PLEASE NOTE THAT I DO NOT MEAN TO CONDONE RAPE IN ANY WAY BY WRITING THIS.
IT IS AN ABHORRENT ACT: AN ACT OF VIOLENCE AND CONTROL, NOTHING TO DO WITH SEX AT ALL.
BUT I HAVE INCLUDED IT'S MENTION IN THIS… BECAUSE IT IS TO DO WITH SAM…
AND THIS IS HIS STORY
"Hey boy. Enjoy your run?"
And Sam was looking around at the old man and nodding with a wide smile as he entered the kitchen through the back door. Dean glanced up from where he was seated at the table, a food processor that he had been asked by one of Jodie's friends to repair in front of him, and grunted a welcome before returning to his work.
"Go'on and get changed. Want some coffee?" Bobby already had an empty mug in his hand, ready to fill it.
"I'm good for the moment thanks, Bobby. Okay if I take a shower?"
"You don't keep needin' to ask, boy…" And he was shaking his head with fond exasperation even as Sam's dimples deepened and the young man was slipping past him and through the door. "Idgit."
Once in the hallway, Sam paused as he was about to go into their… the bedroom that his master let him sleep in as well, and glanced around him.
No one was watching.
He took the chance to lift his sweat-stained t-shirt to be able to examine his abdomen and chest in the large hallway mirror… and smiled with satisfaction.
He was starting to look good again.
He was starting to look fit again. He was beginning to look ripped.
These last two months he had put weight on again, enough to once more cover his ribs.
And his wonderful master had allowed him to start running again. It had taken him some time to build up the nerve to ask if he could, but to his complete amazement, the only concern had seemed to be whether his cheap sneakers were good enough to use. And in fact, Bobby had encouraged him to, just as an escape from what the old man considered the tedium of Sam having to be with Dean near enough twenty-four seven.
Not that Sam saw being with Dean in that way at all.
But now every single day, come rain or shine, found Sam running around the inside of the perimeter of Bobby's yard and land… he would have loved to be able to risk leaving the sanctuary of the fence, but, unfortunately wearing a collar didn't mean that slaves weren't occasionally snatched off the streets, even when going about their master's business, and beaten up for 'obviously absconding', or raped, or worse… and it meant so much to him.
For not only because he was being allowed to work the tension in his body off for the sheer enjoyment of it, which was all but unheard of for a slave, but also… the trust shown in him by Dean and Bobby: to allow him to leave the house and just… run.
He was now up to going three times without stopping around the miles-long boundary, and Bobby had helped him create some weights from scrapped items they had found, to give himself an exercise regime that he did as often as he could.
And his hard work was starting to pay off. The mirror was revealing the results.
For he felt good. And he could see that he looked good…
If only he could get someone else to notice…
Just once.
His muscles were toning up, there was a definite six pack forming. And his hip bones were no longer sticking out too prominently as if to prove his previously painful existence, but had begun to instead form perfect shadows against his abdomen that seductively invited anyone that might be looking at him to follow the 'V' down his body as it disappeared into the front of his jogging pants…
He hadn't realised how much it had mattered to him, not being able to take care of his health as he would have if he'd been allowed the chance. The years of simply being worried about surviving until the next day… of perhaps even starving to death… Sam hadn't realised that he had once been so proud of how he had looked.
Because it had made him feel like… somebody. An ordinary person.
Somebody normal.
People… well, Mistress Ruby and her friends… had looked at him with admiration.
And he hadn't realised how much it had hurt to have had that taken away: to have everything forcibly taken from him.
But healthy…ish food, and regular meal times… and lots of hard work… were starting to pay off. These last two months…
These last two months that Sam wouldn't change for anything. Not a single damn thing.
Well… only the one thing. There was one thing that he would change.
If he could only work up the nerve…
"Finished posing yet, boy?"
The young man started and quickly dropped the hem of the shirt as his face flushed red at the sight of the old man standing and watching him with amusement. "Sorry, Bobby."
"What for. Boy? You're finally starting to fill out, that's good to see: you were so thin when I got'cha that I'd thought you'd blow away. Just you remember to stand tall, though, son: you show off that height. You've got no need to hide it… not from anyone. Not anymore."
"Okay, Bobby." The other looked at him and decided that the slave's grin couldn't have got any wider. He couldn't contain his own chuckle at him. Nor his pride. The boy had been everything that he could have hoped for…
… and so much more besides.
"You going to have a shower, boy?"
"You saying I need one?"
"Not in so many words… but your pits are soaked with sweat and you definitely stink." And Sam proved him wrong by revealing even deeper dimples than Bobby would have believed possible.
He was laughing with him even as he started to go upstairs to fetch his wallet. "I've got to go out for a while to run a few errands in town. That food processor for Mrs Johnston should keep Dean busy for a while… well…"
"I'll be real quick, sir."
"I know you will, boy." And Sam was hurrying past him up the stairs to get into the bathroom. Bobby stood to one side and watched him go with genuine affection. The young man was family.
Had been right from the start.
Sam caught the sound of Bobby's truck engine starting up even as he plunged his whole body beneath the soothing warm water of the shower, and instinctively hurried so as to get back down to the kitchen.
Just in case.
Bobby had been perfectly accurate when he had predicted that they would both have their work cut out with Dean since his accident in the yard. It wasn't that he meant to keep doing things that worried them both but… his master definitely had the knack of getting into trouble!
And Sam had realised extremely quickly that… Dean didn't like having to ask for help; he didn't like being offered help; he didn't like having to accept help… and he really didn't like something being done for him. Even if it was something that, with an all but broken back, broken fingers and probably fractured ribs that he was completely unable to do himself.
And his master had called Sam stubborn!
Although the young man could understand. Even though he himself had far too often been worked to total exhaustion and had often prayed to be allowed to rest: the thought of suddenly not being able to do anything for himself, of having to rely on other people… of facing the possibility of life in a wheelchair… he didn't know how Dean had managed to deal with that.
But… he had certainly kept them both on their toes!
Even as Sam slathered his hair with shampoo, he couldn't help but smile as he thought about his master…
And how, even though Dean had obviously been in a lot of constant pain since the accident in the yard, he had never lost his temper with Sam. Not once.
And Dean always had time for the younger man: he may have grumbled at him… a lot… for 'following Bobby's instruction's rather than his', and for being 'outright bloody-minded and downright fucking obstinate: what on earth had he ever done to deserve getting saddled with someone as fucking pig-headed, what had Bobby been thinking?… but he had never really got angry. And certainly never enough to have ever given Sam cause to fear him.
In fact, Sam was confident enough to be sure… nearly… that Dean would never hurt him. Or anyone, come to that. Because the way his master took care of him, the young man was ready to swear that it just wasn't in Dean to deliberately hurt anything, despite how tough he acted and talked.
And he would argue that with anyone who dared to say otherwise.
Although he and his master had had a few… disagreements… during the last few weeks...
And Dean and Bobby had had some outright heated arguments.
But even his stubborn master had been reduced to silence at the realisation of just how much he had scared both of the others just a few days after his accident in the yard. Until then, Dean had been desperately trying to prove to himself that he could be independent… if he could just will it to happen enough.
And the thing that he resented most, albeit irrationally, was the wheelchair that had been the cause of the incident, and the one thing that he really was unable to manage on his own. He just couldn't get enough of a grip with his damaged hand to be able to manoeuvre it and propel it forward at the same time, so he had to ask one of the other two men to push it… and him… even if he just wanted to go through the relatively level ground floor of the house to get to his own bedroom or the downstairs restroom.
Dean hated that he had to rely on them both with a vengeance. He was determined to escape being defined by the chair.
So he had pushed himself far more than he should have, hauling himself out from its confines at every opportunity despite the protests of Bobby and Sam… and trying to pretend that his broken fingers could take his weight. (They couldn't, and he could feel that they couldn't.)
And, in return for the first few days' worth of far too much abuse, his body had complained, winced and hurt far more than it already did… and he had swallowed two extra, 'in-between, but vital' capsules of the maximum strength pain killers that the doctor had prescribed, to try and block out the agony of his spine every time he jarred it again by over-reaching, or twisting against what it was capable of doing, or trying to force it to obey him by sheer determination…
And then, because his back still was so intensely painful that he felt he would throw up at any moment… he had taken a couple more…
Sam had thought Dean had just fallen asleep in the wheelchair: the young man had smiled at seeing him, still at the kitchen table where he had been working on his laptop for something that Bobby had asked for help with, his head resting awkwardly over the back of the headrest. He had softly moved the chair, and its contents, to the downstairs bedroom with the intention of transferring his master to the more comfortable hospital bed.
It was only as he leant to pick the sleeping man up that he had noticed how cold and clammy his master's skin felt against him, and how pale he looked, and slow his breathing seemed to be…
And he couldn't get Dean to wake up.
That had been the single worst thing that Sam felt had ever happened to him in his whole life. He would have taken any amount of beatings rather than lose his beautiful new master. He had shouted to Bobby in a near hysterical panic, and the old man had raced into the room to find the slave knelt in a tearful heap on the floor, with Dean all but lifeless in his arms.
"Balls!" And Bobby was calling the doctor even as he was frantically counting the number of tablets there were left… and working out how many there should have been. "Keep trying to get through to him, Sam. Try and get him awake. Don't you fret now, boy: he's gonna be fine. He's gonna be fine…"
Dean had eventually woken a few hours later to find himself in a hospital bed, connected to numerous bleeping monitors and wearing an oxygen mask, and what was worse… there was an intravenous drip connected to a huge needle that was embedded into his arm….
Dean hated needles.
His fingers had been re-broken and set properly in a solid (pink) cast so that he couldn't continue to misuse them. The split, sore skin down his arm and hand had been debrided… which hurt… a lot… and all but saturated with soothing antibiotic cream to try and stop the infection that had got into it after the accident in the yard, from spreading, and was wrapped up with the promise of daily injections for at least a week. His broken ribs had been x-rayed and securely strapped. And he was being threatened with a long-term stay in hospital: complete with enforced, motionless, flat, bed-rest, until the spasms in his spine had eventually calmed down.
And there was a psychiatrist waiting to see him to talk through his state of mind…
But even all that had paled into insignificance as he took in the angry but worried face of Bobby. And the tear-streaked, red-rimmed-eyed, ashen-coloured sheer misery in Sam's...
He didn't argue, once he had managed to convince the hospital that it had definitely been an accident and he wasn't a suicide risk, when Sam had physically taken every single item of medication away from him once they had got home and declared that he was damned well looking after it from now on, no matter what his master said.
He didn't argue when Bobby had slipped a set of handcuffs around his bandaged left arm to secure him to the wheelchair and whispered in his ear that he would do the 'same with the right one if he had to, ya dang idgit, now you just stay in that goddamned chair or else..'.
He didn't even argue when, finally unshackled and in the privacy of their room that night, Sam had all but collapsed, as his relief that Dean was actually alright and not dying as he had first thought, was overtaken by his sudden terrified realisation that the loss of his new master in his care, meant that he would definitely be returned to the auctions as completely worthless…
He had gotten so hysterical as the two emotions warred and washed over him that he had literally fallen to his knees and sobbed into his master's lap… and eventually it was Dean who had somehow gotten them both up onto the single bed and had held Sam tightly until the young man had cried himself to sleep.
Although by the morning, it was the master who lay in the slave's arms…
Dean had behaved himself for nearly a week… which, as Bobby later thoughtfully commented to Sam, should have made them suspicious earlier… but then one morning the young slave had returned from the bathroom and caught his master standing leaning precariously against the kitchen counter supported by one hand, while trying to fetch down a brand new pack of coffee from the top cupboard with the solid (pink) plaster mitten that presently passed for his left hand.
Sam had literally roared at Dean in anger and leapt forward, catching him instinctively as the other man startled from surprise and nearly fell sideways, before snatching him up physically in his arms to deposit his master back firmly back into the wheelchair.
He was so furious that, without even thinking about it, he had sat his full weight across Dean's legs to make sure that the older man couldn't try to get up again: "What are you thinking? You should have called me! That's what I'm here for! Are you trying to get me into trouble with Mr… with Bobby again, master? Because if you fall, then he'll blame me!"
"He won't. He wouldn't. I just…"
"What? What, master?"
But Sam's rage died as suddenly as it had ignited as he saw the genuine misery in the green eyes before they were looking away, unable to meet his momentarily. "I just wanted to make you both coffee. I can't do anything, Sammy. I just thought perhaps I could do that, and then there wasn't enough left… I'm sorry. I was being careful. Really I was."
He was surprised… but not as much as Sam was at himself when he dared to move his hand to tilt Dean's chin up, slouching a little in his position on his master's lap to bring their faces closer together until they were staring straight at each other from mere inches apart… "I couldn't bear it if you hurt yourself again, master. Please let me help. Not because I have to but because I want to.
He bit his lower lip and reddened slightly: "I really like being with you, master."
And the other had smiled a watery smile up at him: "I like having you around as well… But I hate being useless, Sam. If I can't do anything… then what good am I at all…? To anyone…?"
"You don't have to be useful, master. That's why you have me! All you have to do is concentrate on getting better… and you are, master. Every day you are! And look! I can help you… if you'll let me!"
By now Sam was getting embarrassed as the reality sunk in of what he was doing: sitting on his master's lap… again, holding his face tightly yet again… Desperately he looked around the kitchen and his eyes alighted on the unused, if the recently washed clothes airing on it were discounted, walking frame in the corner. He was on his feet to fetch it and place it in front of the wheelchair in the next instant.
"Here, master. You're helping me to learn to read: I can help you to learn to walk again. Up!"
"What?"
"Up! Please, master," he added hastily as Dean stirred incredulously up at him, but didn't move… "Now!"
And he was all but pulling Dean up out of the chair by his good arm, and immediately wrapping his hands tightly around his master to support him as the older man definitely wobbled once up on his own feet and grasped at the frame for support.
"I don't think I can do this, Sam."
"You can, master. You can do anything: I know you can."
"No. I mean…" And Dean was tapping the hard cast that surrounded all but the very tips of the fingers on his left hand against the cold metal. "I can't grip it. And…" he sighed as he finally had no choice but to admit the helplessness he was feeling… "I don't think… I can't…" Another sigh, a deep one. "I'm not safe doing this, Sam. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry, master. And you can… because I'm here." Even as he was speaking, Sam was stepping to stand directly behind the older man, pressing against his back so closely that Dean could feel the warmth from the slave's body as it surrounded his, right down his whole length, and leaning around enough to wrap his large left hand around the frame himself, while his right arm still kept a tight protective grasp around his master's waist. "I won't let you fall: I'd never do that. Up the hall and back: that's what your physiotherapists said, isn't it?
One step at a time, master. When you're ready."
Even as the older man was sighing and obeying, Sam just about caught the mutter from beneath his breath: "I keep telling you, it's Dean!"
Sam rinsed his hair and reached for the shower gel even while he was reliving every moment of every painful but wonderful step that he had helped Dean take…
He had made his master do the exercises twice a day: sometimes he had got away with ordering, usually he had had to plead, or simply nag at Dean to do it… or Bobby had nagged at him to do it. But the crippled man had actually started to use the frame as he had been advised to, and once his hand had healed enough for the cast to be removed and he could start to be able to grip it himself, he kept on practising, with the young slave always behind him in case he fell.
Although Sam couldn't help from being a little disappointed every single time that Dean stepped forward without him…
His hands paused from rubbing the soapy solution onto his chest, now barely aware of his own firm torso beneath his fingers…
Sam had never felt desire towards men. As a boy, with the family that he had grown up with, he remembered being anxious and nervous around one of the other slaves: a teenage girl who Sam had liked very, very much. If his life had been different…. If he had been free and not a slave… then he would have hoped to perhaps have married. Maybe even have children. The idea that he might have sex with a man, was… certainly when he was younger… frankly abhorrent.
And then, with Mistress Ruby and her friends, Sam had been definite that he was straight. Because he really enjoyed having sex with women… and his tiny brunette beauty of an owner had certainly trained him well, in all aspects, and had lent him to her friends on numerous occasions, with all of them reporting back to his proud mistress that they had been extremely happy to be with him…
But it had all changed the moment she had sold him.
Sam had never felt such pain as the first time he had been raped. He had screamed in agony, and cried, really sobbed, and begged for it to stop, and had lain huddled into himself from misery, and self-disgust, and disbelief that such a thing could have happened, for a long time after it had finished… He never thought that anybody could do something like that to another human being… even a slave… and he had never felt such mortification… or so helpless in his whole life…
Although… with hindsight, he had realised that that was actually only the second most humiliating thing that had ever been done to him…
Sam just couldn't think why his new master would enjoy doing that to him. For control, he had supposed. For the power that the bastard thought that it would give him… just the threat of it…
To keep Sam in line.
But then, as he had recovered… or at least, his body had recovered… and it had happened again. And again. And he had seen other male slaves also be raped. And female slaves. And they had all just seemed to… get on with it… so Sam had gradually realised…
That it wasn't about power, or control, or even as a threat or a punishment…
Instead… It… Rape… was being done because the masters, and their families, and their friends, and their business associates, and anybody else that they decided to allow access to the bodies of their living possessions did it… simply because they could.
The thoughts, the pain, the degradation, the shame of the slaves didn't matter, wasn't important. Because the slaves didn't matter: they weren't important.
And what was done to them didn't matter. Whether it was done from violence, or lust, or power, or because… it didn't matter.
They were nothings.
Sam was nothing.
He either learnt to live with being raped or he didn't… but it was going to happen again anyway… it could, and it would, and it did. Because Sam was nothing more than a living hole, to be used and then beaten.
That was probably the only surety that Sam had in his life… other than he would die a slave.
So Sam had grown used to hands all over him. To being held down. To being tied down. To being groped. And forced to do things that he had originally found disgusting and gross. And used. And the only way he had managed to deal with most of it, was to just…close his mind and let it all just happen… and do what he was told in the hope that it would soon be over.
So he had tried to learn to live with it. Only then to have done to him what he later was to decide, was the single most humiliating, mortifying, shameful thing that he could ever have known…
Because his then master had gleefully set out to make his own body turn against him… and enjoy being raped. He had taken his time with him, stroking and pleasuring the slave, even as Sam had whimpered and begged and pleaded beneath him for it to be over … and had gotten aroused despite the wrong of what was being done to him… tormented and driven wild by what the man was doing to him…
His master had kept on until Sam had come all over himself with a series of choked and tear-filled moans…
He had wanted to die from misery and shame.
But the bastard had thought it amusing. He had laughed at Sam, mocking him for being so unable to control himself: jeering at him for allowing the instrument that was his own body to be played by somebody else. And he had set out, every time from then, to make sure that Sam came as well.
The only blessing to it was that Sam had learnt that lubricant makes an awful lot of difference, and being prepared by skilful fingers… even if your own are manacled together by the wrists and held above your head… can actually make the act of male sex tolerable… endurable… eventually pleasurable.
Even though he hated himself for finding it so…
Sam had never looked at a man and found them desirable. He had never felt arousal for another male, he never would.
Or at least, he had thought he never would…
But these last two months, since that very first night since he had arrived at Bobby's… Sam had dreamt of stunning green eyes… of an amazingly ripped if heavily scarred body… of a rarely used but incredibly sexy smile that made his stomach flip every time he thought about it…
Sam caught his breath with a sigh and a gasp… and realised that he was stroking himself in the shower… again.
Because he was thinking about Dean.
Again.
He was so hard just from the thought of his master that he had no choice but to finish. Sam closed his eyes and continued to caress up and down his long and fully hard cock slowly as he tried to imagine… what Dean would taste like, coming down his throat? What would he feel like, thrusting into his mouth?
Would he force Sam down on his knees… although Sam would take hardly any forcing. He wondered if he dare go downstairs and get on his knees in front of the wheelchair right now…
Although… his master would find it more incredible if he could stand as Sam sucked him: certainly his other masters had preferred it that way. And Sam had had more than enough experience by now to know how to make it incredible. Perhaps he could get Dean to support himself against something solid while Sam pleasured him: the kitchen cupboards ? Or the solid chest of drawers in their… Dean's room that he was allowed to share…
Or would Dean just prefer to fuck him? One night… perhaps even that night... he might look at Sam and order him to get into his bed… and Sam would go without hesitation…
He would let his master do anything to him.
What would Dean's hands feel like against Sam's skin: would he be gentle? Sam knew that his master would never hurt him, but would he caress Sam all over? Oh God, Sam wanted his master's hands all over him!
Or would he be masterful and dominant, and hold the young man down: would he pin him to the bed, or the floor, and just take him from behind, filling Sam up with pleasurable heat until he exploded from ecstacy?
Or perhaps, like that other man, Dean would want to see Sam's face? Not to torment him by laughing at his misery when he was forced to come against his will… but to watch his pleasure…? Perhaps Dean would lay Sam on his back, cover him with his own body and… make love to him? Perhaps even kiss him?
What would Dean's lips taste like? They looked so perfect, especially when they were smiling.
They were perfect. He was perfect. What would his mouth taste like? Would he let Sam kiss him?
Sam so wanted to kiss him.
He was imagining the feel of Dean's lips against his even as he was gasping his master's name aloud and coming all over the tiled wall with such force that his knees almost buckled beneath him. Again.
Not for the first time, Sam wondered if he dare just go to Dean right now, when they were alone: just go downstairs, naked and dripping, and offer himself to him. He could kneel at the man's feet, and beg for him to take him. What would Dean do?
Or… what if he sat in Dean's lap like he had done a couple of times before… just as he was…without a stitch of clothing on and already rock hard again. What if he draped himself across his master, tilted Dean's head back and just kissed him?
He wished he could dare.
Sam so wanted to dare.
But… just like every other day since he had arrived here, he knew he wouldn't. Because … no matter how close he deliberately stood to his master, or let his shirts flop loose so that his newly defined muscles were exposed, or got undressed in the bedroom and bumped his ass 'unintentionally' against a resolutely turned away Dean, or knelt by the wheelchair with his head resting against the other man's legs, head tilted so his lips were just there… or those few occasions that the older man had just got so exhausted from all the pain and Sam had insisted on carrying him securely in his arms back to the hospital bed so his master could try and sleep, and he had actually managed to settle himself on it beside him because Dean was just too tired to argue, and he had held him tightly, relishing the feel of having the smaller man in his arms… in all of that…
… he had never seen Dean look at him in any way other than innocent…
What if Dean just didn't want him in that way?
Even as Sam mentally fought down his next erection, he was reflecting that it would just be so unfair, and so ironically typical, if the only man that he was actually lusting after… the only man he had ever wanted to touch him in every way… didn't feel the same way back.
He had nearly given in to his impulse to kiss Dean so many times.
And never more so than when the parcel had arrived.
Dean had called him into the kitchen one morning, pointing at a package that was on the table.
Sam had wandered across to look at it with a mixture of surprise and wonder: "Sam W…eye…nnn…cchhh… Winechest… Winchester. Sam Winchester. Sam Winchester?"
He was turning back to his master with his eyebrows raised, even as Bobby almost all but squeaked in surprise.
"I couldn't have it sent to just 'Sam'. I hope that's okay." Dean explained. "Open it up!"
Even as Sam was tearing into the wrapping and exclaiming with excitement as the pile of elementary level academic books and software, in just about every different subject he could think of, was exposed, Bobby was leaning in to Dean, his words soft: "You okay with using the name Sam Winchester? You could have used Singer, I wouldn't have minded, boy. I know… what that name means…
"The name was going begging, Bobby."
The abruptness in the response made the old man's eyebrows raise, but he gave a little nod and moved away, leaving the kitchen through the door just behind where Dean was sitting. But not without a glance at Sam first.
The younger man understood and moved until he was knelt in front of Dean's wheelchair, resting his large hands on his master's knees: "Get up, Sam! I hate it when you do that!"
But his order was ignored as the slave stayed where he was. "I… know about... the other Sam, master. I asked Bobby who he was. Thank you for letting me use his name. Are you sure, though? He was… He must have meant a lot to you… "
He was a little surprised by the expression on Dean's face: a mixture of genuine sorrow and… something else that sparked in the green eyes. And the grunt with which he was answered. "What he meant to me? Wanna know what he meant, Sam? For so long… I hated him. Hated even hearing his name. Hated my own baby brother for being so lucky… so lucky because he got to die while I… I had to fucking go on living."
Sam didn't know what to say. But he caught a glimpse of Bobby, who was still standing behind his master, just out of the wheelchair bound man's view… And the pain in his face at Dean's admission.
But Dean was continuing: "But… dad's gone. Everything's changed. Time to let go of that as well. And it'll be…" His voice momentarily faltered, "It'll be nice to connect the name Sam Winchester with…"
"With, master?"
And Dean was going red in the face. "With a smile." His blush deepened at the younger man's raised eyebrows. "Your smile. And a face. It'll be good to think of Sam Winchester as… you. If that's okay with you?"
And Sam was reaching up to kiss him… until he realised that Bobby was still watching, and that his master…might… not like it if he did.
But he had so wanted to. And he so wished he had.
Sam finished pulling on his clothes ready to return downstairs. He just couldn't believe how wonderful his life had become since Bobby had bought him, he should be thankful.
He was healthy, for the first time in a long time. He had food in his stomach and he was allowed to exercise again.
He was being allowed to learn! He had already worked his way through all of the educational aids and Dean had helped him order a few more to High School level. Sam was so excited: he just wanted to know everything about… everything!
He was so happy.
And Dean had even talked Bobby into taking them back to the bar, all three of them, even Sam, and his master had allowed him to have alcohol… which Sam had hated the taste of but that hadn't mattered in the slightest. Although he had had to fight down his rage as Jonah and Mo had come across, somewhat sheepishly, to apologise to Dean and buy them all another drink… Bobby had gently put his hand on his arm as a warning, but he still wanted to hurt them both permanently for what they had done to his master, accident or not.
But then other people had joined them at the table, and there had been a lot of noise and banter and he had got to see Dean really laugh, which was almost as wonderful as that sexy smile… he wanted to make him laugh again, over and over… to keep that happiness in his master's eyes…
Yes, Sam should just be grateful for what he had…
But even as he heard Dean's deep gravelly voice shouting for him downstairs and his body responded with every long inch of eagerness as it had when thinking about him in the shower, Sam knew.
He loved his master, truly loved him.
He never wanted to leave him: he knew he would do anything for him.
And he wanted him sexually. He could only wait and hope that Dean would, someday, somehow, feel the same way.
With a wistful sigh, he hurried down the stairs: "Yes, master? You were calling?"
But Sam was brought up short once at the foot of them by the sight of Dean in their… his bedroom, extremely agitated, reaching to get the heavy bag of weaponry onto his lap in the wheelchair with his right hand while waving his cell phone around in his left.
He thrust it in the younger man's direction as he entered the room: "Here! Keep trying Bobby! He must have gone out of signal somehow: it's an emergency!"
"Master?" But he took the device and obediently tried the redial. "Master, what is it?"
He hurriedly stepped back as Dean almost wheeled over his bare toes, such was the older man's haste to get out of the room. Then to Sam's surprise, he was propelling himself back through the kitchen and straight out of the back door, turning immediately in the direction of the Impala. "Keep trying Bobby! God-damn it!"
"Master?" Sam snatched up his boots and followed, still trying the cell. "It's just going to voicemail: what shall I say?"
"I've already left messages: where the fuck is he? For fuck's… I got no choice!" And Dean was opening the rear door of his Baby and all but throwing the bag of weapons inside it.
Then, to Sam's consternation, he was using the door as a support to pull himself up onto his feet with. "Help me get this thing inside!"
"What?"
"The chair, Sam: the chair! It folds down! Somehow… I don't know how, but it does! Just get it in the fucking car, will you!"
"But…?!"
"Now, Sam. Now!"
The younger man hastened to obey even as Dean struggled to the front of the Impala, using the car as a support, and tried to get himself into the driver's seat without hurting his back. Luckily Sam had watched how Bobby had collapsed the wheelchair when he had taken them to the bar, so he managed to get it to fit into the back seat, before momentarily hesitating where he still stood by the open rear door: "Master?"
Dean glanced around, caught his expression, and sighed: "You're not going to get in trouble, Sam. Well… Bobby'll yell at you, definitely… but he'll know it's me. I'll be sleeping in the basement for now on for sure! So, don't you worry…
Just tell him that Garth called: he's got a Leshy near Lincoln, and he just wanted to confirm that silver held in the blessed flame of a alter candle would kill it, but he hung up before I could tell him that there won't be just one!"
"A Leshy…?" Sam tried to ask, but Dean was too agitated to listen.
"They live in families: there'll be a mate, or a sibling, or offspring, or all of the above! Damn idiot's going to get himself killed! Go'on back in the house, Sam. I sent the co-ordinates Garth gave me to Bobby: tell him to meet us there. And don't worry."
And to Sam's chagrin, Dean was motioning at him to close the door. "Master, you can't drive this car!"
"I know, but somebody has to, or Garth's going to die. Can you drive, Sammy?"
But his momentary hope died as he took in the blank expression on the younger man's face: "Soon as I get back, that's our next job. Teaching you to drive. Now go back inside and keep trying Bobby!"
Sam's protests were drowned out as Dean turned the ignition key and the Impala's engine burst first into a roar of protest at being left to stand for so many months, then a deep contented purr as she realised that the person who it should be, was back behind her wheel. "Hey Baby… ya missed me?"
He couldn't contain his grin, even as the young man swore that the car's deep rumble contained a moan… but then his master was moving the stick shift into drive, gritting his teeth as he willed his legs to work the foot pedals… and the Impala was pulling away…
Without Sam.
He was standing in front of the car before he had realised, flinching as the big black beast momentarily charged him down before Dean had managed to hit the brake pedal, stopping the Impala with a loud screech of tyres. "Sam! Get the hell out of the way!"
"You can't do this, master! You can't! How can you drive the car? What if you crash?"
"What if I don't? What if I don't get there in time, and there's two or more, and Garth gets killed? He's my friend, Sam. And…"
"And, master?"
But he felt sadness envelope his heart at the look on his master's face as Dean stared back at him through the windscreen. "My friends have a habit of dying, Sam. I can't lose another, I just can't.
I have to try and save him.
Go'on back in the house, now. Bobby won't be angry with you. I promise he won't."
"No."
And Dean was gaping at him as Sam determinedly moved round to the passenger side and climbed into the Impala beside him.
"I'm supposed to be watching out for you, master. I can't do that if I'm not with you. So let's go…
Now, master!"
The order was snapped as Dean still stared at him… but then the dazed expression turned into a smirk:
"Yes, Sir!"
And the Impala was being gunned out of the yard.
