And this is home (gen-fic, 1320 words, R for language)
And this is home
(gen-fic, 1320 words, R for language)
The east block is the nicest. Dean hasn’t seen the cells in the other wings, but by his estimation they’ll either have crappy views or miss the sunlight entirely. His cell has a good view of the church and if you really crane your neck, when the sun rises, you can see the light glinting off the stained-glass windows; it’s like a ripple of ruby and emerald and sapphire. Dean prefers to stare out the window at that first thing rather than the blacktop wasteland of the exercise yard, listening to the creak of the link-chain fence that surrounds it.
And if you’re in north block, then you’ve got nothing else to look at than the back of the kitchens and the smell of soggy vegetables and old meat gets stuck in your nose. Sometimes, when he’s in a fight because some new sonofabitch is looking to make a name for himself or get himself a bitch, Dean catches that smell on the guy’s jumpsuit and it always makes him retch. That smell’s been responsible for more than one of Dean’s black eyes or split lips.
He’s got an okay cellmate too. Lenny’s in his thirties, had a habit of taking cars that weren’t his. Wasn’t drugs-related or for robberies or any shit like that; Lenny just appreciated nice cars. Dean’s told him all about the Impala, more than once. He’s talked through the time he rebuilt the Impala after the semi went in the side of it, and Lenny’s told him about his blue Merc he stole from a surgeon, the classic Cadillac he took from a judge, all of them. He even once told Dean about the car he was driving when he knocked that kid down, but only the once.
The only thing Dean hates about sharing a cell with Lenny is Lenny’s IBS. It’s really only triggered though when Lenny eats dairy product and since Dean and he had that little chat, Lenny’s been pretty good about steering clear of the milk and cheese. It could be worse. Dean could be sharing a cell with one of those little fuckers who haven’t got the message to keep their hands to themselves even after Dean’s broken their fingers for them a couple of times. That’d really suck.
Lenny’s fairly tidy and has a subscription to a few monthly car magazines. He doesn’t mind when Dean gets edgy and starts salting the door and the window, has even got pretty good at stealing salt shakers from the cafeteria for Dean when he sees Dean’s running low. And when Sam’s photo slips off the wall, Lenny rolls the blu-tac between his fingertips ‘til it’s good and sticky again and sticks the picture back up.
On Mondays and Thursdays, Dean works in the laundry. It’s sweaty work and he hates it, but it’s either that or the kitchens. Wednesdays, he’s got class, part of the prison’s free educational program. He’s gonna get a degree in the liberal arts. It was the best thing on offer. Sam’ll laugh at him. Dean spends most afternoons in the gym. He doesn’t think he’s going anywhere in a hurry but it wouldn’t do to get all saggy and soft. Besides, Lenny’s all right but he hasn’t got Dean’s back. Most he can do is give a warning if he sees a guard coming.
One Friday a month, Jo comes to visit. This is her tenth visit. Dean’s surprised that she’s hanging on this long. But there she is, sitting stiff-backed and blank-faced in her cracked, red leather jacket. She smiles when she sees Dean, but it fades a little when she sees the bruise on his jaw. She doesn’t comment on it though. Just as well because Dean’s not gonna give her details.
They don’t have much to talk about. Not really. Same old nothing. It’s not until the end she looks at him and says,
“He said to call you a jerk.”
Dean smiles at that. He feels a little warmer.
“Tell him he’s a bitch.”
When he’s back in his cell, Dean slides the single postcard he’s had from Sam out from under his mattress. It’s from Buenos Aires. ‘Wish you were here’, it said. Unsigned. He hides it away again with his stash of phonecards and cigarettes.
In the evenings Dean plays pool in the recreational room. Except on Fridays when there are old episodes of the X-Files on TV. Sometimes after the episode's over, Dean hangs around to watch the wrestling. There's a guy from south block, called Phil, who wanted to be a professional wrestler when he was young, before he got into organised crime. Dean likes to watch the wrestling with Phil and see how many times he can imply that it's all staged before Phil gets all wheezy and starts throwing punches.
Sundays, Dean goes to the chapel. The priest is young and painfully eager to redeem someone. He's got a long thin nose and bright eyes and sometimes, he makes Dean think of Pastor Jim. He's not bad but Dean can't see him lasting long in prison ministry. All those bright, shiny principles of his aren't gonna keep that way in here.
Dean doesn't pray but he attends the service. It's a nice short service, just long enough to give him chance to be soothed but not so long that he gets chance to start brooding. All that melancholy shit is a waste of time anyway.
He's got nothing to complain about really. The food's not all that bad, so long as it's not vegetables, and it's nice and regular. Dean always knows where his next meal's coming from. The chores they've got him doing are nothing worse than his dad used to set him when he fucked up training or broke curfew. He's not expected to do anything 'cept keep his head down.
Sure, his face makes him an easy target but not many of the little shits try anything too serious more than once. He has to keep an eye out when he's in the shower and he can't even walk the length of the cafeteria without some dumb fuck trying to slap his ass. If he never gets called 'pretty boy' again he'll die happy. And the day someone comes up with a line more imaginative than 'you got a pretty mouth, why don't you put it to good use' is the day Dean will happily get down on his knees and suck some cock.
But it's not like he has anything to be scared of, anything to keep him awake at night. Sam's safe in a non-extradition country and Dean's more than capable of looking after himself inside. He's got a routine and he's been in his cell long enough to feel like it's his space. A little bit of Metallica playing and he'd be as at home in his cell as he ever was in the Impala.
More so maybe.
The scenery doesn't change. The people don't either, not really. The walk down the corridor to the showers is like walking down the street to the post office. It's his neighbourhood. There are people who know his name, his real name, people who know how he drinks his coffee (not that they care) and why, ultimately, he prefers Led Zeppelin to Metallica (too many whiny cuntrags in Metallica).
He's slept in the same bed for almost a year.
:::
It's a Tuesday morning when the alarms go off. Tuesday morning is when Dean does his homework for class on Wednesday so he's on his bed, chewing the end of his biro and staring at the textbook. Amidst the chaos of pounding feet and inmates' shouting, the door opens.
Sam raises an eyebrow at his brother and jangles the Impala's keys at him.
"Hope you're not too comfortable here," he says, "'cos it's time to go."
And just like that, Dean's home.
(gen-fic, 1320 words, R for language)
The east block is the nicest. Dean hasn’t seen the cells in the other wings, but by his estimation they’ll either have crappy views or miss the sunlight entirely. His cell has a good view of the church and if you really crane your neck, when the sun rises, you can see the light glinting off the stained-glass windows; it’s like a ripple of ruby and emerald and sapphire. Dean prefers to stare out the window at that first thing rather than the blacktop wasteland of the exercise yard, listening to the creak of the link-chain fence that surrounds it.
And if you’re in north block, then you’ve got nothing else to look at than the back of the kitchens and the smell of soggy vegetables and old meat gets stuck in your nose. Sometimes, when he’s in a fight because some new sonofabitch is looking to make a name for himself or get himself a bitch, Dean catches that smell on the guy’s jumpsuit and it always makes him retch. That smell’s been responsible for more than one of Dean’s black eyes or split lips.
He’s got an okay cellmate too. Lenny’s in his thirties, had a habit of taking cars that weren’t his. Wasn’t drugs-related or for robberies or any shit like that; Lenny just appreciated nice cars. Dean’s told him all about the Impala, more than once. He’s talked through the time he rebuilt the Impala after the semi went in the side of it, and Lenny’s told him about his blue Merc he stole from a surgeon, the classic Cadillac he took from a judge, all of them. He even once told Dean about the car he was driving when he knocked that kid down, but only the once.
The only thing Dean hates about sharing a cell with Lenny is Lenny’s IBS. It’s really only triggered though when Lenny eats dairy product and since Dean and he had that little chat, Lenny’s been pretty good about steering clear of the milk and cheese. It could be worse. Dean could be sharing a cell with one of those little fuckers who haven’t got the message to keep their hands to themselves even after Dean’s broken their fingers for them a couple of times. That’d really suck.
Lenny’s fairly tidy and has a subscription to a few monthly car magazines. He doesn’t mind when Dean gets edgy and starts salting the door and the window, has even got pretty good at stealing salt shakers from the cafeteria for Dean when he sees Dean’s running low. And when Sam’s photo slips off the wall, Lenny rolls the blu-tac between his fingertips ‘til it’s good and sticky again and sticks the picture back up.
On Mondays and Thursdays, Dean works in the laundry. It’s sweaty work and he hates it, but it’s either that or the kitchens. Wednesdays, he’s got class, part of the prison’s free educational program. He’s gonna get a degree in the liberal arts. It was the best thing on offer. Sam’ll laugh at him. Dean spends most afternoons in the gym. He doesn’t think he’s going anywhere in a hurry but it wouldn’t do to get all saggy and soft. Besides, Lenny’s all right but he hasn’t got Dean’s back. Most he can do is give a warning if he sees a guard coming.
One Friday a month, Jo comes to visit. This is her tenth visit. Dean’s surprised that she’s hanging on this long. But there she is, sitting stiff-backed and blank-faced in her cracked, red leather jacket. She smiles when she sees Dean, but it fades a little when she sees the bruise on his jaw. She doesn’t comment on it though. Just as well because Dean’s not gonna give her details.
They don’t have much to talk about. Not really. Same old nothing. It’s not until the end she looks at him and says,
“He said to call you a jerk.”
Dean smiles at that. He feels a little warmer.
“Tell him he’s a bitch.”
When he’s back in his cell, Dean slides the single postcard he’s had from Sam out from under his mattress. It’s from Buenos Aires. ‘Wish you were here’, it said. Unsigned. He hides it away again with his stash of phonecards and cigarettes.
In the evenings Dean plays pool in the recreational room. Except on Fridays when there are old episodes of the X-Files on TV. Sometimes after the episode's over, Dean hangs around to watch the wrestling. There's a guy from south block, called Phil, who wanted to be a professional wrestler when he was young, before he got into organised crime. Dean likes to watch the wrestling with Phil and see how many times he can imply that it's all staged before Phil gets all wheezy and starts throwing punches.
Sundays, Dean goes to the chapel. The priest is young and painfully eager to redeem someone. He's got a long thin nose and bright eyes and sometimes, he makes Dean think of Pastor Jim. He's not bad but Dean can't see him lasting long in prison ministry. All those bright, shiny principles of his aren't gonna keep that way in here.
Dean doesn't pray but he attends the service. It's a nice short service, just long enough to give him chance to be soothed but not so long that he gets chance to start brooding. All that melancholy shit is a waste of time anyway.
He's got nothing to complain about really. The food's not all that bad, so long as it's not vegetables, and it's nice and regular. Dean always knows where his next meal's coming from. The chores they've got him doing are nothing worse than his dad used to set him when he fucked up training or broke curfew. He's not expected to do anything 'cept keep his head down.
Sure, his face makes him an easy target but not many of the little shits try anything too serious more than once. He has to keep an eye out when he's in the shower and he can't even walk the length of the cafeteria without some dumb fuck trying to slap his ass. If he never gets called 'pretty boy' again he'll die happy. And the day someone comes up with a line more imaginative than 'you got a pretty mouth, why don't you put it to good use' is the day Dean will happily get down on his knees and suck some cock.
But it's not like he has anything to be scared of, anything to keep him awake at night. Sam's safe in a non-extradition country and Dean's more than capable of looking after himself inside. He's got a routine and he's been in his cell long enough to feel like it's his space. A little bit of Metallica playing and he'd be as at home in his cell as he ever was in the Impala.
More so maybe.
The scenery doesn't change. The people don't either, not really. The walk down the corridor to the showers is like walking down the street to the post office. It's his neighbourhood. There are people who know his name, his real name, people who know how he drinks his coffee (not that they care) and why, ultimately, he prefers Led Zeppelin to Metallica (too many whiny cuntrags in Metallica).
He's slept in the same bed for almost a year.
:::
It's a Tuesday morning when the alarms go off. Tuesday morning is when Dean does his homework for class on Wednesday so he's on his bed, chewing the end of his biro and staring at the textbook. Amidst the chaos of pounding feet and inmates' shouting, the door opens.
Sam raises an eyebrow at his brother and jangles the Impala's keys at him.
"Hope you're not too comfortable here," he says, "'cos it's time to go."
And just like that, Dean's home.