& sometimes i write on carbon paper
title: the parts of us no one ever needs
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
rating: adult
warnings: implied underage, mentions of abuse & dub/non-con
characters/pairings: Dean, Dean/various nameless males
word count: 744
notes: part of something…not sure what yet. AU. Dean didn’t grow up a Winchester. & yes Virginia, this is my go at hooker!fic.
Dean’s got a pretty face. Everyone tells him so; he’s been hearing it since middle school when his track coach decided he needed some extra after school attention.
He took every minute of that 'attention' and funneled it into being faster, better. By the start of his freshman year, Dean was the fastest kid in school. Maybe in the whole goddamn town.
He’s never told a soul about those afternoons in the locker room, bent over Coach’s desk with the edge of the wood digging into his hipbones. Feeling sick because sometimes it felt good. Even when it hurt.
He remembers the sting of his foster father’s hand across his jaw. The acid hatred of the man’s voice day after day after day.
Only thing you’ll ever be good for is spreadin’ your legs.
Dean always promised himself the bastard would be wrong. But month after month of scrounging out of dumpsters and pulling one too many games of dine-and-ditch force him to realise some things are hard to hold onto when he hasn’t eaten in a week and he’s sleeping in a doorway.
He tried sleeping in a shelter for a couple days, but had to slip out after he overheard one of the volunteers talking about social services. He’s spent half of his life trying to get out of the system; he sure as hell ain’t getting dragged back in because he doesn’t have the balls to rough it on the street.
Survival is sacrifice. Dean learns to make one after another, ticks each one off on his fingers as it goes: Warmth. Safety. Pride. Innocence never figures into it, neither does love. The first, Dean lost long before he got to California, and the second, he never remembers having in the first place.
His first night out, he nearly gets beaten unconscious by some pimp. The guy has at least three or four inches and fifty pounds on Dean and isn’t too picky about where his fists land. One catches Dean hard across the temple. The world tilts and he loses what little food he managed to scrounge during the afternoon.
The pimp spits on him and pushes the girls who’ve gathered around them out of the way. Tells them to get their asses back to work. Dean squints up, can almost tell which one of the girls feel sorry for him and which ones think he’s just another dumb little shit.
He drags himself to the nearest McDonalds and slips into the bathroom, locks himself in a stall. Bites his fist and rocks back and forth. He’s not going to cry.
Dean spends the next three nights hanging out in a 24-hour superstore. His black eye earns him a bottle of water and a doughnut from one of the cashiers. She sneaks the stuff out of the break room and presses it into his hands.
When he goes out again, he can at least walk without limping and his eye’s mostly back to normal. Dean picks his spot more carefully. He gets picked up by an older guy who looks nervous as hell. Dean sucks him off and gets out of the car with fifty dollars tucked safely in his pocket.
Dean isn’t new to sucking cock or getting it up the ass. He can thank Coach for that. But there’s a bigger difference between Coach and a john than experience or money. Dean doesn’t really think about it until he’s down a few weeks in the trenches.
One of his tricks hits him and Dean freaks out. He’s had people trying to beat the shit out of him for most of his life and he’s tired. Figures he shouldn’t have to put up with it from some fucker who has to buy a piece of ass. For his trouble, Dean gets backhanded in the mouth and a rough fuck in the backseat of the guy’s car. The man shoves his dick in so deep it’s like he’s going for the goddamn gold.
"Stupid little bitch. What do you think I’m paying for?"
Dean never forgets. He can barely walk for two days day after. Carries the bruises around with him for nearly three weeks, deep purple in blooms across his hips and bands around his wrists. It’s hard to get another gig until the marks fade, seems like no one wants sloppy seconds. They want to put their own marks on him, not have to deal with someone else’s.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
rating: adult
warnings: implied underage, mentions of abuse & dub/non-con
characters/pairings: Dean, Dean/various nameless males
word count: 744
notes: part of something…not sure what yet. AU. Dean didn’t grow up a Winchester. & yes Virginia, this is my go at hooker!fic.
Dean’s got a pretty face. Everyone tells him so; he’s been hearing it since middle school when his track coach decided he needed some extra after school attention.
He took every minute of that 'attention' and funneled it into being faster, better. By the start of his freshman year, Dean was the fastest kid in school. Maybe in the whole goddamn town.
He’s never told a soul about those afternoons in the locker room, bent over Coach’s desk with the edge of the wood digging into his hipbones. Feeling sick because sometimes it felt good. Even when it hurt.
He remembers the sting of his foster father’s hand across his jaw. The acid hatred of the man’s voice day after day after day.
Only thing you’ll ever be good for is spreadin’ your legs.
Dean always promised himself the bastard would be wrong. But month after month of scrounging out of dumpsters and pulling one too many games of dine-and-ditch force him to realise some things are hard to hold onto when he hasn’t eaten in a week and he’s sleeping in a doorway.
He tried sleeping in a shelter for a couple days, but had to slip out after he overheard one of the volunteers talking about social services. He’s spent half of his life trying to get out of the system; he sure as hell ain’t getting dragged back in because he doesn’t have the balls to rough it on the street.
Survival is sacrifice. Dean learns to make one after another, ticks each one off on his fingers as it goes: Warmth. Safety. Pride. Innocence never figures into it, neither does love. The first, Dean lost long before he got to California, and the second, he never remembers having in the first place.
His first night out, he nearly gets beaten unconscious by some pimp. The guy has at least three or four inches and fifty pounds on Dean and isn’t too picky about where his fists land. One catches Dean hard across the temple. The world tilts and he loses what little food he managed to scrounge during the afternoon.
The pimp spits on him and pushes the girls who’ve gathered around them out of the way. Tells them to get their asses back to work. Dean squints up, can almost tell which one of the girls feel sorry for him and which ones think he’s just another dumb little shit.
He drags himself to the nearest McDonalds and slips into the bathroom, locks himself in a stall. Bites his fist and rocks back and forth. He’s not going to cry.
Dean spends the next three nights hanging out in a 24-hour superstore. His black eye earns him a bottle of water and a doughnut from one of the cashiers. She sneaks the stuff out of the break room and presses it into his hands.
When he goes out again, he can at least walk without limping and his eye’s mostly back to normal. Dean picks his spot more carefully. He gets picked up by an older guy who looks nervous as hell. Dean sucks him off and gets out of the car with fifty dollars tucked safely in his pocket.
Dean isn’t new to sucking cock or getting it up the ass. He can thank Coach for that. But there’s a bigger difference between Coach and a john than experience or money. Dean doesn’t really think about it until he’s down a few weeks in the trenches.
One of his tricks hits him and Dean freaks out. He’s had people trying to beat the shit out of him for most of his life and he’s tired. Figures he shouldn’t have to put up with it from some fucker who has to buy a piece of ass. For his trouble, Dean gets backhanded in the mouth and a rough fuck in the backseat of the guy’s car. The man shoves his dick in so deep it’s like he’s going for the goddamn gold.
"Stupid little bitch. What do you think I’m paying for?"
Dean never forgets. He can barely walk for two days day after. Carries the bruises around with him for nearly three weeks, deep purple in blooms across his hips and bands around his wrists. It’s hard to get another gig until the marks fade, seems like no one wants sloppy seconds. They want to put their own marks on him, not have to deal with someone else’s.
- end