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It's a call he didn't expect to get until well beyond a year away from hunting.
He thought it would be Bobby. Or at least Castiel.
Never imagined it would be Samuel Campbell—apparently, risen from the dead. Already Dean's on an inner alert of this not being good news.
It's Sam... Sammy... and it's even worse than he imagines.
“He was with us—on a routine hunt. He got away, thinking he was able to do this alone...”
Dean sighs heavy. Trying to remain patient. He walks outside the house, away from Lisa and Ben's earshot.
Pieces of Samuel's dialog cut in and out. “... he got bit... something deadly... turned him lethal... town in uproar...”
Dean walks around to the edge of the fence, able to find a clearer reception.
"They think he killed a young girl. They got him locked up at the local sheriff's office. I have to warn you, though, they got him trussed up like he's some kind of maniacal psycho killer. He may not look the same to you. After all... it has been almost a year...”
“How did he make it back fully intact?”
“Don't know. He showed up one day, like he knew where we had always been and what we were doing.”
“What town, Samuel?”
“Wyoming. Lascala, Wyoming. Do you need me to—?”
“No thanks. You've done enough. I'll take it from here. He's my responsibility now. Always has been. I'm all he's got.”
Really... Dean knows it's the other way around—Sammy is all he's got...
~~
He leaves in the early morning hours, when Lisa and Ben are safely tucked in bed, asleep and oblivious to the true madness of the cruel world.
He backs out of the garage in the Impala, single rucksack packed with a few changes of clothes and a restock of the trunk with ammo, rock salt, lighter fluid and matches. It's a solitary drive all along the Interstate. It's an hour of the morning that only truck drivers and wayward travelers frequent.
He makes it into Lascala at the decent hour of nine in the morning and immediately he goes straight to the police station. He's in the Impala debating whether to go in as an FBI agent or to go all out, actually admitting being the older sibling to Sam Winchester. He doesn't know yet, he'll play it by ear.
He parks and steps out of the driver's side and right away it strikes him that this town is small. Wrapped up in its own self-contained bubble. He's never gotten the stares or the glares before that he's getting right now. He's an outsider and so, therefore, he has to be feared. He crosses the back bumper of the Impala to jump onto the sidewalk and stop suddenly when he spots a few local newspapers splashing with the headline of “Murderer To Be Sentenced” and “Killer At Large – CAUGHT!”.
Even through the foggy, scratched glass windows, Dean can tell the pictures with the articles are of Sam, though they have his face covered with a blanket. It's his tall height and hulking frame that give him away. And it's the accompanying shots of outraged citizens and frightened parents that turn Dean's stomach in knots. They look like the angry mob on the front lawn standing with pitchforks and burning torches sent over to seek vengeance—like Frankenstein's monster come to life where he hadn't known his own strength and could have killed an innocent soul with his bare hands.
Dean doesn't need to know details to know his own brother. Even if he was the meanest most sadistic son-of-a-bitch on the planet there was no way Sam would harm a child. No possible way. No.
He reaches the Sheriff's office and becomes stunned not only by the level of activity inside, but that it's a modern-style law enforcement workspace. It's like any typical police precinct.
There's a crowd of protesters standing in front of the deputy's front desk—a raised counter higher than normal human heights. They're yelling at him, talking about justice and fairness... how it's not right that the killer gets shelter, a bed and three square meals a day while a young child is dead, and who knows how many other of this town's missing children may have died by his hands.
“whoa-whoa-whoa! One at a time, I told ya'. I realize you all feel this passionate, but we have to follow the law. Innocent until proven guilty.” He pauses to wait for the loud grumbling to die down or stop completely. “Rest assured... He will get his day in court an' justice will be served. Now, please... take this out of my building or I'll slap you all with a trespassin' violation.”
“We have rights!”
“Who will speak for the children?!!”
“We can 'assemble' anywhere we please!”
The desk deputy sighs, shaking his head. “Free Assemble outside. Ya'll can yell all ya want. If the Sheriff catches ya'll in here... well, my meager violation is gonna seem like the better end of the deal.”
Dean is impressed at how the deputy clears the room. He waits for the small mob to pass him before he steps to the counter, wide smile on his face. “Damn... I thought they'd never leave.”
“Can I help you?”
“uh, yeah... you can. You've...” This was Dean's moment of truth. “... got my brother here.”
“We got a lot of peoples' brothers here. Ya wanna be a little more specific?”
“Sam... Sam Winchester is my brother. I'm Dean Winchester.”
The whole room comes to a stand still. Every eye turns to Dean.
The desk deputy looks up from under his lazily lowered lids to stare intently. “Got I.D. on you... Dean?”
Dean can't believe it. Sounds like the deputy doesn't believe him. He takes out his wallet and shows his driver's license, luckily there's even a picture of Dean and Sam—granted from years ago, but it's clearly Sam Winchester. “I'd like to see my brother now... please...”
“Right this way.”
It's a weird feeling, being watched in such a blatant fashion. It's like they expected Dean to rage or go batshit insane on them.
“Usually we'd have him in our holding cells...” The deputy takes Dean through a long hall to the back portion of the building where they hold prisoners. “—waiting trial in court but...” He shows Dean a cell that looks like someone took sticks of dynamite to. Metal was charred and melted, the door blown off its hinges. The cell was covered in plastic sheets for repairs and because there were too many pointed edges exposed. “We put him back here, in our isolation lock-up, but that proved useless...” They walk through another doorway along the way. The deputy motions to the melted doorway with the same trail of ash and scorch marks.
Dean thinks this is a rather curious set of evidence that something was trying to break Sam out. “How long has this been going on?”
“Let's see...” The deputy crosses his arms over his chest. “... we arrested him 'bout three days ago. He had circled back to the site of the murder. Kept tellin' us she wasn't alive when he found her...” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It's an open and shut case.”
Dean furrows his brows. “—and you don't like that?”
“Nope. Not one bit. See 'cuz... it's all too easy. We've been—Lascala's been a quiet town... not much goes on here. A few years back we had a string of missin' children. Two children were returned, one found dead. So far, the same pattern has been happening again... bunch of missin' kids... one dead... the rest set free. It got to be too much of a pattern. Had the FBI out here, doing some profiling. Trail ended cold.”
“Until now...” Dean supplies with the nod of his head.
“Exactly. And here it's all been done by an outsider?” The deputy shook his head in quiet disagreement. “Profilers said it could be a traveler, one who pops in and out of town.” He looked directly into Dean's face. “It think it's someone from here... probably one of our own outraged citizens.”
“One of the parents?”
“Maybe. I'm alone in my theory, so I keep to myself. ”
“May I ask why he's all the way back here?”
The deputy takes Dean further down the way, through another set of double doors that lead to a room made of pure brick and cement. “Double-paned bullet-proof glass with a protective coating of hard plastic. He asked to be put somewhere safer, but... I'm afraid this is the best we can do in the meantime. Our local psychiatrists have tried to sedate him, get him to sleep for a few hours, but he's been awake this whole time. Who knows how long before that.”
“jesus...”
“Just to let you know... the way your brother looks may not be how you last saw him. Don't be too alarmed by his appearance. He asked us to do all of this to him. In fact, he begged us to...”
Dean has no idea what that means until he steps in front of the glass wall and looks at the man behind the barrier. Utterly struck speechless and in shock, he says the only thing he knows will get Sam's attention, “SAMMY!” Dean bangs his palms flat to the glass.
On the floor, curled away from the glass wall is the crumpled form of Sam Winchester. His clothes were gone, he wears the prison jumpsuit. Over his head is a black canvas hood to disguise or keep him darkness, on his hands are matching mitts; the cuffs on his wrists hold the heavy material in place. The wrist cuffs were linked by a single chain to cuffs on his ankles. His feet are encased in slip-on sneakers.
“Sammy! Hey! Sam... i's Dean...”
Finally the body lifts up the head, rolling over to look toward the sound, “... dean?”
“... yeah... i's me...” Dean swallows hard to hold back emotions.
Sam rolls back and starts to mutter a chant. “... dean... no-no-no... dean's dead... dean's dead...”
“Nah, man... I'm alive... I'm here...” Dean's voice cracks a bit as he yells through the glass pane. “Let me in there with him.”
The deputy hesitates. “You sure?”
Dean nods his head on a solid bounce. “Yes. Very sure.”
“I'm not really supposed to, but... well, we've just taken him off a suicide watch, so it's a delicate time. He won't let any of us near him. I think he's resolved that his fate is sealed. Being locked up for this long might soon make him react like a caged animal.”
“Hence the sack over his head... and those mitten-things on his hands...”
“He's not... he hasn't treated himself very well. He asked for the blindfold to stop the headaches, then he wanted his hands covered to stop the scratching he was doing.”
“jesus christ...”
The deputy wandered over to pull out a key to the dead bolt on the door. He knocked on the metal. “Made of iron. Seems to have held up since his last transfer.”
Dean thinks no one has any idea how much that has helped. “Thanks.”
“I'll be back in a half-hour. Will that be long enough?”
Dean crosses the threshold as he looks back at the deputy. “Give me a full hour.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
~~
Dean takes off his coat, sets it down on a lone chair. The room is sparse of furniture. If it wasn't sturdy or heavy, or could be bolted to the cement/brick walls, then it wasn't in the room. Dean tugs on the loose chain to find its origin, then follows the links back to the single line connecting wrist and ankle cuffs. Not handcuffs, but the old school leather bands used in long-ago mental institutions and some ERs to control combative patients.
Dean feels safe enough with Sam to undo them, picking the locks with the kit he brought. He can feel Sam shivering, either from cold or fear, like a wounded animal cowering in the corner. Dean choses not to speak, only silently works on undoing the cuffs. Once they are off and thrown away, he sets his hands under Sam's mitted palms. It's up to Sam to touch him, realizing that he's free and someone he knows and loves is here for him. In Dean's eyes, Sammy is pureness and light... goodness and kindheartedness. There is no doubt in his mind the real killer is letting his brother take the rap for him. But Dean needs to deal with Sam first—it will be his number one priority.
Slowly, Sam rises, uncurling from the fetal position as his mitted hands paw up the strong, sinewy muscles of male arms, broad shoulders. His fingers start to break apart inside the mitts, running up Dean's shoulders to his neck.
Dean swallows, closing his eyes. He tries to assuage the need to peel off the black hood's material over Sam's head. But somehow... he knows it doesn't matter—he doesn't need to, he already knows what Sam looks like.
At first, Sam tugs off one mitt—the right one—and with the gentlest of touches he cups Dean's cheek. Inside the hood, Sam smiles—recalling a memory of a ghostly image of a maturing Dean as he grew into a man before Sam's eyes. That stubble had rubbed him raw several times—Dean forgetting to shave and always teasing Sam by scratching the roughness over a sensitive cheek. Sam lets out a painful snort, trying to laugh, but he tilts his head toward Dean; like magic, their heads bang together.
Sam's hands slip to the nape of the neck, pulling Dean close to say one thing, “Kill me.”
“Wha—? Sam, no—! I...”
“... your knife, in your boot...” Sam rattles off the ways he knows Dean can off him quickly, “... a gun—your Glock— at the back of your jeans, at your waist... one bullet... middle of my forehead...”
“—no...”
“... snap my neck... Dad trained us well... I know you can do it...” Sam licks his dry lips wet.
“I won't do it.” I can't do it, Dean thinks to himself.
“They want me dead. I know I didn't kill that girl... or any of those other children. I didn't—she was dead when I found her...”
“Then let's fight them.” Dean lightly shakes Sam. “We'll find the real killer together.”
“Too late.” Sam gulps in air loudly. “I'll be dead before I get to court.”
Dean wants to ask about the two cells prior to this one that looked as if Sam had busted out of them with explosives. But he knows Sam means that ordinary townsfolk will try to end his life.
“I'd rather you kill me, Dean... wouldn't you rather see me die by your hands than someone else's?...”
Dean hates even the mere mention of what he had thought years ago when they knew about Sam being a demon and Dad had begged for him to kill Sam when he knew he'd “go dark”. “Do you trust me?”
“... yeah... you're all I have...”
“Give me one more day... we'll break you out of this hellhole—TODAY... and I'll hide you myself. We'll figure this out together.”
“... one more day of living...” Sam says the words like wishful thinking. He knows his destiny too well.
“... then I'll think 'bout killin' you...” It's not true. Dean simply needs to get Sam out of here, then get him alone where he can work on convincing him it's best to stay alive.
Sam smirks behind the hood's material, chortling out a laugh. “... jerk...”
“... bitch...” Dean hesitates to remove the hood, drawing up the hem slowly. He doesn't know why he had some idea he will find something hideous underneath. But as he draws up the hood, he notices the dark brown scruff along the pale throat, around the Adam's apple. As the material is removed, the more striking Dean finds the extremely longer shaggy brown hair. There's dark circles under Sam's eyes—that's about the only thing that's different. He's used to the world weariness that layers the familiar features.
“Hey...”
“Hi...”
Dean releases a quirky smile, leaning over to intentionally press a light peck to Sam's lips—a simply greeting. But that's not what Sam wants.
Sam lifts his head higher, tilting at just the right angle to kiss his brother quite soundly and passionately. He won't let go of Dean's mouth, even draws up the bare right hand and mitted left to hold Dean's head in place. He draws back to lean his face on Dean's head.
“whoa...” Dean isn't prepared for that kind of “welcome home”.
“mmm...” Sam swallows, deep breathes and keeps his head bowed. “I'm not sorry.”
“oh-kay...”
“I need you, Dean.”
Dean licks his already moistened lips. “Sammy, I...”
“I need you to remind me that I'm good, that I'm still 'Sam'... that I'm—loved... wanted... I need you to remind me that I'm alive—not dead inside...”
“Jesus, you're killin' me here...”
“Give me this... I'll guarantee you I'll die another day...”
“I fuck you—I have 48hrs to solve your case?”
“yes...”
“And if I solve your case? What then?”
“Guess we'll just have to see.” Sam takes off the other mitt, throwing it away once he has it off. “C'mere...” He's about to pull Dean down on top of him on the cement flooring.
“No! The bed.” Dean stands from his squatting position. “... or whatever that thing is over there.”
“—'kay. Fine.” Sam solemnly rolls away, goes to stand upright, but wobbles a little... Dean catches him to walk with him to the bunk bed slab jutting out of the wall. Sam reaches out to use the top bunk to balance. “hehehe... sorry... been on the floor a while.” He starts to unbutton his jumpsuit, showing that underneath is his usual V-necked t-shirt and tight boxer briefs. Sam slips out of shoes and socks once he sits down on the slab, dunking his head.
Dean looks at his watch and sees that he has more time than he thinks of that full hour he asked the deputy for. As he eyes Sam undressing on the side of the “bed”, he catches him slipping under the thin white flat sheet. It unnerves Dean how much this doesn't bother Sam; he thinks at some point it will simply be an elaborate joke or a prank. It didn't take long for him to realize Sam is more than serious. Especially when he sits on the side of the slab to undress and Sam pulls up to lay on his back, curved around him and leaning against his back.
The hands came out to sculpt and shape—these big, engulfing hands that hold strength and power, but caress with such gentleness and care. Sam embraces him from behind, face buries in his neck, sliding into hair, hands laying flat with five-fingers spread to slide down his last layer of shirt, playing beneath the material to touch bare flesh. The fingers trickle up to land on nipples—tiny buds that suddenly become hard and pert.
Dean arcs off Sam, never realizing how sensitive his nipples are or that when they are played with and his neck is being kissed or suckled that his dick twitches and stiffens. Oh, God... what is wrong with him? This isn't supposed to be arousing or erotic. This is Sam... his little brother... yet, christ, from behind, not so little in more ways than one.
Sam moves to stand on spread knees behind Dean, willing to help him undress—take off the t-shirt. Dean slides out of his jeans and underwear as he has done boots and socks the minute he sat down. He rests against Sam's body, feeling that massive and muscular chest at his back as the hands continue to roam. This time they are able to explore lower, slipping over coarse pubic hair, past the growing erection and onto flattened thighs—both inner and outer. Sam begins to massage, trailing up the inner thighs to reach the oval shapes laying mashed to the bed, then traces up the underside of the hardening cock along Dean's body, leaning to the left. He strokes and kisses flesh, massaging with the other hand. He is sending Dean into a mild state of frenzy.
Then he's gone for a brief time, reaching for something on the shelf between sink and mirror. He kisses Dean's neck, running a hand down his arm to drag Dean to lay down on the mattress with him.
Dean climbs onto his knees and shuffles Sam's left leg higher so he can fit between the spread of thighs. He can't help it, he peeks, finding that Sam is as hard as he is. It's a relief to feel solidarity in this perversion, but it also feels sexy as much as it feels forbidden—which is pretty much a Winchester trademark. The forbidden... the unknown.
Sam has brought over lotion. He's slicked up his hole, rubbing excess over his own cock to make it glisten and sheen, however light hits the shape. Dean takes the offer of a squirt of lotion to stroke himself, then he scoots closer to lay his length alongside Sam's, testing the feel of their bodies against one another. He starts to thrust, Sam reacts by counter-thrusting and then they start pounding pelvis to pelvis with their cocks slip-sliding between them.
“... oh, god-ohgod-ohgod-ohgod...” Dean can't fathom why he starting to want this... moment to be rather intimate and special. He's afraid he'll take Sam, then rut like a total animal inside of him.
“... unghhh, yes... want this-want you... please...” Sam closes his eyes, lolling his head around on the thin goose-down feather pillow.
Dean pitches forward, forearms beside Sam's head on the thin pillow. His fingertips move onto the pillow case and he fingers tangle in the long brown strands. He meshes their foreheads and rubs nose tips, until finally he begins to kiss Sam... this time of his own wanting.
Sam is a responsive and giving lover—the kind Dean loves to have under him. He pulls his lower body back, reaches down to grab the stalk of his shaft and slowly inches his way inside Sam's tight anal walls. His left hand stays clamped in Sam's hair, their mouths only a breath away and now he has a hand along Sam's side as he slides in deeper, moving easily past barriers of the rectum that would've pushed him out. Dean quietly mewls at the tight squeeze around his length, burying his face in the side of Sam's neck. Their stubbles are burning the other's skin. Sam's there to soothe and calm Dean, urging him to keep moving, then to go faster... harder... last longer, keep a steady pace...
Dean reaches above Sam's head to grip the edge of the metal slab, his hips canting and rolling at a near manic speed. He turns his face away as he feels the rise of an orgasm, not seeming to care if Sam was with him or not. He cries out a near growl at his release, unable to stop thrusting even as his body stops shaking from the cataclysmic euphoria of pleasure. He stays like that on top of Sam, inside of Sam... feeling the warm shelter of arms he's been missing for far too long.
It's then he knows he'll never let Sam go again. Not only that, but however long it takes Dean to convince Sam to want to live another day with him, he'll do whatever it takes.
Dean will get up shortly and dress in his clothes. He has a jailbreak to plan with Sam. For now, he likes where he is, feeling Sam's fingers over his back, dancing along the concave of his spine and tickling his scalp as fingertips sift through his hair.
This is exactly where Dean has always belonged
~*~the end