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“Sam, you want a turn when I’m done?”

Sam looked up from his book. Dean was slumped in the plastic chair, head tilted, legs spread. His eyes were half-lidded, matching patches of colour high across his cheekbones. The kid knelt between Dean’s legs, his hands braced on Dean's thighs, Dean's hand spanning his skull like he was handling a football. Sam watched the muscles in Dean’s arm flex as he forced the kid's head down.

“Nah,” Sam said. “Not in the mood.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean let out a moan. “Jesus, that’s it, that’s right, you little whore. Fucking take it, choke on my fat fucking cock.”

Sam rolled his eyes and tried to find his place on the page. Dean was getting louder, cursing the kid, making it hard to concentrate on the words swimming in front of him. Sam slammed his book shut; Dean was already looking at him, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He was getting close, Sam could tell, his hips jerking up, fucking hard into the kid's mouth. Sam kept watching.

Dean's orgasm was loud and hard, holding nothing back, and Sam felt his own cock thicken as he watched his brother yank the kid's head up by his hair. The kid coughed and spluttered, drool and come splattered over his puffy bruised lips, tears streaking slimy trails across his cheeks. He was shaking, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Did I say you could clean yourself up?” Dean said.

The kid froze. “Uh, no, no. Sorry, I'm sorry."

Dean pressed his lips together. He untangled his hand from the kid’s hair and wiped it on his pants, expression all disgust. “Get out. Go take a shower. You stink.”

The kid stumbled to his feet and lurched out of their pod.

Dean laced his hands behind his head, and let out a satisfied sigh. "I think he’s learning.”

Sam snorted. "Yeah, sure. Just let me know when he stops using so many fucking teeth.”

“Nah, this time it was teeth free. I’m telling you, man, he’s getting better. We’re teaching him a real trade here, doing him a favour.”

Sam swung off his bunk, and stood watching Dean for a moment. Dean raised his chin, watching him back. Sam crossed to him, and leaned down. He smoothed his hands down Dean's chest to his open flies where his softening cock was still hanging out of his pants. He tucked it back in, and slid up the zipper.

Dean caught him before he straightened, fingers curled tight around his bicep. He hovered over Dean, close enough for the ends of his hair to graze Dean's face. Dean slicked his tongue over his teeth and grinned. "Wanna see how long it'll take me to get hard again?"



Evening role call was at nine. They stood outside the pod, shoulders brushing, arms crossed. Asprilla gestured from the pod opposite, running his finger across his throat and snarling at them.

Dean huffed a breath, looking amused by Asprilla’s show. “Fucking loser," he said.

It was O’Brien and Slazenger tonight. Sam cracked his knuckles, waiting for his number to be called.

"954678D! Winchester!"

He took a step forward just as O'Brien walked past. The exchange was quick, less than a second, a sleight of hand he'd learned from their father all those years ago. When Sam stepped back into line, the bag was safely secured in his clenched fist.

They headed back into the pod after count. Sam stuffed the bag into the tear in his mattress, the one that always seemed to get overlooked every time the hacks carried out a pod search. Dean shucked off his jumpsuit and underwear, bouncing on the balls of his feet and prowling around the cell in just his socks. Even Dean wasn't dumb enough to risk these floors barefoot.

Sam removed his jumpsuit but kept on his underwear. He lowered himself to the floor, getting into position for his nightly routine: one hundred push-ups, one hundred crunches. Dean paused, hand braced against the glass window to their pod, his naked body on full show to the rest of the block. Sam stared at his brother’s ass, eyes drawn to the spot where Leon McGoldrick had tried to carve his initials into Dean’s left cheek. It had been years but there was still a scar, still a hunk of flesh missing where it should be smooth. They hadn't been so gentle with McGoldrick.

“Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two,” Sam counted aloud.

Dean turned his head, looking at him from over his shoulder. His skin was glistening, his chest and neck flushed with the stifling heat of the pod, his cock half-hard.

“I wanna take him out, Sammy,” he said.

“Twenty five, twenty six. Who?”

“Fucking asshole, Asprilla."

“Why? Thirty. He's a loser. Small fry. Thirty-one, thirty-two.”

Dean shrugged. “He is. But I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

Sam paused. “Stop fucking parading yourself then.”

“Parading?” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“C’mere,” Sam said. He rolled into a crouch, hand outstretched. The pod was so small Dean only needed to take a couple of steps to be in touching distance. Sam hooked his hand around the back of his brother’s thigh and pulled him in. He slid his hand up to cup his balls, rolling them between his fingers as he watched Dean's cock twitch and thicken.

Dean groaned, pushing his hips forward, fucking his cock into Sam’s fist. Sam squeezed gently, grazed his thumb over the head, greedy for the way Dean shuddered, the way his face went slack and flushed. “Jesus, baby, love your cock," he murmured.

“Yeah? You gonna show me what a real blow-job is?”

“Was thinking about it," Sam said.

“Cut it out in there!”

Dean growled, and spun, hard cock bobbing. O’Brien was standing outside their pod, arms crossed, professional leer on his face.

“Save the incest for after dark, boys!” he called.

“Fuck you!” Dean yelled and flipped him the bird.

O’Brien slammed his stick against the glass hard enough for it to shake before he moved on.

“Fucking asshole, after all we’ve done for him.”

Sam got to his feet and slung his arm around his brother's chest, pulling him back into his body. “He’s just doing his job.”

"Yeah, well, fuck him and his job."

Sam pressed a kiss to Dean's temple. "You just gotta learn to be patient, baby."


The Aryans were ragging on the homeboys again. Dean watched them idly, most of his attention on the main door to the block. Sam was visiting with the accountant, going over the latest on their finances. He would be in a good mood when he got back, money talk always got Sammy hot, and Dean was impatient to reap the rewards.

Driscoll was circling the group, about as subtle as venereal disease. Even from this distance, Dean could make out the outline of a shiv in his waistband. He glanced at O'Brien, wondering if he'd noticed, but the CO was with Gallagher, the twitchy pink-eyed freak tweaking and vibrating in O'Brien's face, keeping his attention off the Aryans. Everyone knew that Gallagher was the Nazis' new prag. O'Brien was an idiot.

Driscoll was telegraphing badly. Barksdale had seen him coming, already moving, pouncing before Driscoll could get a hand to his shiv. Something snapped, Driscoll screamed, and a spray of blood, arterial, judging by the arc and quantity, hit the window of Barksdale's pod. Dean watched Driscoll crumple, clutching his thigh, and he guessed Barksdale had nicked the femoral artery with Driscoll's own shiv. He grinned, watching the Aryans bellow and roar like the stupid dumb animals they were, moving as one herd, the homeboys spreading out to take them on.

Dean whooped and launched off his seat. This one looked bloody, and he wasn’t going to sit it out. Sam would be pissed, but if Sam wasn’t going to deliver up Asprilla then Dean would get his kicks where he could.


Dean had urges, the kinds of urges he'd never been able to outrun, the kinds of urges that always found him.

When Sam was ten, he watched Dean stick his butterfly knife into the belly of the skeevy motel clerk who'd yelled at them for swimming in the pool after dark. Sam watched Dean as Dean watched the motel clerk bleed to death, his eyes only for his brother, for the way Dean's gaze went dark and glassy, the way he slicked his tongue over his teeth, and the way his hand shook when he slid his knife through the clerk's fleshy belly and up into his chest, his attention flicking between Sam and the dying man as he tried to describe how it felt. Sort of rubbery, but kinda hard too, Sammy, s'not like cutting steak, not at all.

When Dad found out, he punished Dean. They skipped town that night, Dean and Sam in the backseat of the car, Dean's eyes still watering, wincing in pain every time they hit a pothole.

Dean fell asleep but Sam stayed awake, replaying the expression on Dean's face when he killed the clerk over and over in his head and liking the way it made his skin heat and his stomach feel tight. At a rest-stop he sneaked out of the backseat while Dad was gassing up the car, and went to steal some ice for Dean's purpling ribs.

Dad caught him on his way back. His gaze tracked between the bag of ice in Sam's hands and back to his face. He crouched down and put his hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Your brother's... different," he said. "It's our job to help him. If he does anything, if anything happens like what happened back there then you got to tell me. You must always tell me. It's for his own good, so we can help him. You hear me, Sam?"

Sam glanced at Dean through the car window. His body felt full and heavy with love as he watched Dean's pale sleeping face, made more vulnerable by the darkening bruises and split lip. He wondered if Dad knew about Mrs. Fenwick at the trailer park in Minnesota last summer or about Billy Crabbe, the kid who had bullied him two towns back. He wondered if Dad knew about the ones before that, the ones that Sam hadn't seen, before he made Dean promise to always include him.

"Sammy," Dad prompted, his voice getting harder.

Sam met his gaze and nodded, knowing what he had to say. "Yes. Yes, sir."


Dean smelt of the hole, the lingering clammy scent of shit and piss and mould. Sam wrinkled his nose when Dean backed him into the corner of their pod and pressed him against the wall.

"You smell disgusting," he said.

"Give me a kiss, Sam, fucking missed you in there." He put his hand over Sam's crotch, rubbing his palm over the length of Sam's dick, which was coming awake after two days of Dean's absence.

There was dried blood on Dean's neck, and it flaked off under Sam's fingers. Sam made a face and shoved his brother away. "Seriously, dude. Go take a shower first."

Dean backed away, sighing and looking put upon, but it was all show. He snatched up his towel and whistled as he strode away in the direction of the showers.

The fight had caused a lockdown which meant Sam hadn't gotten back to the block until six hours later, by which time Dean was already in solitary. Four guys were in sickbay, two others in solitary, and two were dead. Asprilla was one of the dead, strangled during the fight, the breath choked out of him. No one was saying who had done it.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam said when Dean got back from the shower. He let Dean tumble him down onto the bottom bunk and crawl over him. "If you'd just waited then I was arranging it all." His expression softened, his chest constricting with concern as he cradled Dean's face. "They'll find out, baby, or someone'll talk. You gotta be more careful."

"No one's gonna talk. They all know what'd happen if they did," Dean said. He grinned, sudden and blinding, and pulled Sam's hand away from his face. He laced their fingers together then leaned down, whispering into Sam's ear, "Let's face it, Sammy, you're just pissed you didn't get to watch."

Sam felt the flush all over his body, his skin prickling with heat and arousal. He held his breath when Dean kissed over his mouth, his chin, down to nuzzle his throat. When Dean spoke next the words vibrated into Sam's his skin. "Don't worry, next one's all for you."