Getting By (Oneshot)
Title: Getting By (Oneshot)
Author: skylinehorizon
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1400
Characters: Dean, Sam. Gen.
Warnings: Prostitution, underage oral sex, neglectful!John, some swearing.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: April 1996. Dean is 17 and Sam is 12. John’s away on a hunt and the boys have run out of money. Dean goes to the streets to earn the money that will pay for their food.
Notes: Angsty writing is what I do when I am supposed to be revising.
Getting By by skylinehorizon
“Dean,” Sam says, tension radiating from his hunched shoulders, “we need some money. There’s no food, and dad’s not back yet.”
He knows it’s true, but he’s been trying not to think about it. Hoping dad would turn up today and take them to a diner. He knows taking care of Sam is his job, wouldn’t change it for anything, but it’s difficult. Dean eyes Sam carefully and then walks towards the small jar where Dad normally leaves money. There’s two dollars and some cookie crumbs, and Dean tries to bottle up the surging anger, just for Sammy’s sake.
He turns back around and offers a smile, but he knows it’s strained. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll get some money. It won’t take long.” He glances at the clock and hopes he can get enough in half an hour, so he can go to the convenience store and buy them both hot dogs and some cereal for the morning. They just need a little more money to get through a few more days. He only needs to do this once, that’s all. He needs one person, that’s all.
“What are you going to do?” Sam asks, eyebrows furrowed. Something pangs in Dean’s chest. This isn’t something his twelve, nearly thirteen year old, brother should have to worry about. He’s the one who should be sorting this out.
“Don’t worry,” Dean says, and goes over to the hook by the door to pick up his leather jacket. “I’ll be back in maybe an hour, an hour and a half at the most.”
Sam is staring at him with wide eyes, and Dean walks over to him with a sigh. “You know what to do, right? Lock the doors, salt the windows-”
“Don’t let anybody in, you’ll knock Smoke On The Water on the door so I know it’s you, yes, I know.”
Dean grins at him and ruffles his hair, and Sam moves away and rolls his eyes. “Jerk.”
Dean laughs and picks up the motel room key and slips it into his pocket. “Watch your language. Bitch.”
“Hey!”
Dean shuts the door behind him with a smirk and doesn’t move until he hears the door being locked and chained from the other side. He runs a hand over his face, not feeling up to this, always dreading it, and then begins to walk towards the nearest bar.
It only takes ten minutes for someone to pick him up. It never takes long. It’s an older man, never gets a name, about the same age as his dad, and he tries not to think about that as he follows him into the depths of a dingy alleyway. It smells of cat piss, and he tries not to think about that either. Tries not to think of what his dad would say if he could see him now.
He gets on his knees and the ground is cold and damp beneath his jeans. He tries to block out what he’s doing, zips the man’s trousers open and sticks his hand in, attempting to think of other things, nicer things. As he licks the man’s dick he tries to think of sunny days and feeling carefree and kissing girls behind bathroom stalls at school. He tries to block out the man’s moans with the sounds of AC/DC and Metallica and that song he’s just heard for the first time by R.E.M, called Losing My Religion or something. It’s a good tactic, but it’s not good enough. Not good enough to block out the sounds of sucking and his lips smacking against the man’s hard cock. He tries not to think about what he’s doing, doesn’t let any thoughts of Sam cross his mind because that would make this whole ordeal feel ten times more painful, because Sam can’t know what he does to keep them fed.
Dean picks up the pace to get it over and done with, and then the man is coming down his throat, hot and salty, and the taste makes him cringe. Thankfully, the man has his eyes closed, head thrown back and letting out long moans and deep, guttural breaths, and Dean has enough time to compose his face to something other than disgusted before standing up.
The man zips himself up, gives him a grin, and then slips twenty dollars into the back of Dean’s jeans, and an extra five for swallowing.
“See you around, pretty boy,” he says, and Dean watches him in disgust as he leaves the dark alleyway and meanders back into the streets. He wonders if he’s about to go home to his wife or if he’s searching to pick up another pretty boy for a cheap suck or fuck.
Dean stands there in the shadows, taking a minute to compose himself, and then walks out of the alleyway and heads for the convenience store, the money burning in his pocket.
Dean manages to buy two hotdogs and chips, some cereal and a small bottle of milk and some orange juice with a little bit of money left over. He needs to use it until dad comes home, ration a little out day by day, and store a little for Sammy’s birthday, which is in a few weeks time.
Dean gets back to the motel and does his classic knock on the door, and Sam opens it slowly, the chain still on.
“Let me in, doofus. It’s me.”
Dean sees Sam eye him through the small gap in the door and then he closes it, takes off the chain, and opens it with a wide smile on his face. That makes it feel like it’s worth it, and Dean manages to push away the feeling of being worthless for a man in a suit, ignore the feeling of being forever dirty, as if it’s trapped beneath his skin. He’s good at ignoring things. Dean walks in and puts down the food on the table and chucks his jacket on his bed.
Sam eyes it with his eyebrows raised. “Where did you get the money for that? It’s not like you can shoplift hotdogs.”
Dean opens the orange juice and takes some gulps of it straight from the carton in an attempt to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. “Poker,” he says simply, and it’s clearly a lie, he didn’t win the money for this in poker, but Sam doesn’t say anything and Dean is entirely grateful.
They eat the food in companionable silence, and when they’re done they stay up and watch some crappy television. It’s enough.
The next day their dad rings, and Dean answers it, a feeling of anger and shame swelling up in his gut. Their dad is on a hunt that he decided Dean shouldn’t go on, that it was important Dad go alone on this one. The idea makes something burn in his blood, but he doesn’t question it. He never does. He’s not going to tell his dad what he had to do, of course he’s not, but he doesn’t like the extent he had to go to, just to keep Sam fed.
“We’re nearly out of money,” he says, and Sam glares at him from across the room, and Dean tries to ignore him. He’s not admitting they ran out, because that would lead to admitting they used it too quickly and Dean is not ready for the conversation where he has to explain how he managed to top up the funds.
His dad tells him not to worry, he’s going to be back in two days, and he’s sure Dean can take care of Sammy until then.
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, and Sam is looking at him with his ultimate bitch-face on now, and Dean can’t look at it, feels more shame add to the already toppling pile and has to turn away.
Dean hangs up and Sam walks over to him, looking entirely too much like their dad in that twelve year old body of his.
“Why did you lie?” he asks, and Dean shrugs, tries to play it cool.
“Don’t want it looking like I can’t take care of you, that’s all.”
Sam huffs a little bit but lets the conversation drop again, and Dean is thankful he’s not as inquisitive and curious as he was just a few years ago. Dean sits down on the couch besides his little brother, and tries not to think of how fast the funds are already starting to dwindle, and what he’s going to have to do next to get them a meal. He doesn’t think about it at all, and he doesn’t talk about it. There’s nothing to talk about.
End.