SpN: Public Enemies Book Two (2/?)
10/10/11 02:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Public Enemies Book Two
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John Winchester, original characters
Rating: NC-17
Total Word Count: 4245
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
1917
Dean pushed the washcloth around the sink bowl, drying it. Even months later, he still couldn't believe that this luxury, this having their very own bathroom right there for them, was real. Every time he filled the tub for Sam, every time he stood at the mirror and brushed his teeth, he thought what a prize, what a dream…every time they woke up, in their bedroom, in their very own clean, soft, good-smelling, bed, every time Dean made them breakfast in their very own kitchen, it felt like they'd hit the jackpot, the ultimate jackpot. The apartment was carved out of a bit of attic space over the garage, warm and cleaner than any place they'd ever been. Maybe a tiny mouse-hole to Mr. Assasi but it was a fuckin' castle as far as him and Sam were concerned.
Dean ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it into some kind of order—tried out a smile or two in the mirror. This, their very own place. Sam had done good, no denying that. In this new place Sam bloomed. He was happy, he was well, and Dean was pleased. There was no darkness lurking in the corner of Sam's smiles now, just…content. And Dean was happy to give him that.
Hell, if Dad knew what the fuck was going on, who was taking care of them, he'd probably kill them both, Dean thought, and choked on a laugh that burned.
As if by magic, Sam appeared at his side, frowning. "What's wrong? You okay?"
"Yeah, jeez, Squirt. Whataya, hide behind the door? Don’t do that, you might hear something you don't like," Dean grinned and Sam blushed.
"I doubt that," he muttered and leaned against the sink, close enough to bump Dean's hip with his. He stared at Dean, until Dean sighed, and leaned towards him. Sam grabbed a handful of hair and carefully pulled him close to kiss him.
"Now can I have some privacy?" he asked and Sam snickered.
"Shut up, you don't even know what that means. Will you drive me to school? A won't mind if you take a car."
He flicked water into Sam's face. "Show some respect, hunh? *Mr.* A's not gonna let me take a car to drive your sorry ass to school."
"He'd let you do anything you want," Sam said darkly, and there was that, the single big fly in the ointment that kept Sam from being totally happy. Jealousy of the man….
"Sam, he loves you, tell him you need me to drive you." Dean stepped out of the bathroom and dressed, sliding suspenders over his shoulders, smoothing down the ridiculously soft white shirt. He leaned over to do up the laces of his boots and Sam threw himself over Dean's back, ignoring his pained grunt and snarled 'get off.' Sam played with the ends of his hair, until Dean managed to shove him loose. Dean tossed Sam his school bag, and stopped at the doorway. "Say, tell him you're scared of bullies or somethin'," he said. "You can come up with a reason, you’re good at that."
Sam shrugged the strap over his shoulder, and then grinned at Dean, his hazel eyes full of the sunlight streaming in through the doorway. His cheeks were pink, his teeth bright white and his hair was the color of old, old pennies. Dean thought he was beautiful, the most beautiful thing in the world. Sam just kept smiling at him, the pink of his cheeks went darker, and he dropped his eyes. "You think so, do you really think I'm good at thinking things up?"
"You're the best, Sammy, you're the smart one—I'm the muscle." He made an exaggerated muscle-man pose and Sam broke into delighted laughter.
* * * * * *
The new school was different. All boys, all in uniform and Sam liked that. He liked that no girls were around for the boys to compete over—Sam was always left behind when it came to girls. He didn't mind the girls so much—it was being reminded that he was short and fat and ugly that upset him. Not that Dean ever seemed to mind, he always acted like Sam was…special. Like he was something good and Sam measured everything he was against Dean.
Sam walked through the arched hallways of the school, his boots echoing on the granite floor. Dean was his everything, Dean was his sun…but Assasi's was Dean's. Sam hated how he looked at Mr. A, like he was so special. Dean didn't get that it wasn't Assasi who saved them, it was Sam. Didn't matter, one day Dean would understand. And then. Then Dean was going to be his like John had said he was. The only real, true thing the man had ever said.
"Hey, Samuel, are you coming after school today? We're going to race boats on the lake. Can you get away?"
Sam thought sure, he could. But…"Let me ask my brother when he comes to get me. I have to make sure it's okay with my guardian."
"Okay, hope he lets you come."
It was odd to have friends, but it made Dean happy so he cultivated them. Mr. A said it was a smart thing to do. Make contacts, someday they'd come in useful. Sam had no idea how useful it was to know Freddy Smith, or to know that he craved Sweet Dots like a junkie craved horse but hey…he was willing to believe that Assasi knew what he was talking about—he had all the paper between the Shadows and the lower Eastside, any part Big Moe Kennedy hadn't been able to hold onto and sooner or later was going to sweep his way up the whole Eastside and wipe out all of Big Moe's holdings, so yeah, he probably knew what he was talking about.
He flew out of school at the end of the day and there was his brother in the car lane, leaning against one of Mr. A's cars, tall and straight and movie star handsome and smiling right at Sam. At seventeen, he was less ribby than he'd been and not so pale, his eyes weren't the huge, half-scared green pools they had been a few years ago. Now, he was…Sam's heart clenched hard, and his breath hitched. His brother was more than handsome, he was beautiful, like an angel beautiful. Sam let himself look as long as he dared and then, took a deep breath.
"It's about time you got here, you jerk!" Sam yelled. "I had ta walk aroun'a whole school waiting for ya like some kinda moron."
"Shut up," Dean frowned, his smile melting away fast as ice on a hot skillet. "An' what'd I tell ya 'bout speakin' right?"
"Fuck you. Very much, Dean. And pray tell good sir, how was your day? One hopes it was salubrious," he said, barely stumbling over the word and sketching a stiff little bow.
Dean laughed softly and rubbed his hand through Sam's carefully brilliantened hair. "Aw, Squirt, you sure do talk pretty."
"You're an ass," Sam shot back, but he grinned as he said it, patting his hair back into place.
"Hey, we gotta get you some more uniforms, boy. Look at them pants, you're practically sailing in the breeze—look like you're dressed for clammin'."
Sam looked down and frowned. They had seemed a little big when he put them on, but he'd tightened his belt and forgot about it and now that Dean mentioned it, his ankles were pretty plainly visible.
Dean smiled at him. "You're growing up, Squirt, turning into a regular beanpole. You'll be eye to eye with me before long."
Sam laughed out loud at that. He doubted he'd ever be as tall as Dean but…he shrugged. "Guess I'm getting a little taller, yeah."
"But not as tall as me."
"No Dean, never as tall as you."
Prison. The city cringed away from where it sat, high on a hill, looming over the road leading to it. The road was narrow, and felt one-way. Trees flanked either side of it, kept what weak sun there was from lighting the way.
It was raining, had been steadily all that day, a weak, filmy wash staining the sky grey, putting an oily sheen on the road. Rain ran in rivulets down the car windows, breaking the scenery into streaks and dashes of grey and green. The glass was cold, and leached all the warmth out of Dean's cheek, where it rested. He tilted his head up and watched the black scratches that branches made whisk by overhead, watched rain-soaked clouds shudder past. Sam fidgeted on the seat next to him, looking…annoyed, nervous? Sometimes Dean had a hard time reading Sam, and he knew he was probably the only person on earth who could read him at all. As if sensing Dean's attention, Sam turned and tried to smile at him, and Dean took his hand. Sam let out a sigh of relief, and leaned closer.
"Nervous?" Dean asked. It had been a long time since they'd seen the man, John Winchester. This visit was a gift of Assasi, a surprise….
Sam leaned against him, and Dean felt his heart beat where he pressed his chest tight against Dean's shoulder, felt his breath wash across his cheek. Sam's hand tightened on his. His hand was bigger now, hadn't fit rolled up in Dean's palm like a little mouse in longer than Dean wanted to think. His hand was almost big enough to cover Dean's now. He'd lost most of the puppy fat he'd had, just a bare trace left in his cheeks, his jaw. Dean shivered and Sam pulled back to smile lazily at him, like they'd just shared a secret. It was the look he got when they were alone, when they were quiet and private together. He nudged Sam back, and patted his knee.
Mr. Assasi's sat across from them, his arms spread wide across the back of the limo's leather seat. Dean caught his little smile, the way he glanced over them, the way his eyes settled on Sam with a look that was part calculating, part fondness. Dean was skilled at reading expressions—had to be—but this one. This one he wasn't getting. That he couldn't read the man as well as he could most kept Dean on edge around Assasi, always a little uneasy, as much as he admired him. He was startled out of his worrisome thoughts by Assasi's voice, low and smooth. "Eh, raggazo, we're almost there. And here she is." He settled back into the seat as the boys pressed their faces to the window.
The walls were high, and made of dark stone and Dean imagined entering hell must feel like this when the car rolled through the huge, iron-clad gates. This dark, forbidding place, this was the place John Winchester was.
There was a bit of business at the gates with the guard and then they were inside, Louie taking the car and Dean and Sam going ahead with Mr. Assasi. The hall echoed with their footsteps, the sound of their breath, every hitch and pause was noticeable as a shout. Other than the sound of their footsteps, it was quiet, still as the grave. Dean looked around at the stone walls and up at the windows higher than he could reach—than Mr. A could reach. Each narrow slice of glass was filmy with dirt and barred with iron. The hall changed, from stone and black granite floors to drywall painted pea-soup green, the floors overlaid with white streaked brown linoleum--their shoes beat a muffled cadence against the floor. The over-head lights cast smeary circles on the highly polished floors and Dean could see, from the corner of his eye, Sam trying to step on each reflected circle, until Dean jabbed his elbow into Sam's side. Sam cast him an angry look, but stopped. There were ways you had to behave sometimes, Dean thought—Sam needed to show some respect for the lost and suffering in this terrible place.
The guard walked ahead of them, silent also, until they came to another door. This one was solid wood, with a small barred window inset. The change was dramatic, even through the heavy oak door, Dean could hear yelling, the sound of many voices calling out together in the distance. John Winchester was behind theses doors, somewhere in this place, and part of Dean suffered the loss, and part of him felt a breath of relief that bars kept him from the man.
The guard rapped hard, three times, at the window, and when it slid open, "Three coming to see Winchester," he said quickly, glanced about him, and carefully handed a card through the window's bars.
The guard at the door glanced at it, ran his fingers over the square of velvety white cardboard, his fingernail bumping over the embossing. He let out a low, quickly snuffed whistle. He colored faintly before nodding and waving them through, his eyes on Dean and his brother all the while. Dean could tell, this was something unusual. Either Mr. A being here at the gate, or him and his brother being here. The gate swung open and they walked down another hall, this one narrow, and smelling of cabbage and urine. Turning his head, Dean watched the gate guard watching them, and all the while, his heart beating like a rabbit's.
Dean held his brother's hand as they were ushered into a small room bisected by a glass and wire wall. A long table ran the length on both sides of the glass, little wooden partitions split up the table. "Wait here," the guard said. A light high on the wall blinked to life, and a door opened and there he was. Their father, John Winchester.
He came in and stopped, face blank of expression. The guard behind him prodded him forward.
He sat, cuffed hands in front of him, staring at the screen cut into the glass, not meeting their eyes at all. "Boys."
That was it. Four years of separation, two years of not hearing a word and all John said was boys. Not a word wondering how they lived, how they'd survived…not a word of regret for leaving them….
He was taller than Dean remembered, thinner, circles under his eyes darker. His cheeks were dark with stubble, badly shaved. He had new scars, and the knuckles on his hands fisted on the table in front of him were raw, scabbed. A storm of conflicting feeling roared in Dean, pleasure at seeing the man, anger at him not checking, not looking for them, longing for his daddy, the one who took him to the pier and fed him hotdogs and kissed his cheek….
"Dad," Dean said and turned to Sam. "Say hi to Dad, Sammy." And Sam frowned in that way that wrinkled his whole face, like he'd bitten down on something horrible.
"What for?" But under the anger, the scorn, Dean knew…he knew his baby brother hurt as much as he did, that he cared as much. Sam just…had a different way of showing it.
John flinched and scowled. His pale skin flushed. "See you haven't changed boy." His attention shifted to Dean and their eyes met at last. " Dean, you taking care of him?"
Dean stared at the man. "Well, Dad, I was. I got us a place to sleep when they threw our stuff on the street after we lost the place about a day after you'd gone, but that was okay, I ran numbers for Boggy, you know him right? He gave us a place to stay and gave us food sometimes."
John went whiter than his already prison pale. "You—you gotta stay away from a man like him, he's no good—"
"Oh, I know all about how no good Boggs is, fist hand kinda. But it's okay; we found us a better place to live. Some one to look out for us. We're rolling in clover now, Dad. We're doing…good, ha, Sammy?"
Sam shrugged, leaned against Dean—melted into his side and gave John Winchester a long, dark look. He smiled at him when Dean threw his arm around Sam's shoulder, pulled him in tight under his arm. John looked at Dean's arm, looked at Sam's small, secret smile and blanched.
"Who's doing it—how can they be, Sam's skinny as a rail." Sam sniffed and frowned a bit. John went on. "Who's taking care of you?"
Dean pressed a kiss to Sam's temple and ignored John's growing frown. "Sam's just growing, that's all. He's almost tall as me now. Don't worry about who's taking care of us, he just is."
"Who?" John insisted, and looked worried, a little ill….
Sam leaned forward before Dean could stop him and said, "Mr. Assasi, you know him don't you? He's the boss of the Red Hands. You know them right? He's taking care of us." Sam ran his fingers down the navy wool coat he wore, touched each gleaming brass button tenderly. "He takes good care of us—he likes us. Me."
John's mouth dropped open, "No. no, no. You're lying. You wouldn't."
Dean stared him down. "You said take care of Sammy. I couldn’t have Boggs touching him. I couldn't…I couldn’t have Boggs touching me no more. I'm sorry Sam." He looked at his brother and tears stood in his eyes. "It woulda been easier then but…but I just couldn't do it no more. I just…."
Sam stopped him with a kiss. "It's okay."
John jumped up, slammed his hands against the glass. "No, no, no! You're canceling out everything I done! Everything I worked for! Me sitting in here—four years—more like forty years in hell, boy and you're telling me you're with the one who put me here—"
The guards at either end of the room rushed forward and restrained John, pulling him away from the glass. He lunged and screamed in their arms, his burning eyes locked on Dean. "Traitor! Traitorous bastard. You're not mine; you're no parts of mine—" He turned to Sam, shouted, "It was you, wasn't? You! Burn in hell, you little bastard--"
Dean grabbed Sam and pulled him out of the chair, holding him as if he could shield him physically from John's words. The door they'd come through flew open, the guard that had brought them in hustled them out, with stern warnings to sit on the bench out side the room and to be quiet, quieter than mice.
Assasi passed them, tossed them a glance, a smile, waved his hand as if to say 'it's nothing boys, nothing.' He tossed Dean a pack of gum and a wink.
Dean held it for a moment before grimacing and passed it to Sam, who ripped off the cover, pulled out a stick and shoved it into his mouth, chewing happily as if they'd been at the matinee and not just been disowned by the only other family they had.
"You're a sucker, Dean. This is good."
"Yah, yah, you have it Sam, s'all yours…." Dean stared at the door and wondered, what was coming next. Now that John knew he'd been betrayed, what would happen to the two of them?
* * * * * *
John sat at the table, forced back down by the guards. No wonder the boys were in to see him. They'd been brought in—smuggled in by Assasi. The man was an evil, soul-sucking bastard. John knew exactly what it was he was trying to do—
"Well, well, well. Johnny Winchester. Look at you. Look at you, sober at least. Keepin' yer nose clean, Johnny-boy?"
"I'll kill you. When I get out of here I'll kill you."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Nice seeing your boys, hunh? Good boys, both of them, especially Sammy. Though Dean's a pistol, a real pistol. He's gonna work out good for me, just like my boy Sam will."
"They ain't yer boys, neither one of em. You keep your fucking evil hands off them."
Assasi leaned back stared at John, and then rocked forward. "Don’t worry. Dean's dead soon as we're back in the city. Sam…I might have use for him. He's so sweet, and that tight little ass…there's lotsa guys like Boggs, guys with money and the time to train a boy up to be…whatever they need."
Red flooded John's face, then rushed away to leave it pale. Sweat ran down his neck, staining the collar of his prison shirt black. "Why…."
"Revenge, hunh? What's better? Unless…you can trade me something. Big Moe…he get's the real thing, the real hunert per cent in the barrel juice, not stinkin' rotgut some jamoke cooked up in a tub, hmm. I wanna know how he gets it, where it comes from and who he's greasing to keep it flowing. I wanna know everything about it and you're going to tell me."
"I don’t know 'bout that shite—I'm just an axeman. I'm not privy to Big Moe's business deals…not like that."
"You know, when Moe told you Mary's youngest son wasn't yours, and pointed you my way, why'd you believe him? Didn’t she tell you Moe was lying, that Moe wanted at her? You were supposed to die in my house, Johnny-boy. Not kill your wife and set the home on fire." Assasi leaned back in his chair, smirking at John. He made a huge production of lighting a cigarette. "Terrible waste, that. But at least you got something out of it, that pretty little boy you made. Who is yours, by the way, bone and blood all yours."
John sat, still as stone. "Shut up. Shut up."
"Now…you can save Dean and Sam by giving me the truth or let them die—well, Dean anyway. You can finish off what you started and kill what's left of your family." Assasi stood. "Or save them…John. What’s it gonna to be? I'm givin' you a pretty good deal. Just a few words and your boys go free--or you can stay loyal to a man that was never loyal to you. Not like your Mary was."
John licked his lips and said, "Sit down…please. We'll talk."
* * * * * *
John felt like the weight of the world was on his back. What he'd learned had broken what was left of the John Winchester who used to spit in the devil's eye. Until today, when the devil came to him and took every bit of what made him a man away. Somewhere out in the city, John knew, his boys were happy, fed and warm, through no doing of his own. Somewhere out in the city, they were forgetting that they had a father. Somewhere out there, Assasi was taking the last thing he had in the life, the thing he'd squandered. The love of his children, their respect….
John shuffled down the line of men waiting to shower, clutching his soap and his towel.
He walked into the dingy tiled stall, hung his clothes on a hook safely away from the showerhead and stepped under the spray. It was barely lukewarm and the spray occasionally stopped its work and dribbled before coughing out a weak spray again. John soaped down and thought about what Assasi said. Everyday that he'd been locked up in this hell-hole, he beat himself up over his boys. He thought every day about how he'd failed them, what he'd taken from them. He thought about true Hell and how he'd earned himself a place there over and over, with Mary's death he'd condemned himself like he'd never had rubbing out the mokes Moe pointed him at. He'd killed an innocent in Mary, and letting Assasi have Dean was like sacrificing another innocent. Sam…Sam would roll with the punches, no matter what. Sam was like a rat, he'd find a place to wiggle in and survive. John knew that, even admired it in a way. Dean was the one with all the honor—stuffed full to the brim with the belief in it, hide it though he tried. That was Dean.
Himself and Sam on the other hand—they just looked to survive. Sam was more like him than Dean had ever been. How he could have denied the boy—
"Mother of God!" He gasped, clawed at his neck as his throat filled with blood. Pain radiated from a burning hole in his chest, rushed outward. There was a hand on his jaw, pulling him back to a stranger's shoulder, an imitation of intimacy. Lips pressed to his cheek, a wet, smacking kiss, a wet hiss in his ear, "Big Moe says tell ya snitches die crying. Fucking John Winchester, you used ta be the best of the best." A hot line swept across John's neck, more pain. He was dropped to the tile floor, the last thing he heard was, "You're not so tough now." The piece of shaving mirror taped to a sawn off bit of broom handle dropped to the floor next to him. He lay in a swirl of black and red water, watched it whirl down the drain.
"Mary…" he tried to speak and blood flooded his mouth. "Mam…" he thought and was gone.
part 3
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, John Winchester, original characters
Rating: NC-17
Total Word Count: 4245
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
1917
Dean pushed the washcloth around the sink bowl, drying it. Even months later, he still couldn't believe that this luxury, this having their very own bathroom right there for them, was real. Every time he filled the tub for Sam, every time he stood at the mirror and brushed his teeth, he thought what a prize, what a dream…every time they woke up, in their bedroom, in their very own clean, soft, good-smelling, bed, every time Dean made them breakfast in their very own kitchen, it felt like they'd hit the jackpot, the ultimate jackpot. The apartment was carved out of a bit of attic space over the garage, warm and cleaner than any place they'd ever been. Maybe a tiny mouse-hole to Mr. Assasi but it was a fuckin' castle as far as him and Sam were concerned.
Dean ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it into some kind of order—tried out a smile or two in the mirror. This, their very own place. Sam had done good, no denying that. In this new place Sam bloomed. He was happy, he was well, and Dean was pleased. There was no darkness lurking in the corner of Sam's smiles now, just…content. And Dean was happy to give him that.
Hell, if Dad knew what the fuck was going on, who was taking care of them, he'd probably kill them both, Dean thought, and choked on a laugh that burned.
As if by magic, Sam appeared at his side, frowning. "What's wrong? You okay?"
"Yeah, jeez, Squirt. Whataya, hide behind the door? Don’t do that, you might hear something you don't like," Dean grinned and Sam blushed.
"I doubt that," he muttered and leaned against the sink, close enough to bump Dean's hip with his. He stared at Dean, until Dean sighed, and leaned towards him. Sam grabbed a handful of hair and carefully pulled him close to kiss him.
"Now can I have some privacy?" he asked and Sam snickered.
"Shut up, you don't even know what that means. Will you drive me to school? A won't mind if you take a car."
He flicked water into Sam's face. "Show some respect, hunh? *Mr.* A's not gonna let me take a car to drive your sorry ass to school."
"He'd let you do anything you want," Sam said darkly, and there was that, the single big fly in the ointment that kept Sam from being totally happy. Jealousy of the man….
"Sam, he loves you, tell him you need me to drive you." Dean stepped out of the bathroom and dressed, sliding suspenders over his shoulders, smoothing down the ridiculously soft white shirt. He leaned over to do up the laces of his boots and Sam threw himself over Dean's back, ignoring his pained grunt and snarled 'get off.' Sam played with the ends of his hair, until Dean managed to shove him loose. Dean tossed Sam his school bag, and stopped at the doorway. "Say, tell him you're scared of bullies or somethin'," he said. "You can come up with a reason, you’re good at that."
Sam shrugged the strap over his shoulder, and then grinned at Dean, his hazel eyes full of the sunlight streaming in through the doorway. His cheeks were pink, his teeth bright white and his hair was the color of old, old pennies. Dean thought he was beautiful, the most beautiful thing in the world. Sam just kept smiling at him, the pink of his cheeks went darker, and he dropped his eyes. "You think so, do you really think I'm good at thinking things up?"
"You're the best, Sammy, you're the smart one—I'm the muscle." He made an exaggerated muscle-man pose and Sam broke into delighted laughter.
The new school was different. All boys, all in uniform and Sam liked that. He liked that no girls were around for the boys to compete over—Sam was always left behind when it came to girls. He didn't mind the girls so much—it was being reminded that he was short and fat and ugly that upset him. Not that Dean ever seemed to mind, he always acted like Sam was…special. Like he was something good and Sam measured everything he was against Dean.
Sam walked through the arched hallways of the school, his boots echoing on the granite floor. Dean was his everything, Dean was his sun…but Assasi's was Dean's. Sam hated how he looked at Mr. A, like he was so special. Dean didn't get that it wasn't Assasi who saved them, it was Sam. Didn't matter, one day Dean would understand. And then. Then Dean was going to be his like John had said he was. The only real, true thing the man had ever said.
"Hey, Samuel, are you coming after school today? We're going to race boats on the lake. Can you get away?"
Sam thought sure, he could. But…"Let me ask my brother when he comes to get me. I have to make sure it's okay with my guardian."
"Okay, hope he lets you come."
It was odd to have friends, but it made Dean happy so he cultivated them. Mr. A said it was a smart thing to do. Make contacts, someday they'd come in useful. Sam had no idea how useful it was to know Freddy Smith, or to know that he craved Sweet Dots like a junkie craved horse but hey…he was willing to believe that Assasi knew what he was talking about—he had all the paper between the Shadows and the lower Eastside, any part Big Moe Kennedy hadn't been able to hold onto and sooner or later was going to sweep his way up the whole Eastside and wipe out all of Big Moe's holdings, so yeah, he probably knew what he was talking about.
He flew out of school at the end of the day and there was his brother in the car lane, leaning against one of Mr. A's cars, tall and straight and movie star handsome and smiling right at Sam. At seventeen, he was less ribby than he'd been and not so pale, his eyes weren't the huge, half-scared green pools they had been a few years ago. Now, he was…Sam's heart clenched hard, and his breath hitched. His brother was more than handsome, he was beautiful, like an angel beautiful. Sam let himself look as long as he dared and then, took a deep breath.
"It's about time you got here, you jerk!" Sam yelled. "I had ta walk aroun'a whole school waiting for ya like some kinda moron."
"Shut up," Dean frowned, his smile melting away fast as ice on a hot skillet. "An' what'd I tell ya 'bout speakin' right?"
"Fuck you. Very much, Dean. And pray tell good sir, how was your day? One hopes it was salubrious," he said, barely stumbling over the word and sketching a stiff little bow.
Dean laughed softly and rubbed his hand through Sam's carefully brilliantened hair. "Aw, Squirt, you sure do talk pretty."
"You're an ass," Sam shot back, but he grinned as he said it, patting his hair back into place.
"Hey, we gotta get you some more uniforms, boy. Look at them pants, you're practically sailing in the breeze—look like you're dressed for clammin'."
Sam looked down and frowned. They had seemed a little big when he put them on, but he'd tightened his belt and forgot about it and now that Dean mentioned it, his ankles were pretty plainly visible.
Dean smiled at him. "You're growing up, Squirt, turning into a regular beanpole. You'll be eye to eye with me before long."
Sam laughed out loud at that. He doubted he'd ever be as tall as Dean but…he shrugged. "Guess I'm getting a little taller, yeah."
"But not as tall as me."
"No Dean, never as tall as you."
Prison. The city cringed away from where it sat, high on a hill, looming over the road leading to it. The road was narrow, and felt one-way. Trees flanked either side of it, kept what weak sun there was from lighting the way.
It was raining, had been steadily all that day, a weak, filmy wash staining the sky grey, putting an oily sheen on the road. Rain ran in rivulets down the car windows, breaking the scenery into streaks and dashes of grey and green. The glass was cold, and leached all the warmth out of Dean's cheek, where it rested. He tilted his head up and watched the black scratches that branches made whisk by overhead, watched rain-soaked clouds shudder past. Sam fidgeted on the seat next to him, looking…annoyed, nervous? Sometimes Dean had a hard time reading Sam, and he knew he was probably the only person on earth who could read him at all. As if sensing Dean's attention, Sam turned and tried to smile at him, and Dean took his hand. Sam let out a sigh of relief, and leaned closer.
"Nervous?" Dean asked. It had been a long time since they'd seen the man, John Winchester. This visit was a gift of Assasi, a surprise….
Sam leaned against him, and Dean felt his heart beat where he pressed his chest tight against Dean's shoulder, felt his breath wash across his cheek. Sam's hand tightened on his. His hand was bigger now, hadn't fit rolled up in Dean's palm like a little mouse in longer than Dean wanted to think. His hand was almost big enough to cover Dean's now. He'd lost most of the puppy fat he'd had, just a bare trace left in his cheeks, his jaw. Dean shivered and Sam pulled back to smile lazily at him, like they'd just shared a secret. It was the look he got when they were alone, when they were quiet and private together. He nudged Sam back, and patted his knee.
Mr. Assasi's sat across from them, his arms spread wide across the back of the limo's leather seat. Dean caught his little smile, the way he glanced over them, the way his eyes settled on Sam with a look that was part calculating, part fondness. Dean was skilled at reading expressions—had to be—but this one. This one he wasn't getting. That he couldn't read the man as well as he could most kept Dean on edge around Assasi, always a little uneasy, as much as he admired him. He was startled out of his worrisome thoughts by Assasi's voice, low and smooth. "Eh, raggazo, we're almost there. And here she is." He settled back into the seat as the boys pressed their faces to the window.
The walls were high, and made of dark stone and Dean imagined entering hell must feel like this when the car rolled through the huge, iron-clad gates. This dark, forbidding place, this was the place John Winchester was.
There was a bit of business at the gates with the guard and then they were inside, Louie taking the car and Dean and Sam going ahead with Mr. Assasi. The hall echoed with their footsteps, the sound of their breath, every hitch and pause was noticeable as a shout. Other than the sound of their footsteps, it was quiet, still as the grave. Dean looked around at the stone walls and up at the windows higher than he could reach—than Mr. A could reach. Each narrow slice of glass was filmy with dirt and barred with iron. The hall changed, from stone and black granite floors to drywall painted pea-soup green, the floors overlaid with white streaked brown linoleum--their shoes beat a muffled cadence against the floor. The over-head lights cast smeary circles on the highly polished floors and Dean could see, from the corner of his eye, Sam trying to step on each reflected circle, until Dean jabbed his elbow into Sam's side. Sam cast him an angry look, but stopped. There were ways you had to behave sometimes, Dean thought—Sam needed to show some respect for the lost and suffering in this terrible place.
The guard walked ahead of them, silent also, until they came to another door. This one was solid wood, with a small barred window inset. The change was dramatic, even through the heavy oak door, Dean could hear yelling, the sound of many voices calling out together in the distance. John Winchester was behind theses doors, somewhere in this place, and part of Dean suffered the loss, and part of him felt a breath of relief that bars kept him from the man.
The guard rapped hard, three times, at the window, and when it slid open, "Three coming to see Winchester," he said quickly, glanced about him, and carefully handed a card through the window's bars.
The guard at the door glanced at it, ran his fingers over the square of velvety white cardboard, his fingernail bumping over the embossing. He let out a low, quickly snuffed whistle. He colored faintly before nodding and waving them through, his eyes on Dean and his brother all the while. Dean could tell, this was something unusual. Either Mr. A being here at the gate, or him and his brother being here. The gate swung open and they walked down another hall, this one narrow, and smelling of cabbage and urine. Turning his head, Dean watched the gate guard watching them, and all the while, his heart beating like a rabbit's.
Dean held his brother's hand as they were ushered into a small room bisected by a glass and wire wall. A long table ran the length on both sides of the glass, little wooden partitions split up the table. "Wait here," the guard said. A light high on the wall blinked to life, and a door opened and there he was. Their father, John Winchester.
He came in and stopped, face blank of expression. The guard behind him prodded him forward.
He sat, cuffed hands in front of him, staring at the screen cut into the glass, not meeting their eyes at all. "Boys."
That was it. Four years of separation, two years of not hearing a word and all John said was boys. Not a word wondering how they lived, how they'd survived…not a word of regret for leaving them….
He was taller than Dean remembered, thinner, circles under his eyes darker. His cheeks were dark with stubble, badly shaved. He had new scars, and the knuckles on his hands fisted on the table in front of him were raw, scabbed. A storm of conflicting feeling roared in Dean, pleasure at seeing the man, anger at him not checking, not looking for them, longing for his daddy, the one who took him to the pier and fed him hotdogs and kissed his cheek….
"Dad," Dean said and turned to Sam. "Say hi to Dad, Sammy." And Sam frowned in that way that wrinkled his whole face, like he'd bitten down on something horrible.
"What for?" But under the anger, the scorn, Dean knew…he knew his baby brother hurt as much as he did, that he cared as much. Sam just…had a different way of showing it.
John flinched and scowled. His pale skin flushed. "See you haven't changed boy." His attention shifted to Dean and their eyes met at last. " Dean, you taking care of him?"
Dean stared at the man. "Well, Dad, I was. I got us a place to sleep when they threw our stuff on the street after we lost the place about a day after you'd gone, but that was okay, I ran numbers for Boggy, you know him right? He gave us a place to stay and gave us food sometimes."
John went whiter than his already prison pale. "You—you gotta stay away from a man like him, he's no good—"
"Oh, I know all about how no good Boggs is, fist hand kinda. But it's okay; we found us a better place to live. Some one to look out for us. We're rolling in clover now, Dad. We're doing…good, ha, Sammy?"
Sam shrugged, leaned against Dean—melted into his side and gave John Winchester a long, dark look. He smiled at him when Dean threw his arm around Sam's shoulder, pulled him in tight under his arm. John looked at Dean's arm, looked at Sam's small, secret smile and blanched.
"Who's doing it—how can they be, Sam's skinny as a rail." Sam sniffed and frowned a bit. John went on. "Who's taking care of you?"
Dean pressed a kiss to Sam's temple and ignored John's growing frown. "Sam's just growing, that's all. He's almost tall as me now. Don't worry about who's taking care of us, he just is."
"Who?" John insisted, and looked worried, a little ill….
Sam leaned forward before Dean could stop him and said, "Mr. Assasi, you know him don't you? He's the boss of the Red Hands. You know them right? He's taking care of us." Sam ran his fingers down the navy wool coat he wore, touched each gleaming brass button tenderly. "He takes good care of us—he likes us. Me."
John's mouth dropped open, "No. no, no. You're lying. You wouldn't."
Dean stared him down. "You said take care of Sammy. I couldn’t have Boggs touching him. I couldn't…I couldn’t have Boggs touching me no more. I'm sorry Sam." He looked at his brother and tears stood in his eyes. "It woulda been easier then but…but I just couldn't do it no more. I just…."
Sam stopped him with a kiss. "It's okay."
John jumped up, slammed his hands against the glass. "No, no, no! You're canceling out everything I done! Everything I worked for! Me sitting in here—four years—more like forty years in hell, boy and you're telling me you're with the one who put me here—"
The guards at either end of the room rushed forward and restrained John, pulling him away from the glass. He lunged and screamed in their arms, his burning eyes locked on Dean. "Traitor! Traitorous bastard. You're not mine; you're no parts of mine—" He turned to Sam, shouted, "It was you, wasn't? You! Burn in hell, you little bastard--"
Dean grabbed Sam and pulled him out of the chair, holding him as if he could shield him physically from John's words. The door they'd come through flew open, the guard that had brought them in hustled them out, with stern warnings to sit on the bench out side the room and to be quiet, quieter than mice.
Assasi passed them, tossed them a glance, a smile, waved his hand as if to say 'it's nothing boys, nothing.' He tossed Dean a pack of gum and a wink.
Dean held it for a moment before grimacing and passed it to Sam, who ripped off the cover, pulled out a stick and shoved it into his mouth, chewing happily as if they'd been at the matinee and not just been disowned by the only other family they had.
"You're a sucker, Dean. This is good."
"Yah, yah, you have it Sam, s'all yours…." Dean stared at the door and wondered, what was coming next. Now that John knew he'd been betrayed, what would happen to the two of them?
John sat at the table, forced back down by the guards. No wonder the boys were in to see him. They'd been brought in—smuggled in by Assasi. The man was an evil, soul-sucking bastard. John knew exactly what it was he was trying to do—
"Well, well, well. Johnny Winchester. Look at you. Look at you, sober at least. Keepin' yer nose clean, Johnny-boy?"
"I'll kill you. When I get out of here I'll kill you."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Nice seeing your boys, hunh? Good boys, both of them, especially Sammy. Though Dean's a pistol, a real pistol. He's gonna work out good for me, just like my boy Sam will."
"They ain't yer boys, neither one of em. You keep your fucking evil hands off them."
Assasi leaned back stared at John, and then rocked forward. "Don’t worry. Dean's dead soon as we're back in the city. Sam…I might have use for him. He's so sweet, and that tight little ass…there's lotsa guys like Boggs, guys with money and the time to train a boy up to be…whatever they need."
Red flooded John's face, then rushed away to leave it pale. Sweat ran down his neck, staining the collar of his prison shirt black. "Why…."
"Revenge, hunh? What's better? Unless…you can trade me something. Big Moe…he get's the real thing, the real hunert per cent in the barrel juice, not stinkin' rotgut some jamoke cooked up in a tub, hmm. I wanna know how he gets it, where it comes from and who he's greasing to keep it flowing. I wanna know everything about it and you're going to tell me."
"I don’t know 'bout that shite—I'm just an axeman. I'm not privy to Big Moe's business deals…not like that."
"You know, when Moe told you Mary's youngest son wasn't yours, and pointed you my way, why'd you believe him? Didn’t she tell you Moe was lying, that Moe wanted at her? You were supposed to die in my house, Johnny-boy. Not kill your wife and set the home on fire." Assasi leaned back in his chair, smirking at John. He made a huge production of lighting a cigarette. "Terrible waste, that. But at least you got something out of it, that pretty little boy you made. Who is yours, by the way, bone and blood all yours."
John sat, still as stone. "Shut up. Shut up."
"Now…you can save Dean and Sam by giving me the truth or let them die—well, Dean anyway. You can finish off what you started and kill what's left of your family." Assasi stood. "Or save them…John. What’s it gonna to be? I'm givin' you a pretty good deal. Just a few words and your boys go free--or you can stay loyal to a man that was never loyal to you. Not like your Mary was."
John licked his lips and said, "Sit down…please. We'll talk."
John felt like the weight of the world was on his back. What he'd learned had broken what was left of the John Winchester who used to spit in the devil's eye. Until today, when the devil came to him and took every bit of what made him a man away. Somewhere out in the city, John knew, his boys were happy, fed and warm, through no doing of his own. Somewhere out in the city, they were forgetting that they had a father. Somewhere out there, Assasi was taking the last thing he had in the life, the thing he'd squandered. The love of his children, their respect….
John shuffled down the line of men waiting to shower, clutching his soap and his towel.
He walked into the dingy tiled stall, hung his clothes on a hook safely away from the showerhead and stepped under the spray. It was barely lukewarm and the spray occasionally stopped its work and dribbled before coughing out a weak spray again. John soaped down and thought about what Assasi said. Everyday that he'd been locked up in this hell-hole, he beat himself up over his boys. He thought every day about how he'd failed them, what he'd taken from them. He thought about true Hell and how he'd earned himself a place there over and over, with Mary's death he'd condemned himself like he'd never had rubbing out the mokes Moe pointed him at. He'd killed an innocent in Mary, and letting Assasi have Dean was like sacrificing another innocent. Sam…Sam would roll with the punches, no matter what. Sam was like a rat, he'd find a place to wiggle in and survive. John knew that, even admired it in a way. Dean was the one with all the honor—stuffed full to the brim with the belief in it, hide it though he tried. That was Dean.
Himself and Sam on the other hand—they just looked to survive. Sam was more like him than Dean had ever been. How he could have denied the boy—
"Mother of God!" He gasped, clawed at his neck as his throat filled with blood. Pain radiated from a burning hole in his chest, rushed outward. There was a hand on his jaw, pulling him back to a stranger's shoulder, an imitation of intimacy. Lips pressed to his cheek, a wet, smacking kiss, a wet hiss in his ear, "Big Moe says tell ya snitches die crying. Fucking John Winchester, you used ta be the best of the best." A hot line swept across John's neck, more pain. He was dropped to the tile floor, the last thing he heard was, "You're not so tough now." The piece of shaving mirror taped to a sawn off bit of broom handle dropped to the floor next to him. He lay in a swirl of black and red water, watched it whirl down the drain.
"Mary…" he tried to speak and blood flooded his mouth. "Mam…" he thought and was gone.
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1/28/12 03:44 pm (UTC)I'm thrilled to bits you read this and I'm really happy you like it! It will continue to get twisty-twisty. *G*