"Do you know how to load a gun?"
"What?" Sam started as his master abruptly broke the silence that they had been driving in for almost an hour. It hadn't been an uncomfortable one, more that there had been nothing to say… or rather… neither of them had known what to say.
Sam wasn't quite sure what was going on… but there was no way in hell that Dean was going anywhere without him. (Although he had been quite anxious travelling in the car at first due to the speed that his master was driving… he had tried to delicately suggest that it was somewhat over the limit, but had bitten the inside of his lip bloody at the look in the green eyes as they had flashed towards him and, if anything, the Impala had gone faster in response.)
And Dean was now realising that in his anxiety to help his friend, he had forgotten one quite important fact…
… that he wasn't actually able to stand on his own two feet!
But that wasn't going to stop him from trying.
He was already delving in the right hand pocket of the leather jacket that he habitually wore even inside the house and producing, to Sam's horror, an ivory-gripped pistol, and handing it to him. "Has that been in your jacket the whole time?"
"Yeah, I always used to carry it tucked into the back of my denims, but it's killed since I've been stuck sitting in that fucking chair."
"But… why?"
"Cause you never know, Sammy-boy, you never know. Now… can you load it?"
"I've never even held one before, master. I'm a slave: no master in his right mind would trust a slave with a gun!"
"Yeah, well, good job my name's Dean, not master. And I trust you with it." Sam flushed bright red with pleasure and pride at the praise, and at the way that the older man had glanced round at him momentarily even he steered the Impala at top speed down the highway. "Now, reach behind you into that bag and find a clip of silver bullets… Seriously," as the other's expression now turned slightly to disbelief, "and there should be a flask in there as well.
That's good," he continued, as the younger man obeyed the instruction, twisting in his seat and stretching over the back rest until his long arms were able to reach to rummage in the bag, Sam wasn't quite sure what a 'clip' looked like, but as his fingers closed around a smallish solid that felt like six to eight long slim somethings all held together somehow, he instinctively pulled it out to see what it was.
Bullets. He was holding bullets in his hand!
Each had the polished but deadly looking point, and were slotted side by side at their base into a tight metal band, and on the band was a label, with small neat writing that proclaimed them to be 'witch-killing.' "Nah, that ain't it," Dean commented from beside him after he had glanced briefly across to see what Sam was holding, "it should be near the top, though. Keep going."
The bullets in the next clip were slightly different: instead of points, they were snub-nosed and seemed to have little symbols carved into them. "Those are for demons," Dean informed his incredulous slave, "they don't kill them, but at least they keep the bastards locked down for a while… Keep looking."
Then Sam was pulling out several individual heavy tubes of bright red with gleaming metal at one end. His master swore: "Shotgun shells, full of rock salt. They should be all together in a container in there, the fucking thing must have split. I'll have to sort that. Here, grab me the bag over: I'll have to find them myself…"
"You can't look for them, master! You're supposed to be watching the road!"
Despite his urgency, Dean couldn't help from chuckling at the younger man's agast reaction. Then Sam was all but climbing over into the rear seat as they were moving, shuffling through the contents with his hands and moving things aside so he could see into the interior of the bag, before pulling out yet another clip of bullets with triumph.
He sat back in to the passenger seat as normal and stared with amazement at them. "Are they really made from silver? I thought you just meant… But they're gleaming as if they're polished…!"
"Yep. In your hands, Sammy, you are holding the extent of my wealth. Despite my Baby, that is. Now, can you see a flask as well?"
"But…"
He felt rather than saw the green eyes flash over at him enquiringly, but Dean nodded a little at his lack of understanding and sighed a deep sigh. "Just ask, Sam."
"Master?"
"It's Dean. And just ask whatever it is you're dying to ask. Although I can already guess most of your questions… What the hell am I talking about? Am I crazy? Don't I know there's no such things as monsters? Are you safe with me? Can I let you get out of the car? Now, right now!"
"I don't want to get out of the car, master… Dean. But…"
There was a pause while Sam tried to find the words for what he wanted to say, before realising that he couldn't… and it didn't matter anyway, because he would follow his master anywhere, even if, as he was growing increasingly concerned about, that Dean might actually turn out to be a deranged psychopath, but… no… Sam was certain, he was certain that, no matter what was actually happening here, his master was a good man… the best… and…
…. Sam trusted him.
And he loved him.
And nothing else mattered.
Nothing else.
"Whatever this is, mas… Dean. I'm with you. No questions." And Sam was straightening up where he sat and waiting, albeit nervously, for the next order.
The green eyes stared at him momentarily, the expressive eyebrows lifted in surprise, then suddenly the full force of that incredible smile was focused entirely on Sam: who immediately blushed bright red in response and had to squirm a little in the passenger seat to try and hide the fact that he was instantaneously hard beneath his loose-fitting denims just from that one look!
For one simultaneously terrifying and expectant moment, Sam thought that Dean had noticed the sudden tent that had formed in his lap and was going to comment about it, but then the older man was returning his gaze to the, luckily, fairly clear road ahead. "Did you see the flask in there while you were rooting about?"
Sam stared, then realised what he meant: "No, master… sorry. I'll look again." And he was once more twisting around to check the contents of the bag, trying to manoeuvre his legs so that his erection wasn't so noticeable, and registering the sigh from the older man as yet again his name wasn't used despite all his repeated requests.
"I like calling you master." Sam felt he had to explain himself, although he couldn't bring himself to look at Dean as he did and instead just stared steadily into the contents of the bag as if the flask would jump out into his hand if he could only concentrate enough… "It makes me feel safe. It makes me feel protected. That nothing will ever harm me as long as I'm with you, because I belong to you."
He hesitated momentarily, but was emboldened enough by the silence in the car to continue: "I do like being with you, mas… Dean. Very much. I know that sounds stupid to you…"
This time Dean responded with a grunt: "I've been talking about witches and demons, and you're worried that I think you sound stupid! Kid, you must have been through some serious shit in your life… but know this…" and the eyes were once more flashing in Sam's direction but this time with more seriousness in them than the younger man had seen even through all of the last few weeks of pain… "I will not let anything or anyone hurt you ever again. I mean that, Sammy. So. You call me whatever you want."
"Thank you, master." Sam had to close his eyes momentarily to try and chase away the tears that were threatening to fall: tiny wells of pure joy caused by the older man's words that swelled enough to trickle down his cheeks despite his efforts. He knew that Dean had seen them because of the silence in the car that suddenly ensued, and tried to cover his flushed embarrassment by noisily rummaging through the bag, to his relief finally finding the flask hiding beneath a gun-cleaning kit.
Its contents sloshed around ominously as Sam returned to sit properly in his seat once more, shifting his legs again as cover and surreptitiously pulling at his usually loose-fitting denims to try and disguise that they were still unnaturally tight around his groin. "What's in it?"
"Holy water." And Dean was reaching across to take the flask from him and almost immediately tucked the body of it firmly between his thighs to hold it still while he used his right hand to unscrew the lid. The younger man had to stifle a moan at the sight and momentarily looked away.
When he had recovered himself enough to turn back, Dean had the silver bullets balanced on his lap and was carefully pouring the water over them with a steady right hand even while he was using his damaged left hand to steer the Impala. Sam couldn't contain his smile: just for once, his master seemed completely relaxed and contented, back behind the wheel of his beloved car and momentarily in control of his own destiny… albeit until he tried to get out of his seat again.
Sam wanted to see that peace on his face always. "You belong here."
Shit: had he just said that aloud? Not even he knew what he had just meant… but strangely… Dean understood and nodded. "Only place I've ever belonged. Me and my Baby…
Sounds stupid, but she's probably the only thing I've ever counted as real family. Dad wasn't…" He stopped speaking abruptly, instead concentrating on turning the clip of bullets over as they rested on the top of his thigh so he could fully coat them with the drizzling water, regardless of how damp his jeans were getting from the excess. But his eyes were once again sad as they continually flicked between his lap and up to watch the road ahead.
Sam wished he hadn't spoken, but... he had to say his next words: they were too important not to. "I'm going to try and make you so proud of me… that perhaps… one day you might think of me as family, master."
"I'm already proud of you, Sam. And you've been family from the start, don't you worry about that." But he didn't turn his head, even as he began to screw the lid back on the container that was now once again being gripped tightly between his legs.
The younger man chewed anxiously at his lip… he wanted to tell Dean how desperately he wanted to be more than just 'family' to him. He wanted to tell him everything about how he felt about him… but fear yet again kept him silent.
Because what if his master didn't feel the same way?
Or worse… what if he was repulsed by the thoughts that Sam was having about him?
Which were getting increasingly more pornographic with every extra minute that he stared enviously at the flask and imagined how it would feel if those strong thighs were gripping around him like that.
He hurried to concentrate as he realised that Dean was waiting for him to take the bullets from him with some increasing impatience. "Sorry, master." Quickly he took the offered shining and still dripping wet clip. "Why did you have to wash them?"
Despite himself Dean chuckled. "I wasn't washing them, Sam, I was anointing them in holy water. It's supposed to be a blessed flame to take a Leshy down, but there's no way I'm gonna hold a naked flame to bullets! This is good as we're going to get with these…
But we can do the knife!"
He shifted and squirmed in his seat, trying and failing to hide a wince as his back complained at both the position and the way he was physically forcing his legs to operate the pedals, and then once again to Sam's alarm, was producing a vicious looking blade from somewhere on his person.
"You carry a knife as well?" Sam didn't even want to take it from him: too many memories of far too close, and extremely unpleasant, encounters with them were suddenly surfacing. But even the briefest of touches of Dean's fingers against his as he reluctantly took the deadly object settled him, and he clung to the luxury of the fleeting contact.
"Always. Here." And Dean was reaching across with a lighter, expertly flicking it on with his fingers as he did. "Hold the blade in the flame while I say a blessing over it. Watch you don't burn yourself."
Sam tentatively obeyed, but then his interest was piqued as his wonderful master suddenly began to recite something in… "What is that, Dean? That language?"
The older man's eyebrows rose, but he calmly completed his incantation even as the silver blade began to tinge and darken from the heat of the flame, before eventually flipping the lid of his lighter shut. "It's Latin, Sam."
"And what does it mean?"
"It's a blessing a priest would use in church: I just hope it'll work as well with me doing it."
"Do you think I could ever learn to talk in other languages like that?"
"The way you're going through those self-help books? I'm damn sure of it, Sammy."
"Will you teach me?"
"Just as soon as I've taught you to drive." And Dean was jiggling uncomfortably in the driver's seat again, aware of his spine's protests at what he was forcing it to do. He knew he was going to pay heavily for taking off on a rescue mission like this: both physically from the already increasing pain through his back, and from what Bobby was going to do to him after! "But for now, let's get that gun loaded and ready. See that small latch on the side of it… yep there… push on it a little… that's it, you've released the cylinder…"
He held out his hands for the bullets that had already been in the pistol and pocketed them swiftly even as he finished instructing the younger man on how to load the newly consecrated ones, before taking the pistol back and returning it to his pocket. Now he was at least as ready as he could be to face an angry Leshy or three…
Just as long as he could manage to get there in time.
It should have been a four hour drive but Dean somehow did it in just under two and a half. And for once luck seemed to be on his side as there were no cops around... not that he would stopped for them anyway.
Some things were just too fucking important.
He didn't even slow the Impala as he turned off the highway onto the secondary road towards the designated coordinates that Garth had sent… a very rough, all but dirt, secondary road that had the car bouncing along despite its hard suspension. Sam had to take a tight grip on the leather seat and brace himself against the roof to keep from hitting his head, but he couldn't help from laughing like an ecstatic child at the ride, such was his trust in the older man as his master expertly made the Impala chase down the miles to get to his friend.
And then they were abruptly squealing to a halt in a cloud of dust and a stink of overheated brakes.
Sam recovered his breath and looked around to see what Dean had spotted immediately. Parked on the side of the track, the front of it almost completely hidden by being buried into the covering of leaves and branches and trees, was an old, and all but falling apart, Ford Ranchero. Even the simulated wood panels down the side of it were coming loose. "Is that…?"
"It's Garth's truck." The older man's face was grim. "Why is it here? And where the hell is he?
You stay here." The instruction was snapped at Sam even as he moved to go and help Dean get out of the car. "Lock the doors behind me. Just keep trying to call Bobby."
"But Dean…"
"I said stay there!" Sam caught his breath, genuinely taken by surprise by actually being given a definitive order from his master. "I mean it! Do not get out of the car in case it all goes pear-shaped! I don't want you hurt."
And Dean was struggling out of his seat before slamming the door behind him. Immediately he was using the roof of the Impala as a rest to work himself back to the rear door and leant on it as support while he dragged the folded wheelchair out.
"Master! You're going to need me out there! You'll need me to push it for you!" Sam had his body almost completely over the back of the seat and was helping him despite being really upset at being left behind.
"Damn it, you stay there, Sam!"
"Please master! I need to be with you. You'll look after me, I know you will!" And Sam was pleading with his eyes, desperate not to be left alone. Desperate to be with Dean no matter what.
Then he was pausing, taken aback at the expression in the older man's face as he looked down at him. He had seen Dean in pain. Far too much. But… right now those expressive eyes were showing… such worry, and mental anguish, and absolute sorrow.
Sam thought he had started to know the older man well, but…
Something terrible must have happened in Dean's life for him to have such sorrow.
The younger man felt almost that he could cry himself as he stared into the deep green lagoons that seemed to expose all the way through to his master's soul… and wished with the whole of his heart that he could somehow take the pain away.
"I can't lose you as well, Sammy." Dean all but whispered at him. "I can't lose anyone else, I just can't."
And then he was closing the rear door in the slave's face and somehow unfolding the wheelchair out to its more usual shape. Then to Sam's chagrin as he watched through the window, instead of sitting in the seat, his master turned the chair around to be able to lean against the handles and push it along in front of him with them used as a mobile form of support while he walked away from the car, his senses automatically going to full alert as he tried to pick up any sign of his missing friend.
Sam watched anxiously as his master disappeared from his view momentarily behind the abandoned utility vehicle. He still didn't understand any of what was going on…. What the hell was a Leshy anyway? And what was that about demons, and witches… and poltergeists, like that Sandy had said?
They weren't real.
None of them were real.
None of them!
Surely they couldn't be real?
What was his master on about? And why was he so worried?
Because there couldn't be anything really to worry about… could there?
Monsters didn't exist. Well… only human ones.
Not ones like these.
Surely?
He was still staring at the empty Ford when a man… boy… somebody… ran out from behind it. Sam wasn't quite able to determine his age, but he was thin, thin enough to be almost gaunt, with a slightly out-sized nose for his face, sticking out ears and smiling eyes, dressed in shabby working clothes, and he was carrying a sword in his right hand that was dripping with… something green and gooey… and he was breathing heavily and looking behind him with a fearful expression…
And blood was spreading from such a severe-looking stomach wound across his lower chest and abdomen that Sam could only imagine that something like a tiger had mauled him!
The slave was out of the car and running to help the man even as he saw him stagger and collapse onto the dusty road, momentarily forgetting about Dean's order not to leave it. The only thought going through his mind was that this man needed his help…
… and that the man he loved was out there somewhere on his own.
"No, no, get back!" And the man was trying to push Sam away even as he was falling to his knees beside him to try and stop the bleeding. "I only got one of them, run!"
"What?"
And then Sam was staring past the man as… something… came out of the trees behind the Ford.
On one of the numerous days that his master's back was really bad, and Sam wouldn't risk letting him have any more of his medication despite Dean's grumbles just in case he overdosed again, they had sat one afternoon, (that had turned into the evening as well), with a bucket of popcorn between them, two beers for his master and a glass of milk for him, and watched the Lord of the Rings Trilogy.
Sam had been amazed by the movies. He had tentatively asked if he might be allowed to borrow the books from the local library to try and read them for himself… and to his surprise, Dean had simply wheeled himself to their shared bedroom and returned with his own much-thumbed set, handing them over to the immediately tearful slave with the simple condition that he read them out loud for them both.
Although Sam had quickly realised that when he (purposely) stumbled over some of the names and put on the facial expression that his master already affectionately referred to as his 'puppy-dog eyes', Dean would take over the reading and magically bring the stories once more to life with incredibly distinctive and varied voices, and make it all just so exciting and more magical that the young man could ever have believed possible from mere words printed on a page.
He had fallen in love with the Trilogy.
And even more in love with his wonderful master.
But now Sam knelt on a dusty dirt-track road beside a heavily bleeding man who was carrying a sword and stared…
…as what he could only describe as a smaller version of Treebeard erupted through the trees and stalked towards them. But not the slow speaking, seemingly gentle being from the books, but one with an expression of pure fury in its bark and its entire woody frame braced in hatred. And it moved really fast.
Really fast.
"Run!"
The injured man's desperate cry of warning was too late. The Leshy was nearly on top of them even while Sam was trying to get to his own feet and pull the other up as well. He could only wait for the creature… thing… monster to strike, it's raised arms… branches… whatever… clenched ready to slash, and smash, and spear with the sharp pointed finger-like twig appendages at the end of them.
Sam was too stunned to do anything… and… what could he do?
He didn't know what to do!
But his single thought as the wood spirit charged him down was of Dean. And how he wished he had had the nerve to tell his master how he felt about him.
He would probably never get the chance to again…
Sam braced himself for the attack that would surely come, and closed his eyes.
But then they were flicking open again in shock at a loud explosive noise startled him.
And another.
To find himself staring up with crippling fear straight into the wild, rabied eyes of the Leshy as it towered over even him, its branched limbs raised aggressively ready to bring them viciously crashing down onto and through his head…
But it didn't.
Instead it seemed to be looking down at itself as if in surprise.
And then it staggered a couple of steps backwards away from Sam so that the young man could look past it…
To see Dean, standing upright, with his left hand resting against the back of the wheelchair for support, and his right hand raised in the direction of the Leshy… with the gun still smoking from having just being fired twice.
The wood spirit also turned enough to see what was suddenly causing it intense pain, and hissed a snarl of rage. It was immediately advancing on Dean, who calmly stood his ground and fired the rest of the rounds as close to just under the Leshy's mouth as he could: the creature flinching and roaring with pain at every buzzing bullet, but not falling.
Then the pistol was empty and Dean was throwing it to one side and pulling out his knife as the creature was nearly on him.
Sam came out of his daze of terror at the sight. The thing was going to hurt his master…
Well, not if he had anything to say about it!
Urgently, he glanced around: there must be something he could do to help Dean.
He had to do something to help Dean. He couldn't lose him.
Then Sam's eyes were falling on the sword that the injured man… who he supposed was this Garth person that Dean had come racing to save… still held in his hand. Before he had thought, he had snatched it from him and thrown it as hard as he could at the back of the Leshy.
His aim wasn't bad for a first attempt. The blade of the sword was driven deeply into one of the long stick-like limbs that were reaching for Dean, and stuck in there, quivering and vibrating. The creature snarled a hiss again, twisted around physically enough to look directly at Sam as if to say 'you're next' and turned back, intent of first getting hold of Dean and taking its sweet, pleasurable time to tear him apart limb from limb.
But instead, it abruptly found itself looking right down on the human, who had stepped the few paces forward without the chair, albeit awkwardly and painfully, to meet it. Dean looked up at the Leshy to meet it right in the eye as he drove the hastily blessed blade as deep into the area where its throat, or equivalent, should be as he could, grazing and scratching his knuckles against the rough bark-like flesh that covered it, but finding the vital weak spot beneath that he had been trying to hit with the bullets.
The wood spirit looked momentarily surprised, then whimpered as it burst into flames suddenly: a vivid green flame that blazed like an inferno momentarily then was gone as abruptly as it had ignited… taking the remains of the Leshy with it.
Dean, who had thrown his full weight behind the knife as he had struck, suddenly found himself not only completely dazzled from the vivid glare that had all but engulfed him as well, but, more importantly, with nothing now to use as support… and fell forward onto his face with a loud curse and a grunt. He was immediately trying to get his knees beneath him, desperately trying to avoid stabbing himself with his own knife, but his back spasmed in agony from all the unwarranted exertion he had forced it to do that day, and his efforts to even do that now were in vain.
"Dean!" And Sam was across and down on his knees beside him in the very next instant, already sliding his large hands beneath the older man to try and help him, although extremely aware that he might cause his master further pain if he wasn't careful.
"I thought I told you to stay in the car."
The younger man bit his lip, but kept trying to gently manipulate Dean so he could turn over to his back and sit on the ground. "I'm sorry, master. I…"
"You could have got yourself killed." Dean didn't sound angry at him, more disappointed. "What would I have done if you had got hurt? I need to know you're safe!"
"And I need you, full stop!" Sam had snapped back before he had thought whether that was wise. "I need you to be safe as well, master! Because if anything happened to you, then I wouldn't want to go on living!
I mean…" he continued with a blush as the green eyes widened and looked up at him, and the pink lips parted in surprise. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, mas… Dean. I never thought I would be allowed to have a life like this. I never thought I could be so happy! But if I lost you, then…
You just don't understand how much you mean to me, master."
By this time, he had all but rolled the other man somehow physically into his arms and was moving to lift him up bridal style, relishing the assurance of having him safely in his strong embrace once more.
Dean grabbed for his neck with an unmanly squawk: "Sam! Put me down right now! Now!"
'Never', Sam wanted to tell him. 'I never want to let go of you'. But instead he obediently moved the few steps back to the wheelchair and placed Dean gently back into his seat. "You walked that on your own, master. I knew you could! You can do anything, master!
Master?" And he was leaning over Dean suddenly where he sat, worried at the momentary lack of response. "Dean, what is it? Dean? Talk to me…"
The other man sighed, a deep sigh and tilted his head up to face Sam, his eyes abruptly shining with tears. "I can do anything, can I, Sammy? Look at me. I've dragged you into danger because I'm useless! Do you know what went through my mind when I realised you were out of the car and that thing was coming straight at you? I should have made you stay at Bobby's…
I should have made sure you were safe. I'm so sorry, Sam."
"No." Before he was realising what he was doing, Sam once again had Dean's jaw held tightly in his right hand so that his master couldn't look away from him, whilst supporting himself on his left hand which had somehow moved to rest on the older man's denim-covered thigh, so that he could bring their faces to within a few inches of each other. "No!
I will not be staying safe anywhere, master. My place is beside you, not matter where that is. And if it involves… witches, or… demons?... or whatever that thing was… then I will be beside you facing them!
And you will not leave me in the car, or at Bobby's, or anywhere! Do you understand me, Dean? Do you know how it felt to see that thing come out from the trees and not know if you were okay? Or what it was like for me to watch it striding towards you, knowing that you weren't able to run away from it?
You were so brave, master, and I am so very, very proud of you. But where-ever you go from now on, I am going to be there as well. No argument.
No." And he was tightening his grip even more as Dean looked as if he were going to try to disagree, until the older man was wincing a little from pain, "I am telling you, master. Get it through your head.
You need me beside you.
And that… Is where I am always going to be."
He had talked himself out, the hazel eyes exposing his immense and varied emotions caused by the present circumstances: his fear at seeing something that he still didn't quite believe; his terror at coming so close to losing the man he loved… again. His distraughtness at the threat of being left behind, no matter what the dangers…
And Dean sat in the chair and stared up at him.
At the way that Sam was… and always had seemed to loom over him, right from their first meeting. But whereas at first he had just been tall, now the younger man was big in every sense: he had bulked out into an amazing mass of muscle that… completely filled the whole of Dean's view right now.
Actually… Sam filled the majority of Dean's thoughts, full stop.
He had certainly become more and more aware of the young man's presence in his life: of his simple pleasure in… just about everything! Of his excitement at being allowed to learn; to take a pride in himself; the joy of just be allowed to sit up front in a car; of going out to just relax in a bar with friends…
Of the way Sam laughed.
Of how impossibly deep his dimples seemed to be when he grinned.
Of how his eyes sparkled and shone, and of how they seemed to be different colours in differing lights.
And of…
…how it just felt so amazing to wake up in his strong arms.
Dean had been with a lot of partners during his life, but he had very rarely stayed with them for a whole night. It was far more usual that he would return to his motel room… or the Impala… in the early hours to sleep.
Alone.
But since Sam had arrived, Dean had found himself waking up quite a few times with the younger man somehow physically wrapped around him. It didn't matter that most of the nights he didn't even remember the slave getting into the bed with him, but…
It had felt good.
So many times, he had nearly asked Sam if he would just… hold him while he slept. But…
The memory of Sam telling them about learning not to bother screaming during a rape was too clear. Dean never, never wanted the gentle young slave to think that he would ever do anything like that to him.
It would break his heart to lose Sam's tentative trust in him by doing something to make him afraid of Dean.
He couldn't bear the idea of losing Sam's trust in him.
So… these last few weeks, Dean had just tried to keep his thoughts, and his feelings, to himself. And a good job too, for if Sam knew how terrified he had been when he had realised that the young man had gotten out of the car despite being told not to…? He would have lost any last bit of respect for his master.
Because Dean had been terrified when he had seen Sam out of the Impala.
It was just a good job that John had enforced all those years of training on him because… he didn't actually remember firing the first two shots.
Indeed time had seemed to freeze for an instant when Dean realised that the Lechy was advancing on Sam, and it had stayed frozen until, for some reason, it was turning away from the young man to instead stalk him, and it was only then that he realised that he was somehow standing with the pistol in his hand…
He had nearly gotten Sam killed.
He was useless.
He had always been useless.
John had always told him he was.
His dad had been right: John had always been right.
And… if Sam had gotten hurt because Dean hadn't been able to protect him… He had dragged him into this so recklessly… The young man probably hadn't even really wanted to come with him, he had only got into the Impala because of his fear of being in trouble with Bobby… but if he had gotten hurt because of Dean….
… then Dean would never be able to forgive himself.
Not this time.
No, this time, if he'd gotten someone else hurt through the fact he was so useless…
If he'd gotten Sam hurt: his gentle young slave who had already been through far too much…
… then Dean would have put his very last bullet, silver or otherwise, into his own head.
End of.
Because Sam hadn't even really wanted to be here with him, had he…?
Or… so Dean had thought right up until the moment before… But now... as he sat in the much loathed wheelchair and stared up into the hazel eyes that seemed to be boring right into his soul and saw…
He wasn't quite sure what he saw in them…
But Dean wanted to know.
Unconsciously he licked his lips and tilted his head back a little more, meeting the young man's eyes with a direct and steady gaze: "Sam…?"
"Dean! Hey, man, I didn't expect you to be here! Good work, though!"
Both master and slave started and looked across as the injured man stumbled across to where they were: they had both forgotten about him. Dean was instantly moving to pull away from the young man, trying to jerk his head loose and reluctantly Sam released the tight grip that he had on his face…
Very reluctantly.
For he had been just about to tell his master how he felt about him.
He had been just about to kiss Dean.
Fuck.
"Hey, Garth!" And Dean was turning the wheelchair round to greet his friend. "Why the hell didn't you pick up your phone? I must have called a hundred times: you rung off before I could warn you…"
"Sorry, man, the trees must have blocked the signal: I had to hike for miles! And then I ran into the one… well, the one I thought was killing the lumberjacks felling in the forest…" Garth looked wistful for a moment. "I can't really blame it, you know? Its habitat was being destroyed. And well… then…
Its mate turned up. Boy, was he… her… it… pissed!
But you must be Sam!" And he was smiling up at the young man, seemingly unconcerned about his faded clothes being saturated with a mixture of fresh and dried blood. "Wow, Bobby said you were tall…" And Sam was taken aback as he suddenly found himself embraced in the tightest hug that he had ever had.
Desperately he looked round to Dean for support. The older man shrugged and smiled up at him: "He does that! You get used to it." Then he was turning his attention back to Garth. "Looks like it caught you good with its… erm… claws, how bad is it?"
"Aw, it's not too bad, Dean, the bleeding's already nearly stopped." Garth released Sam and instead moved to hand Dean the discarded gun that he had retrieved on his way over. "Here, I think you dropped this. How you doing? It's good to see you up on your feet again… we all wondered… but… wow, man…?!"
And to the slave's outrage, Garth was crouching to take the wheelchair bound man's damaged left hand in a gentle grip and was examining, without the slightest flinch, where the little finger had once been, and the now patchy, almost leathery-looking skin that passed for flesh… although there were also a few small sparks of pink beneath as proof that not all the veins had been incinerated, and that there was still a slight chance of at least some recovery … "Wow, Dean. I heard about the fire but I didn't realise… sorry to hear about your old man… but… how are you…? "
"Get your hands off him."
Both the other men turned to stare at Sam and Garth's innocent smile faded at the sight of the anger in the tall young man's face. Carefully he released Dean's hand from the confines now of both of his own and straightened up from where he was crouching by the wheelchair. "Yeah… Bobby said you were quite protective as well… no offence meant, man."
And he was backing away, his hands held up in front of him reassuringly.
Dean rolled his eyes at him, "Very funny, Garth… now, let's have a look at that wound…"
But their banter was cut short by the sound of Dean's cell phone ringing noisily from the front of the Impala. "Shit. That's Bobby."
"How do you know, master?"
"You kidding? Listen to how loud that is! Can you fetch it for me please, Sammy? Might as well get this over with."
With one last menacing glance at Garth, Sam obeyed. Although he was immediately anxious after a glance at the caller ID: his master had been completely correct in his surmising. It seemed only natural to him to touch his hand to the back of Dean's neck to show support after he had handed over the cell… and even more natural for him not to remove it again.
"Hey, Bobby. Wait, wait, slow down… Slow down, Bobby please. Yeah, Sammy's with me… Yeah I know I'm a fucking idgit… but Garth was in trouble: there were two of them… Yeah, two! Yeah, he's a damned fool idgit as well…
No, Sam's fine… he's fine, Bobby… No, I know I'm a bad influence…Yeah, I know I shouldn't be driving, but I had no choi… yeah… yes, it hurts… well, it's nice to know you care, Bobby…
No, I'm not being facetious…!
I had to, Bobby. I couldn't just let him get killed… I tried to get hold of you! No. No…
Sorry, Bobby…
Okay…
Garth? He wants to talk to you!" And Dean was thrusting the cell phone at the other man with a sigh of relief.
Sam couldn't contain his smirk as the thin, smaller man visibly paled as he took the cell, and the knowing smile that had been trained for the last few minutes on the slave and the obvious possessive ownership of his stance, completely disappeared. "Hey Bobbee…!"
Then he was walking away from them both as the angry tone of the old man's voice could clearly be understood even if the actual words couldn't be heard. Dean took the chance to try and stretch out his back and get more comfortable in his chair, but couldn't contain a wince as the damaged vertebrae complained vindictively at the day's activities.
He had done too much: he knew he had done too much. Even the thought of having to force his body to drive the Impala again that day was making his stomach churn a little…
"Are you okay, master?" Sam was on his knees beside him in an instant, his large hands sliding to get between Dean's body and the wheelchair and… he didn't know what to do that would help, but he wanted to.
So he compromised by physically pulling his master forward where he sat, until he could get his fingers round to where he knew the older man would be feeing the most pain, and gently began to massage Dean's spine, his own long body far too aware of having the other all but fully contained in his embrace. "Is this easing it at all, master?"
Sam's voice, even to himself, emerged as barely a husky whisper… and he daren't look up to meet Dean's eyes in case the lust in his own was too obvious. But he couldn't stop himself from resting his head against his master's shoulder and just… breathing his proximity in…
Then Dean was arching his back against a spasm and pushing the disappointed younger man away without malice. "It's fine, Sam. Well… no, it's not, but this was too important. If we hadn't got here in time…
Anyway…" He shook off his morbid thoughts and smiled up at Sam. "It's nothing that a couple of my tablets and a good night's sleep won't fix."
But his smile faded as he took in the look of horror on the slave's face: "Master, I…"
"We didn't bring any, did we?" Dean looked momentarily down at his knees, then back up at the already tearful Sam. "Don't you worry. This is my fault! I didn't give you chance to think!"
"But I should have brought them! I knew you were due some after my run: I should have thought…!"
"My fault, Sammy. Only mine. And it's easily solved, we'll find a drugstore somewhere. You can run in and get some over the counter meds… They won't be as strong, but they'll do…"
Then he was sighing as the slave's complexion turned almost as pale as he felt his own to be. "I'd watch you in and out of the door, Sam. I know you get nervous about being out on your own… And with good reason, I get that…"
"But, master… look at the state of me!" And indeed Sam was a sight, covered as he was from his abdomen down with Garth's now all but dried, (and slightly pungent), blood from where he had hugged him.
Even as Dean's eyes were taken that fact in, he was also realising that, in the desperate haste to get to Garth, not only had they not brought his medications, but also neither of them had brought any change of clothing, or toiletries, or anything with them. And his back was now complaining enough from pain to make him feel nauseous.
Shit.
"Garth?" The other man turned from where he was still being berated by Bobby for being so stupid as to call Dean and not him. "Does that need looking at, really, or are you okay? Cos I really need to lay down…"
"Sure. Sure! Man, it's really good to see you! Bye, Bobby." And he was unceremoniously hanging up the call so he could hand back the cell. "I'm fine, Dean. It's not as bad as it looks: my jacket took the worst of it, that's gonna go in the trash. You go and rest, there's a motel up the road backaways. And Dean…?"
Sam paused from wheeling his master back to the Impala to allow Dean to look back at the smaller, thin man.
"Even in that chair, you're still the biggest and best bad-ass I've ever known. And the best son-of-a bitch friend to boot.
Glad to see you back in the game, man."
Dean nodded tiredly at him, but was by now more interested in concentrating on getting himself into the Impala as painlessly as possible, trying not to twist his back any more than he had to. He suddenly felt completely and totally exhausted… and absolutely pathetic. What the hell was he doing, trying to prove that he was still worth something…?
He had never been worth anything.
Seriously: right now, Dean just wanted to find somewhere to be able to get his head down for a couple of hours, before returning to Bobby's.
And he really wasn't looking forward to the journey or the reception when he got there.
Sam was now joining him in the front of the car, after having finished folding the wheelchair once more into the rear seat. There was no need for words between them as Dean started the engine and turned the Impala to head back down the road at a far more sedate pace than when they had arrived.
Garth watched them both go with genuine regret and a rueful smile. "You two take care of each other now… y'hear?"