
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13044585.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Smith/Sam_Wesson
  Character:
      Dean_Smith, Sam_Wesson
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Underage_Prostitution, Underage_Sex, Blow_Jobs,
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Prostitute_Sam, Truck_Driver_Dean_Winchester,
      Physical_Abuse, AU_wincest
  Series:
      Part 1 of Otherwheres:_Supernatural_AU_Bingo_Challenge
  Collections:
      spn_au_&_trope_bingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-17 Words: 1553
****** All Your Charms ******
by SinnamonSpider
Summary
     It’s late and rainy and he’s finally at a rest stop with six hours to
     spare, and all Dean wants to do is collapse on a bed that isn’t the
     one inside the cab of his truck.
Notes
     My first fic for the SPN AU Bingo Challenge. Square filled is "truck
     driver!Dean".
     For the purpose of this challenge, in this fic and all others, Dean's
     last name is Smith and Sam's is Wesson, but they are not necessarily
     the Smith/Wesson from "It's a Terrible Life". I just want to keep
     their surnames simple and consistent.
     Title from "Lady" by Styx, only 'cause I was listening to it while
     writing.
     Feedback is golden.
                                        
It’s late and rainy and he’s finally at a rest stop with six hours to spare,
and all Dean wants to do is collapse on a bed that isn’t the one inside the cab
of his truck.
But it’s late and rainy and he’s finally at a rest stop with six hours to
spare, and now he’s gotta spend precious minutes trying to shake this doe-eyed
boy who keeps trailing after him.
He’s tall; too tall, it emphasizes how worryingly skinny he is, and makes the
undoubtedly regular-sized t-shirt he’s wearing off one shoulder into a crop
top, baring a waist like a girl’s. His hair is too long, hanging in bangs down
over those huge eyes and giving him a vulnerable look. He’s too young, too
pretty, too naive to work a place like this, where hard-bitten truckers who
have been lonely for too long will end up eating him alive.
Dean’s seen it before. Too often.
But the kid won’t quit, trailing after him, offering up delights that would
have tempted a man weaker than Dean Smith.
When he’s reached the end of his tether - and the door to the motel is in sight
- Dean rounds on the boy quickly, noting the way he steps back. He might be too
young and too pretty, but he isn’t too trusting.
Dean appraises the kid with a weary eye. “How old are you?” he asks quietly,
and the boy ducks his head and flushes. “Seventeen,” he replies to his battered
Converse, and Dean sighs. He’s only a few years older than this baby hooker.
Life is strange. He reaches for his wallet and the kid looks up hopefully. Dean
hands him a ten. Not much, but he hasn’t got much to spare.
“Try and get out of the rain,” he encourages.
The boy pauses for a moment, suspicious, then quickly kicks off his shoe and
stuffs the bill into it. Smart, Dean’ll give him that - he’s likely to have to
take off shirts or pull down pants for most of his transactions, but shoes are
less likely. Still, it was stupid of him to reveal a hiding place to a
stranger.
That, unfortunately, is not Dean’s problem, just as this sweet-faced kid
turning tricks at a truck stop is also not his problem. He sees it too often,
can’t afford to be sentimental.
“Go,” he says roughly, turning his back. “Someone else’ll take you up on those
offers.”
===============================================================================
It’s late and rainy and he’s still got nearly six hours to spare, and Dean has
just collapsed onto a bed that isn’t the one inside the cab of his truck.
But the occupant of the room next to his - occupants, actually, he can hear two
voices now, one loud and belligerently drunk, the other soft and girlish -
don’t care about that, and are making quite a racket that filters easily
through walls Dean can only assume are constructed of toilet paper.
“C’mon, man!” he yells at the wall. He’d pound it with a fist, but he’s not
ready for the fight that would likely follow. He doesn’t need his door kicked
in, not tonight.
The sounds from the next room are unfortunately all too familiar, and when they
shift from grunts and moans to sharp cries of pain and curses, Dean puts the
thin pillow over his face and waits for either sleep or death to take him.
No such luck. “Please - stop!” The plea is desperate and high and Dean realizes
with dawning horror that he recognizes the voice. Someone else had obviously
taken the sweet-faced boy up on his temptations. He pushes the pillow down
harder, curling it around his ears, but it doesn’t do any good.
The next sounds he hears are the sharp crack of skin meeting skin with
violence, then heavy boots on the floor, receding down the hallway. Silence
falls, broken only by soft sobbing. Dean groans into his pillow, flings it away
from his face, and climbs from his bed.
Five hours, now.
He opens the door and peers out, but the hall is empty. Swearing under his
breath, he pushes open the door of the room.
The boy is cowering on the floor next to the bed, pants around his ankles,
hands over his face. He looks up, terror written across his features - his lip
is bleeding and his eye will be swollen shut by the morning. When he sees Dean,
he doesn’t move, just watches him like a wounded animal.
His shoes are off, Dean notes, which means his money is gone. Obviously, the
guy had seen him stuff Dean’s ten into his hiding place. Cursing the unseen
trucker in his head, Dean crouches next to the half-naked kid, catching him
under the elbow and ignoring the way he flinches. “C’mon,” he says. “Get up. He
could come back.”
“God,” the kid whispers, huge eyes opening wider at the thought of the man
returning. He scrambles to his feet, yanking his dirty jeans up over his skinny
hips. He shoves his feet into the shoes, leaving the laces flapping in a way
that makes Dean’s heart hurt for how young he is.
“Let’s go,” Dean says, poking his head out to ensure the hallway is still
deserted. He leads the kid by one skinny wrist into his room and locks the door
behind them.
Turning around, Dean sees the boy hovering nervously in the centre of the room.
He rubs a hand over his tired face. “Sit,” he instructs, and the kid slinks to
the hard wooden chair at the foot of the bed and sinks onto it. Dean collapses
on his bed, but not in the way he wants. “What’s your name?”
“Sam,” the boy replies softly. He’s watching Dean carefully from under his
dirty bangs and Dean realizes that those huge eyes are a mesmerizing shade of
hazel. “Well, Sam,” he says roughly, looking away from the sight before him,
“you’ve learned something, I hope?”
Sam sniffles pitifully and Dean half hates him. “I usually do,” the kid says.
“But there’s a lot to learn, I guess.”
“Best lesson is don’t be stupid,” Dean says, harsher than he intends to, and
feels instantly guilty when Sam hangs his head. “Aw, hell. Don’t do that.”
Hazel eyes glance back up and Dean wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. He
rubs his face again. “Look. I’d get you a room but I don’t have that much cash.
And I need to sleep, or tomorrow I’m gonna drive off a cliff or sideswipe a
school bus or something. So stay if you want, but stay quiet.”
There’s not really anywhere for the kid to sleep, aside from the chair he’s
currently sitting in, but Dean’s goodwill is running low and he can’t afford to
care any further. He swings his feet up onto the bed. “Please don’t murder me
in my sleep,” he asks politely, and he hears Sam’s giggle as his eyes slip
shut.
===============================================================================
There’s a warm weight next to him when Dean comes awake in the darkness, and
it’s simply instinct to curl himself around it without thinking. The warmth
moves, though, shifting against him, and it’s getting harder to keep himself
from thinking.
He’s still muzzy-headed enough to not react when he feels fingers plucking at
the button on his jeans, when a warm hand slips down below the waistband to
curl around him where his body is obviously much more awake than his brain. By
the time he’s fully aware of what’s happening, he’s already thrusting into the
touch, long fingers stroking along his skin.
“What - ” he starts, but those same long fingers press against his lips and he
falls silent. The mattress squeaks suggestively as the body next to him scoots
down the bed, and Dean’s next words, which were going to be “stop it” or “get
out”, die on his tongue as a warm, wet mouth envelopes his dick.
Sam’s tongue works him like a Playboy fantasy and Dean is helpless, screwing
his eyes closed to shut out the sight of those huge hazel eyes looking up at
him along the length of his body. A hand slides upwards to tug gently at his
balls and his hips jerk at the touch.
He can feel himself hitting the back of Sam’s throat and he bites down on his
lip, draws blood to keep the moan from slipping out. The hand that is still
gently rolling his balls in their sac pauses, slides further back, one long
finger pressing delicately at his hole, and Dean comes with a shout, spilling
into an eager mouth that swallows everything he’s got to give.
Eyes still closed, unwilling to face the truth, Dean feels all the places where
Sam is touching him, and so feels when the boy draws away. He’s left cold,
alone in the bed.
Warm lips that taste salty-sweet - his own spunk, Dean knows, but shoves the
thought away - brush over his own, and then there’s the soft sound of Converse
moving across the floor, and the door opening and closing.
It’s dark and rainy and he’s still got two hours to spare, and Dean is
collapsed on a bed that isn’t the one inside the cab of his truck, with images
of a doe-eyed boy seared into his mind.
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