Big Bang 2012: The Iron Tongue of Midnight
Part Four
April 14th, 2002
On Sunday afternoon, Dean found a large, expensive bar near the college campus and nursed a beer at a quiet corner table, quietly scouting for prey. His interest was finally peaked when a group of well-dressed, loud-mouthed fraternity brothers swaggered in like they owned the place, each with a pretty girl on his arm. Dean watched as a blond guy in tan chinos and a navy-and-white crewneck sweater bullied a couple of younger students off the pool table. With a smug smirk, the guy-who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog-racked up the balls and threw a handful of notes down on the edge of the table. Dean watched the frat boys play a couple of games from his table in the corner and then wandered over for a closer look, edging himself next to the Ralph Lauren model’s girlfriend. Ralph leaned over to take a shot, two-ball into the corner pocket, and Dean gave a low whistle.
“That’s a hard shot,” he said to the girlfriend, loudly enough for Ralph to hear, “I bet he misses.”
Ralph looked up from his shot and met Dean’s eyes and Dean smiled innocently, and then proceeded to con the college boys into challenging him to a pool competition. It was a little like taking candy from babies and if the guys hadn’t been such a bunch of arrogant douchebags, Dean might’ve felt a little guilty about hustling them out of a significant sum of money.
Back at the motel, he got on the phone to Bobby Singer who had a few choice words to say about John Winchester’s plan to douse Gwyn Ap Nudd with holy water.
“That ain’t hunters’ lore,” he told Dean scathingly. “It’s plain up wishful thinkin’ on the part of the Christian church. Faeries ain’t evil son; you can’t hurt ‘em with holy water. Put your damn fool of a father on the phone so I can give him a piece of my mind.”
“He’s out right now Bobby. So what can kill a Faerie?”
Dean listened to the swish of pages turning and the occasional mutter from Bobby.
“Decapitation with an iron sword oughta do it,” the older hunter said at last, “Getting close’ll be the hard part. Faeries are wicked fast, magickal and telepathic. And Gwyn Ap Nudd’s their king. He’s gonna be well-guarded Dean, there ain’t much chance of you gettin’ close to him with an iron sword.”
Dean ran a hand over his eyes. Getting close wasn’t going to be a problem; getting close with a sword…yeah…that might be tough, given that he was probably going to be naked for this stupid goddamn rite, not like he’d have anywhere to hide a big-ass iron sword. He thought for a moment. “Do you know any spells that could summon a sword?”
Bobby snorted. “You been watchin’ Bewitched again son? Think I can wiggle my nose and make somethin’ appear outta thin air?”
“Well you do have that cute little button nose like Samantha,” Dean teased.
He could almost hear Bobby rolling his eyes. “Demons, spirits and deities. They’re the only things you can summon with ritual, and that ain’t somethin’ you want to be messin’ around with, you hear me?”
Dean sighed.
“You hear me, son?” Bobby said sharply.
“Yes, Bobby. I hear you.”
“Good. You tell your Daddy to give me a call when he’s back, alright?”
After Bobby hung up Dean helped himself to a beer and then sat at the motel table, with his feet up on the seat opposite. In a couple of hours Sammy was going to turn up and…fuck…Dean groaned and gulped at his beer. Yeah. Fuck was exactly what Sammy was going to do and the thought had Dean’s stomach in knots. He took Sammy’s cell phone number out of his wallet and stared at the grubby, torn off bit of paper. Maybe he should call Sammy? Tell him to forget about it. Dean took another swig of his beer. Practicing was a stupid idea. He would just do what he had to do, when he had to do it. Dean grimaced. Except…what he had to do was Gwyn Ap Nudd. Or, more accurately the Faerie king was going to do him. In front of a whole bunch of other…Faeries. And he was going to have to hold still and let Ap Nudd humiliate him and hurt him and he was going to freak the fuck out, his flight or fight response was going to kick in and, because Dean Winchester was no stranger to fighting the supernatural, instead of going along obediently with the ritual he was going to attack the Faerie king and then Ap Nudd was going to use his magick to hold Dean immobile and he wouldn’t be able to move, wouldn’t have any control at all and the Faerie king would…he would …he would…okay…breathe, Dean … breathe … breathe…this is why you’re going to practice. So you don’t panic, so you don’t fight it, so you get to keep at least some semblance of control.
Once he’d got his breathing steady, Dean put the empty beer bottle on the table with a shaking hand. He got to his feet, ran a hand across the back of his neck and decided to go and take a long, hot shower.
-X-
Sam was beyond tired. He’d worked his first shift in the dining hall after only four hours sleep and even though the work itself was easy enough, he’d been kept frantically busy all day. He’d gotten home at half past three, slept until six, showered, eaten-pigged out to be more accurate, seeing as he didn’t have to worry about getting fucked on a full stomach tonight-and now he was trying to decide what to wear for his appointment with Dean. He’d discounted his hooker outfit straight away; he used that to lure in johns but Dean was already on the hook. Besides, this wasn’t your usual type of gig. Sam actually liked Dean for a start, and he didn’t think the man would appreciate a very obvious-looking hooker turning up on his doorstep, even if he was staying at the kind of motel where that sort of thing wasn’t exactly unheard of. So Sam wore his nice jeans and a blue and tan button down shirt. He didn’t bother rimming his eyes with kohl, but he did pack a bag of equipment and supplies that he thought might be useful.
Sam knocked on Dean’s motel door and waited. There was no noise coming from inside, no television, no shower, and no footsteps coming toward the door. Sam knocked again and this time he heard a toilet flush. Sam frowned. He was pretty excited about this job, but now that he thought about it, Sam was willing to bet good money that Dean was more terrified than excited. Dean had never done this before and he didn’t want to do it now. The only reason he was doing this with Sam was to prepare himself for a job and Sam was going to have to remember that. This wasn’t going to be like screwing an eager client, it would be more like the times back at the squat when one of the new kids had asked him to show them the ropes, not wanting their first time to be with a sweaty, uncaring john.
The door swung open and whatever Dean had been going to say died on his lips as he took in Sam’s appearance.
“Hi Dean,” Sam said casually, “Can I come in?”
Dean moved to one side and Sam moved past him into the motel.
Dean shut the door and then stood with his back against it.
“Two queens,” Sam said, “which one’s yours?”
“The one nearest the wall.”
Sam put his messenger bag on the floor and then sat down on Dean’s bed. Dean was wound so tight he was about to burst and Sam tried to think of something calming and non-threatening to say. Before he could come up with anything, Dean blurted:
“You look like a college student!”
Sam nodded. “That’s because I am a college student.”
Dean gaped at him. “But…how…why…?”
Sam kicked off his shoes, leaned one of the pillows against the headboard and then sat on the bed with his feet stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, “I’ll tell you the whole sordid saga of my life, but you have to come over here and sit next to me. Cuz this standing by the door looking like a rabbit that’s about to bolt? It’s hurting my fragile feelings.”
Dean’s mouth twitched in something that might’ve been a smile.
“You want a beer?” he asked, sauntering-somewhat tentatively-towards the bar fridge.
“Dean,” Sam grinned, voice faux-shocked. “Are you offering an eighteen-year-old alcohol? Are you trying to corrupt my innocence?”
Dean froze in front of the bar fridge.
“I’m joking,” Sam assured him, “the boat carrying my innocence sailed a long, long time ago.”
When Dean turned around he had two beers in his hands and a troubled expression on his face.
“Speaking of the illegal things we’re doing here tonight,’ Sam said brightly, “I’m gonna need the cash up front.”
Dean’s face shut off completely. He handed Sam his beer, put his own on the nightstand, and then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted out ten fifty dollar bills and handed them to Sam wordlessly. Sam put them in his ankle pouch and then smiled at Dean and patted the bed next to him. Dean sat down, hesitantly, right on the edge of the bed.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Sam said theatrically, “and the Captain said to the First Mate, Mate, tell us a story. And the First Mate began-”
“Are you really only eighteen?” Dean interjected.
“Pretty sure that’s not how he began,” Sam said lightly.
“Shut up. Are you?”
Sam nodded. “I’ll be nineteen on May 2nd.”
Dean chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes wide and his expression so very remorseful.
“Hey,” Sam bumped Dean’s shoulder gently with his own, “You wanna hear this story or not?”
Dean nodded; his eyes still troubled.
“Once upon a time,” Sam said, “there was a young girl and she lived with her momma and her little sister in a trailer park in Slaton, Texas. She was a real pretty girl, with green eyes and blonde curls but her family was poor and she never had nice dresses or cool toys or enough to eat. Her daddy took the bus to Dallas when the girl was just a toddler and he promised the girl’s momma that he’d send money home, just as soon as he found a job, but the only thing he ever sent were divorce papers. Then one day, a man who was someone real important down at City Hall started calling on the girl’s momma and before too long, the girl and her momma and her little sister moved into the man’s big, fancy house, and suddenly she had pretty dresses and all the toys she wanted. But it came at a price. Seems Mr Bigwig wasn’t so much interested in the girl’s momma as he was interested in the girl, and the girl, she knew that if she told, all the nice things would go away. And her momma and her little sister, they were so happy. So she didn’t tell. She was eleven when it started and she kept quiet and put up with it up until she turned fourteen and he started sharing her with his friends. Then she followed in her daddy’s footsteps and took the bus to Dallas. She tried to find him, her daddy, but she didn’t have the resources and she didn’t trust the shelters or children’s services or the cops; figured they’d just send her right on home to Mr Bigwig. So she found a squat and started working the streets. She used to tell us that working the streets was better than what had been going on at home because…she’d quote that douchebag movie, Pretty Woman: ‘I say when, I say where, I say with who’.
When she was sixteen she got knocked up and she decided to keep the baby,”
Sam paused for a moment and looked at Dean, whose face was just about as expressionless as Sam had ever seen it. “That baby was my sister, Jenny. Of course CPS weren’t too keen on letting a homeless sixteen-year-old hooker keep her baby, so she discharged herself from hospital AMA a day later and hitched a ride to Austin with some people she knew. A couple years later she took the bus to San Antonio. By that stage she was a heroin addict and rumor has it she left Austin in a real hurry cuz she owed too much money to too many people. She had me in San Antonio about eighteen months later. Apparently she hadn’t even realized she was knocked up until she went into labor on the floor of a crack house. She handed me off to my four-year-old sister and between Jenny and the family of illegal immigrants who were squatting in the same condemned apartment block as us, I somehow managed to survive. Everyone thought it was a miracle I didn’t die; divine intervention or something.”
Dean’s face was ashen. “So your mom-”
“No,” Sam cut him off. “The word ‘mom’ implies a degree of caring that just wasn’t there. The only thing Cherie cared about was her next fix. She might’ve supplied fifty percent of my genetic material, but she was an egg donor at best. I don’t even know if Cherie was her real name or just a working name. If anyone was my mom it was Jenny.”
Dean wet his lips and nodded. “So she…Cherie…she…what? Started pimping you and your sister out as soon as you were old enough?”
Sam shook his head. “She didn’t care what we did so long as we stayed out of her hair. We grew up pretty wild; we didn’t go to school, but we got a bit of tutoring here and there with the kids of the illegal immigrants,” Sam grinned up at Dean, “I’m actually bilingual, you know? I spoke Spanish before I spoke English.”
“Hey, that’s cool,” Dean grinned back at him, “I only speak English and Bad English.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Dude? Seriously? The fifth element? Didn’t pick you for a sci fi nerd.”
Dean knocked his shoulder into Sam’s. “Hey, Bruce Willis, man. Bruce Willis is cool. Tell me Diehard isn’t one of the most awesome action movies ever? C’mon!”
“Yeah, yeah. Yippee Ki yay motherfucker.”
Dean chuckled and they moved seamlessly into a discussion about movies, ending up in a good-natured debate over who was the better fighter, Chuck Norris or Jet Li.
“Dude,” Dean drained the last of his beer and set the empty bottle down on the nightstand, “Chuck Norris would kick Jet Li’s ass. There’s no competition. Chuck Norris doesn’t cheat death, Sammy, he wins fair and square.”
As the evening and the conversation had progressed, Sam had slowly edged himself closer to Dean so that for the last fifteen minutes or so their shoulders and long, outstretched legs had been flush up against each other. Dean didn’t seem to have noticed; seemed quite comfortable with the close contact and was more relaxed than Sam had seen him yet.
Sam let his hand drop to Dean’s thigh and sighed.
“Chuck Norris jokes? Really? You’re one of those asshats who thinks licorice is a classic movie food too, aren’t you?”
Dean didn’t answer. He was staring at Sam’s hand. Sam didn’t move it, just waited to see what Dean was going to do next. Dean swallowed hard and looked up and Sam could see both fear and arousal in his eyes. The fear won out. Dean pushed himself off the bed and stepped over to the bar fridge.
“You want another beer?”
“Better not,” Sam fiddled with the label on his bottle while he watched Dean help himself to another drink. “You know, I don’t usually drink when I’m with a client. I guess I must trust you.”
Dean leaned back against the wood grain bench that the bar fridge was sitting beneath.
“I forgot,” he confessed, “we were…shootin’ the breeze, having a beer…I was enjoying myself. Kinda forgot we weren’t just two regular guys.”
“We are, you know,” Sam said, “Underneath it all; me hooking, you killing monsters, underneath all that, we’re still just two regular guys. We shouldn’t forget that.”
Dean nodded. “I really don’t wanna do this,” he said.
“I get that,” Sam said, “believe me, I totally get that.”
Dean flushed. “And now I feel like a dick. It’s not you, Sammy, it’s-” he broke off with a muttered curse. “God, I can’t believe I just…look…if we’d met at a bar or something-” he stuttered to a stop again and scowled. “I’ve never looked twice at another guy before,” he confessed. “But this whole thing has got me thinking that way about guys and…a part of me…doesn’t find you totally unattractive.”
“Wow,” Sam grinned. “That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me. I think I might be going to tear up a little.”
Dean grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he said shortly. “I’ve got this real bad case of foot in mouth disease.”
Sam laughed. “Well if it’s any consolation I don’t find you totally repulsive either. Just the opposite in fact.” He raised his empty beer bottle at Dean. “You’re right…tonight has just felt like a couple of buddies hanging out and it’s been fun. And you know what, Dean? That’s okay. I’m here for a job, sure…but you’re just here for a job too. I respect what you’re doing Dean, why you’re doing it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves too, right?”
“Easy for you to say,” Dean retorted nervously, “you’re not the one about to get something shoved up his ass for the first time.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “No,” he said. “When that happened to me, I was fourteen.”
“Shit,” Dean slid down onto the floor and sat with his back resting against the bar fridge. He drew his knees up, rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. “Shit,” he said again.
The mattress springs creaked as Sam got up off the bed.
“Hey,” he said, sitting down next to Dean on the floor and putting an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay.”
Dean lifted his head. “No,” he said. “It really isn’t.”
Sam met his eyes. “No,” he agreed, “it isn’t, but I can’t change my past. It was what it was. And hey, I turned out pretty good all things considered. Look at me now-I got a full ride to Stanford.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “You got a full ride? Sammy that’s awesome.” He frowned. “But you’re still…you know…”
Sam shrugged. “Got myself into debt. You’re my last trick ever. Way to go out on a high note, huh?”
Dean snorted. “Some high note: a freaked out, mostly straight guy who really doesn’t want you to do what he’s paying you to do. Client from hell more like it.”
“Mostly straight?” Sam queried.
Dean ducked his head. “Now that I’ve thought about it…you know…you and me…if we’d met under different circumstances…and if I was gonna be the pitcher not the catcher…and if we worked our way up to it…then maybe…you know…it wouldn’t be so bad.” By the time he’d finished speaking Dean was a very pretty shade of scarlet.
Sam nodded. “We can work our way up to it. I said I was yours until May Day and I meant it. And if you want…if it’ll make it easier for you, you can fuck me first.”
“No!” Dean’s reaction was instant and visceral in its revulsion.
For a moment Sam felt the sharp sting of rejection and then Dean clarified:
“This isn’t about me getting off; it’s about me learning how to do something so I can save my dad without too much trauma. I can’t fuck you, Sammy, not as a paying client. Those goddamn Faeries have got one thing right; sex for pleasure shouldn’t be something you pay for.”
Sam was sorely tempted to give Dean his money back. He connected with Dean in a way he hadn’t connected with anyone in a long while; in different circumstances he thought maybe they could’ve had something. In the end though, pragmatism won out. Dean wasn’t any kind of long term proposition; he’d do what he had to, rescue his dad and move on. Sam needed to keep the money, needed to not miss any classes and focus on his future. In the meantime though, he intended to ring every ounce of pleasure he could out of his time with Dean.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
Sam tilted his head and looked deeply into Dean’s eyes. “I would really, really like to kiss you now. Can I?”
Dean drew breath sharply and shivered, just a little.
“Don’t hookers have some rule about kissing?”
“Only in stupid, completely unrealistic movies. Can I?”
“Um…Okay?”
Sam leaned in slowly. He paused millimeters from Dean’s lips and murmured: “Are you sure?”
In answer, Dean closed the gap between them. His lips were every bit as soft and plump as they’d looked and Sam brought up the arm that wasn’t wrapped around Dean’s shoulders and put his hand on the back of Dean’s head, pulling him in closer. Dean tensed, but he didn’t pull away. Sam continued to pepper his lips with soft kisses until Dean relaxed again. When his lips fell slightly open, Sam didn’t waste the opportunity, licking his way into Dean’s mouth and sucking gently on his tongue. Dean made a soft noise that definitely wasn’t a protest and Sam melted against him, tongue-fucking the hot cavern of his mouth with a passion he usually reserved for people he was dating. When Dean pushed his hands up underneath Sam’s shirt, Sam was surprised…in a very good way. He moaned as Dean rubbed at his nipples and then hauled Dean onto his lap, so that they were sitting facing each other, their hard dicks pushed together. Dean thrust against him a couple of times and groaned into Sam’s mouth. And then froze completely, before scrambling off Sam’s lap, a look of horror on his face.
“Shit,” he said, wiping a shaking hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked softly.
“I’m not supposed to enjoy this!” Dean almost shouted. “I don’t wanna be some asshole trick who uses you to get himself off and…Jesus, Sammy…you were fourteen!”
“I’m not fourteen now, though. And you’re not using me. If anything I’m using you, because being with you is awesome, Dean. I actually feel guilty for taking your money, but I need it too much to give it back.”
Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair.
“Is it weird that I want to track down every asshole who ever hurt you and rip his goddamn lungs out?"
Sam smiled, his eyes lighting up and his dimples blooming on his cheeks.
“A little,” he agreed, “but I kinda like it. It’s been a long time since I had someone watching my back.”
Dean frowned. “Your sister…?”
Sam got up slowly and joined Dean on the bed.
“She died. When I was fourteen.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean said simply, his eyes brimming with understanding and compassion. He leaned in and gave Sam a soft, chaste kiss. “I’m so sorry, Sammy.”
Sam shook his head. “Sammy’s a scared fourteen-year-old hooker. That’s not who I am anymore…not who I want to be with you. You can call me Sam.”
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April 14th, 2002
On Sunday afternoon, Dean found a large, expensive bar near the college campus and nursed a beer at a quiet corner table, quietly scouting for prey. His interest was finally peaked when a group of well-dressed, loud-mouthed fraternity brothers swaggered in like they owned the place, each with a pretty girl on his arm. Dean watched as a blond guy in tan chinos and a navy-and-white crewneck sweater bullied a couple of younger students off the pool table. With a smug smirk, the guy-who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog-racked up the balls and threw a handful of notes down on the edge of the table. Dean watched the frat boys play a couple of games from his table in the corner and then wandered over for a closer look, edging himself next to the Ralph Lauren model’s girlfriend. Ralph leaned over to take a shot, two-ball into the corner pocket, and Dean gave a low whistle.
“That’s a hard shot,” he said to the girlfriend, loudly enough for Ralph to hear, “I bet he misses.”
Ralph looked up from his shot and met Dean’s eyes and Dean smiled innocently, and then proceeded to con the college boys into challenging him to a pool competition. It was a little like taking candy from babies and if the guys hadn’t been such a bunch of arrogant douchebags, Dean might’ve felt a little guilty about hustling them out of a significant sum of money.
Back at the motel, he got on the phone to Bobby Singer who had a few choice words to say about John Winchester’s plan to douse Gwyn Ap Nudd with holy water.
“That ain’t hunters’ lore,” he told Dean scathingly. “It’s plain up wishful thinkin’ on the part of the Christian church. Faeries ain’t evil son; you can’t hurt ‘em with holy water. Put your damn fool of a father on the phone so I can give him a piece of my mind.”
“He’s out right now Bobby. So what can kill a Faerie?”
Dean listened to the swish of pages turning and the occasional mutter from Bobby.
“Decapitation with an iron sword oughta do it,” the older hunter said at last, “Getting close’ll be the hard part. Faeries are wicked fast, magickal and telepathic. And Gwyn Ap Nudd’s their king. He’s gonna be well-guarded Dean, there ain’t much chance of you gettin’ close to him with an iron sword.”
Dean ran a hand over his eyes. Getting close wasn’t going to be a problem; getting close with a sword…yeah…that might be tough, given that he was probably going to be naked for this stupid goddamn rite, not like he’d have anywhere to hide a big-ass iron sword. He thought for a moment. “Do you know any spells that could summon a sword?”
Bobby snorted. “You been watchin’ Bewitched again son? Think I can wiggle my nose and make somethin’ appear outta thin air?”
“Well you do have that cute little button nose like Samantha,” Dean teased.
He could almost hear Bobby rolling his eyes. “Demons, spirits and deities. They’re the only things you can summon with ritual, and that ain’t somethin’ you want to be messin’ around with, you hear me?”
Dean sighed.
“You hear me, son?” Bobby said sharply.
“Yes, Bobby. I hear you.”
“Good. You tell your Daddy to give me a call when he’s back, alright?”
After Bobby hung up Dean helped himself to a beer and then sat at the motel table, with his feet up on the seat opposite. In a couple of hours Sammy was going to turn up and…fuck…Dean groaned and gulped at his beer. Yeah. Fuck was exactly what Sammy was going to do and the thought had Dean’s stomach in knots. He took Sammy’s cell phone number out of his wallet and stared at the grubby, torn off bit of paper. Maybe he should call Sammy? Tell him to forget about it. Dean took another swig of his beer. Practicing was a stupid idea. He would just do what he had to do, when he had to do it. Dean grimaced. Except…what he had to do was Gwyn Ap Nudd. Or, more accurately the Faerie king was going to do him. In front of a whole bunch of other…Faeries. And he was going to have to hold still and let Ap Nudd humiliate him and hurt him and he was going to freak the fuck out, his flight or fight response was going to kick in and, because Dean Winchester was no stranger to fighting the supernatural, instead of going along obediently with the ritual he was going to attack the Faerie king and then Ap Nudd was going to use his magick to hold Dean immobile and he wouldn’t be able to move, wouldn’t have any control at all and the Faerie king would…he would …he would…okay…breathe, Dean … breathe … breathe…this is why you’re going to practice. So you don’t panic, so you don’t fight it, so you get to keep at least some semblance of control.
Once he’d got his breathing steady, Dean put the empty beer bottle on the table with a shaking hand. He got to his feet, ran a hand across the back of his neck and decided to go and take a long, hot shower.
-X-
Sam was beyond tired. He’d worked his first shift in the dining hall after only four hours sleep and even though the work itself was easy enough, he’d been kept frantically busy all day. He’d gotten home at half past three, slept until six, showered, eaten-pigged out to be more accurate, seeing as he didn’t have to worry about getting fucked on a full stomach tonight-and now he was trying to decide what to wear for his appointment with Dean. He’d discounted his hooker outfit straight away; he used that to lure in johns but Dean was already on the hook. Besides, this wasn’t your usual type of gig. Sam actually liked Dean for a start, and he didn’t think the man would appreciate a very obvious-looking hooker turning up on his doorstep, even if he was staying at the kind of motel where that sort of thing wasn’t exactly unheard of. So Sam wore his nice jeans and a blue and tan button down shirt. He didn’t bother rimming his eyes with kohl, but he did pack a bag of equipment and supplies that he thought might be useful.
Sam knocked on Dean’s motel door and waited. There was no noise coming from inside, no television, no shower, and no footsteps coming toward the door. Sam knocked again and this time he heard a toilet flush. Sam frowned. He was pretty excited about this job, but now that he thought about it, Sam was willing to bet good money that Dean was more terrified than excited. Dean had never done this before and he didn’t want to do it now. The only reason he was doing this with Sam was to prepare himself for a job and Sam was going to have to remember that. This wasn’t going to be like screwing an eager client, it would be more like the times back at the squat when one of the new kids had asked him to show them the ropes, not wanting their first time to be with a sweaty, uncaring john.
The door swung open and whatever Dean had been going to say died on his lips as he took in Sam’s appearance.
“Hi Dean,” Sam said casually, “Can I come in?”
Dean moved to one side and Sam moved past him into the motel.
Dean shut the door and then stood with his back against it.
“Two queens,” Sam said, “which one’s yours?”
“The one nearest the wall.”
Sam put his messenger bag on the floor and then sat down on Dean’s bed. Dean was wound so tight he was about to burst and Sam tried to think of something calming and non-threatening to say. Before he could come up with anything, Dean blurted:
“You look like a college student!”
Sam nodded. “That’s because I am a college student.”
Dean gaped at him. “But…how…why…?”
Sam kicked off his shoes, leaned one of the pillows against the headboard and then sat on the bed with his feet stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, “I’ll tell you the whole sordid saga of my life, but you have to come over here and sit next to me. Cuz this standing by the door looking like a rabbit that’s about to bolt? It’s hurting my fragile feelings.”
Dean’s mouth twitched in something that might’ve been a smile.
“You want a beer?” he asked, sauntering-somewhat tentatively-towards the bar fridge.
“Dean,” Sam grinned, voice faux-shocked. “Are you offering an eighteen-year-old alcohol? Are you trying to corrupt my innocence?”
Dean froze in front of the bar fridge.
“I’m joking,” Sam assured him, “the boat carrying my innocence sailed a long, long time ago.”
When Dean turned around he had two beers in his hands and a troubled expression on his face.
“Speaking of the illegal things we’re doing here tonight,’ Sam said brightly, “I’m gonna need the cash up front.”
Dean’s face shut off completely. He handed Sam his beer, put his own on the nightstand, and then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He counted out ten fifty dollar bills and handed them to Sam wordlessly. Sam put them in his ankle pouch and then smiled at Dean and patted the bed next to him. Dean sat down, hesitantly, right on the edge of the bed.
“It was a dark and stormy night,” Sam said theatrically, “and the Captain said to the First Mate, Mate, tell us a story. And the First Mate began-”
“Are you really only eighteen?” Dean interjected.
“Pretty sure that’s not how he began,” Sam said lightly.
“Shut up. Are you?”
Sam nodded. “I’ll be nineteen on May 2nd.”
Dean chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes wide and his expression so very remorseful.
“Hey,” Sam bumped Dean’s shoulder gently with his own, “You wanna hear this story or not?”
Dean nodded; his eyes still troubled.
“Once upon a time,” Sam said, “there was a young girl and she lived with her momma and her little sister in a trailer park in Slaton, Texas. She was a real pretty girl, with green eyes and blonde curls but her family was poor and she never had nice dresses or cool toys or enough to eat. Her daddy took the bus to Dallas when the girl was just a toddler and he promised the girl’s momma that he’d send money home, just as soon as he found a job, but the only thing he ever sent were divorce papers. Then one day, a man who was someone real important down at City Hall started calling on the girl’s momma and before too long, the girl and her momma and her little sister moved into the man’s big, fancy house, and suddenly she had pretty dresses and all the toys she wanted. But it came at a price. Seems Mr Bigwig wasn’t so much interested in the girl’s momma as he was interested in the girl, and the girl, she knew that if she told, all the nice things would go away. And her momma and her little sister, they were so happy. So she didn’t tell. She was eleven when it started and she kept quiet and put up with it up until she turned fourteen and he started sharing her with his friends. Then she followed in her daddy’s footsteps and took the bus to Dallas. She tried to find him, her daddy, but she didn’t have the resources and she didn’t trust the shelters or children’s services or the cops; figured they’d just send her right on home to Mr Bigwig. So she found a squat and started working the streets. She used to tell us that working the streets was better than what had been going on at home because…she’d quote that douchebag movie, Pretty Woman: ‘I say when, I say where, I say with who’.
When she was sixteen she got knocked up and she decided to keep the baby,”
Sam paused for a moment and looked at Dean, whose face was just about as expressionless as Sam had ever seen it. “That baby was my sister, Jenny. Of course CPS weren’t too keen on letting a homeless sixteen-year-old hooker keep her baby, so she discharged herself from hospital AMA a day later and hitched a ride to Austin with some people she knew. A couple years later she took the bus to San Antonio. By that stage she was a heroin addict and rumor has it she left Austin in a real hurry cuz she owed too much money to too many people. She had me in San Antonio about eighteen months later. Apparently she hadn’t even realized she was knocked up until she went into labor on the floor of a crack house. She handed me off to my four-year-old sister and between Jenny and the family of illegal immigrants who were squatting in the same condemned apartment block as us, I somehow managed to survive. Everyone thought it was a miracle I didn’t die; divine intervention or something.”
Dean’s face was ashen. “So your mom-”
“No,” Sam cut him off. “The word ‘mom’ implies a degree of caring that just wasn’t there. The only thing Cherie cared about was her next fix. She might’ve supplied fifty percent of my genetic material, but she was an egg donor at best. I don’t even know if Cherie was her real name or just a working name. If anyone was my mom it was Jenny.”
Dean wet his lips and nodded. “So she…Cherie…she…what? Started pimping you and your sister out as soon as you were old enough?”
Sam shook his head. “She didn’t care what we did so long as we stayed out of her hair. We grew up pretty wild; we didn’t go to school, but we got a bit of tutoring here and there with the kids of the illegal immigrants,” Sam grinned up at Dean, “I’m actually bilingual, you know? I spoke Spanish before I spoke English.”
“Hey, that’s cool,” Dean grinned back at him, “I only speak English and Bad English.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Dude? Seriously? The fifth element? Didn’t pick you for a sci fi nerd.”
Dean knocked his shoulder into Sam’s. “Hey, Bruce Willis, man. Bruce Willis is cool. Tell me Diehard isn’t one of the most awesome action movies ever? C’mon!”
“Yeah, yeah. Yippee Ki yay motherfucker.”
Dean chuckled and they moved seamlessly into a discussion about movies, ending up in a good-natured debate over who was the better fighter, Chuck Norris or Jet Li.
“Dude,” Dean drained the last of his beer and set the empty bottle down on the nightstand, “Chuck Norris would kick Jet Li’s ass. There’s no competition. Chuck Norris doesn’t cheat death, Sammy, he wins fair and square.”
As the evening and the conversation had progressed, Sam had slowly edged himself closer to Dean so that for the last fifteen minutes or so their shoulders and long, outstretched legs had been flush up against each other. Dean didn’t seem to have noticed; seemed quite comfortable with the close contact and was more relaxed than Sam had seen him yet.
Sam let his hand drop to Dean’s thigh and sighed.
“Chuck Norris jokes? Really? You’re one of those asshats who thinks licorice is a classic movie food too, aren’t you?”
Dean didn’t answer. He was staring at Sam’s hand. Sam didn’t move it, just waited to see what Dean was going to do next. Dean swallowed hard and looked up and Sam could see both fear and arousal in his eyes. The fear won out. Dean pushed himself off the bed and stepped over to the bar fridge.
“You want another beer?”
“Better not,” Sam fiddled with the label on his bottle while he watched Dean help himself to another drink. “You know, I don’t usually drink when I’m with a client. I guess I must trust you.”
Dean leaned back against the wood grain bench that the bar fridge was sitting beneath.
“I forgot,” he confessed, “we were…shootin’ the breeze, having a beer…I was enjoying myself. Kinda forgot we weren’t just two regular guys.”
“We are, you know,” Sam said, “Underneath it all; me hooking, you killing monsters, underneath all that, we’re still just two regular guys. We shouldn’t forget that.”
Dean nodded. “I really don’t wanna do this,” he said.
“I get that,” Sam said, “believe me, I totally get that.”
Dean flushed. “And now I feel like a dick. It’s not you, Sammy, it’s-” he broke off with a muttered curse. “God, I can’t believe I just…look…if we’d met at a bar or something-” he stuttered to a stop again and scowled. “I’ve never looked twice at another guy before,” he confessed. “But this whole thing has got me thinking that way about guys and…a part of me…doesn’t find you totally unattractive.”
“Wow,” Sam grinned. “That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me. I think I might be going to tear up a little.”
Dean grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he said shortly. “I’ve got this real bad case of foot in mouth disease.”
Sam laughed. “Well if it’s any consolation I don’t find you totally repulsive either. Just the opposite in fact.” He raised his empty beer bottle at Dean. “You’re right…tonight has just felt like a couple of buddies hanging out and it’s been fun. And you know what, Dean? That’s okay. I’m here for a job, sure…but you’re just here for a job too. I respect what you’re doing Dean, why you’re doing it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves too, right?”
“Easy for you to say,” Dean retorted nervously, “you’re not the one about to get something shoved up his ass for the first time.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “No,” he said. “When that happened to me, I was fourteen.”
“Shit,” Dean slid down onto the floor and sat with his back resting against the bar fridge. He drew his knees up, rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. “Shit,” he said again.
The mattress springs creaked as Sam got up off the bed.
“Hey,” he said, sitting down next to Dean on the floor and putting an arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay.”
Dean lifted his head. “No,” he said. “It really isn’t.”
Sam met his eyes. “No,” he agreed, “it isn’t, but I can’t change my past. It was what it was. And hey, I turned out pretty good all things considered. Look at me now-I got a full ride to Stanford.”
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “You got a full ride? Sammy that’s awesome.” He frowned. “But you’re still…you know…”
Sam shrugged. “Got myself into debt. You’re my last trick ever. Way to go out on a high note, huh?”
Dean snorted. “Some high note: a freaked out, mostly straight guy who really doesn’t want you to do what he’s paying you to do. Client from hell more like it.”
“Mostly straight?” Sam queried.
Dean ducked his head. “Now that I’ve thought about it…you know…you and me…if we’d met under different circumstances…and if I was gonna be the pitcher not the catcher…and if we worked our way up to it…then maybe…you know…it wouldn’t be so bad.” By the time he’d finished speaking Dean was a very pretty shade of scarlet.
Sam nodded. “We can work our way up to it. I said I was yours until May Day and I meant it. And if you want…if it’ll make it easier for you, you can fuck me first.”
“No!” Dean’s reaction was instant and visceral in its revulsion.
For a moment Sam felt the sharp sting of rejection and then Dean clarified:
“This isn’t about me getting off; it’s about me learning how to do something so I can save my dad without too much trauma. I can’t fuck you, Sammy, not as a paying client. Those goddamn Faeries have got one thing right; sex for pleasure shouldn’t be something you pay for.”
Sam was sorely tempted to give Dean his money back. He connected with Dean in a way he hadn’t connected with anyone in a long while; in different circumstances he thought maybe they could’ve had something. In the end though, pragmatism won out. Dean wasn’t any kind of long term proposition; he’d do what he had to, rescue his dad and move on. Sam needed to keep the money, needed to not miss any classes and focus on his future. In the meantime though, he intended to ring every ounce of pleasure he could out of his time with Dean.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
Sam tilted his head and looked deeply into Dean’s eyes. “I would really, really like to kiss you now. Can I?”
Dean drew breath sharply and shivered, just a little.
“Don’t hookers have some rule about kissing?”
“Only in stupid, completely unrealistic movies. Can I?”
“Um…Okay?”
Sam leaned in slowly. He paused millimeters from Dean’s lips and murmured: “Are you sure?”
In answer, Dean closed the gap between them. His lips were every bit as soft and plump as they’d looked and Sam brought up the arm that wasn’t wrapped around Dean’s shoulders and put his hand on the back of Dean’s head, pulling him in closer. Dean tensed, but he didn’t pull away. Sam continued to pepper his lips with soft kisses until Dean relaxed again. When his lips fell slightly open, Sam didn’t waste the opportunity, licking his way into Dean’s mouth and sucking gently on his tongue. Dean made a soft noise that definitely wasn’t a protest and Sam melted against him, tongue-fucking the hot cavern of his mouth with a passion he usually reserved for people he was dating. When Dean pushed his hands up underneath Sam’s shirt, Sam was surprised…in a very good way. He moaned as Dean rubbed at his nipples and then hauled Dean onto his lap, so that they were sitting facing each other, their hard dicks pushed together. Dean thrust against him a couple of times and groaned into Sam’s mouth. And then froze completely, before scrambling off Sam’s lap, a look of horror on his face.
“Shit,” he said, wiping a shaking hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked softly.
“I’m not supposed to enjoy this!” Dean almost shouted. “I don’t wanna be some asshole trick who uses you to get himself off and…Jesus, Sammy…you were fourteen!”
“I’m not fourteen now, though. And you’re not using me. If anything I’m using you, because being with you is awesome, Dean. I actually feel guilty for taking your money, but I need it too much to give it back.”
Dean sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair.
“Is it weird that I want to track down every asshole who ever hurt you and rip his goddamn lungs out?"
Sam smiled, his eyes lighting up and his dimples blooming on his cheeks.
“A little,” he agreed, “but I kinda like it. It’s been a long time since I had someone watching my back.”
Dean frowned. “Your sister…?”
Sam got up slowly and joined Dean on the bed.
“She died. When I was fourteen.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean said simply, his eyes brimming with understanding and compassion. He leaned in and gave Sam a soft, chaste kiss. “I’m so sorry, Sammy.”
Sam shook his head. “Sammy’s a scared fourteen-year-old hooker. That’s not who I am anymore…not who I want to be with you. You can call me Sam.”
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