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The Orange Hour

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Sam’s palms are pressed against the slightly ajar door so hard that it feels like the bones in them are going to snap, skin milky white and fingers trembling as he tries to withstand the pressure from the outside. Only moments ago everything had seemed so peaceful, and the prison had appeared orderly and quiet. Too quiet. Now he knows why.


“Get ‘im!”


All of the noise and voices outside the door of the supply room seem to grow louder and louder and the banging of fists against wood and metal is almost ear-deafening. Piercing sounds of metallic screeches and running feet and frantic yelling seem to drown out everything else, even the hard thumps of his heart roaring in his ears. How had they gotten the upper hand like this - and so fast? Sam hadn’t even seen it coming. Maybe if he had ever worked as a correctional officer for real, he would have known that something was amiss by the way silence had seemed to suddenly shroud every inch of the facility just prior to the riot. Quickly he shoots a glance at the old, rusty clock on the wall. It’s only been thirty minutes since his shift began, and the evening roll-call had gone smoothly and without incident. At least that’s what he thought.


“Here, piggy, piggy!”


The growl from behind the door is low and guttural, but it reaches Sam’s ears just fine. And even though he puts all of his weight into it, he can’t keep the door from opening, one of its hinges busted and giving off a pathetic squeak as it is forced to move. And Sam moves with it, his feet simply scooting backwards across the linoleum floor as the push intensifies.


“There he is!” one of the inmates shouts as the door finally gives in completely, the metal of the last hinge twisting and snapping and bending out of shape. As the door crashes to the ground, Sam backs up and retreats into the room, one hand on the baton in his belt. Where the hell is the cavalry? The last thing he knows is that all hell broke loose and he had no choice but to throw himself into this supply room when a wall of inmates came rushing towards him, one of them even waving a shank at him. Nervously his gaze darts from one inmate to another, their faces bathed in stripy, orange light from the sunset pouring in through the barred window.


“Well, well… If it isn’t our favorite, little CO!” one of them barks. Apparently he is the leader of this gang of prisoners, and he takes a threatening step towards Sam, eyes wide and with hands balled into fists.


“Stay back!” Sam yells, taking a defensive stance. But no matter where he fixes his glance all he sees is a sea of orange prison clothes and angry faces, eyes full of hatred and teeth bared in snarls. Like a pack of rabid dogs. Where the hell is Dean? His heart does a painful double beat in his chest when he thinks of his brother – because he is somewhere out there in the chaos.


“Nah, not gonna do that!” the leader says, taking another step towards Sam while lowering his head a little, eyes narrowing. Like a hunter would look at a prey.


“Just think about this! You’re not gonna get out of here! Killing me won’t change that fact, it’ll only add years to your sentence!” Sam says, trying to reason with the maniac while slowly retreating further into the room. As he is backing away, the inmates simply follow him, effectively cornering him against some steel lockers when he runs out of space.


“You really think I care?” the leader spits, eyeing Sam up and down:


“Hell, I’ve got 126 years to go - I’m not exactly planning on gettin’ out any time soon. Besides…” he says, a smirk pulling on the corners of his mouth: 


“It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to have a little fun…”


Sam barely has the time to swing his baton before hands grab him, fingers gripping his uniform and neck and shoulders and everywhere – and ripping the baton right out of his hand - as he is forcefully spun around and slammed face first into the lockers. The metallic ‘bang’ is loud in the small room, and for a moment everything seems to sail in front of Sam’s eyes when his forehead collides with the hard surface of the locker doors.


Disarmed and outnumbered and with a coppery taste of blood spreading in his mouth he thrashes, trying to twist out of the grip – even though he knows that it won’t change a thing. There’s nothing he can do. Not when there’s this many of them and his only exit is effectively blocked, sturdy frames of inmates parked at every available spot on the linoleum floor. At this point all he can do is try not to get himself killed… And that would be a feat in itself. Swallowing dryly he turns his head the little he is capable of towards the leader who is now leaning against him and breathing in his ear.


“J-Just think! Alright? You won’t gain anything…!” Sam says, trying his best not to let his voice shake. But the grip on the back of his neck only tightens as the inmate pushes him harder against the lockers.  So, this is how he is going to die? A shudder runs through him.


“You wanna bet?” the inmate whispers in his ear, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut. Where did he last see that damn shank? Someone to his right had had it in his hand moments earlier, but now he has lost track of it. Oh well, he will probably feel it in a minute.


“Hey!!”


The loud outburst bounces off the walls in the room, reverberating – and instantly the flock of inmates whip their heads in the direction of the sound. Sam of course can’t see anything other than the scratched, silvery surface of the lockers, but he recognizes the voice in an instant.


“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”


The grip on Sam’s neck tightens a little more, fingertips digging into his skin in what can only be interpreted as either anger or fear. Maybe both. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. Sam can’t tell.


“Just givin’ the pig what he deserves,” the leader says, and Sam winces when he feels the man lean into him a bit more. His breath is hitting the shell of Sam’s ear in moist puffs of warm air, but that’s not the only thing that makes him cringe – because he is pretty sure that he can feel an unmistakable hardness poking at his buttock through the layers of clothes. He doesn’t want to think about it, and he convinces himself to dismiss it.


“Oh, yeah?” the familiar voice taunts from somewhere near the doorway. The remark is followed by low squeaks of the rubber soles of a pair of skippies as Dean slowly approaches.


“Yeah,” the leader deadpans, and Sam holds his breath. How did Dean even find him in the middle of all of this chaos? He wants to sigh in relief and scream in horror at the same time. Somehow he wishes that his brother hadn’t found him – because how on earth are they going to get themselves out of this? An inmate protecting a correctional officer will not be tolerated, and they both know it. 


“What’s in it for you, Swanson?” Dean’s voice asks as he stalks a little closer. The fingers digging into Sam’s neck now press hard enough to tear muscle fibers and leave blossoming, purple bruises, and the young Winchester suppresses a gasp. In the same moment he hears the slight ruffling of clothes, and the leader’s free hand suddenly settles on his buttock, kneading it.


“What do ya think? Been eyein’ this fine piece of ass for some time now,” the inmate says, and instantly Sam’s mind spikes with dread. This can't be happening. Can it? But before he has the time to think about it any further, he is roughly pulled away from the lockers by his collar and slammed down on a steel table in the middle of the room. As his front collides with the cool surface of the table top, he wants to thrash and kick and scream – but the grip on the back of his neck forces him to stay bent over, and the shank glinting in the dim light somewhere in the crowd persuades him to keep still. 


Silence seems to settle inside the room for a few seconds, and the air feels close to electric. The tension in here is palpable, and nervously Sam flicks his gaze up to look at Dean as he approaches. In the orange outfit he looks so different, and when Sam finally fixes his gaze on his face his breath wants to hitch in his throat. His brother looks absolutely furious, but he seems eerily calm. The otherwise familiar green eyes are stormy and his jaw is set, muscles clenched – but other than that he is almost completely stone-faced. Like he is unaffected by this. 


Swallowing Sam discovers that his hands are fumbling across the steel surface of the table to find something to hold on to, something he can grab, anything. But apparently that doesn’t suit the inmate behind him, and one of Sam's arms is suddenly wringed up behind his back hard enough to almost dislocate his shoulder. The slight crackling sound of tendons being stretched too far is sickening, and his stomach churns when pain radiates all the way out to his fingertips. He can’t suppress a gasp this time and automatically he screws his eyes shut.

“Yeah, you’ve been parading around long enough, haven’t ya, little piggy? Flaunting that perky ass of yours…” the inmate says, and suddenly the hand gripping the back of Sam’s neck lets go – only to grab a hold of the waistband of his pants. Instantly Sam wants to lift his head, but the mean grip on his arm doesn’t allow him to – and right now it will definitely be in his best interest to just stay still anyway. If he doesn’t, things will escalate all too quickly. His glance darts from one prisoner to the other, and it ends up fixing on the shank in one of their hands. It’s one of the good ones. Somewhat long and it looks sturdy enough. Definitely lethal if used correctly.
 

The sound of clothes ruffling catches Sam’s attention again, and suddenly the hand is yanking at the waistband of his pants. Hard. The inmate behind him lets out a frustrated huff when the fabric doesn’t tear – and he tries again, this time even harder. Sam winces when his body jerks by each vicious pull, sending waves of pain through his arm and shoulder, and panic starts to slowly make its presence known somewhere deep in his mind.
 

“Wait, wait! Don’t do th—“ he begins, but the grip on his arm tightens, twisting the joint in his shoulder to its limit, and the rest of the sentence ends up as a pained grunt. In the same moment the polyester fabric of his uniform finally gives in to the rough yanks, and one of the seams splits wide open with a loud ‘riitch’. It only takes a moment for the inmate to rip it open further, revealing Sam’s boxers – and those are quickly pulled down over his hips, exposing the smooth skin underneath. As the cool air hits his heated skin and makes goose bumps rise everywhere, Sam snaps for air, reality hitting him like a bucket of ice cold water. ‘No, this isn't happening’, his mind pipes up somewhere, and he desperately tries to convince himself that this has to be some sort of bad dream. A freakish nightmare. But within a split second he feels something hard and warm press against the cleft of his naked ass.
 

“No!” he hears himself croak, and automatically he tries to crane his neck, tries to twist his body away. But he can’t. He’s stuck. And apparently the onlookers are getting excited, because the room is slowly starting to fill with vulgar catcalls and whistling, filthy words flying through the air. 
 

The inmate is now beginning to slap his hard length against Sam’s ass cheek, gaining an even louder cheer from the crowd. Panicked Sam’s glance darts around to locate his brother – and he realizes that he has come a lot closer, standing only a foot or two away from the table, arms crossed over his chest. He looks a little paler than usual, but he’s still wearing that stone-faced expression, and his jaw muscles are still firmly clenched as he glares daggers at the inmate behind Sam. And apparently the man notices.   

“What? You got a problem?" the inmate says as he strokes his dick, still slapping it demonstratively against Sam’s skin.
 

"No," Dean snaps, jaw muscles clenching harder.
 

"Or...You know what?" he then says, taking the last large stride towards the inmate and closing the gap between himself and the table.
 

"Actually, I do... See, this guy… This... Everything in this place is mine now. I think we established that," Dean says, his voice monotone and flat and his chin raised a little in a silent challenge. The men in the crowd instantly start to whisper lowly amongst themselves, their cheering fading a little. 
 

The inmate behind Sam hesitates as he looks up, seemingly weighing Dean’s words carefully. Like he is contemplating his next move. Sam frowns a little, helplessly trying to get his spinning mind to slow down enough for him to figure out what the hell is going on. Dean isn’t even looking at him, he realizes. Instead he’s now leaning over the table a little, his fingers splayed out on the steel only inches away from Sam’s face.
   

"So, you… Can put that small, pointless piece of shit away, because this guy...? Well, he comes with his own set of toys," Dean says. Sam’s frown grows a little bigger by his words, and his breath hitches when he feels the inmate’s grip on him loosen. He even stops slapping his dick against him. What the hell has Dean done in here to be able to have this much authority over his fellow inmates? And what does he mean by ‘toys’? What is going on? Sam’s mind is spinning to the extent where he is having trouble holding on to a thought long enough to properly register it – every single one just seems to slip away from him only to be replaced by a another which is just as fleeting and just as panicked. His mind is one big whirl of fear, and it leaves him to suck in short breaths of air far too fast, which only makes his head swim even more. 

“Just back off. Or do I need to give you another chin check?” Dean says, narrowing his eyes at the man behind Sam.
 

“Alright, alright…” the inmate then says lowly, and to Sam’s disbelief he feels the hands lift off him. Even his arm is released. As soon as his shoulder is able to relax a little and the tendons go lax, pain shoots through him again like electric currents zinging from nerve end to nerve end. With a grunt he lifts his head to look at Dean, but other than that he doesn’t move. It wouldn’t be a good idea. For now he figures that the wisest move would be to act just somewhat passive.  
 

“So, what are you gonna do?” the inmate asks, looking Dean up and down. The challenging tone in his voice is barely noticeable, but it’s there. And the crowd instantly follows, their whistling and dirty words resuming and starting to slowly grow in volume. 


Dean is still standing there, looking calm and unaffected – but Sam very well knows that he isn’t. He has paled even more, and by the way he his clenching his jaw he might just crack a tooth. Sam even thinks that he can actually hear the slight squeaking of teeth grinding. And Dean’s glare is a mix of smoldering fury and white hot aggression as he stares down the inmate behind his little brother. Only, Sam sees something else as well. Fear. His brother is scared. Genuinely scared. It’s a rare sight, and Sam’s gut automatically churns. Both because of the thought alone but also because of the fact that if just one of the scumbags in here catches the scent of his fear, it’ll cost both of them dearly. In fact it could easily be fatal. Because there is simply no way they will be able to fight their way out of here, not with this many hostile inmates seeing red. Sam swallows.


“I’m gonna sit down and have a deep conversation with him over a cup of tea - what the fuck do you think I’m gonna do?!” Dean snaps, and Sam can’t help but feel both intimidated and amazed by his brother’s acting skills. His voice doesn’t even tremble. If it wasn’t for those tiny changes that only Sam can see, he would believe him. But what is he gonna do? He can’t keep stalling, and the crowd is clearly growing impatient. He has to do something or his credibility will be lost right along with the respect these inmates seem to have for him. Cue bloodshed and imminent death for both of them. Why is the hell it taking so long for the remaining prison staff to intervene? This riot must be much bigger than he had first thought.

“You gonna fuck ‘im?” the inmate asks, a smug grin hidden somewhere in his voice. Instantly a dense knot of dread forms in Sam’s gut, and a full-body shudder runs through him. Dean just lets out a huff.  


“As I said he comes with his own set of toys. Where’s the baton?” he says, glaring at the inmates circling them with his eyebrows raised in what looks like annoyed impatience. Sam’s eyes instantly widen.


“Give it here!” Dean demands and snatches the baton from one of the prisoners when he is a little too slow at handing it over. And then Dean flicks his gaze down to look at Sam. Another shudder rolls down Sam’s spine when he sees his brother start to slap the baton against his open palm repeatedly. It’s a threat. No, it’s more than a threat – it’s a promise. And the crowd’s cheering grows a bit louder.


“I’d like to give a little demonstration…” Dean says flatly and starts to move around the table. Instantly Sam’s heart feels like it leaps into his throat, and he tries to follow his brother with his glance, awkwardly craning his neck. Is Dean going to beat the crap out of him? ‘No, he can’t’, Sam’s mind hurries to inform him. Because he can’t beat him like this, not convincingly. Not with that kind of weapon unless he wants him to end up in a wheelchair or dead.       


“I’m gonna show the officer just how things work around here,” Dean says, and suddenly Sam feels something cold and hard on his backside, trailing down the small of his back and onto his ass. It can only be the baton. Sam sucks in a sharp breath when the smooth plastic suddenly dips in between his ass cheeks, lightly nudging, and his mind reels. He isn’t going to do that, is he? Before he even has the time to think twice he twists away and begins to straighten up, automatically attempting to avoid being touched.


“Hey!” Dean growls, and suddenly a hand is on the back of Sam’s neck again, slamming him right back down on the table top with enough force to almost knock the wind out of him. A wheezing sound escapes Sam, and he tries to will himself to just stay still. He knows that Dean doesn’t exactly have a choice here. There’s no reason for him to make this any more difficult than it has to be for his brother, but he can’t seem to get his mind or body to calm down enough for him to be able to control his reactions.


“Where d’you think you’re going, piggy?” Dean says, and Sam thinks he can almost taste the contempt dripping from the words. Feeling himself tense he swallows a lump suddenly formed in his throat. The crowd is cheering loudly now, and once again the cold plastic baton slips into the cleft of his ass, rubbing back and forth. An ice cold shiver runs through Sam from the top of his head to the soles of his feet and back again, leaving him to snap for air – and before he knows it he is trying to twist away again.


“Stop! Don’t! What’re you—“


“Shut up!” Dean snarls, cutting Sam off and pressing him harder against the table.


“You…!” he spits, directing his attention to someone in the crowd:


“You gonna help your buddy and hold him down? Or you want me to fuck your ass too?!” he asks, eyes narrowed and a thin spray of saliva accompanying the words. Instantly the inmate’s eyes grow wide, but he doesn’t hesitate to comply. And suddenly three sets of hands grab Sam when the newcomer joins in along with the inmate from before, pinning his body to the table. Letting out a grunt, Sam can’t help but struggle, trying to flail his long limbs in a hopeless attempt to free himself.


“No! Let go of me!” he yells, thrashing in their grip as panic floods his mind. He can feel his brother’s hand tighten its grip a little more, but not enough to really hurt. Not yet, anyway.    


“And you?!” Dean shouts, looking at yet another prisoner in the crowd.


“You haven’t gagged him yet?! You want him squealin’ the whole time? Fuckin’ hell, you guys are fuckin’ sloppy!” he spits, nodding his head towards a row of coat hooks on the wall next to where the door used to be. The inmate doesn’t hesitate to follow his glance and then scrambles to grab an old rag hanging there, covered in dark stains from various unknown substances. 


Sam feels his pulse hammering in his temples so hard and fast that his vision blurs just a little with each thump. And the new inmate is approaching him, ready to stuff the dirty piece of cloth into his mouth. Wide-eyed Sam twitches when his body wants to jolt, wants to jerk away – but there is literally nowhere for him to go, because he can’t move as much as an inch. So he does the only thing he can think of right now – when the rag comes too close to his face he simply clamps his mouth shut. The thought of being gagged scares him, and he shakes his head the little he can in a silent protest.


The inmate with the rag looks a little surprised at this reaction. Then confused. And then annoyed. And suddenly his hand grabs a hold of Sam’s jaw, digging his fingers into it as he tries to force him to open his mouth. But even though it hurts like hell, Sam refuses. He can’t let himself get robbed of his ability to speak up, to communicate. Why did Dean even want him to be gagged? A faint feeling of betrayal washes through him, and he bites down hard when the prisoner keeps trying to wrench his mouth open with clumsy fingers. A frustrated huff then escapes the man, and finally he lets go.


“I... I can’t open his mouth,” he merely states, sounding a little lost. Dean shoots him a glare:


"Fuckin- Can you do anything right?! Besides shake your cock after you piss?!” he hisses, and suddenly he leans down over Sam, pressing against his ass. With a gasp stuck somewhere in his throat Sam freezes completely, eyes wide and droplets of sweat emerging near his hair line in a matter of seconds. ‘At least he’s not hard’, his mind informs him in a fresh rush of panic. But before he can think about it any further his older brother lets go of his neck only to grab a handful of his hair, yanking his head back forcefully.


“Open,” he commands flatly. Breathing shallowly through his nose Sam attempts to shake his head, ignoring the stinging it causes in his scalp. His nostrils automatically flare – both because it feels like he is slowly choking, but also because he refuses to give in. This probably isn’t the best time to be defiant, but he can’t help it.      


“I said, open!” Dean spits, yanking on his hair hard enough to rip a muffled groan from Sam’s throat. And then something glints once again somewhere in the sea of inmates in front of him, the light bouncing off the homemade blade of the shank from earlier. Sam’s stomach churns, and the knot of fear in there turns a little denser, a little bigger.


“Get that outta here… I don’t need it,” Dean says, leaning down a little further:


“But listen up, pig – if you don’t open that mouth I just might change my mind…” he whispers in Sam’s ear, his breath hitting the shell of it in rapid puffs. Shuddering Sam realizes that he never knew his brother could be this intimidating. Not like this, at least. There’s something feral in his voice now, and it makes every instinct scream at him to get the hell away from here. Far, far away. And suddenly the grip on his hair tightens as Dean rips his head back far enough to make Sam arch his back – only to slam him right back down onto the steel table plate with a loud, metallic clang. As his cheekbone hits the hard surface, he feels the skin split and something warm instantly starts to trickle down to form a small pool on the metal.


“Open your fucking mouth!” Dean growls and in a haze Sam thinks he hears genuine desperation hidden somewhere in the gravelly voice. Wincing he figures that it might be a good idea to comply after all, his mind racing to come to terms with the fact that his brother has just hurt him. Not that he hasn’t before, but this is different. So very different. Dizzy Sam finally decides to let his lips part and it only takes a split second for the dirty rag to be stuffed into his mouth, its ends being wrapped around his head and tied together in a way too tight knot.       


“That’s better,” Dean mutters, and it sounds almost like he is relieved. Sam’s heart sinks. The hands holding him down are relentless and some of them seem to be wandering, curiously touching and rubbing everything from his arms to his shoulders and back and—


“Nngh!” Sam bursts out when the baton slips back to rub against his ass, making him jump. His skin feels like it is crawling with a million bugs when the plastic nudges at his entrance a little, and nausea suddenly washes through him. As bile threatens to climb his throat he lets out a strangled sound when his brother lets his free hand grab his belt, pulling free his key clip, his pepper spray, his mini first aid kit and his set of handcuffs. Dean then straightens back up a little, and the victorious expression on his face would probably make Sam’s breath hitch if he had been able to see it.       


“Don’t worry, officer. This is for your own good,” Dean proclaims, and suddenly hands are grabbing Sam’s arms and forcing them onto his back. The metallic clinking of handcuffs is unmistakable, and his mind reels when he feels the metal dig into the skin on his wrists as the inmates attempt to restrain him, struggling to keep his torso pinned down on the table at the same time.


“Mmffgh!” Sam grunts through the makeshift gag, the sound almost completely muffled. Kicking he tries to twist and turn and buck hard enough to dislodge the men on top of him, but he only manages to catch one of them in the shin with his boot, making the inmate in question let out an angry cry.


“Fuckin’ hell! You little bitch!” he snarls, and suddenly pain explodes in Sam’s side when something that can only be a fist smacks into his ribs, knocking the air out of his lungs. Wheezing Sam feels his eyes water, and white stars sail around in his field of vision as pain rolls through him, stunning him long enough for the prisoners to click the handcuffs into place around his wrists. 


“There we go…” Dean says, a little out of breath, and finally the other two sets of hands stop their groping when Sam feels his brother aggressively swatting at them.   


“Get your fuckin’ hands off my property!” he hisses, and reluctantly the curious hands retract. As Sam tries to get his lungs to function just somewhat properly, get them to remember how to take in air and actually absorb it, he squeezes his eyes shut. The baton is moving again, and the crowd’s cheering turns a notch louder. And then Sam feels a blunt pressure against his entrance when the plastic slips in between his ass cheeks once more. ‘No’, his mind bursts out, screams it when his mouth can’t.


“Yeah, stick it in him!” someone in the crowd yells.


“C’mon, fuck ‘im already!” another follows, and the excitement growing among the prisoners is palpable. So is the impatience.


Trembling Sam draws in a wheezy breath when finally his lungs kick back into action. Apparently he hasn’t been breathing for some time, it seems. He coughs into the gag when air fills his lungs to the brim and sends a dull pain through his body as they expand, nudging at his bruised ribs. Dean’s free hand is on the back of his neck again, firmly keeping his torso pinned down on the table – but the grip isn’t painful, just insistent. And Sam knows why. The stalling is over, and his brother is silently instructing him to stay still.


“Unngghh!” is the only sound Sam is capable of producing when the baton begins to press harder, probing and pressing and nudging at the furled muscle. His mind is a swirl of chopped of pieces of thoughts and emotions, and he can’t make sense of any of them as they race through his mind with lightning speed. And then the baton presses harder. A sharp and alien sort of pain begins to spread, trickling up Sam’s spine and back down again as the pressure increases. The dry plastic feels like it is going to tear his skin, and he bites his bottom lip hard enough for a taste of blood to spread in his mouth as he snaps for air. Automatically he tries to lift himself off the table, tries to escape the pressure. 


“Nuh-uh, you stay the fuck still!” Dean orders and his fingers now tighten their grip on the back of Sam's neck, pushing him down – it almost feels like Dean is actually begging him to comply, to just let it happen. But how can he? He has never been touched there before and the baton is way too big and there isn’t even any lubrication and—


“In we go…!” Dean says under his breath, and Sam screams behind the gag when the tip of the baton finally breaches the tight ring of muscle, forcing its way inside. Pain explodes in a white hot burst of agony, travelling through his body like a stray bullet bouncing off every bone. It is overwhelming, and for a moment Sam is certain that he is going to pass out. He hopes that he will. But the alluring prospect of unconsciousness seems to elude him and stay just out of reach. The sound of the crowd cheering and hollering is ear-deafening, their eager voices bouncing off the walls and almost drowning out the muffled screams now spilling from him in a steady stream as the baton is pushed in deeper and deeper. ‘He can’t be gentle’, Sam’s mind whispers somewhere in his head, trying to remind him that this isn’t something his brother would ever do to him voluntarily. He would never hurt him, not like this. But he knows that Dean has no choice but to keep up the act and give the inmates what they want if the two of them want to stay alive.


“Just look at that!” Dean says, directing his attention to the crowd when the baton can’t go in any deeper.


“Look at the little piggy all stuffed!” he says, and Sam writhes when he twists the baton a little, turning it inside of him. The plastic literally feels like it is splitting him in two and shredding his insides as it slowly moves, dragging and scraping against his walls. And there is no doubt in his mind that something has been torn, because a warm liquid is slowly trickling down his inner thigh. The vulgar cheering turns into a roar as the crowd watches on, predatory eyes glued to Sam as he is slowly getting rocked back and forth when Dean begins to fuck him with the baton. The humiliation is complete.


“Looks a real treat! Would look even better with my dick in his mouth though,” the inmate from earlier pipes up, taking a step forwards. Through a layer of tears Sam can see how the man’s hand is stuffed into his underwear, slowly jacking himself as he watches through hooded eyes.


“Better keep it in your pants unless you wanna lose it!” Dean says, and the inmate hesitates. Coming to a halt in the middle of the floor it looks like he is thinking hard –as if he is trying to determine if Sam will bite him or if Dean is threatening him. Sam can’t tell which one it is either. But he knows that he will bite his dick clean off if it gets anywhere near his mouth.


“Then at least lemme hear ‘im scream,” the inmate says, and suddenly he hooks his fingers around the gag in Sam’s mouth, pulling it free. As it falls out from between his lips, heavy with saliva, Sam suddenly becomes aware of just how much noise he is making. Groans are leaving his mouth uninhibitedly and every time Dean thrusts in the baton, it feels like he is literally punched in the gut, ripping a wheezy sound from his throat.


“Go ahead and squeal, pig! No one’s gonna save ya!” the inmate says – almost moans – as he strokes himself only inches from Sam’s face. Squeezing his eyes shut to block out the sight Sam tries his best to fall silent, to not give him the satisfaction – but he fails miserably. Apparently he no longer has just the tiniest bit of control over his mind and body. Not at this point. Instead he just lets out a string of choked grunts through gritted teeth when Dean fucks him a little faster. The baton seems to move a little easier now, he realizes. ‘Probably the blood’, he thinks to himself dizzily and suppresses a sob.


“Fuck, yeah!” the inmate groans, stroking his dick harder as he flicks his glance up to look at Dean. A malicious smirk is tugging on his lips, and there’s a strange gleam in his eyes.


“Are you just gonna play with him or can’t you get it up?” he then asks. Instantly the crowd begins to laugh, and their hollering grows louder yet. Sam winces when Dean’s fingers seem to tighten their grip just a little on the back of his neck.                  


“What’s it to you?!” his older brother hisses, and his fingertips dig into Sam’s neck just a tiny bit harder. Are they trembling, or is it just his imagination?


“All bark and no bite, huh?” the inmate says lowly, and there’s something ominous in the way he says it. Even though it is almost a whisper the crowd instantly picks up on it like bloodhounds catching their first whiff of someone bleeding. And instantly their eyes narrow as they grow more restless, squeaks of rubber soles against linoleum as they shift their weight from one foot to another in impatience and pent-up aggression.


“C’mon, playtime is over… You want him or not?” the inmate says, and his gaze rakes over Sam’s body before he flicks it back up to look at Dean. It is clear that he is challenging his authority while trying to establish his own dominance in the process - and the crowd is eagerly lapping it up, their shouting growing louder and turning into growls. The tension can be cut with a knife, and Sam’s stomach flips as it tries to rid itself of its contents out of pure horror.


“Fuck off! He’s my property, and if you try anything I’m gonna cut your dick off and fuck you with it!” Dean snarls. But even though he keeps his voice somewhat even, Sam can’t help but notice the hint of insecurity slipping into it. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He just hopes that he is the only one who hears it. He has no doubt that Dean won’t hesitate to kill that guy with his bare hands if he has to – but he also knows that he will get them both killed if he tries, because the crowd’s loyalty towards him seems to be fading. If he doesn’t give them something very soon they will change sides in an instant.      


“Are you? Look, either you want him or you don’t…” the inmate says coolly and takes a step closer:


“All I’m saying is you might as well let us have him if you’re just gonna keep poking him with that thing,” he says, eyeing Dean up and down while lazily tugging on his dick. Pre-cum is already drooling from its tip, and petrified Sam suppresses a whimper trying to escape his mouth. They will tear him apart if Dean backs down. There’s absolutely no doubt about it. But the alternative? The alternative is equally horrific, and he can’t even get his mind think about it or to at least weigh his options and pick one. ‘What options?’ his mind mockingly spits at him, reminding him that he really has zero say in this. It’s all up to Dean. Or maybe it’s up to the inmates.         


“Does this look like a fucking gift shop to you?!” Dean snarls, and now Sam is pretty sure that he can feel those fingers on his neck tremble. The inmate just lets out a grin, exposing his teeth in a crooked smile. A victorious one. He then tilts his head a little and shoots Dean a dark glare:


“Well, are you gonna fuck ‘im?” he just says, an eyebrow raised in obvious provocation. All color drains from Sam's face by those words - even the deep pink tint in his flushed cheeks is replaced by an ashy white. And the crowd seems to still, the air nearly buzzing with tension as everyone looks at Dean, waiting. 


Seconds tick by painfully slow but all too fast at the same time, and Sam’s heart skips a beat when he feels his brother’s fingers dig into his neck hard enough to leave red marks in the shape of crescent moons.


“F’course I am,” Dean then says, his voice flat and matter-of-factly. Instantly Sam’s gut churns and flips once more, and he is certain that he is going to throw up – but all he manages to produce is a choked, guttural sound when the contents of his stomach only tickle the back of his throat and then end up staying down. Just barely though, because the bitter taste of bile is quick to spread in his mouth. His mind is spinning so fast that the world seems to be doing barrel rolls in front of his eyes. Dean can’t possibly mean what he’s saying? He can’t go through with it, can he? ‘No, it’s impossible’, Sam’s mind reassures, screaming somewhere in the back of his awareness. But despite the attempt to calm himself down his breath hitches in his throat and he blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision of the layer of tears which has suddenly grown considerably thicker.


“Do it then,” the inmate says, taking a small step backwards as if to give Dean some space. 


The noise from the crowd is slowly starting to pick back up, the volume increasing as their excitement grows. Wheezing Sam tries to turn his head to look at his brother, but the firm grip on his neck doesn't allow him to. Not in the slightest. Instead it seems like Dean is pressing him against the table top just a little bit harder than moments ago. 


"Fuck 'im!" someone in the sea of prisoners yells, and the rest of the men don't hesitate to chime in like a well-rehearsed choir. 


Sam lets out a small whimper when the baton is pulled out of him with a wet sound, leaving his entire body to tremble when he suddenly feels strangely empty. As the plastic weapon falls to the floor with a sharp clank and rolls across the linoleum he then hears the soft sound of clothes ruffling. His mind screeches to a sudden halt and for a moment everything just seems to white out, all thoughts disappearing to make room for a new and completely overpowering feeling of terror.


“Yeah, fuck that ass!” another inmate cheers, and Sam’s ears pick up on what sounds like a mix between a panting noise and a gasp coming from behind him. Then he feels his brother lean down over him a little, his feet nudging at the insides of his ankles. ‘This can’t be real’, his mind simply declares, refusing to accept what seems to be happening. Because it can’t be. It can’t be happening.


“Spread,” Dean’s voice then commands. And in the same moment Sam feels something warm poking at the crease where buttock meets thigh, and once again his mind seems to go completely blank, refusing to process any of the input it is given – but this time his body reacts. Without even feeling Dean’s nails scrape against his skin and draw blood he forcefully whips his head to the side and right out of the mean grip, craning his neck to look at his brother. Because he suddenly questions if it is really him. As his gaze fixes on the familiar, green eyes he just freezes, every muscle in his body automatically going tense and rigid by the sight. A gasp gets stuck somewhere on its way out of his mouth and he forgets to breathe. Because it really is his brother. It really is him hiding somewhere in there behind that stormy, dark glare piercing him to the bone. If he didn’t know better he would have sworn that the body behind him has to belong to a shapeshifter or a demon - but the tiny yet very telltale amount of excess water in Dean’s eyes tells Sam otherwise. So does the haunted look in them. That heartbreaking look of self-loathing and guilt that can’t possibly be worn by anyone else. Sam shudders. Because as impossible as it may seem this really is his brother. His strong big brother. His strong big brother who has always been there for him no matter what, always patched him up and helped him nurse wounds and broken bones as well as hearts. Helped him on his way, taught him everything he knows. This is the brother he has always looked up to. But now he looks so different. And still he wears that almost unrecognizable mask of arrogant confidence and faked malice, jaws set and eyes narrowed at him like he is nothing but a waste of space.


“I said, spread!” Dean says, voice monotone and void of emotion. And Sam almost believes him wholeheartedly. How can he not? A foot then kicks at Sam’s ankle and a hand grabs a hold of his neck again, closing its fingers around it and forcing him back down on the table top. Somehow he is relieved at the loss of eye contact, he thinks to himself hazily. As his cheek is pressed against the cold steel Sam tries to reason with the feeling of betrayal washing through him with enough intensity to almost convince him that Dean really means this.


“Don’t…” he hears himself rasp. He didn’t even think that he had enough control of his vocal chords to produce a coherent word. And he definitely hadn’t planned to say anything either. It’s not going to make it any easier for either of them, and he knows it. Suppressing the urge to scream from the top of his lungs he squeezes his eyes shut, drawing in a ragged breath. ‘He doesn’t mean it’, his mind tries quietly, ignoring the growing feeling of disloyalty and betrayal trying to override all logical thought left in his brain. ‘He’s trying to save my life’, his mind whispers. ‘He’s trying to save us both’.          


'WHACK!' 


Pain suddenly explodes on his backside when Dean's hand strikes him, the palm of it smacking down on his ass hard enough to leave a pink handprint and make him jump. 


"Spread!" Dean just repeats, kicking at his ankles again. The crowd is growing increasingly agitated, but most of their hands have found their way into their underwear as they watch Dean lift his hand again. 


'WHACK!'                                        


The sound is incredibly loud in the small room and Sam can't help but let out a grunt which somehow seems to slip out before he has the chance to swallow it. A red welt is starting to rise on his ass cheek, and by now his eyes are watering enough for a few tears to escape the corners of them and roll down his face. Not so much because of the stinging pain engulfing his backside, because that is manageable. Physical pain is what it is. It's straightforward and it's honest. He can handle that. But the way all of those inmates are looking at him? The way he feels his brother pressing against him, his too interested dick poking at him? That hurts on an entirely different scale… A much less tolerable one.


'WHACK!' 


A gasp escapes Sam, and he bares his teeth trying to muffle it, biting down. In a way he wishes that he was still gagged. 


'WHACK!'


This time his brother's hand grabs a hold of his hair and his head is yanked back with a vicious pull. Almost covering Sam's body with his own Dean leans down far enough for his lips to touch the shell of his ear:


"Spread your legs right now or I will break both of them. You hear me?" he whispers in a hiss loud enough for the crowd to hear it. Right away the onlookers burst into loud cheering, and their whistles and growls reverberate in the room as Dean shakes him just a little, apparently urging him to comply.


Swallowing down another whimper Sam replays the sentence Dean just spoke, plays it again and again in his head like an old LP record stuck in a groove - and he is pretty sure that he hears a new kind of fear lacing his brother’s voice this time. Even though it was impressively well hidden behind a shroud of aggression, he can’t miss it. His brother is petrified, and he isn’t exactly helping him right now. He’s making it worse.


With a sob trying to rock him Sam lets out a wheezy breath – and he reluctantly lets his legs part a little. Just a little. But Dean is quick to nudge the long limbs as far apart as they can go while he’s still wearing the remains of his torn pants. The warm trickle that ran down Sam’s inner thigh earlier has grown cold, and cringing he can feel it drying on his skin, slowly turning into crusty, maroon spatters while Dean moves closer.


“Thatta boy!” Dean mocks loudly, and Sam shivers. The circle of prisoners surrounding them seems to have come a bit closer and the sound of hands stroking hard flesh fills the air along with panting and excited yelling. Trying not to be sick Sam closes his trapped hands into fists, digs his fingernails into his palms as hard as he can in an attempt to distance himself, to think of something else. And to feel something else. Anything else, really. Anything but his brother’s hard length beginning to brush against him, slipping back and forth over his entrance. ‘No, no, no’, Sam’s mind screams frantically, bellows it out in a fresh rush of panic when he feels the pressure start to increase. ‘How is he even hard?’, the voice in his head cries, unable to come to terms with the fact that Dean’s dick is practically throbbing against him, pre-cum already beading on its tip and getting smearing out on his skin. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe it even though he knows that Dean has always reacted this way to danger. He can’t count the times he has noticed the impressive tent in his brother’s jeans during hunts when things get risky, when adrenaline is rushing through their veins. This is his reaction to fear, and nothing more. It’s nothing more.


“Gonna fuckin’ teach ya…” Dean says under his breath, and now his hands grab Sam’s hips, fingertips digging into the skin hard enough to bruise. A roar from the crowd follows, but Sam doesn’t hear it, doesn’t even register it. All he can focus on is the blunt pressure just building and building – and even though he knows that he shouldn’t he can’t help but tense up and go as stiff as a board. ‘Relax and it won’t hurt as much!’ his mind instructs, yelling at him from somewhere in the back of his head. But he can’t. He can’t relax in the slightest.


“C’mon, piggy, let me in,” Dean says, a little out of breath. And Sam feels how he alternates between pushing and then decreasing the pressure just a tiny bit, rocking his hips back and forth in small spurts. It’s almost as if he is trying to loosen him up, trying to give him just a little time to adjust to the much wider girth. 


“Just fuck him!!” someone yells.


“Shut up! You want me to snap my dick goin’ in?!” Dean snarls, tightening his grip on Sam’s hips. And with that he pushes harder. A strangled sound escapes Sam, and he discovers that his cuffed hands have grabbed a hold of Dean’s shirt, clutching the orange fabric in his fists. ‘No, no, no’, his mind repeats, looping it like a panicked chant inside his head. And he realizes that he is slowly being breached, his body no longer capable of withstanding the pressure. Tendrils of a sharp and pulsing sort of pain instantly shoot up his spine when the clenched muscle finally gives in and lets the flared head of Dean’s dick slip inside with a wet ‘pop’. A choked sound escapes them both, and Dean hurries to lean down over Sam, slamming a forearm across the back of his neck to keep him pinned when he instinctively begins to thrash.


“No…!”


Sam doesn’t even realize that it is his own voice he can hear. All that exists right now is the fiery pain engulfing his body when his insides are forced to stretch and expand as Dean keeps pushing and pressing himself deeper inside. It is excruciating, and for a moment the corners of Sam’s vision turn pitch black as consciousness threatens to slip away from him – and a tiny shimmer of something that resembles hopeful relief lights up somewhere in the darkness. Forgetting to breathe Sam focuses on the dark vignette cornering his vision, tries his best to provoke it to grow and just swallow him. But the hope is extinguished when the tunnel vision fades just as quickly as it came, leaving him to writhe on the table, painfully present and aware of what is happening.    


“Fuck…” Dean groans, and Sam can’t help but whimper when his warm breath fans across the side of his face. Draped over him, Dean’s forearm feels as solid as an iron bar against the back of his neck. And Sam can’t move. He can’t get away. He can’t even seem to disassociate himself properly, can’t get his mind to obey its own instructions and just focus solely on the physical pain instead of the utter humiliation. The degradation. The feeling of his own brother’s rock hard cock splitting him open.


“Please…” someone sobs, and it takes a moment for Sam to realize that it’s him. It’s his own voice sounding like that. But it’s so small all of a sudden, he thinks to himself dizzily. It sounds almost alien. 


“Look at ‘im beg!” one of the prisoners says, letting a thumb brush back and forth over the tip of his dick, teasing the slit glistening with pre-cum. Everyone in the room seems to be panting now, the smell of sex and sweat and blood hanging heavily in the air like an invisible but nauseating blanket.


“Yeah, squeal for us, pig!” another spits while stroking himself, hooded eyes raking over Sam as he is being rocked forwards when Dean finally manages to push all the way inside. As his balls are pressed flush against Sam’s the supply room fills with approving sounds from the crowd, moans and grunts nearly drowning out another weak ‘please’ spilling from Sam’s lips.


“Sssh,” Dean mutters lowly against the shell of his ear, and it sounds almost like he is truly trying to calm him down. Almost. But then he begins to pull back out, and it feels like Sam’s insides are set alight, searing flames engulfing every tiny inch of soft tissue as Dean drags against his quivering walls. Something close to a wail escapes Sam, and he feels himself curl his toes in his boots as his feet kick and scuffle against the linoleum, trying to push his body up and away from the hard length impaling him. But his brother is still mercilessly pinning him down, his body feeling like a big lead weight on top of him, squashing him against the steel and not allowing him to move much more than a small inch to each side. But Dean on the other hand keeps moving. With a grunt that sounds way too close to a moan he pulls almost all the way out of Sam's resisting body and then he stills a little, sucking in some ragged gulps of air as if he is trying to regain his composure and control his breathing.


“St-Stop…! Please… Please, don’t…! ” Sam hears himself whimper in a voice that he doesn’t even recognize. Instantly the crowd reacts by hollering louder and the hands on their cocks turn into a blur as they speed up, clearly egged on by his mindless begging. And it is mindless. Because what choice does Dean have? ‘None’, Sam's mind answers, but it’s like he can’t hear it anymore. It’s drowned out by the crowd’s roaring and the pulse hammering in his veins and the small, panting sounds leaving his brother’s mouth.  


“Shut up,” Dean says – no, moans – and then he moves again. This time it is a bit more aggressive, a bit harder, a bit faster, and Sam lets out an agonized cry when his brother bottoms out, heavy balls slapping against him with a filthy sound when he can’t go in any deeper.


Feeling like he has suddenly lost the ability to breathe Sam squeezes his eyes shut and he feels how his mouth drops open and his throat strains as if he is screaming. But he can’t tell if any sound makes it out or not. And he doesn’t really care. The only thing he cares about is getting this to stop somehow, to get his brother off of him. ‘You can’t’, his mind quietly pipes up from somewhere. ‘You’ll get him killed’, it says. And his head swims as his stomach flips in response – because the voice is right. If he fights back and manages to throw off his brother, Dean will lose face and the crowd will probably take over, tearing Sam apart right in front of him – and he knows that Dean will not be able to let that happen. He will get himself killed trying to save him. Even though Sam isn’t really sure he wants to be saved. He isn’t sure of anything anymore.                                        


“How’s he feel?” someone in the crowd asks, his jaw slack and pupils dilated enough to swallow most of the irises as he watches. A soft gasp escapes Dean when he pulls back out a little – only to slam right back in, rocking Sam back and forth as he picks up his pace and starts thrusting.


“Tight… Fuck… He’s tight as hell…” Dean says in a throaty voice which trembles a little. ‘Probably just exertion’, Sam’s mind carefully suggests. Tears are flowing freely from his eyes now, dripping on to the table top to form small pools and soaking strands of his tangled, chestnut hair. The sound of skin hitting skin is as loud as it is vulgar, and Sam can’t help but clutch his brother’s shirt even tighter as he tries to push him away and hold on to him at the same time.


“Takin’ that dick almost like a pro already, huh? Aren’t ya, piggy?” another inmate says, tugging a little at Sam’s hair as he strokes himself. A sob rips from Sam’s throat before he has to time to repress it, resulting in a moan instantly spilling from the prisoner.


Shaking visibly Sam heaves for air as his brother keeps snapping his hips, thrusting into him at a slightly faster pace while he struggles to find a steady rhythm. Dean's forearm is still planted on the back of his neck, but he is starting to pull back a little when he begins to realize that Sam isn’t going to fight back. Judging by his body language – or lack thereof - it seems like he isn't going to resist anymore. Dean doesn't know if it is because of shock or exhaustion or if maybe Sam has finally realized that it will be a suicide mission, but by now he has gone almost completely limp. He is just slumped over the table while Dean fucks into him, rolling his hips and burying himself to the hilt in the quivering tightness with each thrust. If Dean didn’t know better he would think that Sam has passed out – but his trembling and the low sobs flowing from him reveal that he is indeed still awake. And his fingers are still tangled in the orange prison clothes, pulling at the shirt weakly as if he is trying to somehow anchor himself. Like he will get washed away if he doesn’t.


“So fuckin’ hot…!” someone in the crowd moans.


“Fuck ‘im harder!” another grunts, others chiming in when Dean straightens up a little, placing his hands on Sam’s hips. As his older brother pulls back, lifting his weight off of him, Sam has no choice but to let go of the shirt he has been clutching and his hands and fingers are now just helplessly twitching and trembling, unable to grab a hold of anything but air.  


“C’mon, plow that ass!” another inmate cheers, and Sam feels how calloused fingers tighten their grip on his hips, fingertips digging into them and probably leaving bruises in all sorts of shapes and colors on his skin. But the feeling is strangely distant. It should hurt, but it’s almost drowned out by the vicious pain shooting through him by every move that Dean makes, every single thrust of his hips making the too hard length drag and pull and scrape at his insides and surely tearing him even more. Every nerve end in his body is screaming now, every fiber crying out in a panic as Dean slams into him harder yet, small grunts starting to pour from his mouth and matching the rhythm of his thrusts.


A whimper mixed in with a sob escapes Sam and through a thick layer of tears he gazes at the blurry sea of orange surrounding him. Stares at it. But he doesn’t actually see the prisoners or the hands tugging feverishly on hard flesh. Not anymore. Instead he is looking right through the hollering inmates, his gaze fixed on the clock on the wall as it wobbles in and out of focus. Has he only been in here for forty minutes? It feels like days. Hazily he realizes that the fading orange light from the sunset is now making the walls glow with a deep, smoky red.


“Oh, fuck…” he hears Dean’s voice moan, and automatically a whimper tumbles out of Sam’s mouth as his stomach churns and nearly cramps. But he doesn’t fight back. Not verbally, not physically. He can’t. Instead he is just lying there, limp and slumped over the table like a ragdoll, legs spread obscenely wide while his brother fucks him. A sheet of cold sweat is covering every inch of his skin, drenching the remains of his uniform and leaving dark stains on it. Once in a while his mind seems to glitch, milliseconds of black flickering to life and swallowing him only to disappear and slam him right back into the present. Into reality.


Dizzy and disoriented Sam thinks he can hear Dean grunting a little louder now, his thrusts growing a bit more aggressive. ‘Is he going to come?’ his mind meekly asks somewhere in the whirlwind of different emotions and fragments of thoughts zapping through his head, and he shudders. ‘No, he can’t’, his mind then says. It states it. Because it is impossible. It has to be.


The dried blood on Sam’s inner thigh has changed from a crusty maroon back into a wet scarlet as new streams of fresh blood slowly trickle down, drops spilling from him every time Dean pumps his hips and forces his cock inside the too narrow channel. ‘Is he growing bigger?’ Sam’s mind suddenly asks in a haze, new pain zinging through him when it feels like he is being stretched even further around the veiny shaft plunging in and out of him far too hard and far too fast.


Snapping for air Sam wearily notices that Dean’s fingers seem to be twitching on his hips, fingernails digging into his skin in a strange sort of rhythm. ‘Is he getting close?’ his mind whispers nervously, and Sam exposes his teeth in a pained grimace when Dean bucks his hips a little harder. But his thrusts aren’t erratic in any way. No, they are still smooth and painfully deliberate, Sam thinks to himself and swallows another sob. There are no signs indicating that Dean is about to climax, and Sam’s brows knit themselves together in dazed confusion as he tries to get his mind to stop spinning and just focus on his brother’s fingers. Any distraction is welcome. And Dean’s fingers keep moving, keep poking into his hip bones in quick spurts, then just pressing, then a few more quick pokes, then pressing down again. ‘Wait’, Sam’s mind pipes up, his heart skipping a beat. ‘I know this’, he thinks to himself, trying to pick up the bits and pieces of thoughts scattered inside his head to put them together into something that makes sense, into some sort of answer. Because his brother isn’t just twitching. He is trying to tell him something. ‘Morse code’, his mind then bursts out, and Sam’s eyes fly wide open. ‘It’s Morse code’.


Staring blankly at the clock somewhere far behind the sea of orange prison outfits Sam zones out, trying to tune in to the pressing and poking and tapping of Dean’s fingers. But he can’t seem to make any sense of it, his mind stumbling on itself and turning every movement of the fingers into gibberish. ‘Is that an L?’ Sam’s mind asks feverishly, trying to decipher the rhythm of the fingers. But it isn’t easy, and he finds himself losing his concentration every two seconds when it feels like he is torn into shreds when Dean thrusts into him. ‘Focus!’ the voice in his head yells.


Letting out a wheezy groan Sam closes his eyes, tries to map out the many taps and pokes and presses and the gaps in between. It seems like it is looping. Yes, there’s definitely a pattern, he thinks to himself hazily. It takes a moment, but he discovers that it’s the same sequence being repeated over and over. As his fatigued mind starts to kick into gear the movements of Dean’s fingers slowly begin to translate:  



-S – E --- H – O – L – D --- O – N ---  P – L –  E – A – S – E --- H – O – L – D --- O – N ---                                   



With a sob rocking him Sam feels new tears escape his eyes to drip down and add to the pool on the steel table. And he doesn’t know what to do with this new information. He doesn’t even know if he should be relieved or scared or angry or something else entirely. But he does find some sort of comfort in the fact that his brother is now expressing something completely different than his behavior is. His body might be hurting him, but this secret communication lets Sam know that he really doesn’t mean it. If he did he wouldn’t bother to communicate at all.


Biting back a groan, Sam focuses everything he has got on the tapping fingers. Dean is trying to offer him some sort of solace and he is automatically reaching for it, fumbling for it in his mind. Because he needs it. In fact he craves it more than anything right now. And it also reminds him that they’re both helpless here. Dean is just as trapped as he is. And if either one of them falters they will both end up dead. Bile rises in his throat by the thought.


“Aww, look at the little piggy all stuffed!” someone in the crowd mocks.


“He’s cryin’ like a girl!” another taunts, grabbing Sam by the hair and lifting his head a bit to look at him. As he shakes him Sam just screws his eyes shut, trying to ignore the grinning face coming far too close, foul breath hitting his skin.


”Wailin’ like a fuckin’ whore!” the inmate spits, licking a long stripe up Sam’s cheek and into his ear.   


“Just take that fat cock like a good bitch!” the man then orders and lets go of Sam’s tangled hair, smacking his head into the table top in the process. As his cheek hits the steel, the world does another barrel roll and small stars emerge out of nowhere only to sail around in his field of vision. A hiccup mixed with a sob escapes him without him wanting it to, and the crowd laughs.


While trying to get the world to stop spinning Sam realizes that his brother is still looping the same Morse sequence over and over, and he realizes that he has to let him know that the message got through. That he hears him. Swallowing dryly he tries to remember how to do this properly – not that he doesn’t know how, really, but right now he can’t seem to focus enough to actually remember the different letters in Morse code. Jesus, he knows the entire alphabet like the back of his hand! ‘Concentrate!’ his mind orders, and a frustrated sniffle escapes him – but it is drowned out when Dean lets out a throaty groan, snapping his hips just a little faster. This time there’s something almost resembling eagerness in the way he moves, but Sam instantly dismisses it, refuses to think about it. He can’t think about it. He won't. Instead he takes a deep and ragged breath, and finally he is able to fish out the letters he needs from the messy pile of fragmented thoughts and bits and pieces of information scattered in his mind. Carefully he closes his trapped hands halfway into fists, and he begins tapping his fingers against his palms. He is pretty sure that the movements are discreet enough to not get noticed. Besides, his restless hands have been twitching ever since he was cuffed and he would be surprised if any of the prisoners in here know Morse code except from his brother.


Trying his best to tap the letters right, Sam spells out the only thing he can think of. Luckily it also happens to be the shortest. As he loops the ‘OK’ over and over he thinks he feels Dean’s hips stutter a little, and he lets out a tiny gasp. He has seen it. Dean has actually seen it. And now his message seems to change, most of the taps and presses on Sam’s hips disappearing and now forming only a single word:



--- S – O – R – R – Y --- S – O – R – R – Y--- S – O – R – R – Y --- S – O – R – R – Y---



Sam’s chest tightens. Even though Dean isn’t using his voice he is certain that he can actually hear him in his head like some sort of phantom. And the words are dripping with despair, with self-hatred and blame, oozing with sorrow. His brother is hurting. Almost choking on a sudden string of whimpers forcing their way out of him, Sam keeps looping the ‘OK’, trying to convince his brother that it’s alright. It isn’t his fault. He wants to tell him that so badly, but it’s far too long and complicated for his mind to even begin to map it out in Morse code. Instead all he can muster is to keep tapping his ‘OK’. More tears find their way on to the steel table top, accumulating in growing pools on the silvery surface.  


The cheering from the crowd seems to have turned a little quieter now, Sam suddenly realizes. With their gaze glued to him they pant in sync with Dean who attempts to bite back the groans trying to escape him with each thrust. Dirty sounds of wet squishing and skin slapping against clammy skin fill the air, and Sam winces when Dean rams into him a little harder than before. ‘Is his breathing growing shallow?’ Sam’s mind then asks and his stomach flips again, making the sour taste of bile spread on his tongue.


“Oh… Oh, fuck…” Dean groans, sucking in small gasps of air through gritted teeth. As he pumps his hips faster, Sam feels his fingertips frantically digging into his skin in a spurt of letters, spelling ‘SORRY’ over and over again. And his breathing is turning shallow. Shallow, ragged and labored. ‘No, no, no, please, no’, Sam’s mind whimpers as a fresh rush of panic hurdles through him with enough force to steal his breath away, making him let out a high-pitched, keening sound.


The orange sea of inmates surrounding them begins to gasp and moan right when Dean does, watching them closely through hooded eyes as they stroke themselves, tugging and pulling on rigid flesh. Sam can feel their eyes on him even though he isn’t looking, can feel their lust-blown gazes practically burning holes in his skin. And then Dean’s hips begin to stutter.


“S-Shit…! Fuck…!” he grunts, and in the same moment Sam feels his brother’s fingers tighten their grip on his hips a little, the tapping suddenly changing and turning erratic. But he still manages to translate the frantic pokes and presses, his mind desperately tuning in to them when he feels Dean grow harder inside of him.



--- S – O – R – R – Y --- S – O – R – R – Y --- F – O – R – G – I – V –



And suddenly Dean spasms. A strange growl escapes from somewhere deep in his throat, and his hands grip Sam’s hips so tight that it feels like the bones are going to break. Buried as deep as he can go, pelvis pressed flush against Sam’s ass, he cramps, ropes of hot cum shooting from his cock in thick gushes. Sam lets out a cry when the sticky liquid coats his torn insides, filling him up. 'No, no, no!' his mind screams frantically, and apparently his throat screams it as well, because he can hear the word bouncing off the walls. It is too much. It is all too much. The entire room is wobbling and spinning around like a carousel, the crowd moving and turning into an orange blur of motion as noise floods Sam's ears. It almost sounds like a case of tinnitus. He can't tell what is happening, can't make sense of all the noise or the way the inmates seem to suddenly move before his eyes. Maybe he is passing out? 

Dean jerkily pumps his hips a few more times and globs of semen mixed with blood dribbles and oozes from Sam's hole, sliding down his inner thighs in streams of pink slick. Dean is panting heavily, and before Sam can even register it he is covering his body with his own as he collapses on top of him. His skin is wet with sweat, feverish and flushed, and muscular arms bracket Sam's head as he heaves for air. 


Dazed and trapped under his brother's sturdy frame Sam's ears pick up on the shrill squeaks of rubber soles moving across the linoleum. There is so much noise. Yelling. Clattering. Shouting and scuffling feet. What is happening? Are they going to kill him now? Why is he even still awake? Is he awake? Disoriented he tries to get his eyes to focus, tries to make out his surroundings through the fog of tears. But everything just sails and wobbles and spins, making him feel more dizzy and inducing an even worse nausea. The clock on the wall looks warped as well, almost like one of those melting clocks in a Salvador Dalí painting. Still he is able to see that an hour has passed now, and he knits his brows together as he tries to make out what is happening. And he realizes that the inmates are indeed moving. In fact they are clearing the room, pouring out through the doorway in a flurry of orange. Shouting and with hands balled into fists they scatter, dashing in all directions once through the door, some of them still with their pants and underwear sagging around their knees. 


Sam shudders, wondering if he's hallucinating. What is going on? And why won't his vision clear, why is that gray fog still there? Blinking he lets out a whimper when he feels his brother move slightly, shrinking inside of him. 


"Oh… Oh, god…" Dean pants, and Sam can't suppress a sob when he feels his dick slip out of him. A small gush of white and red mixed together follows, drooling on to the table, Sam's thighs and the floor. Why is Dean still on top of him? Drowsy and confused Sam realizes that the room is now empty. The crowd is gone. But the gray fog isn't. It's still there, heavy and dense and apparently growing thicker by the second. And then he feels his eyes begin to sting and water. 'Tear gas', his mind blurts out. 


The sound of boots hitting the linoleum and loud yelling then reaches his ears. He thinks he hears his fake name being called, the sound of it amplifying as it travels down the corridors of the wing. More tears rise in his eyes, and he isn't sure if it's because of the gas or not. 


"Sam…" 


Wincing he tries to lift his head, tries to turn it in the direction of his brother’s voice. But Dean's hands have wrapped around his head, fingers tightly covering his eyes and creating a seal over them. Like a blindfold. Doesn't he want to look at him? 


"Sam, I'm… I'm so sorry…! I'm so sorry!" Dean's voice says, whispers, into his ear, cracking. It sounds so fragile. Different. Pleading. 


"I'm so sorry, Sam, please, I'm sorry…!!" the voice says, nearly hiccups, and it feels like the body on top of him quivers lightly. Sam can't reply. He can't get his vocal chords to cooperate even though he wants them to. And the inside of his throat is stinging viciously now as the gas slowly seeps into it, burning and nearly choking him. And finally he realizes why Dean's hands are clasped over his eyes. 'He's shielding them', Sam's mind informs. His older brother is trying to prevent the gas from getting into his eyes. A guttural whimper escapes Sam, and his heart sinks. Even now Dean is protecting him. Even now, after everything that has just happened. After what he has been forced to do. 


"In here!!" a voice suddenly booms, ripping him from his chain of thought. 


"Get the fuck off of him!!" 


Before Sam can even register it, he feels his brother's body being forcefully pulled away, its weight lifting off his back. Then there’s a crash and he can hear Dean’s voice letting out a pained sound. 


"Fucking psychopath!" someone yells, and there's a new sound of something hard colliding with flesh. A wheezy groan follows, and Sam's stomach flips. 


"Wait…!" he shouts - but it becomes nothing more than an inaudible, rasping sound.


"Throw his ass in the hole! Now!" a voice growls, and suddenly Sam feels gloved hands grabbing him, guiding and pulling him off the table.


"Is okay, we got him! You'll be alright, man, you'll be alright…! We'll make sure he regrets it, he'll never see fuckin' daylight again!" someone says, hauling him up by the arms. Sam eyes sting and burn like someone has poured liquid fire into them - but he opens them anyway, scanning the foggy room for his brother. 


"Get him out! And get a key to the damn cuffs!" a voice yells, and Sam is instantly dragged towards the open doorway. 


"Wait!" he tries again, but his throat is burning and constricting, and absolutely no sound makes it out. He catches a glimpse of a curled up figure lying on the floor, heavy boots colliding with ribs and back as the men in full riot gear kick at it. 


"Stop!" Sam screams, but it only becomes a low rattle. And the arms hooked under his pull harder, dragging and yanking at him and increasing the distance between him and Dean. 


"It's alright, stop fighting! It's us!" one of the concealed faces says behind the gasmask, hauling Sam up a little higher as he is being pulled closer to the corridor, long legs weakly and helplessly kicking. As Dean grows smaller and smaller, curling up into a ball, Sam shakes his head wildly, trying to communicate. But it goes by unnoticed, and he loses sight of his brother when he is dragged through the door opening and into the brightly lit corridor. The tear gas is even thicker out here, and he coughs violently as the officers start running, hauling him with them seemingly without effort. Somewhere behind him he can hear the thwacks of boots kicking along with strangled grunts, and he wants to scream from the top of his lungs. But he can't. He can't see, he can't scream, he can't even breathe. It feels like he is inhaling acid every time he tries to snap for air. 


"Don't worry, you're getting out of here!" one of the officers say, and Sam thinks his surroundings grow just a bit darker even though his red eyes are squeezed firmly shut. Is that a chilly evening breeze on his skin? Have they made it outside the facility already? They can't have. He can't leave Dean. 


"Yeah, buddy, you're gonna be fine… And we'll make sure that he won't be!" the other officer says, something ominous creeping into his voice. And Sam screams. He screams as loud as he possibly can, yet no sound leaves his lips. No sound at all. Only silence.