Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1498486.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Benny_Lafitte/Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester/Dean_Winchester_UST, Dean
      Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Benny_Lafitte, Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Unrequited_Love, Dean/John_UST, bottom!Dean, Underage_Prostitution,
      Pining_Dean, Daddy_Issues, Manhandling, Rough_Sex, superfluous_angst,
      Background_Sam/Dean, prostitute!Dean, Dean/OMCs_-_Freeform
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-21 Words: 1750
****** Feels Like You Do ******
by alexa_dean
Summary
     Dean doesn’t beg, even when he wants to, even less when he should.
**
Dean’s lip splits and bleeds into Benny’s mouth--his knee in Benny’s grip.
Benny opens him wider, holding him down and keeping him open with his dick. And
it’s more vulgar than it should be, half-clothed as Dean is, leather jacket
under him and his shirt hiked up under his arms. It’s deep. Deeper this way,
Dean on his side and Benny straddling his thigh, pushing Dean’s leg far enough
Dean felt his own knee touch his ear once or twice. 
And really, it’s all part of the same thing, getting fucked and fucking shit
up. Links in a chain he’s been dragging around his whole life. It’s not like he
can help it. It’s just something Dean does. Like breathing, eating, drinking.
Like keeping Sammy safe and fed. Something that has always felt natural to
Dean. 
Benny gets him. Never taking more than Dean readily gives. Reading him in a way
only predators can, looking for weakness, except Benny doesn’t exploit it like
he should, just skirts around Dean’s issues and leaves Dean a little breathless
and wound up, looking for a catch in this agreement they have going on. Dean
doesn’t know what to make of it. 
He’s got gravel digging into his elbow, his forearm, and his jeans have twisted
around his left ankle because Dean could only be bothered to free one leg. Just
needed heat and pressure and the hard points of Benny’s fingers on his throat,
his thigh, and deep in his mouth like they are now. A brutal pleasure--the sort
that Dean has had years without--of fighting and fighting hardbut being unable
to win and being so exhausted he has to give in and take it, all of it. 
He can do nothing but breathe around Benny, his dick, the back and forth motion
of his body on the ground and the rhythmic sucking of Benny’s mouth on Dean’s
nipple, pulling at the muscle of Dean’s chest, the wet sound of sweat and spit
and slick between them. 
Dean’s got an angel to find and a brother to get back to but here he has
nothing and no one but his own desire like a compulsion and Dean’s need to get
fucked and not just fucked but fucked hard. 
Always loved the jolt of it, straight through him, teeth clattering, and
knocking the wind out of him. He likes being held down and restrained so he can
pretend it’s something he hates, something he has no control over. So he can
pretend he’s not just another nutcase with daddy issues.
 It should be fucking hilarious, the way Benny knows what Dean’s gunning for
when he’s a bit more careless than someone who’s trying to find a way out of a
hellhole has any right to be. Benny knows just how to knock him down and drag
Dean into a literal cave. But no one’s laughing. This itch, this pain that has
a way of making itself known only when Dean’s alone, is swept aside by the
incidental pain of being taken dry and without prep. 
And even that’s good and kind of freaky because it feels like Dean can’t stop
coming when it happens. He short circuits, caught in a loop of pain and self-
gratification. But he guesses even monsters become a little wary of indigence,
what Dean’s willing to do for a bit of contact, teeth in the back of his neck,
carpet burn on his knees and cheek, dislocated shoulder and that's only
scratching at the surface. 
He’s over a decade away from strange dick and sticky floors and the waiting
room of a low-cost clinic because he’d been too fucked up to know his limits
and some asshole went a little too far for far too long or Dean woke up to an
unopened condom wrapper and come running down his thighs. 
God forbid, Dean ever caught anything that compromised a hunt or his Dad found
out his little soldier enjoyed rough sex with rough men, old and grizzled
enough to pass for him, those times Dean wasn’t being paid for it. Men like
that, willing to put a hurt on a smart-assed kid like him, Dean would’ve paid
them for it. 
And maybe it pissed Dean off that his Dad never noticed, didn’t even so much as
give Dean thetalk, tossed him a bunch of condoms when Dean first walked in with
a hickey on his neck with a gruff, don’t get her pregnant. 
Okay, maybe Dean had felt resentment before he even knew what that feeling in
the pit of his stomach was. Maybe Dean had deliberately fucked a few hunters
his father knew for favors or ammo. But really, Dean only hoped to get caught
with his pants down and his face shoved into the backseat of some car, or with
a dick in his mouth, or better yet both. 
And Dean hated the way he’d felt guilty for it, ashamed that he could feel so
angry toward a man that had only ever really shown him how to be a man, how to
take care of himself, how to take care of Sammy. It only ever made Dean try
harder to be everything his Dad imagined him to be and not a kid who fucked for
money, for favors, or just for a little validation. Couldn't even keep his
hands off Sam.
And that’s it. That’s what Dean hates. That he has any time at all to think
about it when he’s gone most of his life not thinking about it. 
When Benny growls and twists Dean around, an echo of panic runs through Dean as
he forgets where he is and what he’s doing and braces to fight but he’s got
both arms high up on his back and his nose pitched into the lining of his
jacket and a mouthful of leather. Dean can almost feel his skin shimmer with
the flush of blood, smell the slick dripping from his slit by the change in
position, the wet tongue on his shoulder, the spark of teeth. 
The feeling never changes, all the soft places in him stretched taut around a
dick with veins like lighting and he can see Benny in his peripheral, a profile
outlined in indigo, smell the wool clinging to him, wood smoke, leather, the
scrape of his beard over Dean’s neck and Dean sighs long and deep because it
feels so much like what he’s wanted all his life. 
Gathering all the pieces of his father time tries to take away, faded and
fading, until it’s the only thing Dean sees sometimes—in Sam’s dimples when he
smiles or the dissatisfaction when he doesn’t. In the way Sam looks like their
Dad had in the grainy Polaroid Dean keeps tucked into the journal, the one just
before he’d deployed to Vietnam with nothing but his rucksack and an M-16,
solemn and still. Sees it in the way they'd both turned away from him, like
they'd known what Dean was--is--even when Dean doesn’t know what that is
himself. 
Dean doesn’t beg, even when he wants to, even less when he should. He demands
and what he wants is— 
“Harder.” 
Dean doesn’t have to look back to see the smirk, can feel it in the slide of
Benny’s skin on the backs of his thighs, the way he frees Dean’s hands, useless
and numb, and presses hard against his tailbone into a deeper, wider stretch,
until Dean shakes with the spread. 
“That all you got?” Dean says through his teeth and writhes against Benny’s lap
like he’s unfazed by the way each thrust lifts Dean’s knees off the ground, has
the heels of his palms digging into the earth to keep from skidding away like
he’s fleeing, like Benny isn’t deep enough for Dean to struggle to get the
words out from around the cock he’s choking on.
 It’s easy, so easy to roll his hips in seemingly artless circles, to groan
like he can’t help it, like Benny’s attention doesn’t make Dean giddy, like
he’s not lighting up from inside out because everything is just the right pace,
the right angle, the right amount of pain, like it doesn’t bother Dean to
realize that they’ve finally gotten to this point. 
It’s kind of like dancing, a choreography Dean can never remember not being
intimate with, faceless partners and nameless haunts. Except it doesn’t quite
feel like that anymore. It tastes of betrayal.
“Got what you need,” he rasps into Dean’s ear, sucks at the lobe. Then adds
sugar, by way of endearment. Dean gives him a fuck you for his trouble. And
Benny retorts by pounding the irony into Dean’s ass.
 There’s no way to take it slow now, not anymore. No way for Dean to take
anything back, so he gives, steels himself and grinds back into each thrust,
muscles burning, chest aching with something unnamable. It’s a simple
transaction, he thinks to himself. Dean’s way of thanking Benny for watching
his back, for being there, even if he’s only there to catch a ride to the other
side.
 Dean feels like he's stumbling toward an orgasm, heavy and present as the
weight on his back, gasping in kicked-up dust as they struggle against each
other, the snap of Benny's hips and the swing of Dean's dick. Staccato huffs
grow in volume, could be him, could be Benny. Could be a fucking troll for all
Dean gives a fuck at the moment, because he's almost there. Almost. And if
Benny wasn't strong enough that Dean would need both hands to brace himself
against a face plant, Dean could have rubbed one out. 
It's the drag and sound of stubble over the place behind Dean's ear, where
Benny had bitten, that does it and Dean comes hard enough that Benny clamps a
hand over his mouth to shut him up and he comes too. A song of pain when he
pulls out, his hands grazing Dean's hips, soft like an apology. Dressed and
inscrutable in the dark he hands Dean a leather skin full of water for Dean to
wash up. 
When Dean emerges from the mouth of the cave, he doesn't look over to the
vampire at his side. He touches the ribbon of healing flesh at his neck, hot
and crusted over beneath his fingertips and a smoldering ache inside him with a
face and a name Dean will deny by morning.
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