-Chapter Three-

'Maybe there's a God above,
But all I've ever learned from love,
Was how to shoot somebody who out-drew ya.
And it's not a cry that you hear at night,
It's not somebody who's seen the light,
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.'

-Leonard Cohen

-Present Day-

Batonga Penitentiary was one of the last places any inmate or criminal wanted to end up. In fact it's very existence served as a cautionary tale for those who might be considering dabbling in the area of law breaking. As far as prisons went, this was one of the worst throughout all fifty states. The most brutal guards, the worst conditions, the highest levels of security known to man and an absolute son a bitch for a warden. It was practically medieval; renowned for it's unorthodox methods of punishment. The Geneva Convention was considered null and void inside its walls. Only the worst sort of criminals were sent there, never to see sunlight again.

No-one had been particularly surprised when the Winchesters were sent there. Agent Victor Hendriksen least of all.

He surveyed the inside of the Penitentiary, impressed at the security and the general sense of doom that seemed to emanate from the inescapable walls. He'd clocked thirty six guards so far; all of them well built, armed and mean looking. He wasn't even fully inside yet. Security cameras every ten feet, protected by bullet proof glass. Everything powered by full battery backup. Reinforced steel bars, electronic key cards to open the doors, retinal scans required the deeper you went. No wonder the escape record was zero; just the thought of attempting it gave Hendriksen a headache.

He was being taken to see the warden who had requested his presence. Probably to moan and groan about how much trouble Sam and Dean were causing in his prison. It was what most people wanted to talk to Hendriksen about. The damage they caused, the people they were killing. Why couldn't Hendriksen stop them, because he was the one who'd caught them after all? Got a book deal of out it and everything.

Warden McClusky was a strange looking man. He seemed badly formed on a molecular level. Eyes small and sharp, head larger at the top than it was at the base. He wore a suit that looked like something from Drop Dead Fred and that ridiculous moustache – it made him look like an escaped mental patient. He greeted Hendriksen with a wide, reptilian smile.

"Hendriksen, always wanted to meet you," he crooned, taking his hand and giving it a good squeeze. "Got a lot of respect for you, y'know. Bought your book, even read the whole damned thing."

"Warden...Victor Hendriksen," one of the uniformed guards introduced them both.

"Dwight McClusky," the warden said. "Welcome to hell."

"Good to meet you, Dwight. How are my two favourite assholes?"

The grin widened, impossibly so. Hendriksen could count those yellow teeth stacking back into his oddly formed skull. "Those two rat fucks are locked away in the deepest darkest cells we got in this hell-hole. I guess you wanna see 'em, huh?"

Another giant door slammed behind them as one opened, activated by the electronic keys of two guards on either side. "Pretty impressive security you got here," Hendriksen commented.

"All my implementation," McClusky prattled. "When I came here, the assholes were still opening and locking doors with keys for Christ's sake. Keys!"

"I take it you've had no escape attempts from the Winchesters yet?"

"Nope, not a one. It's like they don't realise they're in here, like it's all just temporary. We've been waiting, of course. Thought they'd be hot shit, like the papers made out."

"So they're not giving you any trouble?"

The two guards one either side of McClusky and Hendriksen scowled simultaneously.

"Wouldn't go that far," McClusky grimaced. "They've killed nineteen inmates, twenty one guards and three psychiatrists during their little stay here. Sam's work, mostly. Last dumbass shrink made the mistake of asking about their father; got a pen in the brain. Sam did it all shot up on tranquillizers too."

"I'd forgotten how fucking crazy they were," Hendriksen chuckled while McClusky gave him a sidelong glance.

"I'm surprised Hollywood ain't found you yet. Your story would make a better movie than that "Serpico" shit. But I tell ya, Hendriksen, in all my years in the penal business - and I tell ya that's no small number - Sam and Dean Winchester are without doubt the most twisted, depraved group of shitfucks it's ever been my displeasure to lay my eyes on. I mean, these two fucks are a walkin' reminder of just how fucked up our system really is!"

Hendriksen chuckled darkly. "I tell you what it is. These fucks think they're special. Daddy yanked their dicks, Momma never game 'em a hug, so they have carte blanche to take innocent life. They think they're invincible."

McClusky nodded intensely. "That's my observation too. We have an army of shrinks who talk about mania and schizophrenia and multiphrenia and obsessions. But it's all bullshit. It's Pride! Arrogance! Somewhere, somehow they get the idea they're better than everyone else and it makes me sick!"

They walked in silence for a few minutes, massive doors sliding open and closed with an intimidating clanging echoing after them.

"So," Hendriksen asked finally. "What's this about?"

"You feel that silence in the air?" McClusky asked, glancing around at the walls.

"Yeah, I guess."

"That's the one thing you don't want in a prison, Vic. Silence."

They entered a large dining hall, quiet and oddly still even though it was full of convicts. They sat around on the tables, opposite one another and the silence was deafening. It was unnerving. Hendriksen glanced around, spotting one big black guy in particular sitting stock still, plastic knife in his large hand. The inmates around him looked like they might shit themselves at any given moment. The man directly opposite him in particular was sweating badly, looking like he wanted to jump out of his skin just to get away.

"What the fuck is you lookin' at?" the black guy demanded. That was all the warning anyone had before he lunged across the table, going for the smaller man's throat with the knife. McClusky moved with an unexpected amount of speed, beat him to it and threw himself on top of him. Hendriksen leaned to see what it was McClusky was doing to the inmate. It looked like some kind of nut cracker. He slipped it over the inmates fingers and McClusky used it to crack them backwards. The black guy screamed and struggled uselessly. Three guards picked him up off the floor as McClusky gathered himself, rearranging the bad suit.

"Toss that asshole in F Block for a month, then bring him to see me!" he snapped as the man was dragged away.

"Jesus, Dwight! You should be on American Gladiators."

"Yeah, well," McClusky wheezed, catching his breath. "Someone comes at you in here, you go straight for the fingers. You see what I'm talking about?" he asked, indicating around as they left the dining hall, the silence even more pronounced now. "It's those cocksuckers, Sam and Dean…got my whole prison worked up like this."

"Ninety percent of the inmates here are violent offenders or murderers. We're over two hundred percent capacity." One of the guards, Kavanaugh, according to his badge, piped up.

"This ain't a prison anymore, Victor. It's a time bomb. All thanks to those two. They've got 'em all worked up like sharks with chum bait - smell of blood drives 'em nuts."

Hendriksen shrugged. "So ship them out."

McClusky laughed. "No-one wants 'em. Don't blame 'em."

"So fry them."

"We tried that and every single time, they kill somebody new and we gotta start the whole fuckin' legal process all over again. That's two or three years, y'see? They're smart motherfuckers, I'll give 'em that." They turned a corner into a long corridor with only one room at the end, six guards standing stationary along the length of it. "Pete!" McClusky called to the guard nearest the bars. "We got a visitor for the songbird!"

Hendriksen shot Dwight a confused look.

"He sings all the damned time," McClusky grumbled. "No-one knows what the fuck it is."

As soon as they began to get close, Hendriksen felt a bolt of something go through him; arousal, dark and hungry. Sam was singing, voice soft echoing against the prison walls. It was more like a strange kind of humming, with the occasional string of words.

"So you're stuck with them? Sounds like a haemorrhoid you can't get rid of," Hendriksen commented, fingertips tingling as they drew closer.

"Even haemorrhoid's can be cut out. That's why we're sending them for testing to Nystrom with you," McClusky said with a grin.

"Nystrom? Lobotomy bay?"

"Vegetable land; home of the criminally insane."

"That hasn't been done in years."

"We got a first stage ruling. It won't stick, with all these do-gooding shrink assholes they've got around 'em. But it will get them under your control for a few hours."

"Yeah? And then?"

"The public loves you, Victor. You're a celebrated lawman. You busted the Winchesters. Twenty years on the force, bestseller out in paperback. You're a living breathing icon of justice and that's why you were chosen to deliver those rabid dogs. We, the prison board, know if anything should happen when you get out there on the road…"

"A fire," Kavanaugh supplied helpfully.

"An escape attempt," the other guard added.

"…Anything," McClusky went on. "Supercop Hendriksen would be there to look out for the public's best interests."

"I'm starting to get the picture," Hendriksen said with a little smile.

"And of course nobody in their right mind is going to cry for those two pig-fuckers if they happened to take some lead. You write the script, Victor. You call it anything you want. 'Showdown in Mojave; The Extermination of the Winchesters.' Have we found our man?"

Hendriksen didn't reply for a moment. He walked towards the small glass window, metal interwoven through it, and saw the boy he hadn't seen for eight months. Sam Winchester had grown, filled out even more if possible. He'd obviously been working out and Hendriksen had to wonder who was stupid enough to give either one of the Winchesters access to dumbbells or weights. He was singing, leaning against the back wall. There were no windows, not a scrap of natural light. One flickering light above him. A paper thin mattress on the floor with a moth eaten cover. A sink and toilet in the furthest corner. Sam was wearing sweatpants and a vest. There was blood on the vest but Hendriksen couldn't tell if it was old or new.

"Yeah," Hendriksen said, mouth a little dry. "You've found your man."

"Hey, Winchester," McClusky called through the glass. "You got a visitor."

It was as though no-one had said anything. Sam just kept on singing, head swinging from side to side, hair falling around his eyes and face. For a moment, Hendriksen wondered if Sam could actually hear anything. If the cell even had air holes. Then the youngest Winchester turned and looked dead at them. His eyes were darker than they'd been the last time Hendriksen had stared into them. For the first time, he wondered if some of the rumours about Sam being some kind of monster were actually true.

Very suddenly, Sam ran at the door and smashed his head into the glass, actually managing to crack it before he fell to the floor, unconscious and bleeding.

"Jesus Christ!" Hendriksen yelped, leaping back.

McClusky just chuckled. "Don't worry, he does that all the time. C'mon, follow me."

"So where do you keep the other one?"

"We've got his ass locked away on the other side of the building, it just so happens you can't see him right now. He's got a special visitor."

"Oh yeah?"

"Bela Talbot."

"Bela Talbot? That TV whore?"

"We call 'em media, Vic. Why, don't you like the media?"

"That bitch lives to fuck cops over," Hendriksen scowled.

"You can't so no to the media. You want the job? Come say hello."

Through the two way mirrored glass, Hendriksen saw Bela Talbot. She was sitting at the table, waiting for Dean Winchester to be brought in. She fiddled with her hair, tucking away any loose strands and neatening herself up. She brought a recording device up to her mouth and said, "Testing, one two," a few times. She was clearly nervous but managed it well, years of experience coming into play perhaps.

When the doors opened, she visibly steeled herself. Dean was brought in, guards on either side of him. He wore a blue jumpsuit with a leather strap around his middle, to which his hands were cuffed. His feet were double locked and he was barefoot. His face was bruised, he was sporting a bloody lip, but otherwise he looked calm and utterly unflappable. His hair had grown longer since Hendriksen had last seen it. Just like his brother, he had obviously been working out.

Talbot smiled widely and leant back in the chair. "Lovely to meet you, Dean," she said as he was dropped down into a chair in front of her, guards settling in behind him. "My name is Bela Talbot."

"I know who you are," Dean said, in that low, ever so charming voice. His smile was stunning. Hendriksen hated the fucker and he had to admit it was mesmerising. "You're famous."

She laughed and ran a hand around the back of her neck. "Not as famous as you," she practically purred. Hendriksen was surprised she wasn't sitting on his lap. "I want to thank you for seeing me. I have a television show, American Maniacs. Every few weeks, as part of our look at current America, we profile a different serial killer…"

"Mass murderer," Dean corrected politely with a wink.

She smiled again, brighter this time. McClusky chuckled quietly.

"Whatever you'd prefer. Now then, the episode we did on the Winchesters was one of our most popular."

"You ever do John Wayne Gacy?" he asked, conversationally.

"Uh, yes. Yes, we did."

"Who got the higher rating?"

Bela gave a little wink of her own. "Yours."

"Ted Bundy?"

"You blew him away."

"What about Manson?"

She gave a mock grimace. "Manson beat you, I'm afraid."

Dean shrugged, repaying her with a mock pout. It drew unnecessary attention to his mouth; those lips. "Fair enough."

Hendriksen, who was watching with a nasty feeling in his gut, leaned in to whisper to Dwight, "Is he always this chatty?"

Dwight shrugged. "Sometimes. She's a piece of ass, I'd be the same."

"I don't think she's his type," Hendriksen muttered, but continued to watch.

"As I was saying," she went on, leaning across the table a little flashing ample cleavage. "We would really love to do a follow up show about you boys. I feel it's apparent to anyone who's hip to what's going on that the Prison Board has thrown the Constitution straight out the fucking window! You and Sam may be killers, but nuts...insane? I think not. You're being railroaded into a hospital for the sole purpose of turning you into a vegetable. Now some people are saying, "So what?" I am not one of those people. If we avert our eyes while they do this to you, we give them permission to do it again whenever they see fit. Today, they wipe clean your mind because they feel your actions are dangerous. Tomorrow they wipe clean my mind - or dump me in syndication – because they feel what I say is dangerous! Where does it all end? That's my angle."

She took a breath, tongue sweeping across her top row of teeth, waiting and weighing Dean's reaction. When he didn't say anything, just stared politely, she continued.

"My problem, Dean, is you don't exactly inspire empathy. I'm all alone on this. I need your help. I have interviews with the Prison Board, with that Warden Dwight McClusky - and I'm telling you, Dean, they look bad. The two psychologists they used for their kangaroo court won't talk to us, which also looks bad. I have an interview with the judge at your trial, Bert Steinsma, and the psychologist, Emil Rheingold, both of which discount the notion that you're insane. What we need now is you. You haven't talked to the press since your trial. Now a few days before you get transferred to an asylum, you give an exclusive to Bela Talbot. We're talking a media event here. We run this during the Sweeps, promos on the Super Bowl, I'll even ask them to program it the same day as the Super Bowl! Right after it! They might go for it!" She got up and out of her chair, starting to pace.

"Television history! The first sit down, in-depth interview with the most charismatic serial killer ever. One day before he's being shipped to a mental hospital for the rest of his life. This is Wallace with Noriega! Elton John confessing his bi-sexuality to Rolling Stone! This is the Maysles Brothers at Altamont. This is the Nixon/Frost interviews!"

She took a breath, having gotten a little over-excited. Dean seemed unmoved, thus far. She composed herself and sat back down.

"Have you spoken to Sam?" he asked, magnetic eyes locked onto her, unblinkingly.

She looked a little put out for the first time. "He wouldn't see me. All he does is sing, apparently."

Dean smiled to himself a little. He looked at the space to his left as though someone was there. Victor frowned; he'd heard they did that, but wasn't prepared for how much it freaked him the fuck out, seeing it first hand.

Behind him, the guard came forward and yanked him to his feet. "Time, mother-fucker!" he snarled as Dean was hauled upwards. Bela jumped up, edging around the table.

"Let him answer me! What do you say, Dean?" she begged.

There was a pause, while the guards got a better hold of him and Hendriksen watched closely. Dean blinked slowly and let another trademark smile cross his undeniably beautiful face.

"I say go for it."

"Why the hell are you letting that bitch do this, Dwight?" Hendriksen asked irritably as Dean was pulled away. Bela gathered her things, looking intensely smug.

"Relax! If I don't, we'll be excoriated in the press. If I do, it'll be weeks before they clear it and those assholes are gonna be road kill before that ever happen, eh Vic? No-one's gonna give a flying fuck about two dead losers!" McClusky said with evident relish.

"I guess not," Hendriksen said, but could not shake the feeling that something was intensely wrong and it was all to do with how Dean had looked at nothingness, like he was looking at Sam.

Two days later Hendriksen's nasty feeling rocketed up a few notches.

"Jesus Christ, how could you let this show go live, Dwight?" he asked, irritable from a nasty bout of indigestion. He'd been called into the prison too early and then the news that the show was going live…it was too much.

McClusky was relatively blasé about the entire charade. "I couldn't stop it, just got out of hand. It don't change a thing, Vic. We're gonna move those scumbags tomorrow, just a little ahead of schedule that's all. You wanna talk problems?" he asked stopping and looking around. "That. That's a problem. Dead quiet. It's dangerous when it's dead quiet."

The unnerving silence was back again, like a vacuum before the storm. It gave Hendriksen a chill down his spine. They were walking towards the room Bela was going to use for the interview. Obviously it had to be checked and re-checked several times before Dean could be allowed anywhere near it.

She was inside, dressed to kill. Short skirt with a dangerous split and a low cut top, just revealing the edges of a red lacy bra. What a whore, Hendriksen thought to himself.

"Ah, Dwight," she said, voice pleasant and persuasive. "Now, I wanted to have a little chat with you if that's alright."

"Sure is," Dwight replied, eyes unsubtly bouncing from her face to her chest.

"Great! Now, I want to have Dean reasonably relaxed. You know, get him to open in ways he never has before. And looking around here, I can't see how I'm going to be able to do that. There's so much security. I mean, is it all entirely necessary? This room is like Fort Knox as it is, right?"

"Sorry, Miss Talbot, but this security is mandatory at all times. Do you have any idea how dangerous he is?"

"The only risk is to myself, right? There are eight guards in here with shotguns. Is there no chance we could get rid of some?"

"What are you suggesting?"


"OK, I'll take two guards off."

Bela laughed. "No, no – I mean, leave two in here, get rid of six."

Dwight shook his head. "Absolutely not. Five guys have to be in here at all times, at the very least."

"Three?" she tried.

He fixed her with a stern look. "Four. That's it."

She smiled and placed her hand on Dwight's shoulder. "You're a star."

"So, I'm gonna go have myself a little word with Sam," Hendriksen dropped in while Dwight was affably distracted. He didn't wait for Dwight to reply. Hejust left, mouth practically watering with how badly he wanted to see that boy again.

'Right after the Game, stay tuned for a special "American Maniacs" on W-A-T-C-H. Dean Winchester is the most dangerous man in America, but Bela Talbot isn't afraid to meet him one on one to learn what so many people died for. Is this man insane or does he belong where he sent so many others...in the grave? Be sure to stay tuned for this exclusive!'

"Dean Winchester, thank you for this opportunity," Bela said, with a pleasant smile from across the table. The camera panned to Dean, un-cuffed and relaxed. He wore an absolutely stunning smile, shy and confident all at the same time. "I have a few questions I'd like to start with, if you don't mind?"

Dean replied, "Let's roll the fuckin' dice, honey."

"Dean Winchester, when did you first start thinking about killing?"

"From the age of five."

"Can you elaborate on that?"

"Death, one kind or another, became my life. My talent. An art form of which I became a fucking Picasso." He laughed then; a warm, attractive sound and it made his eyes shine darkly.

"Where did it come from?"

"I guess it's in my blood. My Father had it. It was branded into me. Eat, shit, fuck, kill. It was all I knew. It was my fate, always my fate."

With a concerned look, Bela countered, "No-one is born evil, Dean. It's something you learn. Now, let's talk about your family, specifically your mother. You were five years old at the time she died and there's a lot of speculation about how that happened."

Dean's mood darkened immediately. "I didn't kill my mother, if that's what you're asking."

"But you killed your father?"

Something seemed to pierce that dark veil; a grim sense of achievement. "Yes."

"Would you mind telling me why?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it was self defence?"


"It had to be done. He got off easy."

"Was he a religious man?"

Dean seemed to find that funny. "Not exactly."

"Why is that funny?"

"Wouldn't you laugh if I asked you if the Devil read the bible?"

"Do you read the bible, Dean?"

"I've read it, yes."

"And how do you think your actions compare to the Christian values of the bible?"

He shrugged. "The bible's full of murder."

"What about God? Do you think he has the right to judge you?"

"He can judge all he wants. Just another bad Dad with a fucked up sense of punishment and control."

"Dean; how can you look at an innocent man - a guy with a wife and kids - and then shoot him to death?"

"Who's innocent? Are you innocent, Bela? Look around at the world and show me the innocence. Death? It's pure, unbiased, chaotic. Everything kills, all creatures in one way or another. I know a lot of people who deserve to die."

"Why do they deserve to die?"

"Everyone has some secret in their lives, some terrible thing they've done. We're humans, we are sin incarnate. The worst kind of people are those who are already dead, walking around living like zombies. They need putting out of their misery."

"And you think you're the person to judge that?"

"The wolf doesn't know why he's a wolf, the deer doesn't know why he's a deer. I t's instinct. Fate."

"So tell me, Dean - any regrets?"

"Well," he sighed. "I wish that old guy hadn't got killed. The Spanish dude."

Bela flipped through some papers hurriedly. "One of your last victims," she said with a nod.

"He was trying to help us, I think. Took us in, gave us shelter. He saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The demon."

Bela's eyes flashed excitedly. "The demon?"


"So what happened?"

"It was a mistake. I was dreaming, same dream I've had since I was a kid. It's hard to move, hard to run and I can taste metal in my mouth. The demon is running after me, chasing and I feel it's breath on my neck."

"What does it want?"

"It wants to kill something good."

"So...as long as you're bad, it won't kill you?"

Dean seemed far away for a few seconds and when he brought himself back, he interlaced his fingers together, shrugging with gracefully. "It's the way of all demons."

"But it's not just innocent lives you've taken either, is it Dean? Both you and Sam have killed dozens of inmates on the inside too."

"Death is indiscriminate," he said. "And the demon lives in here. Everyone's got the demon in here. It feeds on their hate; cuts, kills, rapes. It uses your weakness, only the vicious survive."

"And you don't believe God could help you?"

"God? No. The thing that kills a demon? Love. The reason I'm not an animal, wild and snarling…love. That's what killed our father and that's what'll blow this world apart in the end."

With a look directly into the camera, Bela said, "Hold that thought. We'll be right back."

Though the distance between the two areas of the prison was vast, Hendriksen felt himself being drawn inexorably towards Sam's cell. Accompanied by a guard, he was practically vibrating with excitement. The closer he got, the more he felt it.

The guard opened the door and said, "Rise and shine, Winchester!"

Sam had been laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He sat up a little and met Hendriksen's gaze with a flat calm that seemed to make the guard nervous. Jesus, he was mouthwatering. He seemed completely at ease, no tense muscles or fear in his eyes. He pulled himself up to a sitting position.

"Turn around and face the wall!" the guard yelled.

Hendriksen chuckled. "That's alright, my good man. We're gonna have a little chat is all."

The guard frowned, looking from Sam back to Hendriksen. "Agent Hendriksen, don't get near him – he'll kill you!"

"Relax, man – go read my book, OK? Now I've met some sons of bitches in my time but this guy? I think I can handle him," he said with a friendly laugh and herded the guy out of the room, closing the door with a slam that reverberated down his spine.

Alone with Sam, finally.

"How you doing, Sam? Long time, no see, huh?" Sam watched him silently as Hendriksen crouched down in front of him with a smile. "You've grown, man."

The longer Sam went without moving made it all the more dangerous. He was playing with a cobra and he knew it. It turned him on, made him hard.

"You remember the last time you got fucked by your big brother?" he asked, little more than a breathy whisper. "I hope you've got a good picture of it, 'cos it's never gonna happen again."

Still nothing.

"You think about him a lot, do you Sammy? I know you do. You realise you're never gonna see him again?"

And then after a few seconds, Sam blinked. A slow, seductive smile spread over his face.

"Are you flirting with me?" he asked softly. Hendriksen gave a groan, moving kneel in front of Sam with a smile all his own.

'And we're back with Bela Talbot's live interview with Dean Winchester!'

"So, Dean - how does it feel knowing you'll never see your brother again?"

"Says who?"

"The United States Government of America."

Dean laughed again. "When have they ever been right?"

"Was it really worth it?" Bela pressed.

"Was what worth it?"

"Was massacring all those people worth being separated from your brother for the rest of your life?"

"You mean, was an instant of my purity worth a lifetime of your lies?"

"Excuse me, did you just say purity? Where was the purity in the trail of bodies you left behind?"

"You'll never understand it. Me and you, we're not even the same species. I used to be you, then I evolved. From where you're standing, you're a human…from where I'm standing you're a cockroach."

"Cut the BS, Dean – why this purity, why for Christ's sake?"

He chuckled, low and soft and replied, "I guess you've gotta hold that ol' shotgun in your hands and it all becomes clear to you. That's when I knew; five years old and I knew my one true calling in life."

"And what is that?"

"Shit, honey - I'm a natural born killer."

When it cut to commercial, Bela let her intense look of concentration drop and an ecstatic smile spread over her face. "Oh that was fan-fucking-tastic! Dean, sweetie – that was just perfect! Every moron in the world just saw that. Spectacular!"

Dean smiled back. "Glad to oblige," he said. There might have been an alternate meaning beneath his words, but Bela couldn't place it. The cameras were gearing up to go again after the commercial when McClusky, who had been sitting watching with a scowl, was handed a radio by a sweating guard.

"Where? Oh shit-fire, holy fuck! OK, OK, mobilize the men, I'm on my way!" he stood and addressed the whole room. "Close down all the cameras!" he snapped. "We got a riot in Rec Room B Wing!"

"That's a joke, right?" Bela asked frantically. "We're live, there are two hundred million American's watching this!"

"They've got guns, hostages, explosives! You shut those cameras down now, missy!"

"Then...could we go with you and film it? Live, for Christ's sake! We'll never get another chance like this again!"

Dwight snarled furiously. "You stay here and shut the hell up! This is all your fault anyway! This all started because of your fucking show! They're rioting because of what he said!" He addressed the guards in the room. "Kavanaugh, keep your finger on the trigger and be ready at a moment's notice! Phil, Jim – you're with me! Everyone else, sit tight!"

McClusky left with a final scathing look at Dean, who popped a piece of gum and smiled innocently.

Bela watched him go with a sense of massive frustration. She sat down, fuming. She watched as Dean stretched languidly like a cat in the sun.

"Everyone seems pretty tense," he said calmly. "How's about I tell a joke?"

Hendriksen was starting to sweat as he watched Sam slowly stretch his muscles, bones clicking and rolling as he did. Sam looked to his right for and smiled like he saw something. Hendriksen's blood ran cold for a minute, recalling what Dean had done not half an hour ago. But then he shook himself, determined not to let some bullshit weirdness distract him.

"I remember you," Sam said, voice baritone and rough with disuse. "You cut me."

He lifted his throat up a little, exposing the thin scar. Hendriksen let out a small groan.

"Yeah, I did."

"You liked that, didn't you?" Sam said, eyes dancing with the flickering neon light above them. "You enjoyed making me bleed."

"Yes," Hendriksen managed, reaching down to palm himself through his trousers. "I know you liked it too. I saw what you did to the kid at the gas station, Sammy. I know what you like."

Sam's tongue traced over his bottom lip. "Oh really?"

"I killed someone too," Hendriksen whispered. "Some fucking whore. I strangled him."

Sam laughed, it echoed beautifully around Hendriksen. "You know what I think about, all alone in here?"

Hendriksen moved closer, undoing the top button of his shirt. "Tell me."

"Sex. I think about sex. Fucking. Hard cock up my ass, making me writhe and moan and beg. I miss that. Sweat and flesh and pain, blood on my tongue. Does that make me a whore?"

Hendriksen felt like he was going to come in his pants.

The smile widened over Sam's face and he leaned forward. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, barely a whisper.

"Kiss me and pinch my nipple," Hendriksen gasped.

"You like a little bit of pain?" Sam asked, shifting position. He moved very slowly and then pressed a kiss to the older man's lips, tongue flicking out over them. Hendriksen groaned, about to grab him and eat his fucking mouth out, when a burst of pain took his breath away.

Sam had bitten through his bottom lip – torn the vulnerable flesh. Before he could even pull away, the younger man slammed the heel of his hand into his nose and it broke; agony exploding over his face.

Hendriksen fell backwards, managing not to scream. Instead, he pulled a can of pepper spray from his belt and sprayed it in Sam's face.

"You wanna play, you stupid little bitch? We'll play!"

"Wow, tough room," Dean said, choosing a few doughnuts from the box on the table. Everyone was still sitting around, waiting for news. The mood was palpably tense; entirely too perfect for what Dean needed to do. "OK, one more." He winked at Bela who looked intensely pleased and he began to walk casually around the room.

"So," he said, taking a bite of a doughnut. "A mother says to her daughter, 'OK, you can go to the drive-in with Bobby, but you've got to take little Johnny.' Sister says OK. They go to the drive-in, they come back and mother pulls little Johnny aside and asks, 'What happened?' Now, Little Johnny can't talk.'"

Dean drew a square in the air and acted like he was driving.

"Mother says, 'OK, they went to the drive-in – I knew that! What else?'"

Dean, as Little Johnny, made exaggerated smooching sounds as he walked around. The shorter guard cracked and grinned a little. Dean handed him a doughnut and continued around the room.

"Mother says, 'Oh! They were kissing? Well, what else?'"

Dean made groping motions at the chest of another guard who pretended not to laugh.

"Mother says, 'He felt her up? Well, what else?'"

Dean mimed the action of taking off his shirt.

"Mother says, 'They took off their clothes, well what else?'

Most of the guards was already laughing, all except Kavanaugh. Dean, still circling, pantomimed the action of sex.

"Mother says, 'They did all that? What the hell were you doing?'" Dean pretended to be vigorously jacking off. "Little Johnny no!"

And just as the whole room erupted into laughter, Dean threw the last doughnut at the nearest guard and suddenly jammed his elbow into Kavanaugh's throat, snatching his shotgun. He fired immediately; one, two, three, four shots. He shot everywhere, not caring who he hit. One of the guards went down, three crewmen. When he stopped, everyone except the guards were on the floor, curled up in fear.

"DROP IT!" Dean yelled at the guard holding the doughnut. The poor guy, shell-shocked as he was, dropped the doughnut instead. "The gun, Goddammit!"

Dean moved over the grab it, shells too. "Alright, drop your belt. Gimme the automatic too. Bela? You alive?"

"I'm right here," came her annoying British voice from the floor. "I'm alright!"

"OK, new friend. Get your camera. Get us live. We're gonna play follow the leader all the way to Sammy's cell and you," he directed viciously at Kavanaugh, who was still gasping for breath on the ground. "had better hope and pray he's in one piece."

"We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this special report. I'm being told we're taking you live to Batonga Penitentiary where Bela Talbot continues her interview right in the middle of a full scale riot. Bela? Can you hear me? Are you safe? What can you tell us, Bela?"

"As you can see by the blood and carnage all around me that the final chapter of Sam and Dean Winchester has not yet been written. An incredible war has broken out here unlike anything I've ever seen before! Fires are everywhere, bodies being thrown, doors are jammed open by bloody bones and all around me, death is at our throats!"

The pain in his eyes was almost as bad as the burning desire to rip the asshole into little bits and pieces, but Sam couldn't move. Hendriksen had his arm twisted brutally behind his back, almost snapping it clean off. He felt his legs kicked apart, cold air on his skin.

"You fuckin' little whore," Hendriksen snarled in his ear, frantically trying to free himself without letting Sam out of his grip. "You broke my fucking nose!"

"And it was funny," Sam managed through gritted teeth.

"Yeah? I'll show you funny!"

The door burst open then, the guard flew backwards into the room. His bloody chest was blown wide open by a shotgun. Hendriksen scrambled backwards, reaching into his holster for his gun. He fired a few shots, but Dean used one of the guards as a shield.

"Honey, I'm home!" he yelled, dropping low to the ground for cover while some camera crew filmed the entire thing. Sam crawled away, eyes burning so bad he was crying, but he could still see.

Dean and Hendriksen had each other over their barrels; a stalemate of sorts.

"Looks like we got us a Mexican stand-off!" Dean called out.

"Slide that shotgun over here, hands on your head!" Hendriksen shouted.

"Or what? You'll wound me?" Dean teased. "I can blow you in half, Hendriksen, and you know it!"

"I never wounded anything in my life! I've got you locked right between the eyes, Winchester. I've had you locked right from the jump, you asshole!"

"You got me locked? You take your shot!"

"You wanna shoot me? C'mon, mother fucker, shoot me! I was just fucking your little brother! He came so hard he broke my nose!"

Silently, Sam pushed himself to his knees behind Hendriksen. He quietly removed a knife from one of the dead guard's belts and opened it just as silently.

Dean clocked it. "OK, Hendriksen. You win."

Hendriksen started to laugh, just as Sam wrenched his head back. He stabbed him in the throat, dragging the blade all the way along in a sick travesty of a Cheshire smile. Hendriksen gargled and screamed through the gash in his throat, blood pouring wetly over Sam's hands.

Sam let go with disgust and looked up, eyes seeking one thing only. Dean got to his feet, arms open wide.

"Oh, Sammy," he gasped.

Sam fell into his arms, crying and laughing at the same time. Their mouths met perfectly, as though they were always meant to. The kiss was burning; pepper and tears and blood, but Christ it was everything. He mumbled Dean's name into his mouth, pulled at every part of his body, trying to meld them into one. The kissed, turning on the spot like they had that day standing on the bridge.

"This reunion has been months in the coming. They're doing something everyone told them they would never do again. At this moment they are the only two people on Earth."

In between kisses, Sam managed to ask, "What…took you…so…long?"

Dean laughed. It reverberated into Sam's mouth and he swallowed it hungrily. "Told you I'd come, didn't I, baby boy?"

In the background, Hendriksen's gurgling was starting to become irritating. Dean lifted his shotgun and fired, only to have it click – empty.

"You're losing your touch there, Vic," he chuckled coldly, fingers trailing possessively through Sam's hair. "I was outta shells."

Hendriksen made a desperate screaming sound, thicker blood starting to pour from the gaping neck wound. Sam bent down and picked up an automatic, aiming it squarely between the eyes.

"How sexy am I now?" he asked and fired.

McClusky was ten minutes away from having a heart attack. The sweat pouring down his face had soaked into his shirt. The prison was exploding, totally out of control. He'd made it into the Control Room without getting stabbed and that was only by the skin of his teeth.

The scene the cameras painted was gruesome, blood soaked and burning up. "What about those gates there?" he demanded, pointing to one section of the screen. "Try closing them again."

"They're still jammed open sir. We got fires in 5,6 and 7. The psych unit looks like a zoo! They're slaughtering each other. All our informants and being tortured."

A guard rushed inside, slipping on something. "Warden!"

"What now?" McClusky asked hysterically.

"Sam and Dean Winchester are loose."


"Hendriksen's dead."

McClusky shrugged.

"And they're live...on network TV!"

"LIVE ON NETWORK TV? Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking crutch is this happening to me?"

The escape plan would have been going better if Dean could stop kissing Sammy. He knew he shouldn't, knew he should be thinking of a plan to get them out, but he just couldn't. It was his Sammy, his everything and they had been apart for too long. The chaos of the prison all around them was background noise.

They holed up around a corner, listening to the screams and shots being fired nearby.

"OK, this is the plan," he said, holding Sam's hand tight. "We're gonna go through some heavy fire, take these assholes as hostages. Talbot, you'd better keep that camera alive and broadcasting or I'll throw you to these lovely gentlemen. Then we're going straight out the front door."

In extremely bad shape, Kavanaugh wheezed out a laugh. "You don't have a chance in hell, boy. If they have to kill us all, they will."

"Cop psychology, huh? You know they way I feel about cops," Dean replied coldly.

Sammy tugged on his hand. "C'mon, Dean. Wanna get out of here before it blows up. Wanna see the sky, wanna sleep under the stars."

"What my boy wants, he gets. Hey Talbot. You guys have a van?"

Bela was bleeding, her hair messed up beyond all redemption. She was shaking, terrified. "Uh, y-yes. Yeah, in the car park."

"Alright. When we start to move, you all do exactly as we say – you got it? If we say left, go left. If we say down, get down. If we say mole, dig a mother fucking hole, you get it?"

Through blood, mayhem and violence, the hostage train moved steadily forward. Sam and Dean shot and killed as many as they could, taking all the weapons as they could handle. When the camera guy went down, they gave the camera to the one remaining crew member to carry and shoot with. Kavanaugh was shot twice but still walking. Bela was relatively uninjured, keeping close to Dean. All the doors were jammed open, bodies littering the corridors.

Then came the last remaining wall of guards; McClusky at the helm, spitting and screaming, red in the face. Sam moved quickly to hold the handgun to Bela's throat.

"Move and I'll blast this bitch all over TV!" he bellowed.

"You got nothing, Winchester!" McClusky screamed. "Nowhere to go!"

"Put up your hand," Sam directed at Bela, who did so with trepidation. He shot a hole clean through it; her screams rang out through the entire prison; a woman's screams. That would bring every con in the place running and Sam knew it. Dean smiled and looked to McClusky.

"You wanna live, Bela?" Sam said, keeping the gun trained against her neck. "Sell it."

Sobbing, Bela began to speak into the camera.

"My name is Bela Talbot. I am the star of American Maniacs. We are watched weekly by forty million people. I am a respected journalist, winner of the Edward R. Murrow award, among others!"

Slowly, but surely, the strange fellowship moved forward. McClusky started to stammer, started to gape. He didn't seem to know what to do, eyes flashing back and forth between the Winchesters and the camera.

"We are live, on camera!" Bela was yelling, tears free flowing down her face. "If anybody puts me in danger, the network will sue Dwight McClusky and the entire Sheriff's Department and...and the Governor himself! My estate will personally sue any officer who fires! I am a personal friend of Bill Clinton's and if any harm comes to me, the retaliation force will be one to reckon with!"

Kavanaugh was begging and pleading for the officers, his friends not to fire. Dean couldn't help but grin to himself.

"Make a path! Fucking move!" Sam instructed and the officers actually did it, not knowing what else to do.

As they passed McClusky, he snarled in Dean's face. "Just how far do you think you're gonna get?"

"Right out the front door," Dean replied cockily.

"That will never happen!" McClusky spat.

"It is happening," Sam informed him. They were completely past the row of officers. They slipped through the final set of bars and Sam yanked a dismembered arm out of the wall, where it had been jamming the gate open. It slammed shut with a resounding clang that seemed to signal death to the McClusky and the other guards.

"Get it open!" McClusky snarled, yanking fruitlessly at the steel bars. "Who's got a key card?"

"It's…its lockdown, sir," a guard told him, trembling voice giving out. "They won't open."

Dean gave McClusky a final grin and a salute as the oncoming mob of furious, bloodthirsty prisoners came raging towards him, smashing him into the bars with a bloody crunch.

"This is Bela Talbot, sadly no longer reporting live. My crew is dead and I am wounded. Dean Winchester's plan worked. We walked out the front doors of Batonga, into our news van and made a get-away. When we were followed by patrol cars, Sam Winchester shot and killed Deputy Kavanaugh and threw him out the back of the van, causing the patrol cars to swerve and pile up. Why helicopters have not been deployed, I don't know. B-but without any further ado, here is...Sam and Dean Winchester."

"Sam, what did you think of Dean's plan? Did you think it would work?"

"Never a doubt. I thought it would take him a little less time to get us out, of course. He told me he'd have us out in six months, but I guess I can forgive a little lateness."

"You…you planned to get out all along?"

"Of course. Like any prison could ever keep my Sammy locked away inside, right baby boy?"

"I see. So did you organise the riot?"

"The riot? That was just fate. Plain and simple."

"One final question boys; you're clearly both very intelligent. You've both just escaped from the most secure, intimidating prison in all of America. Why the did you let yourselves get caught in the first place? Why leave the footage behind? Why leave this, even now? You could be invisible, forever…why draw attention to yourselves?"

"This whole world's gonna burn, you know. Who cares what mess we make of it in the meantime? Besides, we're not gonna have anyone chasing after us anymore. We're dead."


"We died in a crash. They're gonna find our bodies burned to a crisp in a terrible explosion in that quarry down there. This tape is gonna burn, same as you, Bela. They're gonna think we burned too."

"Alright, cut – cut!" Bela said, putting the camera down and turning it off. "Wh-what do you mean?"

The boys stared at her with frighteningly similar eyes. "We just thought we'd let you get your ending. Before, y'know…your ending."

"That's - that's not funny," she gasped, feeling like she was falling. "We can travel together! Pop up, lie low – bang out a book, movie deal maybe. Come on, we're famous!"

"No," Sam sighed, lifting the gun and aiming it directly at her. "You were famous."

"But…you can't kill me!" she squeaked.

"Why not? You think you're too good to die?" Dean asked, popping a fresh shell into the shotgun with an amused smile.

"But you…I…"

"We'll kill you quick, how's that? Then your body is going in the van - we don't need it after all. Gonna go find the asshole who thinks he's the owner of a certain 1967 Chevy Impala. We've got all we need for them to think we're dead and gone, just like you."

"How? They'll expect b-bodies! DNA!"

"They'll get it. There will be three bodies in that van, and two will be the spittin' images of the infamous Winchesters."

"The process for which is gonna suck, by the way," Dean grimaced. "I hate glamour spells. You're getting the better end of the deal, Bela. We have to pull a tooth each to get the mojo up and running to make replicas of our bodies."

Her mind wasn't functioning. "I don't…this can't be…"

"Your last moments? Yup. Counting down in three, two…one!"

"Goodbye, Bela."

-Two Years Later-

Two years later, the stars were just as beautiful as they had always been. The sky had not altered in the slightest, did not reflect the changes the planet had undergone beneath it. The end of the world had come in the form of fire and demons. Among the survivors, there were two brothers staring up at the eternal sky.

Sam sighed and snuggled closer to Dean's chest, nuzzling the familiar warmth and smell there. That Dean smell filled his nostrils, made his head spin a little. It always did.

"Tell me a story," he sighed, as they lay on the hood of the Impala.

"You wanna hear about these two kick ass dudes who busted out of jail?" Dean laughed, bringing a hand up to play idly with Sam's hair. He ran his fingers through it, nails scraping over the scalp in a way that made Sam shiver. "Or the time these same awesome dudes fought off a dozen cops with rattlesnake venom in their blood?"

"No. Tell me about these two guys who survived the apocalypse and hunt demons now," Sam purred, mouthing gently over Dean's ribs.

"But I don't know how that story ends," Dean said, shifting so he could reach down to face his little brother.

Sam smiled and leaned in close, lips hovering over Dean's as he said, "I'll bet it ends with a kiss."