Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 70: Here's Johnny

[justinedelarge]

Title: Sure Got a Dirty Mouth Chapter 70: Here's Johnny
Author: justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warning: Wincest, implied torture/abuse (not graphic)
Word Count: 2500
Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own. But I do own what I do own, such as my original characters and my plot.
Summary: Sam fixes a few things in his head. Forces converge upon Amarillo.
Master post of all chapters here

John threw his duffel bag into the back seat of the Impala, when a flash of movement caught his eye. A large bird perched on the telephone wire, fluttered its black wings and settled down again. It cocked its head at the sight of John looking at it.

“Huh.” John shook his head. The bird, a black bird of prey of some sort, was not one he’d ever seen before.

The driver’s side door creaked as John opened it. The bird did not budge at the sound of the heavy, American-steel door slamming shut. John drove down the path leading to the main road, the Impala’s wheels kicking up gravel, and the bird rose into the air, flying up high, out of human sight. It remained at that height, following the Impala as it moved onto the highway.

At the first gas stop, John leaned against the car, scratching his thigh idly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of it. A bird on top of the roof of the gas station’s mini-mart.  The same bird as before. John pretended not to take note of it, scanning the gas station for anything (else) that made the hairs on the back of his neck go up.

He walked to the end of the concrete landing where the dirt started, and picked up a flat rock. As his gas tank filled, he quickly pulled out his knife and scratched a symbol onto the rock. After replacing the nozzle, he moved to get back in the car—and suddenly turned on his heel and pegged the rock at the bird, hitting it. It let loose a cry that sounded surprisingly like a human scream, and toppled off the side of the roof, a faint puff of smoke trailing from its limp form.

John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove away, brow furrowed in thought.  John did watch cop procedurals, and did check his six, and it did not take him long to realize he was being followed. He headed down the road to a busy truck stop, and parked the Impala right in front of the diner. He hefted his duffel bag over his shoulder and went inside, perching on a stool at the counter, flirting with the waitress, ordering a grilled cheese and fries, and a beer. The man in the car that was following him came in and took a seat a few stools down.

John winked at the waitress as he excused himself and walked to the bathroom, bringing his duffel with him. Once out of site, he ran, in a rapid but light gait, down the hall and out the side door. He scanned the parking lot, looking for his best option in the seconds he had before he was tracked again. He saw it. Not ideal, but it would work. A ’94 Ford Ranger pickup had pulled in for gas from the same freeway direction that John was travelling, driven by a young man in his twenties. He bounded into the mini-mart, lank hair bouncing as he ran. John walked between the truck and the pump, and tried the handles of the aftermarket camper shell over the truck bed. They were unlocked.

Quickly, he twisted them, pulled open the top flap, and jumped inside. He pulled the top shut and stretched himself flat on his stomach on the padded liner, so he was hidden by the metal sides of the truck bed. He kept one hand stretched up to hold the other end of the right-side handle to keep the flap shut. Thankfully, he had worn all-black clothing, so when the young man walked past the side of the truck, he did not see John through the side window of the camper shell. He started up the truck and headed back on the highway. John breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the freeway sign indicating he was headed south.

John turned around carefully, no longer needing to hold the flap perfectly closed. John peered through the side windows, keeping himself low and his movements extremely slow, and the young man continued to drive south. He listened to college rock, singing along, making up most of the words. John gritted his teeth when the third Rush song came on, audible in the truck bed despite the noise from the wind and the roadway. “Fucking prog rock…” he muttered, resting his head on his duffel, shivering from the cold.

The young man made a straight shot down 29 South. He drove for a long time. He pulled off the highway, meandering down residential streets, and finally parked. A woman’s voice, older, probably his mother, greeted him from the doorway, and he went inside. John clumsily extricated himself from the truck, hands and feet numb with cold, and nearly stumbled as he walked away. He made it around the corner, and on a darker street, he tried the door handles of each car until he found one that was unlocked. He slid inside and had it hot-wired in seconds. He pulled out, cranking the heat to high even though the engine wasn’t even warmed up yet, shaking violently. He pulled out his cell phone and called Zach, making up a story about where he was going and why he had to ditch his car, telling him where the Impala was parked and where his spare key was. Zach promised to take Bosie and take it back to Bobby’s, and swore he would not let her drive the Impala.

John looped around the block and retraced the path the young man in the Ranger had made (John peering out the side window taking mental notes of the street names and directions. Soon, he was back on the highway, and had worked out that he was in Wichita.

~

On a different highway, in a different town, a white-haired man drove an RV down the highway towards Amarillo, soft jazz playing on the radio. He turned the volume down to better hear the sounds coming from the back of the RV, where Azazel was playing with the pretty blonde hitchhiker he’d bound and gagged. The original owners of the RV, Myrna and Bob Pokorny, were tucked neatly into the sleeping area over the driver’s compartment, throats slit, wrapped in a blue tarp. The girl was spread-eagle on the bed. Azazel had the entire kitchen utensil drawer at his side and was experimenting with different implements. She screamed through the gag as he tried a new one.

Azazel grinned, his teeth gleaming a dull yellow. “I think she wants to know, ‘Are we there yet?’” He turned his attention back to the girl. “I love road trips. Doncha love road trips?” He sucked the tears from the side of her face. He called up to the front. “Seriously, though. How close are we?”

The white-haired demon examined his map. “We just crossed over into Texas.”

“Did you hear that?” Azazel tugged on the girl’s ankle. “The stars at night…” He put down the vegetable peeler. “Are big and bright…” He picked up the nut pick, with the sharp, slender claw at the end. “Deep in the heart of Texas!”

~

Sam was asleep on his back, hands on his stomach, left hand above his right. Dean slept on his stomach, arm thrown over Sam’s chest.

Sam dreamed.

Still thrumming with energy from being with Dean, he dreamed.

Slowly, he became aware that he was dreaming. Felt like he had the controls in his hands. He looked down, and his hands were holding a joystick. He tilted it back, and the world tipped. Sending him flying up, soaring over the landscape, feeling the wind move through his hair and push against his body. He turned the joystick, turning himself as he flew, laughing with the delight of it.

The landscape changed, became familiar. He used the joystick to set himself down. He was at the warehouse. He stood at the door of the warehouse. Holding the controls in his hand. He pressed the red button.

Suddenly he found himself inside, face to face with Earle Spivey.

Spivey grinned, exposing his bad teeth. “Little Sammy Winchester…” he began.

“No.”

Spivey sputtered, reached for Sam. Sam extended his hand. Spivey flew through the air and crashed against the far wall.

“No.” Sam repeated, the feeling of light and heat rising inside him. “You don’t touch me.” He paused, thinking. “You didn’t touch me. Didn’t lay a hand on me.” Sam saw it all moving in reverse, Dean cutting him down, Spivey and the other one torturing him, Spivey dunking his head in the bucket over and over. Saw it all moving in reverse like film spinning through a projector backwards, until he saw himself unharmed, in the warehouse, simply bound and gagged and scared.

“That’s as far as you got. Then Dean saved me.”

Spivey sat up, wiping his mouth.

“This is my dream. I control it. And I get a do-over too.” Sam imagined all that had happened to him in this place as images on that reel of film.

A reel of film toppled onto the concrete floor and spilled out, coiling and bunching like a snake, rippling with still images of him gasping for breath, water sheeting off his hair, of the cattle prod being brought closer to his flesh.

“I said no.”

The film burst into flame, a sad little blaze with a pathetic puff of smoke, and then it was gone. Not even ash remained.

Sam closed his eyes, letting the light and heat rise in him. Spivey scurried backward.

Sam opened his eyes. Light burst out of him. The walls surrounding him went white, and disappeared. Earle Spivey disappeared. Everything black and evil and unclean disappeared.

Sam opened his eyes. He was in bed, safe and warm, Dean’s arm on his chest as if to keep him safe from harm. Dean was awake, green eyes bright with worry, searching his face. “You feeling ok, Sammy?”

Sam took a breath, a deep breath filling his lungs completely, and released it. “I’m good.” Another breath. “Really good.”

Dean brushed the hair out of Sam’s eyes.

“Why? Was I like talking in my sleep or something?”

“No. You got hot. Like, more than your usual furnace thing. I woke up sweating and…” He nodded toward Sam’s feet. Sam was shocked to see the blankets flung there, bunched at his feet. He ran his hand over his stomach. Despite the chill in the room, he was hot to the touch, damp with sweat, like he’d been lounging on the beach with the sun beating down on him.

“Huh.” Sam looked back at Dean. “I feel fine. Feel great, actually.” He wiped his fingers on the sheets. “Could use a shower though.”

Dean grinned. “Then lunch?”

“Always about food with you.”

“That’s because you always make me work up an appetite.”

“Shower. Then…”

“Sandwiches. And pickles. And three Cokes.”

“Three?” Sam couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah. Three.” Dean rubbed his stomach. “You said you’d love me even with a big old belly.”

“Shower.” Sam sat up with a grimace. “I’m all sweaty.”

Dean started the water like he’d become accustomed to doing, but to his surprise, Sam joined him without hesitation, pivoting Dean around like they were dancing, putting himself under the bulk of the spray, and turning down the temperature so it was cooler. He stuck his head directly under the spray. “God that feels good.”

Dean stared.

“What?”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “Sam. You’re…” He waved at the water. “It’s all over you.”

Sam let the water sheet over his face, smiling at Dean like he’d aced the final.

“Sammy?” Dean was absolutely one to look a gift horse in the mouth if it meant something might have happened to Sam.

“It’s ok, Dean.” Sam put his arms around Dean and kissed him under the shower spray. He pulled his mouth away, letting the water run inside his open mouth, and squirted it like a whale’s blowhole, right on Dean’s chest. “It’s ok.”

“You lost me here, Sammy.”

“I gave myself a do-over.” Sam jerked his head toward the bedroom. “I had one of those lucid dreams. And this time…” Sam shook his head. “This time, I really took control. I was back in the warehouse, and, Dean, I made it not happen.”

Dean wiped the water out of his face. “Made what not happen?”

“All of it. I…undid it. I mean, I know it all happened. But I ran the tape back. In my head. And I stopped it before they did anything, and I said, I told him no, this is where Dean saved me.”

Sam was so elated, he didn’t notice the subtle flash of guilt on Dean’s face. “And it felt like, honestly, it felt like it all unraveled. I remember it all, I still remember it, but it’s like it happened to someone else. Like I was watching a movie.” He turned to face the spray of water, letting it run over his face. “Dean, I’m not freaking out.” He looked back at Dean over his shoulder, eyes lit up with joy and a bone-deep relief that made Dean realize just how much Sam had been carrying on his shoulders.

Dean drew close and wrapped his arms around Sam, just holding him, palms spread wide over his ribs, feeling his chest expand and contract, breathing with him in perfect sync. Sam closed his eyes and let the water run over his face, hands pressed over Dean’s, breathing in and out. “I’m not scared anymore.”

~

John rolled past the Welcome to Amarillo sign and took a deep breath. He drove toward where the map said the address of the Sanctuary was. As he neared, he saw a maintenance worker on the side of the road. His motions were aimless, almost bored, but he kept his eyes on the entrance to the motel.

John slumped down in his seat, and pulled his cap down lower. He drove past the driveway to the motel, heart thumping, but the maintenance worker did not look at him.

He drove down, hung a right, and parked out of sight of the front entrance. Slinging his duffel over his shoulder, he walked back toward the motel, and cut through the thick line of shrubs surrounding the perimeter. Just past the shrubs, he saw the salt speed bump that completely surrounded the property. He practically leaped over it, adrenaline amping his movements, and let out a huge breath once he was safely on the other side. Tugging his coat up to camouflage his face as much as possible, he hustled toward the motel entrance.

The maintenance worker raised his head, a frown creasing his forehead. He raised his hand, pointing his finger at John.

John flipped him off, turned on his heel and banged his palm on the bell.

Within a few moments, Juliane appeared at the front counter. “May I help you?”

“I sure hope so.” John looked over his shoulder, body language unmistakably tense, at where the maintenance worker was engaged in a vigorous discussion with a state trooper. He turned his attention back to Juliane. He put both palms on the counter and leaned in. “I need sanctuary.”