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English
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Part 1 of Every Time We Touch
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Every Time We Touch: A First-Time Wincest Fest
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Published:
2021-04-25
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1,177
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1/1
Comments:
15
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269
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31
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2,928

Trade You For Smokes

Summary:

They're in prison, so someone has to be someone's bitch, right? Even though that's just a stupid movie trope. Things like that don't actually happen in prison.

Notes:

Hey look, my brain can still churn out a fic. We celebrate the little things in this Year of Our Lord 2021, y'know?

Written for the First Time Wincest Fest on Tumblr.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Work Text:

The whole thing is so fucking cliché Sam could scream.

He’s never been to prison before, and God willing he never will be again, but he’s surprised at how disappointingly like the movies it is. Of all the things for Hollywood to actually get right, this might be the most depressing. 

But it’s all here, every prison stereotype he’s ever come across. Someone offered to sell him liquor made in a toilet. A fight at breakfast ended in someone getting stabbed with a homemade shiv. A haunted-looking guy, skinny and with eyes that were a little too shadowed to properly be called doe eyes, sat perched on the lap of a dude even bigger than Sam even now, just across the yard.

It’s like a highschool production of Shawshank and it’s giving Sam a tension headache.

But somehow, here he is, shivering slightly in the early April breeze, thin orange jumpsuit and prison-issue jacket doing little to keep him warm, watching Dean play poker for loose cigarettes to use as currency. 

Dean’s poker partner loses, because of course he does, and he looms over Dean for a second, but Sam’s even loomier just behind him, even without really meaning to be. The guy leaves and Sam takes his place on the bench. He’s thankful for the warmth left behind by the convict’s ass, and, as ever, thanks the heavens that Dean can’t read his mind, because of the fucking field day he would have with that particular thought, given their surroundings.

They discuss the probable spook and how to get the job done: a task made a hundred times harder than normal (which is never a cakewalk) by the fact that they’re highly guarded and tightly scheduled. Then Dean is standing, flung-wide arms with fistfuls of cigarettes, calling out for another opponent, so Sam vacates his seat with a sigh. Twenty more minutes of yard time to go.

Dean’s got the name of someone who’ll get them fuel for their bonfire, but the only time they get to cut the deal is in the showers. Negotiating while naked with a guy doing fifteen years for savagely beating a convenience store clerk to the point of brain damage didn’t exactly make Sam particularly comfortable, but clearly Dean has no such reservations. 

“C’mon, Richards,” he says, leaning in closer than Sam thinks wise. “It’s a fair deal.”

Richards scowls back at Dean. “Man, I’m not interested in a fair deal. I’m interested in the best deal for me. And so far, all I hear from you is talk, new meat.” He eyes Dean balefully. “Where’s your product?”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean gestures to their all-encompassing nudity. “Sorry, I seem to have left my pockets back in my pants. I got the smokes, Richards. You can get them at dinner.”

“Yeah, well, maybe the smokes ain’t enough.”

Dean is incredulous. “Dude, I’m asking for lighter fluid, not the Hope Diamond. What the hell else do you expect?”

Richards moves faster than either of them are prepared for, one hand snapping out to close around Dean’s throat, the other reaching around to grab his ass. “Maybe you gotta do some begging for me,” Richards hisses. “On your knees, bitch.” 

He moves to knee Dean in the stomach, but Sam’s faster now that his brain has caught up, and he gets between them, ripping Richards’ hand off his brother’s throat and shoving Dean behind him. He hears Dean curse as he slips on the wet tiles and hits the ground. 

“He’s not your bitch,” Sam growls, twisting Richards’ arm up behind him. A little more pressure and the shoulder will dislocate. “I’ll give you one guess who he belongs to.”

“All right, man, all right .” Richards wriggles as much as he dares - clearly he’s aware of the danger his joint is in. “Get the fuck off me. I’ll leave him alone.” 

Sam twists the arm a little higher just for good measure before he lets go. Richards yanks away, glaring at him. He flicks his eyes to Dean, on the floor behind Sam’s bare legs. “Jesus, ain’t you brothers, you sick fucks?” 

It only takes a half-step toward him to make him flee. Sam watches him retreat to the far end of the room, then turns to help Dean up. There’s blood on the tiles, but a quick visual inspection shows it’s only a graze on Dean’s forearm. 

Their little show has naturally attracted an audience: Sam feels the weight of all the watching eyes on his back. Dean knows it too. 

“Seal the deal,” he says very quietly. Sam blinks. Dean just nods minutely. 

Sam sighs. He’ll never be able to watch a prison movie again. 

“If anybody missed the finer points of that demonstration,” he says, loud over the sound of water and the muttering of the men, and turns back to face the crowd, dragging Dean with him, “this piece of ass belongs to me.” He punctuates the speech with a sharp slap to Dean’s ass, digs his fingers into the meat and pulls him tight into his side, then uses his other hand to grip Dean’s chin and angle his face upwards for a bruising kiss. 

His mind is oddly quiet, for a guy tongue-fucking his own brother in a prison shower with God and twenty naked convicts watching, although a little voice does pipe up to inquire whether he really needs to let his fingers slide into the damp space between Dean’s asscheeks to further solidify their point, or how much of the little whimper Dean makes against Sam’s mouth could even be heard by their viewers, or how long they’ve actually been standing there, pressed together slick and wet and okay maybe his mind actually isn’t that quiet. 

He pulls away, looks out at the crowd. Someone wolf-whistles and someone else laughs awkwardly and suddenly it’s all over, everyone breaking apart to try and wash away even a little bit of the reality of their shared situation. Sam’s not sure how much of this will actually wash away. 

“Stellar performance, Sammy,” Dean says, low, and Sam almost doesn’t dare look back at him and very nearly regrets it when he does. Dean’s already full mouth is red and wet, his eyelashes clumped together making his eyes look even bigger. He’s looking about as confident as a guy who’s just been publicly claimed as a fucktoy can be, but he’s not avoiding Sam’s gaze. “Think you burned our supplier, though.” 

“We’ll find another one.” Sam’s voice is steadier in his ears than it feels in his mouth. “Better finish up.” 

“Yes, Daddy,” Dean quips, louder now, and his grin is as cheeky as ever, but God, there’s something still lingering in his eyes that’s making Sam’s stomach do cartwheels and thankfully the water is barely lukewarm and there’s nothing very visually appealing about a room full of nude criminals. 

Sam crouches to get fully under the spray and pointedly doesn’t think about the episodes of Oz that they’d watched at the last motel with free HBO. 



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