sonofabiscuit77 (sonofabiscuit77) wrote,

All in the Game, yo (Part 1 of 2)

Title: All in the Game, yo
Part: 1/2
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 19,031
Disclaimer: All made up, of course.

Summary: SPN AU, Dad was shot and killed by a police officer when Sam was five... Sam and Dean grow up in care on Baltimore’s Westside where drug-dealers and drug-pushers rule the streets, where kids face the reality of playing the Game or becoming a junkie, where two white boys have nothing to rely on except each other and their own smarts.

Warnings: This contains violence, amoral! and criminal! boys, there’s also mild consensual weecest, (Sam is 12 in one scene) oh and there’s some filthy grown-up wincest too ;D

A/N: This is a gift for annabeth for the spn_j2_xmas gift exchange who gave me some great prompts such as underage, first-time, incest!kink, co-dependency and generally fucked!up boys; growly manhandly!Sam, OTPness for Sam/Dean... and I just ran with all of them, and also my own private pondering: What would SamnDean be like if they grew up in The Wire? Although, I’ve stolen the setting and the title for this fic from HBO's The Wire, all the OC’s are my original creations and you don’t need to be familiar with that show at all, just need to know that you’re pretty much fucked if you live on the Westside of Baltimore.

Finally! I have to thank my fabulous beta andreth47 for her seriously invaluable help!

All in the Game, yo

July, 17, 2009

Detective Alexandra Fisk stood beside her partner, Detective Lance Faulkner, watching the ground breaking ceremony for the new Franklin Terrace Towers development.

The old Franklin Terrace Towers had been blown to the ground weeks earlier; debris and dust had hung in the air around the ruined blocks of the Westside for over a week, until the bulldozers and clean-up crews moved in, layering the ground and preparing it for this ceremony.

Mayor Rawlins posed on a makeshift podium, shovel in one hand as he spoke into the mike, easy words like regeneration, renewal, reform, social inclusion, social mobility and regeneration again (that was a favorite) falling from his lips like election promises. To one side was his wife, dressed like a first lady in her trouser suit and matching handbag, and on his other side, the reason Alexandra was there: Sam and Dean Winchester.

The Mayor rounded off his speech:

“And now, I’d like to call on the people who have made this possible, the company we have to thank for this new step towards change, towards the rebuilding and regeneration of Baltimore’s Westside; the founders of Winchester Enterprises, Sam and Dean Winchester. Sam, would you come up here please, say a few words to the good people of Baltimore?” He turned back to the crowd, “Sam Winchester, people, the CEO of Winchester Enterprises.”

Alexandra felt her lip curl as she watched Sam Winchester step away from his brother, nods and handshakes and back claps for the Mayor, kisses for his wife, and beaming politician smiles for the rows of press at the front as he took the podium.

“My brother, Dean and I were raised here on the Westside. We spent our childhood in this neighborhood. This place – this neighborhood is a part of our lives, and we want to give back. This new development, and in particular, the rebuilding of the Riverside Court Children’s Home – the place we spent so many important years - is just the first step towards our goal: to rebuild and regenerate this part of the great city of Baltimore. We want to make this city what we think it’s capable of becoming; we want to give kids like us the kind of start in life that they deserve. As part of this, part of our commitment to change, we are delighted to be here, at what we hope is the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Winchester Enterprises and the City, at the start of what looks to be a truly groundbreaking -” (at this an eyebrow raise and a chorus of delighted groans) “- venture for all concerned…”

“Man, I could just eat him up with a spoon,” a girl on Alexandra’s left commented to her friend. “Every fuckin’ inch of him, mmm-mmm.”

“Shit, yeah. Hell, if he ran for office, I might even vote,” her friend added.

The other girl cackled loudly and hip-checked her friend.

Alexandra rolled her eyes, and tuned back in to Sam’s speech. He had finished up, to more cat-calls and whistles than real applause, and was acknowledging it all with an enormous smile that was all dimpled insincerity and teeth whitener.

“You know, we ain’t never gonna get them,” Lance said conversationally.

She glanced at her partner, “Why the fuck not? Everyone slips up some time.”

“Naw, girl, not them, not the Winchesters. They’re too fuckin’ smart, anyway, what we got on them? Conjecture? Suppositions? Fuckin’ Westside gossip? Shit that ain’t gonna stand up in court, and you know it.”

“I know that they killed Stephen Hopkins, every motherfucker in this city knows that,” she replied.

He shrugged, “So? Who’s gonna give a shit about Little Stevie? That motherfucker was askin’ for it, crime bosses, dudes like him; someone always gets them in the end. Anyway, that shit was five fuckin’ years ago, since then they’ve been clean, nothin’.” He turned, gave her a look, shaking his head as he drew on his cigarette, “What I’m askin’ myself is why you even botherin’? What’s your beef with the Winchesters? They’ve been clean for years. You gotta give this up, catch some real criminals.”

“Hell, they are the real criminals, Lance. They’ve just gotten themselves too fucking high and too fucking mighty that you can’t see it no more. Just cause they’re BFF with the goddamn mayor, bankrolling freaking projects for the city don’t mean they aren’t up to their eyeballs in shit!”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, “but where’s your evidence? You ain’t got none.”

“Yeah,” she agreed with a sigh.

She watched Sam step off the podium and move back to stand beside his brother, bending his head to whisper something into Dean’s ear, provoking a small smile on Dean’s face. Dean Winchester was more of an enigma than Sam; Sam was the public face, the company CEO, but Dean… Dean had been Little Stevie’s pet enforcer for years before the fat guy had ended up floating in the Patapsco. Still, there was nothing linking them to it, just bitchy Westside gossip and their truly dazzling ascension to the top of the City’s echelons: to what they were now – property and investment millionaires with designer suits, healthy tans and about half the City’s administration in their pockets.

Some whoops and catcalls worthy of a strip club dragged her attention back to the podium and she watched in wry amusement as both Dean and Sam stripped off their designer jackets, handing them over to their shades-wearing aides, rolling the pristine cuffs of their perfect white shirts up some impressively ripped forearms. Dean glanced up and raised a hand with a smirk, acknowledging the attention while Sam rolled his eyes and placed a huge hand on Dean’s shoulder as they took their shovels. She had to admit, that alleged murderous and criminal tendencies aside, both Winchester brothers were extremely easy on the eyes, almost preternaturally so, of course the designer suits, perfectly tailored pants and dazzlingly white dress shirts certainly helped, but they both had the kind of looks that were more fitted to the pages of GQ than the Westside, putting the short, balding Mayor next to them in a photo shoot was just plain cruel. She watched them pose with the Mayor and his wife with shovels in hand, more whoops and catcalls greeting them when they finally broke ground.

The crowd began to ebb away, the Mayor immediately being surrounded by press eager to question him about the school budget cuts that had just been announced the day before. Alexandra turned her attention back to the Winchesters: they were making a more stealthy get away than their City’s great leader, hooking their jackets over their shoulders, sliding on their shades, shoulders grazing as they made their way towards their driver, Sam’s hand lingering over the small of Dean’s back, slightly too close for what was normal. She felt the breath catch in her throat and exchanged a look with Lance, who was regarding her with sardonic amusement.

“Course if you really, really wanna get them. There’s always one thing that’d stick,” he said, as they turned to head back to the patrol car.

She glanced up at him, a matching ironic smile across her lips, “Incest?”


“You’re wrong. That shit would never stick,” she sighed. “Hell, I can’t see the DA’s ever going for that. You're never gonna get the kind of evidence needed. And they’re consenting adults. High profile consenting adults.”

“Well, we ain’t never gonna get nothing better,” he replied as they slid into the patrol car. “They’re too fuckin’ clever, girl, but the incest – that’s the only thing they don’t hide. Everyone around them says it.”

She shook her head, blowing out a long breath, “Jesus. Let’s just go. You’re right; we need to catch some real criminals.”


Twenty-one years earlier…

Dad was shot and killed by a police officer when Sam was five.

He bled out in the ambulance on the way to the ER, or that’s what the police officer told him and Dean.

The paramedic who’d been with Dad when he died came to visit them at Riverside Court, it was the sort of place that adults in charge called “a facility”, but really, Sam knew it was just a fancy name for an orphanage, full of kids with no parents or with parents in jail, or with parents who were “junkies”, at least, that was what Dean said.

The paramedic sat on the edge of the bed opposite Sam and Dean in their dorm room. He said his name was Jim and that he had two boys just like them. He was holding a photograph in his hands and kept smoothing his fingers over it and saying, “Your dad wanted you to have this; his last words were about his boys. He kept telling me to give you this.”

Sam stared at the photo as the man handed it to Dean; he recognized it as the one Dad kept in his wallet, in the front pocket. It was of the three of them on that day they’d gone fishing, some nice man had been passing and offered to take a picture, so they’d sat on the hood of the car, Sam in Dad’s lap and Dean leaning against them, while the man took the picture. The photo had smears of red around the edges. Blood, Sam knew that, it was the same as what Dad sometimes got on his clothes when he got back late from work.

But Dad was dead, he was really and truly gone, he was never coming back and Sam didn’t know what to think about that, wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. When he looked up at Dean, Dean was nodding blankly at the man, his eyes wet and pink. Sam buried his face in Dean’s chest, felt Dean’s arm go around him and pull him close. He only realized that he’d been crying when he pulled back from Dean and saw that Dean’s tee-shirt was soaked through, soppy and sticky with his tears and snot.

Riverside Court was supposed to be temporary, but they ended up staying there a lot longer, though their social worker, Miss Jeanette, was always hopeful, promising them every time she visited that they’d be moved soon.

“Not much longer, boys, I think I can free up a couple of places for you with Mrs. Daly. She has a lovely home and she loves taking in boys like you, she’s such a wonderful woman. You’ll like it there.”

Miss Jeanette had a kind face and a soft voice and told them she was new to the job, but with the Lord’s help she would find a permanent home for them – a couple who could adopt them and love and cherish them.

“We don’t care,” Dean told her. “S’long as we’re together. You ain’t gonna split us up.”

He gave her a fierce look and she smiled again, said that it wasn’t the City of Baltimore’s policy to split up siblings, that they were strongly against such practices. But Sam wasn’t listening to her; he was staring up at Dean, thinking that when he grew up he wanted to be just like his big brother.


Their first real foster home was run by a couple who already had four other foster kids. They were called James and Margaret and they insisted on being called Mr. James and Mrs. Margaret. They had three bedrooms, two children to a bedroom. It was The System.

Mrs. Margaret spent a long time telling them about The System as she showed them around. She was tall, with long, black hair that reminded Sam of the pictures of witches in the books Dad had left behind.

According to The System, the girls – Denise and Valerie - had one room to themselves because they were girls. “The older boys,” she announced, turning her sharp eyes on Dean, “Dean, that will be you and Cedric, have a room to yourselves. And the younger boys – that’s means you, Sam, and Aaron, have this room.” She pushed open the door to a small room with yellow-painted walls and a couple of old looking cots. Another boy of about Sam’s age was lying on one of the beds with a book; he looked up at them and blinked; he had strange, pink eyes, the blondest hair Sam had ever seen and skin that looked like you could see through it.

“You can put your clothes in that closet, Sam,” Mrs. Margaret kept saying, pointing to a white painted closet, “Aaron has made room for your things.”

Sam wasn’t listening to her; he was staring at Aaron who was staring back at Sam with those strange pinky eyes of his. Sam felt his skin start to prickle and he edged closer to Dean, fisting his fingers into Dean’s plaid shirt.

Dean glanced down at him, pressed his lips together, then looked up again.

“No, this ain’t gonna happen,” he said firmly.

Mrs. Margaret, interrupted in the middle of explaining the rules for taking showers, immediately looked down at Dean, eyebrows raised. “Dean, did you say something?”

“You can’t make us sleep in separate rooms. That shit won’t work,” Dean repeated.

Sam tilted his head to look up at her, he widened his eyes in that way that Dean told him worked “like fuckin’ magic on the grownups, Sammy” and said quietly, “I get nightmares, they're real bad. I gotta sleep with Dean.”

Mrs. Margaret did not look impressed. Instead, her expression got harder. “I see, well this is The System. So, we will keep with The System for tonight, and if there’s a problem then we’ll review it. But for now, Dean, you will sleep in the older boys’ room with Cedric, and Sam will sleep here with Aaron. Do you both understand?”

Dean shook his head at her, “You gonna regret it, lady.”

Her smile went all mean and icy. “We’ll see.”

She did regret it. That first night, Dean sat on the end of Sam’s bed while Sam pressed his face into Dean’s thigh, trying his best not to cry because he hated this place. It was nothing like Riverside Court where there were kids everywhere, where there were always fights, always noise, where everything was always happening and no one cared if he got into bed with Dean at night, if he followed Dean about during the day, if he crawled into Dean’s lap when they watched TV in the TV room. This place was too quiet, it smelt funny, Mrs. Margaret looked like a witch and Aaron was creepy.

Dean ran his hand through his hair, trying to comfort him, he whispered, “You be strong, Sammy. An’ if you need me, then you scream, man, you scream real fuckin’ loud.”

Aaron watched them with those beady, pink eyes of his, all creepy and silent like he’d been ever since they arrived. Dean turned to go, on the way out, he leaned against the doorframe and said in his deepest, most threatening voice. “You touch one hair on his head then you're a fuckin’ dead man. Ya feel me, bitch?”

Little Aaron blinked and nodded in his creepy way, Sam stared up at his brother and in that moment, he loved Dean so fiercely that he wanted to burst with it.

He had a nightmare that night, thinking about Dad in the back of the ambulance, his body swelling up fat and round with blood like a giant strawberry - like Violet Beauregard in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - his face red and shiny 'cause of the blood, blood gushing out from his mouth, eyes pink and beady like Aaron’s…

He woke up with a scream stuck in his throat, arms reaching out for Dean, for his brother’s familiar, warm body. When he couldn’t feel him, when he could only feel the big cold space in bed beside him, he started to scream, shaking with fear and clutching his blankets tight in his fists. He jerked bolt upright, feeling his pajamas damp underneath him and he knew that he’d had an accident. Dean hated it when he did that, always moaned and complained about sleeping in soaked sheets, about the extra laundry duty they got because of it. But Dean wasn’t here right now to complain, Dean was… Dean was… he glanced over at the other bed; Little Aaron was awake, staring at him with his beady pink eyes, just like Dad’s blood strawberry eyes in the dream.

He screamed harder, “Dean! Dean! Dean!”

Dean came running, slammed the door open, shouting out Sam’s name. He dived onto Sam’s bed and dragged him into his arms, for once not caring about his wet, smelly pajamas. He squeezed him tight, wrapping him up entirely in his familiar, warm body. Sam sobbed in relief and clung to him, moaning Dean, Dean, Dean, into Dean’s neck, over and over like a prayer.

When Mrs. Margaret arrived, wearing a long robe, her hair a wild, witchy mess half-way down her back, Dean turned around and swore at her, spitting out every bad curse word he’d learned at Riverside Court.

Afterwards, Dean got punished for using those words, and only three days later they were moved on, Mrs. Margaret refused to have them around, sending daggered looks at Dean and calling them “unnatural” while they waited for Miss Jeanette to arrive to pick them up. Dean called her an evil bitch while Sam wrapped his small arms around his brother’s waist, pressed his cheek against his brother’s hip, and stuck his tongue out at her.


Riverside Court was just like they’d left it, most of the kids they’d known were still there, and they welcomed them back with tough-kid nods and complicated handshakes that Dean knew but Sam had no idea. He stood next to Dean, fingers locked in Dean’s sleeve.

“See yo’ fag-ass little brother still fuckin’ retarded,” one of the kids said to Dean.

“Yeah, an’ I see you still a piece of shit with a fat fuckin’ mouth,” snapped back Dean. “You wanna taste my knuckles, motherfucker?”

“You wanna eat shit, asshole?” screamed the other kid.

“Bring it, bitch!” shouted Dean and slammed his fist into the boy’s face.

Sam’s heart started to pound as he watched Dean kick the shit out of the boy, riding him down to the ground where he loomed over him, fists pummeling the kid’s mouth. Eventually he stood up, chest heaving as he staggered back towards Sam, pulling Sam flush against him, strong hand on his chubby shoulders.

“Why won’t any of you goddamn bitches learn that you don’t say one single fuckin’ word ‘bout my brother?”

They soon got a reputation, the adults in charge deciding before they’d already arrived anywhere that they were trouble, every foster home in the City getting to hear about those Winchester boys. They weren’t the worst; there were twelve year old kids in the system already hooked on drugs, hard-faced thirteen year old boys selling it on street corners, fourteen year old girls pregnant with their pimps’ babies, enough stories of urban teenage depravity to make a Fox News executive come in his pants. But there was something about them that people didn’t like, that made them suspicious, made them look at the two of them with tight lips and disapproving eyes, regarding them warily, distastefully, like there was something offensive in their very being.

Sam didn’t care, though; he didn’t care because Dean didn’t care. Dean never gave a fuck about what people thought about them, or that’s what he said anyway, that’s what he’d tell Sam while he taught him stuff, important shit, he’d say, shit that’ll make you survive, Sammy, cause that’s what’s all about. Dean taught him how to use a knife, which part of a boy’s (and girl’s) body was the most tender, which move could cause the most damage – where he could smash his knuckles, where he could aim a kick. Being tough was necessary, and for Sam, who was small and plump and liked to read, being tough was essential: after all, as much as he wanted to, Dean couldn’t be with him for every hour of the day.

Sam was eight years old when some brave and really fucking stupid kid first called him and Dean faggots. Dean broke the kid’s nose and two ribs for that comment, pounding his face in between yelling, “He my brother, you sick fuck!” only stopping when Sam sprang forward and tugged on his sleeve to pull him away. Dean immediately spun around, eyes only for Sam, as Sam shook his head at him and said solemnly, “I think he got it, Dean.”

Dean smirked and wiped the blood off on his t-shirt so it looked like warpaint. He ruffled Sam’s hair with his unfighting fist, and sagged down against Sam. Sam twisted in the embrace, pushing his face up into the crook of Dean’s neck, his favorite place; he inhaled the scent of Dean’s skin, letting his lips press against Dean’s throbbing pulse. He liked doing that, liked the feeling of Dean’s blood, Dean’s body, Dean’s heartbeat against his hands or his mouth.

When they lay in bed at night, he liked to slide his hand under Dean’s t-shirt, hold his palm over Dean’s chest to feel his heart beat, making sure he was still alive, reassuring himself that he was still there, still with him. He knew all about the human body, had read books about it from the school library, knew it was the heart that pumped blood around the body, that blood carried oxygen and that when you lost a lot of blood, bled out, like Dad, then you would die from lack of oxygen.

Dean got it. Dean got him and he never minded when Sam would press his body hard up against him in bed, just to feel him breathe, his chest going up and down as Dean’s lungs exhaled and inhaled. Dean understood that these things mattered when you loved someone as much as he loved Dean.

They were in Riverside Court for another year before they got moved again, but they were trouble, people didn’t like them, foster mothers and fathers, social workers and teachers always eying them suspiciously, making comments about their unnatural closeness. Sam never bothered trying to be friends with the other kids; sure, he’d attract allies, kids who saw being friends with him as a way of getting close to Dean, becoming one of Dean’s gang, or just using Sam to help them with their homework. But Sam never felt like he needed anyone else, Dean was his protector, his entire world. Dean was everything.

There were fights all the time, every day at Riverside Court, and Dean was frequently in the middle of them. It definitely didn’t help that they were in the minority – two of only a handful of white kids in the system – but Dean never gave a shit about the odds. He had a smart mouth, he was fearless and he didn’t care who he went up against, and wherever they went Dean attracted attention, whether it was his skin color, his attitude, his too-pretty, too-delicate looking face, or just him, the way he was, it didn’t matter, everybody seemed to want a piece of Dean.

“Why do they do that, man? Why all these fuckin’ kids always up in my goddamn shit, Sammy?” he bitched to Sam, spitting a mouthful of blood into the sink from a cut lip. Sam perched on the sink surround next to him and reached out to hold Dean’s face, tilt his head his way. Dean looked at him, eyes widening as Sam passed his thumb carefully over Dean’s busted lip.

“We’ll get ‘em,” he said quietly, “you watch, they ain’t goin’ nowhere, Dean, but you and me – we’re gonna get outta this shithole and make good, do better than all of ‘em.”

He nodded at Dean, so sure of his own words. Dean huffed out a breath, pulled his face out of Sam’s grasp, smiling ruefully, “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Dean was frightened of nothing, nobody, but he did have a weak-spot: Sam.

They’d been in a new home only three days before Sam attracted the attention of one of the “bad” kids, someone who Dean had beaten down, who wanted to get revenge. He was called Ryan, he liked to play with matches and he was, in Sam’s opinion, a complete psycho. He’d just about managed to get the better of the kid the first time around, but Ryan was obsessed with bringing Sam down, and in the end, got his revenge: he climbed into Sam’s bunk one night while he slept curled up against Dean and dropped a lighted match into his hair.

All Sam’s hair was burned off, though it did grow back eventually, except for one patch on his right temple where the hair refused to grow, the skin underneath it puckered and sheared pink in that shiny way of burn tissue. Dean blamed himself, hated himself for being fast asleep, for not putting the fire out quicker, for panicking when he’d awoken with the stench of smoke in his nose and Sam’s screams in his ears, for not protecting him. He sat by Sam’s bed in the ER and cried more than Sam ever remembered him crying when Dad had died.

The only thing that made Dean feel better, than made his eyes shine again was planning to get the kid back. He spent nights going over the plan, figuring it out in his head and whispering it into Sam’s ear at night, fingers smoothing lovingly over Sam’s shorn head, over the soft, shiny burn tissue.

“He'll pay, Sammy, that motherfucker will get his, we’ll fuck him up but good. After what that bitch did to you, ain’t nobody get to do that shit to you, not while I’m still breathin’…”

Sam smiled against Dean’s chest, hooked his foot around Dean’s calves, drawing them in closer, sighing out peacefully as Dean pressed soft kisses against his scarred temple.

They jumped the kid on his way back from school, dragged him out to the empty house two blocks over, where the junkies hung out. Dean pinned him to the floor, straddled him and pulled down his pants, so Sam could carve his initials into the kid’s ass with Dean’s favorite knife.

Sam never forgot the look on Dean’s face as Sam sank the blade into the soft, pale skin, pride and approval and complete and utter devotion. He felt his blood thrill to it, pumping hard in his head, as the kid whimpered and bucked beneath them, a stream of urine soaking the front of his jeans and the concrete floor underneath. Dean cursed, called him a cunt, Sam laughed out loud and the kid blubbered and begged as blood rolled over the peachy soft globes of his ass. He shit his pants too, just as Sam was starting the first line of the “W”, and the foul smell of shit blended with the blood and piss as Sam finished the job, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

He raised his eyes from his handiwork and saw Dean’s face only inches from his own, Dean’s eyes were shining, his mouth smiling in that way that only Sam got to see, that smile that was all for him.

Sammy,” Dean breathed out and Sam grinned, clicked his teeth and tossed the knife in the air, catching it one-handed – a trick Dean had taught him – Dean huffed out a laugh and leaned in to press a kiss to Sam’s lips.

Afterwards, when Dean climbed off the kid, when he deemed that the job was done, he threw one arm around Sam’s shoulders, other hand smoothing over Sam’s shaven head, and rolled the kid onto his back with the toe of his boot. He leaned down and spat in the kid’s face, hissing out: “You come near us again, you bitch-ass freak. You fuckin’ look at my brother again, and I swear to God I will carve up your motherfuckin’ dick so good you ain’t never gonna be stickin’ it in no fuckin’ bitch! Ya feel me, motherfucker?”

He broke off, trembling with emotion, turned and spat again, right next to the kid’s body in the pool of blood and urine and shit. Sam could feel Dean shaking, the line of his skinny thirteen year old body pressed up against Sam’s softer, chubbier one. Sam thrust his hand into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans, spread his small fingers over the hard curve of Dean’s ass and said quietly, “C’mon, Dean, let’s go. He got it.”


His hair grew back and he didn’t care about the burnt patch on his temple. Sure, when they first moved to a new school, a new foster home, then the kids would mock him, trash talk, whatever, but they soon learned if they wanted to stay in one piece then they’d be better off keeping their mouths shut. And by the time Sam was twelve years old, even the new kids in the system knew better than to try and mess with the Winchesters.

“They think I’m a psychopath,” said Dean. They were lying in bed, staring out at the huge curtain-less window on the other side of the room, Sam’s head resting on Dean’s chest, ear against his ribcage, listening hard to the thump-thump-thump of his brother’s heart. The room was tiny, closet-sized, “Like in Harry Potter, like his cupboard under the stairs,” Sam had whispered when they first moved in. Dean had cuffed him, smiled and called him dork, in that fond, dumb voice he liked to use. But Sam loved the room, loved this foster home, loved that he and Dean got to share this little room with their bunk beds. He liked bunk beds. He took the top bunk and Dean the bottom, though he always crept down the ladder in the middle of the night, always making his way into Dean’s bed. It was protected, it was safe, their own little world.

“I’m bein’ serious, Sammy,” he added.

“You ain't no psychopath,” Sam slurred sleepily.

Dean shifted, moving so he could look down at Sam, so their eyes could meet, “I think I might be,” he said quietly.

Sam blinked, looked up at him, into his beloved, familiar face, into his eyes, shining in the dark room, reflected light from the streetlamps outside, “No, Dean. You just – you just do what you gotta – to keep us safe, man. Anyway, who fuckin’ cares what they think? I know you.”

Dean nodded, but he still looked uncertain, unhappy. It made Sam’s body hurt to see him look like that, made him feel tight and unhappy and achy. He smoothed his fingers over Dean’s cheek, said, “Do that thing for me, Dean.”

Dean blinked, caught Sam’s hand in his own, brought Sam’s chubby fingers to his face, pressing them against his mouth, against that small private stubbly place between his top lip and his nose, so his breath was tickling Sam’s skin, like he was breathing in Sam’s scent, in the scent of his fingers.

Dean dropped his hand and shifted carefully, turning onto his side until he was propped up on his elbow, Sam on his back, right shoulder against the wall. He looked up into Dean’s face; saw the soft, knowing smile.

“Please, Dean,” he begged.

Dean’s mouth got softer and he nodded, eyes shining. He slid his hand under the covers, down Sam’s body, pushing up his thin t-shirt and slipping under the waistband of his boxers, taking his small cock in his much bigger hand. Sam shook and trembled as he felt himself get hard in Dean’s hand, as he felt Dean’s eyes on him, burning and loving, whispering, “C’mon, Sam, c’mon, baby, let go, my Sammy...” He felt himself tremble, cry out, biting his lip as he shook helplessly, hissing out Dean’s name.

“Shh, it okay, c’mon, Sam, do it, do it for me, baby, c’mon, wanna see you...”

And that was it; he came, feeling tears pooling behind his eyes, turning his face against Dean’s shoulder, his mouth wet and panting against Dean’s skin, the soft hairs on his forearm.

“Dean,” he breathed. “Dean, Dean...” over and over, his eyes tight shut, feeling his mind somewhere else, floating away, euphoric and hysterical.

“Sammy,” Dean murmured and Sam felt him lean down, felt his lips on Dean’s, the soft press of their mouths together, felt Dean’s lips move, muttering his name. “Sam...” Sam smiled and felt Dean’s smile against his own mouth.

“Go to sleep,” Dean told him, and Sam nodded, snuggled down into the covers, turning his face into the crook of Dean’s shoulder.

That wasn’t the first time; Dean had been the one who’d shown him how his dick worked, how it got hard and stiff with blood when he was turned on, what to do about it, how to make himself come. Dean had been doing it to himself for years, had never hidden anything from Sam, Sam could remember being seven, eight years old, those first couple of years after Dad died, sleeping close against Dean and hearing him jerk off, hearing the quiet slap, slap, slap of his hand on his cock. He would pretend to sleep, nestle closer against him, feel the shudder and freeze of Dean’s orgasm ripple up and down his own small body, making him feel a part of it, a part of his brother’s pleasure.


Sam’s twelfth year was also the year that Dean started working for Little Stevie. Little Stevie was king on the Westside. Sam had grown up with stories of him, everyone knew him, knew better than to mess with anyone connected with him. Dean wasn’t dumb, he trailed round to the salvage yard where they knew the big guy worked, where he had his base, and Dean hung around outside, until one of the guys noticed him.

“Y’all should give me a fuckin’ job, fixin’ the cars, I’m good with engines,” Dean boasted, and the guy laughed at him, but Dean kept coming by and they kept noticing him – this skinny, punk-ass, white kid with the big mouth – until Little Stevie himself was roused. He came out of his office, slow and majestic, wanting to see what the commotion was; his eyes skated over Dean, lingering, taking in every inch of him. He shook his head, saying to his assembled guys: “A-ight, a-ight. Ee-nough! I wanna see what he got. Let him at the Camaro, if he do good, I wanna know.” He turned to Dean and gave him a silky smile, “If you fuck up my car, I will cut you, yo. Ya feel me, white-boy?”

Dean grinned back at him, confident and triumphant, “Thanks, man, you ain’t never gonna regret this.”

Dean did good, he had a knack with engines, with anything electrical, a natural ability, he’d fixed Sam’s calculator when one of the other kids had tried to smash it, (he’d fixed that kid’s face too), fixed Sam’s watch after Sam had left it on when he’d showered one day. He understood mechanics, electrics in the same way Sam understood math or chemistry, those long slender fingers of his delving into the cars’ innards and immediately finding the problem. Dean spent his weekends there, working, while Sam would lie among the weeds and rocks of the yard or sometimes inside the car with the radio on, always with a book, and always watching Dean.

And, according to Dean, Little Stevie was impressed.

“He likes me,” Dean boasted one night over dinner, “he says I’m awesome.”

At that, DMZ, one of the other kids, same age as Dean, but much bigger, much heavier, looked up, sneered, “Shit, he like yo’ skinny, white ass, faggot!”

Dean was across the table in a second, fist connecting with the other boy’s face, flimsy table and chairs splintering underneath them as they rolled to the floor. Sam jumped away, watching and breathing excitedly, kicking out at DMZ’s legs every time he rolled near him.

Dean had him beaten real quick, Dean was learning real fighting then, he’d dropped out of school and he was a regular, a promising talent at the local boxing club when he wasn’t working for Little Stevie. Sam would meet him there after school: set up in the corner, take out his homework, feeling grateful that he only ever needed half his brain to do his homework, the rest of him completely engaged with watching Dean work out, his lean, compact, muscled body gleaming with sweat as he pummeled punch bags, feet dancing expertly, naked save for the clinging silk shorts.

After training, Dean would take on some of the other club members, and after every victory ('cause Dean always won), he’d come bounding up to Sam, dripping with sweat and grinning ear to ear, he’d lean over, sweat falling onto Sam’s open textbook, and pant out, “When you gonna join, man? You gotta be up there too, Sammy, trainin’ with me!”

But Sam would always shake his head, shy and embarrassed by his short, plump body, his soft, fleshy belly and man-titties, his pudgy legs and dimpled arms.

“No, no, go away, Dean. Gotta finish this.”

And Dean would shake his head at him; muss his hair with a fond smile, “A-ight, genius.”

Dean started making real money quickly, his pants would be full of rolls of bills, he’d love to fan them out, count them and slide them back into his pockets, smirks all round for their dorm-mates. But the other kids would never dare steal from Dean, Dean was feared by then, Dean was the Westside’s under-18’s boxing champion, part of Little Stevie’s crew, and the big guy’s favorite.

Little Stevie liked Sam, always greeted him with a friendly call of “’Sup, Sammy! Our math genius!” He’d gotten that from Dean because Dean was always boasting about Sam, face lit up and eyes shining when he told Little Stevie and his guys all about how smart his little brother was. It made Sam feel awkward and embarrassed and he wished that Dean would just shut up, but there was another part of him that thrilled to it, loved the genuine pride and love in Dean’s eyes when he spoke about him, so he never did say anything and Dean carried on.

Little Stevie loved Dean. In a short time, Dean had risen quickly in his favor, from the teenage punk who’d fixed all of Little Stevie’s favorite cars to the teenage punk who was now one of his closest guys. He worked longer hours for him, spending less and less time with the engines and more time out and about “running errands”. Sam knew exactly what those errands were; he might spend most of his time with his head in a book, but he wasn’t dumb or blind about the reality of their life, he knew exactly how Little Stevie made his money. He knew what Dean was doing when he took out one of the many huge SUV’s that filled the yard - collecting money, regular payments from Little Stevie’s corner crews, from the local bars and the strip club that paid him percentages, from the girls who worked the streets over on 6th and 7th. Dean collected from all of them, taking a percentage, skimming off the top as all of Little Stevie’s guys did.

Sam didn’t feel guilty about how Dean earned his money, how Dean was able to buy them both cool, new clothes and sneakers, how Dean could buy him every new electronic device he ever wanted, a new laptop, phone and digital camera, and still have enough left over to take Sam places whenever he got any free time: concerts, movies, the mall. Sam never felt guilty for any money Dean spent on them, this was how the world worked, a simple matter of economics. He and Dean had been dealt a shitty blow in life, it was only right that they were clawing things back, trying to make money where they could, playing the Game and building a better life for themselves, away from this dead-end shithole that was the Westside, and the only way to do that was to get money. Lots of it. It didn’t matter where it came from, the one thing, the only fucking thing, his life had taught him so far was that it was survival of the fittest, you couldn’t count on anything and the only thing worth any fucking thing was your family and your own smarts.


One hot afternoon after school, Dean met him with an enormous grin on his face.

“I gotta show you somethin’,” he said. “A-ight, man, this is so fuckin’ cool. You gotta see this.”

It turned out that the awesome thing Dean was talking about was a wrecked car, a beat-up, barely standing, old, black muscle car.

“Check it out,” said Dean, eyes glazed over as he ran a hand slowly over the dented paintwork. “You won’t remember, you was too young, but Dad used to have one of these babies. A Chevy Impala, man, '69, same fuckin’ year. Ain’t that the fuckin’ shit?”

He raised his eyes to Sam, that mesmerized, glowing look on his face that made Sam’s chest ache, so he nodded and smiled back at Dean, “It’s awesome,” he agreed. “I love it.”

Dean smiled wider and nodded approvingly. “Damn straight. She’s a goddamn thing of beauty. Or, she will be. Once I fix her up. Little Stevie says I can use the parts from other wrecks on the yard, I can work on her here.”

Sam nodded again, trying to make his expression more enthusiastic, luckily for him, Dean was barely seeing him, too wrapped up in staring at the car.

The summer of Sam’s thirteenth year was mainly spent working on the car when Dean wasn’t out “working”. Well, Dean would work on it, while Sam read or worked on his projects for school and for himself. He lay in the sun, listening to Dean tinker behind him, classic rock on low, so different from the normal Westside hip-hop sound.

Occasionally, Little Stevie would come out, puffing on one of his big, fat Cubans, that roly-poly, fat-man walk of his. The picture of capitalistic exploitation, Sam would think as he closed his copy of Marx or Schumpeter or Keynes. Obese, he whispered under his breath as he watched the fat guy waddle around, liking the sound of the word in his mouth, the hissing consonants, but scared at the same time, self-conscious of his own round face and soft belly.

As soon as Little Stevie spotted Dean, he grinned, called out a greeting and waddled up to where Dean was working.

“’Sup, man, how my mechanical genius doin’?”

Dean looked up, hot and sweaty, gleaming in the sun; wiped the grease off on his tee and shrugged, “Doin’ good, man. You got one of those big-ass motherfuckers for me?”

He nodded at the enormous fat cigar Little Stevie was puffing on, causing Little Stevie to laugh, fond and delighted, “This fuckin’ kill yo’ skinny white ass, Winchester.”

“Naw, not me,” Dean boasted, sliding his pack of cigarettes out his back jeans pocket. He looked up, grinned at his boss, who leaned close and squeezed Dean’s bicep, hand lingering just a bit too long for Sam’s liking.

“You packin’ on some good muscle there, yo? You gonna win me some real fuckin’ money next weekend, Deano?”

Dean hesitated, that look in his eyes that Sam knew, that made Sam smirk inside, that get-your-fucking-hands-off-me look, before he grinned back, all fake eagerness, answering, “Oh yeah, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout me none, boss. I’m gonna wipe the fuckin’ floor with that Eastside bitch.”

Dean went out a lot. Usually work for Little Stevie, but sometimes, Sam knew that there were girls, too. After work.

“A man gotta fuckin’ enjoy himself sometime,” Dean would say.

He’d talk with the other kids, exchange stories about the Westside bitches, except Dean didn’t call them bitches.

“They women,” he announced, “Little Stevie don’t like no women bein’ called bitches, says it’s fuckin’ disrespectful.” The other kids shut up then, waiting for Little Stevie’s pronouncements via Dean.

Afterwards, Sam watched him get ready from his bunk, ever-present book on his belly.

“Why you gotta go out again tonight?” he asked.

Dean sighed, exasperated, running a gelled-up hand through his hair, “I gotta, man. You know that, Sam. If we gonna get outta this shithole we need the fuckin’ money.”

“But you been out every night. I don’t like you bein’ out all the time, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know that, but think, man, when we have money, me and you, we can leave. I’m gonna be eighteen soon, I gotta get enough before then, so we can get us our own place. You want that, don’tcha, Sam?”

He wanted it more than anything, wanted them to have a place of their own, no one else but him and Dean, it sounded too good, too perfect.

“Sam?” Dean prompted. He sat on the edge of the bed, “C’mon, quit poutin’. Worse than a fuckin’ chick.”

“Thought you had to call them women now,” retorted Sam.

Dean laughed, his face lighting up in that way that made Sam’s stomach ache, that made him want so deeply. He reached up, curled his fingers in Dean’s shirt, tugged at it, “Dean,” he murmured.

Dean looked down at him, his eyes darkened; he picked up Sam’s book from where it lay on his stomach and tossed it aside. He sprawled out over him, laughing shakily into the pillow as Sam gripped onto his belt, trying to maneuver him where he wanted him, but Dean was too heavy to move now, his body was hard, lean and muscled, a real street fighter’s body, all of him pressing down into Sam, pinning him to the mattress.

“Fuck, Dean, you’re squashin’ me!” Sam protested after a moment.

Dean laughed again and rolled off him, onto his back, Sam shifting to throw one leg over him, pressing his hard cock up against Dean’s hip, leaning down to push his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, smelling the hair-gel Dean had just applied. Dean sighed and threw one lazy arm around him, dragging it up and down his back slowly. Sam sighed happily and ground his hips down against Dean’s. He could feel Dean’s hard-on against his belly through his tight jeans, feel how he got even harder the more Sam squirmed, feel how his own dick go harder too. He rocked down against Dean and it felt amazing, all this heat and buzziness in his belly, churning up his stomach and making his blood pump fast.

Dean groaned, his face scrunching up as he tightened his hold on Sam, pulled him closer, beginning to move his hips, faster and faster, against Sam’s, mumble his name over and over. Sam knew exactly the moment when Dean came, he could see the way his eyelashes fluttered, the tight, sudden look of pain and wonder and he loved it, there was nothing more perfect than that, than knowing that he was the one who put that look on Dean’s face. That no matter how many other girls Dean saw or how many others looked at him in that way, he’d always be the only one that mattered.


They left Riverside Court as soon as they could, as soon as Dean turned eighteen and convinced Miss Jeanette, (Mrs. Farrow now, had been for years), that he was responsible enough to be Sam’s guardian. She gave in almost straight away, she knew better than anyone how much Dean doted on Sam, how much Sam’s safety and welfare meant to him, and hell, she was most likely relieved to be rid of two of her most challenging case files, though that was probably unfair. Sam knew that she had done her best, that her job was not easy, and anyway, he didn’t care about anything anymore, the only thing that mattered was that he was finally going to have his brother to himself.

They got a place just three or four blocks over from Riverside Court, one of a handful of half-way decent tenements in a row of derelicts and junkie hang-outs that belonged to Little Stevie. Sam didn’t care about any of that, about them being even closer to Little Stevie’s kingdom. They had their own house, and for the first time in his life, he had his own room, just for him, not that he ever slept in it, but it was good for studying, somewhere to keep his books, his computer equipment, though his books soon spread out, piles and piles of them in every room of the house. Dean would bitch about it, say shit like, “Got more goddamn books than a fuckin’ library,” but it was Dean who paid for them, handing over the money to Sam with a smile, willing and happy and proud. Sam had been advanced three grades by the time he turned fourteen, taking classes with the seniors: Economics, Philosophy, Psychology, Anatomy, Physics… Dean would pick them up, thumb through them and shake his head, looking impressed and wistful.

“Jesus, man, so fuckin’ smart.”

Sam would shrug, embarrassed, feel guilty because although Dean had dropped out of high school with nothing, his brother wasn’t dumb. He had a clear, effortless understanding of money, of how things worked, how to play the game, work it in their favor. In a different life, if Dean had been the younger brother then maybe he would be starting college by now, studying math or engineering, something like that, instead of running around after Little Stevie, like his favorite pet.

A couple of months after they moved into their own place, Sam’s high school principal sent him home with a note for his guardian. Dean read it and looked up at Sam with a worried frown.

“He says I gotta come in, talk to him about you. What you up to, Sammy?”

Sam shook his head, genuinely confused, “I don’t know, man, I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ wrong, Dean, I promise.”

“Shit, I know that,” said Dean with a reassuring smile.

Sam watched Dean get changed into his one and only suit for the meeting with the principal. It was the same suit he’d worn for his juvie hearing two years ago, the same one he’d worn for Trey Dumont’s funeral only a few weeks back.

Dean turned around to face him, biting his lip as he fiddled with the cuffs, “You think I gotta wear a tie? Or that too much?”

“Naw, you look great,” said Sam honestly.

They saw the principal together, two chairs pulled close, Sam itching to put out his hand and hold onto Dean, his hand, his arm, anything, just the sight of his brother looking awkward and uncomfortable in his courtroom-funeral suit was too much for him, made his heart burst with love and pride.

“Mr. Winchester?” asked Principal Freamon.

Dean nodded, “A-ight, yeah, that’s, uh, me.”

The principal glanced up, gave him a close look then nodded thoughtfully, looking back down at his papers.

“First of all, thank you for coming in to see me, it is much appreciated.”

“Sure,” said Dean, “anything concerning Sam concerns me. Uh, Sir.”

“Right, right,” said the guy. “Well, I’ll cut to the chase. Sam is – without a shadow of a doubt – one the most gifted and intelligent students I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. His test scores are extraordinary,” he looked up, eyebrows raised and Sam felt himself blush, red stain of embarrassment flooding over his features. “But of course, you must know that already. After all, we have already advanced Sam several grades despite his age, and he is enrolled in all the advanced classes we are able to teach him, and despite all that, he is still outperforming our most intelligent seniors, not to mention certain members of our faculty.” He sighed then, and stopped fiddling about with his papers, fixing Dean with a serious look, “So, therefore I think it would be in Sam’s best interests if he leaves this school and attends the Chilcott Academy downtown.”

“Chilcott Academy – that a, uh, private school?” asked Dean.

“Yes, that’s right, it is a private institution. But it especially caters to gifted and talented children, children like Sam who are not being done any favors by being kept in the public school system.” He sighed again, “Normally, a child like Sam would’ve been discovered earlier, placed in a special environment better suited to his abilities at a much earlier age. But unfortunately, your situation, and, of course our current administration’s endless budget slashing means that the education in this city is not what it once was, and it is far too easy for those talented students to slip through the cracks.”

Sam tuned out the guy’s words, they’d heard far too much over the years from social workers, foster families and teachers about budget-slashing-squeezing-cutting-whatever term they decided to use for Sam not to recognize a soap-box when he heard one. He was still trying to take in what the Principal was saying to Dean: they wanted to transfer him to a special school, a school for gifted and talented children.

While a part of him was soaring, exhilarated that he was finally going to get out of high school, be truly challenged academically for the first time in his life, there was another part that was terrified. This was his neighborhood, he and Dean had never lived, never worked anywhere else, they belonged here. Here he was somebody, Sam Winchester, Dean’s little brother, despite his skin color, his geek status and his small, plump body he’d never once been bullied at school, the other kids too shit-scared of Dean’s reputation, of Little Stevie’s blanket influence to mess with him… If he went somewhere else, somewhere where his voice and his accent and his clothes all spoke of the Westside, he’d be opening himself up to more than ridicule.

“You think Sam should go to this school?” asked Dean.

“Yes, I think it’s essential that he does. They have programs they can tailor to his needs – he will be able to take college classes – which he is more than capable of doing, I assure you.”

“Shit, man, college? For serious? He’s fourteen!”

“Yes,” said the principal with a small smile.

“Uh, I guess this will cost, though? Private school ain’t cheap, I know.”

“Sam will be entitled to a scholarship,” said the principal with a shrug, “the school has a program for students from more disadvantaged backgrounds.”

“Disadvantaged?” said Dean with a twist of his mouth, “Yeah, okay, but I got money, Sir, I can pay, Sam don’t gotta be labeled disadvantaged.”

Sam felt his heart swell at Dean’s words and tossed him a quick glance; Dean’s eyes were narrowed in annoyance, expression defiant. The principal noticed too and he nodded, said, “Alright, well, I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

Once they’d regained the car, Dean let out a long, shaky breath; he turned his head to give Sam an unreadable look.

“Jesus, man… You really are a freaky genius, ain’tcha? It’s like official now. Fuck, Sammy.”

Sam blushed again, eyes burning where they met Dean’s, the look of wonderment and awe on his big brother’s face making him tingle all over.

“I don’t-” he started, “I don’t got to go to this school, Dean, not if you ain’t cool with it?”

“What the fuck you sayin’, man? Course I’m fuckin’ cool with it! You’re my brother and you’re gonna have every fuckin’ thing you deserve and that man – he says you deserve it. Don’t talk such shit!” Dean shook his head, mouth twitching as he started the car, “Damn, man, if Dad was here, now, he’d be so fuckin’ proud of you…”

“Shut up,” Sam said with another blush. Dean cast him a look and laughed, nudging him with one elbow, until Sam rolled his eyes and smiled at him.

“Hey, you wanna help me take off this monkey suit when we get back, yo?” He smirked and raised an eyebrow at Sam.

Sam felt the heat dip and roll in his belly at the look on Dean’s face, his cock springing to life with the kind of south-ward blood rush that sometimes had him worrying for the state of his poor blood-deprived brain.

As soon as they got back inside, he was on Dean, pulling him down into a kiss, long and deep and breathtaking, then Dean was grabbing him by his shirt, twisting him around and wrapping his arms around from behind, sniggering and pushing and stumbling upstairs together, Dean laughing breathlessly into the side of his face, muttering, “God, you, Sam, you, so fuckin’ smart, so fuckin’ proud of you…”

Part Two
Tags: spn fic
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