A series of one shots about pre-series Winchesters. Because I am boring.

Episode 1 – Sam Behind Bars.

A wee side note - I am very much not American, which is to my detriment in trying to navigate the US judicial process. I have used creative leeway for this ;)

also, to my lovely guest reviewer who is a resident of The real life Cedar Falls, I have updated the adjective! that is bigger than my whole county! thank you for your lovely review :)

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It was the third time that day that the motel receptionist had tried to push through a phone call.

Dean was burning with a hangover, his whole soul sweating out with last night's beer and shots at the local dive bar. He was just glad he'd made it home last night – he was glad not to endure this in s strangers' bed.

The phone chimed out and Dean let out a breathe. He checked the clock on the night stand. 9:38am. Sammy wouldn't be home until school's out, and Dad was away on a hunting trip tracking a nest of vampires in Washington State. Dean had the beauty, the bliss, the Nirvana of a whole day and a whole place to himself…

The phone rang again.

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean groaned, stuffing his face into the pillow next to him. The phone was not going to give up.

Without sitting up, Dean reached over for the phone. "This better be good," he said through gritted teeth, the crackle alone making his head hurt.

"I'm forwarding a call for Richard Swindon from Cedar Falls Police Station. Please hold while I transfer."

Dean perked up at the use of the pseudonym, one reserved for Dad when one of the boys was in police trouble. They hadn't used it since Dean got caught getting cosy with one of his classmates in his senior year on the side of the road. So unless Dean had got into some other trouble last night…

The line went quiet and then another voice started to speak.

"Am I speaking to… Mr. Swindon, father of Daniel Swindon?"

Dean put on his best dad-voice. "Uh, this is he." He cringed at the crackle in his voice. God, he needed water.

The guy on the phone seemed unfazed. "Mr. Swindon, this is officer Deacon calling from Cedar Falls police station. I have your son in custody. I need you or another parent or guardian down st the station, so we can go through the charges in the presence of an adult. Do you understand?"

The voice sounded completely robotic and unfeeling, while Dean's day seemed to crumble before him. "Is – is he okay?" Dean stammered.

The voice sighed. "You are able to come down to the station sir and see for yourself. He's absolutely fine, however we need a responsible parent or guardian to be present while we read the charges."

Shit. Dean sat up in bed, scanning the room for any clothes that weren't covered in blood, dirt or beer. "Uh, I'm out of town at the moment. My eldest son, however can come down as Sa- uh, as Daniel's guardian –"

"Mr. Swindon, is your eldest son a legally recognised guardian of Daniel?" The monotone voice continued. Dean wanted to stab the guy's eye with a fork and he'd not even had the pleasure of meeting him yet.

"No. He's not –"

" – in which case, we will need to keep Daniel at the station overnight. He will have a chaperone present at the cell for the full period and when the charges can be read, in the presence of a parent or legal guardian, we can read the charges and discuss bail and pending court date."

Dean froze. "Overnight? But he's a kid. You can't keep him overnight."

"Your son will be placed in a juvenile wing. When you return, we can discuss and sign the charges placed upon him. When do you plan to be back in the county?"

Dean's heart raced in his chest, sweating more now. The situation seemed to deteriorate every question he asked. He was almost afraid to speak.

"Sir?"

"Sorry. I'll head back early tomorrow. I'm going to send my eldest down to station –"

"Daniel will be in transit to this afternoon to booking –"

"No," urged Dean, "No. Just keep him at the station, okay? Keep him in holding just until I'm back in the state –"

"Sir, this is not something we can discuss further over the phone. Please get in touch when you are back in the county. Until then, Daniel will be safe in the custody of the state, in the juvenile wing of the correctional facility. Good day."

The phone line cut out, and Dean was left alone with the crackling white noise and his pounding heart.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dean rammed the Impala onto the sidewalk directly outside the police station. He kept his sunglasses on as he exited the car, the motion sickness catching up with him and the bright sunlight making him want to hurl even more. He death-glared at a passerby, an elderly lady who shook her head at his less than considerate parking.

He ran up the steps to the station, the heat beating down on his already sweating back. God, he was definitely still drunk. He hadn't dared shower, too worried in case he'd miss the transit to whichever shithole they planned to take his Sammy too.

He slinked into the building, the cool A/C an instant relief to his melting soul.

Dean singled up to the reception, careful to note where the security were standing in the building. He set his eyes on the youngest, prettiest receptionist, hoping he could either sweet talk his way into the back, or shit talk Sammy out to the front.

"Good morning sir," the pretty young thing smiled as he sidled up to her desk, "How can I help you today?"

She hadn't flinched at the sight of his hungover carcass, which was a good sign. She hadn't however swooned at the sight of him walking through the door. Dean made a mental note to change his shirt as soon as he got this mess dealt with. "Ma'am, my name is Richard Swindon, my brother Daniel is here. He's been arrested and I – I'm not really sure where to turn to for help."

Again, she didn't react to his blatant sweet talking attempt. "Let me fetch Officer Deacon."

Dean shook his head as she began to stand up from her desk chair. "No! No no no. There's no need to bother him just now, I just need to know…"

But she has leaped from her seat to go and correctly fulfill her duty.

Damn it.

Dean composed himself at the desk, picking at his teeth with his tongue. He suddenly remembered to take off his shades as officer Deacon appeared at the desk.

"Mr. Swindon?" He eyed Dean up and down, "are you the boy's… Father?"

"Me? God no. No no, I'm Richard Swindon Junior. Big brother," he held out a sweating hand, which Deacon took and fought not to recoil from the cool dampness of his palm. It was taking all of Deans concentration not to grab the man and headbutt him in the chin, hangover-headache and all.

"Well, Mr. Swindon. Without your father here, there's not a huge amount I can do for you. Sam will be booked tonight at the county jail. Your father said he could be back early tomorrow, where once the charges are read and signed, Daniel can likely go on bail until his court date –"

"What did he do?" Dean asked, unable to keep at the pace of the information.

Dean knew fine well his dad wouldn't be home by the morning. They didn't even know where he was, how long he'd be, who he was with. The only thing he did know was that John would absolutely furious with him for letting Sam end up in a county jail. Overnight. Alone.

"I'll discuss these details with your father tomorrow. Daniel will be able to get in touch with you when he has booked at county via a phone call," Deacon droned on, and Dean made a soggy fist behind his back and grit his teeth together. "Your brother will be in transit this afternoon. As there is not space available at the Juvenile wing as we had hoped for, he will be in the general adult population –"

"Are you kidding me?" Dean could no longer control the anger that snarled through him. Deacon looked surprised, the only emotion he had shown during their entire conversation, but said nothing. "He's seventeen. How is he going to survive a night in a god damn adult jail? Have you seen him? Are we talking about the same kid?"

"Sir, I'm going to ask you to calm down. State law allows for juvenile offenders to be housed temporarily in adult prison if alternative accommodation is not available –"

Dean slammed his hand on the desk. "That's not good enough. He's a kid. He's never committed a crime in his life, he's getting sent under for theft, and he's got to wait for my dad to –"

"Sir," Deacon said pointedly. Dean noticed the other officers in the room starting to pay attention to the conversation, "I suggest you move along and come back when your father is home. There is nothing more to be done today."

Dean considered his options; how many cops could he get through? How could he find Sam in this unfamiliar building? Why didn't he have a large arsenal of illegal and unexplainable weapons in his belt?

Then, from the corner of his eye, through the window Behind the reception desk, Dean caught sight of his tall, gangly, messy-haired kid.

He was in a line with three other men, all adults, all cuffed. They were leaving one room and headed to another. Sam was looking straight ahead of him, not making eye contact with anyone, or making any particular attempt to familiarise his surroundings. He was about to go into Sammy shut down mode. His hands were fists in his cuffs, his knuckles white. He wasn't even observing his co-criminals. The man standing behind him in the line smirked down at Sam's head, then leaned forward to say something in Sam's ear. Dean watched Sam stiffen, and his eyes glaze over.

Dean could read him like a book. Sam was scared.

The sight lit a fire in Dean's tequila scarred belly.

Never had Sam felt so close to Dean but out with his reach. Dean wanted to smash through the glass, clutch the boy in his arms and never let another person look at him again.

"Now, Mr. Swindon," Deacon gestured towards the front door of the building. Why is this prick still talking? "It's time for you to leave."

Dean clenched his jaw, trying desperately hard not to drive the officers face into the desk beside them. He couldn't even create a sentence that wouldn't land him arrested – he simply put on his sunglasses and walked back out the door. Dean's instincts tugged him back into the station, to be near Sam.

But he had to stop Sam going anywhere near a transit van.

Sam was not going to county.

Not over Deans dead body.

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Sam sat alone in the small, off-white cell.

He still hadn't quite had the opportunity to completely process what series of events had brought him to this moment, sitting in police custody, with the most overused fake name they had in their identity arsenal – thanks, Dean – Awaiting to go to an adult county jail. Alone.

Sam was not one usually to complain about solitude. Unlike his brother, he could go hours in silence, reading an old book or just sitting with his thoughts. He had confidence in his own space.

Now he was here. A locked box that it didn't look like Dean could get him out of.

God, he wanted Dean to bust through the door right now. Sam made a point of asking Dean for as little help as possible. At seventeen he felt mollycoddled by his elder brother, and gave Dean as few excuses to be… To be Dean.

He would give anything for Dean to charge into the room, eyes gleaming in rage, to take Sam away far, far from here. As far from the creepy guy behind him, who now sat the other side of the stained white wall, waiting for an opportunity…

Sam shuddered.

His dad was going to furious. Especially when he learned Sam was in custody over a stupid box of pencils.

Sam sank his head into his hands, shakily exhaling.

It had been so ridiculous.

Sam had been desperately searching for a pen, a pencil, hell a quill and ink, anything to write with at school that day. He has an Advanced History class where the teacher absolutely had it out for him, and told him not to return if he was unable to get the appropriate equipment for his lessons.

Sam had been completely humiliated in front of the entire class one too many times to make it bearable to go in again. He noted that none of his classmates had jumped in to offer him a pen. God forbid he asked his Dad, who would say, "Sam, where do you think the money for this shit comes from? Grab one from the next motel. If it's for school, don't bother and give it to me."

Sam didn't think that Dean had even owned a pen since the day he left school. He hated to ask Dean for anything more from Dean, knowing how much his brother sacrificed to make his life as comfortable as possible. He feel like he'd have to explain why he needed a pen, and why he hadn't asked before, and Dean would give him the look of perpetual dismay and failure, and spend all his spare cash on school equipment, for Sam to lose it in the next move, for dad to find out and get mad…

It had only been a box of pencils. Not even pens, with metal nibs, spring backs and lids. Pencils.

He'd been in the grocery store, eager to get out of the room since Dean had come back, stinking of tequila and cheap perfume. He didn't even think of it - he'd just slipped the box into his backpack and walked towards the door.

Sam had never stolen anything – directly, anyway – in his life. Sure Dean and his Dad were regularly scamming gamblers, fixing games, writing fake credit card applications, stealing in various ways but never even had they gone into a store and just taken something.

Sam never had a chance to process his action when he'd felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

And that was it.

The security guard had him cuffed in seconds. He'd hand to stand 20 humiliating minutes as his cohort walked to school, straight past the front door of the store as he awaited his blue light ride to the station.

The students stopped and stared, whispered as they went by, but not one of them reached out as they passed. They probably felt Sam was going where he belonged. The history teacher was right – he didn't deserve to be in school if he was unprepared for it.

God, he was kicking himself.

In a few hours time, he'd be in a cell, booked under a fake alias. His dad wouldn't be back for weeks, and Sam would be uneven to even reach a courtroom.

When Deacon had first arrived at the store, Sam was relieved at his calm manner at he whole situation. It seemed he was almost unbothered completely by the situation. Sam could hope for a slap on the wrist and a red-faced walk into school.

Deacon finished speaking to the security guard, and headed over to Sam. He stood a head taller even than the gangly teen. He had a plain, round face, clean shaven. His eyes were dark and empty. He was largely a forgettable man, apart from the words that next came from his mouth.

"I'm taking you to the station, kid. We're pressing criminal charges."

Deacon took the time to explain, in monotone, that the state was taking a harsh stance on juvenile crime. These crimes were being charged, taken to court and punished in accordance to state law.

Just Sam's damn luck.

He had begged to be able to call his dad, a Richard Swindon. He'd begged to call anyone who he thought would answer. Deacon was a stickler for the law, apparently, and refused Sam a phone call until his charges had been read and signed by his dad.

He had Delivered the news he would spend the night in county jail in the same monotone. "Due to the failure of your father to appear…"

Failure.

His dad had failed again. Had failed to show up when he was needed most. Had failed to give Sam the damn basics to go to school without becoming a social pariah. Sam swallowed his anger for his dad. Was he mad at Dean? Dean always showed up. Even when Sam didn't want him there. But where was he now? Why couldn't Sam hear him screaming down the door, causing a scene, threatening a fire, threatening everyone in here?

He couldn't blame Dean either. He couldn't blame anyone but his damn, stupid self.

Sam knew in himself he was masking his fear with anger. God, he was scared of going to county. Dean was a survivor in this kind of situation. He could read people, he could react quickly. He could sweet talk the right people and keep on the right side of the wrong people. Sam – Sam was an observer. He was quiet and deft, but he couldn't avoid conflict if his life depended on it. It sought him out. And the prison system was the last place you wanted to be caught observing, or being caught doing anything noticeable.

Christ, he couldn't even win a game of poker.

Sam fumbled with his thoughts, and imagined what the hell the guy behind him in the line meant when he said what he said…

In the distance of the police station, a ruckus had started to build. Outside Sam's tiny cell, officers and staff were running up and down the hallway, shouting, organising and for some reason, panicking.

Prisoners in the neighbouring cells started banging on the doors and walls, causing Sam to look up. He peeked as much as he could through the metal bars or his cell door, trying to see what was going on. Sirens filtered in from the outside, and what sounded like…. A helicopter..? Started outside.

Sam frowned.

Now what, thought Sam, were the chances of a huge, multi-officer event occurring, in the bustling town of Cedar Falls, on the exact same day as Sam was arrested?

The whole thing stank of Winchester.

As the hallway emptied out, Sam stood back from the door, his heart in his throat as he awaited the impossible.

And then….

"Sam?"

Sam's chest flooded as he heard the familiar voice.

"Sam? Which one are you in? Where are you?" From his voice alone, Sam could tell his brother was in focus mode. No messing.

"Here," Sam croaked, "I'm here, Dean."

Dean popped his face around the metal bars, dressed in a half convincing janitors outfit. He eyed Sam up and down. "Are you okay?" Dean was scanning not only for bumps and bruises, but for anything Sam couldn't tell him.

Sam nodded. He felt his tense body relax and start to shake as he processed his brother's presence.

Dean nodded in acknowledgement, and looking left and right, jacked open the door to the cell. The men either side in the cells were making enough noise to mask the sound, but sam still winced. Dean gestured to get him out, and Sam hesitated none.

Dean led him down the hallway and through the second metal security gate, where a single officer was passed out on the floor, sporting a bloodied nose.

Together, they hurried through hallways, jumping in and out of doors as folk came hurrying past. Sam spotted his backpack on a cops desk, he assumed Deacon's. Sam wondered how long until Deacon went through it and found various names on various papers, and no sign of a Swindon on any of the books or name tags.

Dean grabbed Sam by the wrist and dragged him through a fire door as Deacon went running by, finally looking a little flustered about something.

They fell out of the building, walking fast, but not fast enough to draw attention to themselves. Sam, spotting some cops walking in their direction, jumped into a short alleyway and stacked behind a commercial trash can as they passed.

Dean followed suit, and safe from the view of the street, started to strip off the janitors uniform.

"What the hell did you do, Sammy?" He hissed, keeping his eyes on the entrance to the alleyway. His heart was still pounding – from the break out, from being so close to losing Sammy – to cops – from seeing his boy in a cell, alone… God, he'd never get the image of the guy in the line behind Sam leaning in, breathing in Sam's ear, the boy's eyes glaze over…

Sam hesitated, looking up at his furious brother. His furious, relieved brother. "Can I tell you when I'm less embarrassed?"

Dean looked back at Sam now, taking in the whole picture of his brother. Safely at his side again, Sam was obviously shaken. By his day, by his crime, by the man standing behind him in the line – Sammy was not Sammy yet. He couldn't tell if Sam really was embarrassed of the whole situation, or if he doing his best to spare Dean's feelings.

Dean couldn't imagine what on earth his brother had done, but right now, he didn't even want to know if the whole situation could have been avoided had the older brother done something different.

Dean nodded, discarding the uniform into the trash can. He ruffled Sammy's hair, relieved to be within reach now they had him out of the tiny cell.

"I've parked just two blocks away. All our shit is packed. I called Bobby, he's expecting us in the next couple of days. We're going to camp out there for a few weeks until this dies down a little."

Sam nodded. Another helicopter flew overhead. Sam looked again at Dean, the burning question on his lips –

"Dean, what the hell did you do?!"

Dean himself hesitated, knowing the shit ton of trouble he was going to be in when his dad found out the scale of distraction – and destruction – he had caused to get Sammy back. He had needed the whole building empty and preoccupied to pull the shit he had pulled, and he had a short time to do it. Calling in a hostage situation – at every bank in the county – had been a huge headache, but was the only large scale problem he could think to cause without actually killing anyone. And he had come very, very close to doing that.

"I'll tell you when it's less embarrassing," Dean responded, and dragged Sam out of the alleyway and back into the street, through the gawking crowd. "Let's get outta here, Sam. God damn this shitty, hangover day."

As they walked coolly down the street, Dean's arm around his brother, the eldest could relish one stroke of genius that came from his definitely sober mind - stealing and parking Deacon's car at the scene of one of the many robberies he had called in. See how long Deacon lasts in gen pop.

Dean checked over his shoulder one more time as Sam ducked into the Impala, glad for once to see the back of a town they'd called home for a few weeks.

Dean bobbed in next to him, a wave of nausea washing over him again. Sam reached his glasses across the cab, and Dean took them, smiling. "Let's fuck off outta here, right Sam?"

The younger brother smirked, and sunk down into the deep bench seat. "You're God damn right." Has the Impala rolled into action, Sam said a quiet, "thanks, Dean."

"Anytime, squirt."

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Let me know of any requests or prompts for this series, open to suggestions :)