Supernatural Fic: You Turn the Screws (the It's What You Choose Remix)
After an unexpected restart this morning, I accidentally clicked "start new session" instead of "restore previous session" when I opened Firefox. Nooooooooooooo, my taaaaaabs! If I was supposed to read or respond to something, well. I fucked up. On the other hand, freedom?
Title: You Turn the Screws (the It's What You Choose Remix)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings: Dean/others, Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Content advisory: prostitution, dub-con, BDSM, angst, fisting, multiple partners, also look at the pairing
Author's Note: This is a remix of Twisted by heeroluva, written for remix_redux Ten. Thanks to jaune_chat for looking it over for me. This is actually the first Supernatural non-crossover I've ever written. Huh.
Summary:Dean can endure anything for his family, but the last thing he wants to give up is Sam’s respect.
In 1994, Dean punched a smirking middle aged man in the face in the dark parking lot behind the Riviera Arms Motel in Tallahassee. The guy had worn a cheap suit and too much cologne. Even now, Dean could sometimes smell the sickly sweetness of that night when someone touched him like that man did: thumb against his lips, an obvious invitation.
The man hadn’t thought Dean was worth the fight. He’d apologized for his mistake, flashed a blood-smeared sneer, and driven off, leaving Dean alone.
In their sweltering hotel room, Sam lay on the bed, sprawled out under the fan in boxer shorts and socks with his homework spread out around him. “I’m hungry,” he announced as soon as Dean opened the door.
“You just had breakfast,” Dean said.
“Yeah, like eight hours ago,” Sam muttered.
Dean dug the last of his cash out of the hole he’d cut in the sagging box springs. They had to eat.
--
Dean’s smile had always helped him out in a tight spot. He wore it like armor in the misty twilight of a Seattle spring. The night might have grown too late to catch a third customer, but Dean had nothing better to do than make the attempt. Sam wasn’t sitting back at the apartment worrying; he’d gone on a weekend camping trip with his Boy Scout troop. Dean had let him go with a reminder not to shoot too well at the riflery range; he didn’t want a repeat of what happened in Nebraska.
With a free weekend, Dean had resolved to build up their cash reserves. If Dad called, Dean wanted enough gas money on hand to get them where they needed to go.
Dean’s smile did its work eventually; a dark blue car pulled up to the curb. He sauntered over as the window rolled down.
The man inside had a neatly trimmed grey beard and a leather jacket. “You want a ride?” he asked.
“That’s just what I was gonna say.” Dean pushed his smile a bit wider. “I’m game if you are.”
The man popped the locks on the car. Dean got in.
Twenty minutes later, on his knees in the guy’s fancy living room with big picture windows looking out on a panoramic view of the city, Dean congratulated himself on his patience. The man cradled the back of his head with a large, calloused hand as Dean attended to him, but didn’t pull his hair, didn’t try to choke him. Easy money, Dean thought.
Before Dean could finish him, the man pulled away. “Stay,” he said, and Dean did. Kneeling on a plush Persian rug was far nicer than kneeling in an alley.
The man returned with a whip coiled in his hand. Dean thought, later, that he should have felt fear, then, or at least a healthy skepticism. Instead, all his blood rushed to his dick, and he didn’t move from his spot.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for every lash you can take without screaming,” the man said. He’d taken his jacket off. His solid muscles filled out his tight shirt, and tattoos decorated his arms. Dean didn’t doubt he was an expert with that whip. “Once I hear a sound out of you, we stop and do something else. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said. It’s for Sammy, he thought as the first blow fell. I can do anything for Sammy.
Later, when he lay shaking on the bathroom floor, the man stroked his hair. “You’re exquisite,” he said. “Have you thought about doing film?”
--
Dean let the hot water run as he looked at the fading remnants of bruising around his wrists. He had never been tied like that before, and the shoot had gone on two hours longer than planned. The ache--in his muscles, inside of him, all over--felt good, but he’d have to be careful with his sleeves for a few days. Or pretend to pick up a girl tonight while Sam was watching, and after, give Sam a knowing grin and a story about how she liked to play rough. That always worked.
When Dean emerged fully dressed from the bathroom, Sam held up the roll of cash that had been tucked into a sock at the bottom of Dean’s duffel-- everything he’d made at last night’s shoot, less what he’d spent at the bar after with an ID he’d forged himself. “What is this?” Sam asked.
“Why are you going through my stuff?”
“Are you running away?” Sam demanded.
“What?” The flutter of relief Dean felt at not being asked another, more difficult question faded as Sam’s words sunk in. “Running--Sammy, I’ve got a car, I can go wherever I want. Run away from what?”
“Are you gonna leave me alone?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because that’s what I’d do if I had money.” Sam’s face had developed that expression of wide-eyed earnestness that usually made Dean chuckle. He felt no amusement now.
“You don’t mean that,” Dean said.
“Um, yes I do. Live somewhere on my own, where I could stay in the same school more than a month, and get a real place so I could bring a friend over if I wanted, and an actual address so the birthday cards Bobby sends don’t get returned, and I wouldn’t have to carry a knife around all the time.”
“You should always carry a knife around,” Dean said.
“I know! I’m not a kid.” Sam turned the roll of bills over in his hand. “Where’d you get this money?”
“Working.”
Sam looked down. His hair hung into his eyes. He needed a haircut. “Don't leave. Please, Dean.”
Dean shook his head. He hadn’t considered leaving, not even once. More even than his father’s voice in his head, saying, ”Watch out for Sammy,” was his own internal compass, pointing unfailingly toward what was best for his family. He couldn’t imagine his life without Sam. Didn’t want to. And maybe Sam didn’t want to imagine that, either. Dean glanced from Sam’s shaggy, bowed head to the hard-earned money in his hand. “You know what? Why don’t you hold on to that.”
“Really?” Sam looked up.
“Yeah. It’s about time you started taking more responsibility anyway,” Dean said. “You can be in charge of the budget.”
Sam’s brow creased, and he gave Dean a shrewd look. “Can I get a graphing calculator for my calc class?”
“How much we got?”
Sam licked his thumb and flipped through the stack. “Seven hundred and...eighty bucks. Where did you make this much?”
“I told you, working. And yeah, I think we can afford school crap.”
“Awesome.” Sam’s grin transformed him from moody teenager to giddy boy. “Thanks, Dean.”
“Yeah.” Dean managed a smile in return. “I can always make more.”
--
The set looked just like a dozen others Dean had been on in the past few years: large bed, bright lights, noise and bustle of the camera crew. Except the guy standing across from him looked like Sam: same stupid hair, same broad shoulders.
“Uh, hey,” Dean said, interrupting the director’s explanation of who he wanted doing what. “I’m actually better at following orders than giving them.” Not always true: Dean could lead or follow, as required. He’d been doing it his whole life. But the thought of seeing his brother in the man about to kneel before him threatened to shred whatever lingering threads of decency Dean still held onto.
The director frowned, and Dean pasted on his best self-deprecating grin. “Okay,” the director said at last. “Yeah, that could work. Let’s get going.” He waved a hand at the performers.
The other man flashed a bright smile. He had a gap between his front teeth: not like Sam. Sam was beautiful. That was the last thing Dean had time to observe before they put the blindfold on him.
--
Dean stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, out of the glow of the street light. He lingered in the alley between a video store and a bar across the street from the motel until he saw his dad pull away in his truck. Then he limped back to the room.
Sam, instantly alert at the sound of the door, sat at table in front of a stack of history books. “Dean!” His hand drifted away from the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “Where the hell’ve you been? We were worried! Dad is gonna kick-“
Dean stepped into the light and shut the door behind him.
“Dean?” Sam’s eyes raced over him, no doubt cataloguing the dried blood on his shirt, the blackening eye, the cut lip.
“I got into a fight,” Dean lied. “Just stupid, juvenile crap. It’s fine.”
“I’ll get the first aid kit.” Sam pushed out his chair.
“Don’t.” Dean shuffled toward the bathroom, one deliberate step after another. “I just need a shower and some sleep. It’s not that bad.”
“Not that--?” Sam stood to bar his way. Damn kid towered over him, now, and seemed to get taller every day. “Dean, you can barely walk.”
A line from the cheesy dialogue paraded around Dean’s brain: My buddies and I are gonna ream you until you can’t walk, twink. He rummaged up a smile and pasted it on. “You should see the other guys. Now get out of my way.”
Sam stepped to the side and watched Dean move past him. “Hey, you want me to order a pizza?”
Dean’s stomach clenched at the thought of food. He’d swallowed enough come tonight to kill even his epic appetite. Still, Sam should eat. “You got enough cash?” he asked.
“I can call Dad and ask him to--”
“No, no, I got it.” The last thing Dean needed was their dad coming back and asking questions. He dug into his pocket for the wad of cash he’d been given, and peeled off some bills. He shoved them at Sam. “Here.” When nothing happened, he looked up to see Sam’s eyes fixed on the hand with the money in it. They’d given him extra, when they saw how bad he looked, after.
“That’s a lot of money,” Sam said.
“No sausage on the pizza, okay?”
“Dean.” Sam grabbed his arm. “I’m not stupid."
“I never said you were.” Dean tried to shrug off Sam’s grip, but he held on. “Look, it’s money, who cares where it comes from?”
“I care. Dean, you don’t have to... I don’t want you to... Oh fuck it.” Sam darted forward, bumping his head against Dean’s in his haste to kiss him.
Dean stood still as Sam held him. The press of Sam’s lips was awkward, unpracticed. Dean wondered if he’d even done this before. He tilted his head to the side just a fraction, showing Sam how to bring them into alignment, just like he’d shown Sam how to put together a rifle. A low, needy noise rumbled through Sam’s throat. His grip tightened on Dean’s arm, gouging into the bruise one of the guys on the set had left on him. Dean jerked away.
“No, Sammy.” He stumbled back a step, eyes on Sam’s mouth like it was a weapon. “Don’t do that.” He shoved the money back into his pocket and hobbled as fast as he could to the bathroom. He paused at the door. “Order that pizza, okay?”
“Yeah.” Sam sank down into his chair. “Sure.”
--
Dean had never been very imaginative. He’d seen so much weird in his line of work that he didn’t have much need for making up extra. And he didn’t like the drugs: they made him dull, made him weak. Dean always half-expected a demon or a vampire to show up at one of these shoots: one job blending into another. So instead of the drugs, he kept himself hard on his own, sifting through his bank of mental images that kept him wanting: Jenny Taylor’s bouncing breasts tipped with dark brown nipples, the soft wetness of Allison Meyer in the back of her daddy’s Camaro, and Sam’s lips against his. No, no, not that.
“Spread your legs more,” said the meathead kneeling behind Dean.
Dean did as he was told.
The guy worked more lube into Dean with his fingers. “Open for me, bitch.”
Dean turned his face toward the camera and moaned. He could only see the blinding glare of the lights, only hear the rhythmic grunting of the man working his hand inside, only feel the shaking of his muscles channeling blood to his cock.
“Dean?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He had to forget this stupid fantasy and banish the sound of Sam’s voice so he could stay in the moment. He concentrated on breathing, and then gasped as the man’s hand slid past the last of his resistance and sank deep inside him.
“Dean! No, fuck you, let me through. Dean, hey!”
Dean’s eyes snapped open. Sam stood in the middle of the set, hands clenched at his sides. Dean blinked, but Sam didn’t disappear. He wasn’t a mirage.
“Boyfriend?” asked the man with his fist inside Dean.
“Get out,” Dean snapped.
For once in his damn life, Sam didn’t argue. He turned and walked past the cameras, disappearing into the light.
Dean pushed his hips back to take more, until the stretch and burn erased all other thought.
Hours later, Dean stood outside the door to the motel room. He’d used up all his willpower to pass by the promise of a double whiskey at the bar down the street. Whatever respect Sam had held for Dean had probably been destroyed tonight, but if any remained, Dean didn’t want to ruin it by stumbling in smelling of liquor.
Maybe sober, he could talk Sam down: hold his head high and tell his brother he wasn’t ashamed of what he did to keep the family safe and fed. Maybe Sam would make him promise to stop. Or maybe, in the grand Winchester tradition, they wouldn’t talk about it at all.
He turned the key and pushed open the door.
The slice of light from the parking lot fell across the bed where Sam sat, waiting. The room’s single lamp threw shadows across his face.
Dean went to the other bed and perched gingerly on the edge, opposite Sam. Now his brother would disown him. Or tell their father. Or worse, leave. Run away like he’d wanted to for years. Sam stood, and Dean waited for Sam to tell him how worthless and disgusting he was.
Instead, Sam attacked.
He shoved Dean onto his back and crushed their mouths together. Dean tried to turn his head aside. Sam shouldn’t kiss him-he was filthy. Sam sank his teeth into Dean where his shoulder met his neck. That, Dean welcomed; Sam should hurt him, punish him. Dean didn’t resist, after that. Sam’s mouth bruised, his hands grabbed, and his body surrounded Dean like a cage.
He stripped Dean of his dirty clothes, revealing cuts, bruises, and welts where others had left their mark. He flipped Dean on his belly to take what he wanted: what Dean had refused to give him, even though he’d been selling it for years.
“Wait,” Dean croaked. “Condom.”
Sam’s hands clenched on Dean’s hips, probably calculating whether it was even worth it to fuck someone so damaged. But he grabbed his wallet off the nightstand, and Dean heard the tear of a wrapper.
For all his size, Sam slid in easily. Dean had been stretched to his limit, and he was still sloppy with lube and come. Dean pressed his face into the sheets, letting Sam have whatever he needed. He liked the feel of Sam’s hands around his waist, holding him down. It felt like Sam thought he was worth holding onto, even if it was just for this.
When he finished, Sam rolled to the side, panting. Dean lay watching Sam, ignoring the aches of his body, the wet discomfort of tacky lube leaking out of him.
“Is it worth it?” Sam asked, looking at the ceiling.
Dean reached to the floor to find where Sam had discarded his jeans. He pulled his night’s pay out of the pocket and shoved it at Sam. “Here.”
“I don’t want this.” Sam pushed the cash away.
Dean set the money on the nightstand. He turned onto his back. Dean settled in and lay breathing in the room’s vast silence beside his brother. Sam made no move to get up. Maybe, after this, he’d stay.
Title: You Turn the Screws (the It's What You Choose Remix)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings: Dean/others, Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Content advisory: prostitution, dub-con, BDSM, angst, fisting, multiple partners, also look at the pairing
Author's Note: This is a remix of Twisted by heeroluva, written for remix_redux Ten. Thanks to jaune_chat for looking it over for me. This is actually the first Supernatural non-crossover I've ever written. Huh.
Summary:Dean can endure anything for his family, but the last thing he wants to give up is Sam’s respect.
In 1994, Dean punched a smirking middle aged man in the face in the dark parking lot behind the Riviera Arms Motel in Tallahassee. The guy had worn a cheap suit and too much cologne. Even now, Dean could sometimes smell the sickly sweetness of that night when someone touched him like that man did: thumb against his lips, an obvious invitation.
The man hadn’t thought Dean was worth the fight. He’d apologized for his mistake, flashed a blood-smeared sneer, and driven off, leaving Dean alone.
In their sweltering hotel room, Sam lay on the bed, sprawled out under the fan in boxer shorts and socks with his homework spread out around him. “I’m hungry,” he announced as soon as Dean opened the door.
“You just had breakfast,” Dean said.
“Yeah, like eight hours ago,” Sam muttered.
Dean dug the last of his cash out of the hole he’d cut in the sagging box springs. They had to eat.
--
Dean’s smile had always helped him out in a tight spot. He wore it like armor in the misty twilight of a Seattle spring. The night might have grown too late to catch a third customer, but Dean had nothing better to do than make the attempt. Sam wasn’t sitting back at the apartment worrying; he’d gone on a weekend camping trip with his Boy Scout troop. Dean had let him go with a reminder not to shoot too well at the riflery range; he didn’t want a repeat of what happened in Nebraska.
With a free weekend, Dean had resolved to build up their cash reserves. If Dad called, Dean wanted enough gas money on hand to get them where they needed to go.
Dean’s smile did its work eventually; a dark blue car pulled up to the curb. He sauntered over as the window rolled down.
The man inside had a neatly trimmed grey beard and a leather jacket. “You want a ride?” he asked.
“That’s just what I was gonna say.” Dean pushed his smile a bit wider. “I’m game if you are.”
The man popped the locks on the car. Dean got in.
Twenty minutes later, on his knees in the guy’s fancy living room with big picture windows looking out on a panoramic view of the city, Dean congratulated himself on his patience. The man cradled the back of his head with a large, calloused hand as Dean attended to him, but didn’t pull his hair, didn’t try to choke him. Easy money, Dean thought.
Before Dean could finish him, the man pulled away. “Stay,” he said, and Dean did. Kneeling on a plush Persian rug was far nicer than kneeling in an alley.
The man returned with a whip coiled in his hand. Dean thought, later, that he should have felt fear, then, or at least a healthy skepticism. Instead, all his blood rushed to his dick, and he didn’t move from his spot.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for every lash you can take without screaming,” the man said. He’d taken his jacket off. His solid muscles filled out his tight shirt, and tattoos decorated his arms. Dean didn’t doubt he was an expert with that whip. “Once I hear a sound out of you, we stop and do something else. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean said. It’s for Sammy, he thought as the first blow fell. I can do anything for Sammy.
Later, when he lay shaking on the bathroom floor, the man stroked his hair. “You’re exquisite,” he said. “Have you thought about doing film?”
--
Dean let the hot water run as he looked at the fading remnants of bruising around his wrists. He had never been tied like that before, and the shoot had gone on two hours longer than planned. The ache--in his muscles, inside of him, all over--felt good, but he’d have to be careful with his sleeves for a few days. Or pretend to pick up a girl tonight while Sam was watching, and after, give Sam a knowing grin and a story about how she liked to play rough. That always worked.
When Dean emerged fully dressed from the bathroom, Sam held up the roll of cash that had been tucked into a sock at the bottom of Dean’s duffel-- everything he’d made at last night’s shoot, less what he’d spent at the bar after with an ID he’d forged himself. “What is this?” Sam asked.
“Why are you going through my stuff?”
“Are you running away?” Sam demanded.
“What?” The flutter of relief Dean felt at not being asked another, more difficult question faded as Sam’s words sunk in. “Running--Sammy, I’ve got a car, I can go wherever I want. Run away from what?”
“Are you gonna leave me alone?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because that’s what I’d do if I had money.” Sam’s face had developed that expression of wide-eyed earnestness that usually made Dean chuckle. He felt no amusement now.
“You don’t mean that,” Dean said.
“Um, yes I do. Live somewhere on my own, where I could stay in the same school more than a month, and get a real place so I could bring a friend over if I wanted, and an actual address so the birthday cards Bobby sends don’t get returned, and I wouldn’t have to carry a knife around all the time.”
“You should always carry a knife around,” Dean said.
“I know! I’m not a kid.” Sam turned the roll of bills over in his hand. “Where’d you get this money?”
“Working.”
Sam looked down. His hair hung into his eyes. He needed a haircut. “Don't leave. Please, Dean.”
Dean shook his head. He hadn’t considered leaving, not even once. More even than his father’s voice in his head, saying, ”Watch out for Sammy,” was his own internal compass, pointing unfailingly toward what was best for his family. He couldn’t imagine his life without Sam. Didn’t want to. And maybe Sam didn’t want to imagine that, either. Dean glanced from Sam’s shaggy, bowed head to the hard-earned money in his hand. “You know what? Why don’t you hold on to that.”
“Really?” Sam looked up.
“Yeah. It’s about time you started taking more responsibility anyway,” Dean said. “You can be in charge of the budget.”
Sam’s brow creased, and he gave Dean a shrewd look. “Can I get a graphing calculator for my calc class?”
“How much we got?”
Sam licked his thumb and flipped through the stack. “Seven hundred and...eighty bucks. Where did you make this much?”
“I told you, working. And yeah, I think we can afford school crap.”
“Awesome.” Sam’s grin transformed him from moody teenager to giddy boy. “Thanks, Dean.”
“Yeah.” Dean managed a smile in return. “I can always make more.”
--
The set looked just like a dozen others Dean had been on in the past few years: large bed, bright lights, noise and bustle of the camera crew. Except the guy standing across from him looked like Sam: same stupid hair, same broad shoulders.
“Uh, hey,” Dean said, interrupting the director’s explanation of who he wanted doing what. “I’m actually better at following orders than giving them.” Not always true: Dean could lead or follow, as required. He’d been doing it his whole life. But the thought of seeing his brother in the man about to kneel before him threatened to shred whatever lingering threads of decency Dean still held onto.
The director frowned, and Dean pasted on his best self-deprecating grin. “Okay,” the director said at last. “Yeah, that could work. Let’s get going.” He waved a hand at the performers.
The other man flashed a bright smile. He had a gap between his front teeth: not like Sam. Sam was beautiful. That was the last thing Dean had time to observe before they put the blindfold on him.
--
Dean stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, out of the glow of the street light. He lingered in the alley between a video store and a bar across the street from the motel until he saw his dad pull away in his truck. Then he limped back to the room.
Sam, instantly alert at the sound of the door, sat at table in front of a stack of history books. “Dean!” His hand drifted away from the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “Where the hell’ve you been? We were worried! Dad is gonna kick-“
Dean stepped into the light and shut the door behind him.
“Dean?” Sam’s eyes raced over him, no doubt cataloguing the dried blood on his shirt, the blackening eye, the cut lip.
“I got into a fight,” Dean lied. “Just stupid, juvenile crap. It’s fine.”
“I’ll get the first aid kit.” Sam pushed out his chair.
“Don’t.” Dean shuffled toward the bathroom, one deliberate step after another. “I just need a shower and some sleep. It’s not that bad.”
“Not that--?” Sam stood to bar his way. Damn kid towered over him, now, and seemed to get taller every day. “Dean, you can barely walk.”
A line from the cheesy dialogue paraded around Dean’s brain: My buddies and I are gonna ream you until you can’t walk, twink. He rummaged up a smile and pasted it on. “You should see the other guys. Now get out of my way.”
Sam stepped to the side and watched Dean move past him. “Hey, you want me to order a pizza?”
Dean’s stomach clenched at the thought of food. He’d swallowed enough come tonight to kill even his epic appetite. Still, Sam should eat. “You got enough cash?” he asked.
“I can call Dad and ask him to--”
“No, no, I got it.” The last thing Dean needed was their dad coming back and asking questions. He dug into his pocket for the wad of cash he’d been given, and peeled off some bills. He shoved them at Sam. “Here.” When nothing happened, he looked up to see Sam’s eyes fixed on the hand with the money in it. They’d given him extra, when they saw how bad he looked, after.
“That’s a lot of money,” Sam said.
“No sausage on the pizza, okay?”
“Dean.” Sam grabbed his arm. “I’m not stupid."
“I never said you were.” Dean tried to shrug off Sam’s grip, but he held on. “Look, it’s money, who cares where it comes from?”
“I care. Dean, you don’t have to... I don’t want you to... Oh fuck it.” Sam darted forward, bumping his head against Dean’s in his haste to kiss him.
Dean stood still as Sam held him. The press of Sam’s lips was awkward, unpracticed. Dean wondered if he’d even done this before. He tilted his head to the side just a fraction, showing Sam how to bring them into alignment, just like he’d shown Sam how to put together a rifle. A low, needy noise rumbled through Sam’s throat. His grip tightened on Dean’s arm, gouging into the bruise one of the guys on the set had left on him. Dean jerked away.
“No, Sammy.” He stumbled back a step, eyes on Sam’s mouth like it was a weapon. “Don’t do that.” He shoved the money back into his pocket and hobbled as fast as he could to the bathroom. He paused at the door. “Order that pizza, okay?”
“Yeah.” Sam sank down into his chair. “Sure.”
--
Dean had never been very imaginative. He’d seen so much weird in his line of work that he didn’t have much need for making up extra. And he didn’t like the drugs: they made him dull, made him weak. Dean always half-expected a demon or a vampire to show up at one of these shoots: one job blending into another. So instead of the drugs, he kept himself hard on his own, sifting through his bank of mental images that kept him wanting: Jenny Taylor’s bouncing breasts tipped with dark brown nipples, the soft wetness of Allison Meyer in the back of her daddy’s Camaro, and Sam’s lips against his. No, no, not that.
“Spread your legs more,” said the meathead kneeling behind Dean.
Dean did as he was told.
The guy worked more lube into Dean with his fingers. “Open for me, bitch.”
Dean turned his face toward the camera and moaned. He could only see the blinding glare of the lights, only hear the rhythmic grunting of the man working his hand inside, only feel the shaking of his muscles channeling blood to his cock.
“Dean?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He had to forget this stupid fantasy and banish the sound of Sam’s voice so he could stay in the moment. He concentrated on breathing, and then gasped as the man’s hand slid past the last of his resistance and sank deep inside him.
“Dean! No, fuck you, let me through. Dean, hey!”
Dean’s eyes snapped open. Sam stood in the middle of the set, hands clenched at his sides. Dean blinked, but Sam didn’t disappear. He wasn’t a mirage.
“Boyfriend?” asked the man with his fist inside Dean.
“Get out,” Dean snapped.
For once in his damn life, Sam didn’t argue. He turned and walked past the cameras, disappearing into the light.
Dean pushed his hips back to take more, until the stretch and burn erased all other thought.
Hours later, Dean stood outside the door to the motel room. He’d used up all his willpower to pass by the promise of a double whiskey at the bar down the street. Whatever respect Sam had held for Dean had probably been destroyed tonight, but if any remained, Dean didn’t want to ruin it by stumbling in smelling of liquor.
Maybe sober, he could talk Sam down: hold his head high and tell his brother he wasn’t ashamed of what he did to keep the family safe and fed. Maybe Sam would make him promise to stop. Or maybe, in the grand Winchester tradition, they wouldn’t talk about it at all.
He turned the key and pushed open the door.
The slice of light from the parking lot fell across the bed where Sam sat, waiting. The room’s single lamp threw shadows across his face.
Dean went to the other bed and perched gingerly on the edge, opposite Sam. Now his brother would disown him. Or tell their father. Or worse, leave. Run away like he’d wanted to for years. Sam stood, and Dean waited for Sam to tell him how worthless and disgusting he was.
Instead, Sam attacked.
He shoved Dean onto his back and crushed their mouths together. Dean tried to turn his head aside. Sam shouldn’t kiss him-he was filthy. Sam sank his teeth into Dean where his shoulder met his neck. That, Dean welcomed; Sam should hurt him, punish him. Dean didn’t resist, after that. Sam’s mouth bruised, his hands grabbed, and his body surrounded Dean like a cage.
He stripped Dean of his dirty clothes, revealing cuts, bruises, and welts where others had left their mark. He flipped Dean on his belly to take what he wanted: what Dean had refused to give him, even though he’d been selling it for years.
“Wait,” Dean croaked. “Condom.”
Sam’s hands clenched on Dean’s hips, probably calculating whether it was even worth it to fuck someone so damaged. But he grabbed his wallet off the nightstand, and Dean heard the tear of a wrapper.
For all his size, Sam slid in easily. Dean had been stretched to his limit, and he was still sloppy with lube and come. Dean pressed his face into the sheets, letting Sam have whatever he needed. He liked the feel of Sam’s hands around his waist, holding him down. It felt like Sam thought he was worth holding onto, even if it was just for this.
When he finished, Sam rolled to the side, panting. Dean lay watching Sam, ignoring the aches of his body, the wet discomfort of tacky lube leaking out of him.
“Is it worth it?” Sam asked, looking at the ceiling.
Dean reached to the floor to find where Sam had discarded his jeans. He pulled his night’s pay out of the pocket and shoved it at Sam. “Here.”
“I don’t want this.” Sam pushed the cash away.
Dean set the money on the nightstand. He turned onto his back. Dean settled in and lay breathing in the room’s vast silence beside his brother. Sam made no move to get up. Maybe, after this, he’d stay.