Hello! This is a collaborative work, so if something seems a bit off or the writing doesn't quite match up, let us know and we'll be happy to smooth it over. You'll notice that the characters might be a little out of what they normally are. This is normal for an AU. Especially one that's going to be as dark as this. Give us time and a chance.

WARNINGS: prison!au, Homophobia, Police Brutality, Alternate Universe - Prison, Police state, re-education, cure the gay, Starvation, deprivation, Pseudoscience, Brainwashing, re-orientation, Angst, Romance, Heterosexual Sex, Male Homosexuality, Homosexual Sex, Denial, Alternate Universe - Human

Pairings: Sabriel and Sam/Ruby

(By the way we don't own the boys, obviously. And this is crossposted to AO3)

Sam remembered the day very clearly. It was the eighteenth of September. The weather outside had already turned crisp and cool, and he was carefree in a way he'd thought he could never be. He had arrived at home, smiling and laughing with his brother, cheeks red from the cold air.

That's when it all fell apart.

There were three policemen in his living room. His father looked murderous, and his mother just looked like she'd wanted to cry.

"How could you do this to us?" They'd asked.

Sam had no reply. He thought he'd been careful.

The police hauled him away for reeducation. Dean fought with one of them, a short cute blonde that he'd given a bloody lip.

That was three years ago. Now he was wasted, and thin, and still not cured.

He didn't want to be. The cute guard was nice and always got a little flustered when he flirted. He scribbled something out on the letter he was writing to his brother. Dean had gotten married, had a cute little kid, and he was trying to find words of congratulations, but all he could remember was the sting of disappointment even though he knew that Dean had tried his hardest.

He shoved the paper away and scrubbed at his face with one hand. Nose wrinkled at the state of his uniform, he knocked his tin cup against the wall. "Hey, I've been locked in here for three days. Let me out. I need to shower."

At first, Sam received absolutely no response, however, that was to be expected; it always took a while to get anyone's attention, probably because most of the staff were extremely resentful of their patents. Then came the long-awaited clacking of shoes against the floor as one of the guards made their way down the hall.

"Are you ready to cooperate?" The guard did not show his face, but it was clear simply by the rough edge of his voice that he was not the one Sam fancied. Ah, well. It was still better than the silence that had previously consumed the room.

"Sure, sweet cheeks." Sam laughed and slid out of the chair to the floor, "I'll blow you for a decent shower and a good meal." He sat up on his knees, opened his mouth, and winked.

The guard sputtered. Oh, he must be new, this was precious. He rapped the baton against the bars of Sam's cell. "If you're going to take that attitude then, no. I was warned about you, boy."

"Ohh, who told you about precious little old me?" Sam laughed.

"That's none of your business," the guard replied shortly. "You don't get to shower or eat until you're willing to talk to the psychiatrist again. You know Naomi only wants to help you." The tone of his voice had changed, gone soft as if he really believed the tripe he was talking about.

"Help? I…" he slammed his fist into the chair before using it to haul himself to his feet. "I don't need help." he hissed.

The guard shook his head and, as he made his way back to his post, Sam could hear him murmur, "Yeah, that's what they all say."

Then, silence-that thick, crippling silence that he hated so much, the kind that was so deafening, even bloodcurdling screams would have been more soothing to the ears. For three days, he'd been locked up, with only such a maddening absence of sound to keep him company and, as of now, it was beginning to look like his confinement might be lasting four or five days, plus.

He turned around in his cell, fists clenching and unclenching. "Bet you've never even gotten laid," he growled out finally. "That's why you're such a prick." He turned back to the door and pressed himself up against the bars, obscenely. "You know, I'd do it too." he grinned, "I'd give you the best damn blow job you ever had. I just want a shower, man. I stink. I'm hungry. Give me your best shot." Then he moaned and licked one of the bars.

The guard could see him, he knew it. And it may not be today, but one day that asshole's curiosity would get the better of him, and he could get out of this fucking cage. Until then… he moaned a little louder.

"Well, it's no wonder they haven't let you out yet. You're obviously in heat and extremely dangerous."

Although Sam hadn't seen him come in, that voice would've caught his attention anytime, anywhere. The blonde guard-who, unlike Sam's newest victim, had been with the him since day one-was leaning against the far wall, a set of keys dangling from his hand. There was not a doubt in Sam's mind that one of the keys on that massive ring had the ability to free him from this grimy little cell.

The other guard seemed taken aback, partially because the blonde, while shorter, was his superior, and partially because it was beyond awkward to have someone else walk in to such a sight as Sam pressed against the bars-Sam, whom he had been expected to keep under control.

Sam grinned and stopped undulating against the bars, "Gabriel!" he laughed. "Rescue me, take me out of here. I need to bathe, man." There was no denying the affection he felt for his keeper; maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome, but this man was nice to him when no one else was. "I only said those things because he won't even feed me anymore You know I only have eyes for you." he whined. "I miss my sandwiches. I miss you bringing me dinner, why'd you stop?"

Gabriel approached the cell with exaggerated casualness, purposely taking his sweet time, messing with Sam simply because he knew that he could. "Now, now, Sam, you know very well that you cannot get what you want by whining like a two year old."

He moved up against the bars, fingers tapping the metal thoughtfully. "Tell me, are you going to behave or do I need to leave you locked up for another night? Then again, knowing you, you'll just have too much fun screwing with the new guy if I do leave you…" His tone was mocking, and yet, there was an underlying fondness in it, making his voice seem almost endearing. Then again, when compared to everyone else in this horrid establishment, Gabriel was practically a saint, no matter how sharp a tongue he had.

"What do you want more, Sam? Shower or sandwich? Obviously, I can't give you both at once; soggy bread is about as nasty as you are smelly." As he spoke, Gabriel was already fooling with his keys, trying to locate the one he needed to let Sam out.

Sam pulled back from the bars to wait for Gabriel to open them, "I usually get what I want from you by whining; you like me," he grinned. "As for this putz? I almost had him locked up in this place with me." He leered at the other guard. "If I'd had another day or two, you'd have a new prisoner." Then he cocked his head to the side, "I mean, he's pretty, but not as pretty as you are."

He scratched at his neck and plucked at the front of his orange jumpsuit. "Shower first," he said, pressing his lips firmly together, "and a new suit. If I try to eat anything like this, I'll vomit before I can choke down the first bite. And can you get me a hair tie? This mop is driving me crazy." He tugged at a lock of his hair.

"Let's not be hasty," Gabriel warned, holding up a large brass key, a small trophy of his triumphant over the overcrowded keyring, "clean yourself up first, then we'll talk." He pushed the key into the cell's rusting lock, banging it around slightly before turning it and receiving the successful click that signified Sam's anticipated 'freedom.' Once the lock was out of the way, Gabriel swung the door open, holding out worn shackles. "You know the drill."

Had anyone accused him, the blonde would never had admitted to having any sort of attachment to Sam, nor would he admit that the act of simply holding the shackles out to Sam, rather than cuffing his prisoner himself, was an act of trust. To whomever it concerned-including the inexperienced guard that stood a ways away, watching them-the action was no more than a habit, brought about purely because they went through the same chore so often.

It wasn't terribly far-fetched. After all, Sam was smart enough to know that, should he act particularly difficult, it was right back into solitary he went-no sandwich, no shower, and certainly no hair tie. What Gabriel would conveniently leave out in the event of any kind of confrontation would be the fact that Sam only did things willingly when he, and he alone, told him to.

Sam stared at the manacles as he always did when the door was opened. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze flicked from them up to Gabriel's own honey colored eyes, and then over his guard's shoulder, as if judging how far he could get if he decided to do a runner. He took a step forward and grinned, before holding his arms out with a long suffering sigh and then a leer in the direction of the other guard.

"Come find me in the shower," he taunted. "Gabe, why do you have to keep sending schmucks like him to guard me anyway? They're terrible, and none of them has an ass as fine as yours." He wiggled his eyebrows up and down. "Come on, you know you want to bust me loose and run away with me."

This, too, was tradition-the flirting, the bargaining. He wouldn't have minded if Gabriel had taken him up on his offers. He only offered because he knew the responses now. He'd long ago given up hope for anything new, but the repetitiveness was comforting.

Sort of.

Sighing wearily, Gabriel closed the shackles around Sam's wrists and nudged him on ahead, in the general direction of the showers. "Oh yes, because we both know I am just dying to toss my career and reputation out the window in order to run away with a dreamy fugitive, such as yourself. Now, stop dawdling and keep that hot piece of ass moving; I've seen roadkill with faster reflexes."

As they made their way down the hall, Gabriel glanced over at the other guard, who was, unsurprisingly enough, still standing dumbly against the wall and watching them. "Are you going to just stand there or are you going to make your rounds and do your job, hm? Jesus, it's impossible to find good help these days!"

Immediately, the guard stumbled off of the wall and, after giving his superior an embarrassed nod, made his way in the opposite direction at a significantly quicker pace than usual. The blonde chuckled, then turned his attention back to Sam and getting him to the showers as soon as possible.

Sam, like all the other times they'd done this ritual, mosied his way down the corridor. Then, he stopped dead in the middle, and a slow grin stretched over his lips. The last two years have been exactly the same; time to shake things up. "You know," he said in a deceptively mild tone, "We could always run to Canada. I hear people like me can even get married up there."

Dangerous territory, son, his mind whispered, but he banished the thought. "You'd still be an officer of the law, you just wouldn't have to work for these cesspools anymore. Canada, land of the Free," he raised his manacled arms and gestured expansively, "instead of America, home of the assholes!"

Gabriel jabbed Sam in the low back in an attempt to get him moving again, scoffing almost inaudibly. He could see what the young man was doing and, while his attempts were technically harmless, it had been a long week; Gabriel was hardly in the mood for Sam's games.

"Yeah, well, as tempting as that sounds, I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline. See, the moment I give in to my urges, I end up in your position-with all but no chance of ever seeing Canada's border, much less making it to the country." Gabriel's tone was sharp as ever, perhaps even a little too sharp; it was verging on bitter, but then, reality had that effect on people. The moment it was given even the slightest access to the tongue, there would be trouble, which was the exact reason that Sam preferred to loosely flirt and make up absurd fantasies whenever he spoke with the blonde; the exact reason that, nine times out of ten, Gabriel chose to play along.

"Are you ensuring that we will never reach the border of the shower room either? Come on, get moving!" Gabriel jabbed him again, not too hard, but playfully, as if to soften the blow of some of his previous, harsher comments.

Sam stayed right where he was, voice dropping to almost a whisper. "I mean it, Gabriel. I play along with these assholes," his lips barely moved, "I make them think they cured me, and you can run away with me to the border." This was definitely new. While he'd poked and prodded at Gabriel before, he'd never actually been serious, until now.

Now, if he was being honest with himself, he was finally bringing real feelings to the table. He took a hesitant step forward and then another. "You wanna run away with me, Gabe? I'll take good care of you, I promise. Was gonna be a lawyer. Make good money."

"Sam…"

Gabriel could tell simply by the way the brunette's voice dropped that he was no longer mindlessly flirty; his tone shift and overall genuine uncertainty only confirmed it further. The man in front of him was not a fugitive that needed to be purged of his sins, but a human being that had so much potential and hope, if only he were allowed to live his life. Three years, Gabriel had been watching Sam practically waste away and, for the first time since the fateful day he had helped drag this young man out of a world of promise, the curtain had lifted, leaving them both bare and exposed to the true darkness of their reality, if only for a moment.

Seconds ticked by like hours, and that same silence that had condemned Sam back in his cell hung overhead, until Gabriel finally managed a tired smile and a single sentence,

"How about we just start with that shower?"