a bag full of God (spn fic for kink_bingo, dean/omc(s), dean/sam).
Title: a bag full of God
Author: swear_jar
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Dean/OMC(s), Dean/Sam.
Warning: Hooker!fic, incest-in-thought-only.
Notes: Set pre-series (not underage). Written for kink_bingo “authority figures” (Daddy kink). I’m pretty sure this is kind of purple, for which I apologize. It was hard to write, so I’m thinking there was some kind of departure in style here from my usual, I just don’t know what it was exactly or if it works D:. MANY rainbow coloured sparkling thanks for apiphile for betaing this into shape for me.
Sleeping on his side, Sam’s silhouette is a mountain range.
Growth-spurt skeleton too big under thin skin and thin thrift-store blanket. A mountain range with his back to Dean, wildly mussed fir-tree hair, shadow roads winding into blanket folds (roads Dean tries not to think about walking with his fingers), shoulder summit where a palm might curl gearstick comfortable. Between shoulder and neck a deep valley, warm and sweaty with the summer night’s slick heat, dark as the thought of pushing Sam’s hair from behind his ear, putting lips to his uneven tan lines (tongue to military precise tan lines where t-shirt sleeves and collars stop).
Sam needs to cut his hair (that fact’s turned into another useless battle that Sam’s quietly waging against dad, one Dean’s secretly taken sides on-Sam’s hair is fine with him-but one he wants Dad to win against them both-he thinks about it too much).
Dean stares with elbows on his knees, sitting on the other single cot, half-awake with feet sweating sockless in his boots. Sam’s breathing is loud, but still trumped by the crickets droning their summer love outside. Stares for a few seconds more until he can’t stand it (can’t stand himself) and has to move. He stands up, looks at the floor, the wall, the window. Night time has coloured everything black, white, blue, yellow; bruise colours.
He’s got shit to do and staring at his brother like a freak really isn’t even on the list.
He pushes the bedroom door gently, just to the point before it creaks, then slips out into the lounge. The house is small, set back off the main road on an overgrown drive. The day they’d gotten here the first thing Dean’d seen was the long dusty floorboards, grey with age, bleached by the sun from the naked windows. Then, dust columns visible in the sunbeams, thick enough they looked like they might’ve been holding the place up.
One room kitchen and lounge, miniscule bathroom, two small bedrooms-one is Dad’s, unslept in.
Dropped them here and told them he’d be back, two-weeks tops; instead, sixteen days in, all Dean’d gotten was a phonecall and an order to stay put. Another week, maybe, Dad said. Not quite the longest hunt he’s done without leaving them somewhere familiar, but close. Not the first time they’ve run out of cash, either.
Dean scrubs a hand over his face, warm but not sweat damp as it’d been all day. The cabin had been humid as dog-breath and had almost the same smell-a little pond out the back that was swampy and fetid, catching every bit of warm breeze. Dean’d fill it in if he could be bothered but it was too damn hot during the day and in the afternoons he had Sam back from school.
Sits down on the rat-chewed couch and toes his boots off, mouthing fuck silently at the thud on the floorboards and his own just-awake stupidity (staring at Sam) in putting them on before his damn pants.
He’d showered before bed (wood-fired water-heater was a shit of a lot of work, so they mostly just went in cold), but he was starting to feel the back of his neck prickle with sweat already.
(“You showered this morning, Dean.” Sam’d said, half-amused half-annoyed.
“So what? It’s ass-chafing hot out there.” Which was true enough.)
Dean stands up silently apart from the barely audible snap-snap of his knees. At twenty-one he’s already wondered how much his body will hate him when he is thirty, forty, if he’d need new kneecaps by fifty. He isn’t being morbid, just realistic. Dad never let pain slow him down, doesn’t mean he wasn’t in it a lot of the time, Dean knew, even if Sammy didn’t realise. Or didn’t care.
In the kitchen he wiggled his sweaty toes against the floorboards, then snagged the pair of jeans off the back of the single chair. Pulling them on was a trial; they were a pair of Sam’s jeans that Sam’d thrown out and Dean had rescued from the trash. Sam'd chucked them because of the tear on the back of the left thigh that ran from ass to inseam, almost half around.
(A simple salt-and-burn a month back: Sam had fallen, awkward and hilariously abrupt, down a roadside ledge into some thorny scrub. Dean had barked out a laugh, then snapped his mouth shut at Sam’s pained groan. He’d dragged Sam out, pushed his hair off his forehead and taken in wide-damp-eyes, then run his hands quick over Sam checking for injury until his fingers hit the torn jeans at back of Sam’s crooked up leg and Sam hissed-Dean’s fingers came away sticky, but barely smudged with red, and after that it should have been funny again, but it wasn’t really. Sam’s head thumped back to the dirt and even in the half light Dean could see how flushed his face was, and they were both breathing hard and heavy. He gave Sam a hand up and there was ten minutes more of silent walking before Dean trusted his voice enough to smirk out an “enjoyin’ the breeze back there?”, not quite game to slap at Sam’s exposed thigh like he might of another time, and Sam punched him in the shoulder hard enough to dead-arm him, which meant that was good enough).
Dean touches his own skin briefly, runs a finger over the back of his thigh through the torn denim. Shakes his head and goes through the process of adjusting his dick more comfortably in the tight denim, then shoving his wallet into his front pocket, skin on his knuckles bunching as he yanks his fingers out. No goddamn room at all. Only mirror in the house is black-spackled with age and barely big enough to shave in, but he knows he looks good.
Pulls on the nearest vest to the top of their laundry pile, clean clothing taking up most of the kitchen table. There was only one kitchen chair anyway, so they just ate on the couch usually. Dad wasn’t here to say jackshit.
Watch your tone, Dean hears immediately in Dad’s voice and thinks back at him every curse he can think of, every one he’d never say to Dad’s face, feeling no better at all.
The money Dad’d left had run out too quickly-Dean’s fault, Sam was doing an assignment he’d been so enthused about (something he hadn’t already done three times at different schools) and Dean couldn’t do what he should have done and refuse Sam the price of a few books (cost the goddamn earth, books).
Dean’s fault, his inability to say no to Sammy.
Which was fine, Dean thought, shoving his feet back in his boots. Dad might not have left them as much cash as Dean would have liked, but he did leave Dean with something else: look after your brother. One thing Dean hadn’t yet fucked up.
He walked a few short steps, stepped gingerly over the salt line, closed the front door with the knob cradled close to his chest, so it didn’t slam and wake Sam, or blow any salt out of place.
Outside, a big full moon was drowning in a sea of stars, the next best thing to daylight. A beautiful night, but when Dean breathes in all he can smell is the rotting pond. Dean ran a hand through his hair and starts the trudge up their weed-tangled driveway, wishing he had some gel left. Didn’t matter. He’d make enough for gel and whatever else tonight.
Knew enough ways now, he could make quick money-easy money, sometimes.
Easy, he repeats to himself a few times.
There are harder things, Dean knows.
Sam’s an exceptionally good pick-pocket, long fingers and an innocent puppy expression that’s really convincing to apparently everyone but Dean and Dad (doesn’t mean Dean doesn’t give in when Sam gives him the eyes from under his stupid bangs, sometimes). Dean, though, Dean’s good at hustling. Not quite Dad at poker (not yet), but give him a pool cue and all the money in the house that’s for having he’ll have.
Too bad in this one street town there’s not even a bar.
There’s a road that’s seen better days, heavy semi-trailers blasting down twenty-four/seven, there’s a corner store that’s maybe some kind of white under the dust kicked up from the traffic, there’s a scattering of houses like their run down almost-shack-and there’s a truck stop.
No bar, but Dean hustles alright.
He kicks a rock out from under the circle of fluorescent light, and it bounces out onto across the blacktop and out of his sight.
He was young when he first figured out there were men who’d pay to suck his dick- sometimes for nothing in return, just get to their knees on the ground and moan and jerk themselves off with their mouths hot and huge on him.
He wasn’t stupid, he recognized the danger, was always armed and always ready. There were some things that the knife in his waistband, or sitting in his palm, blade tucked flat against the skin of his inner arm under his jacket, there were things it didn’t cover-words, mostly.
He gets called all sorts of things. Ones he expected. Ones he learned very quickly to expect: pretty, so pretty, slut, whore, slutslutslut, faggot, fag. Worse things, and better. Better things that felt worse.
Tonight he’s already two down and could cross off an entire bingo sheet of variations on “take it, slut” from the second. The first guy’d picked him up by shrugging and slurring “mouth’s a mouth” like he was trying to convince himself, staring right at Dean’s lips. It’s okay, though, because he’s got a hundred-fifty dollars burning a hole in his pocket, and a few hours before he’ll be too antsy about Sam to stay out any longer.
He is good at this, the same way he is good at stitching his own skin.
They rarely gave a shit if he came or not, which was good, but when they wanted a show then he could do that too-never really needed much more for himself than a warm body and permission (never really needed much more than someone that wanted him).
Dean spits, stares at the darker spot on the dark ground, and licks the back of his teeth. Can’t wait to shower, brush his teeth and wash his mouth out with something stronger than the rust tasting water from the bathroom. The last guy was all amphetamine comedown shakes and the smell of three week old gas-station hot-dog and Dean was fairly sure that wasn’t all his original hair, oily strands slicked down against his scalp, sparse as rows of dying crops.
There’s a row of semis like dominoes laid out in the big lot the other side of the all-night diner and gas-pumps, there’s enough trucks they fade out into blackness beyond Dean’s field of vision. Dean’s standing in the piss-coloured puddle of light leaking from the fluorescent mounted on the bathroom wall, for the purpose of making him obvious (while cursing the moths fluttering around the light casing for taking up the best leaning space).
Most of the guys who amble over for a shit-shower-shave walk right round him like he’s an inconvenient object that’s been placed in their path, barely spare him a glance. He waits, scuffs his boots on the ground, hums Metallica, rolls his head back on his neck and stares at the sky until he’s a little dizzy with it, snaps his head forward and rolls his hips out a fraction whenever he hears boots on blacktop coming his way.
This one’s a hit. Coming out of the showers, he stops next to Dean and takes him in for a second. Dean doesn’t turn and face him, just puts his fingers in his beltloops and tugs down on Sam’s too-tight jeans. Wishes he had a cigarette, for something more to do with his hands.
“How much, kid?” the man’s voice is rough, Dean can smell the smoke on his breath as well as the toothpaste. A shiver runs through him unexpectedly, and he’s not sure he wants to do this one.
He gives him a sideways glance, purses his lips like he’s thinking. Turns, and takes him in; he’s old enough to be Dean’s dad (most are, especially here. Not like Dean thinks about it). A little salt and pepper stubble, lazy like he’s been on the road a week without bothering to shave, ruddy red sun-damaged skin over his nose and cheeks, dark hair messy and wet from the shower. Towel with a tear in it the size of Dean’s head slung over his shoulder, blue vest with a stain on the stomach. Hair on his arms nearly as thick as on his head. In shape, more than most guys his age. Maybe former army, Dean thinks uncomfortably.
“Seventy-five, you can have whatever.”
The guy purses his lips and Dean gives him the ain’t-I-pretty-you-know-you-wanna stare from under his lashes, tilting his head to the side, mouth open a fraction, licking his bottom lip half on purpose, half thinking about a cigarette again. He’s dry mouthed for no reason he can think of (familiar, something in Dean’s belly flutters, low and good and sickening). The guy gives him a close-mouthed smile and grunts out a word that might be “c’mon,” or “c’mere” or just “come”, like Dean’s a puppy. Dean follows him.
One truck’s as cramped as the next, this one’s maybe more-so though because Rusty
(“I’m Tony,” Dean said, foot on the metal step up to the truck’s cab. Name of the asshole teacher that’d kicked Sam out of the last school for fighting back when someone’d had a go at him. Never used any alias he liked, not for this, never Bon, never a Jimmy.
“Sure,” guy’d said back, easy. Smiling without showing teeth still, like he knew something Dean didn’t. Knew better. “Rusty. Get on in.” His tone isn’t unpleasant, even if it was a little mocking. His palm pushed lightly on Dean’s ass feels searing hot, especially where his rough fingers brushed naked skin through the tear in the thigh of his jeans. He gets on in.)
Extra cramped because the guy doesn’t tell him to get in the sleeping compartment these big rigs have got, just plants himself on the passenger side seat, knees apart, feet planted, and gestures to the floor of the cab between them. Dean’s not small, Rusty’s not small, and Dean finds himself bent backed as an old man, curved into an awkward pretzel, Rusty’s knees nearly in his damn armpits.
Dean’s knee is on an old fast-food wrapper, the faint smell of burger and engine grease pervades. Not about his comfort, though, he knows better than to do something stupid (and pissweak) like bitch about how his legs are getting pins and needles already.
The cabin’s curtains are drawn where they can be and the interior light on it is a lot murkier than the perfect full moonlit night outside. Dean’s thankful for the dark when he looks up and catches a darkly stubbled jaw, watches more than hears the words on the man’s lips-“suck me.” It’s not really the words that get Dean’s dick interested for the first time tonight.
Dean bites his lip, still a little used-tender, forces himself not to let it hurt like he wants.
Does his job.
Once he opens the man’s fly, he’s on more solid ground-unfamiliar half-hard dick in his hand, nothing but heavy breathing in his ears like the heavy breathing of any guy he’s done this for. When he gets close, the smell of cigarettes burned into denim is stronger than the smell of arousal. Dean leans in and puts his lips against the soft shaft.
He’s thankful the guy’s just showered on one level, but on another he almost wishes for the taste of dirt, filthy sweat and couple of days unwashed pubic hair, to kick his head back to where it should be.
Takes as much in as he can-he can’t deep-throat, definitely doesn’t come natural and he never plans to devote the effort to learn (no matter how many times he’s had his face fucked and near thrown up in someone asshole’s lap), but he knows he’s good enough and his gag reflex can take a knock without him chucking, knows how to use his tongue and knows how to make it quick. Sucks hard and keeps a hand on the base of the guy’s dick and after a minute of steady rhythm, eyes closed, mind blank as he can get it, he’s okay-
The guy’s hips twitch and he grunts and Dean hopes this’ll be a fast one, just as a hand lands heavy on the top of his head, fingers scratching through his hair (regulation short, too short to get a hold on) and Dean tenses his shoulders, but keeps his mouth moving. He works a hand over the guy’s stomach, just above his dick, a slow slide like a tease, but tense-muscled and ready to shove the heel of his hand down bruise hard into muscle and his head up if the guy decides to shove him down.
Breathes hard through his nose. No need for the blood-warm knife nestled in his boot like a sleeping rattlesnake.
Nothing happens, the hand just stays its course, petting Dean’s head-the occasional soft pressure downwards nothing like a shove, just strong direction, and Dean goes down and pulls back at the ebb and tide of it, doing as he’s told.
Doing as he’s told with rough callused hands in his hair (callused probably in the wrong places, but it’s not like he can tell if they’re in similar places to his own and--) and then the guy is grunting again, before he lets slip, low and cheap-whisky voiced:
“That’s good, son.”
And Dean’s whole body jerks, hips arching into nothing and dick grinding into his zipper, pants going from fucking tight to torture tight, as he goes from sickly interested to hard in a headspin instant. Could be anyone, anyone at all saying those words.
He groans half-horrified around the dick in his mouth and the guy chuckles above him, rough and rumbling like thunder, Dean feels it in his fingertips pressed to his abdomen, a little earthquake.
“That’s so good, son,” deeper voiced and rougher than before, and his hips are moving pretty steady now. Hand petting him, good, well done.
Dean groans again and can’t do anything, can’t do anything at all but suck harder, move his head frantically. Curse the bastard silently for his close-mouthed knowing smile and for not being stupid enough not to notice Dean’s a freak just like this. Nothing else he wants to-can’t do anything else. The hand on his head is pushing a rhythm counterpoint to the thrust of hips and spit slides out of Dean’s mouth when he groans again, helpless frustration and a plea.
“Don’t you fuckin’ stop, boy,” and Dean couldn’t if he tried.
“Yeah, son, yeah kid-“ the guy’s keeping up a steady litany of words now, and the electric shocks of arousal that have arced through him with every word turn into a scorching current that runs steadily from the guys mouth with every son, boy, good, so good son, right through Dean, curls right into him deep and tugs his balls and gets him so close. Dean can’t help the way his hips push into air and he forgets anything but this moment right here, right now. Now can’t help stealing his hand back from the warm solid skin it’s on and suck hard and shove the heel of his hand against his fly as he thinks:
Daddy.
Moaning out nothing comprehensible around the dick in his mouth but he tries so hard, like it’s torn from him as he comes.
He’s slow and sloppy after that, but the guy has no problem taking a proper hold on the sides of Dean’s head and fucking him, spilling bitter into Dean’s slack mouth.
Dean’s halfway home, hand clenched tight around the cash that’s shoved in his pocket, before he stops and bends himself in half and spits, over and over until his mouth stops watering. Doesn’t throw up into the pot-hole he’s been spitting in, just stands up soldier-straight and walks on, back towards Sam, home.
Author: swear_jar
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Dean/OMC(s), Dean/Sam.
Warning: Hooker!fic, incest-in-thought-only.
Notes: Set pre-series (not underage). Written for kink_bingo “authority figures” (Daddy kink). I’m pretty sure this is kind of purple, for which I apologize. It was hard to write, so I’m thinking there was some kind of departure in style here from my usual, I just don’t know what it was exactly or if it works D:. MANY rainbow coloured sparkling thanks for apiphile for betaing this into shape for me.
Sleeping on his side, Sam’s silhouette is a mountain range.
Growth-spurt skeleton too big under thin skin and thin thrift-store blanket. A mountain range with his back to Dean, wildly mussed fir-tree hair, shadow roads winding into blanket folds (roads Dean tries not to think about walking with his fingers), shoulder summit where a palm might curl gearstick comfortable. Between shoulder and neck a deep valley, warm and sweaty with the summer night’s slick heat, dark as the thought of pushing Sam’s hair from behind his ear, putting lips to his uneven tan lines (tongue to military precise tan lines where t-shirt sleeves and collars stop).
Sam needs to cut his hair (that fact’s turned into another useless battle that Sam’s quietly waging against dad, one Dean’s secretly taken sides on-Sam’s hair is fine with him-but one he wants Dad to win against them both-he thinks about it too much).
Dean stares with elbows on his knees, sitting on the other single cot, half-awake with feet sweating sockless in his boots. Sam’s breathing is loud, but still trumped by the crickets droning their summer love outside. Stares for a few seconds more until he can’t stand it (can’t stand himself) and has to move. He stands up, looks at the floor, the wall, the window. Night time has coloured everything black, white, blue, yellow; bruise colours.
He’s got shit to do and staring at his brother like a freak really isn’t even on the list.
He pushes the bedroom door gently, just to the point before it creaks, then slips out into the lounge. The house is small, set back off the main road on an overgrown drive. The day they’d gotten here the first thing Dean’d seen was the long dusty floorboards, grey with age, bleached by the sun from the naked windows. Then, dust columns visible in the sunbeams, thick enough they looked like they might’ve been holding the place up.
One room kitchen and lounge, miniscule bathroom, two small bedrooms-one is Dad’s, unslept in.
Dropped them here and told them he’d be back, two-weeks tops; instead, sixteen days in, all Dean’d gotten was a phonecall and an order to stay put. Another week, maybe, Dad said. Not quite the longest hunt he’s done without leaving them somewhere familiar, but close. Not the first time they’ve run out of cash, either.
Dean scrubs a hand over his face, warm but not sweat damp as it’d been all day. The cabin had been humid as dog-breath and had almost the same smell-a little pond out the back that was swampy and fetid, catching every bit of warm breeze. Dean’d fill it in if he could be bothered but it was too damn hot during the day and in the afternoons he had Sam back from school.
Sits down on the rat-chewed couch and toes his boots off, mouthing fuck silently at the thud on the floorboards and his own just-awake stupidity (staring at Sam) in putting them on before his damn pants.
He’d showered before bed (wood-fired water-heater was a shit of a lot of work, so they mostly just went in cold), but he was starting to feel the back of his neck prickle with sweat already.
(“You showered this morning, Dean.” Sam’d said, half-amused half-annoyed.
“So what? It’s ass-chafing hot out there.” Which was true enough.)
Dean stands up silently apart from the barely audible snap-snap of his knees. At twenty-one he’s already wondered how much his body will hate him when he is thirty, forty, if he’d need new kneecaps by fifty. He isn’t being morbid, just realistic. Dad never let pain slow him down, doesn’t mean he wasn’t in it a lot of the time, Dean knew, even if Sammy didn’t realise. Or didn’t care.
In the kitchen he wiggled his sweaty toes against the floorboards, then snagged the pair of jeans off the back of the single chair. Pulling them on was a trial; they were a pair of Sam’s jeans that Sam’d thrown out and Dean had rescued from the trash. Sam'd chucked them because of the tear on the back of the left thigh that ran from ass to inseam, almost half around.
(A simple salt-and-burn a month back: Sam had fallen, awkward and hilariously abrupt, down a roadside ledge into some thorny scrub. Dean had barked out a laugh, then snapped his mouth shut at Sam’s pained groan. He’d dragged Sam out, pushed his hair off his forehead and taken in wide-damp-eyes, then run his hands quick over Sam checking for injury until his fingers hit the torn jeans at back of Sam’s crooked up leg and Sam hissed-Dean’s fingers came away sticky, but barely smudged with red, and after that it should have been funny again, but it wasn’t really. Sam’s head thumped back to the dirt and even in the half light Dean could see how flushed his face was, and they were both breathing hard and heavy. He gave Sam a hand up and there was ten minutes more of silent walking before Dean trusted his voice enough to smirk out an “enjoyin’ the breeze back there?”, not quite game to slap at Sam’s exposed thigh like he might of another time, and Sam punched him in the shoulder hard enough to dead-arm him, which meant that was good enough).
Dean touches his own skin briefly, runs a finger over the back of his thigh through the torn denim. Shakes his head and goes through the process of adjusting his dick more comfortably in the tight denim, then shoving his wallet into his front pocket, skin on his knuckles bunching as he yanks his fingers out. No goddamn room at all. Only mirror in the house is black-spackled with age and barely big enough to shave in, but he knows he looks good.
Pulls on the nearest vest to the top of their laundry pile, clean clothing taking up most of the kitchen table. There was only one kitchen chair anyway, so they just ate on the couch usually. Dad wasn’t here to say jackshit.
Watch your tone, Dean hears immediately in Dad’s voice and thinks back at him every curse he can think of, every one he’d never say to Dad’s face, feeling no better at all.
The money Dad’d left had run out too quickly-Dean’s fault, Sam was doing an assignment he’d been so enthused about (something he hadn’t already done three times at different schools) and Dean couldn’t do what he should have done and refuse Sam the price of a few books (cost the goddamn earth, books).
Dean’s fault, his inability to say no to Sammy.
Which was fine, Dean thought, shoving his feet back in his boots. Dad might not have left them as much cash as Dean would have liked, but he did leave Dean with something else: look after your brother. One thing Dean hadn’t yet fucked up.
He walked a few short steps, stepped gingerly over the salt line, closed the front door with the knob cradled close to his chest, so it didn’t slam and wake Sam, or blow any salt out of place.
Outside, a big full moon was drowning in a sea of stars, the next best thing to daylight. A beautiful night, but when Dean breathes in all he can smell is the rotting pond. Dean ran a hand through his hair and starts the trudge up their weed-tangled driveway, wishing he had some gel left. Didn’t matter. He’d make enough for gel and whatever else tonight.
Knew enough ways now, he could make quick money-easy money, sometimes.
Easy, he repeats to himself a few times.
There are harder things, Dean knows.
Sam’s an exceptionally good pick-pocket, long fingers and an innocent puppy expression that’s really convincing to apparently everyone but Dean and Dad (doesn’t mean Dean doesn’t give in when Sam gives him the eyes from under his stupid bangs, sometimes). Dean, though, Dean’s good at hustling. Not quite Dad at poker (not yet), but give him a pool cue and all the money in the house that’s for having he’ll have.
Too bad in this one street town there’s not even a bar.
There’s a road that’s seen better days, heavy semi-trailers blasting down twenty-four/seven, there’s a corner store that’s maybe some kind of white under the dust kicked up from the traffic, there’s a scattering of houses like their run down almost-shack-and there’s a truck stop.
No bar, but Dean hustles alright.
He kicks a rock out from under the circle of fluorescent light, and it bounces out onto across the blacktop and out of his sight.
He was young when he first figured out there were men who’d pay to suck his dick- sometimes for nothing in return, just get to their knees on the ground and moan and jerk themselves off with their mouths hot and huge on him.
He wasn’t stupid, he recognized the danger, was always armed and always ready. There were some things that the knife in his waistband, or sitting in his palm, blade tucked flat against the skin of his inner arm under his jacket, there were things it didn’t cover-words, mostly.
He gets called all sorts of things. Ones he expected. Ones he learned very quickly to expect: pretty, so pretty, slut, whore, slutslutslut, faggot, fag. Worse things, and better. Better things that felt worse.
Tonight he’s already two down and could cross off an entire bingo sheet of variations on “take it, slut” from the second. The first guy’d picked him up by shrugging and slurring “mouth’s a mouth” like he was trying to convince himself, staring right at Dean’s lips. It’s okay, though, because he’s got a hundred-fifty dollars burning a hole in his pocket, and a few hours before he’ll be too antsy about Sam to stay out any longer.
He is good at this, the same way he is good at stitching his own skin.
They rarely gave a shit if he came or not, which was good, but when they wanted a show then he could do that too-never really needed much more for himself than a warm body and permission (never really needed much more than someone that wanted him).
Dean spits, stares at the darker spot on the dark ground, and licks the back of his teeth. Can’t wait to shower, brush his teeth and wash his mouth out with something stronger than the rust tasting water from the bathroom. The last guy was all amphetamine comedown shakes and the smell of three week old gas-station hot-dog and Dean was fairly sure that wasn’t all his original hair, oily strands slicked down against his scalp, sparse as rows of dying crops.
There’s a row of semis like dominoes laid out in the big lot the other side of the all-night diner and gas-pumps, there’s enough trucks they fade out into blackness beyond Dean’s field of vision. Dean’s standing in the piss-coloured puddle of light leaking from the fluorescent mounted on the bathroom wall, for the purpose of making him obvious (while cursing the moths fluttering around the light casing for taking up the best leaning space).
Most of the guys who amble over for a shit-shower-shave walk right round him like he’s an inconvenient object that’s been placed in their path, barely spare him a glance. He waits, scuffs his boots on the ground, hums Metallica, rolls his head back on his neck and stares at the sky until he’s a little dizzy with it, snaps his head forward and rolls his hips out a fraction whenever he hears boots on blacktop coming his way.
This one’s a hit. Coming out of the showers, he stops next to Dean and takes him in for a second. Dean doesn’t turn and face him, just puts his fingers in his beltloops and tugs down on Sam’s too-tight jeans. Wishes he had a cigarette, for something more to do with his hands.
“How much, kid?” the man’s voice is rough, Dean can smell the smoke on his breath as well as the toothpaste. A shiver runs through him unexpectedly, and he’s not sure he wants to do this one.
He gives him a sideways glance, purses his lips like he’s thinking. Turns, and takes him in; he’s old enough to be Dean’s dad (most are, especially here. Not like Dean thinks about it). A little salt and pepper stubble, lazy like he’s been on the road a week without bothering to shave, ruddy red sun-damaged skin over his nose and cheeks, dark hair messy and wet from the shower. Towel with a tear in it the size of Dean’s head slung over his shoulder, blue vest with a stain on the stomach. Hair on his arms nearly as thick as on his head. In shape, more than most guys his age. Maybe former army, Dean thinks uncomfortably.
“Seventy-five, you can have whatever.”
The guy purses his lips and Dean gives him the ain’t-I-pretty-you-know-you-wanna stare from under his lashes, tilting his head to the side, mouth open a fraction, licking his bottom lip half on purpose, half thinking about a cigarette again. He’s dry mouthed for no reason he can think of (familiar, something in Dean’s belly flutters, low and good and sickening). The guy gives him a close-mouthed smile and grunts out a word that might be “c’mon,” or “c’mere” or just “come”, like Dean’s a puppy. Dean follows him.
One truck’s as cramped as the next, this one’s maybe more-so though because Rusty
(“I’m Tony,” Dean said, foot on the metal step up to the truck’s cab. Name of the asshole teacher that’d kicked Sam out of the last school for fighting back when someone’d had a go at him. Never used any alias he liked, not for this, never Bon, never a Jimmy.
“Sure,” guy’d said back, easy. Smiling without showing teeth still, like he knew something Dean didn’t. Knew better. “Rusty. Get on in.” His tone isn’t unpleasant, even if it was a little mocking. His palm pushed lightly on Dean’s ass feels searing hot, especially where his rough fingers brushed naked skin through the tear in the thigh of his jeans. He gets on in.)
Extra cramped because the guy doesn’t tell him to get in the sleeping compartment these big rigs have got, just plants himself on the passenger side seat, knees apart, feet planted, and gestures to the floor of the cab between them. Dean’s not small, Rusty’s not small, and Dean finds himself bent backed as an old man, curved into an awkward pretzel, Rusty’s knees nearly in his damn armpits.
Dean’s knee is on an old fast-food wrapper, the faint smell of burger and engine grease pervades. Not about his comfort, though, he knows better than to do something stupid (and pissweak) like bitch about how his legs are getting pins and needles already.
The cabin’s curtains are drawn where they can be and the interior light on it is a lot murkier than the perfect full moonlit night outside. Dean’s thankful for the dark when he looks up and catches a darkly stubbled jaw, watches more than hears the words on the man’s lips-“suck me.” It’s not really the words that get Dean’s dick interested for the first time tonight.
Dean bites his lip, still a little used-tender, forces himself not to let it hurt like he wants.
Does his job.
Once he opens the man’s fly, he’s on more solid ground-unfamiliar half-hard dick in his hand, nothing but heavy breathing in his ears like the heavy breathing of any guy he’s done this for. When he gets close, the smell of cigarettes burned into denim is stronger than the smell of arousal. Dean leans in and puts his lips against the soft shaft.
He’s thankful the guy’s just showered on one level, but on another he almost wishes for the taste of dirt, filthy sweat and couple of days unwashed pubic hair, to kick his head back to where it should be.
Takes as much in as he can-he can’t deep-throat, definitely doesn’t come natural and he never plans to devote the effort to learn (no matter how many times he’s had his face fucked and near thrown up in someone asshole’s lap), but he knows he’s good enough and his gag reflex can take a knock without him chucking, knows how to use his tongue and knows how to make it quick. Sucks hard and keeps a hand on the base of the guy’s dick and after a minute of steady rhythm, eyes closed, mind blank as he can get it, he’s okay-
The guy’s hips twitch and he grunts and Dean hopes this’ll be a fast one, just as a hand lands heavy on the top of his head, fingers scratching through his hair (regulation short, too short to get a hold on) and Dean tenses his shoulders, but keeps his mouth moving. He works a hand over the guy’s stomach, just above his dick, a slow slide like a tease, but tense-muscled and ready to shove the heel of his hand down bruise hard into muscle and his head up if the guy decides to shove him down.
Breathes hard through his nose. No need for the blood-warm knife nestled in his boot like a sleeping rattlesnake.
Nothing happens, the hand just stays its course, petting Dean’s head-the occasional soft pressure downwards nothing like a shove, just strong direction, and Dean goes down and pulls back at the ebb and tide of it, doing as he’s told.
Doing as he’s told with rough callused hands in his hair (callused probably in the wrong places, but it’s not like he can tell if they’re in similar places to his own and--) and then the guy is grunting again, before he lets slip, low and cheap-whisky voiced:
“That’s good, son.”
And Dean’s whole body jerks, hips arching into nothing and dick grinding into his zipper, pants going from fucking tight to torture tight, as he goes from sickly interested to hard in a headspin instant. Could be anyone, anyone at all saying those words.
He groans half-horrified around the dick in his mouth and the guy chuckles above him, rough and rumbling like thunder, Dean feels it in his fingertips pressed to his abdomen, a little earthquake.
“That’s so good, son,” deeper voiced and rougher than before, and his hips are moving pretty steady now. Hand petting him, good, well done.
Dean groans again and can’t do anything, can’t do anything at all but suck harder, move his head frantically. Curse the bastard silently for his close-mouthed knowing smile and for not being stupid enough not to notice Dean’s a freak just like this. Nothing else he wants to-can’t do anything else. The hand on his head is pushing a rhythm counterpoint to the thrust of hips and spit slides out of Dean’s mouth when he groans again, helpless frustration and a plea.
“Don’t you fuckin’ stop, boy,” and Dean couldn’t if he tried.
“Yeah, son, yeah kid-“ the guy’s keeping up a steady litany of words now, and the electric shocks of arousal that have arced through him with every word turn into a scorching current that runs steadily from the guys mouth with every son, boy, good, so good son, right through Dean, curls right into him deep and tugs his balls and gets him so close. Dean can’t help the way his hips push into air and he forgets anything but this moment right here, right now. Now can’t help stealing his hand back from the warm solid skin it’s on and suck hard and shove the heel of his hand against his fly as he thinks:
Daddy.
Moaning out nothing comprehensible around the dick in his mouth but he tries so hard, like it’s torn from him as he comes.
He’s slow and sloppy after that, but the guy has no problem taking a proper hold on the sides of Dean’s head and fucking him, spilling bitter into Dean’s slack mouth.
Dean’s halfway home, hand clenched tight around the cash that’s shoved in his pocket, before he stops and bends himself in half and spits, over and over until his mouth stops watering. Doesn’t throw up into the pot-hole he’s been spitting in, just stands up soldier-straight and walks on, back towards Sam, home.