Translations
Author: Cheryl W.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.
Authors Note: Spoilers for "Folsom Prison Blues."
Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.
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Chapter 4: Unguarded Prejudice
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When lightening lit up the night sky, it illuminated the three rats scurrying around in the four by three foot hole Dean's boot was toeing. 'Great, rats! Just a perfect ending to a perfect day,' Dean grumbled silently before a kick was leveled at the back of his left knee, crumbling his already weakened stance. As Dean toppled into the hole, his shoulder impacted with the hard packed southern wall before his back slammed into the ground at the bottom of the five foot drop. Without his permission, the breath from his lungs was substituted for a guttural groan of surprised pain. Above him, Dean heard Sam snarl a curse. Then his brother's 6'4" frame blotted out the lightening show that Dean saw from his prone position. Dean attempted to roll clear of Sam's projected path of descent but found that, within half a turn, he was up against the wall on the other side. Out of options, Dean covered his head with his arms an instant before Sam collided with his exposed right side, igniting Dean's body with pressure points of pain. Sam's elbow dug into Dean's ribs, his knees bruised Dean's thigh on impact and his chin nailed Dean in his back right between his shoulder blades. A true cry of pain whooshed out of Dean's weakened lungs.
Dean's pained cry pierced Sam's heart. Reacting as if his touch was acid upon his brother's flesh, Sam quickly rolled off of Dean's already much abused body. Landing on his back, Sam felt the hewed earth brushing his right shoulder and his brother's taut back pressed against his left shoulder in the confined space. Sitting up, Sam leaned worriedly over Dean's shoulder, trying to make out his brother's face in the darkness. "Dean?!" he entreated, his tone choked with worry and brimming with regret that he had inflicted further pain on his brother. Sam laid a gentle, tentative hand on Dean's shoulder as his brother curled in on himself. Slipping between Dean's ragged breaths came a "Hmmm"' from his raw throat, half a moan and half an answer.
Sam's head snapped up when the steel barred door overhead dropped into the metal frame of the hole. A moment later, Chase, the guard with grey peppering his hair, stood on the grate, looming over them like an ominous shadow in the stormy night.
"Since your beds in the barracks apparently weren't up to your standards, I'm hoping you like your new accommodations here at the Ritz." Then the guard made a show of looking up to the sky as the thunder shook the ground and another bout of lightening made the night seem like day. Then Chase looked down again to his prisoners. "Looks like a beautiful night to be out under the stars…long as you don't mind getting a little wet. Night boys." And then the guard stepped out of the limited line of sight that the hole afforded and Sam could hear the three guards talking and laughing as they walked away, leaving the Winchesters in the locked hole for the duration of the night, maybe intending to leave them there for the duration of their stay at this prison.
Head bowed down to his chest, arms wrapped around his ribs, Dean tried to work through the pain flaring like forest fires from his head down to his toes. He wondered vaguely if Sam's hand on his shoulder was the only thing anchoring him to consciousness, that the tension in his brother's grip on his shoulder and the tremble in his brother's tone when he had said his name was the sole reason he wasn't just calling it a day. Because, if Dean was honest with himself, he was pretty certain that slipping into the void would be preferable to sucking up the pain like a good little Winchester soldier should. Sometimes it sucked out loud having to always be the invincible big brother.
Shifting in the limited space, Sam came to his knees behind Dean, his right hand never leaving his brother's shoulder. "Dean, you with me?" he gently beckoned as he sent his left hand sliding down Dean's shoulder to his neck, to the pulse that beat steadily there under his fingers.
"Always," Dean wheezed out in Latin like a knee jerk reaction that was all instinct, no thought required.
Though the word was barely audible, just managing to travel the few inches to Sam's ear, it humbled Sam even as it brought a sting to his eyes and ignited a wonderful ache in his heart. Barely clinging to consciousness, bloodied, battered, having nearly died less than an hour earlier only to be tossed in a hole, none of it had the power to daunt Dean's loyalty to his brother. Sam's throat closed around the reply he had almost made of "ditto" struck with the lie it would be, had been. He hadn't always been with Dean, not during his four year stint at Stanford and even more unforgivably, not in Burkitsville and not after Dean had told him what John Winchester had said about his youngest son's possible fate.
With a voice already raw, Sam asked, his tone managing to turn husky with grief, regret and concern, his left hand in the darkness feeling its way up Dean's neck toward the head wound, "Did your head wound reopen?"
"Ow! Get your finger out of my ear," Dean grumbled and even though his voice was breathless it was no less threatening.
"Sorry."
Moving his fingers forward, Sam felt the layer of grit on Dean's
face, detected his brother's five o'clock shadow underneath it.
In surprised pain, he jerked his hand away. "Agh, Dean
what…"
"Glass shards from the Simmons' cabinet," Dean
supplied matter-of-factly, his voice still low with pain, still dry,
raw but now with more strength, more air. "Are you done playing
pin the tail on the donkey or you planning on taking out my eye
before you're done?"
A smile crept onto Sam's face at his brother smart aleck grouse, easing his worry. If Dean was verbally abusive, even in another language, then things weren't so bad. "So is that an affirmative that your head's bleeding again?"
"No, Sam, head's not gushing blood, all my limbs are attached, and I'm assuming Latin's still my language of choice?" Dean slipped in the inquiry like it was a throw away question, like the answer didn't matter.
Though his throat suddenly burned, Sam joked, "Sorry, you're still not broadcasting on all channels," because he knew Dean would appreciate the humor, would shut him out if he showed his true level of concern, went all touchy-feelly.
"When did you get a sense of humor?" Dean countered, but there was a smirk in his tone. Sam felt the tension ease in his brother's bowed body, felt Dean's head come forward, heard a breath exhale from his brother's compressed lungs.
"Well since you weren't using yours…." Sam sallied back, Dean's elbow in his gut getting a grunt out of him that instantly morphed into laughter. Changing positions, Sam leaned against the wall at the top of his brother's head, bending his legs slightly at the knee to fit in the length of the hole. There was room on Sam's right side but he couldn't bring himself to put any more distance between himself and Dean. He already regretted that his new position had required him to relinquish his grip on his brother's shoulder, to abandon the contact with Dean that he hadn't realized he would miss so fiercely. Pretending to be trying to find a more comfortable position, Sam maneuvered a little closer to Dean. Casually he braced Dean's back with his legs, felt when Dean was finally able to draw in a deep breath of air. And when Dean's head unfurled fully from its slightly bowed posture, Sam didn't mind that his brother's head came to rest against his hip.
Looking down at the profile of his brother's face in silence, Sam wasn't sure if he wanted to curse the lightening or praise it when he could make out his brother's features clearly. Lying so still, his eyes closed, Dean didn't look capable of even being conscious let alone able to get in the trouble he had throughout the day. With weariness Sam sighed, his eyes fixed on Dean's face now hidden again in the night, "You know, I'm really starting to hate this place."
"How can you say that? After the way we've been made to feel welcome? Shame on you, Sammy," Dean mockingly reprimanded, too spent to open his eyes on a wasted gesture of bravado that Sam wouldn't even be able to see.
Sam chuckled, leaned his head back against the wall before he rolled it slightly side to side. "Man, who knew Latin could totally freak out so many people."
"Hey, the guys bunking with us think I'm the sane one compared to you," Dean counterattacked, his small outbreak of coughing that followed filling in the silence that fell. He was unprepared for Sam's laughter.
"The look on their faces…" Sam sputtered.
Dean's deep chuckle soon joined in. "Probably matched the look on mine. Dude, you have definitely been hanging out with me too long."
"Nope, not long enough, not by a long shot," Sam contradicted a catch in his throat. When Dean tensed at his words, Sam couldn't breathe, was floundering on what to say to make it better, to make it something Dean wanted to hear. But Sam could not take back the words, would not. It was the truth and Dean, at the very least, deserved to hear it. Before he could speak, Sam felt Dean's coiled muscles relax, was trusted with more of Dean's weight as Dean settled his back more fully against his brother's longer legs.
Unconsciously, some of Dean's emotional walls lowered at Sam's words, at his brother's tender sentiment. Dean found, when he spoke, that his voice had lost its bravado somewhere, his exhaustion dropping his baritone lower. "If tomorrow's not any better than today, dude, I want my money back on this vacation package."
Sam's throat tightened with worry at the utter weariness that had slipped into Dean's tone, if not his brother's words. Suddenly Sam had the inexplicable urge to put his hand reassuringly on Dean's head, to seal their connection, to reassure Dean that whatever tomorrow held they would face it together.
Out of the blue, Dean growled without bite, "Sam, that was not an opening for a chick flick moment," as if he knew Sam's intentions, knew that his brother's emotions were notching up, ready to drench Dean in some 'emo' moment.
"I wasn't," Sam denied, his voice pitched a little too high, sounding a little too much like the little boy that Dean knew so well, who was quick to deny blame.
"Ah huh," Dean murmured in his own denial, drawing his arms tighter against his ribs, wincing in the dark.
Smiling down at Dean, Sam shook his head, amazed again at Dean's ability to be the strong one, even when he was physically reaching his limit. Leaning his head back against the wall, Sam looked overhead to the nighttime sky that was still entertaining flashes of lightening, still baffled that things had gone so horribly wrong in just one day's time. 'Winchester luck,' he admitted with a sigh, because even Dean's propensity for trouble and his sudden craving to speak Latin couldn't be the blame for all of the events of the day.
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THREE HOURS AGO….
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With Dean sacked out, not without protest, on the barracks' bed, Sam, left to his own devices, took stock of the resources at hand. It took him all of three minutes to come up with a big fat goose egg, deciding that even the A-Team would be hard pressed to weld together the spare furniture into something useful.
Frustrated, Sam sat on the bed beside Dean's, his back pressed against the wall, never contemplating sleeping because, with a single look, he had promised Dean he would take first watch. When Dean had allowed himself to drop off into sleep in hostile territory, Sam understood the deep level of trust Dean had in him. Somehow that made things worse, made Sam feel caged in, in more ways than the four walls of the barracks ever could make him feel. It was up to him to take the lead here, to slip into protective mode, to concoct the big escape plan, a plan that had to work.
Contrary to his earlier teasing to Dean, Sam knew that his big brother's plans usually did work, that he counted on Dean to have a plan, trusted, more explicitly than he would ever tell Dean, that the plan would work. There was no greater proof of that explicit trust than when he had gone along with Dean's whole insane "go into prison to take out a ghost" plan that they had utilized to pay back a debt to their father's friend, Deacon. Sure, there was brotherly love mixed in Sam's concession but if that had been his only motivation for agreeing, he would have opted instead to sucker punch Dean, haul his unconscious carcass into some forgotten nook of the desert and send Deacon a gently worded 'sorry about your luck' email.
Looking over to Dean's sleeping form on the other bed, Sam felt the weight of his responsibilities settle on his shoulder, seemingly on his chest. Dean looked terribly pale, had that rough look on his face like he had after the heart attack but, thank God, he wasn't projecting that 'I'm not really here anymore' expression that he had worn while in the coma. Dean was here with him, was just sleeping, was trusting him to stand guard while he conceded to his body's need for rest.
The rumbling engine of an industrial truck startled Sam. Swiftly rolling off the bed, Sam put his hand on his sleeping brother's shoulder, was surprised and worried that Dean didn't rouse at the touch. "Dean," he called, putting a little more pressure in his contact, relieved when Dean's eyes fluttered open, settled on him and instantly sharpened.
"What's happening?" Dean asked, his words only slightly tainted by the remnant disorientation of the nap Sam had insisted he take.
A frown flashed fleetingly across Sam's face before he schooled his features. Trampling down his disappointment and rising concern over the unwelcome news that his brother's nice little nap hadn't rid Dean of his proclivity to speak Latin, Sam replied, "I heard a truck entering the compound."
Studying Dean, Sam wished that he hadn't had to wake his brother almost as much as he wished he could somehow get his brother's injuries attended to, get the blood off of his face and out of his hair. Sam had come to terms with the fact that Dean always looked vulnerable in his sleep, but an awake, vulnerable looking Dean didn't do wonders for Sam's peace of mind or his ability to not panic, or the concentration that was required of him to plot the "great escape."
Well experienced with the effect injuries and pain had on his body's performance levels, Dean reluctantly abandoned the notion of attempting to sit up unaided even before he made his first concerted motion. Instead he thrust his hand up toward Sam with a growled, "Help me up." However, Sam offered Dean, not his hand, but a woefully, worried little brother scowl. "Now, Sam," Dean snapped because it was not the place or time for Sam's well meaning, hand wringing concern, not when Dean didn't know what came next for them but knew unerringly it wasn't going to be a keg party with girls and a buffet of his favorite foods.
Though protests still shone in Sam's eyes, Dean's hand was engulfed in the tight, strong grip of his brother's hand. Levered up to a seated position on the bed, Dean, to his credit, didn't let a moan escape him, nor did he allow his face to be a conduit for the pain the action had seared into him. Slipping his hand free of Sam's grip, Dean, as his 'highest ranking Winchester' position dictated, took charge of the situation and his brother. "Check it out, Sam," he ordered, the roughness of his voice catching him off guard, annoying him because it was a blatant telltale sign of weakness. Watching the effect that knowledge had on Sam, noting in the look that his little brother bestowed on him how Sam's worry had amplified, Dean felt his annoyance morph into a curse at his voice's betrayal. With his voice unreliable, Dean jerked his head toward the door and consequently the only window that the barracks boasted, reinforcing his order, conveying with his hard glare, that what he said wasn't a suggestion, was a command that Sam had better carry out if he valued his life.
Having never truly been able to directly disobey an order from Dean, (his father? yes, Dean? no), Sam relented. "Fine, just stay put," steel in his own tone, in his eyes as they unflinchingly seared into his brother's because his compliance didn't mean his submission, especially if it would give his brother free reign to be reckless. "I mean it, Dean."
Instead of agreeing, Dean gave a light, quick slap to Sam's right thigh which was the closest and easiest part of Sam's body that he could make contact with without calling on energy he just didn't have. "Go look, Sam. Now."
Knowing that gathering all the information that they could about their situation was their best defense, Sam gave up holding out for Dean's acquiescence to his order. With a huff, Sam stalked to the door. Taking in the view afforded by the meshed window, Sam could see a troop transport truck, watched as men jumped down off of the bed of the truck.
"Well, our fellow inmates are returning," he reported before shooting his look across the distance that separated him from his brother. "Your theory that the other participants in this work program are probably librarians and accountants that just got pulled over for speeding…" he let a beat of dramatic silence fall before he concluded, "well, it's crap, Dean." Jerking his head toward the world outside the window, Sam said, voice rising with angry worry, "They look more like a pro football team except they are wearing jerseys that are all orange with numbers on their breast pockets instead of their backs. Remember Tiny, your sparring partner in the Green River county jail?" Sam asked rhetorically, his look turning censorious as his eyes met his brother's. He yanked a thumb toward the window. "Well all these guys are about his size, if not bigger."
Crossing back toward his brother's side, Sam commanded, steel in his tone, "Which means don't start anything with them, Dean."
"Hey, it was your idea for me to pick a fight with Tiny," Dean accused, tilting his head up to face his brother who somehow managed to simultaneously loom menacingly over him and hover worriedly around him.
Sam gave a weary, angry shake of his head, balking at his brother's statement, even if he was secretly glad that the subject had finally been breached. "No, no, Dean. I told you to pick a fight with someone. You're the idiot who picked it with a guy that was sizing you up for a casket." Sam could still remember the anger that had flared in him, the dread that had pinged off the bottom of his gut when Dean boldly dropped into the seat across from Tiny, selecting the hulking man as his partner in their distraction. Then, when Tiny's first punch sent his brother flying out of his seat, Sam almost abandoned his plan, almost ran forward and stood between Tiny's jackhammer fists and his brother. But he didn't come to Dean's rescue, couldn't, not if he wanted to get the job done and get out of lock up once and for all, to rescue his brother from a more deadly threat, namely a lethal injection.
Dean's denial jolted Sam back to the here and now.
"I could have beaten him. Would have if the guards hadn't interfered," Dean threw out the token boast, even as he remembered the crushing grip of Tiny's arms around his chest, cutting off his air, seemingly folding his bones in upon themselves like tin.
"Keep telling yourself that, Dean," Sam countered. Crouching down to be eye level with his seated brother, Sam shot his hand out to latch tightly onto Dean's upper arm, guaranteeing his brother's most serious, unwavering attention. "I mean it, Dean. Don't provoke these guys. They don't have much to lose in here. And don't talk, at all."
"Don't give me orders, Sam!" Dean said dangerously, Sam's hard edged, authoritative tone hitting a nerve within him.
"Say that in English and I'll back off," Sam challengingly tossed back, taking the kid gloves off because Dean needed to face the facts. He was hurt, was vulnerable, was screwed up, by either the gash in his side, courteous of a supernaturally tainted wolf, or by the sheer seriousness of his head wound. And one of those wounds had left him unable to speak in the language that was his, that he carved out everyday and made more his own with his slang and turn of phrase. Part of the adventure of each day for Sam was wondering what was going to come out of his brother's mouth, what smart aleck comment, what off the wall observation, what tone Dean would employ that would turn an ordinary word into something that ran through Sam's head, days, months, years later, would make the one word suddenly quotable.
Unexpectedly, Sam missed that adventure, sharply. Hated that the Latin restricted what Dean could say, what Dean could think, what Dean could even feel. That it had the power to be a cage as much as the barracks were, more so, because, where four walls could never fence in Dean's bigger than life personality, but the Latin could, was and Sam hated it with a passion that surprised him. He hated it almost as much as he despised the hurt, defeated emotions that now veiled his brother's eyes, dulling them.
Swallowing an inexplicable lump in his throat, Sam let his hand slip from Dean's arm. Standing up, he reported the vital information that he had gathered from his reconnaissance at the window. "The inmates are covered in dirt and there were shovels and picks in the back of the truck." Hungrily he anticipated Dean reveling in his victory, of gloating that he had been right about the work detail involving large industrial trucks, shovels and hard labor. But Dean was looking down at his hands, shoulders bent, quiet. "There goes your assassin boot camp theory," Sam goaded, unconsciously holding his breath, able to breathe again only when Dean's head came up, a good humored glare in his brother's green eyes, the Latin equivalent for "Shut up!" flung at him.
The sound of a bolt sliding across metal sent Sam and Dean's attention flying to the door. Not one to willingly expose his vulnerabilities, especially to his enemies, Dean pressed his hands on the mattress and began to lever himself off the bed. With surprise, he realized that Sam's hand was already wrapped around his arm. When he came to his full height, Dean suddenly wasn't sure which direction was up, felt his legs threaten to dump him on his butt. Almost blindly, he reached out for Sam, his left hand bunching up in his brother's t-shirt even as he sagged against his brother's chest. It made Dean keenly aware that it had been his brother's strength, not his own, that had even allowed him to gain his feet. At his pathetic display of weakness, Dean felt embarrassed yet grateful when Sam's arm slipped around his waist, when his brother's hand settled on his chest, steadying him.
"I gotcha Dean," Sam assured gently, as Dean shook his head trying to will his blurry vision to sharpen, for the white hot spike of pain strafing through his head to abate, for his body to suck it up and do what he told it to, needed it to. Dean refused to be a liability for Sam, not here, not now.
Torn between settling Dean back down onto the bed and honoring Dean's obvious desire to be on his feet to greet their guests, Sam looked quickly from the door back to his brother's bloodless face. Making his decision, Sam pressed Dean back down to sit on the bed, alarmed even as he was thankful at Dean's lack of opposition. But when Dean started to topple backwards, Sam gave a soft alarmed cry of "Dean," fisting his hand in his brother's shirt to keep him upright.
With another shake of his head, Dean found his vision clearing, felt the pain in his head easing minutely, allowing him to concentrate on his surroundings, on the worried face of his brother. He managed to jut his chin toward the door, gesturing an order to Sam, an instant before they had company.
Reluctantly, Sam released his hold on Dean and spun on his heels to face the newcomers, shifting himself protectively in front of Dean, nearly blocking his brother from sight. Defiantly Sam watched the two men enter the barracks. Though they wore no uniforms, Sam knew that they were what this prison would loosely label as guards. The first man through the door had grey peppering his hair and the precise movements of a military man. The second man was young, seemingly too young for the job at hand, his eyes tended to flicker between the Winchesters and his fellow guardsman with uncertainty. And when he shifted on his feet nervously, the grocery bag in his arms threatened to topple over.
Tensing as the older guard stalked lazily toward him and Dean, Sam didn't mistake the guard's slow approach for hesitation. No, it was pure confidence that radiated from the guard's eyes, master to Sam and Dean's servant rank. "So Sheriff Carson musta really taken a shine to you boys, sending you here right out of the box," the guard surmised, a hard edge marring his southern drawl as he came to a halt inches from Sam, his eyes shifting from Sam to Dean then back to Sam.
Never without a smart aleck comeback, no matter the occasion, Dean opened his mouth to deliver the goods, confident that his tone would be able to convey what his Latin words might not. Instead he muffled a yelp of pain when Sam shifted backwards and brought his size eleven shoe down, hard, on Dean's foot, cutting off whatever retort he was about to unleash.
Having narrowly headed off Dean's predictable verbal offensive, an offensive whose tone, Sam was sure, would not have required interpretation, Sam let silence be their collective rejoinder. The guard's green eyes bore into him, daring him, prodding him, striving to intimidate him but Sam had been interrogated, brow beaten and trained by one of the best, John Winchester, who had been Sam's commanding officer first and his father second. However, what did worry Sam was the tension that was radiating off of his brother. Sam didn't need to look behind him, to see Dean, to know his older brother was poised for action, was ready to seize any opening that arose to get the upper hand, to take a risk in order to turn the odds around in their favor.
"Guess you're right, sir," Sam submissively replied, his eyes still steady with the guard's but now they were missing the challenge that had blazed in them an instant earlier. An instant ago when he had realized Dean was waiting for him to react, to give the green light, to decide if they made their move now or sought another opening. Though he usually stood at Dean's side, took his big brother's orders, Sam had been the lead on numerous hunts, had devised plans his brother followed, though not without some griping. But this time was different, this involved complete submission, complete trust, reflected Dean's complete devotion to him. It didn't matter that Dean could barely stand, that he was caked in blood, that he had somewhere along the line forgetten how to speak English. If Sam gave the go ahead, Dean would back him up 100, or die trying. Sam wasn't willing to put his brother at risk, not for his own ego and not for some foolish grab for freedom that would mean nothing if Dean got hurt further.
Sidestepping the youngest Winchester, the guard shot a warning glare at Sam as he detected Sam's clenched fists and readiness to protect the man seated on the bed. Then the guard settled his ice cold eyes upon Dean, got his first full look at the blood caked Winchester and let out a whistle, "Oh, yeah, you certainly pissed off someone." Neither brother took the effort to clarify, either in English or Latin, that it was not someone but something that Deanhad angered. Meeting Dean's steely eyed challenge head on, the guard called over his shoulder to the younger guard, "Maybe we should just go ahead and send this one to the infirmary. Won't get much work outta him the way he is. What do you think, Ricky?"
It was not the opening Sam was expecting but he was willing to take it. "He just needs some stitches and then he'll be up to working," Sam reassured, downplaying his brother's injuries because a fear was growing in him, tightening in his gut. This was a work camp, through and through, and if he or Dean were found to be useless in whatever illegal work was being done here by con labor, unlike the numbered inmates outside, they wouldn't be missed if they dropped off the grid.
Dean almost sighed, almost shook his head at his brother's naivety even after all their training because Dean would bet the Impala that the guard's offer of a visit to the infirmary didn't include TLC. And if Dean had any doubts, the uncomfortable look in the younger guard's, Ricky's, features, confirmed it. This was a taunt Ricky was familiar with and still hated being part of. He was the nice, young kid who ended up hanging out with the bullies, had tried and failed time and again to talk his friends out of committing their cruelest pranks. Dean was not surprised to hear the older guard sputter in laughter, to see the cruel mirth alight in his eyes which hadn't lifted from his own.
"Hear that, Ricky? Guy here wants us to take his friend to the infirmary. Well I haven't got a problem with that…," the guard said, stepping toward Dean, hand reaching out to seize Dean's arm.
Suddenly, Sam pushed his way between the guard and Dean, stood toe to toe with the guard, blocking him access to his brother, forbidding the man to even touch Dean. Because now, Sam knew, he understood almost too late, that it had been some sick twisted joke, knew in his every fiber that he definitely didn't want Dean ending up in this guard's version of an infirmary.
There was no deception now in the cruel smile the guard offered up to Sam. "What? Now you've changed your mind? Suddenly your buddy's not so bad off, can do the work just fine right?"
Tightly, Sam answered, "Yeah, he's fine. He can do the work," ready to engage in battle if the lines were drawn, if the man made one move around him, toward Dean.
Instead the guard gave a twisted smirk and snorted. "Alright, you want to delay the inevitable. I'll just sit back and handle the bets like I always do."
Behind the guard, the Winchesters watched as their fellow inmates filed into the room, their orange prison jumpsuits caked in mud, their eyes taking in the scene in the room not so much with interest as in wariness, content to crowd in the front of the room, to keep their distance. The younger guard, Ricky, shifted away from the other prisoners until he stood at the door, his hand on the gun in his shoulder holster.
"So anybody want to lay down a bet on how long the bloody one's gonna last?" Chase offered to the inmates at his back, showing no fear that they would take advantage of him while his back was turned with only a twitching Ricky for backup. Silence greeted him and Dean watched as his smile turned feral, energized by the power he had over the hulking men at his back. " Me, I'm not giving him odds past tomorrow when Dylan returns cause we all know that Dylan tends to discard the runts of the litter."
Dean's hand shot out, latched tightly onto the coiled muscles of Sam's right arm, forestalling whatever retaliation Sam intended for the slight to his brother. Recognizing the true threat that the cunning guard presented, Dean lowly said, "Don't Sam. He's goading you," having noted that Chase had, somewhere along the line, unsnapped the clasp of his gun holster to allow a quick draw, was even now gripping the handle of his .45 Magnum.
The flash in the guard's eyes instantly told Dean that Chase wasn't a fan of the Latin language. "Say that again, kid. In English," Chase hissed, his grip tightening on the handle of his still holstered gun.
Backed into a corner, Dean did what came naturally, he offered up a smirk, a cocky tilt of his head and said plainly in Latin, "Love to. You giving out lessons."
Faster and with more strength than Sam would have given him credit for, Chase shoved Sam further to the side, out of arms' length, pulled his gun, cocked it and brutally pressed it's barrel down on Dean's thigh, right at the bend of his knee. A maniacal glimmer projected in Chase's eyes as he snarled, his calm military reserve sliding away under a menacing anger, "This is America. Whatever you have to say you say it in English." When Dean's eyes went frigid with a challenging 'go ahead do what you gotta do,' goad, Chase leaned closer, pushed the barrel down harder on Dean's leg, "You better start beggin' for your life in English right now or you'll be a gimp the rest of your life," his finger tensing around the trigger.
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TBC
Well, there it is, another chapter to this mess those Winchester got themselves into. I hope the jump in time didn't throw you off too badly. I just needed to shake things up a little, put some mystery into the mix.
As always, I value any reviews anyone wants to drop me and I'm hoping to start getting the time to reply to the wonderful, touching reviews you've all graced me with on this story.
But in case that's a little farther away than I planned, thank you all for supporting me and this story and sticking around to see what painful , death-defying, humorous things I'm going to inflict on poor Dean and Sam. They do look so gorgeous, all bloody and angst ridden and well, yeah, they look gorgeous any way they come.
Have a great evening!
Cheryl W
