a trick to make you feel the pain (SPN, R, 4000+)
title: a trick to make you feel the pain
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: R
warnings: drugs, sex, but no rock n’ roll. dub/non-con.
word count: 4,808
pairings/characters: Dean/OMCs, Bobby, mentions of John & Sam
notes: if I'd had the balls to do reel_spn, this is what woulda happened (yeah I really have been working on it that long). inspired by Black Snake Moan. my blatantly canon-ignorant story of Dean's amulet with lots of angsty goodness. er, & guess I should warn you about the switch in pov...
Sam wants this thing called 'normal.' Wants this thing called college and a life without ghosts and miles and miles of road. Sometimes Dean listens to Sam describe it - with his voice soft and faraway, like that life is some kind of fairy tale complete with his very own happy ending. Dean doesn't know how to get that for his brother, is scared as hell that Sam will get it someday. And deep down, where he wishes he could keep it, Dean knows there's no way to compete with his brother's dreams; he's got nothing good enough to offer. So he tries harder to make sure Sam has everything else. Hopes that's enough to keep his brother satisfied, even if won't make Sam happy.
And it works. Sam never stops fighting with Dad, but he doesn't leave either; there are lots of slammed doors and screaming and threats, but at the end of the day all of the Winchesters are under the same roof. So Dean considers it a win - maybe a down and dirty one, but still a win - until the day he walks in on Sam packing. There's a cardboard box of books on the bed and a duffel full of clothes by the door.
Turns out Sam doesn't need Dean to give him anything anymore, because Sam's got a letter. He's got a full ride to Stanford and a bus that leaves in the morning. And just like that, everything falls apart. Dean can't think. He can't breathe.
Sam walks out the door and carves out a hole inside Dean so dark and deep he could fall in and never find his way out.
Dean can't remember the last time he ate. Or slept. Days slip-slide into one another and the only thing that changes is the look in his father’s eyes. Dean wants to care. Wants to be able to say ‘Yes sir, I’m fine.’ But he can’t.
Nothing seems important now, nothing except getting away. Dean wants -- God, he needs -- to get as far away from this place as he can; everywhere he looks, all he sees is where he lost Sammy.
Only problem is, he thinks he lost his brother a long time ago, or maybe he never had him to begin with. And if he's real honest with himself, it's not really about the where or the when or even the how. All that matters is Sam is gone. That is something Dean can't outrun, but that doesn't stop him from trying. A bus worked for Sammy, it ought to work for him too.
He leaves his dad and the motel without a cent to his name. He spends all his cash on a bus ticket and tosses his last two credit cards in the dumpster behind the station. There won’t be a paper trail left for John to follow.
Dean gets off the bus in Oklahoma. Doesn’t know the name of the city other than it’s small enough to find his way around, and big enough to get lost in just as easily. Nobody’s gonna notice him either way. He settles his bag on his shoulder and heads out into the night.
He passes plenty of bars where he could stop and hustle a round or two of pool, but Dean feels jumpy, skin too tight and not enough room to get his breath. He knows better than to think he can shoot a decent game like that; his hands haven't stopped shaking since he left. Didn't mean he was without a way to survive. Dean learned a long time ago that you make due with what you have, and it's pretty damn amazing what some people are willing to do for a piece of ass, especially when he had the face and the mouth to back it up.
He walks to the cheapest looking motel in town. Sucks the manager's dick to pay for a room. When he's finished, Dean wipes his mouth and the guy throws him a key.
The room's a shit-hole. Dean didn't expect any better. He takes a shower, presses his head to the tile. He wishes he could fight off what's coming, but he's never been able to, not once. There's a rattling in his bones. It creeps up the backs of his knees, around his neck, down his throat. He sinks down in the tub and covers his ears.
Later the guy comes back, says he's changed his mind. So Dean spreads his legs. The man fucks him hard up against the counter in the bathroom. Smashes Dean's face against the mirror and calls him a whore. Dean doesn't argue; the itch under his skin is finally quiet and he has a place to sleep. It's not like he hasn't thought the same thing about himself before now.
He goes to sleep with the man still dick-deep in his ass and a bitter taste in his mouth. He forgot to lay the salt line. Not that it would've made any difference.
When Dean wakes up, there's a twenty on the dresser. He doesn't take it. He lets the guy fuck him again to cover another night. At least then he doesn't dream when he finally closes his eyes.
He hitchhikes to Oklahoma City. Turns out his face works just as good for rides as it did for a room. Some dude in a Camaro picks him up afterwards, talks his ear off for a good eighty miles. Dean nods every once in a while, but he doesn’t know a damn thing the man’s said.
They pull up to a diner. The guy - Dean doesn’t even know his name - invites him to stay and eat. Dean glances up at the neon sign and shakes his head. The thought of food makes him nauseous. He leaves Mr. Camaro standing beside the car and pulls his jacket a little closer around him.
He finds a 7-11 and buys a large coffee; it burns all the way down, but Dean doesn’t complain. He buys another one for the road and wanders through town until it’s dark. That night Dean jimmies a parked car and crawls into the back seat. He wraps his arms around his knees when he starts to shake. Jams himself down in the floorboard and hums ‘Fade to Black’ until he passes out.
In the morning he gets a ride with a trucker and sleeps through Kansas. Wakes up somewhere in Nebraska when the trucker stops for a piss. Dean climbs down out of the cab and wonders into the truck-stop. He downs more coffee, and the guy he’s riding with buys him a sandwich and won’t stop badgering him until he eats the whole thing.
“You look like fucking roadkill, kid.”
The trucker’s voice is gruff. Too much like his dad’s for Dean’s comfort.
The next time the truck stops, they’re in South Dakota. Dean slips out of the cab in the middle of the night. He doesn’t need someone trying to look out for him. Doesn’t want anyone to.
He’s still in South Dakota when he takes some pills off some guy in a bar; they sit tiny and white in his hand. Dean's already drunk, can't remember when he crossed the line between slightly bombed and gone.
"It'll make you feel better," the man trails a hand over his face. Pulls and shoves until he's got Dean into a booth at the back. No one's going to see them; nobody gives a damn.
"I don't want to feel," Dean whispers. He’s not sure who he’s talking to - the man or himself. He curls his fingers over the drugs. "I wanna forget."
"Sweetheart, these are magic. I guarantee they'll do whatever you want."
His dad will hate him. Already hates him. For not making Sam stay. For not being enough. Dean suddenly remembers the disappointment on John's face when he was sent home in eighth grade for smoking in the bathroom. He looks down at the pills. This is worse, so much worse than holing up in a stall, sneaking Marlboros and thinking he's a bad ass. He swallows them dry and ignores the stab of guilt twisting in his belly.
The guy starts touching him all over, runs big hands down Dean’s thighs and kneads at his dick through his jeans. Sucks at his throat, the join of his neck and shoulder. Dean slumps back in the booth and lets him do whatever he wants. He only stops the guy when he moves up to his lips. Dean pushes him away.
“Not on the mouth,” he mumbles.
“Sure baby, whatever.”
It’s not so bad after that. The world dims, softens, and Dean goes with it. He lets the guy - Dean’s started thinking of him as Mr. Lucky Bastard - drag him halfway onto the guy’s lap. Lucky sticks a hand down his pants and strokes his dick once, twice. Dean bucks against the friction. His dick feels heavy between his legs.
“That’s right darlin,” Lucky grunts, and Dean bites his lip and comes in his boxers; the buzz in his bones settles, quiets. He sags against the Lucky’s chest. His pulse thuds in his ears until he can’t hear anything over the rush of the blood through his veins.
All of a sudden he’s not feeling so hot. He shoves Lucky’s hands away and tries to get out of the booth. The floor dips and sways under his feet. Dean fights down nausea. Stumbles towards the red, welcoming EXIT. He makes it outside, holds on to the wall while he waits for his stomach to stop trying to claw its way out of his throat. Someone comes up behind him - damn if it ain’t Lucky again - and offers Dean a ride.
"Come on sweetheart, I'll take you wherever you're headed."
Dean spits, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Straightens up, or tries to. His head is still fuzzy and he wavers on his feet. Mr. Lucky’s right there again, all hands and concerned smiles.
“Looks like you had a little too much to drink. Let me take you home.”
Dean blinks at him.
“Don’ have one.”
They drive out past the edge of town. Dean bumps his head against the passenger window, slips a little lower in the seat. He hasn’t said where he’s going, but that’s okay, he doesn’t know himself. Lucky slows down, stops beside the road. He reaches over and squeezes Dean's crotch. Yanks Dean over across the seat and unzips his jeans, drags them halfway off before working on his own.
“Bet you're hungry for it, ain't you? Dick-hungry little slut, bet you were dying for it back there. Couldn't wait for me to get up in you.” The man pulls roughly at his cock. “I’m gonna come in that sweet ass of yours, make you beg for it.”
Dean snickers.
“Seen girls wid bigger dicks n'yours,” he slurs. Seems like Mr. Lucky ain’t so lucky after all. Turns out neither is Dean.
Lucky backhands him across the face, splits Dean’s lip against his teeth. Snarls, “Shut the fuck up you little faggot!”
Dean spits blood and laughs harder. “Whazzat make you?”
The guy smacks him harder. Catches him on the side of the head when Dean still won’t shut up, and keeps going. Doesn't stop even when Dean leans over and vomits in the floorboard - a mix of liquor, blood, and bile. Dean doesn't fight back. His head is thick, fuzzy; his arms won't move the way he wants them to. He isn’t sure he really wants to fight. He lies in the seat while the guy wails on him. His body feels like it’s not connected to the rest of him.
After a while, he stops feeling anything at all.
Part Two
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: R
warnings: drugs, sex, but no rock n’ roll. dub/non-con.
word count: 4,808
pairings/characters: Dean/OMCs, Bobby, mentions of John & Sam
notes: if I'd had the balls to do reel_spn, this is what woulda happened (yeah I really have been working on it that long). inspired by Black Snake Moan. my blatantly canon-ignorant story of Dean's amulet with lots of angsty goodness. er, & guess I should warn you about the switch in pov...
Sam wants this thing called 'normal.' Wants this thing called college and a life without ghosts and miles and miles of road. Sometimes Dean listens to Sam describe it - with his voice soft and faraway, like that life is some kind of fairy tale complete with his very own happy ending. Dean doesn't know how to get that for his brother, is scared as hell that Sam will get it someday. And deep down, where he wishes he could keep it, Dean knows there's no way to compete with his brother's dreams; he's got nothing good enough to offer. So he tries harder to make sure Sam has everything else. Hopes that's enough to keep his brother satisfied, even if won't make Sam happy.
And it works. Sam never stops fighting with Dad, but he doesn't leave either; there are lots of slammed doors and screaming and threats, but at the end of the day all of the Winchesters are under the same roof. So Dean considers it a win - maybe a down and dirty one, but still a win - until the day he walks in on Sam packing. There's a cardboard box of books on the bed and a duffel full of clothes by the door.
Turns out Sam doesn't need Dean to give him anything anymore, because Sam's got a letter. He's got a full ride to Stanford and a bus that leaves in the morning. And just like that, everything falls apart. Dean can't think. He can't breathe.
Sam walks out the door and carves out a hole inside Dean so dark and deep he could fall in and never find his way out.
Dean can't remember the last time he ate. Or slept. Days slip-slide into one another and the only thing that changes is the look in his father’s eyes. Dean wants to care. Wants to be able to say ‘Yes sir, I’m fine.’ But he can’t.
Nothing seems important now, nothing except getting away. Dean wants -- God, he needs -- to get as far away from this place as he can; everywhere he looks, all he sees is where he lost Sammy.
Only problem is, he thinks he lost his brother a long time ago, or maybe he never had him to begin with. And if he's real honest with himself, it's not really about the where or the when or even the how. All that matters is Sam is gone. That is something Dean can't outrun, but that doesn't stop him from trying. A bus worked for Sammy, it ought to work for him too.
He leaves his dad and the motel without a cent to his name. He spends all his cash on a bus ticket and tosses his last two credit cards in the dumpster behind the station. There won’t be a paper trail left for John to follow.
Dean gets off the bus in Oklahoma. Doesn’t know the name of the city other than it’s small enough to find his way around, and big enough to get lost in just as easily. Nobody’s gonna notice him either way. He settles his bag on his shoulder and heads out into the night.
He passes plenty of bars where he could stop and hustle a round or two of pool, but Dean feels jumpy, skin too tight and not enough room to get his breath. He knows better than to think he can shoot a decent game like that; his hands haven't stopped shaking since he left. Didn't mean he was without a way to survive. Dean learned a long time ago that you make due with what you have, and it's pretty damn amazing what some people are willing to do for a piece of ass, especially when he had the face and the mouth to back it up.
He walks to the cheapest looking motel in town. Sucks the manager's dick to pay for a room. When he's finished, Dean wipes his mouth and the guy throws him a key.
The room's a shit-hole. Dean didn't expect any better. He takes a shower, presses his head to the tile. He wishes he could fight off what's coming, but he's never been able to, not once. There's a rattling in his bones. It creeps up the backs of his knees, around his neck, down his throat. He sinks down in the tub and covers his ears.
Later the guy comes back, says he's changed his mind. So Dean spreads his legs. The man fucks him hard up against the counter in the bathroom. Smashes Dean's face against the mirror and calls him a whore. Dean doesn't argue; the itch under his skin is finally quiet and he has a place to sleep. It's not like he hasn't thought the same thing about himself before now.
He goes to sleep with the man still dick-deep in his ass and a bitter taste in his mouth. He forgot to lay the salt line. Not that it would've made any difference.
When Dean wakes up, there's a twenty on the dresser. He doesn't take it. He lets the guy fuck him again to cover another night. At least then he doesn't dream when he finally closes his eyes.
He hitchhikes to Oklahoma City. Turns out his face works just as good for rides as it did for a room. Some dude in a Camaro picks him up afterwards, talks his ear off for a good eighty miles. Dean nods every once in a while, but he doesn’t know a damn thing the man’s said.
They pull up to a diner. The guy - Dean doesn’t even know his name - invites him to stay and eat. Dean glances up at the neon sign and shakes his head. The thought of food makes him nauseous. He leaves Mr. Camaro standing beside the car and pulls his jacket a little closer around him.
He finds a 7-11 and buys a large coffee; it burns all the way down, but Dean doesn’t complain. He buys another one for the road and wanders through town until it’s dark. That night Dean jimmies a parked car and crawls into the back seat. He wraps his arms around his knees when he starts to shake. Jams himself down in the floorboard and hums ‘Fade to Black’ until he passes out.
In the morning he gets a ride with a trucker and sleeps through Kansas. Wakes up somewhere in Nebraska when the trucker stops for a piss. Dean climbs down out of the cab and wonders into the truck-stop. He downs more coffee, and the guy he’s riding with buys him a sandwich and won’t stop badgering him until he eats the whole thing.
“You look like fucking roadkill, kid.”
The trucker’s voice is gruff. Too much like his dad’s for Dean’s comfort.
The next time the truck stops, they’re in South Dakota. Dean slips out of the cab in the middle of the night. He doesn’t need someone trying to look out for him. Doesn’t want anyone to.
He’s still in South Dakota when he takes some pills off some guy in a bar; they sit tiny and white in his hand. Dean's already drunk, can't remember when he crossed the line between slightly bombed and gone.
"It'll make you feel better," the man trails a hand over his face. Pulls and shoves until he's got Dean into a booth at the back. No one's going to see them; nobody gives a damn.
"I don't want to feel," Dean whispers. He’s not sure who he’s talking to - the man or himself. He curls his fingers over the drugs. "I wanna forget."
"Sweetheart, these are magic. I guarantee they'll do whatever you want."
His dad will hate him. Already hates him. For not making Sam stay. For not being enough. Dean suddenly remembers the disappointment on John's face when he was sent home in eighth grade for smoking in the bathroom. He looks down at the pills. This is worse, so much worse than holing up in a stall, sneaking Marlboros and thinking he's a bad ass. He swallows them dry and ignores the stab of guilt twisting in his belly.
The guy starts touching him all over, runs big hands down Dean’s thighs and kneads at his dick through his jeans. Sucks at his throat, the join of his neck and shoulder. Dean slumps back in the booth and lets him do whatever he wants. He only stops the guy when he moves up to his lips. Dean pushes him away.
“Not on the mouth,” he mumbles.
“Sure baby, whatever.”
It’s not so bad after that. The world dims, softens, and Dean goes with it. He lets the guy - Dean’s started thinking of him as Mr. Lucky Bastard - drag him halfway onto the guy’s lap. Lucky sticks a hand down his pants and strokes his dick once, twice. Dean bucks against the friction. His dick feels heavy between his legs.
“That’s right darlin,” Lucky grunts, and Dean bites his lip and comes in his boxers; the buzz in his bones settles, quiets. He sags against the Lucky’s chest. His pulse thuds in his ears until he can’t hear anything over the rush of the blood through his veins.
All of a sudden he’s not feeling so hot. He shoves Lucky’s hands away and tries to get out of the booth. The floor dips and sways under his feet. Dean fights down nausea. Stumbles towards the red, welcoming EXIT. He makes it outside, holds on to the wall while he waits for his stomach to stop trying to claw its way out of his throat. Someone comes up behind him - damn if it ain’t Lucky again - and offers Dean a ride.
"Come on sweetheart, I'll take you wherever you're headed."
Dean spits, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Straightens up, or tries to. His head is still fuzzy and he wavers on his feet. Mr. Lucky’s right there again, all hands and concerned smiles.
“Looks like you had a little too much to drink. Let me take you home.”
Dean blinks at him.
“Don’ have one.”
They drive out past the edge of town. Dean bumps his head against the passenger window, slips a little lower in the seat. He hasn’t said where he’s going, but that’s okay, he doesn’t know himself. Lucky slows down, stops beside the road. He reaches over and squeezes Dean's crotch. Yanks Dean over across the seat and unzips his jeans, drags them halfway off before working on his own.
“Bet you're hungry for it, ain't you? Dick-hungry little slut, bet you were dying for it back there. Couldn't wait for me to get up in you.” The man pulls roughly at his cock. “I’m gonna come in that sweet ass of yours, make you beg for it.”
Dean snickers.
“Seen girls wid bigger dicks n'yours,” he slurs. Seems like Mr. Lucky ain’t so lucky after all. Turns out neither is Dean.
Lucky backhands him across the face, splits Dean’s lip against his teeth. Snarls, “Shut the fuck up you little faggot!”
Dean spits blood and laughs harder. “Whazzat make you?”
The guy smacks him harder. Catches him on the side of the head when Dean still won’t shut up, and keeps going. Doesn't stop even when Dean leans over and vomits in the floorboard - a mix of liquor, blood, and bile. Dean doesn't fight back. His head is thick, fuzzy; his arms won't move the way he wants them to. He isn’t sure he really wants to fight. He lies in the seat while the guy wails on him. His body feels like it’s not connected to the rest of him.
After a while, he stops feeling anything at all.
Part Two