Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/886639.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Castiel, Castiel_(Supernatural),
      Zachariah_(Supernatural)
  Additional Tags:
      Destiel_-_Freeform, SPN_-_Freeform, Prostitution, Cutting, Dean_-
      Freeform, Sam_-_Freeform, cas_-_Freeform, castiel_-_Freeform
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-17 Updated: 2014-02-11 Chapters: 4/? Words: 9491
****** To Love and Back ******
by vodkasam
Summary
     In order to keep Sam in school, Dean accidentally starts selling his
     body to make money.
Notes
     tw: cutting
***** Chapter 1 *****
Dean slammed the back door of the Impala, shattering the overwhelming silence,
and walked around to the driver’s door. He stood there a moment, breathing in
through his nose and out through his mouth like Sam always said he should, but
it wouldn’t make his stomach stop churning. Which he guessed wasn’t so
surprising since he’d just carried his dad’s body bag through the parking lot
and placed it in the back seat of his car. Sam was in the car too, though, and
Dean couldn’t leave him alone with their recently deceased father. One last
deep breath and Dean found himself climbing into the car and adjusting his
mirror. His hands didn’t even shake as he put the car in reverse and sped away.
Dean tried to ignore Sam’s defeated posture, let alone his sobs, which were
less than subtle. He curled himself into as much as a ball as he could,
considering he was well above average height and wearing a seat belt. It was
all Dean could do not to put a hand on his brother’s knee, but he knew that
would have only made Sam cry harder. Instead of reaching out, Dean pressed his
foot harder to the pedal, causing the engine to purr. They needed to get far
enough into the middle of nowhere that no one would see the smoke or the fire.
Dean wasn’t going to allow their emotions to stop them from giving their dad a
proper hunter’s farewell.
Somewhere between Midland and Albany, Sam fell asleep. Dean was grateful,
because all of Sam’s crying was making him crazy, and he wanted some quiet time
to think. He glanced over to the passenger seat and there was something about
the way Sam looked both traumatized and peaceful that reminded Dean of a night
a long time ago, when they were just kids.
It had been a long week. Dad was grumpy because they’d driven across what felt
like a million states to hunt the yellow-eyed demon, and they’d lost the trail.
Bottle after bottle appeared around the motel as the day passed, and Dean kept
hiding them and sneaking away to throw them out when no one was paying
attention. Dad came back with dinner, slamming the bags onto the kitchen table.
Dean ran to sort through the mess of alcohol, chicken fingers, and protein
bars, and started reading the directions on the pack of chicken. Dad was headed
for his room when he came across a five year old Sam, who was lying on the
carpet with crayons strewn everywhere. For some reason, the mess of crayons had
irritated and angered their father, but Sam was too little to pick up on it.
Dean, who was nine, was not. Sam leaped up excitedly, and thrust his badly
drawn stick figure masterpiece at Dad, who tore it out of his hands and didn’t
even bother to look at it. His father let out a low growl and ripped the piece
of paper in half. Dean’s stomach dropped, and Sam’s puppy eyes welled up.
“Clean up this goddamn mess,” Dad thundered before stomping back out to the
Impala.
The motel door had slammed, and Sam burst into tears. Dean dropped the chicken
on the counter and ran to his baby brother, kneeling down to embrace him. “It’s
okay, Sammy,” he said gently, “it’s okay.” Sam continued crying; he’d been
working on that piece for twenty minutes, and anyone who knew the kid knew how
important coloring was to him. “I’m sorry about your picture, man. You wanna
make another one?”
Dean felt Sam shake his head, and he pressed his little brother closer. “Okay.
That’s okay.” Dean pulled back and went to get the construction paper his dad
had thrown on the ground. With even just a glance, Dean could see that the
picture wasn’t completely ruined, just torn apart.
Sam plunked onto the ground crisscross applesauce, still crying a little, but
watching Dean intently. As Dean went rummaging through drawers, Sam forced out
a question. “Does Daddy hate me?”
Dean immediately stopped going through the current drawer and looked his
brother in the eyes. “Dad loves you. And he loves me, too. A lot. Okay?”
Sam nodded. “Then why… Why did he break my picture?” Dean finally found what he
was looking for – tape. He laid the two pieces on their back and took his time
fitting them together like a puzzle. This motion was calming.
“He’s having a hard week.”
“Does a hard week make people stop loving other people?”
“No. Are you gonna be a philosopher?” Sam looked at Dean blankly. Dean sighed.
“Here, look, I’m gonna fix it, alright?” He turned his attention to the tape,
pulling out two pieces for the top and the bottom, and then one more for the
middle. He flipped over the picture and froze.
Sam was bouncing over to take back his art, but Dean stood still, holding it in
both hands. Sam had drawn a stick figure of himself holding hands with Dad on
one side and Dean on the other. When Dad had torn the picture, he had ripped
right through the space that connected his arm to Sam’s. Dad had literally
ripped himself away from Sam and Dean.
Back in the Impala, Sam shifted in his sleep, snapping Dean out of his memory
and back to the white streaks of paint on the road flying by. Coming back to
reality left him feeling cramped and claustrophobic, and he realized he was
driving a lot faster than normal, especially for it being a pitch black, two-
lane road. He checked his speedometer – they were traveling at almost a hundred
miles per hour. Dean slowed down as not to kill Sam, and decided to start
paying attention to the area. They needed a well-hidden place, and Dean’s
highway hypnosis had him starting with no idea where they were.
About an hour later, Dean lightly shook Sam awake. His eyes were puffy from
crying, but he didn’t complain. Hastily, he got out of the car to help Dean
with the body, which they laid on the ground while they gathered enough wood to
properly complete the job. That was what Dean had to consider this, after all –
a job. Stay strong for Sammy, Dad always said. Take care of your brother. And
to do that, he had to disconnect emotionally. Make sure everything was right.
Make sure they wouldn’t have to burn Dad twice, because he knew Sam couldn’t
bear that and honestly, neither could he.
They wrapped the body and placed it on the pyre and they burned it and Sam kept
crying but Dean didn’t let himself think and he was staring at the fire but not
really seeing it and the next thing he knew Sam was running towards the flames,
trying to stop the fire from eating his father’s flesh, and Dean stumbled
forward to grab him and pull him back, but Sam tripped and fell and just sat
there sobbing like when Dad tore apart his picture and Dean couldn’t take it so
he went to sit in the car and breathe because the thoughts were too fast and
they were all running together and it wasn’t feelings it was just words that
flashed big and biting and red like “WRONG” and “FAILURE” and “DAMMIT” and
eventually Sam came to the car but he wasn’t crying anymore.
There were no words, but he could feel Sam’s unspoken ones willing his brother
to relax. Slow down. Deep breath. Dean turned the car out of the field and
drove until they made it to the nearest town. He checked in alone to the first
motel they came to, because Sam was in no state to speak to anyone, and he
looked like hell anyway. He gave the lady behind the desk a fake card and a
fake name to match, grabbed the duffels out of the trunk, and opened Sam’s
door.
“Come on,” Dean said softly, and Sam slowly climbed out of the car. Dean put a
light hand on his brother’s back and led him to room 107. Sam collapsed onto
the closest bed, but Dean made a beeline for the bathroom. He closed the door,
but then peeked his head out to look at his brother, who was already sleeping.
Glad, Dean shut the door and turned on the shower.
He stripped all his clothes off, throwing them carelessly to the floor, and
rested his hands on the counter. He let himself lean, lean, lean, so that his
head was practically in the sink and his arms were the only thing holding him
up. The mirror fogged up and his chest was heaving, his body reacting
physically to what he shoved out so hard emotionally. He found himself sweating
from the humidity in the room (it couldn’t be the stress, could it? No way), so
he turned the water temperature down a little and stepped under the stream. The
pressure was stronger than he was used to, thank goodness; he needed it
tonight.
He couldn’t make himself actually unwrap the mini shampoo or soap, but he let
the water rinse him off, wash away the thoughts pounding in his skull, the
screams ripping at the inside of his throat. When the water ran cold, he got
out and dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist before going to dig
around in the pocket of his jeans. Before he and his brother had left the
hospital, he’d taken one of the razors from the bathroom and dismantled it,
stealing the four blades because he knew he’d need them. He kept his cool
during his shower, but now that he was out, he was desperate. Not afraid of
hurting his fingers, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two of the
blades at once, but put one back. He already felt calmer, but his breath was
starting to catch again.
Dean sat on the counter and pulled the towel up around his hip and without
thinking, he started to drag the blade through his skin. Dad, he thought, Dad,
Dad, Dad. Sam. Dad. Sam. Weak. Pathetic. Better off dead. Drag. Drag. Drag.
He stopped, disgusted that he’d let himself get there so quickly. Sammy needed
him, now more than ever.
And suddenly Dean was flashing back to when Sam was ten, with rolled up jeans
and bare feet running around the house, and he knew immediately that this was a
horrifying memory but also that he couldn’t stop it. He kept cutting as he shut
his eyes and remembered.
Sam had been carrying the dinner, and he and Dean had been joking around in the
hall by the table, and Sam had slipped on something and the food had gone
everywhere. The boys’ father stormed over and grabbed Sam by the shirt collar.
Dean had protested and received a smack across the face. Sam was panicky,
twisting to get away, but Dad wouldn’t let him go that easy. There was loud
yelling, and Dean was praying no one would come check to make sure things were
okay. He didn’t want to deal with Dad getting in trouble for bad parenting or
abuse or whatever. It wasn’t abuse… was it?
Dean cut deeper.
As punishment, Dad forced Sam to remake dinner all on his own. He forbid Dean
to help and told Sam he expected a gourmet feast. When all Sam could produce by
himself were two burnt grilled cheese sandwiches (he planned to go without
because it was all the bread they had), John took them both for himself and
complained the entire time he was eating. Sam’s head remained hung all night,
and when Dad finally left to go to a bar, Dean caught Sam crying in the
bathroom. He convinced Sam to let him in, and he sat Sam on the counter just
like he was now, and he rerolled the cuffs of his too-long jeans and talked to
him about mindless things until Sam stopped feeling so bad.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam muttered, mortified.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“No, I mean… I mean about – you got no dinner because of me.”
“I don’t mind, Sammy,” Dean said cheerfully, even though he was silently
praying his stomach would allow the growls to remain at bay.
“Well I’m hungry,” Sam said sadly, with a wistful glance at the kitchen, “and
there’s no food.”
“You know what helps me?” Dean asked, helping Sam down off the counter. After a
prompting look from his brother, he continued. “Sometimes if I’m hungry and
it’s not time to eat yet, I go to sleep so I don’t have to think about it. You
wanna try that? We can go to bed early tonight, and if Dad’s not back in the
morning, we can go walk around til we find a diner or a McDonald’s or
something.”
A small smile appeared on Sam’s lips. He nodded.
“Go get your pjs, buddy,” Dean said, and before he knew it, they were in their
beds, ready for a long night of sleep. Dean had forgotten how bad hunger was,
but he knew he could be strong for Sam.
About twenty minutes into the boys trying to fall asleep far too early, Dean’s
stomach started to complain. Sam pulled in a breath and Dean shut his eyes,
wishing Sam hadn’t heard. “It’s nothing,” Dean said.
Sam turned over to look at his brother. His big eyes were shining with tears.
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
“Sammy, it’s okay, I promise. It’s one meal. We’ll be fine.”
Back in the motel, there was a noise from outside the bathroom, and Dean shot
to attention. He wiped away the blood trickling down his thigh and made a
mental note to fold his towel to hide the red. He put on clean boxers and a
pair of plaid pajama pants and walked into the main part of the room.
“Dean,” Sam croaked, throat raw from crying.
Dean rushed to his side and wrapped his younger brother close to his chest. “I
know, Sammy, I know.”
“You were gone for so long.”
“I know, I was just thinking. I’m okay,” Dean said, hoping his brother would
believe the lie. Sam nodded, and Dean let his fingers tangle in Sam’s long
hair. “You wanna go back to sleep?” Sam nodded again, and when Dean let go of
him, his voice came out like a child.
“No,” he said shakily, “stay. Please.”
Dean nodded, slipping under the covers next to his brother, who curled up
against his chest. He tucked a comforting arm around Sam’s back. Dean was
secretly glad that he’d asked for two queens instead of a king, even though he
knew this would be the sleeping arrangement when he checked in. He’d never
admit it, but he needed Sam pressed up against him as much as Sam needed him.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     tw: prostitution, cutting
     Two days later...
“You swore your obedience,” Zachariah says coldly, not a hint of light in his
eyes, “so obey.”
Dean whimpers, his body trying to shrink into itself. He’s 18, and he’s never
done anything quite like this before, and he was definitely never told which
part to play. Sub. Luckily he’d somehow managed enough time away from Dad and
Sam spent watching porn to know enough about what the man’s words meant.
We need the money, he thinks, we need to eat. Straightening his body seems an
impossible task, but he manages, and it’s all the courage he needs. He rolls
his shoulders back and pries his eyes from the ground up to the man’s face. He
will not let his brother go hungry. Take care of Sammy.
“Much better,” Zachariah mutters, moving forward to press Dean’s body up
against the hard alley wall. He’d come across Dean at one of the bars in town.
The teen was hustling pool, trying to scrounge up enough cash to get a few
days’ worth of meals for him and his kid brother, but he’d lost his last round…
and all of that night’s money along with it. The kid was broke, and though the
word Zachariah would use to describe how he felt for the kid wasn’t “bad,” he
didn’t know how else to explain how they’d gotten themselves into this
arrangement.
Zachariah yanks Dean’s boxers down and then his own, and Dean’s naked ass
freezes against the painted brick, but he can only think about that for a
second because Zachariah’s shoving into him. It’s way too fast, and fuck, it
hurts, and to keep from crying out, Dean has to think of Sam, that he’s doing
this for Sam. Sam is hungry, Sam needs to eat and so does he – ow, ow, ow…
Dean squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a groan. He allows his knees to bend a
little to try to reduce the pain, but that just results in Zachariah getting to
push further into him. Dean wants to scream. And not in a good way.
Zachariah starts thrusting, his belt buckle jingling, smacking the outside of
Dean’s thigh, and Dean lets himself focus on that instead of being afraid to
get caught, instead of the pain that he knows he’ll be feeling for days,
instead of the new amount of pain he’s experiencing now.
The metal buckle hits Dean’s leg seventeen times, but Zachariah finally comes,
and Dean exhales a quiet sigh of relief. Zachariah stays lodged inside of Dean
for a while, breathing heavily. Dean can smell the sweat on the man, and he can
smell his breath, too. Ugh. But then Zachariah’s pulling out too fast and Dean
winces but then he sees the man zipping up his pants and reaching in his pocket
for his wallet. He pulls out a hundred dollar bill and hands it to Dean,
looking as though Dean should fall to his knees in thanks. He is a bit awed by
the amount, to tell the truth, but then Zachariah says, “That’s for your sweet,
tight little ass, kid. You be around for a while? Thinking we could get our own
arrangement going. Much as I like the rush from the street, somewhere more
comfortable might be nice.”
Dean wants to say no. He really does, but then he pictures the grocery store
and Sammy’s puppy eyes and he starts muttering his phone number. Zachariah
smiles, content, and punches the number into his phone. “Good boy,” he says,
and pats Dean’s hair before walking away as though the two had shared no
interaction at all.
Dean presses his back to the wall, his mind reeling. Okay. Okay. The money. You
got what you came for. You wanted money, and you got it. Calm down, you’re
fine. There’s a first time for everything, right?
By the time Dean gets back to the motel room with groceries, it’s past two
o’clock. Sam’s sleeping sprawled across his bed, still fully dressed and atop
the covers, and Dean is grateful not to have to explain himself. Sore and
tired, he slides into the shower and scrubs his skin raw. He wants every last
trace of evidence of his actions tonight gone, hidden from not only Sam, but
himself as well. The reality of what he’s done starts to sink in, not only to
his mind but also to his bones. He lets himself glide slowly down the wall, and
he curls up under the spitting showerhead, just breathing. In through your
nose, he imagines Sam saying, and out through your mouth, but not even that’s
helping.
Shaking, he reaches for his razor, and starts to dismantle it. He’s not really
aware of what he’s doing; he has become mechanical. He lets his body rock
forward and back, subconsciously attempting to calm himself as much as he can
while he digs a blade out of the razor, nicking his fingers a few times in the
process.
A quiet breath leaves him as he presses the blade into his thigh. This is
familiar. This is okay. This is safe. It takes about four cuts before his body
starts to relax, but four isn’t enough. Not tonight, not after what happened.
Not after he had to…
He shouldn’t have. Should have kept playing pool. Twenty five dollars would
have been plenty. Hell, he had tons left over for later with what Zachariah
gave him. It’s not like he’s trying to feed the Duggars, just two hungry
teenagers who were used to surviving on just enough. What will Dad say when he
finds out?
Dean’s blood suddenly runs cold. Oh. Dad wouldn’t be there to find out, would
he? “Fuck,” Dean whispers, and before he can feel anything else, he digs deeper
into his leg. The blood trickles out the side of the cut faster than usual, and
it leaves Dean wincing. His insides are still sore as well, and his emotions
are slashed to pieces. Dean could tell by Sam’s tear tracked face that his
brother was grieving, but Dean knows better than to let himself. Stay strong
for your brother, Dean.
He splashes some water onto his leg to clear off the blood and watches it
swirl, pink, down the drain. As he towels off, he avoids the mirror completely.
He yanks his shirt over his head and triple checks that his boxers cover his
injuries before going to lie down in his bed. He can feel the ache from what
Zachariah has done, and all he really wants is to snuggle up with Sam and let
the pain float away with sleep. He almost gets up and goes to his brother, but
he can’t bear to bring Sam back into wakefulness to experience more grief and
pain. He needs Sam to think of him as strong anyway, and crawling into bed with
your little brother isn’t exactly the way to do that.
He tries to get comfortable, but he can’t manage to; all he can feel is
Zachariah inside him, too big, too deep, and he feels out of control. He has
half a mind to go back to his blade, but he can’t, because it’s a miracle he
didn’t wake Sam already. He tosses and turns for what seems like forever before
sleep finally overcomes him.
He slips into nightmarish dreams, drunk and sick and confusing, and he wakes
with a wicked headache. His insides are still sore, but he won’t let himself
complain. Sunlight is streaming in through the cheap motel curtains, so he
forces himself up out of bed and starts nursing a beer. He finds a pan, grabs
the eggs he bought, and starts cooking as though his life depended on it.
Anything to distract him from the pain.
“Really?” a voice interrupts his internal dialogue. “It’s not even ten o’clock
and you’re having a beer?”
Dean smiles. “Morning to you too, honey.”
Sam rolls his eyes and starts searching cabinets for a cup. “So what time did
you get in last night?”
“Midnight, I think,” he says, silently hoping Sam was asleep then. He scoffs,
and Dean’s shoulders slump. “Okay, one,” Dean says, but Sam raises his
eyebrows.
“I was up at midnight and one o’clock and you weren’t here. I almost called,
but I didn’t think you’d like that.”
“You can always call, Sammy. Did you need anything?”
“No, I didn’t, and just tell me the truth. How long were you out? You should go
back to sleep.”
“I’m fine, Sam, I don’t need more sleep. I got in at like two, okay? Happy?”
Sam’s lips tighten. “Where were you?”
“The bars here stay open late. I was playing some pool, which is where these
beauties came from,” he says, taking the eggs out of the pan and edging them
onto two plates, dividing them as evenly as possible. He turns to the sink to
rinse the pan, but mostly to give Sam time to grab the bigger plate. All these
years, and Dean’s pretty sure Sam doesn’t think Dean realizes what he’s doing.
But considering how Sam’s only fourteen and already taller than Dean, the kid
needs to eat more than he does anyway. Dean’s happy to give up whatever it is
to keep his brother healthy and happy.
They sit at the table across from each other, digging in to the first real food
they’ve had in days, what with everyone hunting and then in the hospital.
“These are so good,” Sam announces through a particularly large mouthful.
Dean chuckles. “Slow down, champ, or you’ll make yourself sick.”
Sam nods quickly, and reduces his pace. “I, uh… I wanted to ask you something,
actually.” Dean raises his eyebrows, an invitation for him to continue. “Okay.
Well, I know it’s really soon to start asking this but, um, now that… you know.
We’re kinda doing our own thing, I-I guess…” Dean pretends not to notice the
tears filling Sam’s eyes, and ignores the twisting his own stomach has suddenly
engaged in. He starts thinking that some fresh cuts on his legs certainly seem
tempting, but then the younger clears his throat and continues. “Well, I was
wondering if we could maybe, you know, pick a place and uh, stay a while.”
Dean looks up, staring at the mold on the ceiling as he ponders Sam’s question,
as well as the hastiness of it. “We- we don’t have to,” Sam’s saying, and Dean
looks back at him. “I just asked cause I was doing some research about the
town,” of course, Dean thinks, “and I stumbled across a page about the public
school here… It’s actually a really good school. Nationally recognized and all
that. And it’s not so bad here. I know it’s a huge thing to ask, but-”
Dean’s phone vibrates, a text, and Sam falls silent, expecting it to be some
kind of hunting deal. But it’s not.
This is Zachariah from last night. When can I see you again?
Dean exhales deeply, and roughly pushes the phone back into his pocket.
“Who was that?” Sam asks curiously.
“No one,” Dean says, “it’s nothing.” His mind is ticking, working through the
possibilities. If Zachariah sees him just a few more times, he’ll have enough
to put down a payment for an apartment and get some food… if he can stay on
Zachariah’s good side, he can make this work. Sam wants to stay, and Dean wants
Sam to be happy. Dean knows how important education is to his brother, and he
wants that for him. He knows how hard he would work, how successful he could
be. Dean can be good enough for Zachariah. All he does is try to please Sam,
adding one more person can’t be too hard.
“I think,” Dean starts quietly, and Sam won’t look at him. “I think that could
work. I don’t know if I can promise til the end of high school, but I think we
can work it out for a little while.”
Sam lights up, ecstatic. He’d clearly been expecting Dean to say no, which
upsets Dean a little bit, but the next thing he knows, he’s getting another
text.
Want to come to my place? Which is quickly followed by, I’ve been thinking
about you all day.
Dean finds a sick satisfaction in this; the job is secured for at least
tonight, and they’ve got enough food to last almost a week (thank the lord for
store brand bread and peanut butter). He decides to text Zachariah a yes back,
but he won’t again if he gets paid any less than he did the previous night. (He
doesn’t include that part.)
I’d love to see you again. Been thinking about you, too. Where’s your place?
What time?
Sam is so happy that he doesn’t even care who’s texting Dean. For a second, he
makes eye contact with his older brother, and a look flashes across his face
like he’s about to burst into tears, but as soon as it’s there, it’s gone.
And then Dean’s phone is going off again, this time with the address, and Dean
feels the adrenaline start moving through him. He’s going to meet someone to
have sex. Tonight. A man. He is going to have sex with a man. Again. He can’t
believe this.
He’s prostituting himself, and in this moment, it feels right. Where else can
you get paid so well for doing something so natural? Sam will never have to
know, probably won’t even think about it. Maybe, if things go right, they can
even buy some new clothes. It’s been too long.
8:30, the text reads, and don’t be late. I have plans for us.
Dean’s not sure why he’s trying so hard to put together an outfit, because he
remembers hating every second they were in the alley and being in pain all
night and this morning. He supposes things changed when he could buy real food
and make Sam so happy with the thought of staying in one place for more than a
few weeks. That made it all worth it. That’s what he’s going to hold onto
tonight if it feels as bad as last night felt. He really hopes it doesn’t.
Dean spends most of the day pacing around the motel room. Sam’s doing research,
but Dean can’t even fake interest. He’s nervous and excited and scared for
tonight; he’s only 18, he’s never done any of this before. Sure, casual make
out sessions with girls behind the bleachers and all that stereotypical crap,
but this is different. He’s getting paid to have sex, but not only that – he’s
getting paid to play the submissive role. This should be interesting.
He tells Sam he’s going to play pool again at the bar, and that he can call if
he needs. Dean’s nervous about having his phone on during something like this,
but if there’s an emergency, Sam always comes first, even if that means it
shatters his illusion of a happy, normal high school experience.
The weather is hot in late July, but Dean wears his jacket anyway. His leather
jacket is his security blanket, his coolness, and his happiness all in one, and
he needs it now more than he has in a long time, because right now he’s walking
to meet Zachariah at his apartment, and he’s scared as hell.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     tw: cutting urge, reference to sex/prostitution
Dean can hardly breathe. He’s standing outside Zachariah’s apartment and his
hand is raised to knock, but he’s frozen in place. He shouldn’t have come here,
really, but he knows leaving is not an option. He stands still for a long
moment, letting the seconds tick by, until a shuffle down the hall breaks his
trance. He glances but doesn’t see anyone.
One, he thinks, two, three, and he forces himself to knock. The instant he does
it, he regrets it, but then he hears Zachariah coming to the door. He rolls his
shoulders back as he hears the door unlatch and then open.
“Dean,” Zachariah says, his tone conveying a million thoughts. Dean smiles his
most confident smile and strides in. Zachariah, clad in a suit, closes the door
behind him. Dean assumes the clothes are from work, and even though he’s
curious, he knows better than to ask questions in a situation like this.
The apartment is classy. It’s large enough for one, and so clean that it makes
Dean feel dirty, even though he just showered. “Would you like to see my room?”
Zachariah asks, his mouth breaking into a toothy grin.
Dean doesn’t particularly want to, but he finds himself nodding anyway. Do it
for Sammy, he thinks, and follows Zachariah into the bedroom. The room has
nothing personal in it. No photographs, no art, nothing but blank walls and
bland bedding.
“Did you just move here?” Dean asks without thinking.
“About four months ago,” Zachariah answers shortly, looking him dead in the
eyes. Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Do not do that again. I expect you to keep
your eyes lowered. You will not speak unless you are spoken to.”
Dean nods and casts his eyes to the floor immediately; he would have regardless
of the command. His cheeks redden, and Zachariah smiles evilly. “Now that, I
like. I embarrassed you, huh? Little Dean, already making mistakes.” He clucks
his tongue. “You won’t last.”
A fire starts in Dean’s mind – Zachariah sounds just like Dad. Like Dad used
to. No, don’t go there now, don’t go there, don’t go there. You need this job,
you have to do it right –
And then Zachariah’s unzipping his pants and forcing Dean to his knees. Dean
finds it a little strange that the man got so turned on by embarrassing him,
but it doesn’t matter. He’s numb now, he could care less. He just needs the
money.
Timidly, Dean reaches for Zachariah’s boxers and, when the other man doesn’t
hinder him, pulls them down. Zachariah lets his head tilt back as Dean takes a
gentle hold of his swollen cock. He strokes it for a few moments to let it get
fully hard, and then leans in to start kissing it. When his mouth wraps around
it, Zachariah lets out a quiet moan and leans his back against the wall. Dean
is tempted to let his teeth graze along the shaft, but he needs the money, so
he wants to work well enough to guarantee himself at least a few more nights in
this apartment.
Dean remains gentle, and slowly fucks Zachariah’s cock with his mouth. He
peppers it with kisses and strokes, coaxing out all kinds of noises. He doesn’t
really think much about what he’s doing, just half-pays attention to what’s
working and what isn’t and he goes with the good stuff. The night passes
quickly but slowly, and Dean gets paid almost double what he got the night
before - $175.
This continues for three days, with Dean not being told to remove his clothes.
He fucks Zachariah with his fingers, his mouth, his hand, his tongue. Dean does
not speak, ever, and Zachariah spends a lot of the time with his hand in Dean’s
hair. Dean has started to forget what Zachariah looks like, and honestly, he
doesn’t mind. He gets back late every night, and the less he remembers, the
less it feels like lying when he tells Sammy that hustling pool at the bar was
fine and that he hit big.
It’s the fourth day that sends Dean reeling.
He’s only been at Zachariah’s for a few hours when he finds himself hurrying
down the hallway of apartments, blood pooling at the waistband of his jeans. He
fumbles with the buttons on his phone, his hands almost shaking too hard to
access his speed dial. He presses one and holds.
A few rings pass and Dean’s still running, his breathing growing more
hysterical as he goes. Then there’s a soft click and a warm voice floods his
ear.
“Dean?” Just the sound has Dean choking back tears. More urgent this time;
“Dean?” The panic in the voice is what makes Dean get the words out.
“Sam…”
“Dean, oh god, are you okay?”
A harsh sound rips from Dean’s throat, a warped laugh. “Sammy I need you to
come get me. Please. Hurry.”
“Are you still at the bar?”
Dean is confused for a moment, but then he remembers. “No, uh… I’m, uh, up the
street from there. I’ll be coming your way. Please find me.”
“I will, Dean,” Sam says, his voice more reassuring than anything Dean has
heard in months, maybe years. He nods, even though he knows Sam can’t see him.
“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“No!” Dean says, a wave of sobs trying to fight their way out. “Please don’t
hang up. I-I need you.”
“I’m right here, Dean. Your Sammy. Right here.”
Dean nods again. “Thank you,” he whispers.
The brothers stay on their phones. Two minutes pass, and Dean still hasn’t
slowed to a walk. Finally, Sam cuts into the silence. “I see you. On your
right.”
Dean folds his phone in half and wraps his arms around himself, still running
like hell.
As Sam gets a look at his brother’s face, his body shakes with a sudden chill.
Dean is sweating, bleeding, running, and looks more distressed than Sam has
ever seen him; still, Sam knows it won’t be tonight he’ll find out what
happened to his brother, and it may not be ever. Sam picks his pace up, and a
few seconds later, his big brother is falling into his arms. Sam holds him for
a long minute, people stopping to stare, but no one says a word.
When the worst of the shaking subsides, Sam takes Dean by the hand and leads
him back to the motel. It’s a quick walk, but Dean can’t stop looking over his
shoulder, and he won’t let go of Sam’s hand, and that worries Sam. Once they’re
inside, Dean tries to curl up on the closest mattress, but Sam stops him.
“Dean, I need to see your side.”
“No– No!” Dean is scrambling back away from Sam as if Sam were approaching him
with a hot poker. Shocked, Sam stops, and Dean gets his way. He starts to doze
off, but within minutes he jumps awake, terrified.
“Sammy,” he calls hoarsely, and Sam quickly goes in from the kitchen. Dean
doesn’t cry when Sam touches him, but he trembles and curls in on himself, as
if trying to protect himself. Sam leans against the headboard and pulls Dean
onto his chest, letting him shake into his soft t-shirt, stroking his hair.
Sam starts to softly sing.
Hey, Jude… don’t make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better
Hey, Jude… don’t be afraid
You were made to go out and get her
The minute you let her under your skin
Then you begin to make it better
Dean lets his fingers tangle in the hem of Sam’s shirt. No words cross his
lips, but Sam still murmurs, “Shhh, Dean. It’s okay. You’re safe now, I’ve got
you.” Dean nods, and Sam presses his lips into his hair.
Now that the roles are reversed, Sam understands why Dean always says he
doesn’t mind taking care of him. He feels powerful, invincible even, and though
witnessing Dean’s pain is frightening, he loves feeling needed.
“Sleep,” Sam murmurs, and Dean lets his heavy eyes close. His head is still
tilted against Sam’s chest, and though he may look better than he did half an
hour ago, he’s been reduced to begging some invisible higher power that
probably doesn’t exist for help. Help with controlling his stupid emotions, his
embarrassing fear. Praying for Sammy to forget what he saw, for the fierce ache
Zachariah inflicted to subside. For sleep to come without nightmares, a healing
sleep, that will leave him feeling rested and strong.
And meanwhile, Sam is praying to God that Dean is okay, that whatever he
experienced will not leave any lasting damage. Dean, more than half asleep,
lets out a strangled sound, but no tears follow. Sam pulls Dean tighter into
his embrace.
When Sam is sure Dean is asleep, he brushes Dean’s bloody shirt up a few inches
and immediately feels sick. Lines of cuts cover Dean’s sides. Some are
superficial and look like they have the potential to be self-inflicted, but
others are deep… really deep. They’ll need stitches in the morning. What
happened at the bar?
Sam tears his eyes away from his Dean’s side to stare at his face. Even in
sleep, he looks frightened. “Oh, Dean,” Sam mutters. He sighs heavily, causing
Dean to stir, but he doesn’t wake. Sam places an arm behind his head to serve
as a pillow on the hard headboard, and he closes his eyes and tries to relax.
Dean sleeps on his brother’s chest quietly for a long while, but then the
nightmare comes.
Dean is back in the apartment, and he’s just finished getting Zachariah off.
Again. When the man instructs Dean to mix him a drink as he lies sated on his
bed, Dean wordlessly obeys. He finds himself not even tempted to do wrong
anymore, like spit in the drink or throw in something nasty. He has already
become used to fulfilling the man’s needs; he has to be perfect in order to get
paid.
Dean returns with the drink and sits at the man’s feet, staring at his own
hands, wishing he could be back at the motel with his little brother, watching
football on TV or drinking enough to forget dad. Soon, he tells himself.
“I would like you to take off your clothes,” Zachariah says with a smirk.
Dean obediently removes his shirt, and Zachariah stares approvingly. All the
years of training and hunting with Sam and – Dean winces – Dad have granted him
a nice build. His whole upper body is sculpted with muscle.
Dean suddenly feels chilly as he realizes that in a few seconds, his legs will
be exposed. Shedding his pants is an entirely different issue than the shirt,
which came off so easily. His body is trying to freeze, but he knows better
than to let it, especially in front of Zachariah. If he can just move quickly
enough, maybe the other man won’t notice. Maybe there’s a chance that he won’t
see. Dean turns his body slightly sideways and slides his pants and boxers down
in one motion.
He bites his lip nervously as he quickly moves toward Zachariah, letting
himself lie on the bed as not to be seen. “Ah, ah, ah,” the man tuts. “I want
to look at you.” Dean swallows thickly. A moment passes. Dean fiddles with a
loose thread on the comforter. “Let me look at you,” Zachariah says, his voice
sharpening.
Dean shuts his eyes and slides back off the bed. He stands still as a statue,
his hands on his thighs, but they’re not big enough to cover all the damage
he’s done. Zachariah’s eyes turn dark and his grin grows wide. “Oh, wow,” he
breathes, “am I going to have fun with you…” His hand snakes out onto the
nightstand, and suddenly Dean is gasping, bolting upright. The motel is around
him but he doesn’t recognize it for a few seconds. He’s panting and sweating,
and even Sam’s voice isn’t helping to calm him down. His brother reaches out to
touch his knee, and when he makes contact, Dean wrenches away from it. He’s
stumbling across the room, still too shaky from the dream to be stable. When he
gets into the bathroom, he slams the door behind him and locks it as quickly as
he can.
“Dean…” Sam’s voice filters through from the other side of the door. “It’s just
a dream, Dean, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Dean knows Sam can hear his ragged
breathing, and Dean knocks once on the door, signaling Sam that he can stay if
he wants, but he’s free to leave if he chooses. Sam knocks once in response,
communicating the word “stay.” Dean can hear him sit down and lean his back
against the door.
Dean is fumbling through the drawers for anything sharp, anything he can make
into a weapon for himself, but everything has rounded edges or is empty. Then
Dean hears Sam get up and leave, and a new wave of anguish washes over him.
Please don’t leave me, Sammy, he thinks, but a few seconds later, Sam returns.
He settles back down into the door, and gently clears his throat before he
says, “The night wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another.”
Dean swallowed, confused, but he forced his breathing to quiet a bit so he
could listen. “His mother called him ‘WILD THING!’” Dean shuts his eyes in
recognition; he used to read this to Sammy when he was little and Dad was away.
There were nights Sam refused to go to bed without it.
Sam knows his brother is listening, and so he continues slowly, as if reading
to a child. “And Max said ‘I’LL EAT YOU UP!’ so he was sent to bed without
eating anything. That very night in Max’s room a forest grew and grew - and
grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all
around.” Dean shivers at his favorite line, letting himself curl up on the
ground and listen to his little brother’s voice.
A calm falls over him as he listens to the familiar story. He finds himself
remembering lines before Sam reads them, and he is glad he could still remember
a few of the pictures. He always thought Max’s suit was dorky, but he’d
secretly been jealous of his crown.
Sam continues reading, and after a few moments, Dean’s breathing returns to
normal. Dean makes sure to move around enough by the door to let Sam know to
move, and when Dean emerges from the bathroom, he sits next to Sam and takes
the computer from his hands. He pushes the night out of his mind. He’s Dean
Winchester, after all.
Dean starts reading. “And when he came to the place where the wild things are
they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled
their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws till Max said, ‘BE STILL!’
and tamed with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without
blinking once. And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of
all and made him king of all wild things.”
Dean feels just like he used to when he and Sam were little. Nothing has
changed. Sam is pressed up in his side slightly behind him, following the words
Dean reads with his eyes, only this time they’re looking at a screen instead of
a book.
Dean reads slowly. He has an excuse to stay out of bed, to be with his brother
where he feels safe. He knows he’s never safe – hell, Dad drilled that into his
head a million times – but he feels safe, and that’s enough for him.
“’And now,’ cried Max, ‘let the wild rumpus start!’ ‘Now stop!’ Max said, and
sent the wild things off to bed without their supper. And Max, the king of all
wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.”
Dean sneaks a glance at sleepy Sammy. His stomach tightens as he realizes how
much of his brother looks the same as it used to when they were young, but also
how old he looks, and how tired. The kind of tired that old men who fought in
lots of wars are. The bad, dangerous, heartbreaking kind of tired.
Dean lets himself wrap an arm around Sam and pull him closer. Sam seems
surprised for a second, but quickly relaxes into Dean. Dean realizes all over
again how tall his brother his, and how no one really saw it while it was
happening. It seemed like all of a sudden, Sam was huge. I really love you,
buddy, Dean thinks.
“Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat,
so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.” Dean finishes the pdf
and hands the computer back to his brother.
“Get back in bed, okay?” he says gruffly. “I’m sorry about that. It won’t
happen again.”
Sam sits for a moment, staring at the last words of the story. Dean climbs into
the bed that isn’t Sam’s, but he leaves the light on. He falls quickly back
into sleep, even though he wasn’t planning to sleep at all for the rest of the
night. Sam stays sitting by the door for a long while, and when he finally
climbs into bed, he can’t help but leave the light on for his brother.
***** Chapter 4 *****
A few days pass before Dean is up for even leaving the motel room. Still, he
knows Sam’s getting worried, what with the secrecy about the damage to his side
and the large amount of food that appeared the night of The Incident. He feels
like he doesn’t have a choice but to get out of the room, so he starts looking
for jobs. He finds a few nasty bars and creepy clubs, but he’s looking for
something a little bit nicer, now that he knows Sam wants to stay. He figures
stripping can’t be that hard.
Eventually he finds a gentlemen’s club that seems okay. It’s called Trickster,
and it’s in a niceish part of town. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to find a
place he can afford around there, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He doesn’t
even know if they have jobs available.
He walks up a few steps and pushes the glass door open. The floors are white
tile, shiny, clearly really clean, which reassures him more than he would have
thought possible. Before he realizes, he’s at a large front desk, and there’s a
small man behind it.
“Hey, sugar,” he says, but it’s playful and only a teeny bit creepy. “You here
to play?”
“Uh, no, I, uh…” Dean says, unsure of how to put what he wants into words. The
man is looking at him expectantly. “I was wondering if you’re hiring.”
“Oh, honey,” the man smiles. “Guy like you? You’re hired,” he chuckles. “What
kind of work are you looking for?”
“What do you have?”
The man reaches down and pulls a large binder out of a drawer. “Well… we’re
filming next week and we need one more for that…” He flips a page. “We’ve got a
strip shift open on Wednesday, and we need two waiters for Thursday…” He turns
a few more pages. “Aaaand I just had one - no, two - clients that just put in
for regulars.”
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Regulars, huh?”
“They money’s good,” the man says with a light shrug. “Just depends on what
your thing is. Hear anything you like? I technically have to interview you, but
I can do it right now if you want. You’d be amazing for business,” he says, not
caring to hold back a wink.
“I don’t know,” Dean says, shifting a little. “What pays the best?”
“So money’s important,” the man replies with a smirk, tapping his pen on the
counter.
“No, I just-“
“It’s alright. Tons of people in the business stick with it for the money. But
I promise you here that we have incredible security no matter where you work.
There are cameras everywhere, and the clients all know that. We have monitors
and guards that aren’t afraid to bust in at any time. And I mean any time. As
for the best money, I’d look into applying for the regulars. There are two, and
I can send your information in for both if you’d like. We’d just need to take a
headshot, get your height… Let’s take this into my office, yeah?” he asks, when
Dean still seems serious about staying.
Dean follows him back into the room. “So, if one of them wants me…”
“It’s a steady stream of cash. It’s the highest paying job we have that you can
know the money will be there. These are both sub jobs. You’d most likely go to
their place, but what goes on there is between the two of you. You’d both sign
a contract that I will keep here, but you’ll both receive copies. I’m Gabe, by
the way. Gabriel.”
“Dean.”
“That your real name?”
Dean nods.
“Good. You can tell them whatever you want, but I use real names here. So, you
in to apply?” When Dean nods, Gabe slides two file folders over to him and then
a third. He places a pen on top. Fill this out first. Then check out the two of
them, just to make sure you’re interested.”
Dean stops at the address section, and Gabe happens to look over at that
moment. “If you don’t have an address, it’s cool with me.”
“M’staying at a motel with my brother right now,” Dean explains, trying to
sound as casual as possible.
“That’s fine. You can just leave it blank.”
Once Dean fills out the rest of the form, he opens the folders. The first guy
is attractive and has amazing blue eyes. Dean can’t pronounce his name, but he
looks vaguely familiar. Dean moves onto the second folder. He opens it with a
sharp intake of breath, which catches Gabriel’s attention.
“You know that guy?”
“Uh, I – yeah, I guess -”
“He do something to you?”
The sharpness in his voice gets Dean to look up at him. Dean nods.
“He hurt you?”
When Dean casts his eyes down and nods again, Gabe takes the folder from Dean’s
hands and takes the papers out. He puts them into a shredder Dean hadn’t even
noticed. This place is legit.
“Come here,” Gabriel says, and he leads Dean into another room. It’s small and
has the looks of a break room. He tells Dean to sit down and gets him a cup of
water before sitting down across from him. “So you’ve done this before,” he
says.
Dean nods, slightly embarrassed.
“Well, I’m glad you came here. You were on the street, huh?”
It seems to Dean that all he can do is nod, but he just can’t make the words
come out right now. Nodding is all he’s got.
“Okay. Well, I know Castiel personally-“ so that’s how you pronounce that –
“and I know for a fact that he’s not the hurting kind. I don’t know how he’d
feel about a mark though.”
Dean’s face falls.
“You got one, then?” There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, but I gotta see it before I
let you go anywhere with anybody.”
“S’not infected,” Dean says quietly, but he stands to pull his shirt up anyway.
Gabriel lets out a slow breath as he surveys Dean’s side. Dean didn’t let Sammy
see this for a reason.
It’s a huge, thick, red gash across his side, and it moves with Dean’s ribs as
he breathes.
“Okay,” Gabe says, and Dean lets his shirt fall back down. “That’s gonna have
to go in your file. Glad you got away okay.”
“Me too.”
Gabe starts writing something in Dean’s file, but he continues talking to him
anyway. “So are there things that you won’t do? That should go in here as
well.”
“I really don’t want any more of these,” Dean says, trying to smile as he
motions to his side. Gabriel nods seriously and keeps writing. “And… I don’t
know. I just need everyone to know that stop means stop. That’s pretty much it,
though.” After a few more seconds, Dean saw Gabriel write, “stop means stop,”
on the paper, which made him smile a little.
“Okay. We just need to take your headshot, but you’re about done with me, Mr.
Winchester. If Castiel doesn’t think you’re the right match for him, we can
talk about other positions here.”
Dean nods, grateful to be given such a good opportunity regardless of whether
or not it was for his looks. He didn’t care where the money was coming from, he
just knew he needed it. He wanted so badly to make Sam happy, and if Sam wanted
to stay in one place for a while, he would definitely try to make it happen.
---
The call comes on Monday.
Gabe phones him around noon and says that Castiel wants to meet with Dean on
Wednesday night. He gives Dean Castiel’s address and a message of good luck,
and that’s that. They’re going to meet once and then if they like each other,
meet with Gabriel to arrange a contract. Dean feels jumpy, but this time seems
a helluva lot safer than last time.
He hangs up the phone and treats himself to a beer. Then he drives down to the
Wal-Mart and finds the store brand Mederma for his legs and some cover-up in
the closest color to his “shade.” He doesn’t know how girls do this make-up
stuff. When he gets back to the motel, he puts the cream on his legs
immediately in hopes that it will start working quickly. He doesn’t really know
what he’s expecting it to do. Maybe nothing.
Sam gets back pretty soon after, and he’s got his arms full of brochures and
maps and papers.
“Watcha got, Sammy?” Dean calls from the kitchen.
“School stuff,” Sam replies. It’s all for private schools, but there’s tons of
financial aid information that Sam found, too. He looks nervous when Dean walks
over, but Dean says, “We’ll make it work,” and Sam throws his arms around
Dean’s waist. Dean ruffles his hair and smiles to himself.
This could really work out.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!