Author's Note: Hi. This is the first chapter of Righteous, posted as a four part series on Archive of our Own under the account name Ashitanoyuki (yes, that is me, message my AO3 account to confirm it). This fic is not nice, not pleasant, and is potentially triggering. Warnings for rape, kidnap, violence, graphic murder, torture, attempted genocide, cannibalism, slavery, and a bunch of other things. I have not yet decided what to do with the extremely explicit chapters-I might well just post links to explicit scenes, since if I am correct, FFN does not allow graphic sex scenes.
Do not take advice from this story. If you are easily offended, this is not for you. If you are easily grossed out, this is not for you. There will be Wincest, Destiel, Samifer, and a whole bunch of other pairings, none of which are healthy, none of which are pleasant. Consider yourself warned. Whining about the graphic, obscenely twisted nature of the story will likely put me in the hospital from laughter. I don't like hospitals, so please just don't. Criticism is fine, insults that contain no criticism are not (insults that contain criticism may sting a bit, but I will still appreciate them in the end).
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Black market connections and shady favors had never been a problem for the Winchester family. Perhaps that is why John Winchester had felt no qualms about killing his wife on November second, 1983. It may have been a fight, a misunderstanding, or a simple rage, but even though he had barely been old enough to remember, Dean Winchester was certain that his mother had died for no better reason than his father's twisted, deranged passion for murder. His memories of that night were hazy; had anyone asked him, he would have described pulling his baby brother out of a room painted in blood as his father doused the house with gasoline. They never went back to the charred wreck of a place. Had it not been for his father's focus on the importance of family, he might have not even remembered that his last name was Winchester; he never used his real name for anything official again. Starting from the night when his father killed his mother, he became a shadow of a person, jumping from place to place with his father and brother, never staying in one area long enough for the cops to catch on to his father's illicit deals and murder sprees.
Dean was ten years old the first time he killed a man. He had no sooner gotten Sammy home from school than his father grabbed his brother and stuffed him in the tiny closet of their ramshackle motel room. If asked, he would have reminisced about helping his father drag one of the creaky double beds in front of the door—"Sammy is too young to see this yet," his father had said—and grabbing a shotgun on his father's orders. "Make sure the silencer is on," the man had said, or something to that extent. Dean could not have told an asker about every murder he committed, but he would have insisted that a man always remembers his first kill, especially if he was not a man when he made it. He remembered pressing the gun to the man's temple as his father held him by the shoulders, pleas silenced by a greasy rag soaked in motor oil. "Caught this bastard trying to break into the car," John had said, looking at the man in disgust, or had he met Dean's eyes with that cold, lifeless stare he had when he had been drinking? It would be foolish to expect Dean to remember. What he did remember was the look of terror in the man's watery grey eyes, terror mixed with disbelief that his killer was only a child. Dean could have told anyone about the kick from the shotgun and the mess of blood and brains that oozed onto the floor as he shot the man point-blank in the temple. He could have reminisced about covering the man with a threadbare sheet, about pulling Sammy out of the closet and ordering him to keep his mouth shut, keep it shutand never speak of this incident, especially not to anyone at his next school. Dean was not stupid; a kill right in their motel room meant that they were moving towns yet again.
They never stayed in one place more than two months, and even then that was only if they were lucky. Dean grew used to changing his name to match the identity his father chose, to changing schools, and above all, to keeping an eye on Sam, who never seemed to adjust very well to a life of moving and secrets. Family was everything—John had taught them that, and if Dean knew anything, it was that John was right or the dissenter was dead. People were not important; they were stupid and meaningless. Family was the only thing that mattered, family and the ones close to it. That meant that it was his responsibility to keep Sammy in line, for his sake and for John's. If John went to jail, he and Sammy would be shipped off to foster care, and he would never see him again. John had made that perfectly clear. So he put on a brave face at school and lied through his teeth to Mr. Singer—Bobby, as the family contact insisted upon being called—and perfected his speech excusing Sam's tales of his father's hobbies as the result of too many horror movies and never, ever talked back when John took him along to help him bury a body. Looking back, Dean would not have called it a good life or a happy childhood, but it was the one that he had, and as long as Sammy was in it, everything was all right.
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Sam was seventeen when he decided that he had to get out at any cost. All the lying, and the moving, and the killing that had formed his childhood had taken a toll on him, he would have said. In truth, it was none of the above. He had developed a taste for killing the first time he had gunned a man down, at fourteen years old. There was a rush, a thrill to it, that was certain, but it was a risky business with too much chance for error and arrest. Smart enough to get into college on a full ride, Sam would have told anyone who asked that he wanted to make something of his life, but that would be a lie—it was simply that working as a prosecutor for murder cases would allow him to kill indirectly, and most importantly, legally. His father had screamed and thrown things when Sam had shown him his acceptance letter to Stanford, while Dean had stood there watching, intervening only when John went for Sam's throat. If asked, Sam would have lied and said that he had not missed Dean, but truth or not, college was the only way out of this dangerous, illegal life.
Sam's good looks had worked in his favor, where scholarship money did not cover everything. Had sex meant anything to Sam, he would have been miserable putting himself through college, but financial aid did not cover the food and housing he needed to stay off campus, where he belonged. It became a simple routine to wander the streets on the weekends, keeping an eye out for adventurous women and lecherous men. Most of them were lucky enough to make it out alive, though Sam's policies towards his customers did mean that some of them went missing shortly after their encounters. Had anyone thought to question Sam, they would have come away empty, victims of his charming smile and innocent demeanor. His bills went paid, he went fed and educated, and the whole system worked quite nicely in his favor.
Perhaps it would have continued, and he would have reached his dream of becoming a prosecutor and sending men to the chair and the injection, had Dean never knocked on his door.