These Things
These Things
He still didn’t know how this had happened. He hated it, hated the black outs and depression that had splattered his life as carelessly as the blood had once stained his clothes. He couldn’t help but stare at the man sitting across from him, couldn’t help but watch him and the man with him, his Sam.
They didn’t say it, didn’t show it in affectionate ways the world would know, but Tom saw the big capital MY whenever Dean said Sam. He knew possession and he wasn’t about to try to get in the middle of that. Men did crazy things when they were like that and these two seemed more dangerous than most.
Tom still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here, picked up on the side of the road in a black Impala and having lost a huge chunk of time.
“You didn’t expect me to just leave him did you?” Sam asked again. They’d been through this a few times since they’d pulled into the motel and Sam had bandaged him up with far too much expertise for someone who said they had no medical training.
“Sammy…”
“No Dean. I couldn’t. I mean… look at him.”
Dean refused and Tom was more than happy not to have to see into those green eyes again. He knew what Sam meant, they all did and it had nothing to do with the bruises and blood and everything to do with the fact that he and Dean could be twins.
“So wearing my face makes him safe now?” Dean’s laughter was cutting. “You wouldn’t have said that if he was a shapeshifter.”
“He wasn’t and we knew that. You tested him for it. We’ve tested him for everything and he’s just…. He looks like you.”
“His name is Tom.” He said, bringing the force of their attention on him. He took a deep breath. How the hell did he get in this anyway? He’d been signing himself out of the institute just yesterday, feeling better and happier than he had in a long time. How did he come to be beat up and battered, strapped to a chair, caught in between two men who were fighting about who he was? How the hell did he always get caught in the middle of these things?