Three

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There were quiet gasps from the jury and assembled audience at the back of the room.

Alan laced his fingers and approached the witness box slowly. "You took it from your brother. Which explains why your clothes were not bloodied, and why no physical evidence could be found of you actually at the crime scene other than the knife in your hand." He stared at his client unswervingly. "And what had your brother done with the knife, Mr Winchester?"

"Didn't see him do anything with it."

"But you found him staring down at the prone form of Miss Celia White, like the lecherous, blood-thirty killer he is--"

"You lie about my brother and I'll tear you a new one!" Dean exploded. "I got there after he'd done it! He wanted what she had - I stopped him gettin' it! I will not watch him go down that road again! He just got away from all that addiction crap, and so help me - any gods you wanna name - I will gladly go back to Hell before I see him out of his gourd on that stuff again!"

The room was silent. Not a person moved.

Dean stared at Alan with hatred. He picked up movement from behind him, his eyes automatically drawn to Sam's hand that swept back through his hair. Dean looked away quickly, his hands grasping at each other but refusing to twist.

Alan smiled rather tightly, looking around the room. He assessed the looks on the assembled jurors and then his eyes swept over Sam. He thought for a long moment. Then he took a deep breath before he put a hand to his chest, staring at the floor.

"Mr Winchester, how old were you when your mother died?" he called out.

Dean eyed him. "Four. What has--"

"And how old was your brother?"

"Six months. Now what--"

"And who brought him up after she was gone?"

"Well, Dad. And me. But--"

"And where is your father now?"

"He's dead. Don't you--"

"He's dead. Your parents, all living relatives, everyone, dead. Tell me, Mr Winchester, what were you doing on your twelfth birthday?"

"Wh--. What?"

"When you turned twelve? In nineteen ninety-one. What were you doing?"

"I… ah… It was a long time ago."

"Oh, I'm sure you remember."

Dean huffed. "I was… Dad was out. I was lookin' out for Sammy, that's all."

"Sammy being…?"

"Sam! My brother!"

"The brother who is the lecherous, blood-thirsty killer you couldn't stand to see get sucked back into his addiction?"

"I told you! He ain't--"

"The brother who is the lecherous, blood-thirsty killer you have protected from childhood?"

"Mr Shore," the judge intoned. "Do you really think it's wise to badger your own witness?"

Alan whirled on the balls of his feet. "I do, Your Honour," he replied with a bright smile. His gaze swept past Sam and stopped, assessing the hurt look on the younger man's face. He sniffed and looked back at Dean quickly. "So, this brother - the lecherous, blood-thirsty killer," he continued, waving a hand to negate his own remarks with cynicism, "how old was he?"

"Ah… I don't know… Small?" Dean managed, baffled.

"In January of nineteen ninety-one he would have been seven years old. What were you doing on your birthday? Having a party with your twelve-year-old friends?"

"I was helping him with his homework," he said quietly.

"You were? Where was your father?"

"Dad was away. He was always away," Dean mumbled. "I helped Sam with his homework, made him some pizza and put him to bed."

"And then?" Alan asked quietly.

"Then he starts screaming. I ran into his room…" Dean's gaze landed on the wooden surround of the witness box. He cleared his throat purposefully. "The candle had fallen over. The curtains were on fire. I pulled him out and grabbed the shower hose… Sprayed half the room but got the damn fire out."

"You saved your little brother from a fire. Interesting," Alan mused. "Much like you had done in nineteen eighty-three?"

"Dad saved him. He just gave him to me," Dean muttered.

"Speak up, Mr Winchester. Did you carry your brother out of the house?"

"Yeah."

"And now that you two are the only family left, who looks after whom?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, who looks after whom? Do you nanny him, or does he nanny you, these days?"

Dean's jaw stuck out. "I don't nanny him. I tell him not to take candy from strangers. He still does," he accused, his voice more of an angry growl. He paused, his gaze flicking to the immobile form of Sam. He noticed the pout, the eyebrows that told him Sam just wanted everything to be alright for a change. Dean looked at Alan hastily. "And then I try and pick up the pieces for him."

"Why?"

"Why? Why? What kinda man are you?" Dean demanded angrily. "He's my brother!"

Alan fanned his hands in patent surrender. "Of course he is, I do apologise," he said sincerely, one hand to his heart. He let his hand drop and his head tilted to one side. "Tell us about this… addiction of his."

"What has it got to--"

"Mr Winchester, just for once, do as Counsel directs," the judge sighed.

Dean cast him a dirty glance before shifting in the chair slightly. "My brother was an addict. Still is, but he's dry. For now. I thought he was all the way right, but he's not. If it's there in front of him, and he just has the smallest slip--. He's right back in it."

"What does that have to do with getting him clear of a dead body?" Alan asked slowly.

Dean wet his lower lip before looking over at the jury slowly. He huffed and shook his head before lifting his chin to pin Alan with a hard gaze. "She had some of the stuff on her, ok? He was staring straight at it. I made him leave before it could torture him."

"You saved him," Alan offered, his voice strangely quiet.

Dean met his gaze before it flicked to his brother. Sam's chin lifted and he nodded in vindication. Dean's eyes shifted from side to side and they were rammed safely at his boots.

"Oh, sorry, one more question, sir." Alan approached the box slowly, knowing the jury was practically craning to hear and see. "Mr Winchester - Dean." He paused, putting his hands on the wooden box lightly. "Do you, or do you not, believe that your brother stabbed Miss Celia White?"

"I…"

"Yes or no?" Alan pressed gently.

"Don't make me do this," Dean threatened.

"Yes or no?"

"You bastard."

"Answer the question, Mr Winchester," the judge boomed, waving a hand in a circle at him.

Dean rubbed his forehead in anguish. "I know he did."

"No further questions, Your Honour," Alan grinned, tapping the wood and turning away. He strode back to his table. "Your turn," he nodded at the prosecutor. Alan sat, looking at Sam across the empty chair between them.

Dean blew out a breath, keeping his head tilted toward the floor.

A tall lady, dressed very smartly in a rather fitted suit that Dean would have admired had he not been her target, pushed her chair back from the Prosecuting Attorney's desk.

Something caught Dean's eye and he looked past her to see Alan and his brother in deep discussion. Alan pulled a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and Sam took it quickly. As Dean watched, confused, Sam patted Alan on the shoulder and got up. He picked up his case and belongings and made a very quiet exit.

All without looking back.

Alan turned in the chair to watch him go. Then he turned around again, smiling smugly at Dean.

The prosecuting attorney moved into Dean's line of sight. "Mr Winchester," she said genially. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'd rather be washing my car," he said with obviously false cheer, sending a ripple of amusement through the jury that the judge's harsh glance was quick to suppress.

"Mr Winchester," she said politely. "You say you picked up the knife. Why would you do that?"

"No, I said I took it from my brother," Dean said slowly. "Were you here for that bit of the conversation?"

Heads in the jury looked back at the prosecutor, apparently amused.

"Yes, forgive me," she smiled. It was not a nice smile. "So you took the from knife from your brother. Did he have blood on his hands?"

"One."

"Which one?"

"His right."

"And did he have blood on his shirt?"

"Yeah, a little," Dean admitted darkly.

"Did you have blood on your hands, Mr Winchester?"

"No."

"Not from the knife?"

"I don't grab the sharp ends of things, lady. I had the handle. It was clean," he said slowly.

"Of course. So you took the knife from your brother and you told him to run. Is that it?"

Dean swallowed and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I took the knife off him and I pulled him away from the dead girl. He was just staring…" he managed, a far away look on his face, "…just staring like…" He cleared his throat. "I turned him around and I told him to run."

"And he just left?"

"Not straight away."

"Why not?"

"Cos he didn't want me cleaning up after him, that's why!" he shot back angrily. "Don't see what difference it makes, seeing as I been doing it since I was four!"

"Sir… You know that your brother killed a woman in cold blood. And all you did was make him run away?"

Dean sat back and blew out a huff. He looked over at the judge, then at Alan slowly. He raised a hand and waved it encouragingly. Dean looked back at the prosecuting attorney.

"He needs help, someone to watch his back," Dean muttered. "He ain't going to get that if you people lock him up."

"Mr Winchester, where is your brother now?" she asked.

"How the Hell should I know?" he snapped. "Go ask the police, they're supposed to be looking for him."

She tilted her head. "Are you sure you don't know where he is, Mr Winchester? You know you can't lie here today."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "I am real sure I don't know where he is," he said clearly. "You done, lady?"

"A bit of respect, please, Mr Winchester," the judge intoned. Dean shifted in the seat but said nothing.

The prosecutor smiled. "How many phones do you possess, Mr Winchester?"

"Objection," Alan said pleasantly, getting to his feet. "Prosecution is quite capable of getting dates without asking for defendants' phone numbers."

"Overruled," the judge tutted. "Mr Winchester, answer the question."

"Easy," Dean said flatly. "I don't have any phone, since the police took the one I did have. Haven't seen it since I was arrested."

"And you have no way of contacting your brother?"

"Not right now."

"But you say he needs help."

"He does."

"So if you're found guilty, how will that help him?"

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at his hands.

"Mr Winchester?" she pressed. "How will that help him?"

"It's better than him being banged up," Dean murmured. "He can't protect himself in there."

"From whom?"

"Anyone," Dean shot back, looking up.

"Mr Winchester, isn't it more plausible that you stabbed this girl?"

"Why would that be more plausible?"

"Because no-one here has ever seen your brother," she said quickly. "In fact, the police cannot trace him, nor can they find the black car in which you told the police you arrived here in Boston."

"So? I never seen a real giraffe but I'm sure they're out there in Africa somewhere!"

"You killed her, didn't you, Mr Winchester?"

"No."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't!"

"Objection!" Alan said sharply, jumping to his feet. "Council is badgering the witness! I assure you, my client will not change his answer if you ask him the same question three times!"

The judge nodded. "Sustained." He looked over at the prosecuting attorney. "Miss Williams, you will get to the point, please."

"Of course, Your Honour," she allowed. She tugged her jacket straight and appraised Dean with a critical eye that he took with offence. "Mr Winchester, for the record - was your brother ever at the crime scene?"

"How many times - of course he was at the friggin' crime--" he began hotly.

"Language, Mr Winchester," the judge intoned.

"I'm on trial for my life and I can't curse like an eight o'clock CBS drama?" he protested.

"No," the judge said, deliberately slowly.

Dean slipped slightly down in the seat resentfully, sniffing to himself. He looked up at the woman.

She pinned him with a hard gaze. "And it is your testimony that he killed Miss White and then you made him leave?"

"Yes!"

"So why is there no evidence of him at the crime scene?"

"I don't know, I'm not CSI: Boston," he snapped. "Go ask the police!"

"You keep saying that, Mr Winchester," she snapped back. "Are you relying on the local police to somehow produce miracle evidence to prove you even have a brother?"

"Look!" Dean seethed. "This may be all fun and games to you, lady--"

"Mr Winchester--" the judge began.

"--But I couldn't give a rat's ass for your fancy questioning and lame attempts at pinning something on me that everyone knows I didn't do--!"

"Mr Winchester!"

"--Have you ever sat there and listened to your baby brother screaming as he dries out from some evil high he's been on? No! So don't you stand there like some holier-than-thou apple-pie lifer and tell me I shouldn't have stopped him from having to go through it again!"

"Mr Winchester!" the judge shouted, lifting his gavel and pounding it into the base. "You will treat this court and its Counsel with the proper respect!"

Dean's lips thinned together and his eyebrows rammed down, more than enough to show everyone concerned what he thought of that idea. But he said nothing.

He looked over at Alan with clear accusation in his demeanour. Alan leaned back in his chair, looking down his nose at him slightly. Then he smiled. Dean blinked, confused, before the prosecutor walked back up to his wooden box. She levelled him with a rather too cool, collected gaze that he stared at with contempt.

"No further questions, Your Honour," she said plainly. She turned, walked away, and sat down.

"You may step down, Mr Winchester," the judge allowed. "And we will all take an hour's break to cool off before I'm dragged back in here to hear closing remarks."

He banged the gavel and was gone.

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