. He was expecting fairly basic rustic
buildings set in a large expanse of land, possibly quite dry and dusty land;
with corrals for horses opposite; perhaps an old stable block; and to be
honest, not much else.
This certainly wasn’t that.
They had followed the signal until the image had gradually magnified in view
until it only could hold something nearly the mirror of the close-up one that
Hamill had originally brought up back in the motel. The only exception to the
image being that there was now a large group of red dots gathered near on the
outskirts of the perimeter, out of view of the nearest guards on the other side
of a small copse.
“Do you think that’s the prince’s men meeting up with whoever they were
communicating with?”
“I’m guessing so.” The agent responded.
Sam nodded and turned the Impala in the direction of the trees, away from the
expensive-looking ultramodern white buildings complete with fountains and
manicured green lawns that nestled behind high electric fences and manned solid
gates. “And not a horse in sight,” he thought as he headed towards the group of
slave soldiers, still hoping to catch them before they could execute the
mission they had been planning to storm their way into the exquisite fortress.
To his relief, they did, but only just. Although the scale of what was about to
happen shook Sam. The prince hadn’t exaggerated when he had mentioned armies.
This was seriously going to be a small war because, from the number of red dots
still showing inside the complex, Drayton was probably just as well prepared to
defend himself.
There was no friendliness this time as Sam and Hamill were dragged out of the
Impala as soon as they pulled up and taken to the prince at gunpoint. He looked
exasperated to see them, but endeavoured to maintain the appearance of being
calm and in control.
Although as Sam studied him now with the knowledge of Hamill’s information, he
could see that the shorter man wasn’t looking as immaculate as previously. In
fact, he looked harassed and anxious, and was glancing around occasionally as
if….as if he himself knew he was under scrutiny. Sam found himself wondering
that if they could draw the satellite image back a little further, just how
many more pairs of watching eyes would be around them, ready to report on the
events imminently about to unfold?
But the prince was talking at him. “Mr Winchester. I had hoped you would be
sensible and let me handle this. I did try to ask nicely, for the sake of your
brother. And you?” This was addressed to the FBVS agent who had lowered his
head. “Why did you allow him to come here…?”
“I brought him at gunpoint.” This was Sam’s cue. “He had no choice because I
would have killed him, don’t doubt me on that. But I need to talk to you,before
all this starts.”
“And what would we need to talk about, Samuel. The only thing that matters is
getting your brother out, I thought that was your priority.”
“That’s my priority. But I’m thinking it’s not as much yours, not anymore.”
The prince blinked. “And what is my priority, Samuel? Because I can assure you,
at least one person in those buildings will be killed in retribution for every
single new mark put on your brother’s body today.”
“Your priority is keeping your position in the AE. And I’m guessing the other
members are wondering what you’re going to do, and watching to see if you’re
really going to storm a fellow AE member’s property. If you’re really going to
kill him. That will surely go against all your rules. Bastards like you are
meant to stick together: that’s the power basis behind the Alpha Exousia. You
all work together. And they will know that andyou know that. If you strike
against Drayton, they will be wondering who else you will strike next.”
“He has my Dean!”
“He has my brother. Let me go and get him back without you having to break your
rules: you’ll lose everything at your precious AE if you do.”
“I would risk it!” The shorter man was spitting up at him out of sheer temper,
but Sam had caught the nervous glance around that he had given when Sam had
mentioned other eyes watching them right now.
“You would go in full force: all that will do is result in a massive standoff
with a lot of shooting and a lot of death.I am good at sneaking into places:
that’s what us Winchesters do! That’s what our dad taught us: creep in quietly,
get set up, kill the monster, get out before any unwanted attention is
attracted. If I go in and get Dean out, then you can take the credit for it
without losing the respect of your peers, and without having them worry that
they will be next on your list.”
“Drayton will be ready, Samuel. He is no fool. He will already know we are
here.”
“No. He will know that you are here. You and your army. He won’t be expecting
me to go in on my own, he will be bracing against a full-on attack.”
The prince glared but to Sam’s relief he was listening, And thinking. “I will
not forgive myself if Dean is badly hurt, Sam. And neither will they.”
“Then let me go and get him.”
The smaller man stroked his beard while he contemplated and caught the eye of
his lead slave. They shared a glance. Then the prince was turning back to Sam.
“You have one hour. Then we come in to get Dean. If we hear shots before that,
then we come in to get Dean anyway. He is my only priority, Samuel. He
alwayswill be.”
“One hour, okay.” Sam was relieved and anxious all at the same time. One hour.
“Can you show me exactly where he is? Are there any plans of the layout?”
The slave nodded and showed him what they had. And Hamill clarified it further
by matching the buildings with the still bleeping image on the laptop. “Are you
going to be okay alone?” He muttered in Sam’s ear. “I can come as backup…”
“I’ll be better on my own.” Sam replied, but he was grateful to the older man
for the offer. In a way the agent was beginning to remind him of Bobby. ”Just
try and stall them as long as you can to let me get Dean to safety before they
start a war.”
“Good luck, son.”
‘No time like the present’, Sam thought. And he was off through the trees and
heading for the fortified area where his brother was being held. ‘Just please
let him be alright’.
Hamill folded the laptop lid down as he stood behind the prince and his lead
slave, and watched as Sam disappeared from their view. ‘Brave lad’, he thought.
Could he do it in only one hour? But he knew that Sam would either succeed or
die trying.
“Nine-twenty.” He heard the prince murmur to his slave. “Start taking out the
external guards. Quietly, just as we planned. Full assault on the buildings as
soon as that’s done: tell the boys to be ready. And I am not interested in
anyone coming out alive except my Dean. He had better be alive or don’t bother
returning yourself. Do you understand? No Other Survivors. And if the AE don’t
like my methods, then I’ll beat them all into submission as well.
And make sure my private jet is ready to go as soon we get to the airfield, and
get my personal medic on there in case: the sooner I get Dean home the better.
And have some strong sedatives ready: you know how my gorgeous man hates
flying… Get on with it!”
He was turning away as he was giving the last order and his gaze fell on the
agent standing there. Hamill felt himself give a shiver at the other man’s
expression: not for the first time he wondered if he was fully human. Then the
prince was stepping so close as to be in his face.
“I should be angry at you for bringing the younger Mr Winchester here, but he
has proved to be quite relentless when it comes to his brother. This will
actually work out better, so you are forgiven. This once. Don’t ever cross me
again: I would advise you to remember that lovely wife that you want to spend
your retirement with… “
And with that he was walking away without turning. Hamill stared down at the
laptop in his hand and lifted the lid a fraction until he could hear the
muffled and still regular bleeping noise being emitted. With a sigh he retraced
his steps to return the device to the interior of the Impala….
Sam was nearly at the edge of the compound. Nine-twenty had quickly shown him
what information they had and he had been relieved to see that although the
fence was high, it wasn’t as ‘electrified’ as the warning signs proclaimed. As
long as Sam could slip between two of the areas where the guards were posted
without being seen, he would be able to cut through it with wire-cutters. He
and the slave had agreed on the best place to try, especially as it would mean
he could hopefully run to the cover of the nearest building.
Just as long as he wasn’t seen getting to the wire, snipping through it, and
running inside the plush compound, everything would be fine!
But in his favour was the fact that all the guards both inside the area and on
the fence were intently occupied on looking outwards, waiting for the large
group of men beyond to attack: Sam was in no doubt that Drayton knew that the
prince and his men were there. And as long as all eyes were on them, he might
just get away with this.
Whether through careful planning or just plain dumb luck, he made it safely to
the side of the first building, via a series of short dashes to any cover he
thought he could get along the way. He wasn’t interested in this one though,
nor the main ranch-house. It was the one set slightly back and apart from the
others further down the drive, the one that looked like a cross between a large
garage and a storehouse: that was the one that the signal was coming from.
Carefully he slipped across: unnerved by having not seen a single living soul
on route to it. This was going too well: he was walking into a trap. But he’d
walk into Hell itself if it meant getting his brother back.
Sam indeed found himself in a garage: the black limousine was parked there
along with a few other extremely expensive cars. But no people, although he
could now make out raucous laughter and jeers from somewhere. So where was that
coming from?
Sam moved further in, using the cars for cover. Until right at the rear of the
building he found two doors. One that opened out onto the fertile grounds of
the estate beyond. And one that led down some steps to an underground bunker-
like area. It was down there that the sounds were coming from.
Carefully, with his gun in his hand, he crept down the steps until he was faced
with a solid steel fire-proof door that had been left slightly open.
Sam carefully peered around the metal, trying to see what lay beyond. He was
correct in his impression that it was a bunker: a purpose-built one with thick
concrete walls set beneath the ground. Sam was impressed at the strength of the
trackers to have managed to send the signal so clearly out from this area. And
grateful that it had, because he wouldnever had found Dean without it. Despite
his hatred of the short, bearded royal bastard, without him Sam would not have
a clue where to start looking for his brother. Dean would just have vanished
without a trace.
The bunker seemed to be used partly as a control centre: set all along one wall
were a multitude of screens that had obviously been linked to numerous CCTV
cameras. All, Sam was relieved to see, were trained on the outside of the
perimeter, and at least four of them showed the large group of the prince’s men
from various angles. He seemed to have been correct in his hope that no one had
noticed one lone individual sneeking on to the estate.
Two young male guards, probably yet more slaves, were lolling in their chairs
in front of the screens, mainly watching the images there, but both kept
risking glances behind them to watch what was happening at the other part of
the large room. Sam shifted his position so he could also see.
And then his stomach lurched and he wished he hadn’t.
There were benches set around the edges of the concrete area. And racks with
items set out on them: whips of different sizes and lengths, some with one
thong, others with multiple thongs, some weighted at the ends in echoes of the
notorious cat’o’nines. There were riding crops of different flexibilities and
both paddles and batons of different weights; chains of every conceivable
length and numerous assorted collars, some studded with spikes. And manacles of
differing sizes. And other assorted things that Sam didn’t immediately
recognise and wanted to think about even less.
There were solid circles of steel purposely embedded into the concrete walls,
floor and ceiling, obviously with the intention of use as the means of chaining
a victim and holding them in any position desired. And beneath one of the ones
on the ceiling, one that still had chains hanging from it that had yet to be
tidied away from their recent use, was a large puddle of still shining fresh
blood.
A few men were resting on the benches, obviously tired from their ‘turn’. And
more than a few men were crowded around a bench with a rough blanket thrown
over it that was in the middle of the floor on a large soft rug. And thrown
over the bench and the blanket was Dean.
He was naked and down on his knees, forced to bend over the low obstacle by the
heavy chain attached to the collar around his neck and pulled tight through an
eye of metal set in the floor offset to where he was facing. It meant he
couldn’t raise his head more than about two foot off the ground, which was the
perfect height for the man knelt in front of him who was forcing himself
repeatedly into Dean’s mouth. His ankles were also chained behind him to two
more loops set in the ground forcing his knees wide apart, rendering him ready
for the man who was behind him and almost crushing Dean into the bench as he
enjoyed himself: taking sick, perverted pleasure in raping the helpless and
chained man.
Sam swallowed down the vomit that threatened to rise into his own mouth and
tried to make himself breathe calmly. He was going to be no use to his brother
if he allowed any emotions to control what he was going to do next. Whatever it
was.
He risked another glance.
He could see blood still dripping down from Dean’s back where the lashings must
had ripped the skin off in long strips and darkening fist and boot sized
bruises all over the rest of him with the exception of his face: Drayton had
obviously remained in control enough not to risk disfiguring the beauty of his
trophy.
Sam wondered about how his brother was holding his hands up behind him until he
realised that a metal spreader bar had been locked to each of the manacles on
Dean’s wrists, efficiently holding them rigidly in position about one foot
apart. He wondered why the men hadn’t just chained them together, but as the
bastard raping Dean suddenly caught at the bar and pulled on it, forcing a
choking gasp of pain from his immobilised victim as both of his arms were
forced backwards painfully against the joints of his shoulders at exactly the
same instant, Sam understood. And felt even more sick.
There were nine men around his brother: all with satisfied, lustful, gloating
expressions on their faces that Sam wanted to shoot off individually. Plus
there were a few guards, all watching the on-going scene of repeated rapes with
a lot of interest. The bastards were all getting off on it. Sam determined to
kill every one of them.
But how?
The man at Dean’s face came with a moan and slowly pulled away with a groan of
pleasure, causing Dean to choke and splutter for much-needed air. “Oh God,
Dray! He’s so incredible! I’m so sore, but I just can’t resist another go at
him!”
“I’ll lend him to you for your birthday, Elliott.”
Sam realised with a shock that there was Drayton. He hadn’t realised the man
was among his brother’s rapists as he had had his back to where Sam was hidden,
and he was dressed in casual clothes, not the suits that Sam had only ever seen
him in.
“I’m sure that after this, Dean will decide that serving just one willingly
will be a lot more sensible than getting used by everyone in this way.” The
tall man knelt down to catch Dean’s face in his hand and force him to look up
at him as the man raping Dean hastily paused in his thrusting. It was obvious
to Sam that Drayton was the top dog here and was to be pandered to, even by his
cronies. “Won’t you, Dean? You’ll behave yourself and give yourself willingly
to me when I get you home, won’t you? You won’t even have to be chained like
this, will you? Just accept me as your new master and it will be so much
easier…”
“Sam’s my master.” His younger brother strained his ears to hear the whispered
words, Dean’s normally gravelly voice sounded totally wrecked due to the damage
in his throat. “Always. You stealing me ain’t gonna change that. Never will.”
Sam’s heart filled with pride and love. And worry. Dean sounded so exhausted
and in so much pain. He had to get him out of here.
“We’ll see about that, Dean. “ Drayton was getting up and crossing to look at
the screens. The guards sprang to immediate attention as he stood beside them,
trying to make it seem that they had never taken their eyes off them, not once.
“You do realise your brother’s here, don’t you? It seems he knows our royal
little friend better than you think: he’s accompanied him here. I must admit I
was surprised to see them together.”
Sam could hear Dean gasp and try to twist his body enough to see where Drayton
was standing, even as the man inside him finally climaxed with a loud obnoxious
grunt, pulling out almost immediately and collapsing with a happy sigh into a
contented heap on the floor. While the other men were laughing at him, Sam was
trying to ascertain the true state of Dean’s back. There seemed to be less skin
than there was blood, although the latter looked to have mostly dried already
as it was already turning brown. But there was still some fresh: vivid scarlet
glistening in the light as his brother tried to take the chance to stretch his
painful joints out before the next onslaught of bodies on his.
Sam’s anxiety rose even higher, although the rational side of him said that
even Drayton would never have allowed it to go that far in case Dean be scarred
for life, and it probably looked far worse than it actually was. Oh God, Sam
hoped it wasn’t as bad as it looked.
He felt sick as two other men stepped up to where Dean was chained, undoing
their pants ready for yet another go at him. But then Drayton was frowning and
snarling at the guards sitting there. “Where is he? Where is Sam? Why isn’t he
on one of the screens?” At his raised voice, the men both paused, glanced at
each other and moved hastily back. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t
have taken having to see Dean being raped again while he was still desperately
trying to think of a way to get him out of there.
“Where is he?”
“He’s there, sir. I’m sure he is. I’ll find him.” The young guard sounded
nervous. He fiddled frantically with the control deck, trying to find the young
tall figure amongst the clear images of the prince’s men.
“If you let him slip past you…”
“No, he’s there, sir. I swear. We’ve been watching!” The young slave was
frantic, hoping desperately to see his quarry amidst the numerous figures. The
gunshot that abruptly splattered his brains across the controls echoed loudly
through the bunker, startling them all into silence.
“Useless!” Drayton put his revolver away and turned to his brother and
acquaintances. “Get him unchained! If Sam’s already in here somewhere, then
that little bastard won’t be far behind.”
“We’re ready for him,” his brother sneered even as he bent to unlock the chains
from Dean’s ankles. He wasn’t quite as tall as his sibling, but he had the same
unmistakeable cold eyes. “It’s all ready to blow: he’ll never know what hit
him. Congratulations Dray, after today, you’ll be the unopposed president of
Pop’s little group.”
“Save it for when we’re out of here. And watch out for the brother: he’s a
Hunter when all’s said and done. Don’t let his age fool you.”
By this time, Elliott had Dean’s neck also released from the heavy chain
holding him to the ground and Drayton was crossing to pull him by his hair to a
standing position. Dean wobbled where he stood but somehow remained on his
feet. Drayton took a tight grip on the spreader bar that still secured his
wrists and hands, and started to force him to move towards the rear of the
bunker. “Time for you and I to take a ride! The rest of you know what to do.”
The others nodded. “You get going: we’ve got your backs. This is gonna be
fun….!”
For the first time Sam realised that they all now had weapons in their hands.
And he was unnerved over the comment about ‘something being ready to blow’. It
would seem the prince had been correct: Drayton had not only known he would be
coming to take back his prize, the bastard had beencounting on it….
But where was Drayton going? He, his brother Elliott and a still naked and
bleeding Dean were heading towards a blank wall, and the rest of the men that
had been in the room were going towards the other wall, not to the door where
he was hidden. Then as the larger group of men and guards slipped through the
seemingly invisible doorway and out of sight, he realised. This entire place
had been designed not only for protection, but also defence. And it might look
like there was only one obvious and tempting way in and out in the shape of a
large security door, but there were other, far less obvious ways in that meant
the ‘attackers’ would instead quickly become the trapped.
What was going to ‘blow’?
But even as he pondered this, he realised that Drayton was opening another
barely visible door at the rear of the bunker: one that was letting a draught
of cool air through and looked to be the start of a long tunnel. A tunnel that
would lead far from whatever was about to happen when the prince and his men
arrived. A tunnel that would take Dean far from his reach if he couldn’t get
across the room in time to stop the door from closing.
Drayton was through the doorway, Dean had been forced through it, Elliott was
about to follow when Sam’s bullet tore through his back and he fell on his face
with the force, his slumped body stopping the door from swinging shut. Then Sam
was sprinting forwards, desperate to get to Dean, shooting the last remaining
guard who had still been sitting at the monitors, on his way.
Drayton turned in rage and shock, and anguish as he realised his brother was
dead. Even as his left hand was snatching at Dean’s arm to pull him backwards
and down to the ground, he was taking aim at Sam with his own gun. He was a
good shot: the bullet caught Sam in his left arm and went through, knocking him
off his stride momentarily as the pain surged through him. He recovered and
came on, throwing himself aside even as the next shot flashed past where his
heart would have been.
For a moment he was openly vulnerable as Drayton stepped back through the
doorway and took deliberate aim at him while he was still getting up from when
he had landed. He could see the man’s finger start to pull the trigger and knew
that he was still too far a distance away to stop him even if he launched
himself physically at him. For an instant, Sam stared death straight in the
face.
Then he was gasping in relief as Dean had managed to get to his feet in the
tunnel and used his whole body to slam Drayton against the concrete wall of the
bunker. The bullet went wide. Both other men stumbled and fell even as Sam got
to his feet: Dean still hampered by the bar restraining his hands, but luckily
falling on his tormentor rather than the solid unforgiving concrete. He rolled
off and away from Drayton quickly, but couldn’t restrain the groan of pain as
both his back and abused shoulders connected with the cold hard surface.
Even as Drayton tried to raise his weapon again, Sam was kicking it away and
out of his reach. He stood over the other man with his own gun aimed directly
at his head. “Dean? You okay?” He didn’t turn away from his target but he had
to ask. He had to make sure.
“Been better.” It was barely more than a grunt.
Sam stared down at Drayton. “You fucking sick bastard.”
“You’ve killed my brother, Sam. You’re going to pay for that.” The grey eyes
glinted evilly. “You should have just accepted my offer and not got involved.”
“You’ve abused and raped my brother.” Sam retorted. “Now it’s time for you to
pay.”
He pulled the trigger.
Just as the sound of an explosion from outside followed by immediate machine
gun fire echoed through the interior of the bunker. Sam was startled enough for
the shot to nick Drayton’s ear. Before he could recover himself enough to aim
again, Drayton was on him.
It was rare that Sam had to fight someone the same size as him. He was used to
dirty fighters, like his brother who knew and would throw just about every
trick in the book, but still Sam was used to defending himself from upwardly-
aimed blows and to striking downwards. But Drayton was the same height as him,
and even though probably twenty years older, impressively fit and strong.
Worryingly fit and strong: he was more than a match for Sam. And he had just
seen Sam kill his brother.
If there was one thing Sam could understand it was the intense hatred and
strength born from the desire for revenge. He found himself getting knocked off
his feet, then knocked down again. And Drayton had managed to get to his gun….
It was eerily similar to just a few moments before. Sam trying to get up and
out of the way in time as Drayton took aim. This time he wouldn’t miss.
Sam took a breath and waited for the end.
But the gun was never fired as again Dean was getting up. Somehow, Sam couldn’t
even start to imagine how, he had managed to twist and bend enough to get his
legs and body through the space formed by his manacled, restrained wrists and
his arms, probably all but forcing his shoulders out of their sockets with the
effort. But he had now got his hands, still attached to the spreader bar, in
front of him.
Which was all he needed.
The solid bar was over Drayton’s head and pulling against his neck before the
older man could react. He fell backwards as Dean’s weight caught him off-
balance and they both crashed to the floor. But this time it wasn’t luck that
Drayton was on the bottom: Dean had turned the both of them as they fell until
he had landed intentionally with his knees on the back of Drayton’s neck with
all the force he could while tugging upwards as hard as he could manage with
his wrists, forcing the unyielding metal against his tormentor’s windpipe.
There was no way he was going to let the man escape from this. Not after the
last few hours.
Drayton gasped momentarily, tried to push him off or pull the bar away, but to
no avail.
In a couple of minutes it was all over.
Dean felt he was going to collapse himself even as Drayton’s body went limp
beneath his. He was just so tired, and every single part of him hurt. Too much
hurt. He felt his mind going blank and his vision beginning to darken.
Then there was a strong arm around his shoulders and he seriously felt that he
could cry as Sam was trying to get the body out from where it was now jammed
between his wrists and the bar. ”I’ve got you, Dean. It’s okay. We’re gonna get
out of here.”
Even as Sam managed to pull his brother back and away from the dead man, he
could see Dean’s body starting to shut down from shock, loss of blood and total
exhaustion. And cold. He could feel him shivering. Desperately Sam looked
around the bunker: surely there was something he could use… the blanket that
had been used as padding to stop Dean’s ribs from breaking and crushing him to
death beneath the bodyweight of his abusive torturers: that would do.
And there were some bottles of water there as well.
Quickly Sam ran across to grab some, and the blanket up from the bench,
returning to wrap it around his brother’s shoulders, holding it in place and
trying to rub some warmth into him even as he tried to make his brother move.
“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
He felt worry race through him as Dean could hardly find the strength to stand
now the adrenaline of the fight was wearing off. He held out his wrists meekly.
“He must have the key.” His voice was now so rough that Sam could hardly make
it out.
Quickly he opened one of the bottles and helped Dean drink before he hastily
searched Drayton’s pockets, remembering that Elliott had handed them to his
brother once he had finished unlocking Dean from the chains. He was relieved
when he found the bunch of keys that had been used to lock his brother into the
slave bands back at the motel. It had only been the previous day, but it seemed
like a lifetime ago. He knew they shouldn’t be wasting time, but he just wanted
to get the fucking things off Dean and to let him at least feel free from the
restricting and unforgiving metal rings.
And indeed his brother did sigh with relief when they were undone, although Sam
was wincing once more at the rubbed and bloody sores that clearly marked their
recent presence on his neck and all four limbs. “Come on. Lean on me.”
He was aware now of all the noise from outside the bunker. Gunfire. More
explosions, although nothing as big as that first one. Shouts and screams. And
it was coming closer. “Come on, Dean. We’ve got to get out of here!”
They were halfway back to the steel door when they heard the first footsteps
coming down the steps. Sam looked around hastily and hurried to try and take
cover beneath the desks in front of the screens just as two of the men who had
previously been raping his brother appeared in the doorway. They stopped in
horror at the sight of Drayton’s body at the rear of the room. “Shit!”
They already had their guns in their hands even as they were advancing further
into the room. Sam raised his own revolver ready, but was alarmed as he
suddenly felt Dean slump against him. His instinctive response to turn and
check if his brother was still conscious alerted the two men to their location.
Sam swore under his breath: he didn’t dare shoot at them, not without risking
Dean getting hit in what would be definite retaliation.
“Hands where we can see them, boy.”
The two men advanced on him with unpleasant smirks on their faces. “Well, look
what we have. Our favourite pleasure slave. And a little appetiser! Finders
keepers: let’s go, boy.”
Sam angrily began to get to his feet. Could he dare get to them before one of
them shot him? No way was he going to let anyone else take his brother. He
steeled himself ready to at least try and jump at them.
Two shots rang out and both the men fell dead with surprised looks on their
faces.
Almost as surprised as Sam felt as he turned hurriedly to face what or whoever
else was coming next through that door. It was with disbelief that he
recognised Hamill hurrying in.
“You’ve got to go! The moment you went, the prince gave orders for no one but
Dean to be brought out alive! No other survivors! He’s not going to let you
live, Sam. His men are already on their way in! Go on, get out of here!”
“Wha…Shammy?”
Sam hurried to try and help Dean back to his feet. His brother could hardly
stand now: he was so cold and so very tired. Sam tried to wrap the blanket
closer around him in desperation.
“What was that explosion?”
“Bastard was ready for us. As the prince’s men stormed the perimeter, he let
them get in so far, then he had hidden a load of remotely controlled mines
beneath the grass out there. Killed a lot of our side immediately: it’s carnage
out there! Both sides are set to annihilate the other completely! Is that a way
out? Where does it go?”
He had seen the door at the end of the room, still jammed open by Elliott’s
body.
“I don’t know, but he was taking Dean down the tunnel.”
“Go!” The agent was pushing them in that direction. “I turned the tracker off
again: you can’t be followed. And I called Ford: told him I was following a
hunch and for him to send reinforcements. This place is going to be crawling
with FBVS, FBI, you name it, any minute. They’ll get these bastards, Sam. You
and your brother will be safe after. But just get going!”
“Come with us! You’re not safe here, either!” Sam had Dean nearly to the
entrance to the tunnel: his brother was stumbling but determined to keep going.
“I’ll close the door and tell the prince you weren’t here.”
“You don’t get it!” Sam turned in desperation. “No other survivors! That
includes you! Come on!”
He could see Hamill’s face as the older man thought about it. He saw when the
agent suddenly registered what Sam was trying to warn him about.
It was exactly at the same moment as the first bullet screamed through his
thigh as one of the prince’s men began to enter the room. Sam locked eyes with
him as the agent fell: he daren’t go back and try to help. Dean was his
priority. But he so wished he could.
Hamill was twisting on his now useless leg and killing the man who had shot
him. “Go!” he yelled frantically at Sam as he heard others on their way down
the steps.Sam leant Dean against the wall in the tunnel and frantically hauled
Elliott’s body out of the way to allow the barely noticeable door to close
behind them.
Just as it finally did, they heard the flurry of shots ring out from the other
side….
Sam grabbed for his brother and hurried him down the tunnel. He could feel his
arm and the blanket getting sticky with blood, but it seemed to be thick and
cloggy rather than fresh and dripping. He hoped it was: he daren’t stop to
check but the thought that Dean might be bleeding to death even as they escaped
was too unbearable. “You okay?”
“Hurts, Sam.”
“Just hold on. Nearly there.”
“Nearly where?”
“I don’t know. Just keep going, Dean. Please. Just keep going for me.”
“Always for you.”
The tunnel seemed to stretch for miles, but they actually came out into an open
area only a few hundred yards behind the buildings. Sam knew he shouldn’t be
surprised to see a four-seater helicopter there, waiting ready to be used as a
quick getaway.
“Where’s the pilot?” Sam was going for his gun, ready to fight their way out
yet again.
“Drayton flies it himself.” Dean murmured at him. “Damn thing’s more scary than
a plane.”
“You been up in it?”
“Oh yeah, lots.”
Sam shook his head: this wasn’t the time for questions like that. Behind them,
by the buildings, he could still hear the crackle of a lot of gunfire and see
flames and smoke from newly created fires. And in the distance, he could also
hear sirens. There were going to be no winners here today.
He hauled his brother’s arm further over his shoulder and gripped his waist
tighter so he could try and take more of his weight. “Come on. If I’m right, as
long as we can get over there without being seen, we should be able to get
through the fence. Then we can work our way back to the Impala. You just hold
on, I’m going to take care of you. Not too much longer now.”
It took far longer than he’d hoped but at least they managed to avoid anyone
from either side. Sam was nearly tempted to try and carry Dean now, because his
poor brother had nothing at all on his feet and he was forcing him to try and
scramble through tree roots and harsh scrub. Although Dean was having cause to
swear and cuss beneath his breath with every step, it was better than to risk
following the more open track that Sam had parked down when they had arrived.
For once he was grateful for Dean’s stubbornness: his brother might have to
spend the next week laid up from sheer exhaustion and bloody feet, but he was
determined to get back to his Baby.
They were close enough to see the Impala and risked coming out for the final
fifty or so yards on the track. Sam fumbled for the keys in his pocket then
remembered that he had left them in there when he had been dragged out of it
earlier. It came as a nasty shock when there was a ‘click’ from behind them and
Sam turned in response. Only to find himself staring down the barrel of yet
another revolver.
This time held in the steady hands of the prince.
He knew what he was doing: he stood far enough away that Sam could do nothing
to stop him. The prince would have fired before he could have reached him. Dean
sighed and all but collapsed where he stood.
Sam moved to catch him before he fell, but to his surprise the prince got there
first: wrapping his arms around Dean, the gun still in his hand, and letting
him use his own body as support.
“What has that bastard done to you? He had better be dead.”
“He is” Dean responded wearily. “I killed him.”
It was a genuine smile that lit the dark brown eyes. “Good. I’m proud of you.”
“You’re not taking him.” But Sam knew inside himself how this was going down:
this was all just words now.
“You did well, Samuel. I am impressed. Really. And you’re correct: I’m not
taking him. Not just now.” And with that, he was putting the gun away and
holding his hand up openly as if to show somebody that he was doing so. But he
didn’t let go of Dean.
Sam stared, then realised. “They’re still watching, aren’t they? Others from
the AE? And if you grab Dean from me now then that would undermine your
position with them.”
“Precisely, Samuel. I admit I was hoping that you wouldn’t return, but you did.
And we’re standing out in the open where they could see me if I shoot you. But
well done for surviving: I’ll know not to underestimate you next time. And
there will be a next time. But today you get to keep Dean, and I’m looking
magnanimous in my defeat in front of my brethren. Besides, I need time to
organise the AE how I want: it’ll take time and I would hate my gorgeous man to
be lonely in the meantime….”
The prince turned and gestured to someone out of the brothers’ view. Then they
heard the roar of one of the four by fours and watched as it appeared from
around the corner with Nine-twenty behind the wheel. He pulled up beside the
prince and opened the door for him. “We should leave, Highness.”
He was right: they could all clearly hear the wail of numerous sirens
approaching. The prince kissed Dean on his cheek and reluctantly released him
back into his brother’s care. “You take good care of him for me, Sam: he looks
exhausted.”
Then he stepped into the truck and it immediately sped away, raising a cloud of
dust over the brothers as a farewell gesture.
“Time we went as well, Dean. Just got to get to the car: come on, last push
now. It’s nearly over. You’re nearly home.”
***** AFTERWARDS *****
Sam unwrapped himself from the blanket with a great deal of reluctance and
carefully tried to stretch his long body out without waking his brother. The
back of the Impala was hardly enough room for one grown man to sleep in, let
alone two. He felt as if he had been folded against normal human capability in
at least four different joints in his body.
They had tried to get out of the area the previous evening, but the explosions,
gunfire and resulting carnage had resulted in so many sirens from all
directions and so many alert eyes that in the end Sam had taken the decision to
drive the car off the main road and down yet another dirt track, looking for
anywhere to hide. Eventually the only thing he could find aside from sparse
scrub and rocks was a few more trees, so he gave up and drove right in beneath
their protective branches, all too aware of the rough ground against the wheels
of his brother’s most treasured possession, and parked it as deep into them as
he felt he could safely get. Then he had grabbed the knife and slid out of the
driver’s door to quickly hack down a couple of branches to try and cover their
tracks and the rear of the Impala.
Then all he had to grab was the medical kit and Dean’s bag, and bring them and
his brother into the rear of the car where at least he could start to try and
assess his injuries. Hospital was out of the question in any event: he just
hoped there was nothing that he couldn’t deal with himself.
But of course Dean had been more worried about the blood still spilling onSam’s
arm where he had been shot and insisted on checking that first. Sam had sighed
and removed his shirt, knowing it was easier that way. Luckily the bullet had
passed straight through without doing too much actual damage on the way: it
would heal given rest and enough time. Sam sat and studied Dean’s face as he
carefully stitched the entry and exit wounds: his brother looked exhausted and
was obviously in a lot of pain. Gently he leant forward to kiss him.
Dean turned his face away. “You don’t want to do that, Sam. Not for a long
time.” His voice was still rough and rasping, but at least it sounded a little
better after the cooling bottles of water.
Sam put his right hand up and caught his brother’s cheek, careful not to grip
too hard. “I’ll always want to kiss you.” And he proved it, licking tenderly
into his brother’s mouth until he could taste him again.
Then he could feel moisture running down beside his fingers as Dean began to
cry. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”
“No. I… I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them, Sammy.”
Sam paused from kissing him and gently pressed their foreheads together: “I’m
sorry I couldn’t protect you. That’s my job, after all.”
“No, I should look after you!”
Sam couldn’t help his dimples from appearing as he wrapped his arms fully
around the smaller man: Dean would always be his big brother no matter what.
“You done stitching me? I want to check you over!”
The answer was a grunt: “Almost.”
Only once he had been satisfied did he let Sam slip the blanket from around his
bare shoulders and allow his to examine the open but drying wounds on his back.
Sam felt immense relief: “They haven’t gone too deep: they should heal okay.
You were lucky.”
Another grunt: “Drayton’s a master with those whips. He won’t risk letting
anyone else use them on me: he knows exactly how hard he can strike. Fucking
hurts though.”
Sam kissed the back of his neck. “He’ll never hurt you again.”
Dean sounded surprised. “No. No, he won’t. He’s gone, hasn’t he, Sam?” There
was wonder in his voice. For the first time Sam realised what the pressure of
always being watched; of always being afraid every time he saw the man;
wondering what he would be forced to do or have done to him; what that must
have actually been like for his brother. He must have lived with so much fear
and so much worry for so long. And now it was over. At least where Drayton was
concerned.
One bastard down, one to go.
Dean sighed and rested his head against the back of the seat as Sam gently
began to wipe away the dried blood and began to bandage his torso tightly. He
couldn’t do much about the bruises that Dean was covered in over the rest of
him: the men had obviously enjoyed hurting him, but such was the authority of
the now dead bastard and his obsessive possessiveness over his slave that it
meant none of them had dared to go too far. Dean would hurt for a few weeks,
but eventually recover. Sam climbed over him so he could kiss every single one
of the darkening areas, claiming his brother’s body back for himself, and
openly letting Dean know he was still very much wanted.
“I heard what you said. About always being mine.”
He felt Dean’s eyes on him: “It’s the truth.”
This time he didn’t turn away as Sam moved to kiss his lips. “Sam?”
“Yes, big brother?”
“Will you take the rest of it away as well? I don’t want the memories of
today.”
Sam broke the kiss and looked into his eyes. “You sure, Dean? I don’t want to
hurt you.”
“Please?”
Sam nodded and reached for him. They were sitting ducks if their hiding place
got noticed anyway. And the only thing that had mattered to him at that moment
was his brother.
Which was why Sam was now unwrapping his long and completely naked body from
around his brother’s smaller naked body and untangling himself from the blanket
that he had wound round them both when they had finally settled down to try and
sleep...
They had crossed the final line left between them. He had understood
immediately why Dean had asked for him to do so. His brother had wanted Sam to
replace the bad memories of the last twenty four or so hours with a good one:
he’d wanted to be close to the body that he was beginning to know as well as
his own, to feel Sam’s strong arms around him. To know he was securely back in
his master, brother, lover’s embrace where he belonged. Where he felt safe.
Where he knew he was loved.
Dean had needed Sam like Sam needed Dean. And knowing that he hadn’t forced
Dean into anything was a huge relief for Sam, because he would have hated
himself for ever if he thought he had. As it was, he had made love to his
brother with far more gentle tenderness that he had ever done to anyone before,
all too aware of how much in pain his brother must have been.
And it had been absolutely incredible.
Even squashed as they had been in the back of the Impala.
For the last few months, ever since he had found out the truth about Dean, Sam’
emotions had felt as off-balance as if he had stepped onto a tightrope
stretched high above an abyss; one false step and he would fall. The only safe
movement would be to move backwards, but he couldn’t turn to see what he would
be stepping back onto, whether it was safe ground or something to be run from.
But he hadn’t wanted to: he had continued wobbling forwards, because he knew
his brother was on the other side of the crevasse….
And last night in the car, with all the emotions and pain and fear of loss, it
felt to him as if Dean had himself finally stepped onto the wire to meet Sam,
holding out his hands in something far more than just support. Although Dean
could still try and turn back to get back to safety…Sam supposed he could as
well if he wanted to….
They would have to wait and see if they fell together, each returned to where
they had been….or if just one of them fell alone.
Gently Sam leant forward to rub his nose against Dean’s, adjusting his angle as
the other man stirred in his sleep to bring their lips together in a gentle but
loving kiss. It woke Dean fully and he blinked sleepily up at his brother.
“Good morning.” Sam smiled as he stared down into the crystal-clear waters of
his brother’s shining green eyes, and knew that there was no way he would be
stepping back.
“Mornin’.” Dean rubbed at them oblivious of how he was ruining the effect as
his voice came out as a sore-sounding croak. He coughed as he tried to clear
it. “Have we any more water?”
“There’s some left in the front seat. And still some potato chips if you can
bear them on your throat, How are you feeling?”
“Like shit. But I’ll live. We’d better try and get moving.”
Sam nodded reluctantly: “You just get dressed, I’d brought your bag of clothes
into the front, then you go back to sleep if you want. I’ll go and clear the
branches.” But he had to kiss Dean again before he got dressed just because.
And the way it was returned….
For the first time since before Dean had come to fetch him from Stanford, Sam
felt hopeful about the future. They were going to catch and destroy the yellow-
eyed bastard then perhaps Sam would go back to College, perhaps he wouldn’t.
But either way, Dean was going to be there with him. Either as a brother or as
a lover: Sam would just have to wait and see whether Dean felt the same as he
did.
But it was going to be okay.
Just as long as they were together.
Reluctantly, he got out of the car and cleared the way, hoping that he hadn’t
snagged the bottom of the car on anything that would damage it as he reversed.
Dean also struggled out to go and relieve himself, stumbling a little as he
did.
“Shit, just take it steady, Dean. We’ll find somewhere to lay up and just let
you rest for a while. No jobs for at least a week.”
“That sounds good, Sammy.” And his brother did sound really grateful.
Sam got behind the wheel and tried not to wince at the pain through his arm,
but Dean had noticed it anyway. “You okay to drive?”
“I’m fine. You sure you don’t want to just settle down in the back again? You
really do look rough.”
His brother grunted: “Been better,” he admitted. “But then again, I’ve been a
lot worse. I…erm…” His face suddenly flushed bright red. “Were you okay last
night, Sammy? I know you were trying to look after me, and… nobody’s ever
worried about me like you do and it was amazing. But….were you okay? Was it
alright for you? I mean, I won’t break. And you can do anything you want to me:
I’d…I don’t want you to misunderstand me if I say I’d let you, because I’m not
meaning it that you’d order me ‘cos I know you wouldn’t….but I’d like you to.
I’d like to make you happy, keep you pleased with me….Fuck, I’m bad at this.”
His mumbled words were cut off as Sam leant over, pulled him across the front
seat to be closer to him and kissed him on the mouth. “I want you to promise me
something.”
“Anything.”
“I love you. And , once you’re better, we’re going to spend some time exploring
our….erm, hopes, erm…what I like in bed, what you like. Believe me: I’ve got
lots of things that I want to try with you, Dean.” He smirked mischievously as
his brother’s eyebrows rose and decided that there was still time for yet
another last kiss. “Butyou’re gonna tell me what you don’t like. I mean it,
Dean. If you want to make me happy and pleased with you, then you’ll tell me
what you’renot happy with, okay?”
Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, Sam.”
“I mean it. I’m not going to enjoy myself if I think you’re not. That’s
important to me, you’re important to me. You really are.” He added with a third
kiss that turned into a fourth, fifth and sixth as his brother snorted and
flashed him a disbelieving glance.
Sam finally forced himself to get back to the subject of getting out of the
area and went to start the engine.
“Oh, I forgot,” he fished in his pocket. “There’s your wallet. I know how
attached you are to that old thing. And your jacket’s in the back, you had
dad’s journal in it, didn’t you?”
“Thanks Sammy.”
He thought he must have misheard how emotional Dean had momentarily sounded
just then, but his brother was turning his head away to stare out of the
window. Carefully Sam reversed the Impala out of their hiding place with the
intention of heading to anywhere that wasn’t there. He drove steadily, trying
not to give the impression to any of the numerous marked and unmarked official
cars still around that they had been anywhere near the events of the previous
day.
They ended up driving for a long time until they were well away from there, not
even risking a rest for a proper meal. Sam was hungry enough and he at least
managed to grab some snacks the previous day: he wondered if Dean had been even
allowed to eat at all when he had been taken. Eventually though, they both felt
safe enough to try and find somewhere, and Dean had felt better enough to
insist on doing some of the driving.
“There’s a Sunnyside.” he pointed the sign out with pleasure and pulled in.
“Get me extra onions.”
Sam made a face: “Dude, I’m the one who’s got to be in the car with you when
you’ve had your extra onions!”
“And pie! Get me pie!”
Dean watched his brother enter the small diner and sat back to listen to the
radio, frowning as it suddenly began to stutter and crackle. Then he looked
back at the diner and realised there was no longer any movement in it.
Grabbing for his gun he struggled out of the Impala and hurried inside, but he
was too late.
Everyone else was dead.
Sam had gone.
And the stench of sulphur hung in the air.
***** THE DEAL *****
Sam sat quietly. Not because he wanted to be quiet. But because he couldn’t, he
didn’t... what could he say? What could he possibly say that could make any
sense whatsoever of…this? His head was spinning with the shock of realisation.
Dean only had a year left to live. He had sold his life, no, worse than that:
he had sold his soul this time, for Sam’s. They only had one more year
together.
Less now. Only three hundred and sixty something days. Only three hundred and
sixty something nights. Until he died a terrible, violent death and went to
Hell for eternity. Sam felt a tear break through and begin to slide down his
face. How was he going to survive without his brother?
No. How could he possibly survive without the man that he so deeply loved
beside his side? How was he going to even begin to face life after?
“How could you make a deal like that, Dean?”
Bobby had lost count of the amount of times Sam had asked that question. Hell,
he had lost count of the number of times he had asked that question. What had
the idgit been thinking?
Then he sighed. Because he knew what Dean had been thinking. But he wished, he
so wished he hadn’t.
“There’s got to be some way of breaking it.”
“It’s done, Sam.” Dean was getting irritated.
“Then we’ll undo it!”
“Then they take you instead. And I’m telling you now: ain't no way! No way,
Sammy! You let it go, you hear?”He was standing now, almost shouting at Sam who
was biting his lip, trying to stop the rest of the tears from showing.
Then as suddenly as Dean’s temper had arisen, it was gone again and he was
kneeling on the floor in front of Sam and catching his face in his hands.
“Listen to me, Sam. It’s okay. It’s okay. We killed the demon. We saved dad: we
both saw him escape Hell. And he gave me two more years of life than I should
have had, Sam. It was my time to go in that crash, you know that’s the truth.
I’ll have had two more years than I should have done. That’s a bonus, Sam. So,
it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, Dean.” Now the tears were coming. “How am I going to live
without you?”
His big brother smiled and leant forward to hug him. “You’ll be fine, Sam. You
managed to before for years. You’re gonna go back to College. That lien works
both ways: claim the rest of your scholarship. Go and become a hotshot lawyer.
Live your normal life. Find your white picket fence. Nothing to keep you on the
road with me now….unless you want to. But…”
“But?”
“Will you do something for me Sam? Or you, Bobby? If it’s not too much to ask.”
“Anything, son. You know that, anything.”
Dean paused. He didn’t want to upset them anymore, but this was something he’d
always dreamed of…. “Once….once they’ve come for me. Once it’s over. Will you
find my chip and cut it out? It’s somewhere under my spinal cord, I’m not sure
where. That’s the idea, I suppose. But, I’d like to know that I’m… free. Even
if it’s only in death. Would you cut it out before you burn my remains?”
“Dean!” And his little brother was going, dissolving into distraught tears. And
Dean could only hold him as he cried. And he was watching Bobby rub at his eyes
with his hands. And he knew he’d let them down yet again, but he didn’t know
what else he could have done.
There was nothing else he could have done.
His life for Sammy’s.
Simplest deal ever.
Then Sam was pulling away from him, out of his arms, and his expression was
becoming cold and….eerily like their dad’s had been for most of their lives
when he had been driven by his obsession for revenge. What could Sam possibly
be getting obsessed by?
“We’re going to break this deal.”
“I told you, Sam…”
“I don’t care what you told me, Dean. And I don’t care what you say. We’re
going to break this deal.” He got up from the sofa and stared down at him. “I’m
going to break this deal. I’m not losing you.”
And with that he was striding across the room, pulling down book after book to
look for any information that might be of use. And Bobby was sighing,
signalling to Dean to give his brother some time, and crossing to sit at the
table to take the musty smelling tomes from Sam. Dean watched them both for a
moment then left the room, heading out for the yard and the fresh air of nearly
perhaps being free.
Behind him, Bobby and Sam stopped their pretence of searching through the pages
and stared at each other. “What am I going to do, Bobby?” Sam whispered to the
old man. “What am I going to do?”
But for once Bobby had no answer.
Dean wandered outside for a while, then headed for the only place he’d ever
felt was home. He sat in the driving seat of his Baby and all but drank in the
smell of her interior: leather, gun oil, whisky, the iron tang of stale blood,
the whiff of stale sweat, aromas reaped from many women and the occasional man,
the slightest hint of old hamburgers: home.
With a sigh he delved into his inner pocket and pulled out his wallet. He could
have cried when Sam had returned it to him: he was so grateful that his brother
had thought to pick it up when he had left that last motel room in such a
hurry.
Now he opened it and delved with his finger into the lining of the leather that
he had split purposely the moment he had purchased it. He had never told anyone
of this; never shown anyone the photo that he was now pulling out. He had been
about to show Sam when the abduction had happened: now he knew it was too late.
If he told Sam now, his brother would be back desperately trying to hack the
National Archives: his disappointment that Ash hadn’t managed to before he had
been killed had been written all over his face when told the news of the events
at the Roadhouse. Although Dean knew that Ash had never been looking: the
threat of having extreme violence done to him by the elder Winchester if he
did, had been enough to make him decide not to bother.
Now though he pulled out the photo and stared at it. It was so old and so
creased and he had had to leave it to dry out more than once. But the figures
were still clear if somewhat faded in places. He could even remember the day he
had been given it…
He had been watching the outside world through the blinds of the windows. Mary
was packing the house up, ready for the imminent move to Lawrence, and he was
supposed to be out of sight because of the awkward questions that might ensue
if the Winchester’s suddenly had a son.
Dean had recognised her immediately as he saw her approach the house: she had
been one of the other buyers at the auction, the lady that was part of the more
senior couple. She seemed nervous and hesitant, as if unsure that she should be
there. Carefully he had slipped past Mary while she was preoccupied in wrapping
the glassware and gone to the front door. He knew he wasn’t allowed to go
outside, but he carefully opened it and stayed inside the screen door. Waiting.
Hoping.
She saw him. Smiled and finally got her courage up to walk up to the porch.
Carefully she knelt on the outside of the gauze, close enough to whisper to the
child inside.
“I see you’re moving on. So are we. It’s easier, stops most of the questions.
They’re going to be alright. We’ll make sure they’re safe, treat them well.
They miss you though so I thought you might like this.” The photo was slid
beneath the screen door. “I’ll make sure they never forget you. I promise.
Perhaps one day, fate will let you be together again one day. God bless you,
boy, and may angels always watch over you.”
And with that she had gone. Dean had never seen her again, although he had
looked all his life. He had checked every record of every inhabitant of that
small town but to no avail. And he’d watched for her face, as well as for the
ones in the picture, in every crowd, in every town, in every place he went. He
knew he probably always would until the day he died. But that was all he could
do now. It was too late. It was all too late.
He smoothed out the photo as best he could and stared at the faces of the three
people in it. Three children, all smiling shyly at the camera. The one to the
right he didn’t know: he presumed she was an elder child of the family.
But the other two hurt at his memory, caused tears to fill his eyes. He had
hoped to find them. Prayed so many times that one day he could. But even if he
did now, then how could he tell them who he was? How could he introduce himself
one minute, knowing he was going to be dead the next?
Dean’s tears finally began to fall as he stared at the photo. Tears for himself
and how terrified he really was, even though he would always try his best to
hide it. Tears that he had let Sam down as usual. Tears for the two children in
the photo that he had missed every single day of his life and now would never
meet again.
 
His baby brother, Billy.
 
His twin sister, Devon.
 
He was never going to be able to find them.
 
 
THE END?
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