Massive props to Fearoh! The only one (at least who said) who caught the X Men reference!
Dean was led out to the yard. Before he was allowed outside he was shoved through a set of metal detectors and patted down by a burly man who looked as though he could crush a man with one fist.
When the officers were satisfied he was allowed out in the light.
Henrickson flipped through a thick manila folder; he settled on one page in particular, holding it up for a closer inspection.
He cast Dean a bored look, turning the sheet over.
It was a picture of himself set against a series of lines proclaiming his height as he gave the camera his best Blue Steel look. He was getting pretty good at it. Dean grinned.
The yard was dominated by a barren field, filled with dead grass; the color was extenuated by the obnoxious orange the prisoners wore.
Bordering the field were two sets of bleachers standing opposite one another, each filled with prisoners talking to one another. Closer to the prison the land was paved, weights were set up in one corner and a series of metal tables were set in the other covered with men playing cards.
A large fence enclosed everything. Barbed wire topped it, and at every corner there was a guard tower, with a barely visible man holding a large gun that occasionally caught the light.
In the distance Dean could make out other wings of the prison and blue spots of minimum security prisoners playing in their own part of the world. They didn't have a fence around the minimum security guys. Something about an "Honor Code." That made Dean laugh. What prisoner was honorable?
Henrickson turned a few more pages and selected another.
"My name is Dean Winchester." He read. "I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets. Long walks on the beach. And frisky women."
Henrickson cast him a bored look over the top of the page. "Funny."
It was strange.
The prison wasn't what he was expecting, it wasn't some dank pit filled with murderous scum. Well, it was, but they didn't act like it.
It was more… like a self contained system; people went about their days fully aware that they'd have to wake up again the next day and interact with the same people. There were no overt shows of aggression or dominance, no fights over games. Some people got pissed off when they lost, but they didn't turn over the table at the end. The large group of people playing cards seemed to be, if not friends, than certainly friendly acquaintances. Certainly not members of some gang.
Just as he completed the thought a fight broke out. Some lanky guy with hair that, even at a distance, looked disgustingly greasy lunged at a man with slicked back hair who looked vaguely like a tax accountant. Dean scowled at the greasy man. If he got sent to the one prison facility in the United States without a shower room he was going to kill someone.
He expected the tax accountant to get his eye blackened, but to his shock the man easily avoided the attack, moving with a fluid grace Dean (and a few others, he noted) couldn't help but admire.
The fight lasted all of five seconds, then the guards descended.
Henrickson set the file down and smiled at Dean. "You don't fool me. You act like some kind of six year old, but you're a cold hearted killer, through and through. Do you know what a prison is designed to do?"
"Provide a safe place for our kids to aspire to attend?"
Henrickson chuckled. "See what I mean? Funny. No, prison is supposed to rehabilitate people so they can go back out into society, but you... you will never get better. I know you're kind, Dean. You'll never repent. You'll never feel remorse for what you've done, or who you've killed."
Dean frowned. "Who says I killed anybody?"
Henrickson smiled. "See, that's what I'm talking about."
"Yeah," Dean said, "cause this place is just chock full of people admitting their guilt."
"Not verbally, no." Henrickson said. "But they've acknowledged, even if it's only with inside themselves, or with God, that they know what they've done. You'll never get that. You'll always think you were justified, that those people deserved to die. You're a monster. Do you know what we do with monsters?"
"Dean!"
It was Sam.
He and his friends were sitting on the bleachers closest to him. He walked over to the structure and began climbing.
On the far side of the bleachers sat a large group. They were watching the other prisoners with great intensity; most were smirking, and many talked amongst themselves, gesturing to various people and laughing. Dean was skilled enough at reading people to catch the hatred in their eyes, the malice they cast about themselves. One of the men caught him watching, and almost at once the whole group was focused on him.
The man clearly hadn't shaved in a few days, but the look suited him. He had a small smile on his face as he brought a cigarette to his lips, lighting it with an old pack of matches. Dean stopped, his attention arrested by the sight of the man's left arm. The man seemed to notice his attention, and held his arm still for inspection.
"I followed your case with some interest, you know." Henrickson said. "I knew there was two places you could go, here or San Quentin. Imagine my surprise when you dodged the death penalty and ended up here. I was mad as hell, but now you've presented me with a great opportunity." Henrickson smiled with false kindness. "Most civil rights activists will argue that solitary confinement is inhuman, it deprives you of contact with the world, leaves you all alone. Only your conscience to speak to you. For a normal person that can be unbearable. But for you? With all the evil shit you've done? I bet you'll kill yourself. And really, you'd be doing the world a favor. Now." Henrickson stood up, and walked around the desk, perching on the other side. "I'm faced with a problem. You see, the outside has its eyes on you, and me? I'm not giving them any ammo they might use to get you out of here. No, Dean, you're going to earn solitary. And you know what they say." Henrickson grinned. "Earning it makes it taste that much better. Please, Dean. Give me a reason to throw your ass in there. Anything to say?"
Dean smiled. "Pleasure meeting you."
Henrickson smirked. "I'm sure." He pressed the intercom on his desk. "Send Exley in."
Exley entered noiselessly and grabbed Dean's arm, steering him out.
"Good talk." Dean called over his shoulder. Exley shoved him forward.
Black ink swirled down from his orange shirt sleeve, tracing out intricate patterns as it made its way to his wrist. The symbols were abstract, and stood out in stark contrast to his pale skin. The upper portion of his arm contained the majority of the ink, and Dean felt he could just make out the feathers of a wing tracing their way up and out of sight. Below, set amongst the seemingly random curves and interlinking designs was one word: Lucifer.
Dean looked up and found the man smirking. He blew out a cloud of smoke and nodded to the bench across the field, then ignored him. Gradually his group looked away from him as well.
Dean didn't take his bait, and continued up the benches until he reached Sam's group. "I see you've met Lucifer." Rufus grinned.
"That can't seriously be his name." Dean said, straddling a bench.
"I've been here for twenty five years, son." Bobby said. "I don't know anyone who could tell you his real name. Even the guards call him that."
Dean nodded to himself. What did a guy have to do to earn that kind of rep? Kill a few dozen men? No, that wouldn't make sense; there had to be more. Lucifer was known for more than just killing. He fell from grace after what? A split with God, right? Interesting.
Now that Lucifer and his friends were ignoring him, Dean chanced a look across the field.
More pieces started to fall into place.
Sitting across the field was another group, slightly smaller than Lucifer's crowd and yet somehow more intense, which in itself was impressive. What drew Dean's attention was the black markings on the left arms of every man. The ink was so dense that from where he was sitting, it looked as though they wore black long sleeve shirts underneath their orange uniforms.
Dean glanced back at Lucifer's crowd. Aside from the... fallen angel, none of the others had such extensive tattoos.
"So what's with the markings?"
Rufus smirked. "Admirin' the angels?"
"Seriously? Angels?"
"Yeah," Bobby said, "every prison has its gangs and its gang violence. For whatever reason we got the angels and demons. It's easy to become a demon... you just let those fuckers work you over for a few months, and once you break they've got you. On the other hand, it's really hard to become an angel. God has to choose you."
"God?"
"That's what he calls himself. Henrickson threw him in solitary years ago in the hopes of curvin' his influence. Never stuck. The archangels seem to know what he wants and the take care of it."
Dean nodded vaguely to signal he'd heard, but at that moment he was lost within his own head. Angels and demons... it seemed ironic that he'd ended up in a prison with such a high supernatural influence. Was it intentional? Or was it coincidental?
There was no such thing as coincidences, he recalled his father saying.
Dean straightened up where he sat. If they were going to attack him on his own turf, he'd be ready for them. His father raised him as a soldier and it was time to put what he'd learned into practice. The others didn't seem to notice his internal thoughts. "Guys..." Dean asked slowly, trying to keep attention off his words. "If a man needed something, who'd he have to see?"
"Do you mean need something," Sam wagged his eyebrows, "or do you just need something?"
Dean was bewildered.
"He means sex, son." Bobby muttered.
"Ah, no then."
"Alright, I think I can help. Come on."
Sam left Rufus and Bobby to finish their card game and took Dean over to a large group of people meandering on the grass. Dean garnered a lot of looks. He met each glance, projecting an air of dominance – don't-fuck-with-me shown out through his eyes. Dean bumped into Sam when he stopped. "Dean," Sam said, "say hello to Gabriel."
Gabriel, as his name suggested, was an angel - an archangel, Dean supposed. Black ink traced up and down his arm in a similar fashion as Lucifer's, though the twisting name was far more elaborate. Gabriel scowled at his attention. "What do you want, shorty?"
"I hear you're the guy to see if you need something."
Gabriel crossed his arms. "Yeah. What's it to you?"
"I need something."
Gabriel laughed without humor. "I gathered. What is it you need?"
Dean casually looked around, checking that no one was within earshot. "I need salt. A lot of it."
This time the smile met Gabriel's eyes. "I know the food sucks, but even that won't make it better."
"Is it really your job to ask what it's for?"
Gabriel's face instantly became serious. "Alright, I hear ya."
"How much?"
"For as much salt as I can get my hands on? … forty."
Sam whistled. "That's pretty steep, Gabe."
"Come on." Gabriel said defensively. "If I put hands on some bags and Dean doesn't come up with the scratch?... I mean, what am I supposed to do with the merchandise? Who else here will want salt?"
Dean's smile sharpened. "And what do I do if I pay up and you don't come through?"
Gabriel laughed. "Don't you worry about me, child. I'll lay hands on it. Tell you what, this time you'll pay up front, and hereafter you'll pay on delivery, how about that?"
Dean considered it and conceded. "Excuse me." He turned and identified an aluminum table where a group of men were playing poker. Sam hurried to catch up. "Let me borrow the buy in, would you, Sammy?"
Sam fumbled to a pocket and withdrew five cigarettes. "You'll pay me back right?"
Dean grinned and sat down.
The men sitting around the table watched Dean with a shark like intensity, eager for new blood. Dean, though his intense record proceeded him, appeared innocent to them; each was eager to claim the man – still a boy really – for their own. Dean encouraged the notion, and within a few games had them all ensnared. Hustling was always something that came easily to him.
Dean played carefully, winning enough to make a profit, but losing enough to encourage challengers. At the end of an hour Dean stood up, gathering up his winnings. He'd made almost sixty. He counted out ten and passed them over to Sam. "Interest." He said to the man's questioning glance. Then he walked back over to Gabriel.
The archangel couldn't help but laugh as he extended a hand for his payment. Dean paused. "For forty I expect a lot of salt."
"Naturally, naturally." Gabriel replied. "I always aim to please."
Dean nodded and walked away. Now that he had enough salt on the way he needed to make the seals. What he really needed was a knife, and that was too important to leave to the care of anyone else.
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