Folsom Prison Blues (4/11)
Sam's fingers danced happily on the steering wheel. Dean had seemed in remarkably good spirits considering the shitshow his past year had been. Sam was the first one to admit that their childhood had been less than ideal. But at least he had broken out on his own for the most part; Dean had gotten caught up in the revenge fueled life that their father had started. He didn't even know why he was surprised when the feds had shown up at his dorm asking him if he was harboring his brother, who apparently was now a fugitive. Other than their killer looks, the Winchesters were known for their stubbornness so it came to nobody's surprise when Dean killed Azazel. It had only been a matter of time. And considering how sloppy Dean had been with it, it was a miracle that he had managed to stay out of custody for almost a year. Sam just wished that Dean had waited for a few more years and been able to keep his freedom for that much longer. Or at least go about it smarter. But it was Dean, and if he had the shot, he was going to take it. Still, that didn't keep Sam from wishing that he could see his brother again without prison guards standing by.
Sam had been assured by Dean's lawyers that Folsom would be good for Dean. It had more amenities than some of the other prisons in the country, even if it was doomed to rely on the state of California for funding. Once Dean was situated he would be given a job, outside time and access to the prison library. They even mentioned that he would be able to continue his education if he wanted to. Sam knew that it wasn't Dean's cup of tea, but it would at least keep him busy. And if Sam knew one thing about prison, it was that there was a lot of free time. He had even heard that Dean might get placed in the mechanic track at the prison, which would keep him entertained.
Still, there was nothing as uniquely soul crushing as knowing that your brother, essentially your entire family, was pretty much dead to the world without the whole ya know being not alive part. Sure, Sam could see him for a couple of hours every week, but Dean wouldn't be able to go to his wedding, visit him in the hospital if he got sick or even hustle pool with him at the local dive bar. Not to mention the awkwardness that ensued when Sam shared that his brother was currently serving a life term for murder. And there was the weird degree of fame that came with being related to the hottest media subject of the past year. Some women and men had become convinced that Dean was their soul mate and had tracked Sam down trying to persuade him to organize a conjugal visit for them. It was disgusting.
Sam had started the moving process once it was determined where Dean was going to be spending the rest of his life. It turned out that Sacramento was actually a very nice place to live, a lot better than LA anyhow. There was something about the shark like atmosphere of LA that had turned Sam off; it wasn't long after he moved that Sam realized that northern California was where he belonged. His apartment wasn't perfect, but the rent was cheap and it was close to the city's library where he would be spending most of his time. Also, if he sat in the corner of his living room he could pick up the Starbucks' Wi-Fi from downstairs. So that was pretty good.
Dean had given him the Impala once it was clear that he was no longer a free man. Sam didn't pretend that he shared the same bond with the car that Dean had, but he still liked it nonetheless. It was the closest thing he had to a home during his formative years, and now was one of the last things that was so undeniably Dean that he had. A surprising amount of Dean's belongings had been taken by the feds for investigative purposes and had never been returned. For whatever reason, they had completely ignored the classic car that had been covered up with an unassuming tarp in a storage unit rented under Dean's name. Sam was personally very glad for this fact, considering the small arsenal that was hidden under a false bottom in the trunk. The one thing that Sam did not like about the Impala, besides the lack of air conditioning and functioning air bags, was the black interior that rivaled the temperature of the surface of the sun after being left in the prison parking lot during his visit.
After an uncomfortable dance on the seat cushion and unfortunate moment where he laid his arm on the leather and undoubtedly left some skin behind, Sam had peeled out of the parking lot and prayed to all the gods that Dean hadn't been able to hear the distinctive roar of the Impala's engine from his cell. Somehow he thought that it would break Dean's heart more than him being stuck in prison.
The highways were blessedly free of traffic and Sam was free to let his thoughts wander about the visit. Dean had mentioned something about his new cellmate, Castiel. Other than insinuating that he was a massive nerd, Sam had no idea what Dean knew about the guy. Even if Dean didn't want to know, Sam sure has hell did, and thus decided to do a thorough Googling when he got back to his apartment.
It took a half an hour on the laptop for Sam to get his answer, and most of that was trying to figure out the order form on the prison website which would allow him to order some items to Dean to furnish his cell with. Sam had started off easy, buying him an AM/FM radio with a cassette player and the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Dean would bitch about it and pretend that he didn't like it, but Sam knew better. Underneath all the leather and crass comments, his brother was a huge nerd. After, he got to figuring out a little more about the mysterious Castiel. It took almost zero effort; an article detailing Castiel's case and ruling was only the third result. And after reading the article and a few linked sources, Sam concluded that Castiel either had the best lawyer this side of the Mississippi or had a brew of Filix Felicis hidden away. Because for what he did, he should have been put away for a lot longer than nine years.
For all the excitement of the morning and early afternoon, the rest of the day was amazingly boring. Dean still hadn't been assigned his work station, and most of the 'recreational' activities were curbed on the weekend. The remainder of the weekend passed just as slowly, Castiel had been quiet and Dean had decided to save him from the word vomit that permanently afflicted Dean. Even the showers which usually included at least one fight were noticeably quiet. Of course, Dean hardly noticed this with his laser focus on his feet. Nearly every time he looked up he had managed to zero in on his cellie soaping up. This did nothing to help control his boner management. There were few things more embarrassing than a public hard on, especially one in a shower room with a bunch of dudes who wouldn't think twice about slitting Dean's throat if he so much as looked at them the wrong way. So, Dean kept his eyes on his toes and thought fiercely about the one time he had met his Great-Aunt Maura who had sported an impressive post-menopausal moustache.
To be honest, it wasn't surprising that Dean was ready to jump Castiel's bones with nothing more than eye contact. Due to the whole being in prison situation, Dean hadn't been able to get his rocks off in a while, and he knew that couldn't be healthy. Sure, he had been propositioned, but they hadn't been romantic inquiries as much as they had been promises to 'tear his ass like tissue paper'. Which he wasn't completely on board with. Sue him; he was old-fashioned and preferred consent from both parties. Not to mention, Sam had carefully mentioned the rates of STD occurrences behind bars and Dean was in no rush to get herpes.
But Dean enjoyed Castiel's company and wasn't exactly rearing to scar the guy for life. If Cas showed some interest, that was a different story, but Dean had seen enough prison movies to know that consent was shaky at best in the clink. Still, Dean wasn't too sure he'd be able to live out the rest of his days in celibacy. Sex and alcohol was like 80% of his personality, and he was already dry, he wasn't sure how much else he could give up.
It wasn't until that Monday did Castiel actually initiate another conversation.
"May I ask you something personal, Dean?"
"It's not like we have anything else to do. Go for it."
"Why did you choose to shoot Azazel?"
"What d'ya mean?"
"Why a gun? Surely there are more efficient methods to murder someone and one that wouldn't be as easily traced to you. Poison, perhaps."
Dean had to hand it to Castiel; he was a smart son of a bitch. "Cuz I'm not that smart, Cas." Dean chuckled. "I saw that dick and I had my .44 on my belt, so I shot."
"You shouldn't demean yourself, Dean. You are very intelligent."
"Cas, I'm many things, and brainy ain't one of them. I can MacGyver a car into running for another twenty miles, but I can't for the life of me tell you how to find the circumference of a circle. But that's fine, I've got my GED and a give 'em hell attitude. That's all that matters."
"You may not have what some call 'book smarts', but it was clear to me from watching your trial that you are smarter than you let on."
"How do you mean?"
Castiel blinked at him as if the answer was clear. "You had the media eating out of your hand by the end of the trial. I was surprised that none of them actually vouched for your innocence."
Dean grinned. "Yeah, I guess. That was easy though, they had already decided what they wanted to be, so I just played along. Didn't you hear? I was the roguishly handsome bad boy that guys wanted to be and all the girls wanted to be with. They didn't care about the details; I was a real life Han Solo. Without the benefit of having Leia, of course."
Dean was surprised to see Castiel frown. Although, he probably shouldn't have been, the dude frowned more than anyone Dean had ever met. "What details are you talking about, Dean?"
Dean paused; this was not the way that he wanted the conversation to turn. There was no way he was going to be caught telling some random guy about his bullshit problems. "Know what's funny, Cas?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "I think my mom would have been angrier that I shot Azazel with a gun rather than the fact that I actually murdered somebody."
"I-I don't understand."
"My mom was super weirded out by guns. I don't know what it was, maybe some left over fear from childhood. My dad said that my grandpa had taken her out hunting when she was really little and pretty much scarred her for life when he shot a ten point buck right in front of her." Dean shrugged. "Anyways, I remember whenever I'd play Cowboys and Indians or Cops and Robbers or whatever, she would always try to make me use something else besides that little water pistol I had. She even gave me a slingshot, but that got confiscated after like two days in school. She even wouldn't let me take the water gun with us when we'd go grocery shopping, she'd always say 'Dean, don't take your guns to town'." Dean said, doing a pretty piss poor imitation of a woman's voice. "I never really understood it. Maybe it was just one of those weird mom things, like who wants to see your kid with a gun killing something?" Dean knew he was rambling and that it was time to shut up. Finally, he ran out of words and looked weakly up to Castiel who was staring at him like he was a particularly puzzling piece of art.
"Why did you tell me that, Dean?"
"I dunno. Seemed like a good story. I mean, we're bunk buddies and everything. Figured you should know something about me."
Castiel nodded slowly, and Dean could particularly hear the gears in his mind working. "I see. Would you like to hear a story from my childhood?"
"Yeah, man. Sure."
He took a deep breath and smoothed out invisible creases on his bright orange jumpsuit. "When I was young, maybe seven or eight, my cousin Balthazar told me a scary story and-"
"What was the story?" Dean interrupted.
"It was about a young couple who moved into a house which they believed to be haunted after they woke up with a message on the wall telling them to leave written in their dead dog's blood."
"Dude, that's sick. Your cousin is a bastard."
"Yes, it was probably unwise for him to tell it to me at such an impressionable age."
"So what happened next?"
"In the ghost story? Well it turned out that it wasn't ghosts at all-"
"No, with your cousin."
"Ah, yes." Castiel cleared his throat slightly in embarrassment. "After he finished telling the story, I couldn't sleep for the rest of the night so the next morning he took pity on me. He told me that if I jumped off the roof of the cottage, the monsters from the story wouldn't be able to find me."
"That makes no sense."
"Yes, I can see that now. Unfortunately, when I was seven the logic seemed infallible. So, I jumped off the roof."
"And?"
Castiel smiled ruefully. "I broke my leg in three places."
"Dude!"
"After our parents found out why I had jumped off the roof, Balthazar was punished severely and regulated to be my personal errand boy for the remainder of my bed rest. He was unpleased, but never tried to fool me again."
Dean laughed deeply. "Serves him right. Sounds like he was a major dick."
After that, they settled into a companionable silence, both turning to their individual books. Castiel had chosen the book for him, oddly enough, mentioning something about thinking that Dean liking American authors. It was true, Dean preferred Twain and Steinbeck to Shakespeare any day, he just didn't remember voicing this partiality to Castiel ever. Nonetheless, he was grateful for the classic, and settled into reading a particularly well loved copy of Grapes of Wrath.
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