Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/5144930. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con, Underage Category: M/M Fandom: Supernatural Relationship: Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester Character: Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester Additional Tags: Incest, Sibling_Incest, Wincest_-_Freeform, Underage_Prostitution, Underage_Sex, Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort Stats: Published: 2015-11-04 Updated: 2015-12-01 Chapters: 5/? Words: 9082 ****** Sammy's Secret ****** by Nobe_Ackerman_(imbetterlive) Summary "I'm not a baby. I'm not a baby. I'm not a baby." Notes This is not so different from my usual works, but it is a different fandom. Supernatural is dear to my heart. Wincest fans, where you at? :) WARNING: This will eventually be a wincest story!! Be warned!!! See the end of the work for more notes ***** The Beginning of the End ***** Sam Winchester is not his brother. Dean is smooth, so suave, everything he does is effortless. Flirting with girls, washing the impala, Christ, even sewing up a bloody wound on his own leg where a Wendigo clawed him. Sam is all gangly limbs and too-large hands, fumbling where his brother glided along and falling on his ass where Dean stayed on both feet. Certainly he looked up to his big brother, nineteen years old and unbearably perfect, hair always combed back just right and t-shirt fitting snugly to the muscles he'd developed from years of the family business. Sam was too thin, his arms and legs were so long that he didn't fit any of his clothing anymore, and Dean was constantly giving him pairs of jeans from his own duffel bag. That was the thing, too. Dean was so fucking nice to him. On the rare occasion that he stayed at a school long enough to make friends, whichever ones that had siblings were constantly complaining that the older ones were always yelling, always cursing at them, ignoring them and blaming them for the trouble they caused. That was never the case for Dean and Sam. Dean made sure to be waiting for Sam outside of his school on the days when John gave him the car, and sometimes he'd even walk, on the days when he wasn't too sore from hunting or whatever the fuck he got up to spending all night at girl's houses when his father thought he was asleep in the bed beside his little brother. Sam didn't like to think about it. And it was so difficult to be angry at Dean for his perfection when he was greeted so cheerfully, with a 'Hey Sammy!' and a soda or various bag of junk food tossed his way. Dean always said John gave him money for the snacks, but Sam had figured out long ago that Dean was paying for him to snack out of his own pocket, out of the money he earned working at the car garage down the street. He didn't really know how to feel about it. By the time Sam turned fifteen, he was pretty much permanently frustrated. Their father certainly gave Sam more affection, there was no doubt about it, but it was awkward and stilted. Too-hard pats on the back and shoulder, one- armed hugs, an offer of the last bite of whatever greasy dinner he'd ordered in the diner they were eating at. Dean was the recipient of the sort of attention from John that Sam much preferred. John was constantly praising Dean, taking him on all of the difficult hunts, trusting him to take care of himself and giving him the car whenever he wasn't using it. Sam, on the other hand, was left in the care of his big brother like some kind of child. He wasn't allowed to have a gun for himself on hunts, just a blessed knife and some holy water, and more often than not he was just left at home. It was almost embarrassing, really- he'd been in the business just as long as Dean had, Dean just had the advantage of being older. Besides, Sam was fifteen years old now, not a baby by any standards. Or so he told himself. They were residing in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois, a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. They were surrounded by forests and long spaces of grassy fields. They stayed in a small house for the first time in maybe a year, a nice enough house, and Sam got a room for himself for the first time in possibly his entire life. John was nearly driven crazy by the hunt in those months. They stayed for a long, long time, at least compared to the handfuls of nights they stayed in hotels in other towns. Sam got to attend public school just two bus stops away, and he made friends quickly. He found out pretty quickly that although they all attended church service in the morning and wore stuffy sweater-vests and crisp dress pants, they were nowhere near as pure as they claimed to be. He made the mistake of sleeping over at a boy in science class' house one night. The kid pulled a half-full bottle of vodka from under his pillows. Sam had been about to refuse, nervous as always at the prospect of doing something wrong, but he thought back to how Dean used to sneak bottles of alcohol bummed from grocery stores and pit stops along the road, how his smile was so relaxed and his body relaxed along the backseat. He wanted to be like Dean. He wanted to show his brother that he could do such things, too. He took a large drink and nearly coughed up a lung. The boy, Samuel, had laughed at him and swigged the bottle with ease. A few weeks into their stay, Sam was maybe going a little far. Every time he did something wrong, something that made his stomach fill with butterflies and fear make his fingers tremble, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Certainly Dean would kick his ass if he knew about any of it, but even though his big brother had no idea what he got up to for the hours after school when he was supposed to be working a job at the corner store, he still felt like he was catching up to him in terms of badass-ery. He smoked cigarettes, but only around friends. He had a pack of them tucked under his underwear in his duffel bag, along with a purple lighter a girl had bought him 'as mark of their friendship', in her terms. He'd tried weed, but it didn't do much for him. He preferred to have his senses about him. He lost his virginity. Certainly he'd never imagined he would lose it to both a boy and girl at the same time, but he did, and it was fantastic. They were both a year above him, the girl 16 and the boy newly 17, and they took turns riding him into the girl's pink mattress while her parents cooked dinner downstairs. He wasn't penetrated until about two and a half months into their stay. It wasn't as terrible as he'd expected. In fact, he'd sort of enjoyed it, to a degree. He kept doing it after, but only a handful of times, certainly not the amount his big brother had done it. The fact bothered him, and he found himself delving into deeper levels of debauchery every time he had the opportunity. At the end of the first semester of school, during the two-week break they had, he was introduced to a completely new level of danger. A girl, Sasha, with blonde hair and nipple piercings had brought him to a back alley at around midnight. He had to sneak out, leaving Dean passed out on the couch, terrified he'd be caught. At first he'd thought they were going to try to get him to try some kind of drug, and he was preparing himself to finally say no, but three of his classmates had emerged in similar wear. Tiny shorts, skirts on the girls, small white shirts that exposed cleavage on both the two boys and the one freshman- aged girl. Sam had looked at them, silent, and nobody had spoken. His fears had been confirmed when cars began to pull up in front of the alley. Sasha had spoken to the driver to an open window for a moment, and then one of the boys, a sixteen year old with brown hair, had walked up to the car and then disappeared inside of it. They drove away, and thirty minutes of silence later, the car returned. The boy got out with his shorts askew, whiteness running down his leg and smeared over his lips. It went like that for the rest of the night. Sasha assured him that usually there were more students, maybe ten to fifteen, and they had a lot of fun with this business. The boy, who Sam learned was named George, showed him a thick stack of cash. Sam looked at the money and knew immediately it would be enough to buy them dinner for weeks, maybe even enough to get himself some new clothes and Dean some varnish for the car. Before he knew what he was doing he asked Sasha if he could join their little club. As soon as the words passed his lips he felt a familiar tingling, a heavy yet light feeling in his stomach, like he was floating and sinking at the same time. It was adrenaline, and he'd become addicted. Three nights later, at ten-thirty pm, he stood in front of the mirror in his own bathroom. He was wearing a skirt, something suggested by Sasha due to his girly-ish figure, and it wasn't as demeaning as he expected. His legs were donned with knee-high school stockings given to him by another girl, and on his upper half was the top part of his school uniform. It was so dirty, so bad, so wrong, and he couldn't get enough of it. He knew Dean wouldn't be home until the morning. He was at a girl's house. The thought left a bitter taste in Sam's mouth. He combed his hair back off his face, took one last look at himself in the mirror, and then left the house, walking through the quiet dark to George's house. He didn't look back. ***** He's My Brother ***** Chapter Summary Sam goes too far. His brother's always there to help him. (Chapter name from the lyrics, "He ain't heavy, he's my brother".) Chapter Notes Hello!!!!!! Thanks so much for leaving so much feedback, I honestly had this idea in a dream last night and I couldn't wait to write more. <3 The first night, Sam was too busy riding the wave of adrenaline of what he was doing to really think about the consequences. He was preened, his hair combed back even farther, a pair of heels slipped onto his feet and lip gloss swiped onto both lips. A roll of condoms was shoved into his back pocket and a tiny bottle of pepper spray into his other. He was given a pep talk, and then sent out to the first customer that requested a boy. The man was nice enough. Sam sat in the front seat of the car and nervously recited what he was told to, tongue fumbling over the words. "What do you want?" The man's gaze felt like it was burning on him. He had an urge to get out of the car and run. He wanted Dean, he wanted his dad, he was out of his comfort zone by miles and he didn't know how to get himself out of this situation. He forced himself to stay still. You got yourself into this, Sam. He said to himself. You want to be brave like Dean, don't you? And he did. So he tried to remember what the man asked for (nothing spectacular, anal sex with a condom) and buckled his seatbelt as the man drove a few feet forward and stopped the car. He wasn't unattractive, really. Not anything special, either. He had brown hair, stubble, a deep voice that sounded like he smoked a lot. He fucked Sam up against the dirty brick wall beside the alleyway the rest of the teenaged prostitutes stood in waiting for customers. It hurt a lot. Sam wasn't yet smart enough to use his own spit, stroke the man a few times, make it easier on himself. He bled that first night, and went home after one customer, two hundred dollars clutched in his fist.   He went back the next night. That night he had three customers, and it was easy. One was a blonde with icy eyes in an expensive suit who'd just wanted to watch him touch himself, and then lick up Sam's release. The second wanted a blowjob, and the third wanted Sam to fuck him. A thousand dollars were stuffed into his pocket when he finally limped back up to his bedroom at six o'clock that morning. Dean came into his room twenty minutes later, apparently having heard the front door open. He called Sam's name once, twice, and when Sam didn't answer, heart pounding and shaking like a frightened rabbit underneath his covers, he left. He took some advil and allowed himself six hours of sleep, finally getting out of bed at noon and heading to the bus stop. He rode it an hour to the closest commercial mall, his money folded neatly into a beat-up leather wallet he'd inherited from his big brother. He bought himself two t-shirts, a new pair of shoes, and some notebooks for schoolwork. He also stopped by a lingerie store and bought a simple pair of cotton pink panties- Sasha had told him that it made customers pay more. Then he bought Dean car varnish, a couple of classic rock cassettes for the impala's radio, and on a whim picked up a pecan pie from an expensive bakery on his way out. After paying bus fare, he still had over a thousand dollars left in his pocket. The presents for Dean, once he arrived home, were carefully wrapped in the tissue paper from the other purchases. After a moment he tore it back off, afraid his brother would think he was dumb for it. He presented them shyly to Dean where the boy (no, man, he had to keep correcting himself) was washing his car in their driveway. Dean had looked confused, then turned them over in his hands and clapped Sam on the back, a grin on his face. "Thanks, kid." Was what he'd said, and Sam couldn't help but think he looked pleased. Even more so when he heard Dean call out a 'fuck yeah, Sammy!' from the kitchen when he'd discovered the pie. That was enough to keep him returning to the back alley every night. Dean never said anything, but Sam could tell he was getting a little suspicious. He'd caught Sam up at four in the morning, having returned early. Thankfully he was in his pyjamas already, and was washing his face in his bathroom. Dean had questioned him and he'd stumbled over his words again, said something completely unintelligible, babbled until his big brother went away. He was so frightened that he'd not gone back to the alley for a week. The reality of what he was doing hit him head-on when Dean came close to discovering it. In a way, he began to resent Dean. Dean was the one who was always so perfect, Dean was the one who constantly got everything right, Dean was the one with girls practically waiting in line to get a taste of him. This was Dean's fault, it had to be. That was his excuse, his way of not blaming himself for what he'd gotten into. Sam began bringing lube to the alley when he finally returned, and that made things much easier. He learned to finger himself open before he left the house so it didn't hurt so much. Dean had discovered the little bottle of clear, flavorless lube one day when he was searching through Sam's bathroom for toothpaste. Sam had nearly died in embarrassment, but Dean had teased him for three entire days before finally dropping it. His ass was sore all the time. John finally returned home for a weekend before heading off again, and he'd commented on Sam's proficient limp, telling Dean to 'take it easy on him, don't smack him around so much', chuckling heartily and turning back to the television. Sam hadn't said a word, but he could feel Dean's eyes burning into the back of his skull. The fifth week of his new endeavors, something went very, very wrong. He was tired, since they'd gone back to school the week before and he got less than an hour of sleep each night (he napped from the time he got home to ten or eleven o'clock, Dean mostly left him alone). None of them were as alert as they were normally. In the time Sam had been working with them, they'd never had a police scare before, so when sirens sounded and the ten of them that were there scattered and ran like hell, Sam panicked. He ran out through the police cars pulling up, ignoring the shouts of 'hey, kid, stop right there!' and the threats of guns. He was thankful for his years of running from the creatures his family hunted, because once he kicked off his heels he was out of there in a flash. He ended up at the corner of some street with a bar and a hotel, hands shaking, entire body numb with fear. He headed into the bar and begged the bartender to use the pay phone. Finally the man gave him change and he dialed Dean's numbers, fingers trembling so badly he misdialed twice. It was nearly seven rings before Dean finally picked up, voice groggy from sleep. "Hello?" Sam could have cried. He was still so scared. He thought any moment the police would burst in and arrest him, and he'd have to call John, and he'd honestly rather die. "Dean?" His voice was tiny, and there was silence for a moment. "Sammy?" He heard the rustling of sheets. He pictured Dean sitting up in bed, his hair all mussed, t-shirt rucked around his waist. Or maybe he was bare- chested. He didn't know what to say, and Dean spoke again. "Sammy, where the fuck are you? It's three o'clock in the morning, whose phone is this?" "Dean, I need your help." He heard sirens outside and immediately went stiff with fright. He was certain Dean could hear his breathing over the phone. "What? With what? Tell me what the hell is going on." "Please come get me. You have to come get me. Please." Dean would kill him for making him take the Impala out in the middle of the night. "Not until you tell me what's going on." Sam heard the sirens getting louder and burst into tears, gripping the phone so tightly his fingers went white, then an unhealthy purple. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this. He wanted to go home. He sobbed unintelligibly into the phone for only a second when Dean's voice interrupted him. "I'm coming. Where are you?" He asked the bartender, who looked uncomfortable at his tears, and slowly gave the address to Dean through his loud cries. "I'm in the car. Stay on the phone." Sam did as he was told, holding the receiver to his chest, trying desperately to calm down though it was no use. He watched out the front windows and when a familiar Impala pulled up he dropped the phone and shot outside like a bullet, flinging himself into the front seat of the car, the flashing red and blue of police lights visible in the rearview mirror. And there was Dean, like some sort of angel waiting to save him, concern in his eyes and sleep creasing his face. "Drive. Drive." Sam said as the lights got closer, strapping his seatbelt in. "Drive, Dean!" And drive he did. He could hear the urgency in Sam's voice and tore away from the pavement, shooting down the road, the engine so loud Sam couldn't hear his own crying for a second. When they were out of sight of the police cars Sam rested his head upon the door just below the window, exhausted. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to be home, be safe, forget this had ever happened. The car slowed to a stop in the driveway of their house, and Dean made no move to get out of the car. Sam went to open the door and a hand caught his wrist, gentle, careful. "Sammy?" Dean's voice was soft, the kind he used when Sam got hurt on a hunt and needed to be stitched up. "You gotta tell me what's going on." He didn't respond. Shame burned his face red and he looked at his feet. His legs were mostly exposed, torn jean shorts riding up on his ass. He was only grateful he wasn't wearing a skirt. His shirt was a girl's shirt, cropped above the bellybutton. He was humiliated, and didn't say a word. Finally Dean let go and Sam got out of the car, heading into the house and stripping down as soon as he stepped into his room. He pulled on pyjamas, washed his face, brushed his teeth, stared at himself in the mirror, at the puffy redness of his eyes that soap and water could not undo. He heard Dean get back into bed, heard the creak of his bed frame, and a minute later walked into his room. He didn't know if it would be well received, but he needed the closeness. He needed the reassurance of Dean's breath and heartbeat and warm skin, needed the knowledge that he would always protect Sam, that Sam would always be safe as long as he had his big brother. He climbed into Dean's bed with him, laying on his side facing him, and a large hand adjusted the collar of his pajama top. The small gesture was so affectionate, so like his brother that he nearly cried again. He slept with ease that night, the presence of his brother and savior easing (if only temporarily) the torment in his head. ***** Overprotected ***** Chapter Summary Dean watches Sammy more closely. Sam can't stop what he's doing. Chapter Notes Thank you for all the nice comments <3 After the incident with the police, Sam stopped going back to the alley. He begged Dean to pull him from that school, and his brother did without question. Sam thought it probably had something to do with the whole calling-him-at- three-am-hysterical thing. John returned shortly after. Dean didn't tell John what had happened, and Sam was eternally grateful for that. He had over ten thousand dollars rolled up in wads in an old pair of jeans in his duffel bag, and used it every now and then, slipped a ten or a twenty into his brother's pockets or backpack when he wasn't paying attention. It helped a lot. They ate well, Dean seemed much less stressed, and John wasn't as angry all the time. They moved shortly after. Well, they left the house. They went back on the road, driving straight through Iowa, all dusty dirty paths and endless cornfields and small, depressing towns that John would stop them in to have a beer or two. Sam had stopped turning tricks, but he could never get the memories of it out of the front of his mind. The sex part wasn't awful. Certainly at points he felt dirty, used, but other times he rationalized it. There were worse things he could be doing, he told himself. The amount of people who actually wanted to go all the way and fuck him was startlingly low. His mouth and dick were used more than his ass was. He knew that he could pay for their housing in a motel, for their food, gas for the car, drinks for Dean and Dad. But how the hell was he supposed to hand them thousands of dollars in cash without being asked where he'd gotten it? Dad would immediately assume he'd robbed a bank and kick his ass for it. There was part of him, too, that said he would never have enough money. There was an itch in the back of his head always telling him to keep going, you could be making so much more, you can support your family for years if you just keep going. One day, a sweltering hot summer afternoon, just after lunch, John brings the boys inside of a small bar to wait for him while he drinks. Dean spots a pretty girl and heads outside with her, for what, Sam doesn't want to know. He sits by himself, sipping at a glass of water, face glistening and hair in damp curls from his sweat. Within ten minutes a man slides up beside him, a large man, with biceps the size of Sam's thigh and a wifebeater stretched tight over what Sam was certain would be abs. Sam looked over, and he suddenly felt very, very small. He's propositioned. The man coaxes him, calls him a 'pretty little thing' and rests a large hand on his slim waist. "Come on, pretty little boy, lemme have a taste. You chargin'? I'll pay." He swallows. His throat is so dry, and the water tastes of sawdust. "Five hundred." He's weak, he's so weak. "Five hundred, huh? You better be a fuckin' virgin, for that price." The man chuckles, pats Sam's back, and gets up. Sam takes that as his cue, looking around quickly to ensure nobody is watching them. The man takes him out to his truck and takes him with a condom. His cock is as proportionate as his arms, and Sam bleeds. He holds onto the dusty leather backseat that his cheek is smushed against, that his sweat is soaking into, gritting his teeth as the large man pushes into him over and over and over. He finishes fast, groaning filthy, obscene things that make Sam feel sick to his stomach. He gives Sam tissues to stuff in his underwear to catch the blood, and then they get out of the car. Sam's shirt is soaked in sweat. The man goes to walk away, and Sam calls. "Hey." He turns. "What?" "You forgot my money." The man just scoffs, laughs, and Sam's stomach lurched. He did it for the money. He did it for the money, he had to be paid for it. The man tried to walk away and Sam repeated more insistently this time. "I want my money." "Kid," The man turns this time, advances on Sam, and Sam is determined not to be scared. He refuses to be. "I want my money. I told you five hundred, so give it to me." His voice is brave though it shakes a little, and he clenches both fists, trying to puff out his chest. "Back the fuck off." His voice is menacing, frightening. "I ain't paying you shit. Go whore yourself out to someone else." "Give me my fucking money!" Desperate, Sam reaches for the man's pocket where he can see the corner of a wallet. His hand is smacked away, and then enormous, unbelievable pain explodes across the left side of his face. He falls immediately. He'd never felt anything like that before. It felt like he'd been hit in the head with a truck, run over and squished to the pavement. He couldn't see shit with his left eye. He could taste something warm in his mouth and there was no air in his lungs. He couldn't breathe. Vaguely he recognized that he'd been punched in the face by the giant of a man, but it hurt so bad that he didn't give a single shit what had happened. He just wanted the pain to stop. He laid there, spread out over the dusty ground as the truck drove away. He couldn't get up. He let his head loll to the side. He didn't know how long he'd been laying out there when a familiar voice shouts his name, panicked, loud. A figure, tall, with a black leather jacket comes into focus, a pretty girl trailing behind. Dean. Someone touched the side of his face that was still throbbing and Sam's lower body twisted, trying to get away from those fingers. It hurt. God, it hurt. Then a hand slid under his neck, through the blood that had turned the dust purplish-orange, lifting him to sit up. He was forced to swallow a mouthful of blood during the movement and gagged, spitting what filled his mouth next down his front. Dean said something, something loud and frightened, and Sam wondered why he was so scared. He didn't like to hear his brother scared. Dean lifted him into his arms and he let him, didn't protest like he would usually. He was suddenly grateful for the man, for the tissues stuffed down his pants. If Dean saw the blood, he'd either have to say he'd been raped, or spill everything. Neither sounded like a good idea. He was laid on something cold, something he guessed was the hood of the impala. Something dabbed at his face, something wet, and the smell of blood wasn't so prominent when the cloth retreated. He opened both eyes, but only one opened, and he guessed that the other was swollen shut. Dean's face came into his vision, twisted with concern. He was saying something, something that Sam tried to listen to. "....fucking idiot, shouldn't'a left you alone, Christ, you look like you got hit in the face with a sledgehammer..." He tuned Dean out after that. This was so shitty. So fucking shitty. He shouldn't have done this. Dean was going to get in an ridiculous amount of trouble with John. Dean might have his impala privileges revoked. Sam had done that to him. Dean got a bottled water from the bar, and pressed it to Sam's aching face. It hurt more from the pressure for a moment, but the numbness that soon came was blessed. It was a few minutes of that, and then Dean laid him in the back of the impala. He was still out of it, but with the quiet of the leather interior his mind cleared. By the time Dean returned, an absolutely furious John in toe, Sam was sitting up with a hand touching the swollen puffiness of his eye and cheek. He had drunk some of the water, used it to swish the blood from his mouth and spit it out the half-open window. John opened the door, ordered him to get out. He did, standing, and his father inspected his face. Sam spared a glance toward his brother and found him standing stiff, guilt written all over his face. That only made Sam feel shittier. John screamed at Dean until people came out of the bar to see what was wrong, and then they piled into the car and took off. Sam asked if Dean would sit beside him in the backseat. He didn't want him sitting next to John. Dean folded himself into the backseat beside Sam, let the kid sling his legs over his lap, didn't bother to complain about his shoes getting his jeans dirty. The car was silent for most of the way. They stopped again a few miles down the road, John disappearing into the ball to hustle money, not before snapping at Dean to stay with Sam. Sam looked at his hands, which folded in his lap, playing with his fingers. His heart ached at the abuse his brother was suffering because of him. He looked up when John was gone. "Dean, I'm sorry." Dean looked over at him, and smiled, but it was small and held no humor. "'s alright, kiddo. You didn't do anything wrong. What the hell happened to you, anyway?" He shrugged, guilt making his eyes burn. If only Dean knew. "Some random guy punched me out. I dunno." "Yeah. I can tell." His fingers brushed against Sam's forehead where there was no swelling. "You look like shit." Instead of responding, Sam moved a little and took a look at himself in the rearview mirror. It was true- his eye was purple and blue and swollen shut, and his lip was split. A new wave of misery washed over him. How the hell was he supposed to pull customers with his face a mess? As soon as he realized he'd had the thought his stomach twisted in knots and he sat back. He shifted off of Dean's lap and back into his own seat. He heard Dean inhale, about to speak, but then he went completely silent. Sam looked over, startled. Dean was looking down at his lap where Sam's butt had been. There was a round bloodstain on his jeans. Sam immediately went numb. He knew if he made too many excuses Dean would know exactly what happened. "Sammy?" Dean's voice was so quiet that Sam barely heard him. "It's just from my face, Dean." He tried to keep his voice steady. "You picked me up, remember? I probably got some on you." Neither spoke for a while. Dean finally broke the silence. "Sammy, if he hurt you, you gotta tell me." Dean's voice was stinted, awkward, urgent. "He did hurt me. In my face. Jesus, what are you even saying?" His voice was too-high as he began to panic. Dean opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He closed his eyes. Sam watched him, and neither of them spoke until John returned to the car. That night they slept in the back of the car, and Sam may have been imagining it, but Dean didn't dare come close enough to touch him. ***** Hiding ***** Chapter Summary Dean finds out exactly what Sammy's been up to. Chapter Notes Hope you enjoy!!! See the end of the chapter for more notes It took nearly a month for Sam's face to heal completely. He didn't do much work while it did. A couple of handjobs, some frottage, nothing too extensive. It made him around two thousand by the time his face had returned to its usual baby-soft status. It was difficult to find time, too. Ever since he'd been hit Dean hovered around him constantly. Sam would have found it cute if he'd not been trying to make money to support his family. He managed to sneak off, sometimes during pitstops when they'd park by a truckstop and get some sleep, and Sam would stumble out saying he had to take a piss, rushing into the bar area and collecting a customer as quickly as possible. Sometimes he did it out the side of the car (but was careful to aim the man towards the ground rather than the Impala's sleek exterior) when Dad and Dean were hustling. It was good enough to keep him satisfied for the time being. He began to wonder how long it had been since he'd had an orgasm during sex. He estimated it had been roughly five months, considering all the sex he'd had back at the Catholic school before he'd been pulled out. He didn't really masturbate anymore, which was funny, considering he'd nearly rubbed himself raw for over a year after he'd discovered the concept of self-pleasure. It felt dirty somehow, wrong to do. Especially when no one was paying him. The largest amount of money he'd ever made off of one customer came a week after his face had stopped swelling. It was a man who'd pulled up to him in a slick black car, and Sam could almost see the price sign flashing behind his eyes. It was hot outside, and Sam was wearing cutoff denim shorts and an old t- shirt that rode atop his bellybutton. Neither of them thought much of it- it was better than sweating to death. However, the man had leered at Sam, who had gone numb with fear. He was certain that somehow Dean would figure out everything from that one little look. As strong as his fear was, he couldn't resist the money. He gestured with one thumb at the back parking lot, and the man had continued to stare until Dean took notice. "Hey," he'd said, stepping up to the car. "You got a fuckin' problem, old man? Drive away." And the man had done so. Twenty minutes later, the two of them still sitting outside the dusty diner waiting for John, Sam said he had to pee again and snuck out to the back. He had crawled into the car, nervous though this was routine for him. It was strange how even unspoken their agreement was clear. Sam was startled by the amount of men who never questioned it, never asked if he was a prostitute, just assumed. It almost made him self-conscious, really. Did he look like a whore? He'd asked Dean that once, and Dean had burst out laughing, patting Sam's shoulder. "What movie didja get that from, kiddo?" Sam hadn't laughed along. He sucked the guy off. It wasn't pleasant for him, but then again, he wasn't the one paying. It was easy for him to remember what to do- up, down, up, down, suck, lick, cup his balls with one hand and rub the base with the other. When he came, Sam didn't pull off fast enough, and was offered a tissue to spit out what had landed on his tongue. This man wasn't anything special. Unattractive, but that was sort of to be expected. Obviously very wealthy; Sam spotted an 'Armani' tag on his suit. Gray hair, blue eyes. He stayed hard, and Sam guessed that there had been some Viagra involved. Either way, he wasn't complaining. He didn't want to wait in the car for fifteen minutes while the man tried to get himself hard again. He fucked him, and it was easy. Sam remembered to get on his hands and knees, spit in one hand, reach back and stroke. Of course it wasn't a perfect push in, it still burned and the friction sucked, but he could deal with it. He had been quite surprised when a large, almost-wrinkled hand reached around and grabbed his soft cock. At first he was frightened. He'd been the recipient of quite a few ball-kicks, courtesy of his big brother, but this hand was nice. It stroked him, and he closed his eyes. He didn't get hard, but he very much appreciated the sentiment, giving the man a large smile over his shoulder that was received with a look of mild surprise. He finished on Sam's back and then wiped it off. Two minutes later Sam was handed the biggest wad of cash he'd ever seen at one time, beside his own stash tucked deep in his duffel bag. He didn't bother counting it, just dressed and gave the man a tentative kiss on the cheek. He figured he deserved it. He slipped out of the car and tiptoed into the diner, rubbing the foamy soap from the dispenser onto his legs and stomach and crotch to get rid of the thick smell of sex. Afterward he limped back out to Dean, who looked up at him. "That was the longest piss ever." He shrugged and sat down, grimacing. He wasn't necessarily in pain, but it wasn't exactly comfortable to have your anal cavity stretched in that way. He felt sticky on the inside, and it bothered him. He felt eyes on him and looked over. "What?" "That guy. He was creepy, that's all." Dean said, but he eyed Sam's shirt and frowned. A moment later he pulled off his leather jacket and laid it over Sam's shoulders. "Put that on. We need to get you clothes that fit." Sam wished he could say he was pleased at Dean's protection, but he wasn't. These clothes were how he subtly picked up prospective customers. No one would like him once he was tucked away in jeans and baggy shirts. Nonetheless he slipped his arms into the warm jacket, not caring about how unbearably hot the leather made him. It was Dean's, so he'd bear it. Later that night in the Impala when he was tucked safely in the backseat by himself, the jacket draped over his lap, he counted the cash. It was eight thousand dollars, along with a business card tucked between the bills. He unzipped his duffel bag and pressed the money inside, sliding the business card into his back pocket. It was exactly two weeks later when everything shattered around him. He thought he'd been careful, so careful, but evidently it wasn't enough. In retrospect, he should have known that this would happen. Dean was too smart, too perceptive, it was Sam's fault for not realizing that sooner. He knew something was wrong from the first moment he opened the front door. They were staying in a small apartment in Michigan, again whilst their dad hunted. Dean was usually watching TV, talking to himself, thudding a baseball into the wall. When Sam stepped inside it was dead quiet. At first he was worried. Had Dean hurt himself? Had a monster come through while he was at the library? He worked himself up so much as he was removing his shoes and jacket that he could have cried with relief by the time he heard rustling and saw a familiar face and body come from the kitchen. His relief was gone just as quickly when he saw the look on Dean's face. It was the look a parent gave their child when they'd done something seriously wrong. Sam knew something was very, very wrong, and he paused. "Dean? What's wrong?" His voice shook. He had a horrible sinking feeling that he knew exactly why he was in trouble. His brother didn't say a thing, just gestured to the kitchen table. When Sam looked over his throat closed up and his hands began to shake. On the coffee table lay the lube, the pairs of panties, the condoms, and the thick wads of cash. Everything he'd collected from the beginning. All of his shame laid out in front of him like some sort of fucked-up shrine. He stood there and he trembled and no one spoke. The silence was so heavy that he couldn't fucking breathe and he tried desperately to think of some way, any way out of it. There were none. He couldn't run, this was his home, and his brother. He couldn't hide, that was childish, and he'd messed up enough already. "Are you going to tell me what the fuck all of this is?" Dean's voice was steady, but Sam knew him well enough to hear how difficult it was for him to speak. "Dean, I..." He trailed off, helpless. He didn't know what to say. "It's... It's just..." "Tell me this isn't what I think it is." Sam's eyes beaded up with tears at the near-pleading tone of Dean's voice. "It's... It's..." "It's what, Sam?" Now he was yelling. Sam was almost glad. He'd prefer Dean yelled than be sad. He didn't respond, and Dean's voice got louder. "Tell me. Fucking tell me, Sam, tell me what the fuck all this shit is. Now!" He was close to screaming and Sam looked at the floor. He felt like he was rooted in place. There was silence for a long time. "I just... I just wanted to make some money." His voice was tiny, and a fat tear rolled down his cheek. "Sammy," Dean's voice cracked and Sam wanted to die. "Sammy, don't tell me it's true. Tell me I'm wrong, kid. Please. Tell me I'm wrong." He looked up at Dean, and more tears cascaded down his face. Dean closed his eyes and looked away. "Dean, please, I'm so-" "Go to your room." He snapped, and began to gather everything off of the table. "Now, Sam." Sam grabbed his sleeve, desperate for his big brother's comfort. "Dean, don't... don't..." "Now." Dean yanked his arm away and Sam was certain his heart shattered. He turned and quietly walked to his room, closing the door and shoving a chair under the door. It was his way of taking control of the situation, of making himself feel like he was the one who had something to be angry about. He laid on his bed, absolutely miserable. He didn't give two shits about the money, and what Dean did with it. The humiliation of being caught doing what he had been doing was overpowering, and he cried for a long, long time, trying to forget about what had happened. Dean would never love him again, he convinced himself. Dean thought he was disgusting, and horrible, and a whore. Nothing else. He heard his doorknob turn a few times, but Dean never tried to open his door. He spent the rest of the night generally feeling shitty about everything. When he ran out of tears he just laid there in a little ball. Dean made no move to speak to him, and by the time the sun rose he realized that it was the longest he'd gone without speaking with his brother in years. His stomach was rumbling so loudly by six thirty AM that he had to get something to eat. He removed the chair as quietly as possibly and crept out of his room into the kitchen, eyes so swollen he could barely see out of them. He tiptoed like a criminal in his own home (well, sort of home) and grabbed an apple and small bag of chips, running back to his room fast and slamming the door. Once the chair slid back into place he let out a relieved breath. He ate in silence, paging through a book he'd brought from the library though he didn't register any words. He fell back to sleep for lack of anything better to do, and it was noon when somebody opened his door. He vaguely heard the wooden frame squeak and rolled over, not awake enough to be frightened. A weight settled beside him on the bed, and a warm hand laid on his shoulder. He pushed it away, overheated from the sunlight streaming through the window and the covers on top of him. The hand returned a moment later, shaking him. "Sam. Sammy, wake up." Sam's eyes immediately snapped open and he squirmed away from the hand. That was definitely Dean. He didn't look up, heart pounding in fright, staring at the dull wall and praying that his brother would leave. "You gotta eat something. You didn't have dinner or breakfast, and it's lunchtime." Sam didn't respond. He'd had chips and an apple, he was fine. "Sam." Dean stood. "Come on. Just eat something. I'm gonna go to work, okay? You gonna be okay?" The amount of concern in Dean's voice made Sam want to start crying all over again. How dare he act so worried after how he'd humiliated Sam? There was still no response, and Dean sighed, standing. A moment later Sam's door closed again and he rolled onto his back. He waited until he heard the familiar purr of the Impala's engine to get up, get dressed, and sulk into the kitchen. He made himself a peanut butter sandwich, which tasted like sawdust. He felt minutely better afterward. He didn't feel so hollow inside. He tried to watch television but his mind kept wandering. Would Dean ever look at him the same again? Had he ruined their entire relationship with his carelessness? He headed into Dean's room and found his panties and condoms. There was no hint of the money. He took the former, beginning to sniffle again as he folded the cotton into his pocket, and set them back in his duffel bag when he returned to his own room. It just didn't feel right that Dean had them. He was in the midst of an early dinner, another sandwich, this time with bologna and tomatoes, when the front door opened. He froze. There was no way he could make it to his bedroom before Dean came into the kitchen. He looked down at the counter, eyes fixed to the last few bites of his sandwich. Dean came in like nothing was wrong, grabbing a beer from the fridge, a bag of pretzels from the cabinet. "Didja go to school?" Sam didn't answer. There were no schools within walking distance and no buses. He wasn't attending school in this city. "You can't ignore me forever, kid." Still quiet. There was nothing to say. "I'm not mad at you." That caught his interest. Dean had more than enough reasons to be absolutely furious. He looked up, and Dean was sweaty, his forehead smeared with grease. Sam guessed he'd found a job at another car place. "You should take a shower. I can smell you from here." He was glad that his voice was relatively steady, and took a small bite of the sandwich in his hand. Dean ignored him. That was ironic. "We need to talk." "About?" He scowled. "I have an appointment for you at the doctor's down the street. For tomorrow. You're gonna be tested 'n stuff." "Tested? For what, STDs?" He was honestly hurt that Dean thought he would be so stupid. "I used condoms. You found them in my bag. Thanks for looking through my stuff without my fucking permission, by the way." "Sammy, you're.. you're fifteen." He shook his head. "There's gotta be some sort of internal damage, right? I want you to go to the doctor anyway. I'll come with you." "No. They didn't all use my ass, you know." He sneered. He wasn't even sad anymore. He wanted to hurt Dean, hurt him for humiliating him this way. "Apparently my mouth's just as good." Dean went white, and a moment later he was gone, his bedroom door slamming hard enough to make the counter shake. Sam rested his head on the cold marble, immediately regretting his words. He dumped the sandwich into the trash. He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have gotten Dean angry. The angrier Dean was, the more likely he was to tell John. Sam's life would be over if John found out. The both of them knew he'd be dumped in some facility and left by himself while the two of them left together and abandoned him. Maybe that was a little dramatic, but it would be something similar. Now he just had to wait. Wait until John got home. Chapter End Notes What I'm thinking is basically Sam's gonna go stir-crazy not having his normal routine of sex and money and he's so desperate that he starts fantasizing about Dean ha ha ha. ***** Cabin Fever ***** Chapter Summary Dean cracks down on Sammy-security. Chapter Notes This is incredibly short, please forgive me! It was two weeks later, and Dean and Sam were still alone in the house. Dad had called and said he would need another week, and then that turned into two, and now three. Sam didn't mind, really- he was certain Dean was going to tell their father and he wanted to put off being disowned for as long as possible. They didn't really talk. Well, they did, because they fuckin' lived together and it would be impossible not to, but it was awkward, stilted. Nothing like how close they'd been before. Sam was ashamed, and frightened to show any affection to Dean, terrified of it being rejected, of being rejected in general. He had no idea what his big brother was thinking and really wished he did, because Christ, that would be a little helpful. He craved attention, needed it, especially since he was literally not allowed to leave except for school. Dean dropped him off in the mornings, showed up at school and watched for him to go outside with his friends, was there ten minutes before school ended to catch Sam running into the building last-minute to trick him. Of course Sam never tried anything like that, he was already too frightened of what Dean would do from just thinking about it. He was withdrawn now. He locked himself in his room as soon as he got home from school and only left to pee, shower, and eat. He couldn't turn tricks with Dean watching his every move, and it was driving him absolutely fucking crazy. Jacking off did nothing for him. He couldn't finish. All he wanted was someone in his ass or mouth or hand, and only then did he realize what an extent his actions had gone to. He would say, even, that he was well and truly addicted to sex. Or at least making money from it, the rush that it gave him. He wanted it so fucking badly and it was eternally frustrating that he couldn't have it. It got bad. Really bad. One night during dinner he found himself staring at Dean's junk through his pants and wondering what that might feel like. That was weird, even for him, and it freaked him out so bad that he ran off to his room without taking another bite. He continued to think those things, and it frightened him more and more as the days went on. Sneaking a peek after his brother stepped out of the shower, eyeing him when he walked around in boxers, searching for the line of his cock through his pants when he drove the Impala with Sam in the passenger's seat.   The night it came to a head was a quiet Thursday night. Dean had gone out for the first time in a while, saying that he was going to meet a girl, and Sam had dutifully stayed behind. He was getting ready to settle down and sleep when he'd heard the front door open, along with some too-high, fake giggles. Oh, great. Dean had brought a fucking girl home. Sam waited, and within ten minutes moaning was coming from his big brother's room. He grumbled and stood up, stomping down the hallway, ready to curse Dean out, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the scene through a crack in Dean's mostly-closed door. Dean was on his back on the bed, and the girl was on top of him, riding him. Jesus, since when had his brother's cock been so thick? It was wet, too, slick with the girl's juices every time she lifted off of him and then ground her pussy down hard onto his cock. He was hard within seconds at the sight. Dean was kissing all over her breasts and neither of them noticed Sam watching through the doorway, so he very, very guiltily snuck a hand down into his pants and began to touch. Oh, fuck. It felt better than anything he'd tried in almost a month, and he couldn't stop himself from continuing to fist his cock in his jeans while he watched his brother fuck a girl. That cock driving in and out of her, her delighted squeals, Dean's heavy grunts- it was all too much. He came into his boxers silently, a hand clamped tightly over his mouth. He escaped to the shower quickly afterwards, and the noises stopped, but his guilt didn't fade even when he was back in bed and the sun was coming up. He'd just masturbated to the sight of his brother having sex. His fucking brother. He couldn't even look Dean in the eye when he left for school that morning, nor when he was picked up. All he could think about was that thick pink cock, those heavy balls that he wanted to lick a stripe u- He stopped himself there, heart pounding, frightened by where his mind had went while in the car beside his brother. Oh, Christ. What the hell was he supposed to do now? End Notes Leave a comment if you'd like me to continue, this is gonna get very graphic in the next chapter, just a warning! Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!