Scared (not so) straight (1/2)
Title: Scared (not so) straight
Author:marlowe78
Rating: Adult, I'm pretty sure
Characters: Dean, OMCs (some John, Sam and a little old lady with a sailor's mouth)
Word count: 7.709
Warnings: rape, violence
Thanks go to soncnica as always for being awesome.
Summary: He’d have to learn to take the consequences into account and decide after contemplating them if it was worth the risk. If a bag of sweets and a six-pack of beer was really worth it.
Written for this prompt by crowley-gal: Okay, I was bored and flipping through channels trying to find something to watch on TV and came across a show called beyond scared straight.
It was about a group of at risk teens taken to an adult prison for a day to see what it is like.
So of course, I had to ask myself don't this seem like a great thing for Dean to experience.
...
I know that Dean fit in to prison life well in Folsom Prison Blues but I would think that 15-17 year old Dean would have a different reaction.
Original prompt
When he got caught, Dean didn’t take it seriously. He’d been caught before, shoplifting or a little b and e. Didn’t ever matter, he’d learned to use his mouth with a stunning alacrity, as he’d been assured.
No, not that kind of alacrity. Jesus. Perverts!
Dean was a master of the tongue, a wielder of eyelashes, a fucking genius with excuses and the overall heavyweight-champion of the sad, hungry and sorrowful, lost gaze.
It hadn’t failed him once since kindergarten, and so it was no wonder he was surprised when the woman behind the counter didn’t lift her gun from him while calling the sheriff.
Dean knew guns, better than anything else, if he was honest, and it made him able to judge her stance and her familiarity with the weapon. It was a Winchester double-barrel shotgun - what irony - safety still on but her brown-speckled thumb was close enough to it to tell him that it was deliberation and not lack of knowledge that had it still locked.
She clicked it on before taking one hand away to dial, and still she didn’t waver, aim straight on him. No, Dean wasn’t gonna move an inch in that shop. Not one fucking inch.
“Ben? Yeah, got me one ‘a those shopliftin’ scumbags here…” Wow, the little old lady, certainly beyond seventy, had a sailor’s mouth nearly as bad as his dad. “What? Naw, still breathn’…. Yeah, well, hurry up ya lazy ass ova here, boy, and git me that little fuck outa my shop and teach hima fucking lesson already. … What? Jeeezas, fucking fifth time in a month an’ you gonna tell me howta handle them young punks? If you ain’t handling them, you can pick ‘em up tussed and trussed, or I’ll try savin’ the worlds some tax-dollars for putting scum like that behind bars…. Jeeezus, shut ya mouth and git that boy outta here!”
She slammed the receiver on the phone and stared at Dean with cold eyes and a lot of disgust. The thought of apologizing went right out of his mind and the innocent, guilty smile fell from his face with that stare and Dean felt himself shrinking to the size of Sammy.
“What’cha looking at, punk?” she sneered and like a dog in front of its pack-leader, he averted his gaze to the floor. He didn’t want to test if she’d been serious on the phone.
**
His dad, surprisingly, hadn’t brushed the incident off like Dean had hoped and imagined. Usually, he got a cuff to the head and a ‘don’t let that happen again’ and that’d be it, but this time, he got a real talking to.
The basics of the rant was that Dean had to learn to take responsibility for the fuck-ups he created and that he couldn’t live on the belief that someone would dig him out of the shit he was in. He’d have to learn to take the consequences into account and decide after contemplating them if it was worth the risk. If a bag of sweets and a six-pack of beer was really worth it.
Years later, Dean would understand that piece of wisdom. Now, though, he was just pissed and disappointed.
What good was his dad when he wouldn’t even be able to get him out of this stupid sentence? “Scare ‘em straight” was the name of that lunatic-idea. Put the delinquents in with real criminals for a day and a night to get them to understand the severity of the path they were treading.
Bull-shit.
Dean knew about severity fine, thanks very much. Severe concussion, severe lacerations, severe alcohol-poisoning, severe monsters. His fucking life was severe.
“It’ll do you good” was all, Dad had said and Dean hadn’t had the guts to tell him that he didn’t think so. “Suck it up and learn something”, Dad had said and yeah this time Dean hadn’t even bothered to take a deep breath to argue.
What could he learn in a fucking prison anyway? Maybe they’d teach him how to cook better.
Yeah. No, not much chance for that.
**
“So then, Winchester. Ready to learn your lessons?” the guard asked and since there was no alternative, Dean nodded. “Good. Over here, spread you legs and bend over”
**
Not an experience Dean wanted to repeat. Like, ever.
**
“Winchester? Your number’s fourteen-eighty. Don’t forget, it’s the name you’ll be called. Now, kids” the head-guard announced to the ten boys around Dean’s age who were assembled in the yard, shackles on hands and feet and clad in disgusting orange. He’d been the last one, due to alphabetical reasons. Next to him stood a slight kid with dyed hair, a nose-ring and two earrings. In one ear.
He looked bored and relaxed, something Dean wanted to copy but couldn’t quite manage. He was tense as a bowstring and shifting, no matter how much he forced himself to calm down. His hands were itching under the metal and even though he hated to admit it, he was scared.
This wasn’t a den of rawheads, or a pissed-off ghost. This were people, hard people, angry people and they didn’t have much to lose. Most importantly, Dean didn’t have a weapon and salt would be more than useless except if he threw it into someone’s eyes. And even then it wouldn’t help for long.
All his life, masses of people had made Dean uncomfortable. He knew the worth of anonymity, but he also knew a lot about the danger lurking in between a crowd. In every human, actually.
So Warren, the kid next to him, was admirable in his coolness. No matter that Dean knew how to shoot a gun and kill twenty kinds of monsters - this boy probably knew more about real life than Dean ever would. Even more than Sammy ever wished to know, he secretly thought, but that was the moment they got shuffled along and into the cell-block.
**
”You’ll be placed with real prisoners, though of course with your own cell. You’ll see the day-to-day life in a prison and what it entails and you’ll hopefully decide that this is not a place you want to visit again”
The judge had been stern and hard, looking at Dean with disapproval. He’d stood in front of him alone; Dad had to take care of Sam, or something. He wasn’t really sure why his father hadn’t come with but there had been some explanation the night before. He was pretty sure, at least.
**
“Hey, Warren!” Dean called to the cool boy. “Wait up, man” For his trouble, Dean got a sneer and a cold shoulder, though to be fair Warren waited a little so he could catch up.
“What? And stop calling my name in here! I don’t wanna anyone know it”
“Uh... oh, yeah, sorry. Right, that’s pretty smart. Uhm…” Dean scratched his head “So… what did they bust you for?”
“You want some advise, kid?” Dean felt himself bristle at the nickname. He wasn’t much younger than Warren, if at all. He was sixteen, and Warren wouldn’t have been over eighteen or he’d be in here for real. “Don’t ever ask that, don’t ever talk to anyone. Don’t let them see you’re new to this and don’t interact with them. They are scum, and soon you’ll be outa here. So remember that” He turned, his earring wiggling in the harsh neon-light and threw one more advice over his shoulder “Don’t make friends here, boy, and don’t ever talk to me again”
Raising his eyebrows, Dean stared after him. Huh.
**
So for the rest of the morning, Dean tried to do as Warren had said. It made sense, in a way, to try and keep your head down and not interact. The prisoners looked at the kids with expressions reigning from mild interest down to outright disgust, but the worst were the stares Dean felt on the back of his neck, the ones that were hidden the moment he turned around to find the source. It made his skin prickle and his hair stand on end, and still, even with all the training, he couldn’t ever find who was responsible.
Oh, he knew that kind of stare. Had felt it before, once he’d even got the follow-up-grip on his ass, and he wasn’t talking about the … nope, not going there. Not ever. He’d also seen the look pointed at Sammy, though, and that time it had been very obvious who it was.
That creepy fucker would probably still need a cast on his wrist, Dean thought. He’d been pretty thorough.
So up until midday, he tried to find the creep who was too interested in his skin, jumpy, jittery and fucking scared. Yes, scared. No-one there to impress, so he could admit it, at least to himself. Also, his dad had said often that fear was healthy, fear kept you alive and sharpened your senses. As long as you didn’t let it act for your brain, it was a good thing to have. Just never let it take control.
It was hard, controlling the shivers that ran up his spine when Dean was placed in the kitchen. He peeled potatoes and tried to catch a glimpse at his admirer, but the kitchen was open to the common-room and anyone in there or with him behind the counter could be responsible.
Fear had always made Dean act weird. Some people got quiet and hid, some went quiet and dangerous, like his dad. Dean, though, it made talkative and cocky.
“So, any of you guys ever heard about the potato that looked like God?” he asked into the quiet hum of conversation around him. “No? Well, let me tell ya, it got really surprised when it learned that Last Supper was meant literal…”
He didn’t stop after that bad joke. He couldn’t stop, not after letting his mouth run free. Weirdly enough, talking made his mind sharp, gave total clarity to his surroundings and made him aware of all the weapons around him. He could stab anyone who’d dare touch him, a potato to the nose could break it and incapacitate anybody, at least long enough to get away. He was still lanky but his muscles were trained and strong. He might not ever get one over the tough guys out there, but he was slippery and fast. And there was the secret weapon. That was pretty helpful, as he’d learned. Good thing Dad had told him about it.
After a while, he noticed that the men around him had changed their attitude. Instead of annoyed boredom all over, he now got two guys leaning against the counter and talking to him, grinning and shooting the shit. One of them, Mario, had been busted for breaking-and-entering, and Oliviero was in for assault with a deadly weapon. Dean hadn’t asked more, but Olli had been pretty forthcoming when he’d raised his eyebrow in question.
“My old man got handsy with my sis” was enough for Dean to nod and smile grimly. If anyone ever got handsy with Sam, he knew, he’d be in for more than just assault. Or not, depending on his dad leaving him something to clean up.
So Olli and Mario were talking to him, teasing him for his youth and his attitude and that was why it took a while to sink in: he wasn’t watched anymore.
Whoever it was that had had his eyes on him, he wasn’t there anymore. Or not interested, maybe.
**
After dinner, which he and one of the other kids had to serve, much to the amusement of the inmates, Dean was relieved from kitchen-duty and re-assigned to the library. Of course, he mused while following the guard, even in prison he managed to get dumped into the library. Life wasn’t fair.
The room was dusty and dark, and when the light was switched on it was too bright and clinical to fool anyone into believing it was a free place. The windows were high up and barred, the shelves seemed shaky and old and had probably been cheap or even from charity. They didn’t match, some where a different color, some a different make, some plastic and some wood.
Even Dean, who was not a book-person, had to admit that every other library he’d been in was comfy in comparison.
“Now, boy. There’s Bob O over there. He’s gonna tell ya what to do and where to put what. Have fun” the guard winked, and Dean didn’t really care for his lewd smirk. He was joking. Right? Right?
“You the Kid?” A man - no, a fucking mountain! - appeared from behind one of the shelves, tattooed and bald and with arms the size of his dad’s thighs. He had small eyes, squinty, and his chest was really giving the prison-slacks a test for stability. Dean was pretty sure that if Bob O would breathe in he would have to duck the flying fabric.
He was smelly and three of his teeth looked black until Dean realized that they were simply missing.
“Uhm…” All bravado faded when the Mountain grinned a lewd smile and took a loooong look, his gaze travelling all over, stilling on his crotch and then again at his mouth. “W-What should I… do? Here? I mean…”
Fuck. So much for not showing fear. Dean straightened and tried to look confident, but he was pretty sure that the guy was seeing right inside and realizing that he was pretty shaken.
“Well well well… You aaw’ a fiiiiine boy tha’s brought to me. Fiiiine boy indeed…”
Dean swallowed, hard, and tried to find something - anything - to be used as defense should Mr. Happy Giant make good on his gaze. There were only books, most of them paperbacks. Those wouldn’t help much, but maybe he could … give him a papercut?
“Look,” he tried “I’m really not here to give you trouble or anything. Also, I’m really not tasty and so, uh, I’m all stringy. So please, don’t eat me?”
The man before him startled and was there a tick in the corner of his eyes? Just when Dean was sure he saw a ghost of a smile - and he was really good at spotting ghosts, just so you know! - Bob’s face fell back into a mask of lust and there was absolutely no hint of humor in it. Dean must’ve imagined it.
“Naaaaw, you ain’t no trouble, pretty boy. Noooo trouble at all…”
Great.
**
Two hours.
Two hours of that mountain breathing over his neck, of that giant leering at him and making lewd remarks and Dean was ready to crack. So far, there hadn’t been anything really… upsetting, but he was feeling caged in and threatened nonetheless. And when Bob touched his lower back, quite gently considering what he’d told him what he liked to do ‘wi’ em preeeetty boys’, his resistance snapped.
He threw back his elbow, dark satisfaction curling in his stomach when he felt it connecting with something. “Stop touching me, you freaking pervert!” he yelled, whirling around sharply to deliver a second punch. Bob was a half-foot away from him, rubbing his cheekbone which had been hit. The sight of that made Dean’s elbow tingle and his brain aware of the spreading tendrils of pain that were crawling up his arm. He shook them off, buried them deep. There was a threat in front of him, and he had to concentrate.
“Boy-o-boy, ya shoul’na hav’ don tha’”, Bob murmured and Dean snarled, not even embarrassed about the animal-like sound. The man-mountain was in front of him, between the exit and Dean and there was a wall to his left and shelves to his right. He knew from the time spent stacking books that the shelves led into a dead-end, and that was not where Dean wanted to end.
He had to get past the prisoner, somehow. Pure strength wasn’t gonna do anything, but maybe he could outwit the man?
Swiftly, Dean delivered a kick to the Bob’s instep, not really meaning to connect but trying to make him back off a little. It worked, and though the mountain grinned over getting his foot out of the way, Dean had gotten one baby-step further to escaping.
“S’ the madder, boy-o? Not fast ‘nough?”
Despite being scared shitless, this time Dean didn’t talk. It was more than simply being watched and being creeped out. He was in real danger here and weaponless, there was no second, no brain-cell, no breath left to waste. He needed to focus on survival. With a growl, he charged swiftly, feigning a hook to the man’s midsection but kicking out with his knee into his groin instead when Bob tried to dodge.
It was a good move, a great one even. Bob groaned and moaned and slumped over, leaving a small but workable space between him and the shelf. Taking the chance, Dean slipped through the opening and behind the man, all senses locked on escaping.
He didn’t make it.
Huge hands grabbed his arm, yanked him back against a chest full of muscle and a hard, unyielding stomach, an arm snaking around his midriff and holding him fast.
“NO!” Dean yelled, struggling hard. “No, let go, let go, let me out!”
But the man held him, tightening his grip the more Dean struggled and wriggled and growled into his ear. “Mistake, mistake, buddy. Good move but boy, never ever leave your enemies standing, never ever let an enemy behind your back, not if he’s not lying down in agony”
“Fuck, you fucker, let me go! I’ll show you agony if you don’t, you stupid, moronic meat-ball!”
“Oh boy, oh boy… another very important lesson? Never ever insult anyone who’s got the drop on ya”
And without any apparent effort, the man turned them around, not even slightly bothered by Dean’s fighting and kicking. He shoved him against the wall and pressed into him, moved one of his now free paws over Dean’s mouth and held it shut. No matter how much he tried, Dean couldn’t move his jaw enough to bite him. He wanted to, oh fuck, did he want to.
“Now, boy, let me teach you a very, very important lesson” the disgusting warmth of another person’s breath made Dean want to puke, shivers of strain and fear and cold terror running over his skin. “In here, the rules are simple and hard. I told you some already, but there are a few basic ones: don’t be weak or show fear, or anyone will take advantage of it. Don’t be too hard or too strong, or anyone will try to get one over you. Don’t be overconfident, because that only makes them want to show you your place - and it ain’t anywhere near where you think it is. Don’t be rude, don’t be too cocky and don’t show your cards before you have to. And you wanna know the important thing?” Dean tried to shake his head but it wouldn’t budge, the arms holding him too strong. He felt a moist breath in his ear and the hot body pressing even closer, like trying to push him into the wall. Bob started to whisper now, lowly and wet and so full of a promise that it made Dean’s insides whimper. “Do not look like a victim”
With that, Bob snatched him at his shoulder, turned Dean around quickly and shoved his back against the wall, head cracking on the concrete with a dull sound.
“I’ll do ya a faiva, boy. Won’t leave no bruises on ya face. No-un will know, juuuuust the two of us” chuckling, the man started to hum while caressing Dean’s body through the jumpsuit “we can make it if we try, just the two of us…”
When he’d reached his hips, Bob looked into his eyes and a wicked grin spread over his ugly face. Slowly, his hand wandered farther along his thigh and just when his thumb was close to Dean’s privates, it was enough.
Up to then, the arm pressing into his neck had been sufficient to hold Dean still but this… this was gonna end only one way, only one possible way this could go. No, not this, not here, not that man, not now. Not ever … not ever. No. No no no no nononononono!
“No!” it punched out of him, “NO!”
Any other time, Dean might’ve been embarrassed about the inhuman screech he let out, but dignity was far from his mind now. Despite the arm near-crushing his windpipe, Dean took up his struggles again, harder than before even though he’d have bet anything that it wasn’t possible. He kicked and scratched and headbutted, used his arms, legs, knees and fingers to cause damage, any kind, even the smallest would help. He might end up fucked anyway, but he wouldn’t lie down and take it. He would not!
Something hard connected with his already hurting elbow, he felt something snap in his finger. His head hurt from the concrete-wall and probably from the chin it had made contact with and it felt like one of his teeth was loose. Dean wasn’t screaming, not yelling or making any kind of noise except an angry, furious hiss. He didn’t care anymore about the outcome. If he would end up dead, the only thing he could take with him was the satisfaction of doing the most damage that was possible against an opponent like this. His Dad wouldn’t have reasons to be ashamed. He’d have fucking evidence how hard he’d struggled, how long he’d fought, even if it killed him. Might be better anyway.
“Stop, kid, stop, stop!” he heard through his haze and pain but he didn’t, wouldn’t. He couldn’t stop, not like this.
With a kick, his legs were suddenly swept out from under him and he fell to the floor, hard. The breath went out of his lungs and before he could catch himself, Bob was sitting upon him, knees left and right from his upper body, pinning his arms down. He was trapped, underneath his attacker, his orange-clothed crotch close enough to see.
It only made him struggle more, wriggling, kicking, moving like an eel but he couldn’t escape, couldn’t move, couldn’t hit anything. He was trapped, trapped, trappedtrappedtrapped and he couldn’t breathe, a heavy weight on his chest. Dean took in more air, and more, but it wouldn’t reach his lungs. He was suffocating, dying, pinned like a fucking butterfly and he’d die, die, maybe…
Last thing he saw before everything turned black was a heavy fist coming right at his face.
Next
Author:marlowe78
Rating: Adult, I'm pretty sure
Characters: Dean, OMCs (some John, Sam and a little old lady with a sailor's mouth)
Word count: 7.709
Warnings: rape, violence
Thanks go to soncnica as always for being awesome.
Summary: He’d have to learn to take the consequences into account and decide after contemplating them if it was worth the risk. If a bag of sweets and a six-pack of beer was really worth it.
Written for this prompt by crowley-gal: Okay, I was bored and flipping through channels trying to find something to watch on TV and came across a show called beyond scared straight.
It was about a group of at risk teens taken to an adult prison for a day to see what it is like.
So of course, I had to ask myself don't this seem like a great thing for Dean to experience.
...
I know that Dean fit in to prison life well in Folsom Prison Blues but I would think that 15-17 year old Dean would have a different reaction.
Original prompt
When he got caught, Dean didn’t take it seriously. He’d been caught before, shoplifting or a little b and e. Didn’t ever matter, he’d learned to use his mouth with a stunning alacrity, as he’d been assured.
No, not that kind of alacrity. Jesus. Perverts!
Dean was a master of the tongue, a wielder of eyelashes, a fucking genius with excuses and the overall heavyweight-champion of the sad, hungry and sorrowful, lost gaze.
It hadn’t failed him once since kindergarten, and so it was no wonder he was surprised when the woman behind the counter didn’t lift her gun from him while calling the sheriff.
Dean knew guns, better than anything else, if he was honest, and it made him able to judge her stance and her familiarity with the weapon. It was a Winchester double-barrel shotgun - what irony - safety still on but her brown-speckled thumb was close enough to it to tell him that it was deliberation and not lack of knowledge that had it still locked.
She clicked it on before taking one hand away to dial, and still she didn’t waver, aim straight on him. No, Dean wasn’t gonna move an inch in that shop. Not one fucking inch.
“Ben? Yeah, got me one ‘a those shopliftin’ scumbags here…” Wow, the little old lady, certainly beyond seventy, had a sailor’s mouth nearly as bad as his dad. “What? Naw, still breathn’…. Yeah, well, hurry up ya lazy ass ova here, boy, and git me that little fuck outa my shop and teach hima fucking lesson already. … What? Jeeezas, fucking fifth time in a month an’ you gonna tell me howta handle them young punks? If you ain’t handling them, you can pick ‘em up tussed and trussed, or I’ll try savin’ the worlds some tax-dollars for putting scum like that behind bars…. Jeeezus, shut ya mouth and git that boy outta here!”
She slammed the receiver on the phone and stared at Dean with cold eyes and a lot of disgust. The thought of apologizing went right out of his mind and the innocent, guilty smile fell from his face with that stare and Dean felt himself shrinking to the size of Sammy.
“What’cha looking at, punk?” she sneered and like a dog in front of its pack-leader, he averted his gaze to the floor. He didn’t want to test if she’d been serious on the phone.
**
His dad, surprisingly, hadn’t brushed the incident off like Dean had hoped and imagined. Usually, he got a cuff to the head and a ‘don’t let that happen again’ and that’d be it, but this time, he got a real talking to.
The basics of the rant was that Dean had to learn to take responsibility for the fuck-ups he created and that he couldn’t live on the belief that someone would dig him out of the shit he was in. He’d have to learn to take the consequences into account and decide after contemplating them if it was worth the risk. If a bag of sweets and a six-pack of beer was really worth it.
Years later, Dean would understand that piece of wisdom. Now, though, he was just pissed and disappointed.
What good was his dad when he wouldn’t even be able to get him out of this stupid sentence? “Scare ‘em straight” was the name of that lunatic-idea. Put the delinquents in with real criminals for a day and a night to get them to understand the severity of the path they were treading.
Bull-shit.
Dean knew about severity fine, thanks very much. Severe concussion, severe lacerations, severe alcohol-poisoning, severe monsters. His fucking life was severe.
“It’ll do you good” was all, Dad had said and Dean hadn’t had the guts to tell him that he didn’t think so. “Suck it up and learn something”, Dad had said and yeah this time Dean hadn’t even bothered to take a deep breath to argue.
What could he learn in a fucking prison anyway? Maybe they’d teach him how to cook better.
Yeah. No, not much chance for that.
**
“So then, Winchester. Ready to learn your lessons?” the guard asked and since there was no alternative, Dean nodded. “Good. Over here, spread you legs and bend over”
**
Not an experience Dean wanted to repeat. Like, ever.
**
“Winchester? Your number’s fourteen-eighty. Don’t forget, it’s the name you’ll be called. Now, kids” the head-guard announced to the ten boys around Dean’s age who were assembled in the yard, shackles on hands and feet and clad in disgusting orange. He’d been the last one, due to alphabetical reasons. Next to him stood a slight kid with dyed hair, a nose-ring and two earrings. In one ear.
He looked bored and relaxed, something Dean wanted to copy but couldn’t quite manage. He was tense as a bowstring and shifting, no matter how much he forced himself to calm down. His hands were itching under the metal and even though he hated to admit it, he was scared.
This wasn’t a den of rawheads, or a pissed-off ghost. This were people, hard people, angry people and they didn’t have much to lose. Most importantly, Dean didn’t have a weapon and salt would be more than useless except if he threw it into someone’s eyes. And even then it wouldn’t help for long.
All his life, masses of people had made Dean uncomfortable. He knew the worth of anonymity, but he also knew a lot about the danger lurking in between a crowd. In every human, actually.
So Warren, the kid next to him, was admirable in his coolness. No matter that Dean knew how to shoot a gun and kill twenty kinds of monsters - this boy probably knew more about real life than Dean ever would. Even more than Sammy ever wished to know, he secretly thought, but that was the moment they got shuffled along and into the cell-block.
**
”You’ll be placed with real prisoners, though of course with your own cell. You’ll see the day-to-day life in a prison and what it entails and you’ll hopefully decide that this is not a place you want to visit again”
The judge had been stern and hard, looking at Dean with disapproval. He’d stood in front of him alone; Dad had to take care of Sam, or something. He wasn’t really sure why his father hadn’t come with but there had been some explanation the night before. He was pretty sure, at least.
**
“Hey, Warren!” Dean called to the cool boy. “Wait up, man” For his trouble, Dean got a sneer and a cold shoulder, though to be fair Warren waited a little so he could catch up.
“What? And stop calling my name in here! I don’t wanna anyone know it”
“Uh... oh, yeah, sorry. Right, that’s pretty smart. Uhm…” Dean scratched his head “So… what did they bust you for?”
“You want some advise, kid?” Dean felt himself bristle at the nickname. He wasn’t much younger than Warren, if at all. He was sixteen, and Warren wouldn’t have been over eighteen or he’d be in here for real. “Don’t ever ask that, don’t ever talk to anyone. Don’t let them see you’re new to this and don’t interact with them. They are scum, and soon you’ll be outa here. So remember that” He turned, his earring wiggling in the harsh neon-light and threw one more advice over his shoulder “Don’t make friends here, boy, and don’t ever talk to me again”
Raising his eyebrows, Dean stared after him. Huh.
**
So for the rest of the morning, Dean tried to do as Warren had said. It made sense, in a way, to try and keep your head down and not interact. The prisoners looked at the kids with expressions reigning from mild interest down to outright disgust, but the worst were the stares Dean felt on the back of his neck, the ones that were hidden the moment he turned around to find the source. It made his skin prickle and his hair stand on end, and still, even with all the training, he couldn’t ever find who was responsible.
Oh, he knew that kind of stare. Had felt it before, once he’d even got the follow-up-grip on his ass, and he wasn’t talking about the … nope, not going there. Not ever. He’d also seen the look pointed at Sammy, though, and that time it had been very obvious who it was.
That creepy fucker would probably still need a cast on his wrist, Dean thought. He’d been pretty thorough.
So up until midday, he tried to find the creep who was too interested in his skin, jumpy, jittery and fucking scared. Yes, scared. No-one there to impress, so he could admit it, at least to himself. Also, his dad had said often that fear was healthy, fear kept you alive and sharpened your senses. As long as you didn’t let it act for your brain, it was a good thing to have. Just never let it take control.
It was hard, controlling the shivers that ran up his spine when Dean was placed in the kitchen. He peeled potatoes and tried to catch a glimpse at his admirer, but the kitchen was open to the common-room and anyone in there or with him behind the counter could be responsible.
Fear had always made Dean act weird. Some people got quiet and hid, some went quiet and dangerous, like his dad. Dean, though, it made talkative and cocky.
“So, any of you guys ever heard about the potato that looked like God?” he asked into the quiet hum of conversation around him. “No? Well, let me tell ya, it got really surprised when it learned that Last Supper was meant literal…”
He didn’t stop after that bad joke. He couldn’t stop, not after letting his mouth run free. Weirdly enough, talking made his mind sharp, gave total clarity to his surroundings and made him aware of all the weapons around him. He could stab anyone who’d dare touch him, a potato to the nose could break it and incapacitate anybody, at least long enough to get away. He was still lanky but his muscles were trained and strong. He might not ever get one over the tough guys out there, but he was slippery and fast. And there was the secret weapon. That was pretty helpful, as he’d learned. Good thing Dad had told him about it.
After a while, he noticed that the men around him had changed their attitude. Instead of annoyed boredom all over, he now got two guys leaning against the counter and talking to him, grinning and shooting the shit. One of them, Mario, had been busted for breaking-and-entering, and Oliviero was in for assault with a deadly weapon. Dean hadn’t asked more, but Olli had been pretty forthcoming when he’d raised his eyebrow in question.
“My old man got handsy with my sis” was enough for Dean to nod and smile grimly. If anyone ever got handsy with Sam, he knew, he’d be in for more than just assault. Or not, depending on his dad leaving him something to clean up.
So Olli and Mario were talking to him, teasing him for his youth and his attitude and that was why it took a while to sink in: he wasn’t watched anymore.
Whoever it was that had had his eyes on him, he wasn’t there anymore. Or not interested, maybe.
**
After dinner, which he and one of the other kids had to serve, much to the amusement of the inmates, Dean was relieved from kitchen-duty and re-assigned to the library. Of course, he mused while following the guard, even in prison he managed to get dumped into the library. Life wasn’t fair.
The room was dusty and dark, and when the light was switched on it was too bright and clinical to fool anyone into believing it was a free place. The windows were high up and barred, the shelves seemed shaky and old and had probably been cheap or even from charity. They didn’t match, some where a different color, some a different make, some plastic and some wood.
Even Dean, who was not a book-person, had to admit that every other library he’d been in was comfy in comparison.
“Now, boy. There’s Bob O over there. He’s gonna tell ya what to do and where to put what. Have fun” the guard winked, and Dean didn’t really care for his lewd smirk. He was joking. Right? Right?
“You the Kid?” A man - no, a fucking mountain! - appeared from behind one of the shelves, tattooed and bald and with arms the size of his dad’s thighs. He had small eyes, squinty, and his chest was really giving the prison-slacks a test for stability. Dean was pretty sure that if Bob O would breathe in he would have to duck the flying fabric.
He was smelly and three of his teeth looked black until Dean realized that they were simply missing.
“Uhm…” All bravado faded when the Mountain grinned a lewd smile and took a loooong look, his gaze travelling all over, stilling on his crotch and then again at his mouth. “W-What should I… do? Here? I mean…”
Fuck. So much for not showing fear. Dean straightened and tried to look confident, but he was pretty sure that the guy was seeing right inside and realizing that he was pretty shaken.
“Well well well… You aaw’ a fiiiiine boy tha’s brought to me. Fiiiine boy indeed…”
Dean swallowed, hard, and tried to find something - anything - to be used as defense should Mr. Happy Giant make good on his gaze. There were only books, most of them paperbacks. Those wouldn’t help much, but maybe he could … give him a papercut?
“Look,” he tried “I’m really not here to give you trouble or anything. Also, I’m really not tasty and so, uh, I’m all stringy. So please, don’t eat me?”
The man before him startled and was there a tick in the corner of his eyes? Just when Dean was sure he saw a ghost of a smile - and he was really good at spotting ghosts, just so you know! - Bob’s face fell back into a mask of lust and there was absolutely no hint of humor in it. Dean must’ve imagined it.
“Naaaaw, you ain’t no trouble, pretty boy. Noooo trouble at all…”
Great.
**
Two hours.
Two hours of that mountain breathing over his neck, of that giant leering at him and making lewd remarks and Dean was ready to crack. So far, there hadn’t been anything really… upsetting, but he was feeling caged in and threatened nonetheless. And when Bob touched his lower back, quite gently considering what he’d told him what he liked to do ‘wi’ em preeeetty boys’, his resistance snapped.
He threw back his elbow, dark satisfaction curling in his stomach when he felt it connecting with something. “Stop touching me, you freaking pervert!” he yelled, whirling around sharply to deliver a second punch. Bob was a half-foot away from him, rubbing his cheekbone which had been hit. The sight of that made Dean’s elbow tingle and his brain aware of the spreading tendrils of pain that were crawling up his arm. He shook them off, buried them deep. There was a threat in front of him, and he had to concentrate.
“Boy-o-boy, ya shoul’na hav’ don tha’”, Bob murmured and Dean snarled, not even embarrassed about the animal-like sound. The man-mountain was in front of him, between the exit and Dean and there was a wall to his left and shelves to his right. He knew from the time spent stacking books that the shelves led into a dead-end, and that was not where Dean wanted to end.
He had to get past the prisoner, somehow. Pure strength wasn’t gonna do anything, but maybe he could outwit the man?
Swiftly, Dean delivered a kick to the Bob’s instep, not really meaning to connect but trying to make him back off a little. It worked, and though the mountain grinned over getting his foot out of the way, Dean had gotten one baby-step further to escaping.
“S’ the madder, boy-o? Not fast ‘nough?”
Despite being scared shitless, this time Dean didn’t talk. It was more than simply being watched and being creeped out. He was in real danger here and weaponless, there was no second, no brain-cell, no breath left to waste. He needed to focus on survival. With a growl, he charged swiftly, feigning a hook to the man’s midsection but kicking out with his knee into his groin instead when Bob tried to dodge.
It was a good move, a great one even. Bob groaned and moaned and slumped over, leaving a small but workable space between him and the shelf. Taking the chance, Dean slipped through the opening and behind the man, all senses locked on escaping.
He didn’t make it.
Huge hands grabbed his arm, yanked him back against a chest full of muscle and a hard, unyielding stomach, an arm snaking around his midriff and holding him fast.
“NO!” Dean yelled, struggling hard. “No, let go, let go, let me out!”
But the man held him, tightening his grip the more Dean struggled and wriggled and growled into his ear. “Mistake, mistake, buddy. Good move but boy, never ever leave your enemies standing, never ever let an enemy behind your back, not if he’s not lying down in agony”
“Fuck, you fucker, let me go! I’ll show you agony if you don’t, you stupid, moronic meat-ball!”
“Oh boy, oh boy… another very important lesson? Never ever insult anyone who’s got the drop on ya”
And without any apparent effort, the man turned them around, not even slightly bothered by Dean’s fighting and kicking. He shoved him against the wall and pressed into him, moved one of his now free paws over Dean’s mouth and held it shut. No matter how much he tried, Dean couldn’t move his jaw enough to bite him. He wanted to, oh fuck, did he want to.
“Now, boy, let me teach you a very, very important lesson” the disgusting warmth of another person’s breath made Dean want to puke, shivers of strain and fear and cold terror running over his skin. “In here, the rules are simple and hard. I told you some already, but there are a few basic ones: don’t be weak or show fear, or anyone will take advantage of it. Don’t be too hard or too strong, or anyone will try to get one over you. Don’t be overconfident, because that only makes them want to show you your place - and it ain’t anywhere near where you think it is. Don’t be rude, don’t be too cocky and don’t show your cards before you have to. And you wanna know the important thing?” Dean tried to shake his head but it wouldn’t budge, the arms holding him too strong. He felt a moist breath in his ear and the hot body pressing even closer, like trying to push him into the wall. Bob started to whisper now, lowly and wet and so full of a promise that it made Dean’s insides whimper. “Do not look like a victim”
With that, Bob snatched him at his shoulder, turned Dean around quickly and shoved his back against the wall, head cracking on the concrete with a dull sound.
“I’ll do ya a faiva, boy. Won’t leave no bruises on ya face. No-un will know, juuuuust the two of us” chuckling, the man started to hum while caressing Dean’s body through the jumpsuit “we can make it if we try, just the two of us…”
When he’d reached his hips, Bob looked into his eyes and a wicked grin spread over his ugly face. Slowly, his hand wandered farther along his thigh and just when his thumb was close to Dean’s privates, it was enough.
Up to then, the arm pressing into his neck had been sufficient to hold Dean still but this… this was gonna end only one way, only one possible way this could go. No, not this, not here, not that man, not now. Not ever … not ever. No. No no no no nononononono!
“No!” it punched out of him, “NO!”
Any other time, Dean might’ve been embarrassed about the inhuman screech he let out, but dignity was far from his mind now. Despite the arm near-crushing his windpipe, Dean took up his struggles again, harder than before even though he’d have bet anything that it wasn’t possible. He kicked and scratched and headbutted, used his arms, legs, knees and fingers to cause damage, any kind, even the smallest would help. He might end up fucked anyway, but he wouldn’t lie down and take it. He would not!
Something hard connected with his already hurting elbow, he felt something snap in his finger. His head hurt from the concrete-wall and probably from the chin it had made contact with and it felt like one of his teeth was loose. Dean wasn’t screaming, not yelling or making any kind of noise except an angry, furious hiss. He didn’t care anymore about the outcome. If he would end up dead, the only thing he could take with him was the satisfaction of doing the most damage that was possible against an opponent like this. His Dad wouldn’t have reasons to be ashamed. He’d have fucking evidence how hard he’d struggled, how long he’d fought, even if it killed him. Might be better anyway.
“Stop, kid, stop, stop!” he heard through his haze and pain but he didn’t, wouldn’t. He couldn’t stop, not like this.
With a kick, his legs were suddenly swept out from under him and he fell to the floor, hard. The breath went out of his lungs and before he could catch himself, Bob was sitting upon him, knees left and right from his upper body, pinning his arms down. He was trapped, underneath his attacker, his orange-clothed crotch close enough to see.
It only made him struggle more, wriggling, kicking, moving like an eel but he couldn’t escape, couldn’t move, couldn’t hit anything. He was trapped, trapped, trappedtrappedtrapped and he couldn’t breathe, a heavy weight on his chest. Dean took in more air, and more, but it wouldn’t reach his lungs. He was suffocating, dying, pinned like a fucking butterfly and he’d die, die, maybe…
Last thing he saw before everything turned black was a heavy fist coming right at his face.
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