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roxyTitle: Public Enemies Book One
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John Winchester, original characters
Rating: NC-17
Total Word Count: 8357
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.
"I need a job, some extra money. Sammy—he gets bad headaches and he needs something to help him. And we're going through food real fast now…." Dean stammered, trying to get his words out fast, before Boggy brushed him off.
Boggs leaned against his desk, rolled his eternal cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, and said in a voice that dripped disinterest, "Headache powders work wonders, you know. Why don't you head down to the drugstore, hmm. They've got a nice selection."
Dean felt rage swim up on him. "I don’t have the money for it. I gotta get us food, an'…that basement is cold, an' wet. We don’t got enough blankets to keep us warm, let alone dry. 'Sides, I been there a few times and they're starting to get wise." He wiggled his fingers. "I think they seen me lift some stuff…"
Boggs tsked at Dean's lack of light fingered skill, asked, "Are you complaining, my boy? Do you find your lodgings unsuitable? Because there are people I can rent to for more than I charge you, my dear, much more." His ratty nose twitched in a ratty way, and Dean's fingers trembled over the ivory handled blade resting in his pocket. Dean knew Boggy was talking shit, the chislin' bastard, and Boggy knew he knew it--the place was a way station to hell.
The man rose from his perch on the edge of the desk and wandered over to the curtain hung by the bed. He pinched a bit of fabric between his fingers. "Sorry times now, my dear," he sighed, "there are no jobs to be had right now, and…hmmm." He looked thoughtful—as thoughtful as a rat could look. He fixed Dean with a look of false concern and asked, "Have you tried warm towels?"
"Damn it--I'll do any job—Sam needs medicine. Whatever you got—I'll do anything!"
"Will you, my dear?" Boggs smiled and motioned Dean closer. He twitched the curtain back, and glanced toward the bed revealed. Smirked. One of the pair of boys almost always at Boggs' side lie there, mostly under the covers, fully dressed, and rolled over to look at them when the curtain was pulled. He blinked slowly, scowled when he spied Dean, and Dean returned it. He hated those guys, hated them the same way he hated rats. The kid stared at him, brown eyes drilling into his, a long unbroken stare as Boggs blathered on and on. It was hot in Boggs' room, and dry, he could smell dust and the coal stove, smell ink. His eyes slid over Boggs' desk, the phone gleaming blackly on the wall. Hanging next to the phone, a calendar told him it was February but it was March now, and Sam's headaches were getting worse and worse. Boggs' voice disappeared. Through the closed door, the sound of the club leaked through, the clack of balls speeding around the pool tables, the high-pitched laughter of the newsies and runners, the lower rumble of the club members, Bogg's crew…under it all the tinny sound of the old upright piano, someone coaxing Glow Wormout of it ….
Dean perched stiffly on the edge of the big bed. The boy was gone, casting Dean a sidelong, evil look as he left, like Dean had won something from him. Dean ached to punch him right between the eyes. Boggs was kneeling in front of him, long, long fingers sitting on Dean's thighs like yellow spiders. "Don’t be afraid, I'd never, ever hurt you. You'll like this. All you have to do is sit still." The spiders walked up his thighs and over his trouser buttons, prying them loose. Bone thin fingers reached in, gliding over his skin and leaving long streaks of ice behind. "This isn't going to hurt at all."
Dean looked down at the yellow finger bones and closed his eyes. He filled his head up with nothing and darkness and Sam.
* * * *
"Hey Sammy, gotcha something to help." He set a little sack on the floor next to the stove, and took out a small can. He swirled a little powder from the can into a glass, topped it with water and handed it to Sam. "Drink it all—I promise it'll help." He turned his back, and put the food he'd scrounged into the cupboard. "Drink that and I'll give ya canned peaches—you like those."
He heard Sam yelp happily, "peaches!" and when he turned around again, Sam was at the table, trying to drink the mixture and making a face—it was gritty and bitter, Dean knew, but the stuff was supposed to help and that was all he cared about.
Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, soft with baby-fat, and warm under his palm. He stroked up his neck, tucked a few wild pieces of hair behind Sam's ear. Sam shuddered, dropped his head back to Dean's chest. "It tastes bad…and you smell funny. Where you been? Where did Boggy send you?"
"Don’t worry about that—it's none of your business. You just drink this stuff and lay down, sleep some so's you can go to school tomorrow." He grabbed Sam's free hand—hard, too tight. "You gotta go to school, Sam, you gotta. Make something of yourself—don't be like me and Dad, promise me."
Sam yanked his hand away. "Quit it! Leave me alone. Stop that." His voice was high and shrill, and Dean knew he'd scared him. Sam jumped off the chair and threw himself in bed, his back to Dean. When Dean tried to get in too, Sam kicked him. "Sleep on the floor. I don’t want you touching me."
Dean gaped—on the floor? Alone? His eyes filled but he blinked tears back. "Why the hell you being like this Sam? What's got into you?"
"Just…shut up and go to sleep."
Dean inched towards the bed. He took off his jacket, rolled it up and shoved it under his head. He closed his eyes, tried to mask a deep, unhappy sigh. When Sammy got like this, there was no dealing with him. Fine. He didn’t give a shit if Sam wanted to be a bitch. That was fine with him, it was only important that Sam get better, and that Dean was following John Winchester's command. If John beat the rap somehow and got out of the joint, he was gonna find a smart, fat, happy Sam. Dean was gonna show him, he could take care of Sam; he could do the job, no matter what it took.
* * * *
Sam waited until he couldn't see Dean anymore, and then ran around to the back of the school, slipping between the students arriving for class. No one called to him, no one took notice—he was nearly mute, withdrawn at school, and of course the other children had singled him out as 'different'. After having discovered Sam was also a dirty fighter who'd never heard of fair-play, they tended to avoid him.
He was back in the corner of the yard, where they kept the ash cans, in the blink of an eye. Along with the ash cans set against the tall wooden fence surrounding the yard, were stacks of empty crates, boxes and bags. It took him a few seconds to crawl under a crate. Through the slats he watched the yard, waiting until he heard the bell signaling the start of class. His heart beat faster—excitement made his fingers tremble. A little careful shoving and shifting allowed him to cache his books under the pile of garbage, he figured he'd come back later that day and retrieve them. He climbed the pile and scrambled over the fence, dropped down into the alley way. He dodged his way down the narrow passage, crossing over into the rear yard of a bakery and through, ignoring the shouts that greeted him. The mouth of the alley emptied onto the street across from Boggs.
He hid behind more garbage cans, watching Boggs' front door. As he expected Dean came out, frowning at a slip of paper in his hand. Numbers drops, Sam figured—he'd be gone for a while. He settled and waited a bit more, and Boggs came out with a few of his scabs and left. Sam waited until he couldn't see him before running across the street, right up to Boggs and inside.
"Hey—whataya doin'—" Sam burst through the door and right into a knobby rail of a man, knocking his bowler to the floor. He scowled at Sam and swept it back onto his head and Sam stared—crammed both fists to his mouth, trying to smother a laugh. The guy had modeled himself after Boggs, bowler hat, single breasted plaid coat—the same brown plaid, the same brown trousers and boots—he'd copied Boggs right down to the tatty ascot and the wrinkled kerchief shoved in his coat pocket.
Sam pasted a sincere look on his face and said, "I'm supposed to wait for Bill. My friend told me to come here an' wait." He let a whine into his voice, and wrinkled his face. "I'm supposed to wait in here--he *said*--an' I come here an'—"
"Yeah, yeah! Geez—gwan in the back and shut the fuck up."
Sam let himself back into Boggs' office. This was the place Dean came, without him—a part of Dean's life Sam was shut out of, and Sam didn't like being kept out of anything concerning Dean.
The room behind the door was dark, virtually windowless—there was a long, narrow widow high on one wall. Gas jets provided most of the light. The room held a table and a few mismatched wooden chairs crowded around it, and behind the table sat a large black enameled stove and cabinets. There were a pair of shabby wing chairs, a card table unfolded between them. Sam felt a brief spear of jealousy—Boggs had space, room to live….
A surprisingly nice keyhole desk sat in one corner—a spindly chair pushed up against the front of it, ledgers stacked haphazardly across the top and Sam remembered--in one of the precious few nuggets of information Dean passed him—that Bill Boggs ran his business out of this room. And lived there—slept there. Sam took a deep breath. There was a curtain pulled forward to separate a part of the room. The footboard of a bed showed from behind it and Sam pulled the curtain back with a vicious yank. The metal rings rasped loudly as it flew back on the rod, startling the boy sleeping there. He jerked upright, blinking. "What—you back already—oh. Who are you?"
"Who are you? Do you live here?" Sam stared down at the boy. He knew from around town that two boys sort of lived in the club—Albert and Percy. So this boy had to be—"Percy?"
"Albert." The boy rolled fully upright, and the blanket dropped to his skinny waist. He rubbed his eyes. "…so who tha hell are you?" He leaned forward, and Sam saw that he was naked when the sheets dropped loose. "Hey, ain't you Dean's kid brother…Dan, something…?"
"Sam. When's Bill coming back?"
"Boggy? Not 'til tomorrow, most likely. Did you see Percy out there? He ain't been home in a while…" Albert bit at his thumb, worried eyes darting about, landing everywhere but on Sam.
"Naw. Did you see Dean? Was he here?" Sam had his hands in his pocket, thumb stroking the edge of a little penknife he'd lifted off a bum who might have been dead, might have been drunk—he hadn't checked. His eyes trailed up Albert's pale neck, to his wide brown eyes.
"Maybe…."
"C'mon, tell me—I'm worried, he didn't come home last night," Sam lied. "He said he was gonna bring me something nice and he never showed."
"He was okay last night, I'll say. Got in my way." Albert scowled. "Let Boggy crawl all over him—damn--don’t tell no one, okay? Boggy'll go nuts. Think he's worried about…someone knowing." Albert pushed out his lip and folded his arms. Fell back against the pillows.
Sam could feel thoughts jumping and skittering in his head, skittering and crawling under his skin and he felt like he had to scratch…something. Someone, himself…Albert.
"Show me what he did." The words came out in a rush. He startled himself but he needed to know…he knew for sure he was going to have to fight the world for Dean…how was he going to do that unless he knew what weapons were being used, what the battlefield was. He needed to be prepared, like those old-time knights in Dean's stories.
Albert meanwhile was trying to crawl away across the bed. Sam snagged his ankle and held on. Albert tried to kick him off, yelped, "I ain't showin' you nuttin'. Go away."
Sam shook his head and held on tighter, dug his nails in and ignored Albert's whimper. "Show me. If you don’t…I'll tell Boggs that you told me…" Sam thought about Boggs--what little he knew of him, and looked at a rapidly paling Albert and played a hunch…."and laughed about it—about *him*."
Albert looked scared, and Sam liked that. Knew it meant Albert was close to breaking, he just needed a little push…"If you don’t show me, I'll tell Dean you crawled all over me like Boggs crawled all over him." Sam waited. Maybe everyone around him thought he was just a kid, but he wasn't stupid.
"You stinkin' little shit—Dean'll kill me!"
Sam let go of Albert, folded his arms and waited until Albert cracked.
"All, right, come here. Take your pants off. Underwear too." Sam stopped mid-step. Blinked at Albert who sat blank-faced on the edge of the bed. "You want to know, then do it, and be fast about it."
They were on territory that Albert was sure of now, and Sam gave up the lead to him, did as Albert instructed, folded knee pants and underwear neatly, and laid them on the bed. He thought about sliding down his wool socks, but Albert hadn't mentioned them and he decided to keep them on…he lined his boots up with the edge of the rug and sat on he bed when told to. He was nervous, unsure—but this was what he'd planned, and what he had to do. His hand twisted over the lump of the pen knife in the pocket of his knee pants. Holding it tight as Albert knelt in front of him helped to ease his nerves a bit.
"Okay," Albert muttered, bending over Sam and planting a hand on either of his thighs, "don't pull my hair, and don’t kick me and don't—you just sit there, okay? I'm not gonna hurtcha. Besides, you'll like it some."
Sam was about to ask him what was with all the warning--until Albert shoved his shirt tails out of the way and put his mouth on him. Not just on him, Albert…swallowed him. Sam jumped, almost kicked Albert—"whad I say, ya little punk?—" before freezing. It felt---weird. Wet. Uncomfortable…until it became not. He felt Albert's tongue, felt a sucking tug that made him gasp and realized…it felt good. Sam kept his eyes screwed shut. His breath came shorter, faster, and something crawled in loops inside his belly. It felt *real* good, until he imagined Boggy doing it to Dean. His stomach flipped then, and for a long second he fought gagging. Albert patted his leg and brought him back to the moment. He opened his eyes then, and watched Albert, watched the top of Albert's head bob up and down….
He shuddered, and gripped the sheet, gripped his pants, no longer neatly folded, but crumbled next to him on the bed. He closed his hand tight over the lump where the knife was. "Stop, I gotta pee," he gasped. Albert pulled back and said, "No you don’t."
"Yeah, really, I do—stop!"
"Trust me," Albert said. "Just—hush." He went back to what he'd been doing and Sam felt the feeling rush along, he really, really had to, he had to—
"Oh." He shook, and gasped, and it felt…good. Awfully good. He blinked once or twice and sagged, all the tension flowing out of him like a river—for a moment he felt totally undone. It was jake, it was…Sam pulled himself together with effort.
Albert stood up. "Told ya." He climbed back up the bed, and said, "It's different for big guys." Sam looked. Albert was big, bigger than he was. He'd never really paid attention before. When he and Dean were naked, they were just naked, no big deal. But Albert…Albert was holding himself and moving his hand back and forth fast, until he grunted and something not pee came out of him. Sam was shocked—he glanced quick at Albert's face, but Albert didn’t seem alarmed at all. He just let out a long breath, smiled—and then his face fell. "Get outta here, Sam. Get lost."
Sam grabbed Albert's hand, drew his finger through the slimy mess in his palm. Albert pushed him away, wiped his hand on the rough wool blanket, and turned to slide back under it. Sam sniffed his fingers, thought about putting his tongue to them but just wiped them on the blanket, like Albert had done. He grabbed his clothes and pulled them on quickly—the weight of the knife slapped against his thigh and stopped. He cut his eyes towards Albert, considering. Slid his hand into his pocket and thumbed the knife. Maybe Albert couldn't be trusted to know things like that about Dean. It wouldn't take much to fix that--there was a vein in the neck, or a vein in the thigh that emptied fast and it didn’t take much to punch even a little blade through skin.
Behind him, Albert let out a gusty sigh. "I'm sorry, Sam. I was thinkin' about Percy and it made me feel bad. He's always here and now he's not and we ain't been apart since we was babies…Boggy's been looking at him different now that he's not so little anymore, y'know?"
Sam turned and looked at Albert, saw the fear and aching loneliness and felt…like Albert might know how Sam felt, sometimes. Sam took his fingers off the knife. "I'll look for Percy on my way home, okay? We're square here, right?"
Albert slid back under the covers. "Yeah. We're square—an' I know. Quiet like the grave."
"Right, like the grave…" Sam smiled. "And don’t be sorry about anything. It's your lucky day," he said and left.
* * * * * *
It was a bright, sunny day, still a bit of early spring chill in the air, and the breeze off the water bringing with it the faint scent of the ocean….
Dean and Sam were strolling about the fish market, taking in the sights, the sounds, the hustle of activity. Watched the boys unload glistening fish, their silvery skins flashing in the bright sunlight as the sellers arranged them in beds of clean ice. The brothers listened to the shouts and catcalls, laughed at the gossip spread between the people working the stalls and their patrons.
The clam wagon was parked at the end of the block and the boys bought a few—a good treat. They ate them as they wandered a little further into the market. They skipped between the puddles of melted ice, slipped past the busy fish-mongers, tossed the shells at each other, dodging and weaving to avoid smacks and curses flung their way.
It was a good day, a day to spend just being boys, doing boy things. They chased a can between the two of them, kicking it further and further away from the market, jeering and teasing each other, bumping shoulders, elbowing ribs and before long before they were close to the river. Dean turned them, had them cutting across tracks and narrow cobbled roads, past warehouses and tenements that leaned out over the water on spindly, spider webs of wooden trestles and crossbeams. They chased each other, played a game of hide and seek until they were in the constant gloom under the train trestles, where the warehouses met each other over the streets. This part of the city Dean disliked—too dark, too wet, cold as iceboxes in the winter and hotter than hell in the summers. He remembered places like this, waiting out in the street for the old man, waiting and pretending not to be there. Looking up and watching his dad come out of one doorway or another, not knowing if he'd be smiling or frowning, almost always smelling of whiskey and other things or streaked with black, hands black, smelling of blood and smoke….
"Paaa-pah—paapah here!" A short thin boy dressed in black, wearing a floppy pancake of a cap and weighed down by a huge bag on his shoulder, waved a newspaper about. Dancing about on skinny, black clad legs, his black coat flopping around his tiny frame, he looked like a wide-eyed crow. His big eyes held about as much innocence as a crow's.
"Hey, Georgie," Dean called out. "What's the word?" The brothers crossed to the opposite curb and Dean shook hands with Georgie.
"Dean." The skinny boy peered at Sam and nodded, seeming to have decided Sam was okay.
Dean nudged Sam, "This guy's my kid brother." Dean's hand landed on the back of Sam's neck, curled a little.Mine. Sam just stared at the boy.
"Okay…hey, didja hear? They's all down at the river side—coppers an' newshawks an' all, dey got the meat wagon down 'er too. They fished a body out tha river and they're saying it's Percy. Two grins." The kid made a gurgling noise and drew his finger across his neck. "He was whiter'n cheese and tied up like a turkey—*no eyes*," he hissed at Sam, waiting for Sam to jerk back, but Sam's mouth just curled in a little soft smile and he leaned against Dean. Dean tossed his arm around his brother in reflex and hissed in awed horror.
"Holy shit, Georgie. Holy fuckin' shit…I was with him the other day—well, slappin' him around, poor shit. He was getting all bent out of sorts about stuff an' worryin' about…well, never mind that." His eyes narrowed and he asked, "How's Albert?"
Sam startled, jogging Dean, making him take a step back to catch Sam. "Watch it, Squirt," Dean said, and his arm tightened around Sam's chest, the warm, bony weight settled Sam, like always.
Georgie glanced quickly up and down the street, then rocked back on his heels, a picture of casual disinterest. Shrugged eloquently and said, "Eh, Albert. Ain't seen 'em, not for a few days. Figured he took off to look for Percy. Don't look like he found 'em."
Dean shook his head. "Poor stupid shit," he said. "Wonder how Percy ended up inna river like that? I mean to say, who'd wanna chill old Perce? He was just a kid. He didn't even have a job, 'sides hanging out at Boggy's. He wasn't nothin' to nobody."
Sam knelt, picked at the laces on his boots. "He was somebody to Albert," Dean heard him mutter. True, he was that. Dean couldn't imagine that Albert and Percy…that they were such friends that Albert would put himself in danger for Percy. He glanced down at Sam. Maybe it was a little like taking care of Sammy, though that wasn't so much a choice; it was under his skin and in his bones, in his breath. He didn't know anything else but putting Sam first. That's just the way it was, and as far as Dean was concerned, totally unremarkable.
Georgie hawked hard, and spit a thick blob of rust colored mucus onto the street. "Ain't that the truth--who would wanna ice 'em? Poor old Perce didn’t ever bother nobody. It was jus' him and Albert—and that rat-faced Boggs. Looks like both of them boys are gone now. Hunh. Well, that's why I keep my head down, stay wise an' just sell papers. Dean, I'm telling ya, like a pal, try'n stay away from that yegg, y'hear?" His little pinched face was full of righteousness, that it was greyed over with grime didn't take a thing from the heat Georgie felt at the injustice of all their situations. Dean looked away from the earnest appeal in the little boy's eyes, cheeks flushed pink.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up, ya mouthy little runt." He fished around in his coat pocket and gave Georgie a licorice whip and a dime. Georgie's face lit up, and he grabbed the candy, shoved a paper at Dean and beamed, harder still when Dean refused the change—Georgie's grey little cheeks went pinkish with pleasure.
"Thanks, yer a pal, Dean."
"Yeah, sure I am," Dean said and folded the paper under his arm. He grabbed Sam's hand and yanked him back up the way they came.
"Ow, quit it, you're hurting me!" Sam yelped, and tried to drag his heels, yowling even louder when he was in danger of losing his boots, so Dean stopped. He looked down at Sam; spread his fingers on Sam's wrist so his grip was less painful. He rubbed his thumb softly against Sam's pulse. "Listen little brother, I want you to promise me something. You promise me you'll keep away from Boggy and guys like 'em. Don't ever talk to him, and if you want something you come to me—only me, okay?"
Sam startled Dean by reaching up and grabbing Dean's cheeks, he pressed them between his damp, slightly sticky, little boy hands. "If I want something I'll come to you, promise," he said, his eyes so solemn and old that something cold skittered up Dean's spine. Dean could see Sam meant it with every bit of his soul. He laid his hands over Sam's, pressed them tight and closed his eyes, just for a second, before he pulled out of Sam's reach, ruffled his hair until Sam yelled at him to quit, and they chased each other back to the room .
* * * * * *
Sam woke up with a jerk. Something woke him… some sound out of the ordinary. A small soft noise, rising and falling, a snuffling sound, and it took Sam a few bleary minutes to get that it was Dean.
Dean's fists were locked in his flat little pillow, pressing it down against his face. He was trying to muffle it--but it was plain that he was crying. For a lightning bright moment, terror burst through Sam's body, crippling him. His big brother didn't cry, Dean was a tough guy, he never cried. He wasn't built for it. Hadn't cried that day John knocked him into a wall and busted his wrist. He hadn't cried that day they came home and found the pitiful remnants of their stuff scattered on the street and no place to live, or the days that they didn't eat, or the days it was too cold to sleep…but Dean was crying now.
Dean rolled far away as he could on the tiny bed. "Go back to sleep," he growled and Sam felt a quick stitch of anger. "I mean it, go to sleep."
"No. Why are you crying Dean? Is it 'cause of today? Are you afraid of ending up like Percy? 'Cause you won't, I know that. I'm gonna watch out for you."
Dean choked out a snot-filled, watery, laugh. "That's my job, Squirt. I do the lookin' after…besides, I ain't afraid for me. I'm afraid…I'm afraid of. Of you ending up like that. I'm afraid of you ending up sick somewhere, coughing your lungs out, or some punk icing you for fun, or…or…Sammy, I'm really afraid of screwing this up, not taking care of you like I should. What if I screw this up, Sam, what if I'm just what Dad said I was—worthless, stupid—"
Sam grabbed Dean's arms and pulled them down, ignoring the red wheals his nails scored down his brother's arms. "You're not! You're not--look at me. I'm not sick, I'm not sad—I got you, and you make me happy. You take good care of me, Dean." He wiggled in under Dean's arms and waited until they wrapped tight around him. Dean shuddered out a long, moist sigh. "You always take care of me, Dean." Sam murmured. "Geez, you kept the old man from beatin' on me, and protected me from those punks on the street and…you know, you keep me from...bad things…."
"Sammy, Sammy, I'm supposed to. I love you, yer my brother. I'd do anything for you."
Sam nodded, his hair caught under Dean's chin. He lifted his head and peered at his brother with one eye, grinning. "Gimme a kiss, so I can go to sleep."
Dean leaned down to him, and tucked his fingers under Sam's chin, tilted his mouth to his. Sam closed his eyes and felt the soft press of Dean's lips against his. Dean's breath washed warm over his nose and chin. A slight hint of moisture bloomed against Sam's mouth as the pressure of Dean's lips opened his lips a bit. Dean stopped, and pulled back—only far enough to speak. "Sam…"
Sam squirmed against Dean and Dean gasped when Sam poked the wet tip of his tongue against Dean's velvety lower lip. Dean shuddered and grabbed Sam—hard. Pulled them together and groaned--pushed them apart. Sam whimpered, and tried to pull Dean back against him. It felt like his skin was on fire, like he needed Dean, to make it stop burning…
"Sam, don’t, okay? Just…don't.
"Why not, why can't I?"
"It's one of those things that…just, some things aren't right, you gotta trust me to tell you what those things are."
Sam pouted, and slipped his hand between them, into the heat of Dean's crotch and asked, "What's wrong with you being stiff like that? Or me helping you?"
"Come on, Sam—stop it!" He shivered and Sam watched gooseflesh race across Dean's skin. The stiff prick jumped against his palm, and Sam took the chance and stroked, once twice, feeling the firm heat, liking the solid weight bumping against his skin and wondering, what it would be like to do to Dean what Albert had done to him…what would Dean feel like, taste like…?
Dean grabbed Sam's wrist tight, dropped his head to Sam's shoulder and exhaled a long hot breath. "Please go to sleep Sam, okay, promise me you'll sleep."
"Okay, Dean. I'll sleep, just like this, okay?" He turned in his brothers arms, and pressed his back against his chest. Dean's arms went around him automatically, tightened just right, his hand wrapped around Sam's. Sam shimmied back against Dean, and got a slap to the back of his head for his efforts.
"Knock it off!"
Didn't matter, Sam thought. The slap had no weight to it, it was barely more than a love tap. Sam grinned into the darkness…Dean didn't know it, but he'd already lost.
"Stop thinking whatever you're thinking and fuckin' go to sleep."
Sam giggled as he drifted off….
* * * * * *
All the next day was odd, interesting. Sam was fascinated by Dean, the way he see-sawed between loving Sam and running from him. Dean smiled at him, he frowned at him. He reached out to him--he pushed away. He let Sam kiss him—he yelled at him. Sam didn't care. He knew Dean had to stretch against this new thing—test the hold. Sam expected it.
The air got thicker, slowly…Sam sat on the bed, and watched Dean from behind a book, felt the way the weight in the room grew and grew until finally, Dean jumped up with a curse and ran out. Sam sucked in a breath and held it until the room went blurry and dark. He dropped the book on the floor, flopped down on the bed and waited.
He knew Dean was coming back, Dean couldn’t leave him, wouldn't leave, not like this….
It wasn't long before Dean was back, flushed and red, angry--but hands full of good things to eat, and he pushed Sam out of their little room and onto the street with him.
Sam tried to hide his relief, his joy. He'd known Dean wasn't going to leave him—he wasn't really worried at all. Dean would come around, he always did. He always did what Sam wanted him to, eventually. So he sat shoulder to shoulder with Dean on the curb, and ate pickles and boiled eggs, and handfuls of crumbly saltines. He ate, he watched Dean, and he thought.
Dean would do whatever he could for Sam, even if it was stupid and dangerous. What Sam wanted was for Dean to protect himself, for Sam. And since it didn’t seem Dean knew how to do that, it was up to him. It didn't take a lot of smarts to figure out what had happened to Albert and Percy—*who* had happened to them. Boggs might look stupid but he was cagey as the rats he looked like; he'd probably been miles away when Albert, when Percy died. A thing like that…could happen to Dean, *would* if he didn’t get away from Boggs and the murdering mugs that made up his crew...Sam shook his head. No. As long as he breathed, nothing bad like that was going to happen to Dean. He'd promised Dean he'd look after him, and he would.
Dean let out a small sound of pleasure as a cream painted Packard rolled past them, its brass side lamps gleaming. Dean followed it with his eyes, his mouth pursed around a whistle of admiration, his cheeks pink with want. Watching him, Sam understood quite well what his big brother was feeling….
Sam glanced at the car as it passed and just like that, he had a plan…a good one.
* * * * * *
The brick front of 445 Greenstone Street was clean and new, and nothing like the crumbling, smoke streaked building Dean and he lived in. There weren't potted trees on the steps of their building, or brass numbers nailed over the doorway. Sam stood on the sidewalk and gawked—it was like another world, and Dean came here almost every day. Sam peered about and decided, somehow, someway, he'd make himself part of this world too.
A few men in cheap suits were standing around the steps, leaning on the step's railing, leaning against the ironwork gate closing off the alleyway. Chatting idly, they gave every impression of lounging, but Sam could see that they were more than aware, every one of them--their eyes were never still, darting back and forth and up and down the street, tracking movement like cats at a mouse hole. They were restless; they were pretending to be still. They smiled and laughed and pretended not to be killers. A twitch, a turn, revealed bulges high on their sides, under those jackets. The idea of them all strapped and deadly sent a shiver down Sam's back, a tingling rush swept through him and he wanted to be closer, to touch those guns, and those clean, neat jackets.
One of the gunsels propped a foot on the stair, buffed a spotless spat clean of imaginary dust. Jerked his chin Sam's way. "Hey, boys, looks like the zoo lost a monkey, hunh?"
They laughed raucously and Sam just stared them down. He picked out a big guy leaning against the door. "I want to see Mr. Assasi," he said, and the group laughed even harder, leaning on each other as they did.
The front door flew open, startling everyone. "What the fuck? What're you doing out here? We gotta party goin' on here? Leave the little shit alone and get back on your business, damn it. Fuckin' ama-toors." The fat man standing in the door dismissed Sam and concentrated his ire on the bodyguards, who quieted and slid back to their places.
"Hey," Sam yelled. "I want to see Mr. Assasi!" Sam knew he was close to his goal but it frustrated him not to be taken seriously. He glared at the fat man and now the fat man did turn eyes to him. He glared right back, but there was something in the fat man's eyes, some interest—some amusement that wasn't necessarily cruel…Sam took a deep breath and went on. "I said I wanna see Mr. Assasi. He knows me."
The fat man blinked, and then laughed aloud—a nice laugh, Sam thought. Deep. Booming, his belly shook with the force of it. "Well, you got one hell of a nerve, that's for sure. G'wan, ya little shit—beat it. Mr. A don’t know you."
"Yes he does. I'm Sam Winchester and he knows my brother, Dean."
Chuckles trailed off as the fat man calmed. He wiped at his eyes, looking Sam up and down as he did. He frowned thoughtfully. "The lil' chauffer, that's your brother? Hunh. Tell ya what. I'mma ask Mr. A if he want's ta see a crabby little midget. Ya better hope he's in a good mood, Pudgy. Wait here."
Pudgy? Sam huffed and let it go. It was worth it if he could get Assasi to go along with his…okay, maybe it was a kinda crazy plan, but it was the only one he had, and if it worked…well, all of this would be worth it. Sam looked smugly at the crew of thugs frowning at him. He tried to look unconcerned; he nodded at them, rocked back on his boot heels, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Whata you looking' at, lard butt?" one of the men snarled. "Louie's gonna come back here with a tommy gun and blow your fat little head off," he snapped.
"Fuck you," Sam muttered, watched the door, and acted as if he hadn't a care in the world. He knew how to ignore that sort of thing, and he swallowed the sting down without much thought.
The fat man--Louie—was at the door again. "The boss says you should come in. I'm warnin' ya, Pudge, ya better be tellin' the truth. Mr. Assasi ain't gonna take kindly to you trying to spread shinola up here. He's a whole lotta things, but patient ain't onea them."
"I'm on the level—he'll know," Sam said, his voice full with every bit of the confidence he didn't feel and stepped into the house, smirking at the open-mouthed thugs.
* * * * * *
Louie led the way, and Sam grinned at how much space the man took up, wide as the front door he was, and for some reason, smelled of ginger. He looked behind him once or twice, marking Sam's progress but his expression was uninterested, blank. Sam stumbled a little, so intent was he on his surrounding. It was gangbusters—swankier than any place he and Dean had ever seen in the movies, and it smelled nice, even better than the library, or school. Sure not a bit like their tiny room, not a bit like rot and damp. It smelled like wood smoke and apples. They walked down a hallway paneled in a warm dark wood, the carpet underfoot was so thick, he desperately wanted to take his shoes off and run barefoot, squeeze his toes in it…it was bright and all swirly with pattern and color. Turkish. He knew what it was called; the old lady whose cat had gone…missing…had one in her parlor, but not nearly as fine as this one.
The big man opened a set of double doors and jerked his chin. "G'wan, he's waiting for ya."
Sam froze. The room was gigantic, just the thought of walking into it scared him. There was a long couch at one side of the room, behind it lots of windows covered with blue velvet drapes. Over each tall window was a smaller, half-moon shaped window made of colored glass, and book cases everywhere, and all of them stuffed with books. Sam gaped. He'd never seen so many books in one place before, not besides the library. He didn't know that people could have so many of their own books. His fingers itched to touch. At one corner of the room was a desk big enough to dance on and behind it sat a very handsome man. Tall, with dark blonde hair, and pale brown eyes, almost the color of whisky. He stood, and his clothes…Sam envied him those fine clothes. He imagined the man had them made to fit. They fit very nicely. The man pointed at a chair with a high back and fat cushions to one side of his desk, and Sam figured he wanted him to sit. Sam dropped down on it, startled for a second—it was like sitting on marshmallows. He covered as best he could, sat back, clasped his hands and fixed Assasi with a narrow glare. He got an assessing gaze in return.
"So…you're my boy's little brother, eh? The famous Sam I hear so much of…"
Sam felt a deep rush of pleasure, to think that Dean had spoken of him to this man. That was good. He hoped that this was the man who'd save his brother.
"Oh yeah, every time I see him, it's Sam this, and Sam that…Sam alla time, with him…" The man came around the desk and looked Sam over, slow, considering. The weight of his glance kept Sam pinned to the chair. Sam tilted his head back to keep him in sight. Mr. Assasi was…frightening, but also, fascinating.
Mr. Assasi leaned over the wingchair, trapping Sam between the chair and his body. Heat came off the man like a radiator, along the faint smell of sweat and bay rum…."So now you tell me what you're doing here and why I shouldn't put you out on the trash heap, eh?" He smiled, a wide toothy slash devoid of humor or warmth and Sam felt the weirdest urge, an urge to tell the man everything, about how he felt and what he wanted and how he longed for something he couldn't quite put a name on but he was sure this man could. Mr. Assasi…he wondered what the man thought of him, of Dean. Did he remember his father, did he remember his dead mother…?
"You're really Dean's friend?" Sam asked and his voice shook—he scowled. Didn't want the man to think he was afraid. He was. But the hell if he wanted that to show.
"His friend?" The man laughed. Brown-gold eyebrows rose high, a lot like Dean's did when he stumbled over the absurd. "His friend hunh?" This time there was a bit of warmth in the smile he gave Sam. "Sure. Sure I'm his friend. Me and Dean-o. We're good friends. Why you wanna know?"
"Because I know Dean would do anything you ask, so I'm asking you to do something for Dean."
"Oh yeah? You wanna favor, putto? Ha. You ain't got nothing I want. You know, grown men, that's how they do favors. They barter—you know what that means? Yeah? They trade one thing wanted for another. Tell me what you have I want."
Sam stared right into the whiskey colored eyes, stared so hard they were all he saw. "Us. You want us because we're Winchesters and people still speak of it. What my dad did, what you did. So…if you have us, you take everything that man ever had. For revenge."
Mr. Assasi stared at Sam for a long, silent moment and Sam wondered if he'd played it wrong and if he'd just bought Dean even more trouble than was coming his way. If Assasi didn't go for this, Dean's time on this earth was short, miserable and headed for Albert and Percy's useless, rotten, end…unless Sam gave up everything for him. If this deal didn't work, he would give everything--he would kill Boggy and not even care. The hell with caring, he'd like doing it.
"You're something else—you're a smart little boy, ah? But wrong. You have no loyalty to your father? That's bad. That's not a good thing, to give up blood. La famiglia The family, this is everything."
Sam shook his head. "He's not my dad. He said so. He said a lot of times I'm not his." Sam said it with a depth of conviction that startled even himself, and ignored all the times the man had pulled him into his lap and cried snot and tears over him, begging forgiveness and swearing to the heavens and his dead wife how much he loved Sam, how Sam was his favorite and his reason for living….
Mr. Assasi walked back around the hulk of his desk, sat and waved his hand like he was bored but willing to give Sam a chance. "Go on. You offer me a deal--now tell me why you wanna deal."
"Boggy. He's messing with Dean, he's gonna end up doing Dean the way he did some guys lived with him, Percy and Albert. They've been in the paper, the "innocent angels" found dead in the river?"
Mr. Assasi stared at Sam, his fingers steepled under his chin. His face was calm but Sam saw his eyes were burning. "So. He thinks he can bother with Dean? I don’t think this is a good thing."
"Well, either does Dean," Sam snapped, "but he does it to help me. If you hired him he wouldn't have to."
"Eh." The bored look was back in force. Mr. Assasi leaned back in his chair. "What's he gonna do for me, putto? What am I gonna do with two little boys? You can't hold a gun, you gonna be a bodyguard? Bite my enemies inna ass?"
"He could take care of your cars, he could run errands, he could do a lot. I'm nothing but it don’t matter. I want Dean to be safe, that's all." Sam fought to keep the emotion off his face, but he felt his cheeks flush and his eyes pricked.
The man smiled, drew circles on the desk, and Sam found he couldn't stop staring at the hypnotic movements. He stared so hard and so long he felt a little dizzy. "Well…I'll think about it. But let me ask you somethin' now. You want me to kill that guy Boggs?"
Sam shook his head. "No. You need him. You can't kill him." Sam didn't say that one day, killing Boggs would be his treat, but Assasi seemed to know that Sam was feeling something like that. He looked almost…fond.
"You got business sense. You want revenge but not at the expense of business. Smart. You tell your brother come here tonight." He stood and Sam stood, headed towards the door.
"Hey." Assasi stopped him. "You go ahead and bring your stuff. You both can stay here with me. And I'll talk to Boggs; tell him to leave my friend Dean-o alone, okay? And remember, putto, business is like cars--parts get old, don't work so good anymore. You gotta take 'em out an' get new ones…capisce?"
Sam smiled, suddenly flooded with pleasure so intense it made him feel a little too hot, a little woozy. "Yeah, I get it. Yeah, thanks. We'll do anything for you, anything."
Assasi laughed out loud and it echoed strangely in the room. "Oh, I know you will. We're going to be close, you and me. We're going to be good friends, angel-boy, good friends."
Sam thought about that, and what it meant. He was sure there'd be a further price to pay but right now, he was satisfied. He nodded. Louie came in again, and led Sam out the big oak doors. Sam glanced over his shoulder for a last look at Assasi. The man was sitting at his desk, eyes still on Sam. In the weird light cast by the colored glass window, his eyes danced from whiskey gold, to ink, to red….
* * * * * *
"You did what?" Dean jumped out of the rickety kitchen chair, sent it skittering back against the wall. His eyes were wide and wild, like he couldn't believe that it was really Sam in front of him—like maybe Sam had turned into something out of his nightmares. "He what? Are you nuts? You coulda got us both…damn it Sammy!"
"Dean, no, he's gonna look out for us, and he's gonna kick the shit outa Boggy, the bastard, and he said we could live with him, really he did."
Dean looked like he wanted to pop him one, but he grabbed Sam's shoulders a little too tight and shook until his teeth clacked together—it was so unfair, just because he was older and taller—Sam ripped away from Dean, rubbing his shoulder resentfully. He let his eyes fill and Dean softened—of course. "Fuck, Sam, don’t you get it yet? No body does anything nice unless they expect to get paid back. Worse, guys like this don't tell you what the price is gonna be...an' don't talk like some hood, I raised you bettern' that didn't I? Come here." He pulled Sam to the bed, and pulled and shifted him until they were curled close to one another. Sam rolled the last few inches into Dean, melted against him and sighed happily.
"It's going to be good, Dean, just you wait. It's going to be everything we never had before, like…steak when we want, an' cake, an' candy, an' ice cream every Sunday. You'll see."
The End
soon continued in part two
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John Winchester, original characters
Rating: NC-17
Total Word Count: 8357
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.
"I need a job, some extra money. Sammy—he gets bad headaches and he needs something to help him. And we're going through food real fast now…." Dean stammered, trying to get his words out fast, before Boggy brushed him off.
Boggs leaned against his desk, rolled his eternal cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other, and said in a voice that dripped disinterest, "Headache powders work wonders, you know. Why don't you head down to the drugstore, hmm. They've got a nice selection."
Dean felt rage swim up on him. "I don’t have the money for it. I gotta get us food, an'…that basement is cold, an' wet. We don’t got enough blankets to keep us warm, let alone dry. 'Sides, I been there a few times and they're starting to get wise." He wiggled his fingers. "I think they seen me lift some stuff…"
Boggs tsked at Dean's lack of light fingered skill, asked, "Are you complaining, my boy? Do you find your lodgings unsuitable? Because there are people I can rent to for more than I charge you, my dear, much more." His ratty nose twitched in a ratty way, and Dean's fingers trembled over the ivory handled blade resting in his pocket. Dean knew Boggy was talking shit, the chislin' bastard, and Boggy knew he knew it--the place was a way station to hell.
The man rose from his perch on the edge of the desk and wandered over to the curtain hung by the bed. He pinched a bit of fabric between his fingers. "Sorry times now, my dear," he sighed, "there are no jobs to be had right now, and…hmmm." He looked thoughtful—as thoughtful as a rat could look. He fixed Dean with a look of false concern and asked, "Have you tried warm towels?"
"Damn it--I'll do any job—Sam needs medicine. Whatever you got—I'll do anything!"
"Will you, my dear?" Boggs smiled and motioned Dean closer. He twitched the curtain back, and glanced toward the bed revealed. Smirked. One of the pair of boys almost always at Boggs' side lie there, mostly under the covers, fully dressed, and rolled over to look at them when the curtain was pulled. He blinked slowly, scowled when he spied Dean, and Dean returned it. He hated those guys, hated them the same way he hated rats. The kid stared at him, brown eyes drilling into his, a long unbroken stare as Boggs blathered on and on. It was hot in Boggs' room, and dry, he could smell dust and the coal stove, smell ink. His eyes slid over Boggs' desk, the phone gleaming blackly on the wall. Hanging next to the phone, a calendar told him it was February but it was March now, and Sam's headaches were getting worse and worse. Boggs' voice disappeared. Through the closed door, the sound of the club leaked through, the clack of balls speeding around the pool tables, the high-pitched laughter of the newsies and runners, the lower rumble of the club members, Bogg's crew…under it all the tinny sound of the old upright piano, someone coaxing Glow Wormout of it ….
Dean perched stiffly on the edge of the big bed. The boy was gone, casting Dean a sidelong, evil look as he left, like Dean had won something from him. Dean ached to punch him right between the eyes. Boggs was kneeling in front of him, long, long fingers sitting on Dean's thighs like yellow spiders. "Don’t be afraid, I'd never, ever hurt you. You'll like this. All you have to do is sit still." The spiders walked up his thighs and over his trouser buttons, prying them loose. Bone thin fingers reached in, gliding over his skin and leaving long streaks of ice behind. "This isn't going to hurt at all."
Dean looked down at the yellow finger bones and closed his eyes. He filled his head up with nothing and darkness and Sam.
"Hey Sammy, gotcha something to help." He set a little sack on the floor next to the stove, and took out a small can. He swirled a little powder from the can into a glass, topped it with water and handed it to Sam. "Drink it all—I promise it'll help." He turned his back, and put the food he'd scrounged into the cupboard. "Drink that and I'll give ya canned peaches—you like those."
He heard Sam yelp happily, "peaches!" and when he turned around again, Sam was at the table, trying to drink the mixture and making a face—it was gritty and bitter, Dean knew, but the stuff was supposed to help and that was all he cared about.
Dean rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, soft with baby-fat, and warm under his palm. He stroked up his neck, tucked a few wild pieces of hair behind Sam's ear. Sam shuddered, dropped his head back to Dean's chest. "It tastes bad…and you smell funny. Where you been? Where did Boggy send you?"
"Don’t worry about that—it's none of your business. You just drink this stuff and lay down, sleep some so's you can go to school tomorrow." He grabbed Sam's free hand—hard, too tight. "You gotta go to school, Sam, you gotta. Make something of yourself—don't be like me and Dad, promise me."
Sam yanked his hand away. "Quit it! Leave me alone. Stop that." His voice was high and shrill, and Dean knew he'd scared him. Sam jumped off the chair and threw himself in bed, his back to Dean. When Dean tried to get in too, Sam kicked him. "Sleep on the floor. I don’t want you touching me."
Dean gaped—on the floor? Alone? His eyes filled but he blinked tears back. "Why the hell you being like this Sam? What's got into you?"
"Just…shut up and go to sleep."
Dean inched towards the bed. He took off his jacket, rolled it up and shoved it under his head. He closed his eyes, tried to mask a deep, unhappy sigh. When Sammy got like this, there was no dealing with him. Fine. He didn’t give a shit if Sam wanted to be a bitch. That was fine with him, it was only important that Sam get better, and that Dean was following John Winchester's command. If John beat the rap somehow and got out of the joint, he was gonna find a smart, fat, happy Sam. Dean was gonna show him, he could take care of Sam; he could do the job, no matter what it took.
Sam waited until he couldn't see Dean anymore, and then ran around to the back of the school, slipping between the students arriving for class. No one called to him, no one took notice—he was nearly mute, withdrawn at school, and of course the other children had singled him out as 'different'. After having discovered Sam was also a dirty fighter who'd never heard of fair-play, they tended to avoid him.
He was back in the corner of the yard, where they kept the ash cans, in the blink of an eye. Along with the ash cans set against the tall wooden fence surrounding the yard, were stacks of empty crates, boxes and bags. It took him a few seconds to crawl under a crate. Through the slats he watched the yard, waiting until he heard the bell signaling the start of class. His heart beat faster—excitement made his fingers tremble. A little careful shoving and shifting allowed him to cache his books under the pile of garbage, he figured he'd come back later that day and retrieve them. He climbed the pile and scrambled over the fence, dropped down into the alley way. He dodged his way down the narrow passage, crossing over into the rear yard of a bakery and through, ignoring the shouts that greeted him. The mouth of the alley emptied onto the street across from Boggs.
He hid behind more garbage cans, watching Boggs' front door. As he expected Dean came out, frowning at a slip of paper in his hand. Numbers drops, Sam figured—he'd be gone for a while. He settled and waited a bit more, and Boggs came out with a few of his scabs and left. Sam waited until he couldn't see him before running across the street, right up to Boggs and inside.
"Hey—whataya doin'—" Sam burst through the door and right into a knobby rail of a man, knocking his bowler to the floor. He scowled at Sam and swept it back onto his head and Sam stared—crammed both fists to his mouth, trying to smother a laugh. The guy had modeled himself after Boggs, bowler hat, single breasted plaid coat—the same brown plaid, the same brown trousers and boots—he'd copied Boggs right down to the tatty ascot and the wrinkled kerchief shoved in his coat pocket.
Sam pasted a sincere look on his face and said, "I'm supposed to wait for Bill. My friend told me to come here an' wait." He let a whine into his voice, and wrinkled his face. "I'm supposed to wait in here--he *said*--an' I come here an'—"
"Yeah, yeah! Geez—gwan in the back and shut the fuck up."
Sam let himself back into Boggs' office. This was the place Dean came, without him—a part of Dean's life Sam was shut out of, and Sam didn't like being kept out of anything concerning Dean.
The room behind the door was dark, virtually windowless—there was a long, narrow widow high on one wall. Gas jets provided most of the light. The room held a table and a few mismatched wooden chairs crowded around it, and behind the table sat a large black enameled stove and cabinets. There were a pair of shabby wing chairs, a card table unfolded between them. Sam felt a brief spear of jealousy—Boggs had space, room to live….
A surprisingly nice keyhole desk sat in one corner—a spindly chair pushed up against the front of it, ledgers stacked haphazardly across the top and Sam remembered--in one of the precious few nuggets of information Dean passed him—that Bill Boggs ran his business out of this room. And lived there—slept there. Sam took a deep breath. There was a curtain pulled forward to separate a part of the room. The footboard of a bed showed from behind it and Sam pulled the curtain back with a vicious yank. The metal rings rasped loudly as it flew back on the rod, startling the boy sleeping there. He jerked upright, blinking. "What—you back already—oh. Who are you?"
"Who are you? Do you live here?" Sam stared down at the boy. He knew from around town that two boys sort of lived in the club—Albert and Percy. So this boy had to be—"Percy?"
"Albert." The boy rolled fully upright, and the blanket dropped to his skinny waist. He rubbed his eyes. "…so who tha hell are you?" He leaned forward, and Sam saw that he was naked when the sheets dropped loose. "Hey, ain't you Dean's kid brother…Dan, something…?"
"Sam. When's Bill coming back?"
"Boggy? Not 'til tomorrow, most likely. Did you see Percy out there? He ain't been home in a while…" Albert bit at his thumb, worried eyes darting about, landing everywhere but on Sam.
"Naw. Did you see Dean? Was he here?" Sam had his hands in his pocket, thumb stroking the edge of a little penknife he'd lifted off a bum who might have been dead, might have been drunk—he hadn't checked. His eyes trailed up Albert's pale neck, to his wide brown eyes.
"Maybe…."
"C'mon, tell me—I'm worried, he didn't come home last night," Sam lied. "He said he was gonna bring me something nice and he never showed."
"He was okay last night, I'll say. Got in my way." Albert scowled. "Let Boggy crawl all over him—damn--don’t tell no one, okay? Boggy'll go nuts. Think he's worried about…someone knowing." Albert pushed out his lip and folded his arms. Fell back against the pillows.
Sam could feel thoughts jumping and skittering in his head, skittering and crawling under his skin and he felt like he had to scratch…something. Someone, himself…Albert.
"Show me what he did." The words came out in a rush. He startled himself but he needed to know…he knew for sure he was going to have to fight the world for Dean…how was he going to do that unless he knew what weapons were being used, what the battlefield was. He needed to be prepared, like those old-time knights in Dean's stories.
Albert meanwhile was trying to crawl away across the bed. Sam snagged his ankle and held on. Albert tried to kick him off, yelped, "I ain't showin' you nuttin'. Go away."
Sam shook his head and held on tighter, dug his nails in and ignored Albert's whimper. "Show me. If you don’t…I'll tell Boggs that you told me…" Sam thought about Boggs--what little he knew of him, and looked at a rapidly paling Albert and played a hunch…."and laughed about it—about *him*."
Albert looked scared, and Sam liked that. Knew it meant Albert was close to breaking, he just needed a little push…"If you don’t show me, I'll tell Dean you crawled all over me like Boggs crawled all over him." Sam waited. Maybe everyone around him thought he was just a kid, but he wasn't stupid.
"You stinkin' little shit—Dean'll kill me!"
Sam let go of Albert, folded his arms and waited until Albert cracked.
"All, right, come here. Take your pants off. Underwear too." Sam stopped mid-step. Blinked at Albert who sat blank-faced on the edge of the bed. "You want to know, then do it, and be fast about it."
They were on territory that Albert was sure of now, and Sam gave up the lead to him, did as Albert instructed, folded knee pants and underwear neatly, and laid them on the bed. He thought about sliding down his wool socks, but Albert hadn't mentioned them and he decided to keep them on…he lined his boots up with the edge of the rug and sat on he bed when told to. He was nervous, unsure—but this was what he'd planned, and what he had to do. His hand twisted over the lump of the pen knife in the pocket of his knee pants. Holding it tight as Albert knelt in front of him helped to ease his nerves a bit.
"Okay," Albert muttered, bending over Sam and planting a hand on either of his thighs, "don't pull my hair, and don’t kick me and don't—you just sit there, okay? I'm not gonna hurtcha. Besides, you'll like it some."
Sam was about to ask him what was with all the warning--until Albert shoved his shirt tails out of the way and put his mouth on him. Not just on him, Albert…swallowed him. Sam jumped, almost kicked Albert—"whad I say, ya little punk?—" before freezing. It felt---weird. Wet. Uncomfortable…until it became not. He felt Albert's tongue, felt a sucking tug that made him gasp and realized…it felt good. Sam kept his eyes screwed shut. His breath came shorter, faster, and something crawled in loops inside his belly. It felt *real* good, until he imagined Boggy doing it to Dean. His stomach flipped then, and for a long second he fought gagging. Albert patted his leg and brought him back to the moment. He opened his eyes then, and watched Albert, watched the top of Albert's head bob up and down….
He shuddered, and gripped the sheet, gripped his pants, no longer neatly folded, but crumbled next to him on the bed. He closed his hand tight over the lump where the knife was. "Stop, I gotta pee," he gasped. Albert pulled back and said, "No you don’t."
"Yeah, really, I do—stop!"
"Trust me," Albert said. "Just—hush." He went back to what he'd been doing and Sam felt the feeling rush along, he really, really had to, he had to—
"Oh." He shook, and gasped, and it felt…good. Awfully good. He blinked once or twice and sagged, all the tension flowing out of him like a river—for a moment he felt totally undone. It was jake, it was…Sam pulled himself together with effort.
Albert stood up. "Told ya." He climbed back up the bed, and said, "It's different for big guys." Sam looked. Albert was big, bigger than he was. He'd never really paid attention before. When he and Dean were naked, they were just naked, no big deal. But Albert…Albert was holding himself and moving his hand back and forth fast, until he grunted and something not pee came out of him. Sam was shocked—he glanced quick at Albert's face, but Albert didn’t seem alarmed at all. He just let out a long breath, smiled—and then his face fell. "Get outta here, Sam. Get lost."
Sam grabbed Albert's hand, drew his finger through the slimy mess in his palm. Albert pushed him away, wiped his hand on the rough wool blanket, and turned to slide back under it. Sam sniffed his fingers, thought about putting his tongue to them but just wiped them on the blanket, like Albert had done. He grabbed his clothes and pulled them on quickly—the weight of the knife slapped against his thigh and stopped. He cut his eyes towards Albert, considering. Slid his hand into his pocket and thumbed the knife. Maybe Albert couldn't be trusted to know things like that about Dean. It wouldn't take much to fix that--there was a vein in the neck, or a vein in the thigh that emptied fast and it didn’t take much to punch even a little blade through skin.
Behind him, Albert let out a gusty sigh. "I'm sorry, Sam. I was thinkin' about Percy and it made me feel bad. He's always here and now he's not and we ain't been apart since we was babies…Boggy's been looking at him different now that he's not so little anymore, y'know?"
Sam turned and looked at Albert, saw the fear and aching loneliness and felt…like Albert might know how Sam felt, sometimes. Sam took his fingers off the knife. "I'll look for Percy on my way home, okay? We're square here, right?"
Albert slid back under the covers. "Yeah. We're square—an' I know. Quiet like the grave."
"Right, like the grave…" Sam smiled. "And don’t be sorry about anything. It's your lucky day," he said and left.
It was a bright, sunny day, still a bit of early spring chill in the air, and the breeze off the water bringing with it the faint scent of the ocean….
Dean and Sam were strolling about the fish market, taking in the sights, the sounds, the hustle of activity. Watched the boys unload glistening fish, their silvery skins flashing in the bright sunlight as the sellers arranged them in beds of clean ice. The brothers listened to the shouts and catcalls, laughed at the gossip spread between the people working the stalls and their patrons.
The clam wagon was parked at the end of the block and the boys bought a few—a good treat. They ate them as they wandered a little further into the market. They skipped between the puddles of melted ice, slipped past the busy fish-mongers, tossed the shells at each other, dodging and weaving to avoid smacks and curses flung their way.
It was a good day, a day to spend just being boys, doing boy things. They chased a can between the two of them, kicking it further and further away from the market, jeering and teasing each other, bumping shoulders, elbowing ribs and before long before they were close to the river. Dean turned them, had them cutting across tracks and narrow cobbled roads, past warehouses and tenements that leaned out over the water on spindly, spider webs of wooden trestles and crossbeams. They chased each other, played a game of hide and seek until they were in the constant gloom under the train trestles, where the warehouses met each other over the streets. This part of the city Dean disliked—too dark, too wet, cold as iceboxes in the winter and hotter than hell in the summers. He remembered places like this, waiting out in the street for the old man, waiting and pretending not to be there. Looking up and watching his dad come out of one doorway or another, not knowing if he'd be smiling or frowning, almost always smelling of whiskey and other things or streaked with black, hands black, smelling of blood and smoke….
"Paaa-pah—paapah here!" A short thin boy dressed in black, wearing a floppy pancake of a cap and weighed down by a huge bag on his shoulder, waved a newspaper about. Dancing about on skinny, black clad legs, his black coat flopping around his tiny frame, he looked like a wide-eyed crow. His big eyes held about as much innocence as a crow's.
"Hey, Georgie," Dean called out. "What's the word?" The brothers crossed to the opposite curb and Dean shook hands with Georgie.
"Dean." The skinny boy peered at Sam and nodded, seeming to have decided Sam was okay.
Dean nudged Sam, "This guy's my kid brother." Dean's hand landed on the back of Sam's neck, curled a little.Mine. Sam just stared at the boy.
"Okay…hey, didja hear? They's all down at the river side—coppers an' newshawks an' all, dey got the meat wagon down 'er too. They fished a body out tha river and they're saying it's Percy. Two grins." The kid made a gurgling noise and drew his finger across his neck. "He was whiter'n cheese and tied up like a turkey—*no eyes*," he hissed at Sam, waiting for Sam to jerk back, but Sam's mouth just curled in a little soft smile and he leaned against Dean. Dean tossed his arm around his brother in reflex and hissed in awed horror.
"Holy shit, Georgie. Holy fuckin' shit…I was with him the other day—well, slappin' him around, poor shit. He was getting all bent out of sorts about stuff an' worryin' about…well, never mind that." His eyes narrowed and he asked, "How's Albert?"
Sam startled, jogging Dean, making him take a step back to catch Sam. "Watch it, Squirt," Dean said, and his arm tightened around Sam's chest, the warm, bony weight settled Sam, like always.
Georgie glanced quickly up and down the street, then rocked back on his heels, a picture of casual disinterest. Shrugged eloquently and said, "Eh, Albert. Ain't seen 'em, not for a few days. Figured he took off to look for Percy. Don't look like he found 'em."
Dean shook his head. "Poor stupid shit," he said. "Wonder how Percy ended up inna river like that? I mean to say, who'd wanna chill old Perce? He was just a kid. He didn't even have a job, 'sides hanging out at Boggy's. He wasn't nothin' to nobody."
Sam knelt, picked at the laces on his boots. "He was somebody to Albert," Dean heard him mutter. True, he was that. Dean couldn't imagine that Albert and Percy…that they were such friends that Albert would put himself in danger for Percy. He glanced down at Sam. Maybe it was a little like taking care of Sammy, though that wasn't so much a choice; it was under his skin and in his bones, in his breath. He didn't know anything else but putting Sam first. That's just the way it was, and as far as Dean was concerned, totally unremarkable.
Georgie hawked hard, and spit a thick blob of rust colored mucus onto the street. "Ain't that the truth--who would wanna ice 'em? Poor old Perce didn’t ever bother nobody. It was jus' him and Albert—and that rat-faced Boggs. Looks like both of them boys are gone now. Hunh. Well, that's why I keep my head down, stay wise an' just sell papers. Dean, I'm telling ya, like a pal, try'n stay away from that yegg, y'hear?" His little pinched face was full of righteousness, that it was greyed over with grime didn't take a thing from the heat Georgie felt at the injustice of all their situations. Dean looked away from the earnest appeal in the little boy's eyes, cheeks flushed pink.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up, ya mouthy little runt." He fished around in his coat pocket and gave Georgie a licorice whip and a dime. Georgie's face lit up, and he grabbed the candy, shoved a paper at Dean and beamed, harder still when Dean refused the change—Georgie's grey little cheeks went pinkish with pleasure.
"Thanks, yer a pal, Dean."
"Yeah, sure I am," Dean said and folded the paper under his arm. He grabbed Sam's hand and yanked him back up the way they came.
"Ow, quit it, you're hurting me!" Sam yelped, and tried to drag his heels, yowling even louder when he was in danger of losing his boots, so Dean stopped. He looked down at Sam; spread his fingers on Sam's wrist so his grip was less painful. He rubbed his thumb softly against Sam's pulse. "Listen little brother, I want you to promise me something. You promise me you'll keep away from Boggy and guys like 'em. Don't ever talk to him, and if you want something you come to me—only me, okay?"
Sam startled Dean by reaching up and grabbing Dean's cheeks, he pressed them between his damp, slightly sticky, little boy hands. "If I want something I'll come to you, promise," he said, his eyes so solemn and old that something cold skittered up Dean's spine. Dean could see Sam meant it with every bit of his soul. He laid his hands over Sam's, pressed them tight and closed his eyes, just for a second, before he pulled out of Sam's reach, ruffled his hair until Sam yelled at him to quit, and they chased each other back to the room .
Sam woke up with a jerk. Something woke him… some sound out of the ordinary. A small soft noise, rising and falling, a snuffling sound, and it took Sam a few bleary minutes to get that it was Dean.
Dean's fists were locked in his flat little pillow, pressing it down against his face. He was trying to muffle it--but it was plain that he was crying. For a lightning bright moment, terror burst through Sam's body, crippling him. His big brother didn't cry, Dean was a tough guy, he never cried. He wasn't built for it. Hadn't cried that day John knocked him into a wall and busted his wrist. He hadn't cried that day they came home and found the pitiful remnants of their stuff scattered on the street and no place to live, or the days that they didn't eat, or the days it was too cold to sleep…but Dean was crying now.
Dean rolled far away as he could on the tiny bed. "Go back to sleep," he growled and Sam felt a quick stitch of anger. "I mean it, go to sleep."
"No. Why are you crying Dean? Is it 'cause of today? Are you afraid of ending up like Percy? 'Cause you won't, I know that. I'm gonna watch out for you."
Dean choked out a snot-filled, watery, laugh. "That's my job, Squirt. I do the lookin' after…besides, I ain't afraid for me. I'm afraid…I'm afraid of. Of you ending up like that. I'm afraid of you ending up sick somewhere, coughing your lungs out, or some punk icing you for fun, or…or…Sammy, I'm really afraid of screwing this up, not taking care of you like I should. What if I screw this up, Sam, what if I'm just what Dad said I was—worthless, stupid—"
Sam grabbed Dean's arms and pulled them down, ignoring the red wheals his nails scored down his brother's arms. "You're not! You're not--look at me. I'm not sick, I'm not sad—I got you, and you make me happy. You take good care of me, Dean." He wiggled in under Dean's arms and waited until they wrapped tight around him. Dean shuddered out a long, moist sigh. "You always take care of me, Dean." Sam murmured. "Geez, you kept the old man from beatin' on me, and protected me from those punks on the street and…you know, you keep me from...bad things…."
"Sammy, Sammy, I'm supposed to. I love you, yer my brother. I'd do anything for you."
Sam nodded, his hair caught under Dean's chin. He lifted his head and peered at his brother with one eye, grinning. "Gimme a kiss, so I can go to sleep."
Dean leaned down to him, and tucked his fingers under Sam's chin, tilted his mouth to his. Sam closed his eyes and felt the soft press of Dean's lips against his. Dean's breath washed warm over his nose and chin. A slight hint of moisture bloomed against Sam's mouth as the pressure of Dean's lips opened his lips a bit. Dean stopped, and pulled back—only far enough to speak. "Sam…"
Sam squirmed against Dean and Dean gasped when Sam poked the wet tip of his tongue against Dean's velvety lower lip. Dean shuddered and grabbed Sam—hard. Pulled them together and groaned--pushed them apart. Sam whimpered, and tried to pull Dean back against him. It felt like his skin was on fire, like he needed Dean, to make it stop burning…
"Sam, don’t, okay? Just…don't.
"Why not, why can't I?"
"It's one of those things that…just, some things aren't right, you gotta trust me to tell you what those things are."
Sam pouted, and slipped his hand between them, into the heat of Dean's crotch and asked, "What's wrong with you being stiff like that? Or me helping you?"
"Come on, Sam—stop it!" He shivered and Sam watched gooseflesh race across Dean's skin. The stiff prick jumped against his palm, and Sam took the chance and stroked, once twice, feeling the firm heat, liking the solid weight bumping against his skin and wondering, what it would be like to do to Dean what Albert had done to him…what would Dean feel like, taste like…?
Dean grabbed Sam's wrist tight, dropped his head to Sam's shoulder and exhaled a long hot breath. "Please go to sleep Sam, okay, promise me you'll sleep."
"Okay, Dean. I'll sleep, just like this, okay?" He turned in his brothers arms, and pressed his back against his chest. Dean's arms went around him automatically, tightened just right, his hand wrapped around Sam's. Sam shimmied back against Dean, and got a slap to the back of his head for his efforts.
"Knock it off!"
Didn't matter, Sam thought. The slap had no weight to it, it was barely more than a love tap. Sam grinned into the darkness…Dean didn't know it, but he'd already lost.
"Stop thinking whatever you're thinking and fuckin' go to sleep."
Sam giggled as he drifted off….
All the next day was odd, interesting. Sam was fascinated by Dean, the way he see-sawed between loving Sam and running from him. Dean smiled at him, he frowned at him. He reached out to him--he pushed away. He let Sam kiss him—he yelled at him. Sam didn't care. He knew Dean had to stretch against this new thing—test the hold. Sam expected it.
The air got thicker, slowly…Sam sat on the bed, and watched Dean from behind a book, felt the way the weight in the room grew and grew until finally, Dean jumped up with a curse and ran out. Sam sucked in a breath and held it until the room went blurry and dark. He dropped the book on the floor, flopped down on the bed and waited.
He knew Dean was coming back, Dean couldn’t leave him, wouldn't leave, not like this….
It wasn't long before Dean was back, flushed and red, angry--but hands full of good things to eat, and he pushed Sam out of their little room and onto the street with him.
Sam tried to hide his relief, his joy. He'd known Dean wasn't going to leave him—he wasn't really worried at all. Dean would come around, he always did. He always did what Sam wanted him to, eventually. So he sat shoulder to shoulder with Dean on the curb, and ate pickles and boiled eggs, and handfuls of crumbly saltines. He ate, he watched Dean, and he thought.
Dean would do whatever he could for Sam, even if it was stupid and dangerous. What Sam wanted was for Dean to protect himself, for Sam. And since it didn’t seem Dean knew how to do that, it was up to him. It didn't take a lot of smarts to figure out what had happened to Albert and Percy—*who* had happened to them. Boggs might look stupid but he was cagey as the rats he looked like; he'd probably been miles away when Albert, when Percy died. A thing like that…could happen to Dean, *would* if he didn’t get away from Boggs and the murdering mugs that made up his crew...Sam shook his head. No. As long as he breathed, nothing bad like that was going to happen to Dean. He'd promised Dean he'd look after him, and he would.
Dean let out a small sound of pleasure as a cream painted Packard rolled past them, its brass side lamps gleaming. Dean followed it with his eyes, his mouth pursed around a whistle of admiration, his cheeks pink with want. Watching him, Sam understood quite well what his big brother was feeling….
Sam glanced at the car as it passed and just like that, he had a plan…a good one.
The brick front of 445 Greenstone Street was clean and new, and nothing like the crumbling, smoke streaked building Dean and he lived in. There weren't potted trees on the steps of their building, or brass numbers nailed over the doorway. Sam stood on the sidewalk and gawked—it was like another world, and Dean came here almost every day. Sam peered about and decided, somehow, someway, he'd make himself part of this world too.
A few men in cheap suits were standing around the steps, leaning on the step's railing, leaning against the ironwork gate closing off the alleyway. Chatting idly, they gave every impression of lounging, but Sam could see that they were more than aware, every one of them--their eyes were never still, darting back and forth and up and down the street, tracking movement like cats at a mouse hole. They were restless; they were pretending to be still. They smiled and laughed and pretended not to be killers. A twitch, a turn, revealed bulges high on their sides, under those jackets. The idea of them all strapped and deadly sent a shiver down Sam's back, a tingling rush swept through him and he wanted to be closer, to touch those guns, and those clean, neat jackets.
One of the gunsels propped a foot on the stair, buffed a spotless spat clean of imaginary dust. Jerked his chin Sam's way. "Hey, boys, looks like the zoo lost a monkey, hunh?"
They laughed raucously and Sam just stared them down. He picked out a big guy leaning against the door. "I want to see Mr. Assasi," he said, and the group laughed even harder, leaning on each other as they did.
The front door flew open, startling everyone. "What the fuck? What're you doing out here? We gotta party goin' on here? Leave the little shit alone and get back on your business, damn it. Fuckin' ama-toors." The fat man standing in the door dismissed Sam and concentrated his ire on the bodyguards, who quieted and slid back to their places.
"Hey," Sam yelled. "I want to see Mr. Assasi!" Sam knew he was close to his goal but it frustrated him not to be taken seriously. He glared at the fat man and now the fat man did turn eyes to him. He glared right back, but there was something in the fat man's eyes, some interest—some amusement that wasn't necessarily cruel…Sam took a deep breath and went on. "I said I wanna see Mr. Assasi. He knows me."
The fat man blinked, and then laughed aloud—a nice laugh, Sam thought. Deep. Booming, his belly shook with the force of it. "Well, you got one hell of a nerve, that's for sure. G'wan, ya little shit—beat it. Mr. A don’t know you."
"Yes he does. I'm Sam Winchester and he knows my brother, Dean."
Chuckles trailed off as the fat man calmed. He wiped at his eyes, looking Sam up and down as he did. He frowned thoughtfully. "The lil' chauffer, that's your brother? Hunh. Tell ya what. I'mma ask Mr. A if he want's ta see a crabby little midget. Ya better hope he's in a good mood, Pudgy. Wait here."
Pudgy? Sam huffed and let it go. It was worth it if he could get Assasi to go along with his…okay, maybe it was a kinda crazy plan, but it was the only one he had, and if it worked…well, all of this would be worth it. Sam looked smugly at the crew of thugs frowning at him. He tried to look unconcerned; he nodded at them, rocked back on his boot heels, hands shoved in his pockets.
"Whata you looking' at, lard butt?" one of the men snarled. "Louie's gonna come back here with a tommy gun and blow your fat little head off," he snapped.
"Fuck you," Sam muttered, watched the door, and acted as if he hadn't a care in the world. He knew how to ignore that sort of thing, and he swallowed the sting down without much thought.
The fat man--Louie—was at the door again. "The boss says you should come in. I'm warnin' ya, Pudge, ya better be tellin' the truth. Mr. Assasi ain't gonna take kindly to you trying to spread shinola up here. He's a whole lotta things, but patient ain't onea them."
"I'm on the level—he'll know," Sam said, his voice full with every bit of the confidence he didn't feel and stepped into the house, smirking at the open-mouthed thugs.
Louie led the way, and Sam grinned at how much space the man took up, wide as the front door he was, and for some reason, smelled of ginger. He looked behind him once or twice, marking Sam's progress but his expression was uninterested, blank. Sam stumbled a little, so intent was he on his surrounding. It was gangbusters—swankier than any place he and Dean had ever seen in the movies, and it smelled nice, even better than the library, or school. Sure not a bit like their tiny room, not a bit like rot and damp. It smelled like wood smoke and apples. They walked down a hallway paneled in a warm dark wood, the carpet underfoot was so thick, he desperately wanted to take his shoes off and run barefoot, squeeze his toes in it…it was bright and all swirly with pattern and color. Turkish. He knew what it was called; the old lady whose cat had gone…missing…had one in her parlor, but not nearly as fine as this one.
The big man opened a set of double doors and jerked his chin. "G'wan, he's waiting for ya."
Sam froze. The room was gigantic, just the thought of walking into it scared him. There was a long couch at one side of the room, behind it lots of windows covered with blue velvet drapes. Over each tall window was a smaller, half-moon shaped window made of colored glass, and book cases everywhere, and all of them stuffed with books. Sam gaped. He'd never seen so many books in one place before, not besides the library. He didn't know that people could have so many of their own books. His fingers itched to touch. At one corner of the room was a desk big enough to dance on and behind it sat a very handsome man. Tall, with dark blonde hair, and pale brown eyes, almost the color of whisky. He stood, and his clothes…Sam envied him those fine clothes. He imagined the man had them made to fit. They fit very nicely. The man pointed at a chair with a high back and fat cushions to one side of his desk, and Sam figured he wanted him to sit. Sam dropped down on it, startled for a second—it was like sitting on marshmallows. He covered as best he could, sat back, clasped his hands and fixed Assasi with a narrow glare. He got an assessing gaze in return.
"So…you're my boy's little brother, eh? The famous Sam I hear so much of…"
Sam felt a deep rush of pleasure, to think that Dean had spoken of him to this man. That was good. He hoped that this was the man who'd save his brother.
"Oh yeah, every time I see him, it's Sam this, and Sam that…Sam alla time, with him…" The man came around the desk and looked Sam over, slow, considering. The weight of his glance kept Sam pinned to the chair. Sam tilted his head back to keep him in sight. Mr. Assasi was…frightening, but also, fascinating.
Mr. Assasi leaned over the wingchair, trapping Sam between the chair and his body. Heat came off the man like a radiator, along the faint smell of sweat and bay rum…."So now you tell me what you're doing here and why I shouldn't put you out on the trash heap, eh?" He smiled, a wide toothy slash devoid of humor or warmth and Sam felt the weirdest urge, an urge to tell the man everything, about how he felt and what he wanted and how he longed for something he couldn't quite put a name on but he was sure this man could. Mr. Assasi…he wondered what the man thought of him, of Dean. Did he remember his father, did he remember his dead mother…?
"You're really Dean's friend?" Sam asked and his voice shook—he scowled. Didn't want the man to think he was afraid. He was. But the hell if he wanted that to show.
"His friend?" The man laughed. Brown-gold eyebrows rose high, a lot like Dean's did when he stumbled over the absurd. "His friend hunh?" This time there was a bit of warmth in the smile he gave Sam. "Sure. Sure I'm his friend. Me and Dean-o. We're good friends. Why you wanna know?"
"Because I know Dean would do anything you ask, so I'm asking you to do something for Dean."
"Oh yeah? You wanna favor, putto? Ha. You ain't got nothing I want. You know, grown men, that's how they do favors. They barter—you know what that means? Yeah? They trade one thing wanted for another. Tell me what you have I want."
Sam stared right into the whiskey colored eyes, stared so hard they were all he saw. "Us. You want us because we're Winchesters and people still speak of it. What my dad did, what you did. So…if you have us, you take everything that man ever had. For revenge."
Mr. Assasi stared at Sam for a long, silent moment and Sam wondered if he'd played it wrong and if he'd just bought Dean even more trouble than was coming his way. If Assasi didn't go for this, Dean's time on this earth was short, miserable and headed for Albert and Percy's useless, rotten, end…unless Sam gave up everything for him. If this deal didn't work, he would give everything--he would kill Boggy and not even care. The hell with caring, he'd like doing it.
"You're something else—you're a smart little boy, ah? But wrong. You have no loyalty to your father? That's bad. That's not a good thing, to give up blood. La famiglia The family, this is everything."
Sam shook his head. "He's not my dad. He said so. He said a lot of times I'm not his." Sam said it with a depth of conviction that startled even himself, and ignored all the times the man had pulled him into his lap and cried snot and tears over him, begging forgiveness and swearing to the heavens and his dead wife how much he loved Sam, how Sam was his favorite and his reason for living….
Mr. Assasi walked back around the hulk of his desk, sat and waved his hand like he was bored but willing to give Sam a chance. "Go on. You offer me a deal--now tell me why you wanna deal."
"Boggy. He's messing with Dean, he's gonna end up doing Dean the way he did some guys lived with him, Percy and Albert. They've been in the paper, the "innocent angels" found dead in the river?"
Mr. Assasi stared at Sam, his fingers steepled under his chin. His face was calm but Sam saw his eyes were burning. "So. He thinks he can bother with Dean? I don’t think this is a good thing."
"Well, either does Dean," Sam snapped, "but he does it to help me. If you hired him he wouldn't have to."
"Eh." The bored look was back in force. Mr. Assasi leaned back in his chair. "What's he gonna do for me, putto? What am I gonna do with two little boys? You can't hold a gun, you gonna be a bodyguard? Bite my enemies inna ass?"
"He could take care of your cars, he could run errands, he could do a lot. I'm nothing but it don’t matter. I want Dean to be safe, that's all." Sam fought to keep the emotion off his face, but he felt his cheeks flush and his eyes pricked.
The man smiled, drew circles on the desk, and Sam found he couldn't stop staring at the hypnotic movements. He stared so hard and so long he felt a little dizzy. "Well…I'll think about it. But let me ask you somethin' now. You want me to kill that guy Boggs?"
Sam shook his head. "No. You need him. You can't kill him." Sam didn't say that one day, killing Boggs would be his treat, but Assasi seemed to know that Sam was feeling something like that. He looked almost…fond.
"You got business sense. You want revenge but not at the expense of business. Smart. You tell your brother come here tonight." He stood and Sam stood, headed towards the door.
"Hey." Assasi stopped him. "You go ahead and bring your stuff. You both can stay here with me. And I'll talk to Boggs; tell him to leave my friend Dean-o alone, okay? And remember, putto, business is like cars--parts get old, don't work so good anymore. You gotta take 'em out an' get new ones…capisce?"
Sam smiled, suddenly flooded with pleasure so intense it made him feel a little too hot, a little woozy. "Yeah, I get it. Yeah, thanks. We'll do anything for you, anything."
Assasi laughed out loud and it echoed strangely in the room. "Oh, I know you will. We're going to be close, you and me. We're going to be good friends, angel-boy, good friends."
Sam thought about that, and what it meant. He was sure there'd be a further price to pay but right now, he was satisfied. He nodded. Louie came in again, and led Sam out the big oak doors. Sam glanced over his shoulder for a last look at Assasi. The man was sitting at his desk, eyes still on Sam. In the weird light cast by the colored glass window, his eyes danced from whiskey gold, to ink, to red….
"You did what?" Dean jumped out of the rickety kitchen chair, sent it skittering back against the wall. His eyes were wide and wild, like he couldn't believe that it was really Sam in front of him—like maybe Sam had turned into something out of his nightmares. "He what? Are you nuts? You coulda got us both…damn it Sammy!"
"Dean, no, he's gonna look out for us, and he's gonna kick the shit outa Boggy, the bastard, and he said we could live with him, really he did."
Dean looked like he wanted to pop him one, but he grabbed Sam's shoulders a little too tight and shook until his teeth clacked together—it was so unfair, just because he was older and taller—Sam ripped away from Dean, rubbing his shoulder resentfully. He let his eyes fill and Dean softened—of course. "Fuck, Sam, don’t you get it yet? No body does anything nice unless they expect to get paid back. Worse, guys like this don't tell you what the price is gonna be...an' don't talk like some hood, I raised you bettern' that didn't I? Come here." He pulled Sam to the bed, and pulled and shifted him until they were curled close to one another. Sam rolled the last few inches into Dean, melted against him and sighed happily.
"It's going to be good, Dean, just you wait. It's going to be everything we never had before, like…steak when we want, an' cake, an' candy, an' ice cream every Sunday. You'll see."
The End
soon continued in part two
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