rivers_bend

Title: Fox River Prison Blues
Fandoms: Supernatural and Prison Break
Words: ~2600
Rating: Adult
Genre: Slash/Crossover
Characters: Sam Winchester/Michael Scofield, Dean. Implied Sam/Dean and implied Michael/Lincoln
Spoilers: Prison Break; the premise of Season One and tiny spoilers for (I think) 1:6. Supernatural: Very minor spoilers for Heart and Folsom Prison Blues. I was careful not to spoil for anything I hadn't gleaned from icons before I'd seen the episodes, but if you want to remain totally spoiler free and you don’t know anything at all, this is probably not for you.
Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with Fox or the CW. I'm only borrowing the boys.
A/N: This is inspired by watching Folsom Prison Blues and then seeing an ad for the new season of Prison Break. It started as me wanting to see Wentworth's hands touching all that golden Padalecki skin but then Sam got kinda introspective.

Huge thanks to lima_sierra who not only did beta but put up with my poking her with a stick when she had work to do.

Summary: … sometimes the need to feel someone warm and willing rubbing up against you trumped logic.


Gray walls, unbroken by windows. Watery light from a caged bulb. Dean in a broken curl on the floor next to a bare mattress on a steel frame. Dean. Fuck. Black smoke creeps under the door, billowing fast once it finds the air in the cell. Dean sees it, tries to back away, but there's no room. He screams and the smoke flows in through his eyes and nose and the terrorized O of his mouth. He goes rigid for a moment and then smiles. The scariest smile Sam has ever seen.

Gasping and sweating, Sam jerked awake. He would have fallen off the bunk except somehow Michael's there, a hand on Sam's thigh, the other on his shoulder, the slim chest a barrier to the five and a half foot drop.

'Sam. It's ok. Sam.' Michael's hands were soothing. Strong. Sure, like his words.

Sam knew it wasn't Dean. That it was his cellmate. But when he opened his mouth to catch his breath, it was his brother's name that formed on his lips.

'I know. He's ok.' Michael's left hand was gripping Sam's shoulder, pushing him gently back down onto the bed, while the fingers of his right alternated squeezing and stroking Sam's right leg, just above the knee. 'It's just a nightmare.'

Sam wasn’t sure. It had been so clear. Vision clear. But his head didn’t feel like it was on fire or trapped in a vise, so maybe Michael was right. Sam lay down again.

'How long is he down there?' Michael's voice was still low and soothing.

'I don't know. I turned my back for a minute, and the next thing I know, he's up on the table pounding that scrap of evil who always has some boy hanging on his pocket.'

'T-bag. He probably said something about your brother's mouth.'

The thought of T-bag touching Dean's mouth made Sam want to break something. 'That kiddie-fiddling fuck doesn't get to look at Dean's mouth.'

Michael caught Sam's eye and nodded a little. Sam wondered if maybe he'd said too much.

'Sorry,' Sam said. 'I just—I really don't like that guy.'

'Hey, I know what it's like to love your big brother.' Sam wondered if he was imagining the pointed look Michael gave him when he said love. 'You'd do anything for him. Even get stuck in this place.'

Michael had let go of Sam and was gripping the blankets to keep his balance on the bottom bunk. Sam wanted the warmth of those hands back. He wanted Dean. He wanted to get the fuck out of Fox River, out of Illinois, out of the Midwest, hell, out of the damn country to somewhere the FBI had no jurisdiction. He wanted warm skin and comfort and ten goddamn minutes where he could think about something other than the way this plan seemed to be going to hell in a Coupe De Ville. No thanks to Dean, who seemed unclear on the fact that if you start a fight in prison you don't get to just walk away at the end of it.

Sam reached out and traced a finger along the curl of Michael's fist. 'Do you want—?" Michael opened his palm and pressed its hollow to Sam's fingertip. 'You could come up here. Stop balancing on the edge.'

For a moment, he thought Michael was going to go away entirely, slip down to his own bed, and leave Sam with fractured images of Dean and his own right hand, but then he nudged Sam's hip and started to pull himself up. Sam turned on his side, pressing his back to the wall, to give Michael enough room.

Despite the narrowness of the bunk, they weren't touching, just lying face to face, Sam with the blanket pulled half-way up his thighs, Michael on top of the covers, goosebumps visible on his tattooed arms. Sam reached out to warm him, and Michael flinched. 'I'm sorry,' Sam said, jerking his hand back.

'No,' Michael said, and reached for Sam's hand. 'It's okay. I'm just not used to…' Rather than finishing, he put Sam's hand on his arm, started it stroking up and down until Sam took over the movement.

'I'm not really—' Sam continued stroking, moving his palm from Michael's wrist up and over his elbow, curling his fingers around the deltoid and then edging them under the sleeve of Michael's t-shirt before stroking back down to where he'd started. 'Dean's the only one who…' Sam really hoped he hadn't read Michael wrong. That he'd understand.

Michael closed his eyes and edged his legs a little closer to Sam's. 'It's been ages, years, since I did this. I mean, if there's—' He looked up into Sam's face. 'If there is a this, I mean.'

The words, and the unflinching gaze, and the feel of Michael's skin, sent blood pooling to Sam's pelvis. At the end of his up-stroke, he kept going, cupping the back of Michael's head and pulling him forward until their lips touched. He wasn't Dean, but he was soft-warm-open-heat, and Sam pressed onward, licking at Michael's mouth, relishing the slip of his tongue. Michael was sweet waiting hunger, and Sam thought, he's the little brother too, and then wondered how fucked up it was that they were doing this. He knew he and Dean weren't the first brothers to fuck each other; there'd be no prohibition against it if they were the first to think of it, but Sam'd never imagined he'd meet anyone who understood. Never mind that he'd be kissing him while both their brothers languished in solitary confinement.

When Sam went to pull off Michael's shirt, Michael said, 'Let me hang the sheet.'

His meaning wasn't clear at first and then Sam realized. 'Won't that kind of advertise what we're doing?'

'We can just hope everyone else is asleep if you want.'

'Just come under the covers.' Christ. The last thing Sam needed was Dean asking why Sam and his cellmate had to hide behind their bedding in the middle of the night. Plus, he'd noticed the guards didn't look too kindly on privacy after lights out. Sam half sat and stripped off the blanket, lifting the sheet over Michael's legs. Before lying back down, he tugged his shirt off. Michael's hands were on his chest before he could even settle on the pillow.

'How tall are you?' Michael shook his head. 'Sorry. Stupid question.'

Sam had seen Michael talking to Lincoln through the fence. They'd seemed to be about the same height. Dean's height. Michael's shape didn't feel all that unfamiliar to him, but Sam was all long smooth muscle in contrast to Lincoln's compact strength, so maybe this was weird for Michael. Though he'd said it'd been years. Who knew what Lincoln looked like before. Sam realized he was thinking way too much again. Smiling, Sam said, 'Taller than you,' and slid his hand under Michael's shirt. 'Take this off?'

When he'd complied, Michael pulled the sheet up over his shoulder, hiding most of his tattoo. Sam wanted to ask about it. How long did it take, did it hurt, what was it for, but he could tell it wasn’t a topic Michael wanted to cover. Besides, more talking meant less kissing. And more kissing was definitely in order.

Once they were pressed skin to skin, chest to chest, Michael kissed like he wanted to consume Sam, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he ran them over Sam's back and hips. One hand cupped around Michael's head, Sam used the other on his ass, pressing their cocks together through their boxers. There was pressure/friction/heat and Sam let his mind go blank. It was trying to tell him this wasn’t Dean and he was in prison with nothing between him and the murderers and guards but a few steel bars, that he needed to stop, but sometimes the need to feel someone warm and willing rubbing up against you trumped logic.

Sam was used to the sounds Dean made. Breathy murmurs of encouragement, aching needy noises, words so filthy Sam would be left breathless and blushing and fucking his brother so hard he saw stars. But Michael was silent. If it weren't for the way he hooked a leg over Sam's, pulling him closer to rut against his thigh, biting at Sam's lips and jaw and neck, Sam would have thought Michael wasn't into this at all. Then suddenly Michael was flinging himself backwards, almost off the bed, leaving Sam grabbing at his arm as he came just as silently.

'Sorry,' Michael whispered, peeling his damp, sticky boxers off Sam's thigh.

'Hey, no prob—' but Sam didn't finish as a come-slippery hand curled around his dick, and Michael's teeth and tongue started doing something fantastic to his left nipple. Whatever he was doing, it felt like he was sucking Sam's cock through his chest, and Sam wondered if he could teach Dean the trick. Not that Dean needed any help in the actual sucking cock department, but he never bothered with Sam's nipples, and that was apparently something they needed to rectify. Assuming they ever got the fuck out of here and to someplace they could damn well touch each other again.

This whole not thinking thing wasn't working out as well as Sam had hoped. Which wasn't fair to Michael, because he had really damn talented hands. Sam got back with the program.

He felt self-conscious making any noises, after Michael's silence, and with the fact they were in a cell not a motel room, so Sam bit his lips and bucked into Michael's fist. The guy seemed to know just when to twist, just how much pressure, and he used his whole hand—fingers, thumb, palm seemingly everywhere at once. When Sam's breath started hitching in the back of his throat, Michael reached up and pushed at Sam's mouth with the fingers of his other hand until Sam opened up to him. He tasted of come and sweat and he was stroking Sam's tongue, his cheeks, rubbing against his teeth. It was strange and a little wrong and it made Sam's dick about ten times more interested in the proceedings. Which was a feat, since it had been pretty interested before.

'Shhh,' Michael said against his nipple, then closed his teeth around it, worrying it with his tongue. And that was the final piece to the puzzle. Sam bit the fingers in his mouth, swallowed a noise that might have been a moan, and came in Michael's palm.

Sam was left gasping, wedged up against the wall, the chill of the concrete suddenly making him shiver. 'You okay?' Michael asked.

'Yeah. I just—yeah, I'm fine.' Sam felt guilty, but that was hardly Michael's problem.

'Thanks,' Michael said and kissed his chest. 'Gets lonely in here sometimes.'

Sam rubbed his hand over Michael's scalp, feeling the prickle of hair against his palm, the fragile-feeling skull underneath. With a thumb under Michael's jaw, he tilted his face up and kissed him. Just a press of lips. A thank you.

'Better get some sleep.' Michael edged backwards, sitting up, swung his legs around and jumped lightly to the floor. Sam watched as he washed his hands and then climbed back into his own bunk.

As he felt the vibrations of Michael settling underneath him, the sticky-sweaty-chill overcame Sam. His shirt was somewhere on the floor and he didn’t want to climb down and get it, so he yanked the blanket up to his neck and tried to huddle around the wet spot.

Michael was the first guy Sam had been with since he and Dean had started whatever it was they were doing. They didn't have any kind of agreement or anything, and there'd been Madison, and who knew how many girls Dean had slept with, but this felt different. Like something Dean might be pretty pissed off about if he knew. Or hurt by, which would be worse. Not that he'd ever tell Sam if that were the case. He'd probably just punch Sam's arm and tell him he was lucky he got the pretty cellmate. All the while avoiding Sam's eyes, probably looking around for another fight to get into.

And it wasn’t even a big deal. A little mutual masturbation to relieve some of the stress. Sam had been thinking about Dean pretty much the whole time anyway, and he'd never even touched Michael's cock. Sam shook his head. For fuck's sake, what was he, thirteen? This wasn't some fucking prom night drama. Dean had been the one to get them arrested, so Sam didn't really owe Dean anything. If he was getting his rocks off while his brother was stuck in the hole, that was only what Sam deserved for having to be here in the first place.

Sam flipped restlessly onto his other side. Fuck it. It was the middle of the night. No man should be held responsible for the track his thoughts took at this hour. He wasn't some emo schoolgirl, he was just tired. Covering his eyes with the crook of his arm, Sam willed himself to sleep.

A soft scraping sound roused Sam before wake-up call the next morning. Turning towards the source of the noise, he saw what looked an awful lot like Michael pushing the toilet closer to the wall.

'Michael?' He was too sleepy to figure out how to word the rest of the question.

'Hey, Sam.' Michael straightened up and went to the sink, picked up his toothbrush.

'Were you..?'

Michael turned and caught his eye. 'You'd do anything for Dean, wouldn't you?'

Sam had always thought of his relationship with Dean more in terms of what Dean would do for him, but things had changed in the last two years and Sam realized the answer was unquestionably, 'Yes.'

'And I'd do anything for Linc.'

Last night had been a test. Michael making sure Sam would understand. That he could be trusted. Figuring that out made things a whole lot less awkward.

'Including getting him out of here.' Sam inclined his head towards the toilet.

'Yes.' Michael spread toothpaste on his brush. 'I could use some help with the next part, if…'

Sam nodded. Dean wouldn't be out of solitary until tonight at the earliest.

'After breakfast,' Michael said. 'Come back here instead of going to the yard.'

Sam spent the morning tracing a devil's face onto a wall in the sewers underneath the prison, after quizzing Michael about its origin, wanting to be sure he wasn't going to inadvertently summon a demon. Michael thought he was crazy for believing in demons, and Sam thought he was crazy for hiding architectural plans in a devil's face tattoo, but they got the job done and were back in their cell before lunch.

Dean was in the dining hall at supper time, and Sam had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. 'Tonight,' Dean whispered, hand curling around the back of Sam's neck and lips close to his ear. 'Just follow my lead.'

Dean's lead got Sam a black eye and Dean a bloody lip, but once they were safe in the Impala, Sam didn't really care. His only regret as Fox River Penitentiary disappeared in the rearview mirror was that he hadn't had time to say goodbye to Michael. Or to wish him luck.