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Sam was pacing the kitchen, chewing on his nails. He had been doing that a lot as of late. His fingers were all bitten to the quick, some of them beginning to drip blood, but Sam barely even noticed. There was a reason he was chewing his nails, after all. Dean had gone out last night, nary a word, and hadn’t gotten back yet. Sam had stayed up, waiting for Dean to get back from whatever excursion Dean had planned but nothing, so far.
Sam’s brain swirled. Had he seemed upset? No, though a bit shifty. A bar then? But he never actually listened to Sam’s condemnation on that subject or... much of any subject, if Sam was honest. What on earth could he be up to?
Sam pulled out his phone, thumbing through his contacts again. It’s not like he needed to, Dean’s phone numbers might as well be tattooed on the inside of Sam’s eyelids for all the attention he paid to them; phone numbers and everything else of Dean’s. He contemplated calling, before shutting his phone down again. Dad could be back at any time, and if he was back before Dean was, well Sam might have hell to pay.
There wasn’t much Sam could do, though. 13 years old, scrawny... He couldn’t drive, if he left the motel room, he’d get hell to pay anyway, and Dean... Dean was going to be back. Sam bit the tip of his finger a bit too hard, and gritted out a curse, sucking on the fresh blood.
Blood. The thing that bound he and Dean together. Strange, inconsistent blood. If you cut someone besides Sam, Dean, or Dad, it would still be the same red. But the red running through the veins of everyone else wasn’t the same. It wasn’t even the same with Dad and Sam.
John was Father, the awe-inspiring, rage-inducing concept. Sam had been learning about concepts in school. He didn’t have a real image of his dad. No, he had half-baked notions and images all jumbled together to make what Sam thought all fathers must be like. Then again, no he didn’t. He knew that other dads weren’t like he and Dean’s dad. Other dads didn’t had their children guns. Other dads didn’t leave for weeks at a time, only to uproot their children all for another week or so in a new place, rinse and repeat ad infinitum.
If Sam had any real idea of emotional intelligence, of family dynamics or psychology, he might recognize something vital. Children need stability and routine, but not just in terms of actions, in terms of places and people. Children with these things were well-adjusted, able individuals. Children like Sam, however, children like Sam needed something to latch onto.
Sam knew he was different. He knew that home was supposed to be a place, or wasn’t it? The lesson that many people learn later in life, Sam learned early, and with the wrong person.
When Sam paced the floor, sucking the drops of life from his fingers, he wasn’t waiting on a person, he was waiting on home. Dean was his home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam was slumped in front of the TV. Tired sitcoms and trite western-style romances cycled in front of his unseeing eyes. Dean wasn’t back, and Sam felt like a marionette, just waiting for his handler to pick up his controller again. A doll discarded when playtime was over. When Dean was done with him. Sam only lived when Dean was here anyway. He always felt strangely diminished when Dean wasn’t with him, as if Sam only existed because of Dean, for Dean.
There was the dull roar of a motorcycle somewhere. Sam sighed. The Winchester Car Lust™ may have passed him by, but Sam was desperately in love with motorcycles. The elegance, the speed, what Dean would probably look like in motorcycle leathers, I mean really, what’s not to like?
Sam prepared himself for the familiar twinge of guilt at his thoughts, the fact that he shouldn’t like his brother the way he did. Instead, he got a glow of defiance. Turns out, when Dean was upsetting him, Sam wasn’t as guilty about objectifying him.
Ah.
Well, good run, everybody. Good shot at the championship title, but Sam Winchester can feel guilty about not feeling guilty, so y’all can go on home now.
The roar was growing louder, and Sam’s eyes widened slightly. He grabbed his gun off the table, slinking to just behind the divider, so he would have a clear shot and be hidden.
The roar stopped just outside the door. Sam’s grip tightened.
Something clambered in the lock. Sam took a deep breath, raising the gun.
A man walked in, wearing a motorcycle helmet. Before Sam could react, the person pulled it off, dropping it on the kitchenette table.
“I tell ya, it’s muggy enough out there to swim in, eh, Sammy?” Dean cast a casual grin at his baby brother. Sam scowled, lowering the gun.
“Where did you go? Why did it take you so long? Why did I hear a motorcycle?” The torrent of questions poured out of Sam before he could stop them. Dean gaped slightly, which turned into a surprised ‘oof’ when Sam decided he’d been damn well waiting on his brother too long, and launched himself into Dean’s arms. Dean instinctively wrapped Sam in a hug, one arm around Sam’s slim teenage waist, the other cradling his head. “Easy, Tiger,” Dean murmured, planting a soft kiss on top of Sam’s long hair.
“Well, I went to a salvage shop. I’ve been going there while you were at school, but I was so closed to finished and I just wanted to show you. It took so long because that’s how long it took, and as far why you heard a motorcycle....” Dean grinned and gestured to the door. Sam squinted up at him, but stepped back, heading to the door. Dean grinned as Sam stopped at the door and stared for a good 30 seconds, silently, before looking back at Dean, eyes huge. Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the divider. “Well, what do you think, Sammy?”
“I... Dean, how...” Sam’s voice trailed off.
“Found her in the scrap yard. Fixed her up. These old girls will keep running on a hope and a song so long as you put in engine grease,” Dean smirked. “Just like Dad’s Impala.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You and Dad’s Impala.” He turned back to the parking lot. Dean really had done a gorgeous job.
1980 Sportster Harley-Davidson, cherry red. Polished til it shown, and Sam knew Dean was right. This was from that golden era of motorcycles.
Sam’s excitement hit a wall and fizzled out abruptly. “Hey Dee?”
Dean’s self-assured tenor answered him. “Yes, baby boy?”
“How can we? I mean... Dad’s gonna... we can’t...” Already feeling a tad helpless in the face of his realization, frustration began to take over when Sam couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted to. That was what Sam chose to blame when he randomly burst into tears. That and teenage hormones.
Dean’s face softened and then he was right there, holding Sam safe and close just like Sam always wanted, like he and Dean were two pieces of a living puzzle. “Shhh, shh baby boy. It’s alright, I promise. I called Dad when I found the thing, and he said so long as I can ride it it’s mine. So I can keep it, k?”
Sam nodded, sniffling, before another thought led him to overflowing again, big-wailing sobs that he couldn’t find the source of. Dean gently lowered them both to the ground until Sam was cradled in his lap. “What else is it, sweetheart?”
“The... the car!!!” Sam wailed, burying his face in Dean’s jacket.
Dean gave him another kiss on the forehead. “The car, huh? Let me guess, you don’t wanna be stuck in the car with Dad while I get to be on the motorcycle without you, is that it?”
Sam nodded into Dean’s chest. Dean gave a soft chuckle and only gathered him closer. “Tell you what. If you can successfully ride with me now, you can ride with me later. K? And you can name the motorcycle.”
Sam nodded. Dean put a hand under Sam’s chin, making their eyes meet. “I never like to see you cry, sweetheart,” Dean cooed, petting Sam’s hair back from his forehead. “Just wanna see you smiling behind me on our Harley. Wanna do that, baby?”
Sam nodded, hiccupping slightly. Dean looked at him with adoration. “Come on then, Sammy!” They got to their feet, and Dean led Sam out to the parking lot, grabbing his helmet and closing and locking the door. Dean then went and opened up one of the saddle bags (“Went to a lot of trouble to find these, I’ll tell you!”) pulling out another motorcycle helmet. He held it up. “As soon as she’s got a name, you’ve got a helmet, sweetheart.”
Sam smiled, studying the Harley with shining eyes. He mouthed to himself as he thought through various names. Dean just watched him, fondness bleeding through every moment. This was Sam’s Dean, the Dean no one else got to see. Sam felt quite special.
After about 45 seconds, Dean laughed. “Come on, I know she’s a classy lady, but she doesn’t need this much consideration.”
Sam gave him a look of utmost disdain. “Every name has to fit.”
Dean smiled wider. “Anything you say, Sam-my.” The way he drawled over Sam’s name, caressing the syllables, made Sam shiver with a feeling he still only half understood.
“Betty Boop!” He blurted out.
Dean made a gobsmacked expression rather like he’d be smacked. “What?”
Sam grinned. “The motorcycle is Betty Boop.”
Dean looked at him incredulously.
Sam winked and shifted, twirling the end of his hair like he’d seen Josie do last week. Dean’s eyes darkened, and Sam knew he had won.
“Betty Boop it is,” Dean replied, slightly husky. “Shoulda known my girl would be so smart.”
Sam laughed. “I thought you said it was just a name,” he teased.
Dean chuckled, tossing the helmet to him, and getting onto Betty Boop. “Yea, but trust you to prove me wrong and say the one name that fits perfectly.” He put on his helmet, winked at Sam through the visor, then lowering it. Sam smiled, putting on his own new helmet. It smelled like leather and gunsmoke, the Dean smell, and Sam felt his heart warm and grow, grow out of his chest until it eclipsed the entire world. If Dean wasn’t perfect, then why did he make Sam so happy?
Sam slipped onto the back of the seat, getting his arms securely around Dean’s waist. Dean checked everything, responsible again as soon as his baby brother’s anything was involved, and off they went.
As they rode off into that Nebraska sunset, Sam decided he’d never felt so free.