Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, original characters
Total Word Count: 4271
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
This section contains a brief courtroom scene, of the blink-and-miss-it variety. I tell you right now, the sum total of my legal knowledge consists of me watching Law & Order out of the corner of my eye. Also, thanks to oldbatj for poking me into working on this!
one/ two/ three/four/ five/six
Dean dug his nose into that space under Sam's ear, that place that dipped slightly, seemed like it was made to fit his lips. He rested against Sam, just breathing…drinking in the smell and the feel of his brother. Didn’t want to admit to himself what he was trying to do—press this memory—the feel, the smell of Sam—into his mind, like slipping photos between the pages of a book.
He threw his head back with a curse, and dragged Sam to their bedroom, startling his brother into cursing himself. Dean grinned to himself—it was kinda nice to flap the unflappable, he thought.
They pushed through the door of their little room. Dean flipped Sam around, his back to the bed, and eased him down. He took Sam's shoes off, then laid him out on their bed, a bed that should've been too small for two full grown men, he mused, but like everything in their screwy lives, they made it work. They had to.
Dean toed his own shoes off, but when he made to lie down as well, Sam suddenly jerked away, sucked in a startled breath like he was coming from some place a million miles from there. When he shivered, kept shivering, Dean tried to wrap him up in the blankets, but Sam was having none of it. He forced Dean off of him. He rolled off the bed, pushed Dean out of his way—pushed Dean back and back until they stood in the center of their room. Sam laid hands on Dean again. Sam's icy fingers slid under his tee shirt, rucked it up until the shirt was trapped in Dean's armpits. Sam grinned at him, ghosting fingers up and down Dean's ribs. His eyes danced with mischief, his tongue was caught in his teeth—it was a look Dean had missed. His Sammy.
"Hey!" Dean flapped his hands at his brother, playing at being annoyed, his mouth already set to laugh, until the whole of the situation became plain to him. Sam didn't want to tickle him until he cried. No, Sam had something entirely different in mind. "No, no, Sam don't—"
"Shhh. Quiet, you." Sam nudged him, making it plain he wanted Dean to lift his arms, so he did, let Sam pull his shirt off, dragging the under-shirt with it. "Shhh," he said and undid the buttons to Dean's chinos. Slowly, carefully, the tip of his tongue still caught between his teeth—the same look he'd get on his face doing his maths, long, long ago—Dean smothered a quivering kind of chuckle—so long gone by, it felt like a lifetime ago.
He hardly noticed that Sam had gone to his knees, not until he'd got Dean's pants halfway down, the fabric bunching around his calves. He ran his hands up the inside of Dean's thighs, right under the loose legs of his boxers, stopping short of cupping his balls. Sam leaned forward, drew his nose lightly across the curve of Dean's hip, inhaling, then breathing out heat into the flimsy cotton. He drew back, hands lightly curved around Dean's knees, kissed one.
"Bow-legged like a cowboy," Sam said, with a soft half-smirk before pressing his lips to each bowed calf. "My own Tom Mix."
Dean huffed a little laugh, looked down at his brother. On his knees—for him. Dean fell into Sam's smile, Sam's eyes; he was caught up by Sam hook, line, and sinker. Sam patted his thigh and that's when Dean noticed his pants were pooled around his ankles. Sam was still smiling up at Dean—tapped one knee and then the other, sliding the pants over Dean's feet and off, rolling down his socks, tossing them to the side, unbuttoning his boxer shorts and tossing them away as well. "You here, Dean? You with me?"
Dean's mouth went cotton-dry. He nodded, words dying in his throat and what the hell was he supposed to say anyway? He just…let Sam do what he wanted to. Like always and ever. "'m'here, Sam," he managed to whisper. He wanted to say 'but don’t, please don’t do that'…that would make him a liar, though.
Because way, way, deep inside, there was a dark part of him thatloved this, always had. There was a part that always wanted go belly up for Sam, drink him in, drink him down. Under the tears and the horror at taking a life, there was something, some tiny bit of him that had sparked awake, faintly….just the tiniest bit. There was something in him that wanted, needed Sam's total attention. Reveled in it….
Sam took a step back to look at Dean, and Dean felt he should be—embarrassed, something—but he just waited, hands hanging loose by his sides, feet spread just a bit, shoulders straight and his eyes locked with his brother's. He was aware of himself like never before; the even rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart, the jerk of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. His dick, soft, curved over his balls…his whole body felt warm and loose, like he'd just had a hot bath and a good toddy. He stood still and let his brother's eyes roam all over him and just breathed in, out. Right now, this wasn't about sex. Not just about sex. It was—Sam and Dean. This moment. Nothing wrong in it, nothing but them.
Sam nodded. He slipped his suspenders loose to drop to his narrow waist, then unbuttoned his own shirt; let it slide to the floor. His fingers traced the buttons on his trousers, unbuttoned one after the other, slow, deliberate…not seductive; at least it didn’t seem that way to Dean. Sam seemed more…thoughtful. Weighing. There was a bit of the kid Sam had been in the way he looked, in his eyes, the way his lips pursed slightly, the little curl between his eyebrows…trousers open now, then one by one, the buttons on the union suit came free, the thin, summer-weight cotton parting around Sam's body.
Sam blinked, smiled at Dean and let trousers and underwear hit the floor together. "Dean." He seemed so satisfied, so pleased that Dean couldn't help but smile with him. Sam held one hand out and Dean went to him, wanting to be closer, not seeing anything but Sam's eyes, and the way they seemed to change colors, light brown shifting, going the color of stormy seas. He held both hands out and Dean finally noticed Sam was hard—his dick sinking and rising with each breath, so dark it almost looked painful. Dean dropped a hand to his own dick and hissed. The touch felt like an electric shock, and a bead of wet oozed from the tip. He hadn't known until then how hard he was himself.
Sam whispered, so quietly it probably wasn't meant for Dean to hear. "You want me. You want this. Come here, let's take it then."
Dean floated forward, still in a place that was warm and not quite real, where this was expected and right and of course he wanted Sam with him, on him. In him, and that small part of himself crowed, yes.
Sam saw it in Dean's eyes, in the way he stood. It was everything he wanted. Dean was his. Finally, completely, his. The bone-deep satisfaction slid sideways a bit. Despair stabbed sharply behind his breastbone, it welled up like blood. He couldn’t let Dean see it, wouldn't break this bubble of peace that somehow miraculously settled around them. Sam held his arms out and Dean walked into them. He closed his eyes so that his brother couldn't see his pain.
He knew that Dean wasn't coming back without scars. Once he was past those iron gates of that heap of stone on the hill—Haddeston Correctional—he'd be nothing but new fish, ripe to be eaten alive—or worse, if any of Big Moe's men got to him—and they both knew it. Dean wasn't going to be able to hold them all off, not alone. He'd need a sponsor, some mug who had a good reason to keep him alive. With lips like his, an ass like his…those eyes, so full of hurt, pain….
Dean didn't stand a chance against the sharks—they'd swarm him the minute he set foot in the slam.
There was only one thing Sam could do, and that was claim Dean first. Claim him over everyone else. He smoothed his palm down Dean's cheek, his neck…he pressed open-mouthed kisses where his hand had been and Dean just turned into it, turned soft and pliant like never before, going wherever Sam moved him. Sam hummed in appreciation. This was the way it should always have been.
He bent Dean backwards so that he presented everything to Sam, nipples, belly, cock…Sam bit down on what was offered---groaned at how Dean hissed when Sam's mouth closed over a flat, dark nipple, felt Dean's heart start to race, his chest raise and fall in sync with Sam's as he worried that sweet bit of flesh…he felt Dean's cock rub against his leg, shifted and pulled Dean to him so that they fit against one another, cocks lined up like jigsaw puzzle pieces, they fit so good.
Sam reached between them, wanting to feel Dean grow harder, thicker, against him. Slick from Dean's cock dripped off Sam's knuckles, almost as thick and warm as blood. Sam groaned, scolding himself. Slow, sweet—this was where he had to make love to Dean, woo him off his feet. Sure, right now, he could probably snatch what he wanted from Dean. Bend him over and just fuck the lights right out of him and leave scars that would let everyone know how much his brother belonged to him. But he'd had a great teacher in Assasi. He'd learned how to pull the net in tight and make the catch love it.
What Dean needed was to be swept off his feet. Sam would make love to him, fill him full of it—brand him forever with the feel of it. So when those big house mooks tried to rip it out of him, Dean would remember this. Remember how it was with his brother, and know that he couldn’t have it this way again until he was with his brother again.
"Sam…Sam, what…" Dean sighed, his eyes falling closed, hiding in his way, Sam knew—there was still that last, dying part of Dean that wanted to deny this, but still—he leaned into Sam's touch, spread his legs when Sam reached behind him and stroked down his cleft, groaned long, and loud, when silky-smooth skin opened up to Sam's fingers. It made him shiver; he took a deep breath to steady himself. Slow, slow….
On their bed, with a little jar of Vaseline by his knee, Sam worked his fingers into Dean, slowly coaxing him open, whispering in his ear. "You're so good, feel so good, taking care of me, love you"—his cock jerked and spat slick at how Dean rose to meet him, the way he moaned and thrust himself down on Sam's long fingers like a bitch in heat.
Sam growled and worked his fingers deeper, taking it slow; being oh-so gentle…Vaseline and patience had Dean so open for him.
"God, you're so good for me," Sam moaned, and pulled back, teasing Dean's rim, not quite breaching him. He waited, counting the seconds before Dean moaned, pawed at his hand, trying to shove Sam's fingers back in.
"C'mon, Sam, shit, don’t leave me like this."
"God damn it—" Sam wrapped his fingers tight around the base of his cock, a jolt shooting hard through him, fighting off the urge to come all over Dean, to shove his cock in hard where his fingers had been. He bit his lip hard. He wasn't going to ruin it all now, not after he'd put work into making Dean pant for it. "Okay, okay, now, big brother, inside you now."
His eyes slammed tight at the way Dean cried out, like some slut begging for her sugar-daddy, stuffed full but wanting still more….
"Yeah. Big brother. Like me saying it…so you won’t forget?"
Dean choked out a ragged yes as Sam rocked the head of his cock into Dean—couldn't help hissing at the tight, hot grip. Dean liked it too, Sam could tell. His voice caught on a scream, long, low and harsh—Sam's own throat ached hearing it—and Dean's hips jerked upwards, trying his best to get Sam deeper inside.
Inch by hot inch, Sam slid in. He watched Dean's face twist, felt him shuddering, until his balls were resting against the soft skin of Dean's ass. Seated deep, he felt Dean's heartbeat all along the length of his cock. He didn't think he could last much longer—he'd almost come the second he'd breached Dean. He pulled Dean's face to his, and peppered it with kisses. He mumbled all the words of love he could imagine, begged Dean to love him the way he loved Dean. He put his hand on his brother's cock, wet as he imagined a girl would be and all for him. He cursed out loud at the flutter of Dean's ass around him, the way his cock got even harder as he drew out long, tight strokes over it.
Dean shoved his fist in his mouth, trying to muffle a raw, desperate scream. Sam shuddered and pressed his face into Dean's shoulder, he was going to come, he couldn’t stop it. He stripped Dean harder, faster, and felt him clamp down all around Sam—Dean came hard, shouting Sam's name.
It was so goddamn good, it was—beyond good. Everything in his life up to now was aimed at getting him here. Every piece of Dean belonged to him now, inside and out, every piece of Dean was his. Sam came on that thought, every muscle locked and centered on Dean. Every breath, the tears that came, it was all for Dean, the only person in this life he'd ever cared about, ever would care about.
Spunk oozed out around his still jerking cock, running out of Dean. Without a thought, he scooped it up along the edge of his finger and pushed it back inside, making the both of them gasp, groan.
His cock slipped out, too soft now, so he shoved his thumb inside of Dean instead, working what come had leaked out back inside of him, massaging it into tender inner walls. Dean hissed and moaned, tried feebly to swat Sam away before giving up, dropping his hands to the bed.
"Hunh—wha—what, Sammy. You 'kay?"
"Yeah, I am, better than okay, better than—anything. But, I need a promise from you, Dean."
Dean blinked blearily at Sam, wincing slightly whenever Sam's thumb brushed up against some overly-sensitive, tender place inside him. He lifted a shaky hand and cupped Sam's cheek. "Promise you wha', Baby?"
Sam smiled—Dean was so far gone, he'd bet his brother hadn't even heard himself. "Promise me not to ever do this with anyone else. Promise on your—our mother."
"Sam." Dean sounded scandalized, probably because Sam had the nerve to bring his sainted mother into their bed, the bed where he'd just had sex with his little brother. Sam dropped his head against Dean's shoulder, mouthing at his tender skin…mostly to hide the grin that wanted to break free.
Dean stiffened, winced when Sam pulled his thumb free finally and rubbed over his sensitive, puffed-up hole instead. Dean closed his eyes, his forehead grooved with worry lines. "I—I promise." Dean opened them again and skewered him with a look so deep, it almost made Sam feel guilty.
"Sam, I'll never do this with anyone else. I swear on my own soul."
Sam figured that would have to do. He smiled gently at Dean and kissed his mouth.
When Dean came out of the slam again, it wouldn’t be like this. Every time someone fucked him, he'd think of his promise. He promised Sam and that would be enough to make every cock feel like a knife to his heart.
Dean probably would never give it up so sweetly again, at least not until he relearned how to be Sam's. And he would. There was no question in Sam's mind that he would, because he owned Dean, all of him. Body and soul. He loved every part of Dean, and when he had him again, there'd be nothing they wouldn’t do for each other. Sam was certain of that, too, hands down.
Sam thought he'd never sleep, his mind and heart too full with everything that had happened that night, but eventually, his eyes closed, and neither of them moved again until full sunlight streamed in through their bedroom window.
Assasi sat up front with Louie, who'd refused to let anyone drive them to court but himself. Louie had taken the big navy and black Deusenburg, because he knew Dean loved it. Sam could see the man's eyes cut back and forth between Dean and the road. He felt a faint little flutter of warmth in his chest…he never faulted Louie for loving Dean like he was his own. He caught Louie's eyes in the rearview mirror and smiled. And Sam knew Louie actually loved him, too, had proved himself more than once to be what Sam had thought of him—worthy family. Puddy… Louie was the only who could call him that, that name A's goons had saddled him with back when he when he'd been a pudgy little snot-nosed brat. And then there was A, calling him Putto, little angel—the feeling those memories evoked he wouldn't exactly call fond. Wasn't something he heard from the man lately and Sam was a-okay with that.
Thinking of the old days had Sam fidgeting, something he tried to cover by pulling his tie straighter. Dean flicked a look his way—reached out for Sam's hand and squeezed, wrapping it tight in his. Sam settled, smiled for Dean, and did his best to think about nothing.
Assasi turned his head towards the back seat and flashed Dean a wink. "Hey, ya holdin' up okay, eh, Dean-o?"
"I'm good, Mr. A, I'm good."
Assasi nodded, patted the seatback and nodded, like he expected nothing less, like he couldn't hear Dean's voice shake. Sam fumed inside, but he knew they both owed Assasi a debt that was beyond repaying at this point. That his brother wasn't cooling his heels in stir was due to Assasi—he'd greased a few palms, yanked a chain or two, to make it that way, so that Dean could wait for judgment day at home, with Sam.
Life had stupidly gone on as usual—nothing much changed. Evenings, they'd sat in the kitchen like always, Sam doing his homework while Dean cooked, after maybe played cards or listened to the radio—Dean's favorite, The Mystery House, or one of the music programs. They'd gone on as if there was nothing terrible hanging over their heads just waiting to crash down, like a guillotine blade.
The only change was in their bedroom, where night after night Dean opened himself for Sam, body and soul, and in return, Sam gave every bit of himself he was capable of giving to Dean.
Now the wait was over. Whatever happened next, right now it was it should be, Sam and Dean like always, side by side, them against everything. They were solid front like always—hell, A had even dressed them alike—smart gray suits, black ties. Black shoes. Sam thought they looked like monks. He supposed they were to act like monks, too. He glanced at Dean. Hard sell there, with his kiss-swollen lips and bedroom eyes. Lashes so long they caught the light and sparkled like diamonds. Dean turned to Sam, the green light in his eyes banked. He was struggling to keep his face blank, but it was so plain to Sam, his brother's face was a mask of unhappiness.
Dean swallowed hard, managing to wrestle a grin up from somewhere, he murmured, "Don't look so down, Sammy. I ain't got the heebie-jeebies—you neither, okay? A's got the fix in, smooth as silk. I'll do whatever bid I get and it'll be gravy, y'hear?" He patted Sam's knee, gave it a little squeeze, and winced slightly as he moved on the seat.
"Yeah, sure, of course, Dean," Sam's voice was as low as Dean's when he answered; keeping what was said between the two of them private. "I trust A and all, I'm just…you know. You know how I get sometimes. It's hard."
"Yeah, I know. Just thinking of not being…here." Dean muttered and turned to look out the window as the city flashed by. "Not being with you," he whispered.
Sam sat with Assasi directly behind the defending attorneys' table, and watched bitterly as the prosecutor presenting opening arguments. The jerk did his best to paint Dean as a depraved, heartless murderer of youth, a blood-thirsty gangster with callous disregard for life. His Dean—one of the most moral people he'd ever met. Sam almost laughed. The man must be a fool—anyone could see that argument was never going to fly. Not a-one of those jurors looking at his brother could possibly see the monster the prosecutor was trying to paint.
The prosecutor called witnesses, and for the most part they were a laugh—Moe's men, and Sam could see the jury wasn't sold, even without being stacked. The defense called Dean. Sam hadn't wanted that, but Assasi assured him it was the way to go. He'd better be right, Sam thought.
Dean sat hunched over like he was trying to disappear into his new suit, his huge eyes shimmering with what looked like barely contained tears, his soft, red mouth turned down in despair…they all watched Dean's mouth when he spoke; they were all drawn to his eyes, deep, limpid pools, shining with fear, radiating hurt.
Dean…was beautiful. His skin was translucent, lit with morning light that streamed in from the tall windows behind the judge's bench—it caressed the soft pale gray of his suit, crowned his freshly barbered hair, gleaming like a damn halo. It was so perfect, the way the sun loved Dean, like Assasi had planned for the sunlight to break over the witness stand in such a way as to make Dean look….
Innocent. Suffering, and so beautifully, like Saint Sebastian; pinned by life's barbs and bleeding, but still standing.
Sam stared at Dean, drinking him in…and he noticed something odd. There was something about the whole picture that was just a bit…off. He narrowed his eyes at Dean on the stand…it took a few more seconds before he saw it. The beautiful suits A had made for them—Dean's suit—was cut just a little bit bigger across the shoulders, just a little bit longer in the sleeves. Not to give an effect of sloppiness or poverty…the suit was just a little bit big. What it did was make Dean look younger, like a boy wearing his father's suit, trying to appear older than his years.
"Hunh." Sam had to admire that. It was—it was damn smart. Assasi noticed Sam little grunt of surprise, pinned Sam with a lizard blink—and smiled. He nodded, a fractional tilt of his head in Sam's direction, nothing more than that. He knew that Sam had seen, and understood. His expression one of approval at being caught out. Assasi turned away again, watching the drama unfold.
The defense did what it was supposed to do; the prosecution did what it was supposed to, the jury did as well. And in the end, Dean got four years, manslaughter in the second degree. Assasi looked more than satisfied under his mask of sadness—it was better than they'd planned for, much better. Hell, who knew, maybe A had always known just how much time Dean would draw. Sam wouldn't put it past him, and he knew Assasi thought Dean would be harder and better for it, putting an edge on the capo he was planning for Dean to be.
So, maybe for A and his crew it was good news, good work—hell, it was practically a miracle, Dean getting only four years for burning a guy. Sam though, Sam felt the bottom drop out of his world.
He'd known it was coming. He'd known, but hearing the sentence still felt like he'd had a fillet knife run between his ribs. He hated the jurors, the lawyers, the judge, and most of all the cops who were marching Dean away.
All he could see was Dean's white, dead face, the way he struggled to mask his fear, the way he bit at his lips 'til they bled to lock his voice in.
Sam thought he'd been prepared for it. He'd got out of bed that morning, knowing he was ready for this, hardened and honed to an edge, mind and body filled up with Dean like—like a battery.
This was a terrible way to find out he wasn't ready, not at all. For the first time ever in his life, Sam knew what it felt like to be truly afraid.