A/N: The title comes from the idea that freedom has different meanings for different people. One person's idea of freedom can be another's deepest darkest hell.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my sick twisted mind. May God have mercy on my soul.

Freedom is Hard to Define

They had been in prison forty-eight hours and Dean was starting to get restless. It had been thirty-four hours since he had last killed someone. That didn't count. He thought I didn't even have time to play with him properly. Rushed kills weren't fun. His eyes found Sam's across the yard, unspoken message sent and received. It was time to blow this popsicle stand, literally. Dean's chuckle turned into a full blown laugh when he saw the frightened glances he was getting. The scent of fear was intoxicating, he heard Sammy's laugh echo his. The rush of power made his dick hard. Too bad the cages they were locked in were on opposite sides of the yard. It had been too long since he had felt his little brother's mouth on his cock. Time to find Denny. That little prick had better have what I need.

The explosion rocked the concrete walls of Super-Max. By the time the dead and injured were taken care of and an accurate head count was done the Winchesters had been gone for almost ten hours. The next morning's headlines screamed the "Pretty Boy Butchers" had escaped. Deadly panic followed, Parents shot kids sneaking back home through windows, Wives killed husbands coming in late from the bar. The whole country was on a hair trigger. Well everyone but Sam and Dean that is.