Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/775612.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Original_Male_Character(s), Dean_Winchester/Other(s)
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Prostitution, Blow_Jobs, Anal_Sex, Underage_Sex, Underage_Character,
      Rentboys, Facials, Dirty_Talk, truckstop, Weechesters, Teenage
      Winchesters, teenage_dean, Bathroom_Sex, Shame, Come_Marking, Hair-
      pulling, Bottom_Dean
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-27 Words: 8715
****** Disposable ******
by heldor
Summary
     Dean knows by now that "I'll be back in a week" means John will be
     back in two, and he's already learned how to pay the rent. On one
     cold night Dean does the duty of the older son.
     (Teenage rent-boy!Dean AU. Dean is 14, nearly 15, don't bother
     reading if underage squicks you out)
“Dean, what are you doing?” It’s a little after ten, and Sam’s supposed to have
been asleep for half an hour already, so when Dean turns he has his strict face
on.
“Dishes. Go to sleep.” His sleeves are rolled up, and he’s standing in his
socks on the bathroom rug, rinsing off plastic cups under the lukewarm water.
Sam makes a huge smile; the kind kids only make when an authority figure is
wrong or, better yet; stupid.
“They’re disposable cups, Dean. You don’t have to wash them. That’s the whole
point.” Sam is ten years old, standing in the bathroom door rubbing his belly
with his hand under his pyjama shirt, but he tries desperately to be the same
age as his brother. It’s no-go territory, though, since Dean is coming up on
fifteen fast, but already acts like he’s in his mid twenties. He thinks, for a
moment, about how to explain to his little brother that disposable doesn’t mean
free; that when they have no idea how long it will be before dad’s back Dean
doesn’t want to throw away things they’ll need to buy again later, with money
that Dean doesn’t have left. He decides to go for a different tact, instead.
“Yeah, well, it’s bad for the environment idiot. They’re still good- we only
drank soda out of them one time.” Or... two or three; Dean isn’t sure how many
times he’s washed them.  He knows Sam did a project on pollution a few schools
back, and so he isn’t wholly surprised when Sam pinches his lips together, deep
in thought, before deciding that Dean isn’t being a moron after all.
“Oh. I guess that’s true. Well, then- why didn’t you-“
“You can’t wash a paper plate, dummy, so don’t even say it.” Turning back to
the sink. Not that he hasn’t tried, but they get the cheap kind, that turn to
mush if they get more than a little wet and can’t hold up the weight of a piece
of pizza without folding in half. Instead, they just eat a lot of food straight
off take-out wrappers laid flat on the table. Sam frowns, and makes a point of
not looking at Dean, kicking his toe against the bathroom doorframe.
“I wasn’t going to,” he says, a whine in his voice.
“Go to bed, Sam.”
“You’re up.”
“I’m older. Stop kicking the door, the neighbours’ll call the desk guy on us.”
Dean’s walking towards Sam now, rolling his sleeves back down, crowding his
brother out of the bathroom; herding sheep. He’s a dog with a flock of one, and
he somehow manages to get Sam into his bed without touching him once. Sam’s at
this age now where he’s getting an attitude about being told what to do all the
time by his big brother, but he’s smart enough to realise he’s going to have to
do what he’s told eventually. So it’s surprisingly easy to get him to behave;
he rushes to do what he will be told to do, before he’s told to, so he can act
like it’s his choice. Dean is kind of in love with this phase, though he’s sure
Sam will grow out of it in a matter of weeks and go back to whining and
shimmying out of his blankets every ten minutes.
Sam doesn’t sleep well when dad’s not home; he spends half the night kneeling
on one of the chairs from the table, so that he can look out the window without
having to keep on his feet. He rests his arms on the sill, the net curtain
hanging over his head like a bridal veil, and that’s how he falls asleep;
waking up every time a car pulls through the parking lot and shines its
headlights over his eyelids. Dean’s just about big enough now to be able to
drag him into his bed without waking him up too much, though it’s a struggle;
Dean still needs another growth spurt to be man-sized and Sam’s getting bigger
every month. He usually drops for the count by around two or three AM- that’s
when he gets into that deep sleep-of-the-dead little kid sleep. But that’s too
late for what Dean has planned, and so he tucks Sam into the bed and picks up
the motel’s cordless phone from the table, putting it on the nightstand beside
Sam’s bed. His brother isn’t stupid; he knows what it means.
“Are you going out?” he asks, rubbing his cheek against the starchy motel
pillowcase, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, so you gotta be extra good, ok? If you make a noise and the motel guy
comes round, you’re toast.”
“Because I’m not supposed to be on my own.” Dean twists his lips; it’s a fact
that he doesn’t make a point of bringing up with Sam, but of course his brother
knows.
“That’s right.”
“But it’s ok for you.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re older.” Dean can tell that these pointed, obedient, responses
are leading to something, and he doesn’t like it.
“Yes, Sam. Go to sleep.”
“But when you were my age Dad left you.” Sam’s voice is petulant, pulls out the
ooh in you, but Dean can hear the edge of genuine sorrow under it. This isn’t
something he wants to go over with Sam now- the fact that Dean at ten was not
the same as Sam at ten; it’s a point of pride for him, but Sam’s so set on
being as old as his brother that he won’t understand that getting to be young
is the gift Dean works hard to make sure he gets to keep.
“It’s different,” he says, sitting on the edge of his own bed. The sheets are a
tangled mess; they don’t let the maid in to pull them up, “I mean- people don’t
mind so much if there’s two kids, because I can watch out for you.”
“And I can watch out for you!” Sam grins big, and Dean gives him a smile before
shoving his smiling face down into the bed, rough housing him a little.
“Like I need to be watched by a punk ass like you!” Sam’s laughing even as he
complains, his sheets coming untucked from the mattress as they play-fight.
“Owwwww!” he moans, but the pain is put somewhat into question by the fact that
the word is made shaky by his laughing, “Quit it, jerk!”
“Bitch!” Dean spits with a grin, finally getting off him and jerking him around
as he tugs the sheets back into place, making Sam laugh even more. He takes a
deep breath and Dean sees the wrestle has had the intended effect; the peak of
energy has gone out of Sam, and he looks ready to settle into sleep now he’s
gotten a moment of his brother’s full attention. “Ok, I gotta go out. I’ll be
back in a couple of hours. ‘Till then— anything happens, you call Pastor Dan,
and if he doesn’t answer, you call Uncle Bobby, ok?” Sam nods, “the numbers are
here, if you forget.” He puts the paper under the phone, even though Sam’s had
the numbers memorised for years. “Pastor Dan’s closer, but Uncle Bobby stays up
later,” he says with a grin. Sam and he both know that Bobby pretty much never
sleeps. They’re too young to think of the reasons, and instead it’s a source of
fun for them. Sam nods, snuggling down into his blankets.
“Where are you going?” he asks, already sounding sleepy; the question has a
whining tone to it; he doesn’t like being left alone, and Dean would do
anything to stay with him.
“I gotta work,” he says, quickly appending- “for dad. He wants me to check some
stuff out, I won’t be long.” Sam doesn’t look happy, so Dean reaches out and
ruffles his hair, “it’s safe, don’t worry- no monsters, I just gotta look at
something. He called me about it earlier. Don’t worry.” He hopes that repeating
it will drill it into Sam’s head, but he can see that Sam’s still not pleased.
“Can I come?”
“No. Sam, you have school tomorrow. If you fall asleep in class again your
teacher’s gonna be pissed, and you know what’ll happen if she wants dad to come
in.” Sam nods, and Dean finally stands up, trusts that he’ll stay put, and
picks up his coat. He wants to wear the leather jacket dad left behind, but
it’s too big on him; it makes him look like an orphan from a movie. For a while
he kidded himself into thinking it made him look older, but he knows the truth
is that the over-sized coat makes him look far younger than his years and he
needs to look as old as he can tonight. Instead, he picks up his green combat
jacket and tugs it on. It’s still pretty new; army salvage, and it’s actually
his size, which was a small miracle when they found it.  The dye is still fresh
and dark, the seams still neatly pressed. There’s a small hole in the elbow,
where he fell chasing a werewolf, but the blood washed out and it doesn’t
really show. He’s seem similar jackets in department stores for a hundred and
fifty dollars, and his cost twenty bucks, so he loves it all the more because
it’s proof that he’s not some idiot who’ll get taken for a ride. It’s not the
warmest coat in the world because it’s intended to be worn over three layers of
uniform, but motels never have the best heating so he’s used to being cold
enough that it’s fine for him. A Winchester is tough; a little cold won’t hurt
him.
He’s almost out the door before he thinks to turn back and add, “Sam- just...
don’t tell dad about this, ok? I was supposed to do it after school, but you
stayed back for that mathletes thing.” Sam bites his lip and nods, and Dean
smiles as he slips out of the door, locking it behind him.
 
 
He feels bad about lying to Sam, but he knows that the only way to stop his
little brother from whining to dad about Dean leaving him home alone is to make
him think that it’s his fault. He knows that Sam isn’t old enough yet to not
tell out of compassion; sometimes the idea of getting Dean into trouble is all
the encouragement Sam needs to tell on his brother, but if there’s a chance it
would get himself into trouble Sam should stay quiet.
                Because he can’t have John knowing about this trip. Whatever
else happens, John can never know that Dean is slipping the motel key into the
pocket of his jacket and crossing the parking lot, putting up the collar of his
jacket to keep out the wind as he half-jogs down the street.
 It’s early January; just a couple of weeks away from Dean’s fifteenth birthday
and the air is bitterly cold. He wants to get inside as quickly as he can,
wants to go back to the motel and curl into bed; he’s tired, and he has to be
up at 6:30 to make sure Sam’s ready for school, but that desire will only help
make him get his work done faster.  He’d marked his target on the way home from
school last week, just a couple of days after John had gone off searching for a
Grine two towns over.  He knows the drill.
Then, he’d still had a hundred dollars in folded twenties in the box underneath
his mattress. Then, John had said he’d be back by the end of the week and not
to worry, but it’s been twelve days since then, and now the box is empty apart
from five dollars made up of the change in Dean’s wallet.  He tries to budget.
He tries to make it stretch, but even eating five dollar pizzas from Little
Caesars the dollars still seem to slip away. Sammy needs a dollar for lunch
every day, and even if Dean skips lunch altogether Sam will want a snack while
they’re walking home, and he can’t say no to him- it’s not so much that he’s a
pushover when it comes to his kid brother, more that he doesn’t want him to
grow up thinking that they’re poor. It’s the same reason that if Sam cries
about every other kid having some stupid trading cards, or sneakers that light
up when you run, Dean will break into the food money to try and get it for him.
When they move ten times a year it only seems fair to not make the kid work any
harder than he has to to fit in.
They’re not poor- not as far as Dean’s concerned- not when dad’s around. They
always have money for food, and they always have clothes that fit them.
Sometimes they’re a little too big, or they’re well-worn and over-washed, but
that’s fashionable now anyway, and besides they both wear it like a choice,
rather than a hardship, so they don’t get made fun of for it. They leave town
too fast for anyone to know their lives beyond the superficial, or to see that
the shirt that’s too tight on Dean today is too big on Sammy in six months, and
Dean doesn’t stop to think that everyone else’s parents provide clothes and
food and a house which isn’t the back seat of a car, pay bills greater than
“one tank of gas and a bag of cheetos” pay taxes and worry about college funds.
Neither of them have a lot of toys, but Dean never really wanted them anyway.
They used to have a bucket of Legos in the back seat, and Sam still likes them,
but Dean’s favourite pastimes have always been reading the map while John
smiles at his attempts at route planning, getting to sit in the front seat and
being put in charge of the radio or John nodding and smiling as he pays the
cashier at the gas station in exact change, and being given a cherry sucker
from the jar by the register for free because the lady likes his big smile when
he gets the sums right. He learnt multiplication by figuring out sales tax on
ammunition.
 
So they need money. Because Dean is only fourteen and he doesn’t know what to
do when someone hands him a hundred dollars for a week’s bills and he has to
make them last for two. They don’t have a refrigerator or an oven, so even
though he theoretically knows it’d be cheaper to cook stuff himself, and make
leftovers to eat for the week, they have to live on take-out, which is
expensive even when one of them’s a little kid and the other forces himself to
eat as little as he can. He’s beyond the stage where having to keep their bills
small surprises him, and he saves wherever he can from the very first day John
leaves (it’s better to be able to hand dad back twenty dollars if he comes home
on time than go hungry the second week), but yesterday the motel manager had
finally caught him and said that if they were planning on staying another week
they’d need to hand over another hundred and fifty dollars, and Dean, ever the
dutiful son, had only raged at John inside of his head rather than outloud for
not thinking to pay for the extra week, just in case. Dean and Sam have learned
by now that “a week” nearly always means two, but apparently John still hasn’t
picked up on it. Dean could call Uncle Bobby- he’s sure the old man would wire
him the money for the rent, just until dad comes off the hunt and can pay him
back, but he won’t beg. Two things dad told him a real man never does; he never
wastes time praying to a God that ain’t listening and he never goes begging if
he wants to be seen as a grown man. Winchesters don’t beg, so Dean can’t ask.
Dad wouldn’t like having to face Bobby again knowing the other man had had to
pay his kids’ way; that John couldn’t provide for them and needed another man’s
help, and Dean doesn’t want to stop seeing Uncle Bobby because he couldn’t look
after Sam right.
Dean learned, though- he learned a year and a half ago what he can do when the
money runs out. When they were both kids, motel owners would smile and shrug
and agree to bill dad when he got back, but no one trusts a teenager not to be
a lying scoundrel at his core—not even when they have Dean’s big, honest eyes
and hopeful smile. He met a boy a couple of years older than him a while back
who explained to him what was what. That’s why, when he saw the bar with the
neon signs on the front last week, he noted its address for later; just down
the street from a refuelling stop for trucks.
 
It doesn’t look that different to any other bar, but Dean is starting to get a
feel for the kind of place where he’ll be allowed to hang around and the kind
of place where they’ll laugh and shove him away. Given dad’s line of work
getting a fake ID hadn’t exactly been hard; Dean had been putting together fake
warrants and FBI badges since he was thirteen. A license had meant a couple of
hours scanning in dad’s on the computer and tweaking it; it’s better than the
junk he’s seen some of the seniors flashing in the hallways at school; at least
Dean’s has his own picture on it. He still has to deal with the fact that his
face is clearly only just past being a kid, but he doesn’t mean to be in the
bar long enough for it to matter.
There’s no bouncer on the door checking ages, and as Dean enters he finds it
crowded and smokey. There’s music playing so loud that the talk in the bar is
just a rumbling over the air; Gimme Shelter by Grand Funk Railroad. He
recognises it from one of Dad’s tapes. It used to be one of Sam’s favourites
because of the intro- whenever it used to come on Sam would stand up on the
backseat and grip onto dad’s headrest so he could stamp along to the scrapes
and jingles until John stopped laughing and yelled at him to cut it out. He’d
wriggle in his seat instead, and Dean finds himself tapping his hand against
his thigh as he leans against a pillar on the side facing away from the bar.
He’s still not very good at this, but he unzips his jacket and ruffles up his
hair; licks his lips as his stomach starts to churn. He shrugs his shoulders
forwards, curling in on himself to make himself look as small and unthreatening
as possible before he glances around the room.
It’s mostly men; rough looking guys in frayed vests and greasy trucker caps.
For good measure, he tucks his thumb into one of his belt loops and tries to
look like he knows what he’s doing; like he’s waiting for someone, but inside
his guts are twisting. He tries to be obvious and discrete in equal measures;
he’s half in the shadow even as he curls his hips forwards. He’s learnt that no
one likes to be the guy everyone sees taking the twink into the bathroom for a
fifty dollar blowjob and he’d really like to work inside tonight.
The first time he got down on his knees for a man had been eight months after
his thirteenth birthday. He’d told himself it would be nothing; he’d had a few
clumsy fumbles with girls whose parents still thought them young enough to not
need chaperoning, and he’d decided sex would be something he’d enjoy. The idea
of doing it for money had been appealing; quick and fun. He’d thought it would
be the same as Pretty Woman, maybe- that some hot woman in her mid twenties
would pull up to the curb and he’d help her with her car before she took him
back to her hotel room and they rocked each other’s worlds before she handed
him a thousand dollars. He’d been wrong. The first time had been with a man in
the bushes behind a public restroom in a park, exclaiming over how young and
pretty he was. Dean had no idea what he was doing- had only started
experimenting with himself and his hand a little while before, but the chubby
guy had done most of the work for him, thrusting into Dean’s throat, tight with
nerves and the sick feeling in his gut, heart thumping that they might get
caught, until Dean choked and the man came. He hadn’t said much after, just
shoved thirty dollars into Dean’s hand and left, but it had been the first. It
had been the start. He’d told himself it would get easier now.
It hasn’t, but Dean has gotten better at pretending it has. Now gets his money
laid out where he can reach it before he touches skin, and he smiles a brittle
smile as he drops to his knees.
 
He stands around for maybe twenty minutes before someone locks eyes with his,
and he moves one eyebrow in a challenge; an unspoken question. The guy is in
his mid-thirties; full head of hair, and he doesn’t nod, he just moves his eyes
down and then back to Dean, who jerks his head toward the bathroom before
pushing off the wall and wheeling away. The man follows moments after him.
                Inside the bathroom it’s fluorescent-light green. It brings out
every freckle on Dean’s face and leaves him looking sickly as his john enters,
rubbing his left hand; probably nervous, but he could be tweaking; Dean’s only
hooked up with a guy on drugs twice, but he doesn’t want to do it again. It’s a
danger he’s learned just as he’s learned to stay on dad’s right, not his left,
when they’re scouting a building, to aim for the head first, then the heart,
when shooting a monster he’s not sure of how to kill, as he’s learned to melt
silver and pack buckshot and a thousand other things that will do him no good
here and now in this bathroom.
“How much?” the guy asks, his voice clear but fast; just nerves, then.
“Fifty,” Dean says, walking along the line of stalls, “just the mouth, money up
front.”
“You don’t-“
“Not here and now, sweetheart.” He knows what this guy wants; had known it as
soon as he saw his gaze fall from Dean’s face to his waist, sizing him up. The
guy purses his lips, but nods, and pulls out a roll of bills in a cheap clip to
count out two twenties and a ten, which he holds up in two fingers so that Dean
has to step close enough to him to take it that he gets his wrist grabbed.
Instinct makes him jerk away, but he already has the bills closed in his
fingers, so he relaxes and instead tilts his head to a stall.
 
 
The guy wants to kiss him, and Dean lets him. He keeps his mouth closed and
tilts his head away so that the sloppy lips fall on the corner of his mouth,
his throat, as he gets backed up into the single piss-stinking stall. The guy’s
letting his hands trail all over Dean’s body, and so he pulls back more
forcefully and presses a smile onto his face as he licks his lips to remind the
man what they’re here for; letting perfectly straight white teeth show for just
a second before he slips gracefully to his knees, already undoing the
confederate belt buckle that’s holding the guy’s jeans up and disregarding what
he might be kneeling in.
“Oh, fuck-“ the guy drops his head back against the stall door as Dean gives
him a few quick strokes of his loose fist to get him hard before he takes a
breath, works the spit into his mouth and slides his lips around the thick
length of the man, swallowing him down with practiced skill. He feels hands
fisting in his hair; he keeps it short to avoid that sort of thing, but it’s
been a few weeks since John set a chair on top of a towel on the floor of a
motel bedroom and set the clippers to his and Sam’s hair, so it’s getting a
little length to it again. His brother makes too much of a fuss anyway; he
thinks it makes them look like freaks to have buzzed hair. Dean makes it clear
that he doesn’t want monsters having anything to grab, but the type of monsters
he most wants to have nothing to grip hold of is the kind he’s currently
supplicating in front of.
He opens his mouth a little as he goes down, tongue swirling against the
underside of the guy’s cock- he doesn’t go all the way to the base, just to the
point where it hits his throat and then he tightens his lips to pull up,
tilting his jaw as he does, enough that he comes off the end of the guy’s dick
with an audible pop before putting out his tongue and lapping at him. He has
his eyes tightly closed as he works, looking down, breathing through his nose,
full of the smell of unwashed laundry and fried food that’s coming out of the
man’s every pore. He’s moaning now, but Dean has no interest in making this
last; he’s good, he knows that, but he’s not about to draw out the pleasure or
tease; his favourite part is his least favourite part; when the guy comes,
because it means it’s over and he can wash his mouth out.
He feels a sharp tug on his hair and he gasps in pain around the guy’s dick. It
makes him open his eyes and pull back, to issue a warning.
“Do that again and I’m gone,” he says, voice thick, and the guy instantly
releases him, holding his hands up to show they’re empty; they’re ingrained
with motor oil, the nails grimey, and Dean gives a little nod before returning
to his work. This time, when he feels the cock reach his throat he furrows his
brow and swallows, pushing deeper, forcing himself to take long, slow, shallow
breaths until he finds he no longer can, and the guy is cursing in pleasure.
Dean risks a glance up, and sees that his hands are splayed out against the
stall door with the effort of not grabbing him again, and he ducks a little
longer, until he gags, and pulls up with a huge gasp of indrawn breath. He does
it again, until he’s almost dizzy with the need to breath, swallowing steadily
so that his throat contracts around the guy’s length, before he pulls up,
hollows his cheeks as he moans a vibration around the cock in his mouth and
bobs his head, suckling. The guy’s swearing takes on a different tone, and Dean
knows what comes next. He slows his licking just a little as he feels the guy’s
cock twitching, putting his hand around the base and gently squeezing, so that
his lips meet his fist, and he feels spurts of hot salty cum filling his mouth.
He manages not to gag, but as soon as the guy is done Dean turns and spits out
his load into the toilet.
                He gets to his feet as fast as he can in the confines of the
cubicle; he feels too vulnerable on his knees, and he lets the guy tuck himself
away into his pants without Dean’s assistance. He has no desire to touch the
man again now that his work his done; he just wants him to step aside so that
he can get out and start the cycle again.
                “Three hundred dollars,” the guy gasps, grabbing Dean by the
arm, “if you let me fuck you. Three hundred, how does that sound?” Dean pauses;
it’s all the money he needs and more, especially on top of the fifty he already
has. It would pay for the motel rent. He could buy the new binder Sam’s needed
since some older kid drop kicked his last month. He could buy hot dogs, and
Heinz ketchup instead of store brand generic. They could rent a movie and Sam
could feel like a normal kid for an evening. They could have crackers and
peanut butter while they watch it and they could have chocolate milk before
they go to bed. Dean could get new sneakers that don’t have a hole in the sole
to let in melt-water when the snow turns to slush.
But he doesn’t want to do it; he really, really, doesn’t want to do it, and he
knows it’s the most selfish thing he could do when he shakes his head and says
no. His body is just a shell; he knows that well enough from all the ghosts
he’s sent down, all the stories he’s heard of demons possessing people. It
doesn’t matter what gets done to it, it’s not him. You have a body, you are a
soul. He read that somewhere once. Maybe in an ethics class, or English.
Sometime at school; it had stuck with him, because in their family business
he’d known it instantly to be true. It shouldn’t matter what happens to a
shell, but all he can think about is the pain, the shame, the sick-feeling of
disgust, and it’s bad enough now, his mouth salty and bitter. So he takes an
extra ten that the guy slips into his hand and he squeezes past him out of the
stall, their bodies brushing against each other before he waits for the john to
leave. Once he does, Dean takes himself to the row of sinks and runs the water
for a moment before shoving his head under the faucet, filling his mouth with
water; swishing and spitting, swishing and spitting, before he shoves his hand
against the soap pump, gathering a pool of liquid soap on his fingers and then
shoving it into his mouth to scrub his fingers over tongue. It makes him gag;
it’s sour and sharp and it burns his throat, but it’s better, still, than the
alternative. He puts his open mouth back under the stream of water for a long
moment until he stops tasting bubbles and then scrubs his hands before ripping
up a handful of paper towels to dry off.
He leaves the bathroom like nothing’s happened, but there are eyes on him, and
he knows when two bartenders look at him and then turn to each other that the
john had made too much noise, so instead of taking up his position by the
pillar he heads straight towards the door without so much as pausing, as though
it were his intention all along.
By the time he reaches the street his face is burning, despite the devil-may-
care attitude he’d been projecting. He feels shame deep in the pit of his
belly, but also fear; he’s not sure how he’s going to make another hundred and
fifty dollars now that the bar is closed off to him and the temperature is
dropping. Maybe he should have let the guy fuck him after all. He needs a
hundred and fifty for the motel, he needs a dollar for Sam’s lunch, two for his
at the high school, but he can go without if he has to. He has about five
dollars left from what dad gave them, and sixty- with the addition of the tip-
from the john. He needs ten dollars for dinner tomorrow, maybe less if he
doesn’t eat much. There are three slices of white bread left, so maybe he can
convince Sam that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich qualifies as dinner; that
way it’s a free meal. No matter how he looks at it he needs at least another
hundred, and the night isn’t getting any longer, so he folds up the thin canvas
of his collar and heads up the road toward the truck stop.
It’s almost midnight, and the wind is getting more and more bitter; it tastes
damp in his mouth now, like when you go into the cold-room in the back of a
bodega to get milk or juice. The flavour of cold, mixed with the faint smell of
muddy footprints and hard-work sweat. He’s fourteen years old, and he wants to
go to bed. He had gym in the afternoon; sprints back and forth across the
school gymnasium, and he’s tired. His head hurts from the cold. He wants to go
sit down on the sofa, put on the tv and doze in front of an action movie until
he hears a key in the lock and gets woken up by dad coming home.
Instead, he walks under the high neon sign that declares “CONVENIENCEVILLE
TRUCK AND REST STOP, SINCE 1976” and tries to gauge where will be the least out
of the wind to stand.
There’s a group of women beside a breezeblock wall that designates the
beginning of the rest area; one is sat on top of a wooden picnic table, the
others gathered around her. They’re wearing short leather jackets, heels, short
skirts and no pantyhose despite the freezing weather, their legs splotchy with
cold. He’s used to seeing other prostitutes glaring at each other and trying to
assert ownership of their own patch, but these three seem to know each other
and two of them are sharing a cigarette. He guesses they all look different
enough to attract their own niche of clientele; a blonde, a redhead, and a
pretty Asian girl with big painted-red lips and yesterday’s eyeliner. They give
him a dark look as he comes nearer to their spot, but he already knew he
wouldn’t be able to join them. He isn’t a prostitute; a habitual seller of his
body, a woman making ends meet, he’s a rent boy; he’s a man’s shameful secret
lusting desire. His face is barely more than a kid’s; even other hookers don’t
want his air of disgrace around them, and he walks over to the grey faux-stone
clad bathroom block and he takes deep breaths, wishing he had a pack of
cigarettes, or gum; anything. Something to keep his hands busy, or to distract
him in any small way; give him the look of having a purpose for being here.
Although it might affect their profits, being in a group will protect the other
girls; not just from a bad customer, but from the police. They’re a group of
girls hanging out, if questioned; he is a teenager who ought to be tucked up in
bed.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and zips his jacket to the throat; there’s
no pretence of trying to look alluring anymore; he can’t fight his body’s
impulse to maintain body heat.
He gets a john pretty quickly; a sloppy-looking trucker carrying a wash bag,
fresh from the shower block. He outright laughs at Dean’s request for fifty,
and he ends up getting haggled down to thirty, despite his steadfast rule that
he doesn’t haggle. He wants to go home. He’d rather work more often for less
money, but in a short time, than less often, for more money, over a long time.
The guy doesn’t last long, and Dean goes through the ritual of washing out his
mouth again when he goes. He’s inside just long enough to get the chill out of
his bones before he goes back out, and it feels like the temperature’s dropped
another five degrees in the ten minutes he spent indoors. A glance at his watch
lets him know that it’s getting on for a quarter to one, and he scruffs a hand
through his hair, blinks the grittiness out of his eyes and shuffles foot to
foot to stay awake.
 
One o’clock passes, one thirty; he can’t feel his fingers, even though they’re
stuffed into his pockets, he can’t feel his nose, or the tips of his ears, and
every breath makes his lungs burn as he breathes into his collar to try and
breathe less ice into his chest.
 His legs are icicles inside of his jeans, and he’s outright stamping his feet
now to stay warm. By two thirty he wants to slam his head against the wall. He
should have taken the three hundred. He could have been asleep two hours ago if
he’d taken the three hundred. He’s stupid, stupid, stupid. He’s a whore, but
worse, he’s a stupid whore, and he tilts his head back- ‘please,’ he thinks, to
some unseen force, ‘please.’ He’s tired, he’s hungry, he’s worrying about Sam,
alone in the motel room, he’s terrified that John might come home after all and
find Sam alone, Dean gone, and be waiting for him when he comes back in. What
would he tell dad, in that scenario? The truth? You didn’t leave enough money
so I did what I had to. Throw a handful of money into his face, let John feel
the burn of shame for once. Not on his life. He’d lie, say he was at a party,
say he got bored, went to get a soda, try out his fake I.D at a bar. He’d get
the beating of his life, but dad wouldn’t know.
Fuck. He should have taken the three hundred.
 
It’s almost three when another guy does more than skirt around him in order to
take a piss in the bathroom. Dean is desperate, freezing, exhausted, so when
the guy mutters “Fuck?” he nods, frantic, teeth chattering, and follows the guy
into the shower block, his whole body shaking.
                “How much?”
                “One-fifty,” he says, voice obliterated by the strength of his
shivers. The guy laughs.
                “seventy five.”
                “One fifty.” His voice is firmer now, and the guy shakes his
head.
                “Seventy five.”
                “You want to fuck me, it’s a hundred and fifty dollars.” He
tries to use the same tone dad uses when he’s staring down a monster; absolute
certainty, no fear; make them think you’re sure that you’re in control.
                “You’re about to pass out; you think I don’t see that? You’re
desperate. I think you’ll take seventy five.” Dean fights not to snarl at him,
but the guy just smirks, “or I could always talk to the manager, tell him I’m
worried there’s a kid lost back here. You’re what, thirteen?”
                “Eighteen.” He grits out the transparent lie, and the guy
smirks.
                “Maybe you are, huh? Either way, I’m not the one selling his
ass at three am, right? I’ll go up to ninety, or I’m gone.”
                “Fine,” Dean spits, not making eye contact, and the guy grins
at him.
                “Would you take eighty?”
                “You said ninety, I took ninety; don’t fucking push your luck,
ok? I said one fifty, I’m already doing you a favour, you cheap bastard.” The
guy just laughs, and casts his eyes over Dean’s body as though he were already
naked.
                “Fine, fine. Get your clothes off, I don’t have all night.”
 
Dean grits his teeth as he unbuckles his belt and opens his jeans, then shrugs
out of his jacket, too, when the guy motions that he wants to see more flesh.
In just a t-shirt goosepimples come up on his arms in the tiled room, but he
ignores it as he turns back to the man and holds out a condom. No matter how
much he needs the money, on this point he won’t be moved; he knows this guy
isn’t going to be careful with him, and he also knows that the kind of guy
willing to fuck a stranger isn’t the type to be a trustworthy sexual partner.
                “Put that on,” he says, and his voice brooks no argument. The
man seems to realise it, and he squeezes his shaft gently as Dean looks around
for anything he can use as lube. Luckily some forgetful trucker has left a
nearly-empty tub of aqueous cream; a generic pharmacy label on the front that’s
almost washed off. Dean thanks whatever god there might be for eczema sufferers
everywhere as he presses his finger into the corners of the container, chasing
out the dregs. He spreads it over his fingers as well as he can and he turns
his face away, looking down to the ground, as he reaches behind himself and
slips a finger inside. He doesn’t want to see this guy’s face as he stretches
himself open as well as he can, because he can feel his eyes on him. He bites
his bottom lip as he pushes in a second finger, scissors his fingers a little;
it’s uncomfortable and the angle is all wrong, but it’s all the prep he gets
before the guy grabs his arm and pushes him around.
                “Alright,” he says gruffly, showing Dean forward until his
hands meet the countertop, “that’s plenty.” He grabs hold of Dean’s hips, and
the teenager has just enough time to curl his fingers tightly on the stone
counter before he thrusts forwards into him. It doesn’t feel good; there’s no
fairytale moment where suddenly he connects emotionally with the man fucking
him and they share a beautiful experience. He’s rough and too thick for the
tiny amount of preparation Dean gave himself. There isn’t enough lube and the
guy makes no attempt to be gentle to make up for that fact. He slams his hips
forwards, and all Dean can hear is the steady slap slap slap of skin on skin as
the guy’s balls hit his backside. It’s joined quick enough by groans and a
steady litany of “oh, yeah- oh yeah. Yeah, that’s right, that’s right you
little whore-“
                He grits his teeth and thinks of Sam. Nothing funny; he just
imagines his little brother’s smiling face when Dean hands him a four pack of
Oreos after school, or when he tells him they can stop by the arcade on the way
back to the motel; all those things cost money, and all those things were
denied to Dean when he was Sam’s age. If this is what he has to do to make sure
Sam gets to live normally, to never have to worry about whether he can have
another helping at dinner when he’s hungry, because today’s food needs to
stretch for tomorrow, Dean can take it. His hands are gripping the countertop
so hard that his knuckles are aching, but he doesn’t make a sound; just
breathes hard and deep, slow; count to four on the inhale, count to four on the
exhale.  He’s shoved forward so hard that he almost slams his teeth into the
edge of the counter, and he spreads one arm out to the side to spread out the
force as he pillows his forehead on his arm instead, eyes screwed tightly
closed, toes curling inside his sneakers as he bites his lip to stay silent.
He should have taken the three hundred. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck- He’ll never turn
down that amount of money again; he tries to separate out what’s happening to
his body from his mind, but the man keeps moaning and cursing, either on
purpose to try and encourage Dean into being vocal or without realising he’s
doing it- a solid prayer of filth.
“Fuck, oh, fuck yeah- that’s it, that’s it you little slut, take that cock-
take it all. You’re my bitch, boy- my little bitch-“ Dean only grunts in
return, feeling his thigh muscles beginning to ache from the posture he’s
taken, feeling his stomach churning, his lip aching from his teeth crushing
around it. He focuses on everything but the steady slap slap slap of skin on
skin and the constant litany of encouragement the trucker is keeping up,
fingers gripping hard into his hips as his t-shirt slips up to his armpits.
By the time he starts to come Dean is almost desensitized to the burn; has
almost numbed himself to what’s happening, and so it doesn’t really seem to
surprise him when the guy pulls out, flips the condom off, and jerks himself
off with quick strokes, spurting hot streaks over Dean’s back. He waits for the
jingle of a belt buckle before he starts to straighten up, but he still feels
the man’s hand on his back before he gets all the way up, and when he turns to
face the john his jaw is grabbed, and a thumb smears cum over his lips before
the guy wipes his hand over Dean’s face, marking him as property. He can see a
strand on his eyelash and he can feel his jaw jutting forward in disgust from
the force of stopping himself saying anything. He hasn’t been paid yet, and
he’s vulnerable; exposed. He doesn’t want to start a fight now. It’s done.
He pulls his jeans up his thighs and doesn’t even try to hide it as he scrubs
his face and back as best as he can with a handful of paper towels before
pulling his jacket back on. The guy is still watching him as he does it, and so
he makes a point of not being coy about what still needs to be done. He puts
out his hand, palm up.
“Money.” The single word is ragged, and he receives a smirk before he gets
anything else. The trucker reaches into his pocket and pulls out a roll of
notes, the way that John hates to see money carried- it’s stupid and bulky; it
shows in your pocket. Only a showboating idiot carries his money that way. No
matter how it’s held, it all spends the same as far as Dean is concerned, and
he refuses to show the stupid pleasure it gives him when he’s handed an extra
twenty.
“you’re a good sport, kid,” the man says, looking him over as he wipes his
hands off on his own jeans. “I like that. And you got a pretty face.”
“thanks.” The word is bitter and sarcastic, but Dean’s already pocketed the
money and he’s fully dressed, so he doesn’t feel as concerned anymore about
being polite.  The man laughs.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ bout. How bout you give me a little kiss, ‘fore I
leave?”
“How ‘bout you fuck yourself,” Dean says, edging around him, and gets his arm
grabbed in the process, twisted just a little too hard. He takes in a deep
breath through his nose, shaky with rage, and stares the guy down. “Let go my
arm.” A folded note is held up for just a moment before the man jerks forward
to steal a kiss. Dean swings a punch almost instantly, but the trucker must
have seen it coming, because he’s already leaning back and laughing again as he
throws a ten dollar bill, leaving as Dean stoops to pick it up.
A hundred and thirty. It’s not good, but it’s not bad. It’s not ninety. It’s
not sufficient payment for the ache in his legs or the burn in his ass, or the
sick, sloppy, used feeling that runs through his whole body, but it’s
sufficient to make sure they have a room tomorrow night, and to make sure that
they won’t be hungry.  Nearly two hundred dollars, all told, for a night’s
work, and all it’s cost him is his self-respect. A small enough price to pay,
and as he slips back into the motel room Sam is snoring softly, and it feels
worth it, almost.
He showers with the bathroom light off; there’s a window above the door and he
doesn’t want to wake up Sam. That’s what he tells himself, but it’s mostly
because he has no interest in seeing his body. He hurts all over, and that’s
enough; he doesn’t need to know anymore. He doesn’t even towel himself off
before putting on a t-shirt, boxers, sweatpants, a hooded sweatshirt, pulls the
hood up. It feels good to be covered, and he’s exiting the bathroom when he
hears a well-known rumble outside the motel room, sees the ceiling bathed in
yellow through the shitty motel curtains. He could feel pissed off at his dad
for not arriving home six hours ago, but he knows he’ll need the money
eventually. For now, he runs to his bed and dives under the covers; it’s
already four AM, he has no business being awake, so when John opens the door
Dean makes a show of being groggy and wincing against the light.
“What time is it?” he asks, trying to make his voice rough and sleepy as dad
pushes the door closed with his heel.
“A little after four,” John whispers back, shrugging his duffle off his
shoulder and onto the floor. “Anything to report?” Dean sits up, refusing to
wince at the burn doing so elicits, and shakes his head.
“No sir. Sam got all his homework done. He whined a little last night, but
nothing bad.”
“How ‘bout you? You take care of everything?” Dean swallows before nodding,
though John doesn’t see it, too busy unlacing his boots and sighing as he leans
back on the sofa; Dean can see he’s exhausted, and fighting against falling
asleep on the couch
“Yes sir. My book report’s done. Everything else has been fine.” John nods as
he forced himself up with a groan and shrugging out of his jacket.
“Good boy. Now, outta that bed- I been driving six hours, I’m beat. Get in with
your brother.” Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, and he scampers across the
gap into the bed beside Sam as John drops his jeans on the floor and slips
between the sheets in his boxers, still wearing his shirt. He shivers a little
in the cold sheets, and turns to Dean with a look that's resigned to annoyance.
 “Boy, this bed’s freezing. If you been sleeping in it I’m a monkey’s uncle.
You been outta this room?”
“No sir.”
“But you haven’t been in this bed.” Dean knows it’s worthless arguing.
“No sir.”
“What in God’s name you been doing, then? You got school in the morning- Dean,
you know I got my job and you got yours. Mine is the hunt, and yours is looking
after you and Sammy. Now how am I supposed to do my job if I gotta worry about
you doing yours?” Dean can feel his face burning- he can barely hear John over
the ringing in his ears. He’s angry; angry at John, angry at himself, but he
swallows it down and nods wordlessly. “If you’re tired you’ll get sloppy, you
hear me? And I want you at your best. What if something came after you boys
while I was gone? Who’s gonna protect you? Sammy? No. And what’s gonna happen
if you fall asleep in class? God’s sake, Dean- use your damn brain. You want
the social sniffing around here?” Dean’s staring at his folded hands, trying to
fight down the lump in his throat. He shakes his head. “What’s that? I didn’t
hear you.”
“No sir,” he manages to fight out. John jerks his head to the side, tilting his
ear, and Dean forces his voice a little firmer, “No, sir. Sorry sir. I couldn’t
sleep, that’s all. I was watching some old movie on the tv. Kinda dozing. I
lost track of time. “ John takes a deep breath, pushes a hand through his hair,
and sighs, shaking his head as he leans back against the pillow.
“It’s fine. Just use your brain. Honestly, Dean- it’s like sometimes I wonder
if you even think about the repercussions of your actions.”
 
 
He stares at the ceiling for a long time before falling asleep, but even so he
stays awake all through school the next day. He’s learned his lesson.
 
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