i can feel the weather in my bones (causeways) wrote,
i can feel the weather in my bones

FIC: The Green River County Detention Center Experiment (Being Wrong Is a Bitch) (SPN)

Title: The Green River County Detention Center Experiment (Being Wrong Is a Bitch)
Author: causeways
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 8,097
Disclaimer: All characters, situations, etc. belong to Eric Kripke and others.
Summary: If Dean were to admit that he needed to be Sam's bitch under any other circumstances in the world, it would probably make Sam's life. But oddly enough, Sam's not really feeling like laughing right now.
Author's Notes: Inspired by this post of sevenfists'. It goes AU about three-quarters of the way through 2x19 'Folsom Prison Blues' and contains spoilers for that ep. All errors are my own. Concrit is more than welcome.
ETA: As of January 2011, now with a Russian translation by fryttu.

The Green River County Detention Center Experiment (Being Wrong Is a Bitch)



Deacon grins. "Your lawyer left this for you."

Dean takes the letter from him and chuckles. "Would you look at that. Man, I am friggin' velvety smooth."

"You wanna maybe open it up? After, y'know, you're done patting yourself on the back?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Dean tears the letter open.

Sam peers at it over Dean's shoulder. The letter's shorter than he'd thought it would be.

"Fuck," Dean says. "She didn't do it."


Dean hands him the letter. It's three lines long:

You're being extradited to Milwaukee on Friday. I tried to stall it, but that was the best I could do. I'm sorry.


"Shit," Sam says. "Well, okay. So we'll get out of here and figure it out from the outside. The nurse probably isn't buried here, is she? We'll figure it out. It's cool."

But Dean's just staring at him, jaw set.

Sam gapes. "No. No no no, Dean, we're not--"

"You do whatever you want, Sam. I'm staying."

"No, you're not."

"Yeah, I really am."

Sam crushes the letter, grits his teeth. "You can't. Dean, if we don't get out of here now--"

Dean's face is pale but he doesn't back down. "I know, okay? I know. But we're here and we're seeing this through, whatever it takes. At least, I am. You're welcome to--"

"Fuck you," Sam spits at him. "I'm not leaving you here. Just -- fuck you." He's left Dean before and he swore he wasn't ever going to do it again, but fuck Dean for picking this of all times to stand his ground.

Dean's jaw loosens a bit.

"You boys really don't have to do this," Deacon says into the silence.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, we really do."

Deacon turns to Sam. When he doesn't say anything, Deacon exhales and says, "All right. Just find this thing and I'll get you the hell out of here."

"All right," Dean says. "Let's do this."

"I'm going to have to make it look real," Deacon tells them.

For a moment Sam doesn't get it, but then he raises the nightstick.

"Right." Dean exhales. "Right."

"Sorry about this," Deacon says, and slugs Sam in the stomach.


Sam's back in his cell when he comes to. He shifts to sit up and it feels like his body's about to split in half. Probably because it is. Fuck making it look real; Deacon actually went and beat the shit out of him.

"Dean? You there?"

There's no answer from across the hall. Figures. Dean probably didn't pass out. He's probably out in the yard cheating the inmates out of their cigarettes or something.

He lies back down on the bed and the insanity of the situation hits him. They're staying in jail. On purpose. When he told Dean that this was the stupidest thing they'd ever done, clearly he'd spoken too soon. Getting themselves thrown in jail was pretty damned stupid, but not leaving is far, far stupider.


It's not until the next morning that it becomes clear just how far the insanity of the situation extends.

They're in the breakfast line waiting for their scoop of gray mush when an enormous inmate with tattoos on his neck cuts in front of Sam and curls his hand around Dean's neck. "Morning, sweetheart," he says with a leer.

"What the fuck?" Sam says.

The guy turns to him. "He's not yours, is he? Stay out of this."

"Dean. What the fuck?"

But Dean doesn't meet his eyes. The guy leans in close to Dean, says something into his ear, too low for Sam to catch, then squeezes his neck one more time and walks away.

"What the fuck was that, Dean?"


"Bullshit." Dean's face is blank, lockdown mode, and Sam's not falling for this. "What happened last night?"

Dean doesn't reply. He moves forward in line, gets his oatmeal. When it's his turn Sam's shaking so hard that the oatmeal slops over the edges of the tray.

"Hey! Watch it."

Sam shoots a glare at the inmate with the ladle and follows Dean to a table, slams his tray down. Dean's already shoveling oatmeal in his mouth as fast as he can, like he thinks it'll get him out of talking.

"Tell me what that was about," Sam hisses.

Dean looks up and swallows. "Let me think. No."

"Dean." He's about to grab Dean and shake some sense into him, but they're in the cafeteria and the guards are just itching to use those nightsticks. And after yesterday afternoon he sincerely doubts Deacon's going to go easy on them.

"I'm dealing with it, okay?" Dean keeps his voice low. "Just concentrate on the case. How're we gonna figure out where the nurse is buried?"


Another pack of cigarettes and Randall says, "Edwards is the one you'll want to talk to, but it'll cost you."

"That's okay," Sam says. "Which one is Edwards?"

Randall gestures at a guy near the fence. He looks to be in his forties, tattoos covering both arms. "Make sure he knows you're paying from the start. He don't do freebies."

"Got it." But Sam's not really listening anymore. Last time he saw Dean he was over by the bleachers, winning them more cigarettes -- "Not making fun of the currency of the realm anymore, are you, Sammy?" -- but he's not there now, and Sam's stomach drops. Dean wouldn't have just gone off somewhere like this, and after what happened at breakfast this morning . . . He really doesn't like the direction his thoughts are headed. "I've gotta go, Randall. Thanks."

"Sure," Randall says. "Pleasure doing business with you."

But Sam's already gone.

Nobody near the bleachers seems to know where Dean went until Sam produces three cigarettes. "He's with Chandler," says a skinny red-headed guy. "But trust me, you do not want to fuck with Chandler."

"Where did they go?" Sam says, forking over three more cigarettes before the guy even asks for them.

The guy stares at him like he's insane, but he takes the cigarettes. "Your funeral, man. Probably the laundry room."

"Probably?" Sam glares at him so hard the guy actually cowers.

"Yeah. Definitely. The laundry room."


He wastes time getting out of the yard without the guards noticing. There's no one outside of the laundry room, which doesn't help the clenching fear in his gut. He knows his brother. Dean's a cocky bastard, because he's good at most everything, better than most; but he hasn't spent much time fighting inmates, and damn it, after this morning Sam should have known better than to leave him alone.

The laundry room is dimly lit, full of shelves stacked high with sheets and jumpsuits. There's plenty of cover, but he can't see the whole place at once, can't see where Dean's gone, and he can't hear anything over the whirring of the machines, either. And redhead guy never said if Chandler was the only one here. He can't let someone get the drop on him, so he moves as quickly as he can but carefully, cursing the machines. There's no reason for the laundry room to need to be this freaking enormous. But there: voices, somehwere to his left. He hasn't run across anyone yet, so he figures they're probably all together, if there are others.

He rounds a set of dryers and there're three guys backing Dean into a corner, one of them the guy with the neck tattoos. Dean's got a split lip and he's still fending them off, but he's losing; he's tired and they're all bigger than Dean and they're in no hurry -- because there are three of them, and they're just waiting until--

Sam doesn't finish the thought. He slams into the one on the right, right hook to his jaw but it doesn't drop him; the guy looks confused for a beat before he swings at Sam, a blow to his ribs that he can't quite avoid in time. He want to double over but doesn't, dances to the side, catches the middle guy in the gut. The guy on the left catches Dean hard to the jaw and Dean falls to the floor, but Sam's on the guy now, punching his face, turning to elbow the middle guy in the kidney, hard upper cut to his jaw, knee in his balls -- he's not even sure which of them he's hitting anymore, and it doesn't matter.

One of them hits him as he turns and he falls, lands hard on a bruise Deacon gave him yesterday. Hurts like a bitch but he can't stay down; he kicks out at the nearest one and rolls and he's on his feet again, slamming one of their heads against the wall and that's it for that one; he crumples. There are only two of them now, and two he can take. They're smirking, moving in on him, but he's younger than them, faster, and he's so pissed that there's nothing in the world but them, angles and calculations and making them hurt.

It's luck when it happens: the one on the left slips up, leaves his foot too far forward too long. Sam kicks his leg out from under him, boots him in the head before he's even all the way down, and then it's just tattoo guy. He's smarter than his buddies, not so sloppy, but he's not good enough, nobody could be; if the demon itself showed up right now, Sam could waste it.

Voices slip into his consciousness from somewhere nearby -- guards -- and tattoo guy's concentration breaks, not for long but it's enough: Sam's got him pinned, arm twisted most of the way out of its socket, face crushed against the wall.

"You lose," he hisses.

Tattoo guy chuckles, and Sam cracks his head against the wall. "Fine," he wheezes. "Fine. He's yours."

Sam slams him into the wall again, is about to ask him what he means, but there's shouting behind him, someone's grabbing him, a blow to his head and darkness.


Dean gets out of the infirmary about an hour after Sam gets out of solitary. The goons spent the night in the infirmary, too -- Sam hears that one of them lost three teeth, probably the one whose skull he kicked in, and somehow he doesn't feel bad about it in the least -- but tattoo guy was in solitary with him. Somehow Sam hadn't really been interested in bonding in solitary.

When Dean limps into the yard he's got an inch-long gash over his right eye held together with stitches, a split lip and about a hundred bruises.

"Jesus," Sam says when he walks up. "You look awful."

"Yeah, I know. Sam, we got a problem."

"Uh, yeah, Dean, we've got a lot of problems. Which one are you talking about right now? The part where we're still in jail? The part where we have no idea where the nurse is buried and no way to find out?"

"I've got an idea about how to figure that out," Dean says, "but that's not what I'm talking about."

"Oh, so the part where you nearly got beaten to death yesterday, then."

"Ding ding ding. You heard of a guy named Chandler?"

"Yeah. He was one of the guys who was beating the shit out of you yesterday. Which one?"

"You met him at breakfast. Guy with the--"

"Neck tattoos. Yeah."

"Right. But uh, he wasn't trying to beat the shit out of me."

Sam gapes. "Oh, really? Then why does it look like you almost lost an eye, Dean?"

"Okay. He was. They were. But that wasn't the goal."

"Then what was?'

"You've gotta be kidding me. C'mon, Sam, don't make me spell this out for you."

Sam just stares at him until he starts getting shifty.

"Goddammit, Sam." He drops his voice. "I fucked up, okay? Two nights ago, when you weren't around. I got into it with the wrong guy. Chandler. I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?" Sam says slowly.

"He's, uh. The wrong guy to pick a fight with."

"I could have told you that!"

"Shut up," Dean says with such force that Sam's jaw clamps shut. "I know, okay? Just -- let me finish the goddamned story, and then you can tell me all about how badly I screwed up."

"Fine," Sam snaps. "So tell me."

Dean tugs at his collar. "He said some shit about my ass. In the yard. How he wanted to -- anyway, apparently I should have just let it slide, guy pulls shit like that a lot, but I got into it with him, got a few punches in before the guards pulled me off him. And he said he was gonna get me for it. I didn't know what he meant, thought he was talking about beating me up later or something, so I said fine, 'cause I was pretty sure I could take him."

Sam really doesn't like where this story's going. "And?"

"And at dinner one of his goons, not the one who lost the teeth, the other one, comes up to me and says Chandler's gonna get me good and I'd better watch my back. And I asked what that was supposed to mean, and he--"

"And he what?"

Dean exhales. "Goddammit, Sam, you've seen Shawshank, haven't you? Do I really have to spell this out?"

Sam stares him down.

Dean's voice drops to a clenched-jawed murmur. "He said Chandler was gonna make me his bitch."

"His bitch, as in--"

"As in, his bitch, okay? And I kind of thought he was kidding, figured as long as I stayed on my guard and didn't go anywhere alone I'd be fine, but apparently people in the yard kind of look the other way sometimes, 'cause Chandler and his goons got the drop on me the second you went to go talk to Randall, worked me over pretty good before I got the chance to fight back--"

"But then I stopped them, so we're okay, right? Right?"

Dean doesn't meet his eyes. "Uh, yeah, that's the thing."

"What's the thing?" Sam says slowly.

"You really don't have any idea what's going on here, do you?"

"Sorry that I don't immediately understand everything about the inner workings of prison!"

Dean ignores him. "Look, do you want us both to make it out of here alive and more or less in one piece?"

"More or less?"

"Just answer the question, Sam."

"Of course I do!"

"All right. Then you gotta listen to me. And you've got to keep quiet when you freak out."

"What do you mean, keep quiet when I freak out?" Sam hisses.

"See? You're already freaking out. We're attracting too much attention as it is, so you've gotta keep it down."

Sam works his jaw and forcefully reminds himself that he can't punch Dean right now, not matter how much he wants to. "Fine. Talk."

Dean swallows hard. "Okay. When you beat up Chandler and his guys, you didn't just win the fight or whatever. You won me."

"Yeah, I kept them from doing -- whatever."

"No, that's not what I mean. You won me. Fuckin' A, Sam, they were gonna make me their bitch, and then you beat up on them, so--"

"No," Sam says, too loudly, before Dean can finish that thought. He reigns his voice back in and says, "No way it works like that. They were beating you up, I stopped them, it's done."

"You don't know shit about the way this stuff works. Look. You, er, you won me. And you've gotta act on it. If you don't, it's like I'm up for grabs, anyone who wants me can go for it, and I can't hold them all off, Sam."

"So you're what you're saying," Sam repeats slowly, just to make sure he's hearing this right, "is that because I beat those guys up, you're supposed to be my--"

"Yeah. And you gotta make it look really friggin' convincing."

If Dean were to admit that he needed to be Sam's bitch under any other circumstances in the world, it would probably make Sam's life. But oddly enough, Sam's not really feeling like laughing right now.

"When you say really friggin' convincing," Sam begins.

Dean turns eight shades of purple. "I mean you gotta do it. For real, do it."

"No way. Not a chance in hell."

"Have you not heard a single thing I've just said?"

"Dean. We're brothers."

"Not so loud," he snaps. "They don't know that, do they?" He gestures at the yard.

"Deacon does."

"Deacon's not going to interfere."


"Shut up, Sam. Does anyone else know?"


"You told him?" Dean's eyes go wide. "What kind of idiot are you?"

"First time I talked to him. I was talking to him about Mark Moody and he asked how I got in here, and I said it was my brother's fault. How in the hell was I supposed to know I shouldn't tell him we were brothers?"

"Did you mention my name?"

"No, but he's not stupid, Dean!"

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "As long as you didn't mention my name, he doesn't know anything."

"We've been together the whole time we've been in here," Sam says furiously.

"Yeah, but we don't look anything like brothers. He doesn't know anything."



"I'm not doing this."

"You don't have a choice here, Sam," Dean says tightly. "You have to."

"No, actually, I really don't."


"Why are you pushing me on this?"

Dean flushes under his stare but doesn't back down. "Because it's gonna happen either way, okay? It's gonna be you or them, and sorry if I'd rather if it was you than Chandler!"

"It's not gonna happen," Sam says.


"I'm not gonna let it happen, okay?" He grits his teeth. "I'm not."


He hasn't let Dean out of his sight for the past seven hours. They've been in the yard for a while now, afternoon rec time. Dean's working on winning them enough cigarettes to be able to cut a deal with that Edwards guy.

"Two packs oughta do it," he says after liberating eight cigarettes from a weedy blond guy.

"Great. Let's go talk to him." Sam stands up.

"You go."

"What? No! I'm not leaving you here."

"Sam. We're gonna need more cigs. Two packs'll be enough for an advance, but the guy's gonna want more when he comes through."

"So you get right back to playing when we're back."

"Someone else'll take over the table. Dude, the guards are right over there." He jerks his head toward the fence. "Plus, you're gonna be, what, thirty feet away from me? I'll be okay."

Sam clenches his jaw and holds his hand out. True to form, it takes Dean a minute to part with the cigarettes. "It won't take long."

Dean shrugs and motions for the next guy he's going to fleece to come forward.

Sam keeps his eye on Dean as he edges around the yard, but nothing's happening yet, other than that Dean just took another inmate for his cigarettes. Probably he'll be fine. He walks up near the guy Randall had pointed out yesterday.

"Whaddaya want, kid?" the guy growls.

"You're Edwards?"

The guy nods.

Sam flashes a pack of cigarettes. "I need some information."

Edwards grins. "As long as you're making it worth my while. What kind of information?"

"I need to know everything you can find out about a Nurse Glockner. She would have worked here in the seventies. I need to know how and where she died and especially where she's buried."

Edwards narrows his eyes. "How come?"

"Doesn't matter. Can you do it?"

"Sure, I can do it. But it's gonna cost you."

"How much?"

He whistles low, considering. "Three now, three on delivery."

"Make it two now, four on delivery and you've got a deal."


Sam makes Edwards repeat back what he'd said to make sure he's got the details right, then hands over the cigarettes. "How long's it going to take?"

"A couple days, maybe three."

"A couple days?" Sam says incredulously.

"Look, you're new, yeah? That's damned fast. I gotta get someone on the outside to do it, so yeah, a couple days."

Sam exhales. "Yeah. Okay. It's just, we're being extradited on Friday."

"Who's we?"

"Me and my -- buddy," Sam catches himself.

"Your buddy, huh? You mean the same buddy who's about to have another run-in with Chandler?"

Sam turns and swears: the guards that were near the fence before are nowhere to be seen, and Chandler's talking to Dean, hand curled around his neck just like at breakfast yesterday. Fuck.

He's across the yard and in Chandler's face before he's even fully processed what's going on. "Get away from him."

Chandler leers, gold tooth flashing from somewhere off center. "When I said he was yours, I thought we had an understanding. But it seems you haven't been putting this sweet little ass to good use. Or any use at all, as I hear it. That goes against the rules right there, doesn't it, bitch?"

Dean's face is carefully blank even as Chandler fondles his neck, and Sam doesn't care about the consequences, he just wants to knock that grin off Chandler's face right now. But before he's even got his arm pulled all the way back there's a hand clamped down on his bicep.

"I would really think twice before I did that if I were you," says Deacon into his ear. "I'd hate for us to have to have another conversation like the one day before yesterday." He dangles his nightstick in front of Sam's face for emphasis. Sam's pretty sure he's not actually acting.

"Yes, sir," Sam says. "Thinking twice." He relaxes his arm.

Sometime during the exchange Chandler has removed his hand from Dean's neck. He's standing too close to Dean and trying to look innocent. It's all Sam can do not to lunge out at him, Deacon or no Deacon.

"That's good to hear," Deacon says, and releases Sam's arm. "Have a nice day."

He makes it sound like a threat.

Once Deacon's gone Chandler says, "If you aren't gonna use him, he's up for grabs, and I've got dibs. Just keep that in mind." He smirks and walks off.

Sam actually breaks the skin of his palms with his fingernails, he's clenching his fists so hard. "It's not going to happen. I won't let it."

Dean's mouth is a thin hard line and he isn't saying anything.


Sam should have known the showers would be trouble.

Dean's not far from him, a couple showerheads away, but it's far enough that when Sam sees Chandler coming for Dean he has to pitch his voice loud enough for half the place to hear to get Dean's attention.

Dean sees Chandler and moves towards Sam.

"Now, what's that about?" Chandler says. "Looked like you were available."

Sam puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "He's not."

"Really," Chandler drawls, and fear shoots through Sam's gut. He doesn't have to look at Dean to know what's going on here. And Dean's right, damn him: there are a number of ways out of this situation but only one of them's going to keep them more or less in one piece. He turns to Dean, meets his eyes, and the message is clear: Get on with it.

And then he thinks about what Dean said earlier: You gotta make it look really friggin' convincing. I mean you gotta do it. For real, do it. He's furious at the whole damned situation but they've got to find a way out of it, and that's something else Dean said: We're here and we're seeing this through, whatever it takes. He pushes down a hysterical laugh and thinks, Fine. They're doing this, whatever it takes. They're doing this.

He looks at Dean and says, "On your knees."

Dean stares at him. "What?"

Fuck. Now Sam's second-guessing himself, but there's no way he was imagining it before when Dean gave him the go-ahead look. Maybe this isn't exactly how Dean was wanting this thing to happen, but Sam hadn't wanted this to happen at all. But half the showers are watching and he may not know everything about the ways of prison life, but Sam's pretty clear on the fact that when you're about to make someone your bitch, you don't stop and ask them how they want it.

Sam flashes his scariest grin. "On your knees, bitch."

Dean shoots him a look of purest loathing and drops to his knees. "Now what?" he bites out.

Sam laughs, mostly nerves. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?"

He's not even hard but then Dean grabs his hip with one hand and grips his cock with the other, breathes over the head, and suddenly Sam's cock is a lot more interested in what's going on. Except then it hits him with renewed force: this is Dean on the floor, hair matted against his head from the shower, Dean, his brother, who's about to suck his cock in front of a room full of cons.

It's that last thought that spurs him on: they're in a room full of cons, and they can't back down now. It's just like any other job, Sam tells himself, just like any other time they've had some role to play, just like pretending to be FBI agents or priests or--

It's better not to think about it. Just don't think about it, just act, just get through this.

He looks down at Dean and thinks sorry at him as hard as he can, then sneers and says, "What the fuck are you waiting for? Suck it."

Dean glares at him again before swallowing half of Sam's cock and twisting his hand around the base. It's been a long time since anyone's sucked him off. Dean's not all that good at it, teeth scraping along the underside.

"That's more like it," says Chandler from somewhere off to the side.

Sam ignores him, keeps his eyes on Dean. "Harder," he growls, "and watch the goddamned teeth."

Dean sucks him harder, deeper down his throat, but either he can't stop with the teeth or he doesn't want to. Sam works at keeping his hips from snapping like they want to but he can't stop it entirely. Dean gags on a hard stroke; Sam tries to pull back but Dean sucks him back in like it's a challenge or something. He drags his tongue along the underside, up around the tip, flicks his wrist around the base and Sam is gone. He doesn't even manage to warn Dean before he's shuddering, coming in Dean's mouth.

Dean chokes and pulls back coughing, spits on the floor.

"Next time, make him swallow," someone says, chuckling. It wasn't him and it sure wasn't Dean, and then Sam remembers where they are and that half the prison has been watching this.

Sam pushes down the urge to puke. He washes off quickly and waits for Dean, but he doesn't meet his eyes, he can't.


Dean waits until they're at their own table at dinner before he says, "If you ever try to make me do that again, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

Sam pauses in the middle of poking at his Salisbury steak. "You'll -- damn it, Dean, I didn't want anything like that to happen!"

"Well, you didn't have to make me do that!"

"What was I supposed to do?" Sam hisses. "Fuck you up the ass?"

Dean goes silent.

"Oh my God." He tries to swallow, can't. "Oh my God."

After a beat Dean coughs and says, "Anyway, I mean it. You ever make me do that again, you're dead."

It takes Sam a moment to recover enough to catch the important part of that sentence. "Why would I be making you do it again?" he says slowly.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Sam, have you still not figured this out?" He doesn't wait for Sam to reply. "It's not a one-time thing, damn it. You have to keep doing it or they--"

"Oh my God." Sam's pretty sure he just whimpered.

"Look, I'm not happy with it, either, obviously, but we don't have that many options here!"

"I -- yeah, okay, I know." Sam prays as hard as he can for someone to interrupt him before he has to continue this conversation, but it doesn't seem like God's looking out for him today. Of course not; if God were, they wouldn't be in this fucked-all-to-hell situation to begin with. "So, uh," he begins, swallowing. "The next time it happens. What do you want me to make you do?"

Dean stares him down so hard that Sam wants to drown himself in his Salisbury steak.

"Look, you're pissed because I made you, uh, last time, so--"

Dean mutters something.


"Handjob," he hisses out of the side of his mouth. "Now will you fucking shut up and eat your dinner?"


They make it through the rest of the night without incident, but the next morning they're not so lucky.

Dean's cleaning up at the poker table, halfway to the four packs Sam promised Edwards. He's just won six cigarettes off a guy named Mac, not the best take of the day, but it'll do. Mac scowls and stands up to go, then catches Sam's eye.

"You wanna keep an eye on your bitch," he says, jerking his head in Dean's direction.

Dean pales but says, "He's just pissed 'cause he lost. They're all pissed when they lose."

"No, I don't think so," Sam says slowly. He's watching the fence. There are three guards near the gate, Deacon among them; they don't quite have a clear line of sight on the bleachers. Just to the left of them is a different group of three guys, Chandler and two goons, neither of whom Sam recognizes from the first fight -- does the guy just have an endless supply of them or what? Chandler catches his eye and grins.

Sam wills himself not to acknowledge it. "Dean," he says, low and urgent, "we gotta go."

"Where to?"

Chandler and the goons are already on the move, not hurrying but they're definitely coming this way. "Just -- come on, okay?"

Dean follows him towards the trees at the back of the yard. Sam veers around the edge of the building. There's a bit of cover here where the wall cuts in sharply; it's where you go if you're looking for something stronger than cigarettes, Dean claims, and the guards are usually all over this place, but right now they're not.

When they're as covered as they're going to get, Sam says, "Do it."

"What? Why?"

Sam grabs him by the front of the shirt. "Just do it, okay, Dean? And now."

Dean makes a face and sticks his hand down Sam's pants, and Sam doesn't have to fake the moan. He doesn't try to muffle it, either, not as much as he could, and Dean's eyes widen as he catches on to what Sam's doing, strokes him hard and fast.

This Dean's good at: he shifts around to the side to get the angle right, scrapes a bit of fingernail over the tip of Sam's cock and Sam pants, says, "Dean, gonna--" He shudders and Dean strokes him through it, manages to keep most of the jizz off Sam's pants. Straining through the haze of his orgasm Sam hears the footsteps receding.

Dean wipes his hand on the side of the building, then the ground, then Sam's shirt. It's just dirt now, mostly, so Sam doesn't mind so much.

"That was--"

"Chandler, yeah. He kind of drags one foot," Sam explains.

"Yeah, I noticed." Dean's eyes flick away. "Hey, look, lunchtime!"

Sure enough, the yard's clearing out. Sam sighs and tucks himself back in, follows Dean.


Dean's been hearing rumors in the yard. He gives Sam another handjob before dinner but the next morning it becomes clear that it's not enough, Chandler's got his eye on Dean and he's not backing down. It's like being in high school again, Sam thinks, peer pressure, except the stakes are higher and he doesn't want to think about what will happen if he fails.

"Still haven't tapped that sweet ass, have you?" leers one of Chandler's goons at breakfast, and it's two parts fear and one part something else that make Sam grab Dean during work hours when they're supposed to be repainting the rec room and pull him behind a stack of boxes.

"What're you--" He cuts off when Sam shoves a hand down his pants. Dean's already hard, Sam too, blindingly so. He pulls on Dean's cock a few times, until the precome is leaking out of the tip, gets as much of it on his fingers as he can and pulls Dean's pants open, flips him around.

Dean doesn't even argue. He braces against the wall, ass out and says, voice rough, "Would you just do it already?"

"Oh my God," Sam says, "you want this."

Dean's neck is flushed. "Get on with it, damn it."

"Fine." He presses his index finger in. It's not slick enough; Dean's trying to hide his wince. But then Dean pushes back against him and says, "Gimme another, c'mon," low and urgent, and it goes straight to Sam's cock. He pulls his finger out and presses back in with his middle finger, too, watches his fingers disappear as Dean rocks against him.

"C'mon, Sam, do it," Dean hisses, panting, and Sam stops thinking entirely. He undoes his pants, spits in his hand and strokes his cock -- it's not going to get any better than this. He grabs at Dean's hip, steadies himself and pushes in. It's tight, hot, and Sam's moving, hips hitting wrong and Dean hissing until they find a rhythm that works and Sam remembers to reach around and fist Dean's cock.

"Harder," Dean says, and Sam bites down on his shoulder to hide his moan. He fucks up into Dean and they're out of rhythm again but it doesn't matter, he's so close it doesn't matter. Dean snaps his hips back to meet his thrust and Sam says, "Dean," and comes.

It doesn't take long for Dean to go over, too. Sam strokes him through it as he pants, takes a deep, shuddering breath and snaps back into himself. "Shit, Sam, we gotta get back."

Sam gapes. "Dean, we just--"

"I know, I was there, now can you concentrate on the important thing here and help me look for something to clean up with?"

Sam's frozen for a moment, but then he scowls and says, "Fine," and starts poking around. He's in luck: one of the boxes is full of old newspapers. He winces as he cleans up with the classified ads and buttons his pants back up.

Dean tosses the wadded-up comics back in the box and says, "Great, let's go." Sam doesn't miss his limp.

"D'you think we could--"

Dean turns on him. "If the next words out of your mouth are 'talk about it', Sam, I swear to God--"

"Fine. Never mind." Sam works his jaw. "Dean."

"What? They're gonna notice we're gone, goddammit."

But the guards don't say anything when they slink back in, Sam a few seconds after Dean. The other cons don't say anything, either, but Sam's pretty sure they notice Dean's wince when he bends over to load his roller in the tray of paint. It'd be kind of hard to miss.


Sam fucks him again in the showers that evening. Dean braces, legs wide, and says, "Give it to me," comes with Sam's cock in his ass before Sam even touches him, muscles clenching around Sam's cock when he comes.

Neither of them hears anything at dinner, but that doesn't mean people aren't talking, and they aren't taking any chances. They pull each other off in the rec room after dinner, the smell of fresh paint strong in Sam's nostrils.

The next morning Dean fucks himself open on Sam's fingers and presses down onto his cock, comes and says Sam's name. Hearing that is what pushes Sam over the edge, and shuddering through his orgasm he's suddenly certain that they're going to get caught one of these times, and it's going to suck.

He's right. It's just that it doesn't happen the way he thinks.


"I've got what you were looking for," somebody behind Sam says in the lunch line.

Sam turns. It's Edwards. Edwards, who was finding out about Nurse Glockner, for the case, which is why they're here. They're here on a case and all of this has an end; all they have to do is give Deacon the word and they're out, and Sam is going to be violently ill.

He swallows hard, concentrates on Edwards. "And?"

"Glockner died in the old cell block. She got mixed up in a brawl, got her head bashed in."

Concentrate on the case. "And did you find out where she's buried?"

"Green Valley Cemetery."

Sam produces the four packs of cigarettes. Dean hadn't wanted to give them to him for safekeeping, but no one was trying to make Sam be their-- Concentrate on the case. He hands them over.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Edwards says, and he's gone.

Sam doesn't notice doing it, but he must have gone through the rest of the line, because he looks down and there's macaroni and cheese slopping all over his tray.

Dean's already sitting. "Man, I'm gonna have to ask Pablo what they put in here, 'cause this shit's good," he says around a mouthful.

Sam doesn't say anything; he can't. He puts down his tray and sits, pokes at the food.

"Dude, if you're not gonna eat that," he begins, but he must see something in Sam's face. "Hey, what's up? You haven't been hearing anything else, have you, 'cause I thought we were good."

Sam starts to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled noise. He swallows, tries again. "I just talked to Edwards."

Dean just looks at him for a moment, doesn't get it, but then his eyes go wide. "Edwards. As in, was finding stuff out for us, Edwards." Dean had forgotten, too. There's no question of it, the way his mouth is drawn. "So he found her, then?"

"Yeah. Green Valley Cemetery."

"Great." He laughs a little. "Awesome. So we give Deacon the word and go get her, salt and burn that bitch."


"Right. Okay, we'll have to wait 'til dinner so it's dark out, but then we're good. Pinky look good to you?"

"Pinky?" Sam says blankly.

Dean cuts his eyes towards one of Chandler's goons.

"Yeah, sure. Dean?'

"Don't. Just -- don't." He doesn't meet Sam's eyes. They don't talk the rest of the afternoon.


How long have they been in jail? Sam wonders as he mops the library floor. Four days? Five? They got in on a Friday, and they were set to be extradited the following Friday, so it's got to have been less than a week. He tries to count the days backwards, can't believe he doesn't know for sure. It's sloppy of him, not knowing this.

It's this place, he thinks. A con named George sat with him the other day (three days ago? He doesn't know.) and watched Dean win at cards, told him this place would get to him. Sam didn't believe him. But oh, it's gotten to him, all right, it's gotten to him good. He's been in here less than a week and he'd already managed to forget that this was a means to an end, that the rules of this place weren't everyone's rules and that they were never meant to be here to stay.

And the thing with Dean -- Sam went to Stanford, knows all about psychology and situational pressure. They were just doing it because they were here, didn't see any other choice in the matter. But that doesn't stop the bile rising, because no matter what the excuse they still did it, and if Edwards hadn't come up to him and reminded him why they were here, he wouldn't have stopped. Chandler hadn't been bothering Dean anymore and there hadn't been any rumors and still they hadn't stopped; Sam wouldn't have stopped.


Sam gives Deacon the signal in the yard that afternoon, and Dean picks a fight with Pinky at dinner. Sam jumps in, too, throws a few punches before Deacon grabs him by the neck.

"I thought I made myself clear the other day," he says, leaning in close, "but it looks like I was wrong. Marshall!" He jerks his head towards Dean, and the other guard cuffs him.

Deacon drags him out of the cafeteria and into showers, and it's just like the last time they talked, when they'd gotten the letter from the PD. Sam's suddenly angry at the lawyer. If she'd just come through for them like Dean had thought she would, none of this would have happened; or if Dean hadn't been so goddamned stupid, if he hadn't pushed Chandler--

But that's not helping anything.

"I'll deal with this alone," Deacon tells the other guard.

And apparently he remembers what they looked like after the last time Deacon dealt with them alone, because the other guard clears right out.

Deacon uncuffs them. "Is it over now?"

"It will be after tonight," Dean says. "Don't worry, Deacon, we'll take care of this thing."

Deacon walks over to the wall, opens the panel of an air duct. "Good, 'cause I want it out of my prison. Boys, I can't thank you enough for this. I know it was asking a lot but you still came through. Your daddy raised you right."

Dean nods tightly. Sam doesn't say anything.


"Great," Dean says as they watch the bones burn. "That oughta do it. So long, bitch."

Usually they'd wait for the flames to go out and shovel the dirt back in, but they're only twenty minutes out from the jail and no way they're hanging around for Hendrickson to catch their trail.

Dean stays off the highway. He's driving the speed limit, checking the mirrors and lights. Sam's thrumming with adrenaline, nerves and nothing to do about it; he looks over at Dean, something twisting in his gut.

Sam stares out the window and counts down the miles to nowhere towns, keeps his mind on the signs flashing past.


Twenty-three miles outside of Beaumont, Kansas, Dean pulls over, kills the engine and gets out of the car. Sam opens his door, mouth dry, and Dean hauls him out. Sam fucks him up against the trunk of the Impala, silent but for their panting into the thick night air.

Afterwards, they get in the car and drive until noon. Dean parks at a motel somewhere in western Nebraska and checks them into a room with two doubles. They sleep until it's dark again, some strange hour of the night. Sam orders Chinese from the place down the street and they fall alseep again watching infomercials. The next day they get on the road and head into Wyoming, west by north.


Sam picks up a paper in Rock River, searches for any mention of an Arkansas prison break. There's nothing. Looks like Wyoming's far enough away that they're okay.

They lie low for a few more days, cutting into Montana. They get rooms with two doubles and they don't talk about jail.

One morning Sam wakes up to the sound of Dean tapping on the computer. "I think I got us a hunt. Haunted elementary school in Bellingham, Washington."

Sam considers, but any way he looks at it, you can't really get much farther from Arkansas than Washington. "Yeah, okay."

They're there in a day and a half, spirit laid in another two, and then they're on their way to deal with a poltergeist in New Mexico, and everything is fine.


Except that Sam wakes up most mornings with a hard-on that won't go away, and he jerks off in the shower thinking about fucking Dean in the prison showers, against the side of the car, thinks about going back into the hotel room and grinding against him until he's awake, Dean's hands rough on his cock, pulling him off--

Dean jerks off in the shower, too -- Sam knows his brother -- and one time Sam could swear he hears Dean groaning his name over the sound of the water. But they're not talking about it, and Sam tries not to think about it. He's just got to get used to their routine again, get it all the way through his head that they're not in jail in Arkansas anymore. This will pass.


Dean comes out of the Alberquerque poltergeist job with a jagged gash down the length of his side. "It's fine," he says, though his shirt's in tatters. "I got it."

Sam ignores him and goes for the first aid kit, makes Dean sit on the edge of the bed and cuts the rest of his shirt off of him. The wound's not deep but it's messy, blood and bits of cotton and sand, and it takes fifteen minutes and his full concentration to get it clean. He splashes it with water to get the last of the dust out, bandages it carefully, steadies his hand on Dean's chest. Dean is breathing rapidly, looking anywhere but at Sam.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine, you done here?" He pushes Sam's hand away and something trips in Sam's stomach, something clicks. He puts his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Get off." He's shaking but he's not trying to move away.

Sam hunches lower so their eyes are at the same level. "Dean." He reaches out and traces his fingers along the curve of Dean's jaw.

Dean swallows, meets Sam's eyes. "Are we gonna have to talk about this?" he says shakily. "Because if you--"

Sam kisses him. It could be better: somehow Dean's nose gets in the way, but then he opens his mouth and Sam sucks his tongue in, and it's good.

He shifts, presses Dean against the bed. "Watch the side, damn it," Dean says, and Sam grins, lays kisses along his neck.

"You want this, right?"

Dean pulls back far enough to glare. "Oh, for Christ's sake. We are not talking about our feelings." He kisses Sam's mouth open, palms Sam's cock through his jeans.

"No, I mean it," Sam says. "This is some seriously fucked-up shit, Dean, and if you're not sure--"

Dean groans. "I'm sure. I'm sure, okay, and if you don't get me off within the next three minutes I'm going to pull the knife out from under my pillow and kill you with it."

Sam just looks at him for a while, until Dean starts to go shifty. "Fair enough," he says, finally, and grabs Dean's cock.

"I hate you."

"You love me."


Sam grins against Dean's ear. "Bitch."

the end
Tags: fic, sam/dean, spn

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