for vorpalblades
Title: Sons of Atreus
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.
Warnings: AU; twistedness; disturbing
Pairings: implied wincest
Rating: Rish
Wordcount: 915
Point of view: third
Dedication: for vorpalblades, on account of her birthday
Notes: title is a reference to Greek mythology. Look it up. It’s not a happy story.
More notes: prequelish drabble here
The first was an accident. All the rest… weren’t.
They’re kept on opposite sides of the prison, one always in solitary. No other penitentiary in the country will accept either of them, no matter how the DA pleads.
They see one another in the halls, sometimes, as they’re moved around the prison. They exchange smiles and the guards eye them warily. They are never allowed to speak to each other.
In a building full of America’s most dangerous men, the Winchester brothers are in a class all their own, and that terrifies the warden.
Dean killed his first human when he was thirteen. It was the father of a little girl down the street from them. The poor bastard walked in on Sam carving up his daughter and Sam wasn’t strong enough to deal with an adult, not yet.
Dean was. Without a heartbeat of hesitation, he did.
They should have gotten the death penalty. Everyone knows it. But Sam gave the jury his puppy eyes and Dean flashed them his little-boy-ain’t-I-just-adorable grin.
Life in prison. No possibility of parole. No hope of ever setting foot outside the facility again. Forbidden from ever sharing even a single word with each other.
Sam was playing with a boy from down the block. They were wrestling. Sam was six. He tackled the boy and they went down hard. The kid’s head cracked against the ground. He died instantly.
Sam stared at the body. Fell in love with death. Became fascinated. He had to tell Dean.
Dean was horrified, but he’d never been able to deny Sammy a thing.
Dean is loud and brash when he’s out of the hole. He picks fights, but so cleverly that he’s never held responsible. The gangs avoid him whenever possible and the guards fear him, never meeting his eyes.
He has a bed and a roof over his head, warm food and plenty of it. But he’s still reeling because Sam’s out of sight and out of reach. He can’t protect Sam here.
Sam used his guileless eyes to con his way into houses. Dean followed in his wake, closing off all escape routes, standing watch. They killed indiscriminately because Sam loved seeing how different people died.
They worked their way up the West Coast, along Canada’s border, down the East Coast, and were caught in Oklahoma as they headed inwards for the heart of the country.
Neither of them testified against the other, and neither of them admitted to being guilty.
Sam is quiet and brooding when he is out of solitary. He ignores everyone and they leave him alone.
His silence frightens people more than Dean’s boisterousness ever could. His silence seems contemplative.
Anybody looking can see he’s planning something.
Sam was the mastermind. But Dean was just as guilty. Any step of the way, he could have stopped his brother.
From the evidence, spread over years and a continent, he never even thought about it.
At lunch one day, a large biker approaches Dean. Leans close and propositions him in a whisper. Dean laughs and turns back to his food. The biker backs off.
At work-out time, the biker returns. He’s taller than Dean, outweighs him by a good fifty pounds.
The biker is new. Dean’s only been in gen-pop for a few hours, and this is the biker’s first day. The biker doesn’t know to fear the name Winchester.
Dean breaks the biker’s head on a barbell and smiles.
People ask what kind of man could have raised the Winchesters. What horrible agonies he must have inflicted on them as children.
Truth is, he was a good man. He just never was the same after his wife died in a fire, when Sam was only six months old. John lost his mind that night, saw things that couldn’t have been there, and took up drinking to dull his despair.
He wrapped his Impala around a pole when Dean was eight. The system took them in.
Dean took them out of the system when he was fifteen.
A rookie guard escorts Dean back to solitary and puts him in the cell next to Sam.
Azazel watched in wonder and fascination as Sam fell into the darkness with glee. He considered killing the brother, just to erase any trace left of the light.
When he saw Dean snap a wailing baby’s neck because the creature was distracting Sam, he realized there was no need.
Any light in Dean was long covered over by his darling brother’s darkness.
They sit back to back, through the concrete. They sense each other. Always have.
Time? Dean asks.
Not yet, Sam responds. I want to see how a convicted murderer dies.
Got a target?
He feels Sam’s satisfaction. The perfect one.
Their capture and arrest caught the imagination of everyone. They were sought after for interviews. They never gave any. Their pasts were dug into, childhood grades and bruises, records for hospital visits. The system had not been kind to them.
No excuse, though. That, everyone agreed on. No excuse at all, not for what they did.
Dean is let out of solitary the next day. He presses a kiss to the wall before going. The guard sneers in disgust, but wilts before his stare.
At lunch, Dean sits next to Sam’s target.
The Winchesters are gone by sunrise. The body is found at noon.
Convicted murderers, as it turns out, die the same as everyone else, and Sam still needs more things to kill.