Beautiful, Dirty, Rich - Ch. 3
Title: Beautiful, Dirty, Rich
Rating: R
Pairings: Weecest
Word Count: 3,415 (so far)
Summary: Dean sells his body to keep both himself and Sam from starving.
Notes: I am cowriting this with a friend. I write the chapters from Dean's POV. She writes the ones from Sam's POV.
Dean slumped into school and struggled not to limp. He was still sore from what had happened the night before. He told himself over and over again that it was necessary, so crying over it was ridiculous because if Dad didn’t come back soon, it was going to have to happen again.
In his first class, he sat in the back, so no one noticed how he was hunched over his desk with his hood over his head, wincing every time he had to move, but this changed within the next hour. Though he didn’t sit in the front in his second class, his English teacher was far more observant than his History teacher, and the moment the bell rang and class began, her eyes were on him, beady and prying, trying to see through his hoodie to the secrets he hid beneath.
“Take off your hood, Dean,” she commanded, moving to stand in front of her desk instead of behind it. She folded her hands and gave him a patronizing look.
Dean sneered at her from the darkness of his hood. She’d never seen true horror and she probably never would. For a split second, he envied and hated her, but then his façade of nonchalance was back and he was saying, “It’s too bright in here. My eyes are sensitive.” It was a weak excuse and he knew it, but he had to give it a shot.
“Your eyes weren’t sensitive yesterday,” she observed. “School policy states no hats or hoods during class.”
He rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat, only barely managed to hold back a gasp of pain as he did so.
“Do you want to go the principal’s office?” she asked, her tone a warning.
He let out an exasperated sigh. No, he didn’t. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He couldn’t get in trouble while Dad was gone and as important as it was he let the teacher see anything except his face, he was sure he could hide it somehow. She never noticed him any other day of the year.
Almost aggressively, Dean forced his hood back. A few of the kids sitting next to him gasped and he knew the bruises must have gotten worse. The man hadn’t been gentle at all. He looked up at the teacher for a split second and knew from the look on her face, she’d seen his.
That meant the bruises had gotten a lot worse.
“Dean, go to the nurse’s office now,” she ordered.
He sat upright too fast and let out a gasp of pain. He managed to save face before anyone could really register the sound by saying, tone indignant, “I thought you said you wouldn’t send me to the office if I took off my hood!”
“I said I wouldn’t send you to the principal’s office,” she corrected, “but you need to see the nurse and maybe the…social worker later.”
Seeing no way out of this, Dean packed up his things, while the teacher called the office to let them know he’d be down in a minute. He glared at her on his way out of the room and struggled to think of what he was going to say to get out of this. In the end, he settled on having gotten in a fight. The only problem with this was that there were barely four hundred people in Ideal, Georgia and everyone probably knew just about everyone and everything that happened around here, which meant that the social worker would probably want to ask who he got in a fight with. He’d say it was at night and he didn’t see, but he was pretty sure he was going to have a much harder time getting out of this than he usually did.
More than once, Dean had gotten banged up from a hunt and he’d been sent to the nurse at school and he’d had to come up with some story that was usually farfetched and made whomever they tried to make him talk to think he was being abused. If he was going to be honest, he had been hit by their father more than a couple times, but it was never bad enough that anyone would really notice.
Besides, he always told himself when it happened, Dad was drunk. He wouldn’t have done it if he wasn’t drunk. Or if I hadn’t been stupid and just done what I was told.
He waited for less than a minute before a woman in what he imagined a pediatrician’s outfit would be came out and told him to come in. She winced when she examined his face and after some fighting, she convinced him to take of his hoody and his shirt. She examined his bruised chest. To his surprise, she didn’t ask him to take off his pants as well.
“The social worker will be in in a minute to talk to you,” she told him before walking out of the room.
Dean quickly put his shirt and hoody back on before returning to his seat on the examination table, swinging his legs and staring at his hands. Suddenly, the story he’d come up with about getting in a fight sounded silly. Still, when the woman with glasses and long red talon-like fingernails asked him what had happened, he kept to his original story as much as possible.
It was when she asked if his father hit him that he glared and said, “I have to get to class,” before walking out of the room. Looking back on it, later in the day, he was sure that was the wrong move, but he found himself not caring.
-
The motel was only a couple blocks from the school, but it felt like miles, especially when Dean was struggling to keep himself from looking like he was limping. Sam had seen the bruises the night before. He knew that. But he was pretty sure he’d thought they were hickeys. If Dean started limping, Sam would know something else was going on and he wasn’t going to let his brother know what he was doing to keep them from starving.
“How was school?” he asked, his voice monotone as they entered the motel room. He dumped his backpack on the ground and headed towards the bathroom, not waiting for an answer from his brother.
“It was fine,” Sam responded, sounding slightly defeated as he sat down at the table in the kitchenette to do his homework.
“That sounds ominous,” Dean muttered as he reached the bathroom, dumped his backpack next to the door, and leaned against the doorjamb.
“It’s not,” was all Sam said in reply.
His brother was hiding something. The only reason Dean didn’t press was because of a voice in the back of his mind, reminding him that he was hiding things from Sam, too.
( part four)
Rating: R
Pairings: Weecest
Word Count: 3,415 (so far)
Summary: Dean sells his body to keep both himself and Sam from starving.
Notes: I am cowriting this with a friend. I write the chapters from Dean's POV. She writes the ones from Sam's POV.
Dean slumped into school and struggled not to limp. He was still sore from what had happened the night before. He told himself over and over again that it was necessary, so crying over it was ridiculous because if Dad didn’t come back soon, it was going to have to happen again.
In his first class, he sat in the back, so no one noticed how he was hunched over his desk with his hood over his head, wincing every time he had to move, but this changed within the next hour. Though he didn’t sit in the front in his second class, his English teacher was far more observant than his History teacher, and the moment the bell rang and class began, her eyes were on him, beady and prying, trying to see through his hoodie to the secrets he hid beneath.
“Take off your hood, Dean,” she commanded, moving to stand in front of her desk instead of behind it. She folded her hands and gave him a patronizing look.
Dean sneered at her from the darkness of his hood. She’d never seen true horror and she probably never would. For a split second, he envied and hated her, but then his façade of nonchalance was back and he was saying, “It’s too bright in here. My eyes are sensitive.” It was a weak excuse and he knew it, but he had to give it a shot.
“Your eyes weren’t sensitive yesterday,” she observed. “School policy states no hats or hoods during class.”
He rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat, only barely managed to hold back a gasp of pain as he did so.
“Do you want to go the principal’s office?” she asked, her tone a warning.
He let out an exasperated sigh. No, he didn’t. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He couldn’t get in trouble while Dad was gone and as important as it was he let the teacher see anything except his face, he was sure he could hide it somehow. She never noticed him any other day of the year.
Almost aggressively, Dean forced his hood back. A few of the kids sitting next to him gasped and he knew the bruises must have gotten worse. The man hadn’t been gentle at all. He looked up at the teacher for a split second and knew from the look on her face, she’d seen his.
That meant the bruises had gotten a lot worse.
“Dean, go to the nurse’s office now,” she ordered.
He sat upright too fast and let out a gasp of pain. He managed to save face before anyone could really register the sound by saying, tone indignant, “I thought you said you wouldn’t send me to the office if I took off my hood!”
“I said I wouldn’t send you to the principal’s office,” she corrected, “but you need to see the nurse and maybe the…social worker later.”
Seeing no way out of this, Dean packed up his things, while the teacher called the office to let them know he’d be down in a minute. He glared at her on his way out of the room and struggled to think of what he was going to say to get out of this. In the end, he settled on having gotten in a fight. The only problem with this was that there were barely four hundred people in Ideal, Georgia and everyone probably knew just about everyone and everything that happened around here, which meant that the social worker would probably want to ask who he got in a fight with. He’d say it was at night and he didn’t see, but he was pretty sure he was going to have a much harder time getting out of this than he usually did.
More than once, Dean had gotten banged up from a hunt and he’d been sent to the nurse at school and he’d had to come up with some story that was usually farfetched and made whomever they tried to make him talk to think he was being abused. If he was going to be honest, he had been hit by their father more than a couple times, but it was never bad enough that anyone would really notice.
Besides, he always told himself when it happened, Dad was drunk. He wouldn’t have done it if he wasn’t drunk. Or if I hadn’t been stupid and just done what I was told.
He waited for less than a minute before a woman in what he imagined a pediatrician’s outfit would be came out and told him to come in. She winced when she examined his face and after some fighting, she convinced him to take of his hoody and his shirt. She examined his bruised chest. To his surprise, she didn’t ask him to take off his pants as well.
“The social worker will be in in a minute to talk to you,” she told him before walking out of the room.
Dean quickly put his shirt and hoody back on before returning to his seat on the examination table, swinging his legs and staring at his hands. Suddenly, the story he’d come up with about getting in a fight sounded silly. Still, when the woman with glasses and long red talon-like fingernails asked him what had happened, he kept to his original story as much as possible.
It was when she asked if his father hit him that he glared and said, “I have to get to class,” before walking out of the room. Looking back on it, later in the day, he was sure that was the wrong move, but he found himself not caring.
-
The motel was only a couple blocks from the school, but it felt like miles, especially when Dean was struggling to keep himself from looking like he was limping. Sam had seen the bruises the night before. He knew that. But he was pretty sure he’d thought they were hickeys. If Dean started limping, Sam would know something else was going on and he wasn’t going to let his brother know what he was doing to keep them from starving.
“How was school?” he asked, his voice monotone as they entered the motel room. He dumped his backpack on the ground and headed towards the bathroom, not waiting for an answer from his brother.
“It was fine,” Sam responded, sounding slightly defeated as he sat down at the table in the kitchenette to do his homework.
“That sounds ominous,” Dean muttered as he reached the bathroom, dumped his backpack next to the door, and leaned against the doorjamb.
“It’s not,” was all Sam said in reply.
His brother was hiding something. The only reason Dean didn’t press was because of a voice in the back of his mind, reminding him that he was hiding things from Sam, too.
( part four)