Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/301602.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Michael/Dean_Winchester, Lee_Bender/Dean
      Winchester, Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester/Original_Male_Character
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Lee_Bender, Michael_(Supernatural), John
      Winchester, Pa_Bender, Jared_Bender
  Additional Tags:
      Prostitution, Five_Times, Possession, Non_Consensual, Dubious_Consent,
      Double_Penetration, Cuddle_Curse
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-09-20 Words: 4460
****** Five Times Dean Was Manhandled ******
by bertee
Summary
     In which people like touching Dean.
Notes
     Written in companion to fleshflutter's fic by the same name.
One
If he'd been a better man, John might've been embarrassed by how well his son
took to the role of a hooker.
Sure, Dean was an adaptable kid, adjusting to new town after new town with
minimal complaints, but he was too hit-and-miss for John's liking when it came
to blending in. He'd slip under the radar well enough with a group of
schoolkids but even with loose jeans and John's jacket, Dean's presence in the
kind of bar John frequented went as unnoticed as a bloody steak in front of
some hungry great-whites.
In retrospect, he probably should've realized earlier that Dean and street
corners would be a good match.
Sam had pitched a fit when he'd seen his brother, seen the tight, worn jeans
and the scraps of John's old tee that passed for a shirt. Even John had to
admit that the outfit made Dean look like he'd already had a night of hard use
but Dean had shrugged off Sam's complaints, smeared more cheap gloss on his
lips, and headed to the car, ready to work.
He was seventeen, after all. He knew how the world worked.
Thankful that he'd left Sam back at the motel, John took a gulp of coffee and
watched through the car window as Dean paced back and forth on the dark corner.
He was moving too much -- they'd gone over this; Dean knew that he'd attract
the right kind of attention by being pliant and docile instead of twitchy and
agitated -- but he calmed before John could give him a signal. He settled back
against the wall in a lazy slouch, thumb crooked through his belt-loop, and
John smiled grimly. Dean really did make a good hooker.
There was a bustle of movement on the other side of the corner and John's gaze
darted over quick enough to see a tall, white-haired kid stride forward.
He was obviously pursuing the same vocation as Dean that evening but was a
couple of paygrades lower, judging by looks. However, what he lacked in that
department, he seemed to make up for with a combination of height and
aggression.
He towered over Dean, shoving him back against the wall and stepping in close
to say something that John couldn't catch from across the street. The message
seemed clear enough though and John rolled his eyes. They could do without
territorial challenges from low-rent whores.
Thankfully Dean maintained his placid demeanor, even if the telltale tick in
his jaw made it clear that it took some effort. He soon had his hands up in
surrender and was saying something back to the tall kid, slicked lips curving
up in a friendly smile.
John sighed. When it came to Dean, the line between friendly and aggravating
was frustratingly narrow, and judging by the scowl on the other kid's face,
Dean had just crossed it.
The punch was sloppy and unsurprising. It caught Dean high on the cheek, the
kid's fist landing just south of his temple, and sent him spinning back against
the wall with a wince. Dean got in a sharp jab to the ribs in return but his
balance was shot to hell and his second punch barely clipped the guy's jaw
before he was pinned back against the wall by two other kids.
Three on one were rough odds and John's hand strayed to his knife as the tall
kid used his current advantage to punch Dean hard enough to send his head
rocking back against brick. Dean sagged forward, held up by dirty hands around
his wrists and upper arms, and when he lifted his head again, John could see
blood streaming down to stain his smile red.
The kid said something else before clenching his fists and beating out a jagged
patter of blows on Dean's ribs and stomach. John shifted in his seat. Contrary
to some of the accusations Sam had thrown at him in the past, he never liked
seeing his kids get hurt but there was no use in fucking up a whole hunt
because of one little skirmish.
Nevertheless, he found himself exhaling in relief when the blows finally
stopped.
As soon as his arms were released, Dean dropped to the ground, weak and
wheezing but okay as far as John could see. (He made a mental note to check him
over later for any signs of internal injuries.) The tall kid spoke again, thin
lips twisted in a sneer, but walked away as Dean curled in on himself on the
dirty ground.
He was a mess, his face bruised and bloody and his clothes dirty and wet from
the puddles on the ground, and John rubbed his eyes as he realized that they
were done anyway; no-one was going to pick Dean up when he looked like that.
Annoyed at the failure, he flipped his journal away in the glove compartment
and slid the keys in the ignition but froze before the engine roared into
action. Across the street, a car crept along the curb, its windows dark and its
lights dim, but it paused when it reached where Dean was struggling to his
feet.
Dean's arm stayed wrapped around his ribs, proof he was still hurting, but John
focused on the smile that curled along Dean's bloodstained lips. They'd found
their guy.
Evidently a beat-up Dean was less of a turn-off than John had anticipated.

Two
The motel room was too small.
Rationally, he knew it should've felt bigger given that Sam was at Stanford and
that there were now only two bodies occupying the same space, but that didn't
help with the sense of cloying confinement that boxed him in tighter as he
walked the length of the room.
It was only for a while, he reminded himself. He'd chosen to do this.
The motel door clattered shut behind him and Michael turned with an eager
smile. "Dean."
Dean raised an eyebrow and Michael toned down his smile. John Winchester didn't
seem like a man who smiled that much.
"Cheeseburger, no onions," Dean said, tossing him a paper bag that was already
spotted with greasestains. It barely touched John's hands before Michael threw
it aside, and he watched Dean shake his head a little before turning to his own
burger. "Suit yourself."
Still getting used to the constricted feel of his vessel, Michael gave his new
shoulders an experimental roll as he watched Dean toe his boots off then pad
across the room on socked feet. Perhaps he shouldn't have come. Time-travel was
always risky, and he could've just looked for Dean in the present rather than
insisting on an up-close view through an alternate vessel.
"Dad? Dad, can you hear me?"
Belatedly, Michael realized Dean was talking to John and did his best to
provide a gruff response, "Yeah, I can hear you."
"Did you find out anything new about that spirit?" Dean asked, taking a bite of
his burger, and Michael's interest in human pretenses rapidly evaporated.
Spirit problems were the least of his concerns when he had his chosen vessel
standing in front of him, young and new and perfect.
He tilted John's head, drinking in the sight of Dean from feet to face. It was
rare to have things that were his, crafted by his father for him alone, and he
thrummed with the need to take and use and own.
He stepped in, cupping Dean's face in careful hands and watching the way his
brow creased as he raised his arms to knock John's wrists away.
"Be still," Michael commanded.
"What-"
Dean's eyes went wide as he crossed his wrists neatly at the small of his back,
and Michael nodded. "Good boy."
He stroked his hand through Dean's hair, petting down the curve of his skull as
Dean said instantly, "C-Christo."
Michael's wings fluttered at the sound of the name and he smiled benevolently.
"I'm not a demon, Dean."
"Then what the hell are you?" Dean said through gritted teeth. "What do you
want?"
Michael frowned at the hostility in his voice. Dean was his; he wasn't supposed
to hate him.
"I just want to see you," Michael said calmly. He smoothed John's fingers
through Dean's hair again before tracing the strange little shell of his ear,
quietly amazed at the detail that his father had put into it. "You're special,
Dean."
He paced around him, taking in the tension of Dean's shoulders and the panicked
rise and fall of his chest as he kept up the stream of panicked human
questions, "Who are you? What did you do with my dad?"
Michael ran his hand down Dean's neck, pausing to feel the thud of his heart
against his fingertips before straightening the collar of Dean's shirt. He'd be
inside him soon, wearing his clothes and controlling that fragile heartbeat.
Michael couldn't wait.
"You love your father, Dean?" Dean's eyes narrowed and Michael nodded. "Of
course you do. You love him and you'd do anything for him." He looked down at
his current body, at the hands that had reared his vessel all these years.
"That's why you're perfect for me."
"What does that mean?" Dean asked, fearful and angry. "What are you? What-"
"Shhh," Michael whispered. He touched a finger to Dean's lips and felt the
pulse of sound slipping away. Holding Dean's face in borrowed hands, Michael
watched the dart and flicker of Dean's wide eyes when he found he couldn't
talk. He was a frightened animal, lit up with fear and helplessness, and
Michael couldn't take his eyes off him.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised. "You're mine, Dean. You're not going
to understand it yet and you're going to forget as soon as I'm gone but one day
we're going to be perfect together. You're going to be perfect."
Dean's lips kept moving, forming pretty patterns of dad and please, and Michael
traced them with his fingers, remembering each individual detail of being able
to touch his chosen vessel like this. Dean was shaking under his hands, every
last fiber of him sparking with fury and terror and confusion in a fascinating
jumble of humanity, and Michael wanted to taste it all.
"Look at you," he murmured, lifting Dean's chin and watching his eyelashes
flutter in a blink. "You're beautiful."
It was the easiest thing in the world to press John's lips to Dean's in a kiss.
Dean shuddered in his arms, sending frantic vibrations through John's body, but
Michael held him still as he drank him down.
He could smell Dean's skin, taste the terror in the frozen shape of his mouth,
and breathe in the silenced sobs which smeared from Dean's lips to John's, and
when he finally pulled back to look at Dean's wet, wide eyes, he knew this was
the best gift his father had ever given him.

Three
"Boy, he got you good in there, huh?"
Lee knocked Pa's hand away from where he was poking at the red patch on his
cheek. "You got him back though," he pointed out proudly. No-one got one over
on his family.
Jared wandered over behind the couch to give the body a kick and Lee heard the
man on the floor grunt. Not dead yet then.
"He still out?" Lee asked, grabbing a knife anyway.
"Yup," Jared said, scratching the back of his neck. "How'd he get here? You
think he's with that bitch cop?"
Pa shrugged. "Could be. Get him up on the hook."
With help from Jared, Lee looped a length of old rope around the guy's wrists
and hauled him up to hang from a hook in the corner, ready for inspection.
"Pretty thing, ain't he?" Lee said idly, watching blood drip down the guy's
cheek from the gash on his forehead. "You thinking of a hunt, Pa?"
Pa shook his head. "Can't hunt 'em all. We gotta make sure no more cops come
sniffing around. We can shoot a couple then pick one of 'em to play with."
Lee moved in to get a closer look at the guy on the hook. He'd put up a decent
fight -- if he wasn't hurt too bad, Lee guessed he'd make for a good hunt.
Picturing the guy running through the woods and begging for his life, Lee
grinned widely. It was always more fun when they were pretty.
He heard Missy's footsteps clipping across the room before she announced, "I
want this one." Lee followed her gaze over to Pa. "Are you gonna hunt this
one?"
Pa grunted. "How's he look, boys?"
Happy to have permission for the inspection, Lee went straight for the guy's
face and pulled his eyelids open just as the guy started to blink awake. Green
eyes, he noted. Missy had been wanting some green ones for her collection for a
while.
The guy groaned, moving his head and grimacing in pain, and Lee tugged his head
up roughly to pry past his lips with dirty fingers. Good teeth, all in tact,
plus a mouth Lee could definitely find other uses for.
Barely conscious, the guy struggled to keep his feet under him as he mumbled,
"Gonna kick your ass."
Lee chuckled and slapped him on the cheek, sending him spinning left. "Keep
wishing, prettyboy."
Aware that Pa was still watching him, he continued the inspection, patting down
the guy's arms and torso. He was in decent shape, not enough muscle to be too
chewy but enough to make for an interesting hunt, and Lee hummed to himself as
he took his time feeling the guy's ass, thighs and calves. There was plenty of
good meat there.
"Get off me," the guy grunted, still not awake enough to put up a real fight.
He twisted his hips, trying to get away from Lee's hands, and Lee kicked his
feet out from under him as punishment.
The guy let out a yell, wincing at the sudden weight that was put on his bound
wrists, and gasped, "Son of a bitch."
"Looks like we got a chatty one," Jared commented from behind them. "Guess we
can take that tongue of his first."
Lee scowled as he worked the guy's pants open. His brother was always too quick
with the carving.
The guy fought harder when Lee's hand closed around his dick, kicking out on
unsteady legs. "No, no…"
Lee rolled his eyes and gave the guy's dick a rough jerk as he protested, "No,
lemme go."
If Lee had been alone, he might've let himself have a little fun but with Pa,
Jared and Missy watching, he kept it strictly business. The guy was well-hung
and disease-free, by the looks of it; it would make a good trophy after the
hunt.
Content, he zipped the guy up again and reported to his family, "He looks good.
Strong, healthy, meat on his bones."
"Sick fucks," the guy spat from behind him. "Fuckin' hillbilly psycho frea-"
Lee's punch to his jaw landed with a satisfying crunch and the guy slumped back
into unconsciousness.
"Alright," Pa said, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Get him down. We'll find
out if more cops comin' then we'll have ourselves a hunt with this one."
Lee nodded and turned back to their new prey with a broad smile. He was
definitely going to find time for a little fun first.

Four
"Jesus, Sam."
Dean's head drooped forward onto his shoulder and Sam rocked up slowly as he
listened to his brother try to speak between strained breaths, "I- It won't-"
"It will," Sam promised, looking up at the other guy -- Keith? Kevin? -- over
the dip of Dean's back. "Just relax, Dean. It'll fit."
Honestly, he didn't know if it would fit -- Dean was already stretched wide
around Sam's dick and the other guy wasn't small -- but he was confident in the
knowledge it would feel good from Sam's end. He doubted Dean would be willing
to continue if he told him that, however, so he channeled his energy into a
sympathetic facade. Sometimes being with Dean was so much work.
"C'mon, man," he urged, coaxing Dean into riding his dick that little bit
faster. "You can take it. It'll feel amazing."
"I'll take it slow," Ken (Kris?) said from over Dean's shoulder and Sam
narrowed his eyes. Ken was a glorified dildo at this point; Sam didn't need him
to talk. "You ready for this, kid?"
Head buried in Sam's shoulder, Dean nodded and Sam bit his lip in enjoyment as
he felt Ken's dick brush against his own, wet and cool with lube as he nudged
up against Dean's hole. He slipped a finger in, then two, then three, fitting
them to the curve of Sam's cock and tugging Dean wider and wider as he writhed
on Sam's lap.
Dean's breath was warm and damp against his neck, even hotter than the furnace
of his body against his chest, and Sam petted the nape of his neck. He still
couldn't remember what the old him felt for Dean but right now he was enjoying
the buzz of possession as his arms bracketed Dean in tight. Dean was his
brother, his to fuck, and he couldn't wait to feel him shake apart against him
as he let himself be stuffed painfully full at Sam's request.
Above them, Ken finally started to ease himself in. The pressure of Dean's ass
was replaced by the rougher, more intense pressure of Ken's dick against the
underside of Sam's own cock and Sam gritted his teeth at the friction of the
entry until he heard Dean's sob. "Jesus, Sam, I can't-"
"You can," Sam said, now more impatient than encouraging.
He used one hand to keep Dean inching down on his dick, taking more and more of
Ken's inside him with every movement, and gripped Dean's chin with his other
hand. Dean's eyes were wide, pupils huge and shining in the dim light of the
motel room, and Sam watched a couple of involuntary tears escape as he squeezed
his eyes shut with a pained little gasp.
"You can take it," Sam repeated, leaving no room for argument. He'd tried a lot
of things over the past year, some he liked more than others, but this, this
feeling of his dick pressed against another slick length as they both filled
into Dean's well-fucked ass… Well, this was new. New and very enjoyable.
Dean made another hurt sound as his body gave a shudder, and Sam groaned at the
feel of him clenching up around him. He was tighter than anything Sam had
fucked before, even that virgin down in Tulsa last winter, and it was carrying
Sam to the enjoyable edge of pain as he and Ken settled into a cautious rhythm.
"You're doing well, Dean," he promised but smirked at the hopeful look that met
him when Dean opened his eyes. He looked wrecked, his body painted with sweat
and bruises, his hair messed up by greedy fingers, and his cheeks flushed so
pink that Sam wondered if he was going to pass out right there, filled to the
breaking point and moaning like a whore.
Behind him, Ken grabbed his hips and pushed in deep enough that Sam could feel
the guy's balls bumping up against his own. Dean jerked like a ragdoll, held up
and given movement by the hands that pawed at him, and Sam used the opportunity
to pull Dean's thighs further apart, dropping him the rest of the way down on
his dick.
Too exhausted to struggle, Dean took it all, arching back and gasping for
breath as he was split open by his brother and a stranger. His thighs trembled
and he grabbed clumsily at Sam, mouth moving in empty words as he kept up his
weak attempts at fucking himself on their dicks.
"How's he doing?" Ken asked breathlessly and Sam abandoned his common
courtesies. Dean was too far gone now to notice anyway.
"I didn't bring you here to talk," he said bluntly, cradling Dean's face
between his palms as his dazed gaze drifted to Sam's eyes. "Fuck him."
Ken huffed, somehow surprised that Sam wasn't giving him the time of day when
he had Dean sitting in his lap, strung out and wrecked and fascinating. Dean's
ass must have been equally appealing, however, since Ken decided not to leave,
still moving carefully inside Dean and against Sam's dick.
"S'mmy," Dean slurred, smudging a confused kiss against Sam's cheek.
Despite his exhaustion, Dean's dick was hard between their bodies and Sam
dropped his hand down to work his cock with smooth, detached strokes. Dean
coming wasn't a crucial part of the process, but feeling heat coursing through
his own body, Sam was more eager than ever to experience how it felt to be
buried two-dicks-deep inside his ass when Dean came.
Dean whimpered at the pressure of Sam's hand on his dick, squirming and
shifting away, but Sam grabbed the back of his neck to hold him in place as he
ordered, "No. Stay here, Dean. You want to come, don't you?"
He was pretty certain Dean had no idea what he wanted at that moment but the
power of suggestion was a wonderful thing. Dean nodded weakly, letting Sam take
the responsibility for holding his head up as he slumped forward against his
chest. His thighs inched wider and he submitted beautifully to the insistent
pace of Sam's hand on his dick and Sam's dick in his ass as he worked him
towards completion.
However, they'd both forgotten about Ken.
It caught Sam by surprise when Ken came first, gripping Dean's hips hard enough
to bruise and letting Sam feel the fresh slip of warm come between their dicks.
Dean moaned and clenched, muscles twitching and his ass tightening around the
thick lengths which kept him forced open. Resting Dean's head against his
shoulder, Sam knew it had to hurt as reached down to feel come and lube
spilling past the stretched puff of skin but Dean seemed to be well past pain
by then.
He came with a sob, spurting over Sam's hand and chest as he mouthed helplessly
against Sam's neck in what might have been a kiss. He tensed up even tighter
than Sam had imagined and Sam groaned as he gave into his own release, filling
him full of another load and letting the reflexive squeeze of Dean's ass milk
every last drop out of him until Dean was dripping with it. Their combined come
covered Sam's cock, sliding out of Dean's well-used hole and slopping off Ken's
dick when he pulled out seconds later.
Dean moaned again, barely alert, and Sam held him still on his lap as he
breathed through the high and felt Dean's ass start to slowly close and tighten
around his dick.
Ken cleared his throat and Sam said sharply, "Get out."
Muttering something Sam didn't care enough about to listen to, Ken departed.
Dean stirred, shifting back on Sam's dick as if trying to dislodge it, but Sam
shushed him quickly, stroking his fingers over the curves of his shoulders.
"Relax, Dean."
He rocked up, enjoying the sensation of his loose, pliant brother sitting
placidly on his dick, and bit down on his earlobe with the whisper, "We'll have
a break before round two."

Five
Deep down, Sam knew something was wrong.
He was a grown man. He'd been to Hell and back.
He shouldn't be this desperate for cuddles from his brother.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean groused as Sam burrowed contentedly into his side. "Have
some self-control."
"I tried," Sam said honestly. There was self-control and then there was Dean.
Cuddly, rumpled, grouchy Dean. There had been no contest. "It won't let me,
man. I'm sorry."
"This is the worst curse ever," Dean said, rather melodramatically in Sam's
opinion. There had definitely been worse curses than ones which centered around
hugs.
Wanting to make him feel better, Sam cuddled him tighter. He wasn't sure if
he'd always thought like this or if it was just a side effect of the curse, but
he now firmly believed that everything could be solved by snuggling. Dean's
body was comfortable against his own, like a warm bed or the backseat of the
Impala, and Sam pillowed his head on Dean's cheek with a happy sigh.
"Dude."
Dean's voice was muffled and Sam patted his head happily. Dean liked headpats.
He was sure of it.
"Dude, you're squashing the life out of me here."
"Oh." That didn't sound good. "Sorry?" Sam offered hopefully, adjusting his
position a little until his head was on the actual pillow this time and Dean
was safely ensconced in his arms. And in his legs.
"We should call Bobby," Dean said with a sigh.
"We should," Sam agreed, tucking his hands under Dean's arms to consolidate the
hug. He was peripherally aware that he was treating Dean like a three-year-old
would treat a teddy bear but although some distant part of him thought he
should maybe back off, he couldn't seem to let go. His mind was providing all
sorts of nice thoughts about how good it would feel to fall asleep wrapped up
with Dean and Sam kissed Dean happily below the ear.
Dean sighed again. "Are you going to let me up to get my phone?"
Sam thought about it.
"Nope."
"I guess we could call him tomorrow," Dean said and Sam beamed.
"Does that mean you're not moving?"
"I'm not moving yet," Dean corrected. "We can see if it gets out of your system
tonight and then we can do some research tomorrow."
Sam's brain helpfully translated that as blah blah keep hugging me blah.
He rolled over onto his back, pulling a flailing Dean up with him until Sam was
flat on the bed with Dean trapped against his chest like a very attractive
person-blanket, and he looked up at his bewildered brother with a pleased
smile. "Go to sleep, Dean."
Dean struggled a little but Sam was an expert cuddler and kept him from rolling
off his chest as he sank back into the pillow and closed his eyes. "Sleep." He
stroked his face. "Good Dean."
"What the fuck-" Dean made an exasperated noise but when Sam refused to budge,
he eventually quietened in his arms. He felt nice, all heavy and warm on Sam's
chest, like an extra-big, still-cute cat, and Sam ruffled his hair as Dean
muttered, "Fine, fine, I'm sleeping."
Nuzzling his face against Dean's cheek, Sam gave him one final pat before
settling down to sleep, and smiled to himself when he heard one last grumpy
murmur from his brother, "I swear to god, you better not remember any of this
in the morning."
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