justinedelarge | Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 12: Hell Hath No Fury

Title: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 12: Hell Hath No Fury

Author: justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest (Sam is a few months shy of legal age)
Word Count: 1900
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just for fun.
Summary: Sam's coded message helped pinpoint his location. They saddle up and head out to bring Sam home. Dean shows what he's made of.

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Between the information Sam tapped out in Morse code and the leads the hunter network had squeezed out, John and Bobby felt sure they knew where Spivey was keeping Sam.

Dean didn’t even pay that much attention. He had his own plan.

The hunters offered the new truck to them to use, the black one with the nice hard top over the bed, and said they’d pile into their second car and follow them.

Dean wouldn’t let them put any gear or weapons in the truck bed. He dragged out the thick blue foam (from what felt like a lifetime ago, when Sammy had tricked out the back of the Impala into an honest-to-god bed) and laid it out. He carried out every spare comforter, pillow and blanket in the house, settling and arranging everything to flesh it out into a comfortable place to lay Sam.

He stood in the corner of the room and listened as the grown men drew up their plan of attack. People often thought Sam was the smart one, but Dean was extremely intelligent. Much smarter than anyone gave him credit for, other than Sam.

So he listened. Evaluated. Strategized.

John tried to give Dean his orders.

Dean stood up, cutting him off. “You all go in first. I’ll be behind you.” And he would say no more on the subject. But the expression on his face and something unexpected in the tone of his voice, a low thrum of command, made every single person in the room accept his declaration without question.

“That boy is going to be a hell of a leader someday,” Bobby said after Dean left the room.

The drive to the location they thought Sam was being held was quiet, but the very air was alive with tension. It wasn’t far. Just an hour up the road.

They parked the two trucks out of sight of the abandoned warehouse, and crept up on foot.

Dean held back. Watched them. Then he removed a LHR combat knife from the bag at his feet, deadly sharp and so black it seemed to absorb all light that fell on it, augmented by runes that Dean had scratched into the blade. He secured it to his belt in its quick-release sheath, and tested the safety release that would only let the knife slip free for the person wearing it. He tucked a boot knife into place and made his way silently toward the warehouse.

He peered in a window. Sure enough, Spivey had lied. It was a trap.

John and Bobby were on the floor, guns pointed at their heads. The five other hunters that had come with them were standing or lying on the concrete, bleeding from various places, shame and embarrassment clear on their features.

Sam, wearing only blood-stained jeans, hung by his bound wrists from a hook in the middle of the room, barely conscious. Dean hissed at the sight.

Loud voices. Guns cocked. Dean slipped in, unnoticed in the chaos.

Earle Spivey delivered a wicked hard punch to John’s nose. Blood streamed over his mouth.

“Are you really that dumb?” He knelt in front of John. “You didn’t think that I wanted to take out what you done on you? Make you pay too?”

John spat in Earle’s face.

Earle just smiled, and didn’t even wipe the spittle off his mouth. “Just for that, Johnny boy, I’m gonna make you watch this next part yourself.”

Dean crawled along the side wall. Observing. Calculating. Boxes, pallets, mechanical equipment. Six of Spivey’s clan in all.

Dean pulled the first behind a stack of pallets, breaking his neck without a sound, and laying him down out of view.

Spivey’s voice reverberated through the vast space. “You found us sooner than we expected.” He chewed his lip contemplatively. “Not sure how you did that.”

He finally wiped the spit from his face and smeared it down Sam’s ravaged chest. “I was gonna make you a special tape. One you could watch over and over. Watch Buck make your boy into a man. Teach him all kinds of new tricks.” John made a low growl. “He’s shown the patience of a saint. Held off until I was done with your boy before he got his turn. But good things come to those who wait, ain’t that right, Buck.”

Buck scratched the patchy beard staining his chin and licked his lips.

Sam stirred, lifting his head, one eye swollen shut, the other blinking in the harsh overhead light. He saw John and Bobby kneeling. The guns. His head dropped, unable to bear the weight of the despair that rushed through him.

Then out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of motion. He glanced left, for just a second.

Their eyes met.

Dean. In the shadows.

Only Dean saw the hope flare on Sam’s face. Within a second, he’d damped it down, concealing his reaction to not give Dean away, let his face fall back into abject surrender and pain.

A gloved hand clamped over the second man, pulled back into the shadows silently. This time, Dean used his knife, drew it across his throat, held the man until he shivered and bled out, dropped him to the floor without a sound.

One of the hunters saw Dean drag the man back. He straightened up and yelled, “You keep your hands off him, you son of a bitch!” He lunged for Buck, making a great show of it.

This gave Dean the distraction he needed. Unable to pick the rest of them off from the shadows, he crept up behind a third, one of the ones with a gun. In a blindingly fast motion, he sliced through his Achilles tendons, dropping him like a fish, stunned and flopping, and drove his knife straight into his heart.

The room erupted. Despite their demon-blood enhanced strength and speed, Dean had single-handedly taken out three of them in the space of a few minutes. And that returned the advantage to the hunters.

Sam raised his head up with great effort, eyes locked on Dean.

Spivey bolted for the side door. Dean’s boot knife shot through the air, landing dead center between his shoulder blades, severing his spinal cord instantly.

Dean rolled to his feet, did a leg sweep, bringing Buck down hard, and then Dean was on him. A single slash, and Buck’s intestines were spilling in long ropes from his abdomen. He screamed, pissing himself. Another slash of the knife, and Buck frantically clutched the bleeding emptiness between his legs, in too much agony to scream or even breathe.

“That’s for what you were gonna do to him, you son of a bitch.” Dean wiped the blood from his mouth.

“That one, you can have.” Dean wiped his knife clean on Buck’s jacket and peeled off his leather gloves. One of the hunters pulled out a hunting knife and took care of business.

John and Bobby stood over the prone, pleading form of Earle. Everyone except Earle was staring at Dean in shock or awe. Rising to his feet, he walked to Sam.

“I’m here, Sammy. I got you.” Dean positioned himself at Sam’s side, reached up and carefully cut the rope attached to the hook. Sam crumpled like dead weight. Dean held him up, brought him gently to the floor in a graceful movement, sliced the rope tightly binding his bleeding wrists together with surgical precision.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was wrecked, barely able to force out a sound.

Dean cradled Sam, tears streaming down his face. Sam tried to lift his hand to touch Dean’s face, but he was too weak. Dean lifted Sam’s hand for him, pressed his palm against his cheek, held it there.

Sam lay in Dean’s arms, looking up at him, a smile breaking over his bleeding lips. Dean held his Sammy, strong arms locked around him, looking down at the battered ruin of his face. The love he saw there shattered him.

“We saw it, Sam. Got your message. You did good.” Dean’s body shook. “You did real good.”

Sam sucked in a shallow breath, mouth moving.

“Shhh. Don’t try to talk. I’m gonna take care of you. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore, Sammy.”

Behind him, a scream, a wet crunch and a gurgle, and Earle Spivey was silenced.

Dean wouldn’t let anyone touch Sam. He gathered him up and heaved himself to his feet, face twisting into a grimace when Sam shuddered and moaned in pain. He carried his brother in his arms by himself, all the way.

John opened the back of the truck, reached out to take Sam so Dean could jump in and lift Sam inside.

He turned and accidentally banged Sam’s head against the door. Sam gave a sharp cry.

The look that Dean shot his father was chilling.

Dean jumped out and simply took Sam away from John. John stepped back, palms extended outward.

Dean placed Sam inside with infinite care, laying him inside, head nestled on a pillow. He settled him down so gently that Sam didn’t so much as whimper. John was stunned that Dean could flip from that look of promised violence to such tenderness in the space of a few heartbeats.

He didn’t understand they both stemmed from the same simple thing.

Dean lay in the back at Sam’s side, and let John close the door. John climbed into the passenger seat, and Bobby turned the truck onto the road. The hunters piled into their car and everyone headed out. A local doctor was waiting for them in his private clinic to evaluate the extent of Sam’s injuries.

Dean was grateful the hunters had lent them this fancy new truck. The suspension in Bobby’s truck was punishing, but this vehicle was smooth, absorbing the shocks of the rocks and potholes without transmitting hardly any of it to Sam’s broken body.

Dean sat up on one arm, stroking Sam’s hair, rubbing his thumb on the one spot on Sam’s face that wasn’t bruised or bleeding.

Bobby glanced at them in the rear view, and watched them for a few moments.

John turned around and opened the sliding window between the cab and the truck bed. “How’s he doing?”

Dean didn’t even look up. “Conscious. But barely. Breath sounds good, but he’s got at least one cracked rib. Pretty sure his left arm is broken. But he’s gonna be alright.”

Bobby tapped John on the thigh. “Let him rest, John. Give the boys some privacy.”

John slid the window closed and turned back in his seat.

He didn’t see Sam open his one good eye and look at Dean. Didn’t see what was reflected there. Didn’t hear Dean whisper, “I love you so much. So much.” Didn’t see Sam find the strength to lift his hand, grip Dean’s shirt weakly, tug him down with the force of a butterfly until Dean’s lips brushed his.

~

Back in the warehouse, a sound like air being sucked out of a tight space, and a figure stood in the room. He bent over the body of Earle Spivey and pressed his fingertips into his chest.

He chanted a series of unintelligible words. Earle sucked in a wet breath and screamed.

The figure’s eyes gleamed yellow.

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