This Hand of Doom that is Holding You Down

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: Slash, R

Year/Length: 2007/ ~3346 words

Pairing: Impala/Dean/Sam, Bobby

Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.

Warning: Wincest, language

Summary: When Dean pulls away he licks his lips, says, "So I guess this makes me like, the Six Million Dollar Man, right?"

Series: Impala 'Verse

Author's Notes: Title by Electric Hellfire by the Black Label Society. Written for my much abused beta, [info]marysue007, who has been waiting for this for far too long. I am a bum, and so sorry it took this long to finish this. Forgive me! Plus it's probably not anything like what you wanted, but Dean got away from me. Part of my Impala!verse, in case anyone was wondering.

Beta: marysue007, who this is also a present for, who pwns me, so hard.

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They don't spend very much time with their old acquaintances, it's easier not to, the closer Dean and the Impala get. The more Sam lets his brother fuck him. It's just weird to be around people that knew them before, who look at them and see them as they were, instead of as they are.

They're at Bobby's now, and Sam's not sure it's the best idea in the world, but they were in town and Dean needed to make some repairs, and so here they are. Bobby had been glad to see them, he always was, if slightly puzzled by Dean's refusal to let him look at, or treat, his wounds.

They're in his bathroom now, both of them crowded into the space under the stairwell. Dean's sitting on the counter beside the sink, back pressed against the mirror, face tilted up to Sam. He says, "Does it look any better?" and winces when speaking pulls and stretches the torn skin across his cheekbone and jaw.

Sam swallows, readjusts himself because seeing Dean on the counter, reflected back at him, is doing inappropriate things to his insides. "Later, Sammy, c'mon and focus now." Dean's smirking at him with one side of his mouth, the side undamaged by the hunt three days ago, his eyes bright with lust. Sam feels himself flush, heat tingling across his skin, clears his throat uncomfortably.

"Sorry." Dean shrugs, and closes his eyes.

The wound is still ugly, three jagged scratches across the right side of his face. One barely caught, just a bit on the bridge of his nose, and then in the corner of his eye. The other two flayed the skin down to the bone, across his cheek and along the line of his jaw.

It had been a blow from a gryphon, and it should have taken Dean's head off his shoulders. Sam can still see the huge lion bodied thing charging towards Dean, its eagle wings extending, its wickedly curved beak open around a scream. There's a chill down his spine, and he pushes it away, because Dean is fine, Dean is right here, Dean is alive.

He makes himself look past the flayed skin, red and angry as though it had just been split, into the wound. And it looks, it looks the same. He hisses in displeasure, lets his fingers fall away from the skin, from the pain he knows he has to be causing Dean. There's a bottle of alcohol beside Dean's thigh, he lifts it, and warns, "It's going to burn."

"Just do it." And so he does, it bubbles and fizzes in the wound, and Sam pats it dry. Grabs the gauze and medical tape and re-bandages the wounds. Dean's eyes are open again when Sam finishes, his voice irritated when he says, "It's the same?"

Human bone is yellow-y pink, for the most part. Sam's seen it go ivory white after it's been dried for years. He's never, ever, seen it gray. Until now. Dean's bone, cheek and jaw, is the color of steel, is metal smooth.

Sam nods, and Dean runs his hand back through his hair. Sam's not sure why they thought it might go away, but it's pretty obviously not going to. He leans forward, his hands on either side of Dean's hips, and waits for Dean to lean forward and kiss him. Dean kisses hard, and Sam gentles it, because all he's seeing in his head is the gryphon taking a swipe at Dean and Dean going down heavy and Sam knowing, knowing he had to be dead.

When Dean pulls away he licks his lips, says, "So I guess this makes me like, the Six Million Dollar Man, right?"

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They're going to fix the cracks in the Impala's instrument panel in the morning, or at least order the replacement parts then. Dean will heal, after that, he always does. After that, the skin and muscle will seal back over the bone, and after that they won't have to see anymore. But they'll still know, what's there, under his skin.

Sam watches Dean undress in their room, and wonders what exactly Dean is, at this point. Cyborg? Robot? He snorts, mandroid? Dean sinks down onto the edge of the bed, rolls his head around on his neck, and the click of his vertebrae is unmistakably metallic. Sam feels a chill, reaches a hand out and traces the line of Dean's spine with the tips of his fingers.

Dean pushes back against the pressure, hums and says, "It's raining. I can feel it. It's so warm." Sam can faintly hear the patter of it on the windows and the roof. It's a heavy summer rain, spawned from a hurricane hundreds of miles south in the Gulf.

Instead of answering he slides his arm around Dean's waist, pushes his cheek against Dean's back. Dean's pulse pounds against his jaw, and Sam wonders if it's blood beating through his body, or something infinitely stranger. He says, "10-W30," under his breath, and Dean must not hear him, because he doesn't ask.

Dean stretches his arms above his head, then pushes and shoves his way onto the bed. There's strength in his body, more than Sam can remember there ever being before. He's heavier, harder. Sam says, "Is this going to happen to the Impala, too? I mean, is she gonna develop a respiratory system, or blood veins in the seats, or something?"

There's no immediate answer, just Dean shoving and pushing him into a position that suits him, and then sprawling beside him. Dean lays spread-eagled, face tilted up to the ceiling like he's looking into the night sky. There's amusement in his voice when he says, "I don't think I can grow things I don't already have." And then, "Do we really have to talk about this now? I'm hurting pretty bad, Sam."

Sam knows. Dean hasn't done anything more than limp, but the Impala is completely missing the left rear tire. That had been a fault of crappy driving by the car in front of them on the way here, they'd swerved away from a twisted piece of metal, but not in time. It had taken out the tire, and dug a gouge into the rear fender. Dean was wearing that wound in his flank, cleaned up and stitched as best as Sam could do.

Sam gives, pushes himself up on an elbow and watches Dean. There's tiny lines of strain around his eyes and mouth, what's visible beneath the bandages. He's wiggling his fingers, taking deep, long breathes. Sam leans forward, presses a kiss over Dean's heart, and lathes the skin with his tongue, just to mess with Dean.

Dean bats at him, snorting on laughter, "Don't start something you won't finish."

Sam knows they probably shouldn't, not in Bobby's house, not in Bobby's guest bed. But knowing and being able to accept that knowledge are two different things. Especially with it raining. There's nothing quite like getting to watch Dean go all touch drunk from the heavy drops of water mixed with sex. He moves slowly, careful of Dean's wounds, and straddles him. Says, "Tell me about the rain."

Dean rumbles when Sam drags his lips across his collarbone, sucking on the smooth skin. He can taste salt and smell oil, and feels need shooting through him.

"It's-" Dean sucks in a breath when Sam slides his teeth across the skin, kisses over it to soothe it. "-God, it's warm, warm and wet. It's like-" Dean's hard, waiting for him when Sam slides a hand down his stomach, and under the waistband of his boxers. "-Shit."

Sam smiles, nuzzles at Dean's neck, rearranging Dean's legs to either side of his hips, careful with the wounds he knows his brother is bearing. Dean shifts under him, and then rocks up against him, hissing in pain from the deep wound in his thigh. Sam strokes him more firmly, trying to push him past the pain, and instead the hissing turns to a gurgling scream.

Sam hears the crash of thunder at the same moment that Dean bows up under him.

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Dean stops jerking after a moment, and Sam scrambles back, wondering what the hell just happened. He knows that Dean didn't get struck by lightning, because, well, he's inside. And Sam had been, at the time, stretched out over him. There's no electrical devices near the bed, so he wasn't electrocuted.

But he's not moving, and his eyes are rolled back in his head, his breath barely rattling around in his chest. Sam curses, softly because he can't catch his breath, lunges back to Dean, shaking him desperately. Needing him to wake up, to talk, to say something. Dean doesn't respond, and Sam feels panic really set it, "Bobby! Bobby!"

He thinks how horrible their luck has to be for the Impala to be struck by lightning. He shakes Dean again, yells for Bobby some more. The ozone smell of electricity is impossible to miss, it burns in Sam's nostrils. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit."He wonders how badly a lightning strike would fuck up Dean and the Impala.

Bobby bursts into the room, wearing jeans and a baseball cap, and that's almost enough to surprise a laugh out of Sam. The older man freezes inside the doorframe, stares at Dean spread out on the bed in his boxers and Sam leaned over him, and makes a little choked off sound. Sam really doesn't have time to worry about what this looks like.

"Stay here with him, I have to go check on the Impala." Bobby opens and closes his mouth, and Sam claps him on the shoulder on his way out of the door.

He trips going down the stairs, slides three steps on his ass before catching himself and is running by the time he hits the front door. He's not sure what he plans on doing, the damage has already been done, but with Dean unresponsive he figures his best bet to getting in touch with the Impala. He snags the keys off the table by the door, and runs to the car.

The rain is warm, Dean was right. Heavy, huge drops pound across his shoulders and back and his feet slip and slide in the mud. The Impala is sitting quiet as Dean, right where they left her. Sam slides into the side of the car, scrambles for a handhold on the slick metal, and finds the handle.

The inside of the Impala is as comforting and familiar as Dean himself. Sam sinks into the leather gratefully, slides the key into the ignition and cranks. And there's nothing. The starter doesn't even try, and Sam feels his panic double. If the car dies, he's not sure what that would mean for Dean. Nothing good, he's sure.

He cranks the ignition again, praying that it starts.

Someone must be listening, because though it stutters, the engine catches. It's a whine, not the usual roar or rumble, but it's so much better than nothing. Sam runs a hand up over his face, tries to slow his heart rate down, and tries to figure out what's missing, what's off. Panics a little more when he looks at the fuel gage and finds it pointing solidly at the E.

He only realizes that there's no radio when Bobby starts yelling for him from inside the house.

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Dean's trying to climb out of the window by the time Sam makes it back upstairs. Bobby's got a hold of his arm, looking thoroughly uncomfortable touching the barely dressed man. He casts a desperate eye at Sam, who pushes him out of the way, wraps an arm around Dean's waist and drags him back.

It's a surprise when Dean throws a punch, even more the speed with which he throws it. Sam sees a brief blur of movement, and then Dean's knuckles are right below his left eye. He has time to flinch, but the blow doesn't land. He'll never understand how Dean stopped it.

Dean's eyes are wild, and he pushes his knuckles gently into Sam's cheekbone, he opens his mouth and Sam can only describe the sound that comes out of his mouth as static. Bobby says, "Oh Jesus," and Dean slaps a hand over his own mouth. The static cuts off abruptly.

Dean keeps his hand over his mouth, and points out the window with his other hand. Sam drags him another step away from it, says, "She's fine, I checked." Dean rolls his eyes, pushes at Sam, steps on his feet until Sam curses and lets him go. "I'm not going to let you go out the window."

"What the hell is going on?"

No one answers Bobby. Dean's pushing past Sam, running for the doorway. Sam hears the pounding of his footsteps down the stairs, and then a crash. He doesn't waste time cursing again, just takes off after Dean. He finds him at the bottom of the stairs, limp as he had been in the bed.

Outside, the rumble of the engine has died. Sam grabs Dean under his arms, hauls him to his feet, disturbed by the boneless, loose give of him. Dean's fucking heavy, it's nearly impossible to drag him over to the couch, but Sam grits his teeth and makes it. Calls, "Bobby, I need some gasoline. A lot, actually."

Bobby appears at the bottom of the stairs, gaze still jumping between Dean and Sam. He says, "There's a pump out front. What the hell's going on, Sam?"

Sam doesn't have time to answer, he pushes out the door, finds the pump and curses when there's no readily available way to get the gas over to the Impala. Calls for Bobby again, and when the older man lumbers up, Sam shoves him into the driver's seat. "Put her in neutral, steer us over to the pump while I push."

His hands slip on the slick metal of the Impala's fender, and he lowers his center of gravity. Bends his knees and pushes with everything he has. The mud sucks at the tires and his feet, and he grits his teeth. It feels impossibly heavy, feels like he'll never be able to push her all the way over to the pump, but he manages.

The rain doesn't feel warm anymore.

He says, "Get her running," and takes off back to Dean. He leaves muddy footprints across Bobby's floor, promises himself that he'll clean them up if Dean doesn't die. Outside he hears the engine cough and stutter, and then rumble. He slides into the living room just in time to see Dean jerk to his feet, one quick movement taking him from flat on his back to his feet.

He's moving too fast. Sam feels his stomach flip as Dean starts tearing through the papers and books around him, obviously looking for something. He says, "Dean?" and his brother throws a hand up, doesn't even look at him.

When Dean finally pauses he's got a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other, scribbling furiously.

Dean shoves the paper under Sam's nose, so close that Sam has to take a step back before he can read the words scrawled across the page. He reads it, and then reads it again, just to make sure. And then, when he still doesn't believe it, "The hell, Dean?"

Dean just points vehemently at the notebook, and then starts tapping his foot fast and impatient. Sam sighs, throws the notebook at the wall because it makes him feel better, and shoves Dean back onto the couch. "Lay down then. I'll be right back."

Sam drags his feet back outside, finds Bobby sitting in the driver's seat and feels an irrational surge of jealousy. Bobby looks up when he hears him squishing over in the mud, nods at him. Sam leans into the side of the Impala, rubbing a hand comfortingly over the hood, and says, "He says we need to turn her off. That he, um, needs to fix her. Um."

Bobby looks doubtful, but turns the engine off and tosses Sam the keys. Inside Sam hears a muffled thump, which turns out to be Dean falling off the sofa.

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"You're sure we shouldn't be taking him to a hospital?" Bobby's voice, gentle as he pushes a cup of coffee into Sam's hand. Sam tries a smile of gratitude, but it doesn't fit right on his face, so he lets it drop and turns back to Dean. He kind of wishes Bobby was still out at the store.

"I'm sure." Dean's been unconscious for nearly a day, laid out on Bobby's couch with his eyes rolled back in his head. Sometimes he twitches, mostly he's still as death. Every now and then Sam goes and finds the notebook with his message on it and throws it again to ease the fury of being unable to do anything.

Bobby leans against the wall beside him, hands tucked into his pockets. Sam assumes that he's going to keep watching in silence, but Bobby clears his throat. "You patch up the Impala while I was away?"

Sam shrugs, shakes his head, "Nah. I didn't touch her. He said not to." He wants to, he's gotten a lot better at repair work since it became obvious that keeping Dean hale and healthy meant keeping the Impala that way as well. But Dean's little message had been very specific, and so Sam's been here, sitting on his hands. He casts his gaze around for the notebook, because it's about time to throw something again.

Bobby clears his throat, shifts uncomfortably, "Well, someone did."

Sam feels a chill creep up his spine, and stands up so quickly that his chair flips over. Then he feels stupid, and straightens it before turning to Bobby. "What?" He thinks about someone sneaking in to repair the Impala. He thinks about Dean's sloppy handwriting; Hurt bad. Gotta fix me, turn off the engine, give me time.

"The instrument panel, it's been replaced, and-" that's all that Sam hears. He drops to his knees, reaches for Dean. The tape peels back easily under his fingers, he rolls the bandages off Dean's face and feels his breath catch. Dean's skin is smooth, flawless, there's even stubble over his chin. Sam runs his fingers over it, touches each freckle and feels some of the weight on his chest lighten.

Sam hears himself laugh, wraps Dean in an awkward hug.

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It's another day before Dean wakes up, and by that point both he and the Impala are in perfect condition. Sam had fallen asleep, slumped forward on Dean's chest, and wakes to fingers carding through his hair. He'd been dreaming about cheerleaders, which was odd enough to begin with. The fact that they'd been dressed in black and chrome uniforms with Team Dean embroidered on them had been just plain bizarre.

At first he thinks he's still dreaming.

Dean's voice is sleep thick, disuse rough, "You're drooling on me." Sam blinks, trying to get a firm grip on wakefulness. He finds himself staring at the underside of Dean's chin, and automatically wipes at his mouth, abashed to find that there is, indeed, a string of drool stretching from his mouth to Dean's chest.

He pushes himself up with a hand on Dean's chest, and his brother grunts, and scowls at him. "Fucking heavy." Sam's too busy grinning like an idiot to point out that Dean weighs at least fifty pounds more than him, with his damn adamantium skeleton thing going on.

Instead he leans in, kisses Dean and tastes metal and skin and the sourness of sleeping for two days straight. Dean moans into his mouth, runs a hand up Sam's arm to grip the back of his neck. Sam thinks that he could kiss him forever, that he would be just fine with that, but Dean is pushing at his shoulders, is mumbling against his lips, "Gotta pee."

Sam snorts, and lets him up.

::back to index::


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