Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, original characters
Total Word Count: 8723
Summary: a 1920s AU *very* loosely based on the film, Public Enemy.
Notes/Warnings: abuse, dub-con, rape, 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.
In this update, the abuse includes rape.
follows from Public Enemies Book One
one/ two/ three/four/ five/six/seven/ eight
nine (part one of two parts)
AN: Well, finally an update. We're probably going weird places, so bear with me. This is what happens when you throw your hands up and give in to the characters.
Dear Mr. A,
I am writing this to you while sitting here in the yard because it is a nice day, sunny and all, and it's starting to warm up pretty good too. Please thank Louie for remembering me and sending the cigarettes. It has helped quite a bit. Thank you for letting him do that and thank you for getting those letters from Sam and the packages to come through.
I wonder when Sam can come and visit me. I ask because it has been three months and I miss him and you too. Please can't you see if it's possible? I know Sam is busy what with going to College and all but I sure would enjoy it and be grateful.
Dean wrote letter after letter, practically begging Assasi to let Sam come visit, but there was always a reason why Sam couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't, until six months had passed. It was the height of summer before Dean got word that Sam was finally allowed to come. Mr. Assasi never did show, and Dean had truly settled into the idea that he'd lost some—or most—favor with A, even though he still got letters and the occasional package from Sam.
Dean had gradually come to expect nothing concrete in the way of support—still, he figured he must have some sort of support. He'd been in stir for six months now—half a year gone by—and none of the rats had actually laid hands on him. Catcalls, jeers, revolting descriptions of just what his ass was good for, whispered hot and wet in his ear while he tried to choke down his dinner…he'd weathered all that, but as yet, not a single mug had laid a grimy finger on him. Yet.
So maybe…maybe Assasi had a plan he just wasn't sharing with Dean or Sam.
When he got the word that Sam was finally coming, along with a date and time, he was beyond relieved. He was about to see his little brother at last, and finally got some sort of sign that Assasi considered Dean still had some worth.
Dean tried not to sneeze into his dinner; dragged the sleeve of his shirt roughly under his nose. Not a cold, he was sure of that, it was just something about the laundry always sent his nose to running—maybe the soap, maybe the bleach. Nothing he could do about it. He'd spent the morning flat on his back, his head in the guts of one of the machines; he'd gotten soaking wet from head to toe. His hair was still wet, plastered against his head and making him look like mutt stuck in the rain. Somehow O'Bannon got it in his head that whenever one of the machines decided to act up, Dean, with his affinity for cars, was the first choice to wrangle the damn things back into shape.
As luck would have it, he had managed to force the damn mangle to its knees—so to speak—and now he was reaping the benefits of being useful; he'd snatched up his tray and found he'd been handed a little extra for dinner.
He took his tray to the far corner of the mess hall, sat at a table with some of the old timers. It was a pretty good spot—the closest he could get to a corner with no door at his back, plus he was surrounded by a bunch of guys who didn't want shit from him. He bent over his tray and wasted no time at shoveling food in as fast as he could. Most of it tasted like shit, but he needed the extra. He was getting a little underweight, a condition he was trying compensate for with more training, and any extra food he could get.
He'd been working out with some old cons who way-back-when had been in the ring. It wasn't a bad way to pass the time; he liked working with the body bag, liked slamming his frustrations away. Couple of them told Dean he had a real talent for it…sometimes, while he pounded the bag, he imagined a life away from their world, pictured what it would it would be like, with him and Sam making a legit living…'right, there's a fairy tale for ya.'
Dean worked his way through salty green beans, globs of gluey mashed potatoes, and a slab of dense grey stuff the cooks called meatloaf. Was probably horse.
There was a bit of a scuffle and before Dean could react, some clown elbowed the old guy next to Dean out of the way, jumped in his spot and grabbed Dean's dick. He squeezed—hard—and was gone before Dean could stab him with his fork.
"What the fuck—"
That stupid fuck—Fat Mike—who'd been sneering at him since he'd landed in the joint was sat a few tables over, and he and his whole ugly-ass crew were laughing. Fat Mike's piggy little peepers gleamed like oil.
Dean growled, but dropped his eyes. Not because he was afraid or nervous, but because the rage that roared through him was something he wanted to keep to himself—at least for the moment. If Dean took his tray to that fuck's head and stove in his melon the way he wished he could, he'd end up sweating out in the box for a couple of days, and he wasn't about to screw things up. Not today. Not with Sam finally coming to visit.
His cellie stopped shoveling grub into his too-big mouth long enough to pin him with a weird look. "What the fuck, Winchester, whatya grinnin' for? Fat Mike's gonna kill ya—an' that's after he's done fucking you up..."
Fat Mike's beady eyes disappeared in his doughy face as he grinned in Dean's direction and made a kissy-faces at him. It was enough to make the hair on the back of Dean's neck rise and his stomach gave a queasy roll.
"Yeah well, it ain't happenin' tonight," Dean said, and slid off the bench. He headed back to his cell. He spread out on his bed, ankles crossed, arms crossed over his chest. He closed his eyes and waited.
A sharp bang brought him upright, heart banging and his eyes flying open—he'd actually managed to drop off.
"Let's go, boy," a guard snapped. "You got yerself a visitor."
Dean jumped up quickly, keeping pace with the guard who took him to little room they were allowed visitors in. Dean stepped through the doorway and came to a stop, looked around. Through the partition, Dean saw him—eyes first, beautiful eyes the color of stormy seas, then dimples breaking through with the widest, brightest smile anyone could ever hope to see.
"Dean!" he saw Sam's mouth curl around his name, and damn if it didn't make him tear up. Fuck, there he was, his Sammy, right there at the table, right in the goddamn flesh.
"C'mon, yer blockin' the doorway," the guard growled, and yanked the cuffs on his wrists, leading Dean to the table that split the room in half, a long table topped with a wire wall separating con from civilian. With a hard shove on one shoulder, the screw seated Dean in front of the reinforced wire opening. The openings in the wire were small, but big enough for Sam to poke the tips of his fingers through, and best of all, Dean could hear him, and smell him. He pushed his own fingertips into the wire and Sam's fingers rubbed softly against his. "Dean," he said again. Sam's face glowed like the sun. He didn’t need to say anything, because it was all there on his face, everything he felt.
"Sam." Dean closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hide what it meant to him to see his brother again. "God, I missed you. So much."
Sam nodded. "Yeah…I'm so sorry Dean. But law school…gosh, it's pretty darn hard. I never had to work for grades before." He gifted Dean with a shy smile. "Not like I'm working that hard now. And when I didn’t have school, well…" he stopped, dropped his eyes and blushed. Dean felt like he was going to pass out—his heart just squeezed down into a bloodless rock in his chest. He knew what Sam was going to say, and it was killing him already. Sam found someone, some girl, or…or…someone who was free and there for Sam and sweet for him….
"A's been letting me—" Sam glanced around quickly and leaned closer—"A's been letting me do a few small…deliveries for him, taking me on little trips for him. I've been to the mountains, in the south. It's beautiful in the mountains, very relaxing."
Dean frowned. He was no damn fool; he knew the mountains meant moonshine. What was Assasi getting Sam into?
"You're supposed to be studying, Sam, working towards being something respectable, man. What the hell's going on?" He leaned as close as he could to the wire, speaking low, but it was easy to pick up the desperate tone in his voice and the guard shifted closer, frowning. Sam leaned forward too; his voice smooth, calming, and Dean settled—a little bit.
"Dean…I am studying, I'm studying all the time. You know this law stuff is for Mr. A, right? I mean, I'm his man, just like you are. Just different. Law will take us in a lot of places. Lawyering means no more of this for you, you got me? And I'm safe, Dean, Mr. A makes sure that I'm safe as houses and nothing will touch me, okay? All I'm worried about is you. Thank god, you've got A's protection here, right? You're good, right?"
Sam rubbed his fingertips slowly over Dean's, Sam's beautiful fingers…Den shivered just a bit, remembering the way Sam had slipped them inside of him their last night. Looking into Sam's eyes, Dean could see that Sam was thinking of that night as well, and he worried for a moment that maybe the guards and all would see this wasn’t something brothers did, this touching.
"I dream about you every night," Sam whispered, and Dean flushed a deep, burning red, he felt the flare of heat rush across his cheeks, down his chest…
"Yeah, me too," he said, but before he could say more, the guard was at his side, pulling him to his feet. "Let's go, Winchester, visiting hours are done for ya."
He twisted his head as he left the room, desperate for one more look at his brother, his sole reason for living….
The showers were humid, the air stifling and humid from constantly dripping water. That and the smell, mildewed linen and wet linoleum—Dean hated the smell and the way it took him back to the Winchester apartment in summer time: hot, airless, dark all the time, what few windows they had opening out into the airshaft between the buildings. How much he'd hated their always-damp sheets and the stink, from the first heat wave to the first frost.
He shook his head, back in the present and scrubbing at his nose. The stink of mildew and wet concrete seemed more intense. He walked into the alcove that led into the shower room, and stopped. It was too quiet. His grip tightened on his towel. Glanced over at guard who'd brought him there. The screw caught the hesitancy in Dean's step, and grinned. Winked at Dean and that was the tip-off—here was the other shoe, dropping like a bomb.
A rushing hiss split the quiet as the bank of shower heads flicked on. Dean swiveled his head, trying to catch who was in the room with him, but the flimsy partitions hid no one, and the shower heads kept spewing water.
He backed towards the door, hoping against hope that the screw would let him out. Fat chance of that, but he had to give it a try—
The fucker hauled off and kicked him, back of the knee—his leg crumbled under him. As it gave, the screw shoved him forward and Dean skidded face-first into the first stall. A blow to his head rang his bell like nobody's business—the lights sparked and dimmed. He blinked—wasn't the lights dimming, just his eyes screwing up from the blow.
Dean sprawled out on the cold, rough tiles, muscles jerking uselessly—down for the count. Someone was yapping, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying—everything sounded like he was underwater. He made a weak and wobbly effort to get to his feet, but a booted foot slammed into his side.
Dean spit blood, dazed, breathless…about to get his ticket punched in this stinking, filthy shower…he almost wanted to laugh. Seemed he was gonna follow in John Winchester's footsteps, no matter how much he'd wanted to be nothing like his dad.
A rough hand under his chin yanked his head up, ripped a gasp of pain out of him.
"Hello, little fish. Guess what? You're 'bout ta go swimmin' wit sharks."
More hands laid on him, lifted him, dragged him to the farthest corner of the shower room. He was dropped face down, and someone's size 12 brogun was planted between his shoulder blades. "Moe sends his regards, sweetmeat."
Dean knew that voice, sure. Heard it plenty of times in the mess hall. So, finally Fat Mike was out to put the claim on. Dean was scared, he was scared as shit through and through, but still he held his head up best he could, and cursed the bastards who were going to kill him. He owed it to Sam to go out like a man.
"I ain't got a debt with Kennedy," Dean snarled. "Any beef Winchesters had with him, got paid in my dad's blood. Moe ain't got any hate for me or my brother—and that gunsel of his was—was—that's just what happens in the game, so fuck you—"
A crack deafened him, his cheek exploded with pain and his lip split. He gagged on blood pouring into his mouth too quickly to spit out.
Another voice, a different voice than Fat Mike's broke through the fog. This voice was calm, disinterested—all business. "Yeah, that's the game, but you know part of that game means showing Assasi he can't trample all over Moe's territory. Moe ain't got beef with you, but he does with that guinea Assasi. And here he's got A's 'son', sitting right in the palm of his hand." A foot collided with Dean's ribs, searing pain making the lights dim again. When he caught his breath, the voice went on.
"So, we do what we gotta do. No hard feelings—at least for my boss. Can't speak for these uncivilized mooks." The voice was quieter as it moved away. "Believe it or not, I'm sorry it's gotta go down like this, Winchester, but that's the breaks. We'll light a candle for you…."
Dean heard the shower room door click shut. His legs were gripped suddenly, pulled apart by two different sets of hands. The foot that had been on his back moved to his neck. He bit back a scream as his arms were gripped too, pulled backwards until they strained at the sockets. He wanted to cry—felt like his damn arms and legs were being ripped right off.
A sharp crack echoed in Dean's ear—a second later, pain so intense it stole his breath, rushed through one arm. His mouth dropped open, ready to push out a scream, but it was instantly blocked. He retched, jerked harder, trying to push out the dick shoving deep into his mouth, stopping his throat like a cork in a bottle, but a rough hand locked in his hair to hold his head still. He struggled for breath. Spit bubbled and dripped out around Dean's lips as Fat Mike—had to be him—thrust in and out of his mouth.
Dean fought to breathe, to rein in the fear making his guts into water. He could do this, he could. Maybe come out of this alive—fuckin' live for another day and wait for the chance to cut this pig's dick off and choke him on it.
Dean told himself over and over—this was nothing, nothing. He could do this, he could do—
He was yanked up off the floor, tossed over something hard and cold that he got was a detergent drum, then skewered ass-first by a fucking lightening bolt. Someone's dick stopped up his throat again, cutting off his scream. The pain kept growing; it sawed at him, tearing him in two until something cold and oily ran down his back, dripping into the crack of his ass…the pain lessened.
"That's better," Dean heard, and he lost it—he spit vomit out around the dick, earned a vicious punch to the head that blinded him and knocked him off the drum—but thank god, he could breathe again. At least for the blessed moment before his face was ground roughly into the concrete, into the puddle of vomit.
He was flipped and dragged a few feet, then something warm and thick spattered against his face. It ran into his mouth and burned his eyes. Blood was his first thought, before he realized it was spunk.
I'm gonna kill all of them, he swore this to himself as he tried to absorb the blows raining down on him. Kill all of them…
The thought followed him down into the dark.
Dark all over and it felt heavy, pressing him flat…Dean came to fighting, trying to, but no part of him responded to his frantic desire to move. He heard Sam…he was talking to someone. Dean needed Sam to know that he was awake, tried to move his hands at least, but no dice. Everything was too fucking heavy. "Hey…" he croaked. "Sam, hey—"
Dean's voice failed him—his throat was a tube full of lava; the surprised breath he tried to drag in made his chest explode with pain, and he coughed and moaned because he couldn't scream.
A pink blob danced into his blurry line-of-sight, he tried to raise his hands again and stuttered with the pain of it.
"You're safe—you're going to be fine, Winchester."
Shit. Not Sam, just the croaker, old Doc Johnson. Dean snorted, disagreeing with the gruff, impersonal voice. He sure as hell was not safe, not as long as his ass was in the big house. And he sure as hell wasn't anything close to fine. His throat was on fire and his ass…just thinking about his ass made his muscles clench, and the startled grunt it ripped out of him just poured kerosene on the fire in his throat. His eyes rolled from the pain—his heart pounded against his breastbone. He couldn't breath, his heart was galloping, he was going to die on this narrow, rock-hard bed, stinking of bleach and…and…he was going to die where no one cared about him, he was going to die alone….
A burning sensation bloomed in his arm; he faded into black again—just before he dropped off he thought he heard, "Rest easy now, I'm going to help you."
He woke alone.
Dean spent a couple of weeks in the infirmary, fighting off fevers brought on by infection, healing from deep bruises swirling purple and green all over his body. He'd come out of the showers with a cracked arm bone, his face and mouth swollen and torn. Dean lay along on that bed and thought about writing Sammy—confessing what had happened to him. But in the end, he swallowed his shame and decided not to.
Why make Sam suffer for something he couldn’t fix? Or worse, make him look at Dean with disgust, for being so fuckin' weak as to let some low-life thugs split him like a two-dollar whore, break the promise he'd made him—
"Sam, I'll never do this with anyone else. I swear on my own soul."
Sam would hate him for not fighting hard enough, for letting some low-level, crummy dips and hopheads break him like cheap china.
Eventually the fevers died, his ass healed, and the swelling eased. He could eat again, walk again. They let him out of the infirmary, and life went on.
Two months later, Dean had his first day back in the laundry. He stepped through the double doors and froze—felt like an ice-cold wind rippled up his spine, curled icy claws into his gut. Dean swallowed hard, shook his shoulders as subtly as he could and took another step. He had to keep walking, had to hold his chin up, not let the scumbags win an inch. Dean swaggered into the centre of the room, smirking at any mug who looked his way.
He was leaning over one of the soaking tubs when he felt something at his back—someone slapped a mitt on his shoulder, but before he could wheel around and clock them with the brush he'd scooped out of the water, he heard O'Bannon's voice and stood down. Hell, just about fainted with relief, to tell the truth.
"Glad to see you're back, Winchester. Machines ain't been the same without yer magic touch." His words were gruff, the tone as well, but Dean saw the way his eyes flicked over him, checking him out—how they darkened with concern, maybe even a little anger. O'Bannon even went so far as to pat his shoulder—once. "A'right, vacation's over. Get yer loafin' ass back to work," he growled.
Dean breathed out a relieved sigh—if O'Bannon was gonna act like nothing happened, then so, by god, could he. Dean managed a grin for him. "Going, Boss."
He headed over to the machines, intending to give them a quick once over. Some movement flickered in the corner of his eye, made him jump. There, steadily feeding sheets and towels into the mangles, was that giant stranger—the guy he'd seen in the yard.
Dean couldn’t be sure, but it looked like maybe the con was sizing him up. Dean cursed to himself—if this one wanted a piece of him, Dean doubted he'd have a fucking chance in hell of fighting that giant off, not alone. And not only was the mook a giant, he was a goddamn button man, a contract killer. At least, that was the skinny making the rounds. Word was the guy loved his job, and that kind of a guy…Dean shuddered.
Dean felt those cold, china-doll eyes on him the whole time he loaded machines.
Dean tried to go on like business as usual, but he was clearly marked.
Moe's men were circling, smiling like sharks tasting blood in the water—A's men were nowhere to be seen. Dean took deep breaths and kept his head down, much as he could. He avoided the yard—when he had to go out, he kept close to the towers and kept his back to a wall. When he ate, he ate with the old guard, the old cons who'd taken a liking to him. He worked in the laundry, one eye on the machines; the other on the doors…his whole body was one thrumming nerve, ever on point, never relaxing. He kept hos chin up, a strut in his step, despite knowing he'd been given up, that Assasi had cut him loose. Well, fuck, he'd always known, deep down, that Sammy was the only real family he had. Sam would never give up on him. Sam would never hurt him, and he was going to hang on to that one good thing in his life to the bitter end.
Weeks went by before Dean ultimately dropped the ball—it was no fault of his own, eventually there just came a point that, try as he might, his body gave out. A lack of sleep, not enough food, never a moment to take an easy breath…exhaustion, hunger; Dean had known it was never a question of if he let his guard down, it had always been when.
When came one afternoon in the laundry. In the brief moments that took him out of the main part of the room into one dark corner, he stumbled.
It started with Dean pushing one of the tubs of dirty laundry towards a bank of washing machines… a guard sauntering in and ordering O'Bannon out…silent orders in an ice-cold glare and men scurrying to the doors….
In the minute it took for O'Bannon to walk out with the guard, Dean was surrounded by Kennedy's goons. Cons not in on the game blew out the doors like smoke, their tubs abandoned, wet clothes hung up in the mangles, dry clothes heaped up on the folding tables…he was alone, swinging in the wind like a busted kite.
Dean put his back to the corner in a futile bid to defend himself.
They came at him.
Quick as roaches, four of Fat Mike's boys dragged him into the dark space between the boilers. Their faces were pale and twisted, their eyes in shadow. Their fingers, their teeth, clawed and bit at him like rabid dogs, like rats. They shoved a rag between his teeth, they held him down, and went to work.
He was pulled between them like a wishbone. He screamed when he was pressed up against the hot surface of the boilers, when they pulled at his pants he fought with every bit of himself, because he'd go to hell before being raped again. They'd be stickin' their dicks into a dead man, god as his witness.
Dean closed his eyes and drew on everything he had had left—he was going to go out like a man, like a goddamn son of Mary Winchester—
Something hot and wet splashed his face—he flinched in disgust, figuring one of the mugs had come on him. He shook his head and roared into the gag—his eyes stung, took a few seconds for him to get that it wasn't spunk. Blood spattered the floor and a high-pitched shriek rung in his ears.
A juggernaut bore down on them; Dean saw whirling arms, flashing blades, and blood, so much blood….
Over the screams of the mooks who thought they'd break him, Dean heard what sounded like some strange language, whoever it was, was shouting something, scattering the rats back into the dark.
Dean rolled his head, his cheek to the tiled floor, blood thickening up under his stinging flesh. Big, black boots came to a stop inches from his face. Dean knew, they belonged to the giant. He grabbed Dean's arm and dragged him to his knees, ripping out the gag and ignoring the bark of pain Dean let loose. "That guard, the one named Swanson, he's at the end of the hall, he's the only one you can trust, just so you know."
Dean had a scattered moment in which he thought the giant's voice was kind of nice, nothing like he'd expected, and then the man dropped his arm and turned away. Dean was alone, bleeding onto the black tiles of the laundry floor.
O'Bannon came sprinting back into the room before Dean finished dragging himself to his feet. "Fuckin'—Jesus Mary and Joseph, what the ever lovin' hell happened in here, Winchester?" he shouted.
Dean tried to keep the man in sight, though he was weaving about like a stewbum. "Don’ r'member, Boss. Think…think I fell. Hit m'head pretty…hard." He kept his eyes on the floor, struggling to keep to his feet.
"Shit. Yeah…sure. You fell." O'Bannon snarled. He shook his head and turned away from Dean. They both knew Dean was never going to say a word. It was the law of the jungle, the law Dean had been raised in and he wasn't capable of thinking any other way.
The guard, Swanson, was at the door. "That big sombitch Salvatore sent me. What the heck happened here, Mike? I mean, Mr. O'Bannon."
O'Bannon threw his hands up in the air "Take this idiot in to see the doc."
"Yeah, sure." This particular guard had picked up on O'Bannon's like for Dean, and treated Dean decently. He took him straight away to the infirmary to get Dean get treated—was on board when the doc insisted he spend the night. Dean imagined, laying there on the thin, hard infirmary bed, that he should be plotting and planning his revenge, but the promise of a full night's sleep, of safety, broke him thoroughly. He eased back, shut his eyes and vaguely thanked something for getting him through it.
Dean was sprawled out on his bed, feet up on the end rail, one arm propped behind his head. Relaxing. Reading a letter from Sam. He was just rereading the part where Sam described Louie breaking in a few new mugs, smiling to himself, when a guy he knew was Assasi's stopped in front of his cell, rapped his knuckles against the bars.
"What's th'word, Winchester. Say, heard yer cellie's caught hisself a fatal kinda problem…someone took issues wit the way he expressed himself about ya—maybe had a bit too much to say abut yer comin's and goin's if ya get my drift."
Dean snapped upright, crammed his letter under his pillow in one smooth move and fixed a glare at the mug outside his cell. "Yeah? S'at so?"
"Yeah, that gidrul yakked his last. A rat is a rat is a rat, get me?" The guy hitched his pants higher and smirked at Dean. "Look like you got a private room fer now."
Dean fought down a queasy roll of unease, nodded. "Okay. Tell Mr. A I said, uh, thanks."
The guy frowned; a troubled look passed over his face. "Well…Assasi dint 'xactly have nutin' to do with it, it just…happened. Word goes that giant button man knocked him off his ass wit'out a word. Giant kept punching 'til…it sounded like hittin' a melon wit a hammer." The man shook his head. "Only gettin' him a week in the box, can y'believe it? Wonder who's greasin' his way…."
After A's man left, Dean mulled over what he'd said…must have been one hell of a circus to rattle an old foot soldier like that. Carter ending up being the rat on him didn’t surprise Dean much, but the giant beating Carter's ass into hamburger…well, that worried Dean a lot.
The giant…Dean hadn’t seen him since that day in the laundry. Everyone was keeping out of his orbit; Assasi's men, even Big Moe's, were giving him a wide berth. The cons all gossiped about the man like fuckin' school girls. Dean heard a lot of dirt, but who knew what the real skinny was—the guy was a button man, blooded since short pants—he was a Russian or maybe a Polack, an anarchist, a mad bomber—he killed for fun, he killed his family—he was a Satanist—
Lots of gossip made the rounds, but no solid info. Dean shook his head. His cellie had been an idiot but Dean sure hadn't figured he was that much an idiot, poking the bear like that. Crazy thing to do.
Dean took a deep breath and dropped back to the bed, sniffing at the letter in his hand. Well, for the foreseeable future, he was alone…he snuck his hand into the waist of his pants, tickling himself a little, coaxing the squirmy, hot feeling to build up in him. He inhaled, deeper, and the cologne Sam favored filled his nose. Nice not to smell laundry soap and bleach. Nice to smell a little bit of home…his dick plumped up, thinking about foxy eyes and a sweet, candy pink mouth bowed in a mischievous smile.
The noise in the dining hall usually drove Dean a little crazy—the sound of metal trays hitting metal tables, the constant yapping all around him…he'd give just about anything to have a little peace and quiet, some normal damn kinda mealtime instead of this. Just as he was thinking that, the noise level dropped noticeably for a minute, until suddenly it rose even higher. The guy next to him nudged Dean hard. "Z'at guy, the French guy."
"Thought he was Russian?" Dean heard from his left side.
The guy on his right leaned forward, spoke down the table, "Naw, he's one a dem bean-eaters. Heard him speaking Spanish."
The mook on the other side of that one snorted. "Italian, asshole. He's prolly one a Assasi's guys, damn dagos."
Dean bristled—Assasi had been the only one who cared, back when his Irish family didn’t give a shit about them—when they'd iced his old man like he was garbage. "Don’t fucking say dago, you mick."
"Fuck ya-ya-ya—" the guy stammered into silence, a silence that had weight and presence and hung over the whole table like a wet, wool blanket.
Dean felt it, weight, heat, danger behind him. He swallowed hard, made his face a blank, and turned, looked…up an up and up…of course it was him. The Giant. He loomed up behind Dean, and chuckled. It didn't sound in the least friendly.
"Sure, I'm Italian—if you like. You like Italians, right?"
His voice shimmied down Dean's spine and lodged in his gut. Dean's hands clenched around the tableware so fiercely it felt like they were cutting into his palms—he knew, even without looking up, the comment was directed at him. The guy knew who he was, knew of Assasi, knew…probably everything about Dean's place in the gang. The giant chuckled again and moved past their table. Dean felt that queasy shiver grip him again—like a goose had walked on his damn grave.
The next morning, the screw unlocked Dean's cell, and the giant stood there, blocking out the glare of the ever present florescent lights. His face was in shadow, he held only a small pile of belongings in his hand. No way to gage what was going on in that brain of his; no way to tell what he was feeling about being Dean's new cellmate. Dean knew he'd find out soon enough. He just hoped it wasn't going to fuck him up.
"Wake the hell up, Winchester. Meetcha new roommate. Say hi ta Sally," the screw snickered. "Play nice girls—no killin' each other, y'hear?"
Hello, baby brother. How are you? How is school treating you? College is not the same as school, I am sure? It is more work I bet, but you should be doing well, what with your giant brain and all.
Listen, please see if Louie can take some pictures and get A to send them in. I miss you a lot. I miss your smiling mug, and I really miss your damn laugh but as I cannot get that, maybe I can get the other. Miss giving you hugs. You must be some taller now, hey? It will be hard to hug you, I am sure. I might have to knock you on your knees to reach. Will that bother you? No, I know that you are laughing.
So, do you have any special friends? Tell me if you do. I hope you are being careful and safeguarding your heart. I do not want it getting broke. I could not stand that. Is our place all right? I worry about you being there alone.
Write me more letters. I read and read the ones you sent me, Hell, I can recite them all from memory. Too bad I could not do that in school. You are laughing again, I bet.
I have a new cell mate. He is an Italian, big guy, bigger even than me. He is an odd duck. He hardly ever speaks, he is as quiet as a mouse and reads just like you do. He goes by Salvatore Scutti. I don’t know if Mr. A put him here or not. No one is talking, so I can’t get a read on it. Maybe Louie knows?
Please Sammy do not forget those pictures, tell Louie he better be looking out for you good or I'll have something to say about that when I get out.
I love you,
Dean, your big brother.
Dear Big Brother,
I'm glad that my letters make you happy. I wish that I didn't have to write you. I wish that you were right here with me, watching over me like you always have, all our lives.
College is different, but I am not. I still need you looking out for me. I still need your hugs from time to time. I don't have any special friends, because none of the people I've met could ever compare to you. So you needn't worry about my heart, I promise it's perfectly safe.
Watch out for your cellmate. People who are very quiet aren’t necessarily safe. No one knows a Salvatore Scutti, they know no Scuttis at all.
Louie will have pictures coming to you soon. Be patient and concentrate on watching out for yourself, for me.
Dean kept his back to the fence, his face pointed towards the sky, just fucking…breathing. The chill air raking across the yard was a godsend—it was just good to be off the block, have some sun on him. And it was a relief taking a break from his goddamn cellie.
He shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the skin-crawling feeling he got when he thought of the man. He'd swear his cellmate's eyes were on him all the time—could feel them practically digging a pit between his shoulder blades. The goon didn’t even pretend he wasn't staring. The sonofabitch would give him the eye when Dean caught him out; toss him that snake's smiles. Fuckin' Salvatore Scutti.
Salvatore in his living space made Dean's world feel like it'd shrunk to palm-size. With Salvatore crowdin' up the cell, there was no air to breathe. The bastard knew it, too—watched Dean struggle to breathe and laughed to himself. Maybe it didn’t show to most, but Dean could read a guy as well as Louie, and he knew—this bastard was grinning at him behind his face.
Dean didn't trust him. Hell—trust him? Salvatore scared him shitless. That junkyard-dog look in those yellow-green eyes, coming out around the corners of a dead-blank stare. The way he'd smile at Dean when he walked into the cell, like he could smell his fear, despite Dean's swagger….
It drove Dean right 'round the bend, that he couldn't even lay a finger on why he was so, so…topsy-turvy, so fuckin'….wrong around the guy. Because as far as he could tell, and as far as the rest of the block was concerned, looked like the guy saved his ass. Probably his life. No one would tell him for sure, but Dean pinned Salvatore as the guy who called the guards and the boss, who'd beat those rats until they were peeping at St. Pete's gates, same as Dean the first time they'd gone at him.
Everyone agreed on who'd had sunk a long, skinny shiv between Fat Mike's chins and left him head down in the can bleeding out like the pig he was, even though there was nothing the screws could pin on Scutti.
Dean knew too, if it was Salvatore saved him like he figured, he was in deeper hot water than he'd ever been. He sighed, the bench creaking under him as he shifted. He was fifty/fifty sure that he wasn't going to buy it any time soon, not with that look he'd get from Scutti when he wasn't laughing at him. Dean sure as hell knew that look, and like Assisi always said, forewarned was forearmed.
Salvatore was playing his little game, whatever it was and seemed like he was having fun. Just—fuck. Dean shivered, pulled his collar up and hunched down into his jacket. Nothing worse than having to wait for the other show to drop.
The lights went out; the hall lights dimmed a bit. The screws were in the hall, yelling "Lights out" up and down the block, banging a good night tattoo on the bars. Their batons ran tok-tok-tok down the length of the hall before fading out. When the last echo died, Salvatore turned to Dean with a cold smirk twisting his weirdly delicate mouth. He flowed off his bed and yanked Dean's blanket off of him and tossed it on the floor. "Hang this over the bars."
"What—no!" Dean shot upright, almost toppling off his bed. Salvatore's eyes raked over him, his gaze burning through Dean's threadbare union suit. Dean glared back, forcing himself not to cower behind his hands like a girl with her skirts up.
Salvatore just grinned wider and jerked his head towards the bars. He folded his arms over a wide chest, and set his feet. "Go on," he said. "I'm waiting."
Dean couldn't help but notice the swing of an impressive dick behind the thin material of Scutti's own union suit, he was mad at himself for noticing. "I said no."
"Hang it, or I break your wrists. You know how long that'll take to heal? You know how fucked up they’ll be? Hard to be a trigger man when you can't lift anything heavier than a itty-bitty, ol' derringer."
Dean shuddered, his blood feeling like sludgy ice in his veins. He judged the look in Salvatore's eyes, the side-ways smirk—the way his head tilted slightly, like he was waiting for the punch-line to a joke. His china-doll eyes shifted, went from flat and dead, to hot and wide awake….
He hadn't meant to, but Dean found himself grabbing up the blanket. His hands shook as he looped the corners around the bars and pulled them tight. Fuck, he might as well be tying a noose around his own stupid neck. The screws wouldn’t be back for a few hours…no guards around meant that Dean could only hope to come out the other side of this in something like one piece.
Salvatore was suddenly behind him, long fingers clamped on Dean's shoulder like a vise. "You know you belong to me now."
"Fuck yourself," Dean snarled and shook—or tried to shake—the man's hand off. "Leggo, damn it."
"I don't think you get this…you're mine, I paid for you in blood and now, I get you. You think I saved your ass because I'm a nice guy? A nice guy is the last thing I am."
Dean struggled desperately now, his breath coming fast, shallow. Not again, not happening again, he couldn't—
Without warning, Salvatore swung his fist into Dean's face. Dean's head flew back, striking the bars hard. The pain blew up inside him like a roman candle going off in his face. He tipped, sliding sideways until his knees hit the floor.
Salvatore left him at the bars, went and sat back on the bed—Dean's. He popped the buttons on his the lower half of his union suit and pulled his dick out in a business-like way. Salvatore looked bored, like this didn’t mean much of anything, except for the way his dick was jerking awake under his palm.
Dean blinked, blinked again. He bit down on his lip to keep his yap shut. The guy was a giant all over. His dick was big, thick around, and—Dean blinked, surprised—cut, like a Jew. Salvatore watched Dean watching, one big hand smoothing the thick length against his thigh, thumb working around the head, smearing slick around the naked crown.
Dean lifted his eyes to Salvatore's. There was something in them almost gleeful, almost—almost warm. Those oddly delicate lips spread into a smile that seemed familiar in a disturbing way…Dean shuddered when he realized this Salvatore goon had dimples, deep dimples framing his smile…just like Sam's.
Salvatore held his fully erect dick in one hand and gestured Dean forward with the other. "Come on, boy, get to it. Time's wasting."
"I'm not a boy—"
"Oh you are, right now you are," Salvatore chuckled. "You're going to be my boy, Dean. And you'll like it."
"Fuck you, I'll never—" Dean shuddered with rage when Scutti just laughed.
"Never what? They all know what's going on here, what with the blanket and all." He watched Dean for a bit. A small, half-smile bracketed by those damn dimples made him look….friendly. Curious. His eyes looked strangely…all there for once. Alive, not. Not cruel, not the way Dean expected. "If it helps, I just want you to suck my dick…who knows, you might even like it."
Dean growled, even angrier when the giant kept smiling. He wobbled over to the bed, dropped awkwardly to his knees. Balled his fists, and rested them on Salvatore's knees when he couldn’t figure out what else to do with them. He opened, reluctantly, and Salvatore fed his dick into his mouth, hips hitching like he just couldn't keep still, driving his dick deep. Dean gulped, instinctively fighting for breath—
"Shit—" Salvatore hissed, let out a faint, somewhat pleased sound that sent a startling, warm pulse through him, and however much Dean didn't want it, thickened his dick.
It was…not as completely horrible as he'd dreaded. He'd expected being forced to do this would break him more. Maybe he was that worthless, that much a whore, that it didn't. He tried not to notice the weight, the warmth. How smooth and satiny the skin felt on his tongue, how it tasted: a little salty, a faint hint of soap and clean skin and sweat.
Dean gulped down the spit and precome rapidly filling his mouth, threatening to choke him. Swallowing forced his tongue to slide against Salvatore's dick, pressing it against the roof of his mouth; Salvatore made that noise again, louder this time. His hands—great, thick-knuckled things—came up to trap Dean's cheeks. Dean waited for Salvatore to slam his head down, but he just held them there. Not demanding, not hurting…it didn't hurt, and that was about all it took for instinct, animal need, to kick in and make Dean lean into the touch.
The last time someone laid their hands on him without wanting to hurt him was…Dean tried to shut down that train of thought. The guy he was blowing now was a killer through and through, and Dean wasn't stupid. In the long run, this was only about hurt. Sooner than later, this…this whoever, whatever he was, was gonna mine payment right outta his skin, but right now, god, he was too desperate to care.
"Suck," Salvatore ordered, pumping his hips, his dick sliding in deeper. Dean winced and tried to relax his throat. Salvatore curled his hands over Dean's head, fingers sinking into his hair. Dean winced, waiting for him to shove in deep and choke him, but Salvatore just rested his hands there and let Dean get accustomed to the thick, long dick in his mouth. Dean shivered under Salvatore's hold.
He was afraid, waiting for the guy to show his hand, but…it kept being oddly, almost…gentle.
"Sonofabitch, you're so fucking good for me…" Salvatore finally began behaving more like Dean had expected, shoving his dick in, deeper on each stroke. Salvatore reached down and grabbed one of Dean's hands, pressed Dean's fingers around his dick, squeezing them until Dean got the idea to stroke what didn't fit in his mouth. Dean did, he jerked what he couldn’t swallow, and let the rest slide down his throat, fighting through the first panicky loss of breath until he got it under control.
Salvatore groaned, "When I come, damn it, swallow, you hear me? Fuck, you love it, don’t you, sure you do, you love drinking it down, rubbing my dick all over your face, fuck I need this, need this—"
Salvatore shuddered, and then hot, slick, spunk filled Dean's mouth, more than he could swallow, what he couldn't leaked around his lips, dripped off his chin.
Salvatore looked down at him, open mouthed, before his eyes narrowed. "Shit, you fuckin' slut," he hissed and Dean felt the dick he was trying to breath around lurch, give one more blurt of come before Salvatore pulled out. When he just looked at him silently, Dean took the chance to wipe at his chin, the mess smeared around his mouth, right down his neck. Salvatore was wet, balls dripping. He rubbed smears of come and spit into his skin, smiling faintly down at Dean.
Dean blinked the tears out of his eyes, shook off the feeling of being some place…not there. Glared at Salvatore when he asked Dean if he was okay. "You choked me," Dean said, glaring at him, daring Salvatore to suggest otherwise.
Salvatore laughed softly. "Right. There it is, there's that challenge in your eyes, that's the look I was waiting for. C'mere—I said come here." He grabbed a handful of Dean's hair and yanked him close, pressed an open mouthed kiss on him, kissed and kissed until the taste of his come was gone. He moaned like Dean was the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted, then…he reached down and gripped Dean's dick. Half-hard instantly went to fully hard.
Dean gasped, tried to get Salvatore's grip off of him. "No, no—"
Salvatore paid him no mind, didn't even bother to argue. He gripped Dean's hands in one of his, pinning them against his thigh. Not even bothering to unbutton Dean's sweat-damp union suit, he wrapped as much of his hand as he could around Dean's dick, stroked and squeezed him. The heat of Salvatore's hand, the strangeness of being touched by someone else, the tightly controlled strength he could feel in each shift of his hand…it felt good, much as he wished it didn’t, it felt too fucking good.
Salvatore leaned close, put his mouth against Dean's ear. "Go ahead; let it go, I've got you—"
"Got me? Whe—" a particular tight twist sent a shudder right down to Dean's toes, his balls drew tight. Salvatore's thumb rubbed hard, right over the tip of his dick, and Dean didn't so much as let go, as he was forced to—the thin material of his underclothes sagging under the weight of spunk, holding it hot and wet against his skin.
Something significant broke inside of Dean. He fought the feeling, but it…whatever Salvatore had done to him…chipped off huge chunks of himself. Not even Fat Mike, may he burn forever in hell, had bent him like this. This felt like it was going to break him, scar him inside and out. He was worthless, garbage, undeserving of his Sam. He'd never be able to look at Sam again without remembering…being unfaithful.
The man rolled him onto his bunk and ripped the blanket off the bars. He tossed it over Dean, not even letting him shuck off his soiled underwear. Turned to the small metal sink, washed himself, pissed, flushed, all little everyday things that hit Dean like nails sinking into his flesh.
Salvatore sank to the floor near the bars, looking rested and pleased, the fucking sonofabitch. He fished a Pall Mall out of a pack stowed under his bed. He lit it, the snick of the Zippo sounding like a thunder clap in the silence. Seconds later, Dean found himself becoming aware of the block again. Coughing, the creak of metal springs, mumbling and crying—the sounds of the cellblock.
And Salvatore. Smoking, watching Dean shuddering in his blanket.
"Whose boy are you?" he asked, and when Dean replied, "Fuck you", Salvatore chuckled, eyes on Dean as he smoked his cigarette to the end.