Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, original characters
Total Word Count: 2543
Summary: a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.
Notes/Warnings: abuse, dub-con, harsh images, morally challenged Sam, troubled Dean. There are hints of abuse, physical and sexual, but nothing terribly graphic. The rating is for the overall fic—it varies according to update. For a large part of the fic, the boys are underage.
follows from Public Enemies Book One
one/ two/ three/four/ five/six/seven/ eight
AN: this is pretty rough so bear with me. I'm trying to work past my writer's block which means you guys get bits and pieces of the WIPs I'm trying to finish. There's another piece of this to come and then I hope that sends us on to the finishing chapters. I hope. I'd love to finish this one this year—six years is too long to make a reader wait. Sorry!
Dean stood ramrod straight, every muscle tight as a bowstring. He clutched the bundle each con had been handed on intake tight in his hands, and hoped like hell no one could see him shaking like a wetbrain with the DTs. He focused on the little folded pile of prison-issue clothing in his hands. He was naked, like all the other mooks in line, all of them shaking in the cold, standing with their asses pressed against the shower tiles. The fuckin' pea-soup colored tiles were like ice—so grimy with old soap and dirt his skin crawled, trying to pull away from it. His hair was flat, dripping wet from the shower they'd been marched through. His jaw hurt from clenching it tight and his ass burned. The big ugly screw standing in front of him grinned, like having shoved his fingers in Dean's ass, "searching for contraband, spread 'em, sweet-cheeks" was a school yard prank.
"This is how it's going to go," the head screw barked. "We say jump, you don’t even ask how high, you fuckin' start jumping and hope like hell it's good enough, got me? Now after you losers get your racks tied down, you'll get your work station—and remember, gettin' work is a privilege, not a right. Anything you get is a privilege, now."
The captain eyeballed them as he marched down to the end of the line, wheeled around and headed back, the light reflecting from his brass badge, his buttons. The cap pulled down low on his forehead cast most of his face into shadow, made him look like some pulp magazine villain. He looked Dean's way and Dean dropped his eyes, quick. He just wanted to do his bid and get out. He just wanted to make it out alive.
"It's up to me how this is gonna go for you. I'd suggest you do everything you can to keep on my good side." He turned to his lieutenant and snapped his fingers. "Get 'em boxed up, then come see me."
The screws hustled them along, "get dressed—c'mon, hurry it up—button up, shoes on, ya low-lifes—" and then they were trotting down a long hallway, the concrete block walls painted a pale green, black floor tiles reflecting the lights like deep lake water. Everything looked whistle-clean; the air, though, it stank of bleach and too many bodies in one place. A sharp chill zipped up Dean's back and lodged in his chest. The last time he'd seen this place was the day Assasi brought him and Sammy in to see John Winchester…a couple of days before the old man'd bled out on a shower floor.
The cold corridor was lined with cages—paint peeling off the once-white bars, that for a moment stretched as far as the eye could see, cage after cage after cage….Dean squinted down the row and saw on second sight there were just maybe, thirty, forty cells on each side of the corridor, on this floor and one level up.
Cons were leaning against the upper railing, jeering as they watched the fish swim by. Dean made the mistake of glancing up at that second tier, and one thick-muscled mook locked eyes with him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up on his arms, revealing snakes and anchors and naked sheilas inked into their broad surfaces. The guy gave him a slow, nasty wink, and licked his lips like he'd just tasted something delicious. Dean's heart plummeted into his gut. This keeping-his-head-down stuff was probably going to be a hell of a lot harder than he'd planned for.
Dean took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut. His hands tightened on the pathetic bundle of what was all he owned now. He was so damn full up with anger, so damn hot he was about to go off like a grenade and all it'd take was a nudge to knock his pin loose…he wasn't ready for this. He didn't' know what direction he'd blow. For all intents and purposes, he was alone now—unprotected, weak, and underneath that rage, he was more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. There'd not been one sign that Assasi was with him here. He'd have to assume that yeah, he'd been hung out to dry like wash on the line. Dean gathered it all—betrayal, rage, hatred—he opened his eyes and put all he had into glaring at the fat slob hanging over the rail.
"Well, whataya know," Dean muttered to himself. It worked; the guy blinked and backed up a bit, the greasy leer sliding off his face. Yeah. Maybe all he had going for him now was his instincts, but they'd have to work for him—and he couldn't help the slim hope that Assasi had men in here willing to go to bat for him—because fucking hell, there were plenty of Big Moe's men in stir, willing to take a bat to him, like that fat fuck on the railing.
Dean glanced up again. Fat Guy was still up there, but now surrounded by his cronies, Fat Guy made eye contact again…and this time, slid his hand between his legs. He squeezed his dick, rotated his hips and shot Dean another of those nasty, greasy winks. All his little buddies laughed, all of them eyeing Dean like he was the last pork chop on the plate. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck… Last time he'd been on the receiving end of a look like that, he'd been working for Bogg's. One asshole he could manage, but a mob?
Dean rolled his shoulders and blocked out the mokes. He'd seen the fear in Fat Guys look; Dean had never been an easy mark. If they ran at him, he'd take them out, as many assholes as he could; hell, Dean had always figured he'd go down fighting. He felt the guys around him ease away from him like he had some kinda disease they were afraid to catch, and he laughed, silent, like a secret to himself.
When the screw held the door to his cell open for him and the other joe assigned to it, that fucker had the brass ones to look like he was some kind of sorry for them. That made the rage that kept Dean moving burn even hotter—he didn't need some damn screw feelin' pity for him—but he banked the fire and grabbed one of the cots lined shoved against the walls of the tiny cell.
The cell door slammed shut, and the screw advised them both to keep their noses clean. Sure, sure, Dean thought—thanks a mill for the free advice, and worth every penny they paid for it.
All up and down the row, lights in the cells went out, leaving the long bank of florescent tubes in the corridor ceilings glaring down on them. Dean rolled himself in his thin, woolen blanket. He jammed his shoulders against the cold, block wall, and squeezed his eyes shut. He swallowed hard—rather kill himself than let go of the sob that clogged his throat. He could hear the guy in the other cot, gasping quietly into his pillow, apparently not afraid to cry—or too weak to keep it in.
Right now, his Sammy was getting ready for bed. He wasn't that far away, only a few miles past the city, but it might as well have been a world. Fuck that, Dean thought. He wasn't gonna worry about distances and what was impossible now. Now, he was gonna think about his little brother, how right now, Sam was washing his face, getting the sink and the floor all wet—wetting his hair, pulling it back from his face, grinning at Dean all wide and sweet as he did. He imagined how Sam would look at him right before bed, the way his edges got kinda soft in the dim bedroom light. How long his legs were, how big his hands were…Dean closed his eyes and saw Sam pulling his pajama shirt on across shoulders getting bigger, more muscular. How he'd reach out to Dean in the night, pull him close....a tear escaped, wet his cheek; he scrubbed it dry. How was he going to keep on living without Sam, when he could barely breathe without him?
"Winchester! Get a move on, yer slower'n molasses."
He could barely hear him over the clang and slam of the wash machines working, but he knew O'Bannon, the man was hardly a puzzle. Besides anything the man said only required a 'yes sir', so—"Yes, Boss, moving faster."
Dean hauled a ton of wet towels from the wash tub, feeding them through the wringer. His fingers were raw from the hot water and the rough fabric, but it was still a better, safer job than cleaning, or cooking—no corners to work himself into, no weapons ready-to-hand…Dean grinned a little to himself. Yeah, safe, but come summer, it was gonna be a dog's life in that place.
But the laundry's boss took a liking to him, and that helped too. He didn’t have to work cheek to jowl with some Kennedy rat, or some dick that decided that just because Dean wasn't some ugly palooka, he should take it up the ass. In fact, no one had come after him like that. Instead of making him feel safe, that worried him since they'd been pretty sure, him and Sam, that they'd come at him that way first. So if they weren't coming after him, it might mean that there was something worse in store…Moe Kennedy could be an inventive fucker, and Dean was in the perfect position to make an example of what happened to the slob dumb enough to cross Kennedy.
Anyway, it was Sam who'd sweated blood over the possibility of rape; when it came right down to it, Dean wasn't too worried about the prospect. That kind of thinking was something he'd kept that to himself, but. Dean was no fool. If it came to that, or a losin' some fingers or an eye—or worse—he was gonna suck dick any day. It hadn’t killed him when he was a kid and it wouldn’t kill him now.
Dean rubbed his face, and snorted slightly, trying to get a reprieve from the ever-present, wet-paper/peppery smell of the laundry soap. He blinked—the moist, hot air felt a little heavy sometimes and it felt like he got lost in it, lost in thoughts that weren't worth much having.
He got back to work, snagging a full laundry cart to shove over to the drying lines. Just as he reached the lines, a guy stepped out, a fireplug of a guy with a sneer plastered across his mug. He whispered, a rasp that Dean could barely catch over the clash of the machines.
"Long timers got good memories in here, boy, nutin but time ta think…" the guy leaned closer, his hot breath glancing off Dean's jaw. "Been thinkin' about John Winchester." He drew a huge thumb across his neck, the ropy scar there explaining the hoarse shadow of a voice. "An' how faithless, chislin' bastards come to an end."
Dean turned his head from Fireplug's rank breath, snarled out, "Go ahead, ya punk. Fuck with Assasi's man. Because make no mistake, I'm in here for Assasi." He faced the guy head on and held up his rock-steady right hand. "I'll be happy to paint this hand with blood for him. Again."
"Hey—s'at you, Winchester? What t'hell's goin' on there?"
At O'Bannon's shout, the mug growled and melted back in the shadows like a ghost.
Dean startled at a fleeting touch on his shoulder, stilled when he realized it was the laundry's boss.
"That jerk screwin' with you, Winchester?"
"Nah, Boss," he said, "guy was just flappin' his gums, nothing big."
"Well, all right, then. You go on an' head out to the yard with the others. Look like you could use a little sun," he said, and added gruffly, "yer startin' ta look like yer own corpse."
"Yes, Boss," Dean grinned at him, chuckled a little when O'Bannon rolled his eyes. He quickly snagged his jacket and headed to the yard with the other inmates.
A brisk breeze cut across the yard, whisking the dust into small, dry billows, settling bits of paper and dead leaves against the chain link surrounding it. Beyond the fence, the wind shivered through brown grass, set the bare branches of the few trees outside the fence to clacking. There wasn't much to see past the fence, and there was nothing of interest to Dean inside it. A few cons stood about in small groups, or sat at the couple of bleachers set against one concrete block wall, a few sat at the small tables set in the guard tower sightlines.
There was a radio set up right outside a guard shack, close to a table where a few lifers sat playing cards. A friendly game—the guys shouting and jabbing each other had to be in their sixties or older—cons who were going to die there. Next table over, a few guys and some of their girls were coolin' their heels. A few girls stood, hips swaying to the music. Dean watched them for a bit, carefully—he didn’t want anyone to come to the mistaken conclusion he was trying to move on their doll.
Dean walked a few feet past them, came to a rest with his back against a wall. He pulled a book out of his pocket and began to read, a new western he'd gotten in yesterday's mail. Sam had sent it, along with a letter and a picture—both untouched, a privilege and a sign that he was still Assasi's man.
He tucked his finger into the book to mark his place, and let his mind run on with thought of Sammy, worrying about him, missing him. He could barely make out a song he kind of liked, I'll See You in My Dreams, coming from the old geezers' radio. He found himself swaying a bit to the tune, feeling almost at ease…he sapped back to himself, alert to a sudden low buzz working itself through the yard.
A guy was coming through the gate with some of the newer intakes, drawing all sorts of attention. He stood out like a sore thumb—big, taller than anyone in the yard. Dean watched him lope across the concrete apron leading to the yard, and a thought speared him, sharp and crystal clear—Sam's gonna look like that one day.
Dean blinked, startled at how clear the image of a grown-up Sam was, before shaking his head. Not gonna happen. Sam was plenty tall, sure—he was almost eye to eye with Dean, which made him already taller than most, but this mook….nah, Sammy was never gonna be a mountain like that.
Dean watched the guy cross the yard until he lost him in the shadows under the towers.