Indiana Dean and the Cavern of Doom, par moi
Title: Indiana Dean and the Cavern of Doom
Rating, Warnings: I guess I'll say PG-13. Swears, lots of references to the groinal region (I got 'grundle' in there!), some badly written violence, possible wincest if you're really, really looking for it, and oh yeah, crack. *sigh*
Word Count: 2700
Summary: Dean travels to the Cavern of Doom and dukes it out with an evil fat man. You know, the usual.
Reposted from
spnflashfic, which was about enclosed spaces.
It was pretty stupid, really, in terms of ways to get caught, and people to get caught by. Dean had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, because he’d learned the hard way that any perceived lack of respect equalled a totally real punt in the balls. Which, really, he’d rather avoid if at all possible. And besides, if he got punted in the balls at this point, he’d end up swinging all around and that never led to anything good.
The bad guy this time was a fantastically fat man who called himself Fosco. This was apparently a reference to something, because Sam snorted and rolled his eyes and got kicked in the nuts, while Dean just stared blankly because he had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Fosco was like a bad villain out of a James Bond movie, constantly making scheming faces and taking detours through secret passages. He’d mastered the art of the devious eyebrow, which made Dean kind of jealous because he’d been practising that for years and all he got was a sore forehead and the surprised double raise.
Fosco had, at some point in his travels through Italy - “My home country,” he explained, somehow managing to make this sound ominous - discovered some sort of marble statue that shat out money in exchange for blood sacrifices. Seeing Dean’s disturbed expression, Fosco had snapped his plump fingers and a big guy had booted Dean in the meat-n-veg.
There were big guys everywhere, angry-looking men with overdeveloped muscles and, Dean was willing to bet, underdeveloped testicles from all the ’roid use. Which was probably why they felt no sympathy pain from all the sacking they were doing.
So they had this idol, right? Only, not any more, because Dean had shot the shit out of it and Sam’d said some Latin mumbo jumbo, and that was that.
Except as they were congratulating themselves on a job well done, the ’roiders had run in and smacked them on the heads and stomped on their nads while Fosco stood in the background and cackled with campy malevolence.
And now they were in what Fosco had told them was his cavern of doom. Mind you, he’d pronounced it Cavern of Doom, capital ‘C,’ capital ‘D.’ Dean couldn’t do that, either.
Dean couldn’t do much, at this point, seeing as he was tied up and dangling from a rope above a pit full of crocodiles floating in some gross-looking murky water. Not that the water was what he was worried about. There was about eight feet between the nearest croc’s head and the tips of his boots, which were swaying slightly as he stared at them.
He risked a look at Sam, who was frowning and wrinkling up his giant forehead. There were two guys on either side of Sam, each holding a limb, while another dude stood in front of him, leg cocked for a kicking. The entire place was lit by flickering torches, which were hell on the eyes, and in the weird lighting Dean wasn’t sure what kind of frown Sam was wearing, or if there were seven crocs or eight.
Standing on a raised dais, Fosco was rubbing his fat white hands together in what was clearly supposed to be an evil way. “Lower him,” he boomed at his muscled minions, one of whom hastened over to push a big red button beside the winch.
With a jolt, Dean started down. He very deliberately didn’t roll his eyes when he realized he was going down at about three inches an hour. There was a minion by the side of the pit with a mean-looking stick with knobs that he kept tapping against his open palm, clearly waiting for an excuse to hit someone - Dean was thinking 'Dean' - like a piñata.
Meanwhile, Fosco swept an arm grandly over to Sam. “Do it!” he commanded, and beckoned for an underling to rush forward with some chocolate. The four minions holding Sam heaved him up and backwards. They slammed him into an upright coffin, tucked his limbs in, and banged the coffin’s hinged door shut.
Or tried to; Sam let out a strangled groan as the door thumped into his feet, knees, and forehead, all of which were poking out. There was some scuffling as the subordinates attempted to arrange it so he fit.
Dean caught Sam’s eye over the heaving mass of deltoids and allowed himself a grin. “Way to grow, Sammy!” he hollered, laughing. Sam gave him a pained grin.
“What is going on over there?” Fosco roared around a mouthful of chocolate. “Put him in!”
“I've giv'n her all she's got sir, an' I canna give her no more!” shouted one of the minions, inexplicably Scottish. “She won’t take much more of this!”
“For Christ’s sake, must I do everything myself?” Fosco muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Even that looked evil, Dean noted with admiration. The fat man straightened. “Alright, hoist the shorter one up and switch them. One will still die, slowly and painfully, via the deadly bite of the Crocodylomorpha, while the other listens to him scream, waiting for his own death, panicked and suffocating, in a living tomb.” He let out a ringing laugh as the ’roiders hurried to follow orders.
Much faster than he was lowered, Dean shot back up and was quickly untied. Before he could do much more than think about making a bid for freedom, he got a quick one-two punch in the kidneys and a poke in the eye. “Dude,” he sighed, “was that really necessary?”
Sam was hustled past him, looking bruised and dazed, and then Dean was shoved unceremoniously into the coffin. The lid slammed shut, but not before he saw the look of helplessness on Sam’s face.
And then it was dark.
It was dark, and Dean couldn’t move, and it wasn’t like stuck-in-the-pipes-under-a-city dark and unmoving. There was nowhere to go, at all, and even if you greased him up and pushed, he’d still be exactly where he started. Which was inside a coffin. Inside a coffin. INSIDE A COFFIN, while his brother was lowered into a PIT FULL OF CROCODILES. And there was nothing he could do, because he was stuck in a dark fucking coffin.
There were things in the dark; Dean knew this like he knew Sam’s birthday, and that train of thought wasn’t helping, because how was he supposed to give Sammy his birthday gift (a super value jug of lube and a stack of porn, oh yeah, he was gonna be pissed, until Dean gave him the entire series of Encyclopaedia Mythica) if he died in a dark little death box?
There was a hazy period then, and when Dean came back to himself he was beating his hands on the walls and making low-pitched noises that were all vowels and he still couldn’t see. He made an effort to get a grip; he clenched his throbbing hands into his pants and focused on each muscle in his body in turn until it relaxed. He took deep breaths through his nose, and realized with a start that Sam was in here with him.
Frantic, Dean felt around as best he could, which wasn’t much considering he had one inch of moving room. After a fruitless two seconds of searching, he realized it wasn’t Sam himself, but the lingering cling of his brother’s forehead sweat from where it’d been smacked against the coffin’s lid. Dean leaned the half-inch forward until his nose was pressed against the rough grain, too low but who gave a fuck, inhaled, inhaled again.
His eyes fluttered closed - not that it made much difference - and he pictured sparring with Sam, working up a clean sweat, both of them landing softened blows until they broke apart, laughing, and then went out to a bar, smiling easy and free.
He was just at the part where Sam got over his social retardedness and accepted Dean’s offer of his girl’s sister when a cry broke in.
“OKAY SERIOUSLY LET ME UP,” the vague impression of a scream in Sam’s voice, followed by muffled douchey laughter. Dean’s eyes flew open - again, not much of a difference - and vowed he was going to kick some serious ass once he got out.
Speaking of which, he thought, and could’ve sworn he heard the splash of a croc’s tail. Dean took in a deep breath, held Sam in his lungs, and lunged forward. The coffin tipped, wobbled, and fell, crashing open and sending Dean sprawling.
For a long moment, all he saw was light, welcome and horrifying all at once. He’d landed on his hands, and then his face, and holy crap everything hurt, and who the fuck ever said that this lighting was dim? It was stabbing him in the eyes, and then it wasn’t, but nine of the big guys were on their way over to bring the pain.
Dean was ready for them, once his eyes adjusted, and one of the good things about body building was that it didn’t really let you run fast. There was a weird twanging noise, and one of the minions let out a bellow. He clutched his hamstring and went down, the muscle looking a lot flatter than it did a minute ago. The rest of the horde immediately slowed down, concern showing in the whites of their eyes.
Dean let loose his best cocky smirk, ignoring the fact that they’d probably been listening to him freak out for the last hour, and got shakily to his feet. He had an eight inch-long coffin-splinter in each hand, and he was mad. The top of Sam’s head wasn’t visible, and there was a lot of softly sinister liquid sounds going on. One of the minions moved forward.
Dean let out an angry yodel and rushed forward, splinters swinging. He easily evaded the first two ’roiders and found himself in a thicket of meaty limbs and generic tattoos. He took out one with a splinter to the neck, hit another with his elbow as the first went down.
Number three landed a punch to the back of Dean’s shoulders, then went down as Dean wrenched the first splinter out of number one and spun awesomely to shove it into number three’s chest. It broke in half as number six punched Dean in the face, twice in rapid succession. His lip split, ripped open and spat blood down his chin.
Dean growled, blew blood in the face of number seven, and stabbed number four behind his back. Four went down, coughing, as Dean punched the fuck out of number six’s face. His nose broke, smashed into his face, and he fell.
Minion number five grabbed him from behind in a bear hug and Dean immediately dropped into a crouch, moving back just enough so that when he slammed back up it was right into a crotch. Five let out a squealing hiss and fell over, eyes bulging.
Dean straightened, rolled his shoulders out, cracked his neck a couple of times. He was wiping the thin rivulet of blood off of his chin when one of the two remaining broke and ran.
Dean was out of splinters; the remaining minion’s smug smile let him know he knew it. Dean spread his hands, made the universal signal for ‘bring it on, bitch.’ The minion bared his teeth, growled, charged. Stepping lightly to the side, Dean slid out of the way and as the other man passed he hustled in behind and let loose. One big shitkicking boot went flying into the space between the big guy’s legs, and as his scream rent the air Dean was sorry only for the fact that he was pretty sure he’d hit the guy’s grundle, and not his actual balls.
Dean took a mental moment to savour his win as he ran over to check on Sam. Who, at this point, was up to his hips in water. He stared up at Dean, desperation on his face.
“Dean,” he hissed, hardly daring to move his mouth, “get me the fuck out of here. Right. Now.”
“Right-o,” Dean said around his swelling lip. He started towards the big red button. “Hey,” he called over his shoulder as he went, “how’re you not eaten yet?”
There was a tense silence from the pit.
Dean pushed the button and Sam came zipping up, dripping and pale. Looking around, Dean spotted a discarded knobbly stick and brought it over, used it to fish Sam back from the pit’s maw.
“Dude,” Dean said, taking a look at the knots, “these are fucking bows. What the hell kind of lackeys are these guys?”
Sam didn’t answer, just sat and shivered. He looked wretched, wet and shaking, eyes rounded up pathetic. Heroically, Dean took off his jacket and laid it on Sam’s shoulders with an awkward pat.
Suddenly, a klaxon blared and a red light washed over the firelight. “Alert, alert,” a metallic voice bleated. “Prisoners have escaped. Alert, alert. Prisoners have escaped.”
“Dean,” Sam fisted his hands in Dean’s bloody shirt, voice just this side of hysteria. “We’re got to get out of here!”
Dean shot him a weirded out look.
“Look, you asshole, I’ve just spent an hour being lowered into a pit of sleeping crocodiles, who, coincidently, didn’t eat me only because the water was so goddamn fucking cold.” Sam’s hair was standing on end in indignation. “So for fuck’s sake, get me the fuck out.”
“Yes sir,” Dean snapped, and hauled Sam to his feet. And watched him slump back down. “Work with me here, Sammy!”
“My legs are fucking frozen, you-” Sam fumed, the rest of his words cut out by the clatter of gunfire.
“Whoa!” Dean exclaimed, and dove out of the way. Then leapt back over when he noticed that all Sam was doing was flailing his arms around. He dragged Sam over to a handy console and dumped him behind it, ignoring his brother’s dirty look.
He risked a look at whoever was shooting at them, and took in the sight of the gigantic figure of Fosco, reverberating with automatic fire.
He dropped back down to Sam. “It’s Fosco,” he whispered, “and he looks like a vibrating bowl of mashed potatoes.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Stop thinking in food, Dean, and go kick his ass.” As an afterthought, he added, “And, y’know, be cautious.”
Dean grinned, pinched Sam’s cheek. “Ooh, ‘cautious.’ Looks like someone went to the University of Fancy.”
The gunfire had stopped, and Fosco’s rich voice rang out into the silence. “Boys! My boys. Come out, come out, wherever you are!” He paused to chuckle, and Dean darted, hunched over, along the wall. Fosco was back on the dais, surveying the post-Winchester rubble. He spotted Dean and threw back his head with laughter.
“Come on then, boy,” Fosco growled, and levelled his machine gun.
Dean dashed up the steps and leapt aside, bullets whistling by Matrix-style. One ripped through the cuff of his jeans, nicking the thin skin of his ankle. Dean cursed as he landed, rolled forward, and kicked the fat man in the shin.
“Damn and blast!” he spluttered, dropping the gun. It fired off a couple of rounds as it hit the ground, one whapping into the heavy fat of Fosco’s gut, the other hitting him higher up. “Kuhfllsh,” Fosco continued, and tipped over, sinking slowly.
Dean stood, wincing a little at the all-over throb of his body, radiating from his face and ankle and ah, holy shit his balls.
“Y’all right?” Sam’s voice floated up from behind the console.
“I’m fine,” Dean called over. “You?” Sam shouted an affirmative while Dean watched Fosco roll around and snort blood bubbles. He stooped to pick up the gun.
“Looks like blood sacrifices don’t pay,” Dean told him, smug as hell, and shot him point blank.
“Oh my god, Dean, that was the worst thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Sam grumbled, still out of sight. Dean just grinned, pleased.
Later, on the way back to the motel, Sam’s legs spazzing with returning feeling, Dean’s wounds no longer bleeding, he rolled down the window. At Sam’s slightly annoyed look - it was about 40 degrees out - he shrugged, defensive. “It was getting a little close in here, okay?” Sam gave him a knowing look, and Dean punched him in the leg, and the knowing look turned into a squidge of pain.
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”
Rating, Warnings: I guess I'll say PG-13. Swears, lots of references to the groinal region (I got 'grundle' in there!), some badly written violence, possible wincest if you're really, really looking for it, and oh yeah, crack. *sigh*
Word Count: 2700
Summary: Dean travels to the Cavern of Doom and dukes it out with an evil fat man. You know, the usual.
Reposted from
spnflashfic, which was about enclosed spaces.
It was pretty stupid, really, in terms of ways to get caught, and people to get caught by. Dean had to fight the urge to roll his eyes, because he’d learned the hard way that any perceived lack of respect equalled a totally real punt in the balls. Which, really, he’d rather avoid if at all possible. And besides, if he got punted in the balls at this point, he’d end up swinging all around and that never led to anything good.
The bad guy this time was a fantastically fat man who called himself Fosco. This was apparently a reference to something, because Sam snorted and rolled his eyes and got kicked in the nuts, while Dean just stared blankly because he had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Fosco was like a bad villain out of a James Bond movie, constantly making scheming faces and taking detours through secret passages. He’d mastered the art of the devious eyebrow, which made Dean kind of jealous because he’d been practising that for years and all he got was a sore forehead and the surprised double raise.
Fosco had, at some point in his travels through Italy - “My home country,” he explained, somehow managing to make this sound ominous - discovered some sort of marble statue that shat out money in exchange for blood sacrifices. Seeing Dean’s disturbed expression, Fosco had snapped his plump fingers and a big guy had booted Dean in the meat-n-veg.
There were big guys everywhere, angry-looking men with overdeveloped muscles and, Dean was willing to bet, underdeveloped testicles from all the ’roid use. Which was probably why they felt no sympathy pain from all the sacking they were doing.
So they had this idol, right? Only, not any more, because Dean had shot the shit out of it and Sam’d said some Latin mumbo jumbo, and that was that.
Except as they were congratulating themselves on a job well done, the ’roiders had run in and smacked them on the heads and stomped on their nads while Fosco stood in the background and cackled with campy malevolence.
And now they were in what Fosco had told them was his cavern of doom. Mind you, he’d pronounced it Cavern of Doom, capital ‘C,’ capital ‘D.’ Dean couldn’t do that, either.
Dean couldn’t do much, at this point, seeing as he was tied up and dangling from a rope above a pit full of crocodiles floating in some gross-looking murky water. Not that the water was what he was worried about. There was about eight feet between the nearest croc’s head and the tips of his boots, which were swaying slightly as he stared at them.
He risked a look at Sam, who was frowning and wrinkling up his giant forehead. There were two guys on either side of Sam, each holding a limb, while another dude stood in front of him, leg cocked for a kicking. The entire place was lit by flickering torches, which were hell on the eyes, and in the weird lighting Dean wasn’t sure what kind of frown Sam was wearing, or if there were seven crocs or eight.
Standing on a raised dais, Fosco was rubbing his fat white hands together in what was clearly supposed to be an evil way. “Lower him,” he boomed at his muscled minions, one of whom hastened over to push a big red button beside the winch.
With a jolt, Dean started down. He very deliberately didn’t roll his eyes when he realized he was going down at about three inches an hour. There was a minion by the side of the pit with a mean-looking stick with knobs that he kept tapping against his open palm, clearly waiting for an excuse to hit someone - Dean was thinking 'Dean' - like a piñata.
Meanwhile, Fosco swept an arm grandly over to Sam. “Do it!” he commanded, and beckoned for an underling to rush forward with some chocolate. The four minions holding Sam heaved him up and backwards. They slammed him into an upright coffin, tucked his limbs in, and banged the coffin’s hinged door shut.
Or tried to; Sam let out a strangled groan as the door thumped into his feet, knees, and forehead, all of which were poking out. There was some scuffling as the subordinates attempted to arrange it so he fit.
Dean caught Sam’s eye over the heaving mass of deltoids and allowed himself a grin. “Way to grow, Sammy!” he hollered, laughing. Sam gave him a pained grin.
“What is going on over there?” Fosco roared around a mouthful of chocolate. “Put him in!”
“I've giv'n her all she's got sir, an' I canna give her no more!” shouted one of the minions, inexplicably Scottish. “She won’t take much more of this!”
“For Christ’s sake, must I do everything myself?” Fosco muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Even that looked evil, Dean noted with admiration. The fat man straightened. “Alright, hoist the shorter one up and switch them. One will still die, slowly and painfully, via the deadly bite of the Crocodylomorpha, while the other listens to him scream, waiting for his own death, panicked and suffocating, in a living tomb.” He let out a ringing laugh as the ’roiders hurried to follow orders.
Much faster than he was lowered, Dean shot back up and was quickly untied. Before he could do much more than think about making a bid for freedom, he got a quick one-two punch in the kidneys and a poke in the eye. “Dude,” he sighed, “was that really necessary?”
Sam was hustled past him, looking bruised and dazed, and then Dean was shoved unceremoniously into the coffin. The lid slammed shut, but not before he saw the look of helplessness on Sam’s face.
And then it was dark.
It was dark, and Dean couldn’t move, and it wasn’t like stuck-in-the-pipes-under-a-city dark and unmoving. There was nowhere to go, at all, and even if you greased him up and pushed, he’d still be exactly where he started. Which was inside a coffin. Inside a coffin. INSIDE A COFFIN, while his brother was lowered into a PIT FULL OF CROCODILES. And there was nothing he could do, because he was stuck in a dark fucking coffin.
There were things in the dark; Dean knew this like he knew Sam’s birthday, and that train of thought wasn’t helping, because how was he supposed to give Sammy his birthday gift (a super value jug of lube and a stack of porn, oh yeah, he was gonna be pissed, until Dean gave him the entire series of Encyclopaedia Mythica) if he died in a dark little death box?
There was a hazy period then, and when Dean came back to himself he was beating his hands on the walls and making low-pitched noises that were all vowels and he still couldn’t see. He made an effort to get a grip; he clenched his throbbing hands into his pants and focused on each muscle in his body in turn until it relaxed. He took deep breaths through his nose, and realized with a start that Sam was in here with him.
Frantic, Dean felt around as best he could, which wasn’t much considering he had one inch of moving room. After a fruitless two seconds of searching, he realized it wasn’t Sam himself, but the lingering cling of his brother’s forehead sweat from where it’d been smacked against the coffin’s lid. Dean leaned the half-inch forward until his nose was pressed against the rough grain, too low but who gave a fuck, inhaled, inhaled again.
His eyes fluttered closed - not that it made much difference - and he pictured sparring with Sam, working up a clean sweat, both of them landing softened blows until they broke apart, laughing, and then went out to a bar, smiling easy and free.
He was just at the part where Sam got over his social retardedness and accepted Dean’s offer of his girl’s sister when a cry broke in.
“OKAY SERIOUSLY LET ME UP,” the vague impression of a scream in Sam’s voice, followed by muffled douchey laughter. Dean’s eyes flew open - again, not much of a difference - and vowed he was going to kick some serious ass once he got out.
Speaking of which, he thought, and could’ve sworn he heard the splash of a croc’s tail. Dean took in a deep breath, held Sam in his lungs, and lunged forward. The coffin tipped, wobbled, and fell, crashing open and sending Dean sprawling.
For a long moment, all he saw was light, welcome and horrifying all at once. He’d landed on his hands, and then his face, and holy crap everything hurt, and who the fuck ever said that this lighting was dim? It was stabbing him in the eyes, and then it wasn’t, but nine of the big guys were on their way over to bring the pain.
Dean was ready for them, once his eyes adjusted, and one of the good things about body building was that it didn’t really let you run fast. There was a weird twanging noise, and one of the minions let out a bellow. He clutched his hamstring and went down, the muscle looking a lot flatter than it did a minute ago. The rest of the horde immediately slowed down, concern showing in the whites of their eyes.
Dean let loose his best cocky smirk, ignoring the fact that they’d probably been listening to him freak out for the last hour, and got shakily to his feet. He had an eight inch-long coffin-splinter in each hand, and he was mad. The top of Sam’s head wasn’t visible, and there was a lot of softly sinister liquid sounds going on. One of the minions moved forward.
Dean let out an angry yodel and rushed forward, splinters swinging. He easily evaded the first two ’roiders and found himself in a thicket of meaty limbs and generic tattoos. He took out one with a splinter to the neck, hit another with his elbow as the first went down.
Number three landed a punch to the back of Dean’s shoulders, then went down as Dean wrenched the first splinter out of number one and spun awesomely to shove it into number three’s chest. It broke in half as number six punched Dean in the face, twice in rapid succession. His lip split, ripped open and spat blood down his chin.
Dean growled, blew blood in the face of number seven, and stabbed number four behind his back. Four went down, coughing, as Dean punched the fuck out of number six’s face. His nose broke, smashed into his face, and he fell.
Minion number five grabbed him from behind in a bear hug and Dean immediately dropped into a crouch, moving back just enough so that when he slammed back up it was right into a crotch. Five let out a squealing hiss and fell over, eyes bulging.
Dean straightened, rolled his shoulders out, cracked his neck a couple of times. He was wiping the thin rivulet of blood off of his chin when one of the two remaining broke and ran.
Dean was out of splinters; the remaining minion’s smug smile let him know he knew it. Dean spread his hands, made the universal signal for ‘bring it on, bitch.’ The minion bared his teeth, growled, charged. Stepping lightly to the side, Dean slid out of the way and as the other man passed he hustled in behind and let loose. One big shitkicking boot went flying into the space between the big guy’s legs, and as his scream rent the air Dean was sorry only for the fact that he was pretty sure he’d hit the guy’s grundle, and not his actual balls.
Dean took a mental moment to savour his win as he ran over to check on Sam. Who, at this point, was up to his hips in water. He stared up at Dean, desperation on his face.
“Dean,” he hissed, hardly daring to move his mouth, “get me the fuck out of here. Right. Now.”
“Right-o,” Dean said around his swelling lip. He started towards the big red button. “Hey,” he called over his shoulder as he went, “how’re you not eaten yet?”
There was a tense silence from the pit.
Dean pushed the button and Sam came zipping up, dripping and pale. Looking around, Dean spotted a discarded knobbly stick and brought it over, used it to fish Sam back from the pit’s maw.
“Dude,” Dean said, taking a look at the knots, “these are fucking bows. What the hell kind of lackeys are these guys?”
Sam didn’t answer, just sat and shivered. He looked wretched, wet and shaking, eyes rounded up pathetic. Heroically, Dean took off his jacket and laid it on Sam’s shoulders with an awkward pat.
Suddenly, a klaxon blared and a red light washed over the firelight. “Alert, alert,” a metallic voice bleated. “Prisoners have escaped. Alert, alert. Prisoners have escaped.”
“Dean,” Sam fisted his hands in Dean’s bloody shirt, voice just this side of hysteria. “We’re got to get out of here!”
Dean shot him a weirded out look.
“Look, you asshole, I’ve just spent an hour being lowered into a pit of sleeping crocodiles, who, coincidently, didn’t eat me only because the water was so goddamn fucking cold.” Sam’s hair was standing on end in indignation. “So for fuck’s sake, get me the fuck out.”
“Yes sir,” Dean snapped, and hauled Sam to his feet. And watched him slump back down. “Work with me here, Sammy!”
“My legs are fucking frozen, you-” Sam fumed, the rest of his words cut out by the clatter of gunfire.
“Whoa!” Dean exclaimed, and dove out of the way. Then leapt back over when he noticed that all Sam was doing was flailing his arms around. He dragged Sam over to a handy console and dumped him behind it, ignoring his brother’s dirty look.
He risked a look at whoever was shooting at them, and took in the sight of the gigantic figure of Fosco, reverberating with automatic fire.
He dropped back down to Sam. “It’s Fosco,” he whispered, “and he looks like a vibrating bowl of mashed potatoes.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Stop thinking in food, Dean, and go kick his ass.” As an afterthought, he added, “And, y’know, be cautious.”
Dean grinned, pinched Sam’s cheek. “Ooh, ‘cautious.’ Looks like someone went to the University of Fancy.”
The gunfire had stopped, and Fosco’s rich voice rang out into the silence. “Boys! My boys. Come out, come out, wherever you are!” He paused to chuckle, and Dean darted, hunched over, along the wall. Fosco was back on the dais, surveying the post-Winchester rubble. He spotted Dean and threw back his head with laughter.
“Come on then, boy,” Fosco growled, and levelled his machine gun.
Dean dashed up the steps and leapt aside, bullets whistling by Matrix-style. One ripped through the cuff of his jeans, nicking the thin skin of his ankle. Dean cursed as he landed, rolled forward, and kicked the fat man in the shin.
“Damn and blast!” he spluttered, dropping the gun. It fired off a couple of rounds as it hit the ground, one whapping into the heavy fat of Fosco’s gut, the other hitting him higher up. “Kuhfllsh,” Fosco continued, and tipped over, sinking slowly.
Dean stood, wincing a little at the all-over throb of his body, radiating from his face and ankle and ah, holy shit his balls.
“Y’all right?” Sam’s voice floated up from behind the console.
“I’m fine,” Dean called over. “You?” Sam shouted an affirmative while Dean watched Fosco roll around and snort blood bubbles. He stooped to pick up the gun.
“Looks like blood sacrifices don’t pay,” Dean told him, smug as hell, and shot him point blank.
“Oh my god, Dean, that was the worst thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Sam grumbled, still out of sight. Dean just grinned, pleased.
Later, on the way back to the motel, Sam’s legs spazzing with returning feeling, Dean’s wounds no longer bleeding, he rolled down the window. At Sam’s slightly annoyed look - it was about 40 degrees out - he shrugged, defensive. “It was getting a little close in here, okay?” Sam gave him a knowing look, and Dean punched him in the leg, and the knowing look turned into a squidge of pain.
“Jerk.”
“Bitch.”