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 can tell 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 much I 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 the car!"
"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."
