Cellmates (2/?) - PG-13 (for now) - Supernatural/Prison Break
Part 1: (// Oh, Mama, I'm in fear for my life... \\)
He almost felt ready by the time the van had come to a stop inside the main gates.
Then the doors slid open and Sam realized he’d been kidding himself.
He glanced over at Dean and regretted the distance between them more than ever. The guards wouldn’t let them sit too close - and Sam would give anything to touch his brother at that moment, even just to bump shoulders. Hell - he’d take a slap on the back of the head over nothing. Dean, although Sam would never - under threat of torture- tell him so, had a calming effect on Sam.
Dean glanced back. His expression was closed in a way Sam envied, but his eyes told Sam that Dean was hating this as much as he was, if not more.
Sam swallowed, remembering Dean’s words from the night before. They were sharing a cell for the first time since they’d been arrested. And you’d think they’d been apart for months, the way Sam’s throat had thickened when Dean had sat beside him on his cot and placed a strong hand on the back of Sam’s neck. Sam was doubled over, head in his hands.
“We just got to play it cool, Sammy. We’ll get out of this.”
Sam laughed - sounding not at all amused. “How, Dean? In case you haven’t noticed? We’re kind of out-numbered.” It had been them versus the U.S. Government pretty much since that shapeshifter in St. Louis had framed Dean for its rapes and murders. And the list of charges had only grown since then. Not only were the numbers uneven - so were the odds of their proving themselves innocent.
Dean obviously had no idea how they would get out of this. But, true to form, he hadn’t said as much. “Let me worry about the how,” he’d said. “I’ll come up with something.”
Sam had swallowed, embarrassingly close to what Dean liked to call “a chick-flick moment”.
“Hey.” Dean had squeezed his neck and pressed closer to Sam’s side. “After all the shit we’ve been through? No way are we going down like this. These are humans we’re talking about. We can handle humans.”
Sam had nodded, too tired and too distressed to argue. But he hadn’t believed Dean then and he didn’t believe him now. Honestly, he and Dean weren’t exactly on steady ground when dealing with humans. They rarely ever did. And Dean seemed offended by the very thought of a human getting one over on them - half the time, Sam felt ashamed of his own fear, as well - but fighting humans was just different. It wasn’t necessarily easy. Especially from a legal standpoint, which Sam wasn’t all that better off for having studied for four years. Knowing law only gave Sam a greater appreciation of how absolutely screwed he and Dean both were. Their trial had been a circus sooner than a legal proceeding. They hadn’t been able to explain what had really happened in St. Louis and Baltimore and Milwaukee. Because that would have meant explaining what they did for a living - and they’d be on their way to the Fox River Psych Ward right now if they’d gone that route.
“Okay, boys, nice and easy,” the guard nearest the door said before he and his partner climbed out.
Dean and Sam were left in the van together for less than a moment.
Dean turned to him. “Like we’re gonna run for it inside the prison. Idiots,” he muttered. Sam smiled, because that was the purpose of Dean’s comment, but he couldn’t manage more than that. His lips felt like rubber.
“Move out, now!” the guard ordered, and Dean moved before Sam could, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder til he’d climbed past, to be in front of Sam when they faced their new place of residence.
Sam released a shaky breath, swallowing once - and then again - before following Dean out into the sunlight.
It was a short walk into the building to be processed, but it seemed to take forever, and Sam’s steps felt impossibly heavy.
He could see the inmates in the Yard gathering along the fence line, watching them being led in. He could almost feel the stares. And he almost stumbled when he heard the first whistle.
Either nervousness was rushing his steps, or Dean had sensed his rising anxiety levels and had slowed down, but the gap between Sam and his brother had shortened.
“Keep moving,” the guard in back demanded. The group had been joined by a couple of prison guards and the man who’d introduced himself as Warden Pope.
Sam calmed himself and steadied his steps, trying to keep his eyes on Dean’s back, the back of the warden’s head… his own feet.
Sam felt relieved when they reached the building, but he also felt ridiculous for it. They weren’t any better off for being inside the prison facility. Just the opposite. Sam realized, with slowly approaching panic, that unless he or Dean did “come up” with something… they’d just walked into a building they were never going to walk out of.
Warden Pope was only with them for a short while - then he turned them over to two of his guards, the largest of which was in charge of the COs in the prison.
His name was Bellick, and Sam knew right away that he was going to make things difficult for them - as if they needed the help.
Of course, Dean wasn’t exactly making things easy, either. Sam knew that, deep down, Dean was just as scared as he was. But he hid his feelings well - under so many years of practice at putting a brave face on for “Sammy” that he didn’t seem afraid. He seemed cocky. Belligerent. Which he was, as well, but usually not so much so that he’d gotten himself yelled at by a prison guard within thirty minutes of meeting him.
Bellick got right up in Dean’s face and Sam held himself very still, just hoping that his idiot brother had enough sense not to push Bellick any further. Sam did not need to spend his first night in prison alone - worrying about Dean down in solitary and what might be happening to him.
Not that plenty couldn’t happen out here.
“You oughtta watch that mouth of yours, boy,” Bellick told Dean, towering over him. “It could get you some trouble around here.” Dean smirked, until Bellick began to smirk back. “’Course, if you’re really careless… it could get you more than that.” He glanced down at Dean’s mouth, and back, and his meaning was unmistakeable.
Dean’s smirk faded, and maybe Sam was the only one who noticed, but so did a little of his color.
It was the first time since loading up in the transport van that Sam didn’t feel any fear. He was too angry to feel anything else. Just the implication of-
“You got a problem, boy?” Bellick said, suddenly looking at Sam.
Or maybe not so sudden. Sam realized Bellick was standing closer to him than before.
Sam grit his teeth, and entertained a moment of idiot senselessness himself. Only the look on Dean’s face, from over Bellick’s shoulder, brought Sam back to himself before he could say something stupid - or prompt Dean into saying something stupid to save Sam the trouble.
“No, sir,” Sam said, as cooperatively as possible.
Bellick stared, from one of them to the other, for a long moment.
“Good,” he said. “Then you can bunk here, with Scofield. Lou, take this cocky little shit to sixty-three before I change my mind and put him in with Avocado.”
Sam didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, but he was glad that bastard wasn’t taking Dean away himself. He shared a final look with his brother before Dean followed Lou out of the cell and Bellick and the others stepped out.
“Close forty,” Bellick called, and with the sound of a buzzer the bars to Sam’s cell grated shut.
Sam had to force himself not to react to that.
“We’ll leave you alone to settle in,” Bellick said with mock pleasantness.
And then Sam was alone.
Sam got himself under control just about the time the sound of soft-soled shoes and patent leather boots pounding concrete and metal began to fill the cellblock. He braced his arms on the top frame of the bunk set against one wall of the cell and took deep breaths, telling himself what he’d told himself over and over since this thing started.
This was just like a hunt. He was more prey than predator in here - he was unarmed, and escape was impossible. But just like in a hunt, the important thing wasn’t the where or what he was fighting… the important thing was to keep a clear head while he did it, to keep a poker face.
When the buzzer sounded and all the cell doors slid open, Sam stood and waited.
Inmate after inmate walked by his door - many of them taking curious glances at him, some longer than others. Many, however, kept their eyes down and their steps quick as they passed - like they didn’t know Sam was there, or were in a hurry to pretend that he wasn’t. It was a surreal realization - that some of these men were afraid of Sam. Sam had known that his and Dean’s reputation would probably precede them… They were two of the most wanted men in America, as insane as that sounded. Their faces had been on the front of newspapers and at the top of newscasts for months now.
Knowing and seeing, however, were two different things. And Sam supposed he should feel better that some of his fellow convicts were apparently as wary of him as he was of them. But Sam was mostly disoriented. And anxious as he looked for his cellmate to appear in the crowd - tensing whenever a particularly large, or particularly aggressive-looking, con came near.
When a young man hesitated outside the cell - not glancing in, but looking at Sam directly, Sam almost started. The guy couldn’t be any older than Sam was himself. He was Dean’s height, with a swimmer’s build; dark, close-shaven hair and fair skin.
He had the most intense eyes Sam had ever seen, and his expression was inscrutable.
After a moment he entered the cell, watching Sam carefully.
Dean had told Sam what to say in here - as little as possible. This was a maximum security prison, where there wasn’t anyone in lockdown who hadn’t done something to make them dangerous. But then, Sam and Dean were here, and while they were hardly babes in the wood, they weren’t raving psychopaths either. They just wanted to keep their heads down, do their time (as little of it as possible) and get out. Sam liked to think there were more men like them in Fox River. Their stay here would certainly be that much more difficult if there weren’t.
“So, you’re Scofield,” Sam said, trying to walk that line between sounding unfriendly and sounding too friendly to his new cellmate. “I’m Sam. Winchester.”
Scofield stared at him, disconcertingly. Sam had stared at symbols before in just that way - trying to determine if they were hoodoo sigils or runic markers.
Whatever Scofield was trying to determine, he seemed to draw a conclusion. His posture relaxed, just slightly.
“I’ve heard,” he said simply. And added, “Michael,” with a nod.
Sam relaxed a bit as well. “Michael,” he repeated. “I’d say it was nice to meet you, but…” Sam looked around them, then smiled.
Michael looked surprised. After a moment, his lips twitched.
“I’ll try not to take it personally.”
[part 3]