Fic: Wolf in Lamb's Clothing
Title: Wolf in Lamb’s Clothing
Author: zara_zee
Genre: prompt fic, hooker fic
Pairings: Dean/OMCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,500
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not profit
Warnings: teen-hooker!Dean. Underage sex. Prostitution
A/N: Written for Frozen_Delight’s prompt on the Hoodie-time Dean-centric Summer Wishlist meme. Her Wish 3 was for a realistic teen!Dean hooker fic. Wish filled! (I hope). I hope this works for you, Hun.
Summary: No-one has ever succeeded in ripping Dean off or taking anything he hadn’t agreed to give, because Dean has been trained by a Marine to fight monsters. Sometimes, putting a douchebag on his ass and making him genuinely fear for his life is the best part of Dean’s evening.
*The picture was made for my fic for last year's J2 Bigbang by apieceofcake.
--
Dean thinks he’s probably bi.
Mostly straight, but not entirely. Big breasts and soft curves turn him on like nothing else. But so do big dicks and chiseled abs.
Nobody knows about the guys. Well. The guys he’s fooled around with, obviously they know. But they’re nobody. Dad would be disappointed and Sammy…Dean snorts…Sammy would buy a fuckton of rainbow-colored gay pride stickers for his school books and join the GSA in every Podunk town they landed in. No thank you.
Dean hustles sometimes. Pool, of course. Cards too. But more often than not it’s faster and easier and more financially worthwhile to just suck cock.
The majority of Dean’s clients are men.
And when he says ‘majority’, he means all.
Women don’t solicit young guys for sex on street corners or in dive bars. Dean’s heard on the hooker grapevine that a high class escort will sometimes get female clients, but if you’re on your knees in a back alley, you’re sucking cock.
Dean discovered that he likes sucking cock by accident. He was fifteen, and having almost as many idle fantasies about guys as he had about girls. He’d never really kissed anyone at fifteen; there’d been a couple games of spin the bottle, but nothing serious. They moved around too often for serious.
Karl was a motel manager. He was tall and broad, early-thirties with Hasselhoff hair, hair on his chest and a sweet Mustang, cherry red, in mint condition. It was summer, school had just started back, and Dad left them for a couple days to take care of a poltergeist a few towns over.
Only a couple days stretched out to a week.
They had money. Money wasn’t a problem. But Karl had been dropping subtle hints for a while, resting his hand on Dean’s thigh for far too long, and Dean, he wanted to mess around with Karl, but he was shit-scared. He was actually kind of relieved when Karl threatened to call CPS if Dean didn’t blow him, because that meant he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t be blamed. He could pretend he didn’t want to do it. That pretense didn’t hold out too well when Dean had to get his hand in his pants half way through blowing Karl and jerk himself off. The smooth weight of Karl’s cock on his tongue, the clean, salty smell of him, had Dean chubbing up fast. And when Karl took hold of his head and began to thrust, little abortive jerks of his hips accompanied by small, breathy moans, Dean was just gone.
“With a mouth like yours,” Karl told him afterwards, “you could make a fucking fortune.”
Fortune was perhaps overstating it, but Dean does alright. He learned to dress the part and hide the Hunter; the predator; and guys so desperate for sex that they’re willing to pay for it will see what they want to see anyway.
Dean learned early on to get the money up front. Tricks (never johns; John is his father and Dean just can’t…ugh…) anyway, tricks are usually either sad pathetic losers or assholes. The assholes aren’t above trying to rip off an underage hooker or take more than they’ve paid for. No-one has ever succeeded in ripping Dean off or taking anything he hadn’t agreed to give, because Dean has been trained by a Marine to fight monsters. Sometimes, putting a douchebag on his ass and making him genuinely fear for his life is the best part of Dean’s evening.
“You’re the asshole who can’t get a date,” he likes to tell them when they’re bleeding on the ground, “the loser who has to pay to get laid.”
Some guys pay to suck his dick, which Dean thinks is weird. He can’t imagine ever paying anybody for that. He can’t imagine paying for sex, period. For fun, he mostly sticks to girls, because if he’s with a guy he can’t help feeling like he’s giving away freebies.
He gets serious about a girl for the first time when he’s sixteen.
Of all the things he could’ve gotten in trouble for, it’s stealing food that gets him hauled before a judge and sent to some Boys Home for Wayward Teens. He’d been stupid. Those poker players were way out of his league, he should’ve stuck to blow jobs. The Home is actually not too bad. He likes Sonny, likes the other guys and he meets Robin. Robin is awesome. He can imagine a life with her, white picket fence, the lot. Then Dad comes and he has to bail and he knows there’s no such thing as they all lived happily ever after. Not for him. His happy endings involve somebody else’s orgasm and a pocketful of cash.
He gets fucked for the first time a week after his seventeenth birthday. The guy, Ronnie, is a client; has become a regular in the months they’ve been living in Omaha and he’s been pushing for it for a while. He finally offers a sum of money that Dean can’t turn down. They do it in the back of Ronnie’s white Dodge Tradesman van, on a double mattress he has wedged in the back. Dean makes Ronnie use lube and a condom, but the guy doesn’t prep him and Dean didn’t think to prep himself. It hurts. Like, a lot. But it isn’t as bad as the time he got scratched up by that werewolf, so he grits his teeth and bears down and thinks of the money and eventually it stops hurting.
The next time Ronnie calls, Dean gets himself clean, then pre-lubes and stretches himself before they meet up. It’s better. He even manages to get off, which sends Ronnie wild.
Ronnie starts to think they’re something special, starts to get possessive. Dean ends up having to pull a knife on the guy and channel every bit of badass, monster hunter he can manage to get the guy to back off.
At home, and at school when he was still going, Dean talked long and loud about girls and cars and rock music. He watched straight porn and hooked up with hot girls. Neither his Dad nor Sammy knew anything about the guys or the hooking. Around them he was aggressively straight and they knew he was good at pool, good at poker, so they just accepted his word that all the money he earned came from that kind of hustling.
He’s eighteen now and still young enough and twinkie enough to make good cash hooking. It’s cold out tonight and he wouldn’t be hanging out on this street corner just down the road a ways from the city’s entertainment precinct if Dad hadn’t got banged up by a Harpie. The meds he’s on are expensive and they’ve got a hospital bill to pay and yesterday, Mark Bonham’s credit card was declined at the supermarket.
Dean crosses his legs at the ankle, leans back against the wall and cocks his hip. The only other hooker out here tonight is Rosalina, a fifty-three year old, six-foot-tall, chubby transgender woman who’s wearing black suspenders, a black skirt so short Dean can see her red lace panties, and black-and-white knee-high fluffy boots. Her make-up is over the top, but she’s sweet. She came across to offer Dean a cigarette and to tell him that she’s only here until she makes enough for her next hit.
A dark blue Mitsubishi Diamante pulls over and the window winds down. An arm points at Dean.
He strolls over, swinging his hips just a little, and bends down, resting his forearms on the open window. The trick is average in every way, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a roll of duct tape and a length of rope in the trunk. Dean is always vigilant. They talk terms and agree on a price for service and Dean straightens up and opens the car door.
“Stay safe, Hun,” Rosalina calls.
Dean sketches her a wave; he appreciates the kindness. He directs the trick to a convenient parking garage and wonders, not for the first time, what it says about him that the places he feels most at home are dive bars, street corners and a boys’ home. He wonders if he’ll land in prison one day; it’s not unheard of, for Hunters. Dean actually looks good in orange and with his social skills he’d probably fit right in.
It’s flattering that people are prepared to pay to get their hands on him. He thinks he’ll miss that validation when he’s done; because he won’t do this forever. In fact, he probably won’t do it for very much longer. His shoulders are getting broad, his muscles filling out, and there’s not a lot about him that’s vulnerable or innocent. He’s been a wolf in lamb’s clothing since he turned his first trick, but he won’t be able to pull off that act much longer.
The trick says something and Dean’s lips curve in an insincere smile. “Cash up front,” he says and lets the trick see the wolf in his eyes.
The End
Author: zara_zee
Genre: prompt fic, hooker fic
Pairings: Dean/OMCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,500
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not profit
Warnings: teen-hooker!Dean. Underage sex. Prostitution
A/N: Written for Frozen_Delight’s prompt on the Hoodie-time Dean-centric Summer Wishlist meme. Her Wish 3 was for a realistic teen!Dean hooker fic. Wish filled! (I hope). I hope this works for you, Hun.
Summary: No-one has ever succeeded in ripping Dean off or taking anything he hadn’t agreed to give, because Dean has been trained by a Marine to fight monsters. Sometimes, putting a douchebag on his ass and making him genuinely fear for his life is the best part of Dean’s evening.
*The picture was made for my fic for last year's J2 Bigbang by apieceofcake.
--
Dean thinks he’s probably bi.
Mostly straight, but not entirely. Big breasts and soft curves turn him on like nothing else. But so do big dicks and chiseled abs.
Nobody knows about the guys. Well. The guys he’s fooled around with, obviously they know. But they’re nobody. Dad would be disappointed and Sammy…Dean snorts…Sammy would buy a fuckton of rainbow-colored gay pride stickers for his school books and join the GSA in every Podunk town they landed in. No thank you.
Dean hustles sometimes. Pool, of course. Cards too. But more often than not it’s faster and easier and more financially worthwhile to just suck cock.
The majority of Dean’s clients are men.
And when he says ‘majority’, he means all.
Women don’t solicit young guys for sex on street corners or in dive bars. Dean’s heard on the hooker grapevine that a high class escort will sometimes get female clients, but if you’re on your knees in a back alley, you’re sucking cock.
Dean discovered that he likes sucking cock by accident. He was fifteen, and having almost as many idle fantasies about guys as he had about girls. He’d never really kissed anyone at fifteen; there’d been a couple games of spin the bottle, but nothing serious. They moved around too often for serious.
Karl was a motel manager. He was tall and broad, early-thirties with Hasselhoff hair, hair on his chest and a sweet Mustang, cherry red, in mint condition. It was summer, school had just started back, and Dad left them for a couple days to take care of a poltergeist a few towns over.
Only a couple days stretched out to a week.
They had money. Money wasn’t a problem. But Karl had been dropping subtle hints for a while, resting his hand on Dean’s thigh for far too long, and Dean, he wanted to mess around with Karl, but he was shit-scared. He was actually kind of relieved when Karl threatened to call CPS if Dean didn’t blow him, because that meant he didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t be blamed. He could pretend he didn’t want to do it. That pretense didn’t hold out too well when Dean had to get his hand in his pants half way through blowing Karl and jerk himself off. The smooth weight of Karl’s cock on his tongue, the clean, salty smell of him, had Dean chubbing up fast. And when Karl took hold of his head and began to thrust, little abortive jerks of his hips accompanied by small, breathy moans, Dean was just gone.
“With a mouth like yours,” Karl told him afterwards, “you could make a fucking fortune.”
Fortune was perhaps overstating it, but Dean does alright. He learned to dress the part and hide the Hunter; the predator; and guys so desperate for sex that they’re willing to pay for it will see what they want to see anyway.
Dean learned early on to get the money up front. Tricks (never johns; John is his father and Dean just can’t…ugh…) anyway, tricks are usually either sad pathetic losers or assholes. The assholes aren’t above trying to rip off an underage hooker or take more than they’ve paid for. No-one has ever succeeded in ripping Dean off or taking anything he hadn’t agreed to give, because Dean has been trained by a Marine to fight monsters. Sometimes, putting a douchebag on his ass and making him genuinely fear for his life is the best part of Dean’s evening.
“You’re the asshole who can’t get a date,” he likes to tell them when they’re bleeding on the ground, “the loser who has to pay to get laid.”
Some guys pay to suck his dick, which Dean thinks is weird. He can’t imagine ever paying anybody for that. He can’t imagine paying for sex, period. For fun, he mostly sticks to girls, because if he’s with a guy he can’t help feeling like he’s giving away freebies.
He gets serious about a girl for the first time when he’s sixteen.
Of all the things he could’ve gotten in trouble for, it’s stealing food that gets him hauled before a judge and sent to some Boys Home for Wayward Teens. He’d been stupid. Those poker players were way out of his league, he should’ve stuck to blow jobs. The Home is actually not too bad. He likes Sonny, likes the other guys and he meets Robin. Robin is awesome. He can imagine a life with her, white picket fence, the lot. Then Dad comes and he has to bail and he knows there’s no such thing as they all lived happily ever after. Not for him. His happy endings involve somebody else’s orgasm and a pocketful of cash.
He gets fucked for the first time a week after his seventeenth birthday. The guy, Ronnie, is a client; has become a regular in the months they’ve been living in Omaha and he’s been pushing for it for a while. He finally offers a sum of money that Dean can’t turn down. They do it in the back of Ronnie’s white Dodge Tradesman van, on a double mattress he has wedged in the back. Dean makes Ronnie use lube and a condom, but the guy doesn’t prep him and Dean didn’t think to prep himself. It hurts. Like, a lot. But it isn’t as bad as the time he got scratched up by that werewolf, so he grits his teeth and bears down and thinks of the money and eventually it stops hurting.
The next time Ronnie calls, Dean gets himself clean, then pre-lubes and stretches himself before they meet up. It’s better. He even manages to get off, which sends Ronnie wild.
Ronnie starts to think they’re something special, starts to get possessive. Dean ends up having to pull a knife on the guy and channel every bit of badass, monster hunter he can manage to get the guy to back off.
At home, and at school when he was still going, Dean talked long and loud about girls and cars and rock music. He watched straight porn and hooked up with hot girls. Neither his Dad nor Sammy knew anything about the guys or the hooking. Around them he was aggressively straight and they knew he was good at pool, good at poker, so they just accepted his word that all the money he earned came from that kind of hustling.
He’s eighteen now and still young enough and twinkie enough to make good cash hooking. It’s cold out tonight and he wouldn’t be hanging out on this street corner just down the road a ways from the city’s entertainment precinct if Dad hadn’t got banged up by a Harpie. The meds he’s on are expensive and they’ve got a hospital bill to pay and yesterday, Mark Bonham’s credit card was declined at the supermarket.
Dean crosses his legs at the ankle, leans back against the wall and cocks his hip. The only other hooker out here tonight is Rosalina, a fifty-three year old, six-foot-tall, chubby transgender woman who’s wearing black suspenders, a black skirt so short Dean can see her red lace panties, and black-and-white knee-high fluffy boots. Her make-up is over the top, but she’s sweet. She came across to offer Dean a cigarette and to tell him that she’s only here until she makes enough for her next hit.
A dark blue Mitsubishi Diamante pulls over and the window winds down. An arm points at Dean.
He strolls over, swinging his hips just a little, and bends down, resting his forearms on the open window. The trick is average in every way, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a roll of duct tape and a length of rope in the trunk. Dean is always vigilant. They talk terms and agree on a price for service and Dean straightens up and opens the car door.
“Stay safe, Hun,” Rosalina calls.
Dean sketches her a wave; he appreciates the kindness. He directs the trick to a convenient parking garage and wonders, not for the first time, what it says about him that the places he feels most at home are dive bars, street corners and a boys’ home. He wonders if he’ll land in prison one day; it’s not unheard of, for Hunters. Dean actually looks good in orange and with his social skills he’d probably fit right in.
It’s flattering that people are prepared to pay to get their hands on him. He thinks he’ll miss that validation when he’s done; because he won’t do this forever. In fact, he probably won’t do it for very much longer. His shoulders are getting broad, his muscles filling out, and there’s not a lot about him that’s vulnerable or innocent. He’s been a wolf in lamb’s clothing since he turned his first trick, but he won’t be able to pull off that act much longer.
The trick says something and Dean’s lips curve in an insincere smile. “Cash up front,” he says and lets the trick see the wolf in his eyes.
The End