April 06 - SPN - Born Every Minute
Just a little thing, more of a snapshot than anything else. I started thinking about hustler!Dean, and how I could imagine it happening believably given his character, and this...just happened.
Title: Born Every Minute
Author: Pet
Pairing: none, hints of Sam/Dean UST
Rating: PG-13? Probably.
Warnings: Does off-screen prostitution merit a warning?
***
It doesn't happen often, just once in a while, and Sam tries to ignore it as best he can. A larger city, a few more wary pool players who won't buy Dean's easy smile and aw-shucks softshoe and won't put money on the table. A few credit cards cancelled before they can get any use out of them at all. Maybe an extra expense, like medical supplies or a special kind of ammunition or some silver for the crossbow tips. And Dean will spike his hair a little extra-carefully, smooth his collar down, and tell Sam not to wait up.
Sam had gotten curious once, when he was sixteen, and had followed Dean. He'd waited outside the bar--even at 6'2", Sam knew better than to try to get past the bouncer in a place like that without ID--and watched Dean and the fat man walk around the corner into the alley. Expecting some kind of trick, maybe, he'd peeked around from behind a fire escape, and had had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting, giving away his place, as his stomach went cold and hollow with shock. Because the fat man was on his knees and Dean was leaning his shoulders back against the brick wall, staring up at the sky, making sounds like he was enjoying the fat man's mouth a whole lot. Sam recognized the pattern, though, it was the same as the moans of the blond chick in the porno Dean had rented for him just last week, and Sam fled before he could throw up or scream or grab Dean and haul him back to the hotel.
"You're not slick," Dean had informed him when he'd come home, hours later, to find Sam waiting for him in the dark. "I saw you." He took a roll of bills out of his pocket and laid it on the bedside table.
"Does Dad know?" Sam had demanded, bizarrely angry, hands in fists, throat tight with some horrible feeling.
"God, no," Dean had laughed, tossing his brand-new brown leather jacket on the chair. "But it's no big deal, Sammy, it's just another con. Just like pool and cards, only easier."
"Dean, he was DISGUSTING," Sam burst out, "all sweaty and red and, god, how could you, how could you put that in your..." he almost gagged, thinking about it.
"You don't think I blew HIM?" Dean had looked at him, shocked, then obviously disgusted. "Ugh, no. They can jerk off if they want to while they blow me, but that's it."
That had derailed Sam. "They pay you for that?" He couldn't quite believe it.
Dean had shrugged, looking like he couldn't care less about the logic behind it all. "Guess I'm just too hot to pass up."
Sam had rolled his eyes, Dean had laughed, and that had been the end of it. Sam had never brought it up again.
These days, he's a little older, a little wiser, and he watches Dean get ready for a night out and has to bite his tongue to keep from protesting. He tries to get day jobs, but they're moving too much, too edgy and strange, now, and no one will hire them. Without dad around to tweak the system, their credit card supply has dried up to maybe one a month. Dean's gone out like this three times in the last two months alone, and every time he brings back enough money for a week of bad hotels and diner food. Sam can always tell that it's not just a pool game. There's a little extra swagger to Dean's hips, a tease and flirt in the way he cocks his head, even in the hotel room before he goes.
The section in Sam's Politics Of Gender and Sexuality class had said that prostitution was damaging, scarring, universally harmful, a blight. To Sam's critical eye, Dean doesn't seem particularly scarred. Maybe he's still getting money for allowing desperately smitten men to give him head. Sam hopes so, and doesn't ask. If the answer is different, he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to know so much that he refuses to even think about it. Either way, Dean's the same as he's always been, and that's enough for Sam.
"Don't wait up," Dean tells him, just like always, and locks the door behind him. Sam closes his eyes and tries not to imagine what Dean's going to do, tries--God!--not to picture it, and sets himself to research their latest monster. If Dean's going to go peddle his pretty smile and prettier body for gas money, the least Sam can do is have some good information for him when he gets back. Evil to fight and kill, clean and unambiguous and violent.
The room feels echoey, quiet and empty after Dean leaves, and Sam turns the radio up loud to fill the silence. He always waits up.
-End-
Title: Born Every Minute
Author: Pet
Pairing: none, hints of Sam/Dean UST
Rating: PG-13? Probably.
Warnings: Does off-screen prostitution merit a warning?
***
It doesn't happen often, just once in a while, and Sam tries to ignore it as best he can. A larger city, a few more wary pool players who won't buy Dean's easy smile and aw-shucks softshoe and won't put money on the table. A few credit cards cancelled before they can get any use out of them at all. Maybe an extra expense, like medical supplies or a special kind of ammunition or some silver for the crossbow tips. And Dean will spike his hair a little extra-carefully, smooth his collar down, and tell Sam not to wait up.
Sam had gotten curious once, when he was sixteen, and had followed Dean. He'd waited outside the bar--even at 6'2", Sam knew better than to try to get past the bouncer in a place like that without ID--and watched Dean and the fat man walk around the corner into the alley. Expecting some kind of trick, maybe, he'd peeked around from behind a fire escape, and had had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting, giving away his place, as his stomach went cold and hollow with shock. Because the fat man was on his knees and Dean was leaning his shoulders back against the brick wall, staring up at the sky, making sounds like he was enjoying the fat man's mouth a whole lot. Sam recognized the pattern, though, it was the same as the moans of the blond chick in the porno Dean had rented for him just last week, and Sam fled before he could throw up or scream or grab Dean and haul him back to the hotel.
"You're not slick," Dean had informed him when he'd come home, hours later, to find Sam waiting for him in the dark. "I saw you." He took a roll of bills out of his pocket and laid it on the bedside table.
"Does Dad know?" Sam had demanded, bizarrely angry, hands in fists, throat tight with some horrible feeling.
"God, no," Dean had laughed, tossing his brand-new brown leather jacket on the chair. "But it's no big deal, Sammy, it's just another con. Just like pool and cards, only easier."
"Dean, he was DISGUSTING," Sam burst out, "all sweaty and red and, god, how could you, how could you put that in your..." he almost gagged, thinking about it.
"You don't think I blew HIM?" Dean had looked at him, shocked, then obviously disgusted. "Ugh, no. They can jerk off if they want to while they blow me, but that's it."
That had derailed Sam. "They pay you for that?" He couldn't quite believe it.
Dean had shrugged, looking like he couldn't care less about the logic behind it all. "Guess I'm just too hot to pass up."
Sam had rolled his eyes, Dean had laughed, and that had been the end of it. Sam had never brought it up again.
These days, he's a little older, a little wiser, and he watches Dean get ready for a night out and has to bite his tongue to keep from protesting. He tries to get day jobs, but they're moving too much, too edgy and strange, now, and no one will hire them. Without dad around to tweak the system, their credit card supply has dried up to maybe one a month. Dean's gone out like this three times in the last two months alone, and every time he brings back enough money for a week of bad hotels and diner food. Sam can always tell that it's not just a pool game. There's a little extra swagger to Dean's hips, a tease and flirt in the way he cocks his head, even in the hotel room before he goes.
The section in Sam's Politics Of Gender and Sexuality class had said that prostitution was damaging, scarring, universally harmful, a blight. To Sam's critical eye, Dean doesn't seem particularly scarred. Maybe he's still getting money for allowing desperately smitten men to give him head. Sam hopes so, and doesn't ask. If the answer is different, he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to know so much that he refuses to even think about it. Either way, Dean's the same as he's always been, and that's enough for Sam.
"Don't wait up," Dean tells him, just like always, and locks the door behind him. Sam closes his eyes and tries not to imagine what Dean's going to do, tries--God!--not to picture it, and sets himself to research their latest monster. If Dean's going to go peddle his pretty smile and prettier body for gas money, the least Sam can do is have some good information for him when he gets back. Evil to fight and kill, clean and unambiguous and violent.
The room feels echoey, quiet and empty after Dean leaves, and Sam turns the radio up loud to fill the silence. He always waits up.
-End-