Fic: The Price of Love (1/7)

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“Goddammit!”

Sam Winchester slammed a fat manila file folder down onto his desk. The resounding 'thwap' caused the loose papers already lying there to flutter wildly, some of them drifting to the floor.

“Sam! Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

Jo Harvelle, Sam's assistant, rushed in from the outer office, brown eyes wide in alarm. Her blonde curls bounced as she entered the room. Those curls tended to make people underestimate her; beneath her appearance of cute and curvy eye candy, she was a top-notch legal assistant with a steel-trap mind and a rapier wit.

Sam spun his padded desk chair around, throwing himself into it. He rubbed his forehead wearily and shook his head.

“I'm fine. It's that bastard-he's done it again. He's slipped the rope somehow, probably having lunch in some fancy restaurant as we speak.” He thumped his battered wood desk with one large fist. “God, I could punch him!”

“Except then he'd have you arrested for assault, and we can't have an Assistant District Attorney brought up on assault charges,” Jo replied tartly. “You'll just have to give it another shot.” She crossed her arms, mouth turned down at the corners in frustration. “I get that you're upset. I am too. All that work, and nothing?” Shaking her head, she continued in a determined voice. “We'll get him. We just have to keep trying.”

Sam sat back in his chair, closing his eyes and rolling his head to stretch the tense muscles in his neck. “I just-it's so-fuck!”

Jo sighed. “I know. I mean, I know but I can't imagine completely.” She went over to the desk and perched on a corner. “It's bad enough he's so. . . prosecution-resistant. But then. . . he's not my brother.”

Sam snorted. “I guess I can thank my father for this. The District Attorney's office versus Dean Winchester, purveyor of drugs and whores. Thanks, Dad.”

* * * DW * * *

Dean Winchester settled into his Italian leather executive desk chair with a sigh of pleasure and relief. The butter-soft leather warmed against his body, the thick cushioning supporting his aching limbs. Spending a night in lock-up always left him feeling stiff and tired. He was getting too old to sleep on a steel bench with a two-inch-thick excuse for a mattress.

“Good to see you back so quickly,” drawled a husky voice, leavened with a heavy Southern accent. “Sorry you had a little sleep-over in the pokey.”

Dean looked over and saw his second, a burly man with a dark stubble and surprisingly light blue eyes. Benny Lafitte was Dean's lieutenant and also his best friend. They'd stood side-by-side as Dean took the ramshackle legacy John Winchester had left him-half a dozen scrawny hookers and a half-starved shapeshifter-and built it into the elegant brothel it was today.

The same place that Dean's brother Sam aggressively sought to demolish.

Dean frowned. What a fucking thorn in his side his brother had become. Sam the Saint, the dedicated lawyer, using every bit of the law he could to try and nail Dean, shut down his business, and prosecute Dean until he'd never see the sky again except from inside a prison yard.

Shit.

Ignoring Benny for the moment, Dean closed his eyes and rested his head against the high chair back. He heard the clink of ice cubes falling into a glass, followed by the soft pop of a decanter being opened and the splash of liquid as it poured. A few footsteps later, muffled by thick carpeting, and a glass was pressed into his hand.

“Thanks, man.” Dean didn't open his eyes as he raised the glass. The rich peaty aroma of fine whiskey tickled his nose, and he took a deep swallow, savoring the beverage before swallowing it down. The burn prompted another sigh, and he felt his tension slipping down with the whiskey.

“Of course, brutha.” Benny squeezed Dean's shoulder gently. “Always got your back.”

Dean nodded. “That you do.” He opened his eyes and raised his glass to Benny in a toast. “And I've got yours.”

Benny smiled and nodded. “You rest a bit. We'll catch some dinner in a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah, sounds great.”

Benny nodded again and left the office, shutting the massive door quietly behind him.

Dean took another swallow and leaned back again. This time, his eyes stared blankly, blindly, at the ceiling.

How the fuck did they get here, he and his brother at loggerheads? Where did all that anger and self-righteous fomenting in Sam come from?

I blame you, Dad. I blame it all on you.

* * * DW * * *

“Dean! Sam!” John Winchester barked harshly at his sons.

Dean grabbed Sam's hand and pulled his brother up from the saggy bed. Seemed like all the crappy motels they stayed in had saggy mattresses. In the back of Dean's mind, he wondered if there was some central warehouse somewhere in the country that motels bought them from.

But now, they had to jump and obey their father. “Come on!” Dean hissed. “He sounds mad!”

Sam pouted, clinging onto the battered story book he held. “I wanna read my book, De.”

“You can read it later,” Dean said, tugging his six-year-old brother along. “I don't want Dad to yell at us.”

Sam relented and got off the bed, following Dean to the motel room door where John now stood. He held a duffle bag, waving it at Dean.

“Pack it up, boys, we're leaving in fifteen minutes,” he ordered.

“Why?” asked Sam. Dean winced at the petulant note in Sam's voice. That would set Dad off, if he was already on the edge. Dean might only be ten-years-old, but he already knew what kind of things triggered their father's anger. The unhappy whining of his younger son was guaranteed to tick John off.

“Because I said so!” John retorted. “Shake a leg, we need to get moving.” Dean saw him look anxiously out of the window.

He musta got busted somehow, Dean thought, already moving to collect their meager belongings. Some game went bad, some hustle bombed out, and now we gotta pay the price. He grabbed their clothes, their toothbrushes, and the like. Sam stuffed his feet into his sneakers and rounded up the couple of storybooks and coloring books he had.

“Dean, this sucks,” Sam whispered while they loaded up into the back seat of Dad's shiny black Impala. His lower lip pooched out as he sighed.

“I know, buddy. I'm sorry.” Dean squeezed Sam's hand. “There's nothing we can do about it right now. We just gotta go with him.”

“I bet it would be different if Mom was here.” Sam ducked his head and his hair fell forward, hiding his eyes. “Maybe we wouldn't have to move around all the time, just because Dad lost at poker or something.”

A pang lanced through Dean's heart, pity both for himself and for Sammy. Dean remembered Mommy. . . kind of. Curly blonde hair, soft hands, and warm hugs. Regular meals every day, pie for dessert. Mommy singing around the house or when she tucked Dean into bed.

“Yeah, Sammy, maybe we wouldn't,” he managed to choke out.

Sam's hand slipped into his, warm and a little sticky.

“I'm sorry, Dean. I won't fuss anymore.” The little hand squeezed his. “I know you miss her.”

Dean looked at his brother. “Don't you miss her, Sammy?”

Sam gave a little shrug, and he turned his head to look out the window, where the countryside was now rolling past.

“Kind of. Because I know there's s'posed to be a mommy. But. . . ” his voice trailed off.

Dean knew what Sam couldn't bring himself to say. Mommy had left when Sam was just a little baby. All he had was the idea of a mommy from books and other kids talking. How could he truly miss someone he'd never known?

“It's going to be okay, Sam-I-Am. I promise. We'll always be together, and we'll be okay.”

* * * DW * * *

Dean leaned against the bar in the elegant main salon of his brothel, Iniquity, surveying the evening's clients so far. All of them were expensively dressed, the men in finely tailored suits and the women in beautiful cocktail dresses. Dean had insisted on a dress code from day one; if he wanted a high class establishment, it needed to be sophisticated in every way. Having the clients and patrons suitably dressed for a refined setting established the tone immediately.

Iniquity's decor created a beautiful, welcoming environment. The walls were a deep midnight blue, the color rich in the soft lights of the silver wall sconces. Chairs and loveseats, upholstered in wine-red leather or velvet, were sprinkled around the large room accompanied by small low tables made of mahogany and cherry. On one side, a bar with a burnished cherry top and black base had tall bar stools with low backs in the same colors and woods of the room. Glass shelves rose behind the bar, filled with fine liquors and liqueurs, backlit to let the colors in the bottles glow like jewels.

In keeping with the level of decorum and safety Dean demanded, patrons were limited to two drinks to ensure no alcohol-provoked shenanigans. The bartenders also had the right to refuse service to anyone coming in already showing signs of inebriation. Bouncers stood discreetly on the outskirts of the room, dressed in tailored dark suits that enabled them to blend in with the crowd. Additional security were stationed on every floor of the three-story building. Dean didn't tolerate any of his staff being abused or injured. Anyone who attempted such was not only evicted, but banned from returning.

And once someone had visited Iniquity, they wanted to be sure they could visit again. It was that special.

Dean's place was not just a step above the norm by its elegance and taste. It was also multi-species-inclusive.

In Iniquity, one could request sex with not only beautiful, sexy, and charming women and men, but with the very popular shapeshifters as well. Dean catered to those wishing for exotic encounters. No supernatural being was allowed to harm a human. Ever. But to the clients, it was intoxicating, it was thrilling, it was sexy as hell.

Benny appeared and joined Dean at the bar, signaling to the bartender for a soft drink. Dean raised his Jameson's and they clinked in their usual ritual.

“Busy night, it looks like,” Benny said. “I think everyone is spoken for, many of them a second time.”

“Great. Just be sure that it's only seconds, and only if the talent agrees.” Dean didn't like his staff to be overworked. One client a night was the norm, although that might be for several hours. An entire night could be booked with one's favorite supplier of pleasure. Seconds were up to the talents' discretion, which was agreed upon with the client at the time of the booking. Dean's people always had the right to say 'no.' It was one of the reasons he never had a lack of those wanting to come work for him. Dean made sure his staff was not only well-dressed, well-fed, and well-housed, but also well-protected and well-respected. In return, he had their loyalty.

“Absolutely. Madison is on it,” Benny assured him. Madison managed the reservations, scheduled bookings, and kept track of appointments. She was petite, with dark hair, large dark eyes, and a wide, expressive smile. Pretty and well-educated, she chatted easily with business and political guests. She was one of the reasons Iniquity ran so smoothly.

"I've been thinking about looking for another shapeshifter," Dean said. "Puck is so popular, and Chandler is also doing well since they joined us." Puck had been with Dean from the beginning, when he first took over the care and handling of John Winchester's stable of whores. From a skinny, blonde young woman named Pookie, Puck had grown into a beautiful woman in their own default form, but they could become anyone the client desired. The only stipulation was the form presented had to be over the age of consent. Dean didn't want even feigned pedophilia in his place.

"Sure, sounds good. And having them doesn't seem to detract from the cis talent." Benny nodded approvingly. "Do you want me to have Madison look into it?"

"Yeah, that way we can take our time." Dean set his empty glass down. "Time to circulate and make sure everyone's happy." He patted Benny on the shoulder. "Meet you back in a couple of hours and we can compare notes on tonight's business, okay?"

"You got it, brutha."

* * * SW * * *

Sam opened the door of his three bedroom condo. The building was a modern urban construction, all concrete and glass and angles, but inside Sam's place it was much warmer and cozier. He favored oak wood furnishings with warm red, rust, and royal blue textured upholstery with lots of comfortable throw pillows.

He slung his briefcase onto the couch and called out, “Jess? You home?”

A tall beautiful woman emerged from the kitchen. Blonde hair spilled past her shoulders, framing a sweet face with plush lips and big green eyes. “Hey, sweetie!” She came over and hugged Sam, giving him a brief but thorough kiss. “How was your day?” Her smile dimmed. “I heard about Dean getting cut loose again. I'm sorry.”

Sam grimaced. “Yeah. Me too. I swear, he must have a guardian angel or something looking out for him.” He sighed and shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing that onto the couch as well.

“Drink?” Jess asked, turning to the sideboard they used as a bar without waiting for Sam's answer. Grabbing a thick rocks glass, she opened the half-size stainless refrigerator standing next to the sideboard and tossed in a couple of ice cubes. Several bottles of top shelf liquor stood at the ready, and after glancing at Sam, Jess chose the Knob Creek whiskey, splashing a couple of ounces over the ice. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Sam said with heartfelt gratitude. He took the glass and tossed the entire drink down, smiling at her surprised expression. “Yeah, that's how bad it was.”

“No judgment here,” she replied, and replenished his glass. "Come sit down with me in the kitchen and talk while I finish up with dinner.”

“You cooked?” Sam asked, a little startled. Jess's finance job was as fast-paced as his position at the District Attorney's office, and a true home-made dinner was a rare thing for either of them to prepare.

“Yeah, right, on a Wednesday?” she laughed, heading into the kitchen. Sam trailed after her, appreciating the fine round form of her ass wiggling as she walked. “No, I stopped at that deli around the corner and got their roast chicken and sides. I might save the carcass and make soup this weekend though.”

“Great. I love that place. Did you get the-”

“Yes, of course I got their fresh cranberry chutney! You think I just moved in yesterday, Winchester?” She smirked at him as she busied herself with dishes and silverware. Sam could smell the food warming in the oven as she laid places for them. They had a formal dining room, but most of the time they ate casually together at the kitchen's breakfast bar, sitting on tall stools while they ate and shared their day.

“You're an angel,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her in gently for another kiss. She practically purred as he rubbed her back while he kissed her, moving in between his thighs and pressing herself close. She was slim-waisted but curvy, enough meat in all the right places that Sam liked to grope and squeeze.

“Well, Mr. Assistant D.A., you wanna eat first or. . . maybe work up an appetite?” She nipped his earlobe, sucking gently to soothe the stinging flesh as she ran her hand down his chest and cupped his groin through his dress pants.

He began hardening at her caress, kissing her more passionately and squeezing one of her large firm breasts. Running his thumb over her nipple, he felt it stiffen beneath her silk blouse. A tiny gasp emitted from her when he bent his head and nipped at it, sucking on it through the silk of it and the lace bra beneath, soaking the fabric before biting again.

“Fuck dinner,” he murmured, mouthing his way up her neck.

“I'd rather you fucked me,” she retorted and, grabbing his hand, led him into the bedroom.

* * * DW * * *

Jess rode Sam like she owned him, her thighs squeezing his hips as her pussy encased his cock. He thrust up into her hot wet flesh, his hands roaming over her hips and belly, then up to her tits to tease and pinch her nipples. Watching her face as she writhed atop him, lost in pleasure, made Sam's heart beat harder, his love for her intensifying his physical passion. When she came with a cry, hair flying as her head fell back, it pushed Sam over the edge too. He clutched her hips, grinding up hard, his body bowing with the force of his ejaculation.

She collapsed onto him, her body hot and sweaty against his, the combined aroma of their orgasms enveloping them like a hothouse perfume. They dozed together, Jess slipping off him to the side after she caught her breath. Sam kept an arm around her, holding her close while they slept.

He awoke in the dark room. They'd fallen asleep before sunset and had never gotten to turning any lights on. Now rolled to one side, Jess was still sleeping. Sam pulled the sheet and comforter over her and carefully got up so as not to disturb her. Slipping into loose sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt, he padded into the kitchen.

Oh man, dinner. . . he thought, scrunching up his nose at the thought of what had to now be a dried out chicken. Opening the oven, he pulled the food out. Fortunately Jess had shut off the oven when they'd retired, but still it had all been sitting there a long time. Sam surveyed the somewhat shrunken chicken, the now-dried sweet potatoes and the creamed spinach, and sighed. He dumped it all into the trash, putting the dishes into the sink and running dish soap and water onto them to soak.

Hoping there was something edible in the fridge, Sam opened the door and squinted at the bright light. A couple kinds of cheese, some pepperoni, some olives. He'd call it a mini charcuterie, he chuckled to himself. Most importantly, there was beer, and he grabbed a bottle, opening it immediately and taking a good swig.

Assembling his goodies onto a plate along with some crackers, Sam took his food and beer into his office-den. His 'man-cave', Jess called it. A desk with two monitors and a docking station for his laptop was on the back wall. A couch sat to the left facing the wall-mounted TV on the right, with a low coffee table in front of the plump couch. He shut the door and settled onto the couch, turning the smart TV on with the volume turned way down and pressing through the apps and channels on the remote. An old Japanese monster movie caught his attention, and he chuckled at Godzilla and Mothra's city-destroying shenanigans while he ate. He got up part-way through the movie to fetch another beer.

His hunger satisfied, Sam sat back with the second half of his second beer, gazing at the TV. Godzilla vanquished Mothra, and a cheesy flick with giant rabbits came on next. Sam watched the figures on the screen, lulled by food, beer, and fatigue into a hazy stupor. As his eyes half-closed, the movie faded into dreams and memories.

* * * SW * * *

"Move over, squirt." Dean pushed Sam over on the worn couch with all the authority of an eighteen-year-old lording it over his fourteen-year-old brother. He plopped a bag of pretzels and a couple of sodas on the old coffee table, snatching the remote from Sam's hand.

"Hey!" Sam protested. "I was-"

"We aren't watching some lame-o nature special," Dean declared. "There's got to be something better on." He clicked through the five channels the battered television received. On the last click, Gojira flashed onto the screen. "There we go! Japanese monsters for the win!" He grabbed a handful of pretzels and settled back on the couch.

Sam grumbled, but he couldn't deny to himself that he'd rather watch a bad monster movie with Dean than a documentary by himself. He grabbed his own handful of pretzels and one of the sodas, sitting back against the other arm of the couch and stretched his legs out. He'd had a growth spurt, and his legs ached frequently.

Dean looked over. "Your legs hurting?" Sam was impressed how Dean always picked up on stuff like this. How Sam was feeling, what he needed, what was troubling him-Dean always knew.

Sam shrugged. "Not too bad. Just kinda achy."

Dean finished his pretzels and patted his lap. "Come on. Put 'em up."

Sam obeyed, resting them across Dean's thighs. Dean began to massage his calves, firmly but not too hard. He worked over them from ankle to knee and back, and Sam sighed with relief and pleasure as the aching muscles relaxed.

They kept watching the movie, but Sam now felt hyper-aware of his brother. He'd started having some. . . funny feelings about Dean. Feelings he knew one was not supposed to have about one's brother. Only most people didn't have a brother like Dean. He was eighteen now and he was beautiful. Muscular but not bulky, broad shoulders and narrow waist, legs showing a slight bow, but tall. Ridiculously large eyes with a ridiculously thick fringe of dark lashes and a mouth that-well, Sam didn't like to say what that mouth made him think of. Full, pink lips that even in rest seemed to provoke thoughts of soft, slow kisses and hot, hard ones.

Sam knew about sex shit now. He knew the pleasure and release of jerking off, and what wet, sticky shorts in the morning meant. He knew what Dean did when he went off with girls and came back smiling, heavy-lidded and smelling of perfume and musk. Sam wasn't interested in any girls, at least not yet, but he'd starting noticing how the older boys at school were starting to look like Dean; how their shoulders were widening and their legs lengthening, and how their jeans often couldn't entirely conceal the boners that every teenage boy was subject to.

He wasn't going to act on anything, of course. Sam knew the risk of being not just the poor, transient student but a queer on top of that, so he looked surreptitiously and left the rest to his imagination. Only now, Dean was starting to star in those sexy imaginings. Dean, with his smooth chest and pink nipples. Dean, casually comfortable with his own body, not like Sam's clumsy awkwardness. Dean, who could wink at a waitress and get seconds or dessert at no charge, or chat up a cheerleader and come home looking satisfied as a Cheshire cat.

Dean wiggled Sam's feet. "Where'd you go, Sammy? Am I putting you to sleep with my magic hands?"

Sam laughed nervously. Far from sleep, he'd lost himself in the sensation of Dean's hands firmly kneading his legs, and he could feel the stretch of his briefs as his cock awoke. Pulling his legs back, Sam said, "Thanks, they feel a lot better now." He sat cross legged, hoping that his t-shirt was hanging over enough to conceal any suspicious bulges.

Dean gave him a quizzical look. "You okay there, buddy?"

"Yeah, uh, thanks. I gotta go to the can," Sam said nervously. He thought maybe he could get up and go to the bathroom, where he could get rid of his erection one way or another.

* * * SW * * *

"What are you doing out here?"

Sam startled at Jess's voice. The vestiges of his memory-dream still clouded his mind, and he couldn't quite place where he was for a moment. Slumped on the couch, a throw half over his legs, his body protested at his awkward position. His neck complained when he tried to straighten it.

"Oh, God, guess I fell asleep. I was hungry, so I made a snack and came in here. I didn't want to wake you up." Sam smiled at her and rubbed at the crick in his neck, trying to re-orient himself to the here-and-now. To Jess being present and not Dean.

Jess sat down next to him and took over the neck rub. "Too much on your mind, baby?" She sighed. "This whole Iniquity thing has to be preying on you. I mean, he is your brother. Maybe you should hand it off to someone else."

Sam shook his head. "It was hard enough to get Crowley to put me on it. He had to find a loophole so I could work on it. It's only because Dean and I have been estranged for so long that he allowed it, and I don't want to show that I can't handle it now." He stood up, pushing the throw off. "And I can handle it. I just have to find Dean's weakness."

Jess rose and hugged Sam, nestling her head in the hollow of where his shoulder and collarbone met.

"You will, baby. I know you will."

Sam embraced her. She was warm and solid in his arms, but somehow. . . somehow he still felt cold and alone. He missed the sunshine of Dean's smile.

* * * DW * * *

Dean woke up and stretched. Early morning sunlight, albeit muted as it streamed through the sheer drapes of his bedroom, indicated that the day had begun. Hunger rumbled in his belly, but more urgent than that was the need to hit the head and then find some coffee. He wrestled with the sheets, their smooth fabric both slipping away and entrapping him.

"Mmm. . . " a female voice murmured. Lisa's dark head emerged from a puff of pillows. "Babe, what. . . it's so early." Her voice was sleep-husky.

He looked down at her fondly. Lisa was beautiful-creamy tan skin, dark hair in a thick swirl around her head. Darkly lashed brown eyes and a wide mouth that looked as good smiling as it did around his dick. She was funny and sexy and currently Dean's favorite.

She kind of reminded him of. . .

He shut that thought down before it was finished. Pulling the sheet off her body, he admired her full breasts, almost surprising on her slim frame, but they were completely natural. She attributed her limber, lithe figure to the yoga that she was such a devotee of and taught to the rest of the talent at Iniquity. Dean enjoyed both her gorgeous body and her frank enjoyment of sex.

"Mmmm, want a little eye-opener?" she purred. She slid one tapered hand up her flat belly to her breast, cupping it and giving it a little squeeze. Her nipple was a pinkish-brown little nub, and he watched it harden as she toyed with it.

"You look good enough to eat," he said, reaching for her other breast and playing with it. She moaned gently, her mouth falling a little open. Her pink tongue curled inside like a cat's. Dean's dick stirred, partly to remind him he had to pee, but partly in response to the inviting picture Lisa presented.

"Then eat me," she said, pushing the sheet all the way off her and spreading her legs. Her mound and vulva were smooth and hairless, and he could see her deeper pinkness already shining with moisture. She ran a finger down through the folds of her flesh, bringing it up to lick before caressing his mouth with it. "Don't I taste good?"

"You taste delicious," Dean replied, licking her finger and then sucking on it for a moment. He took her hand and put it back on her pussy. "But you'll have to play alone for now. I have to see to some business."

Lisa pouted, playing with herself with one hand and reaching out to stroke Dean's morning wood with the other. "Just a little quickie?" She pumped a finger into herself and moaned, flicking her thumb over the head of Dean's dick. They gasped in unison.

"You vixen. . . let me just piss first, okay? But it'll have to be quick. I have to meet with the D.A.'s office again today."

Lisa smiled and spread her legs wider. "I'll be right here waiting." He could smell her arousal now, and his dick twitched in her hand. She brought the hand on her pussy back to her mouth and licked it, spreading the wetness onto her nipple. The hard bud glistened as she toyed with it and Dean couldn't resist leaning down to suckle at the spicy taste. He bit down on it gently, making her squeal.

"Yeah. . . fuck, yeah." Tearing himself away, Dean hastened to relieve himself, gave his mouth a quick rinse, and dove back into bed.

On to Part 2