
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5144930.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Sibling_Incest, Wincest_-_Freeform, Underage_Prostitution,
      Underage_Sex, Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-04 Updated: 2015-12-01 Chapters: 5/? Words: 9082
****** Sammy's Secret ******
by Nobe_Ackerman_(imbetterlive)
Summary
     "I'm not a baby. I'm not a baby. I'm not a baby."
Notes
     This is not so different from my usual works, but it is a different
     fandom. Supernatural is dear to my heart. Wincest fans, where you at?
     :) WARNING: This will eventually be a wincest story!! Be warned!!!
See the end of the work for more notes
***** The Beginning of the End *****
Sam Winchester is not his brother.
Dean is smooth, so suave, everything he does is effortless. Flirting with
girls, washing the impala, Christ, even sewing up a bloody wound on his own leg
where a Wendigo clawed him. Sam is all gangly limbs and too-large hands,
fumbling where his brother glided along and falling on his ass where Dean
stayed on both feet.
Certainly he looked up to his big brother, nineteen years old and unbearably
perfect, hair always combed back just right and t-shirt fitting snugly to the
muscles he'd developed from years of the family business. Sam was too thin, his
arms and legs were so long that he didn't fit any of his clothing anymore, and
Dean was constantly giving him pairs of jeans from his own duffel bag.
That was the thing, too. Dean was so fucking nice to him. On the rare occasion
that he stayed at a school long enough to make friends, whichever ones that had
siblings were constantly complaining that the older ones were always yelling,
always cursing at them, ignoring them and blaming them for the trouble they
caused. That was never the case for Dean and Sam.
Dean made sure to be waiting for Sam outside of his school on the days when
John gave him the car, and sometimes he'd even walk, on the days when he wasn't
too sore from hunting or whatever the fuck he got up to spending all night at
girl's houses when his father thought he was asleep in the bed beside his
little brother. Sam didn't like to think about it.
And it was so difficult to be angry at Dean for his perfection when he was
greeted so cheerfully, with a 'Hey Sammy!' and a soda or various bag of junk
food tossed his way. Dean always said John gave him money for the snacks, but
Sam had figured out long ago that Dean was paying for him to snack out of his
own pocket, out of the money he earned working at the car garage down the
street. He didn't really know how to feel about it.
By the time Sam turned fifteen, he was pretty much permanently frustrated.
Their father certainly gave Sam more affection, there was no doubt about it,
but it was awkward and stilted. Too-hard pats on the back and shoulder, one-
armed hugs, an offer of the last bite of whatever greasy dinner he'd ordered in
the diner they were eating at. Dean was the recipient of the sort of attention
from John that Sam much preferred.
John was constantly praising Dean, taking him on all of the difficult hunts,
trusting him to take care of himself and giving him the car whenever he wasn't
using it. Sam, on the other hand, was left in the care of his big brother like
some kind of child. He wasn't allowed to have a gun for himself on hunts, just
a blessed knife and some holy water, and more often than not he was just left
at home. It was almost embarrassing, really- he'd been in the business just as
long as Dean had, Dean just had the advantage of being older. Besides, Sam was
fifteen years old now, not a baby by any standards. Or so he told himself.
They were residing in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois, a tiny town in the
middle of nowhere. They were surrounded by forests and long spaces of grassy
fields. They stayed in a small house for the first time in maybe a year, a nice
enough house, and Sam got a room for himself for the first time in possibly his
entire life.
John was nearly driven crazy by the hunt in those months. They stayed for a
long, long time, at least compared to the handfuls of nights they stayed in
hotels in other towns. Sam got to attend public school just two bus stops away,
and he made friends quickly.
He found out pretty quickly that although they all attended church service in
the morning and wore stuffy sweater-vests and crisp dress pants, they were
nowhere near as pure as they claimed to be. He made the mistake of sleeping
over at a boy in science class' house one night. The kid pulled a half-full
bottle of vodka from under his pillows. Sam had been about to refuse, nervous
as always at the prospect of doing something wrong, but he thought back to how
Dean used to sneak bottles of alcohol bummed from grocery stores and pit stops
along the road, how his smile was so relaxed and his body relaxed along the
backseat. He wanted to be like Dean. He wanted to show his brother that he
could do such things, too.
He took a large drink and nearly coughed up a lung. The boy, Samuel, had
laughed at him and swigged the bottle with ease.
A few weeks into their stay, Sam was maybe going a little far. Every time he
did something wrong, something that made his stomach fill with butterflies and
fear make his fingers tremble, he felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
Certainly Dean would kick his ass if he knew about any of it, but even though
his big brother had no idea what he got up to for the hours after school when
he was supposed to be working a job at the corner store, he still felt like he
was catching up to him in terms of badass-ery.
He smoked cigarettes, but only around friends. He had a pack of them tucked
under his underwear in his duffel bag, along with a purple lighter a girl had
bought him 'as mark of their friendship', in her terms. He'd tried weed, but it
didn't do much for him. He preferred to have his senses about him.
He lost his virginity. Certainly he'd never imagined he would lose it to both a
boy and girl at the same time, but he did, and it was fantastic. They were both
a year above him, the girl 16 and the boy newly 17, and they took turns riding
him into the girl's pink mattress while her parents cooked dinner downstairs.
He wasn't penetrated until about two and a half months into their stay. It
wasn't as terrible as he'd expected. In fact, he'd sort of enjoyed it, to a
degree. He kept doing it after, but only a handful of times, certainly not the
amount his big brother had done it. The fact bothered him, and he found himself
delving into deeper levels of debauchery every time he had the opportunity.
At the end of the first semester of school, during the two-week break they had,
he was introduced to a completely new level of danger. A girl, Sasha, with
blonde hair and nipple piercings had brought him to a back alley at around
midnight. He had to sneak out, leaving Dean passed out on the couch, terrified
he'd be caught.
At first he'd thought they were going to try to get him to try some kind of
drug, and he was preparing himself to finally say no, but three of his
classmates had emerged in similar wear. Tiny shorts, skirts on the girls, small
white shirts that exposed cleavage on both the two boys and the one freshman-
aged girl. Sam had looked at them, silent, and nobody had spoken.
His fears had been confirmed when cars began to pull up in front of the alley.
Sasha had spoken to the driver to an open window for a moment, and then one of
the boys, a sixteen year old with brown hair, had walked up to the car and then
disappeared inside of it. They drove away, and thirty minutes of silence later,
the car returned. The boy got out with his shorts askew, whiteness running down
his leg and smeared over his lips.
It went like that for the rest of the night. Sasha assured him that usually
there were more students, maybe ten to fifteen, and they had a lot of fun with
this business. The boy, who Sam learned was named George, showed him a thick
stack of cash. Sam looked at the money and knew immediately it would be enough
to buy them dinner for weeks, maybe even enough to get himself some new clothes
and Dean some varnish for the car.
Before he knew what he was doing he asked Sasha if he could join their little
club. As soon as the words passed his lips he felt a familiar tingling, a heavy
yet light feeling in his stomach, like he was floating and sinking at the same
time. It was adrenaline, and he'd become addicted.
Three nights later, at ten-thirty pm, he stood in front of the mirror in his
own bathroom. He was wearing a skirt, something suggested by Sasha due to his
girly-ish figure, and it wasn't as demeaning as he expected. His legs were
donned with knee-high school stockings given to him by another girl, and on his
upper half was the top part of his school uniform. It was so dirty, so bad, so
wrong, and he couldn't get enough of it.
He knew Dean wouldn't be home until the morning. He was at a girl's house. The
thought left a bitter taste in Sam's mouth.
He combed his hair back off his face, took one last look at himself in the
mirror, and then left the house, walking through the quiet dark to George's
house.
He didn't look back.
***** He's My Brother *****
Chapter Summary
     Sam goes too far. His brother's always there to help him.
     (Chapter name from the lyrics, "He ain't heavy, he's my brother".)
Chapter Notes
     Hello!!!!!! Thanks so much for leaving so much feedback, I honestly
     had this idea in a dream last night and I couldn't wait to write
     more. <3
The first night, Sam was too busy riding the wave of adrenaline of what he was
doing to really think about the consequences.
He was preened, his hair combed back even farther, a pair of heels slipped onto
his feet and lip gloss swiped onto both lips. A roll of condoms was shoved into
his back pocket and a tiny bottle of pepper spray into his other. He was given
a pep talk, and then sent out to the first customer that requested a boy.
The man was nice enough. Sam sat in the front seat of the car and nervously
recited what he was told to, tongue fumbling over the words.
"What do you want?" The man's gaze felt like it was burning on him. He had an
urge to get out of the car and run. He wanted Dean, he wanted his dad, he was
out of his comfort zone by miles and he didn't know how to get himself out of
this situation. He forced himself to stay still.
You got yourself into this, Sam. He said to himself. You want to be brave like
Dean, don't you?
And he did. So he tried to remember what the man asked for (nothing
spectacular, anal sex with a condom) and buckled his seatbelt as the man drove
a few feet forward and stopped the car.
He wasn't unattractive, really. Not anything special, either. He had brown
hair, stubble, a deep voice that sounded like he smoked a lot. He fucked Sam up
against the dirty brick wall beside the alleyway the rest of the teenaged
prostitutes stood in waiting for customers.
It hurt a lot. Sam wasn't yet smart enough to use his own spit, stroke the man
a few times, make it easier on himself. He bled that first night, and went home
after one customer, two hundred dollars clutched in his fist.
 
He went back the next night. That night he had three customers, and it was
easy. One was a blonde with icy eyes in an expensive suit who'd just wanted to
watch him touch himself, and then lick up Sam's release. The second wanted a
blowjob, and the third wanted Sam to fuck him. A thousand dollars were stuffed
into his pocket when he finally limped back up to his bedroom at six o'clock
that morning. Dean came into his room twenty minutes later, apparently having
heard the front door open. He called Sam's name once, twice, and when Sam
didn't answer, heart pounding and shaking like a frightened rabbit underneath
his covers, he left.
He took some advil and allowed himself six hours of sleep, finally getting out
of bed at noon and heading to the bus stop. He rode it an hour to the closest
commercial mall, his money folded neatly into a beat-up leather wallet he'd
inherited from his big brother.
He bought himself two t-shirts, a new pair of shoes, and some notebooks for
schoolwork. He also stopped by a lingerie store and bought a simple pair of
cotton pink panties- Sasha had told him that it made customers pay more. Then
he bought Dean car varnish, a couple of classic rock cassettes for the impala's
radio, and on a whim picked up a pecan pie from an expensive bakery on his way
out. After paying bus fare, he still had over a thousand dollars left in his
pocket.
The presents for Dean, once he arrived home, were carefully wrapped in the
tissue paper from the other purchases. After a moment he tore it back off,
afraid his brother would think he was dumb for it.
He presented them shyly to Dean where the boy (no, man, he had to keep
correcting himself) was washing his car in their driveway. Dean had looked
confused, then turned them over in his hands and clapped Sam on the back, a
grin on his face.
"Thanks, kid." Was what he'd said, and Sam couldn't help but think he looked
pleased. Even more so when he heard Dean call out a 'fuck yeah, Sammy!' from
the kitchen when he'd discovered the pie.
That was enough to keep him returning to the back alley every night.
Dean never said anything, but Sam could tell he was getting a little
suspicious. He'd caught Sam up at four in the morning, having returned early.
Thankfully he was in his pyjamas already, and was washing his face in his
bathroom. Dean had questioned him and he'd stumbled over his words again, said
something completely unintelligible, babbled until his big brother went away.
He was so frightened that he'd not gone back to the alley for a week. The
reality of what he was doing hit him head-on when Dean came close to
discovering it.
In a way, he began to resent Dean. Dean was the one who was always so perfect,
Dean was the one who constantly got everything right, Dean was the one with
girls practically waiting in line to get a taste of him. This was Dean's fault,
it had to be. That was his excuse, his way of not blaming himself for what he'd
gotten into.
Sam began bringing lube to the alley when he finally returned, and that made
things much easier. He learned to finger himself open before he left the house
so it didn't hurt so much. Dean had discovered the little bottle of clear,
flavorless lube one day when he was searching through Sam's bathroom for
toothpaste. Sam had nearly died in embarrassment, but Dean had teased him for
three entire days before finally dropping it.
His ass was sore all the time. John finally returned home for a weekend before
heading off again, and he'd commented on Sam's proficient limp, telling Dean to
'take it easy on him, don't smack him around so much', chuckling heartily and
turning back to the television. Sam hadn't said a word, but he could feel
Dean's eyes burning into the back of his skull.
The fifth week of his new endeavors, something went very, very wrong. He was
tired, since they'd gone back to school the week before and he got less than an
hour of sleep each night (he napped from the time he got home to ten or eleven
o'clock, Dean mostly left him alone). None of them were as alert as they were
normally. In the time Sam had been working with them, they'd never had a police
scare before, so when sirens sounded and the ten of them that were there
scattered and ran like hell, Sam panicked.
He ran out through the police cars pulling up, ignoring the shouts of 'hey,
kid, stop right there!' and the threats of guns. He was thankful for his years
of running from the creatures his family hunted, because once he kicked off his
heels he was out of there in a flash.
He ended up at the corner of some street with a bar and a hotel, hands shaking,
entire body numb with fear. He headed into the bar and begged the bartender to
use the pay phone. Finally the man gave him change and he dialed Dean's
numbers, fingers trembling so badly he misdialed twice.
It was nearly seven rings before Dean finally picked up, voice groggy from
sleep.
"Hello?"
Sam could have cried. He was still so scared. He thought any moment the police
would burst in and arrest him, and he'd have to call John, and he'd honestly
rather die.
"Dean?" His voice was tiny, and there was silence for a moment.
"Sammy?" He heard the rustling of sheets. He pictured Dean sitting up in bed,
his hair all mussed, t-shirt rucked around his waist. Or maybe he was bare-
chested.
He didn't know what to say, and Dean spoke again.
"Sammy, where the fuck are you? It's three o'clock in the morning, whose phone
is this?"
"Dean, I need your help." He heard sirens outside and immediately went stiff
with fright. He was certain Dean could hear his breathing over the phone.
"What? With what? Tell me what the hell is going on."
"Please come get me. You have to come get me. Please." Dean would kill him for
making him take the Impala out in the middle of the night.
"Not until you tell me what's going on."
Sam heard the sirens getting louder and burst into tears, gripping the phone so
tightly his fingers went white, then an unhealthy purple. He didn't want this.
He didn't want any of this. He wanted to go home.
He sobbed unintelligibly into the phone for only a second when Dean's voice
interrupted him.
"I'm coming. Where are you?"
He asked the bartender, who looked uncomfortable at his tears, and slowly gave
the address to Dean through his loud cries.
"I'm in the car. Stay on the phone."
Sam did as he was told, holding the receiver to his chest, trying desperately
to calm down though it was no use. He watched out the front windows and when a
familiar Impala pulled up he dropped the phone and shot outside like a bullet,
flinging himself into the front seat of the car, the flashing red and blue of
police lights visible in the rearview mirror.
And there was Dean, like some sort of angel waiting to save him, concern in his
eyes and sleep creasing his face.
"Drive. Drive." Sam said as the lights got closer, strapping his seatbelt in.
"Drive, Dean!"
And drive he did. He could hear the urgency in Sam's voice and tore away from
the pavement, shooting down the road, the engine so loud Sam couldn't hear his
own crying for a second.
When they were out of sight of the police cars Sam rested his head upon the
door just below the window, exhausted. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to be
home, be safe, forget this had ever happened.
The car slowed to a stop in the driveway of their house, and Dean made no move
to get out of the car. Sam went to open the door and a hand caught his wrist,
gentle, careful.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice was soft, the kind he used when Sam got hurt on a hunt
and needed to be stitched up. "You gotta tell me what's going on."
He didn't respond. Shame burned his face red and he looked at his feet. His
legs were mostly exposed, torn jean shorts riding up on his ass. He was only
grateful he wasn't wearing a skirt. His shirt was a girl's shirt, cropped above
the bellybutton. He was humiliated, and didn't say a word.
Finally Dean let go and Sam got out of the car, heading into the house and
stripping down as soon as he stepped into his room. He pulled on pyjamas,
washed his face, brushed his teeth, stared at himself in the mirror, at the
puffy redness of his eyes that soap and water could not undo.
He heard Dean get back into bed, heard the creak of his bed frame, and a minute
later walked into his room. He didn't know if it would be well received, but he
needed the closeness. He needed the reassurance of Dean's breath and heartbeat
and warm skin, needed the knowledge that he would always protect Sam, that Sam
would always be safe as long as he had his big brother.
He climbed into Dean's bed with him, laying on his side facing him, and a large
hand adjusted the collar of his pajama top. The small gesture was so
affectionate, so like his brother that he nearly cried again. He slept with
ease that night, the presence of his brother and savior easing (if only
temporarily) the torment in his head.
***** Overprotected *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean watches Sammy more closely. Sam can't stop what he's doing.
Chapter Notes
     Thank you for all the nice comments <3
After the incident with the police, Sam stopped going back to the alley. He
begged Dean to pull him from that school, and his brother did without question.
Sam thought it probably had something to do with the whole calling-him-at-
three-am-hysterical thing. John returned shortly after.
Dean didn't tell John what had happened, and Sam was eternally grateful for
that. He had over ten thousand dollars rolled up in wads in an old pair of
jeans in his duffel bag, and used it every now and then, slipped a ten or a
twenty into his brother's pockets or backpack when he wasn't paying attention.
It helped a lot. They ate well, Dean seemed much less stressed, and John wasn't
as angry all the time.
They moved shortly after. Well, they left the house. They went back on the
road, driving straight through Iowa, all dusty dirty paths and endless
cornfields and small, depressing towns that John would stop them in to have a
beer or two.
Sam had stopped turning tricks, but he could never get the memories of it out
of the front of his mind. The sex part wasn't awful. Certainly at points he
felt dirty, used, but other times he rationalized it. There were worse things
he could be doing, he told himself. The amount of people who actually wanted to
go all the way and fuck him was startlingly low. His mouth and dick were used
more than his ass was.
He knew that he could pay for their housing in a motel, for their food, gas for
the car, drinks for Dean and Dad. But how the hell was he supposed to hand them
thousands of dollars in cash without being asked where he'd gotten it? Dad
would immediately assume he'd robbed a bank and kick his ass for it.
There was part of him, too, that said he would never have enough money. There
was an itch in the back of his head always telling him to keep going, you could
be making so much more, you can support your family for years if you just keep
going.
One day, a sweltering hot summer afternoon, just after lunch, John brings the
boys inside of a small bar to wait for him while he drinks. Dean spots a pretty
girl and heads outside with her, for what, Sam doesn't want to know. He sits by
himself, sipping at a glass of water, face glistening and hair in damp curls
from his sweat.
Within ten minutes a man slides up beside him, a large man, with biceps the
size of Sam's thigh and a wifebeater stretched tight over what Sam was certain
would be abs. Sam looked over, and he suddenly felt very, very small.
He's propositioned. The man coaxes him, calls him a 'pretty little thing' and
rests a large hand on his slim waist.
"Come on, pretty little boy, lemme have a taste. You chargin'? I'll pay."
He swallows. His throat is so dry, and the water tastes of sawdust.
"Five hundred." He's weak, he's so weak.
"Five hundred, huh? You better be a fuckin' virgin, for that price." The man
chuckles, pats Sam's back, and gets up. Sam takes that as his cue, looking
around quickly to ensure nobody is watching them.
The man takes him out to his truck and takes him with a condom. His cock is as
proportionate as his arms, and Sam bleeds. He holds onto the dusty leather
backseat that his cheek is smushed against, that his sweat is soaking into,
gritting his teeth as the large man pushes into him over and over and over.
He finishes fast, groaning filthy, obscene things that make Sam feel sick to
his stomach. He gives Sam tissues to stuff in his underwear to catch the blood,
and then they get out of the car. Sam's shirt is soaked in sweat.
The man goes to walk away, and Sam calls.
"Hey."
He turns.
"What?"
"You forgot my money."
The man just scoffs, laughs, and Sam's stomach lurched. He did it for the
money. He did it for the money, he had to be paid for it. The man tried to walk
away and Sam repeated more insistently this time.
"I want my money."
"Kid," The man turns this time, advances on Sam, and Sam is determined not to
be scared. He refuses to be.
"I want my money. I told you five hundred, so give it to me." His voice is
brave though it shakes a little, and he clenches both fists, trying to puff out
his chest.
"Back the fuck off." His voice is menacing, frightening. "I ain't paying you
shit. Go whore yourself out to someone else."
"Give me my fucking money!" Desperate, Sam reaches for the man's pocket where
he can see the corner of a wallet. His hand is smacked away, and then enormous,
unbelievable pain explodes across the left side of his face.
He falls immediately. He'd never felt anything like that before. It felt like
he'd been hit in the head with a truck, run over and squished to the pavement.
He couldn't see shit with his left eye.
He could taste something warm in his mouth and there was no air in his lungs.
He couldn't breathe. Vaguely he recognized that he'd been punched in the face
by the giant of a man, but it hurt so bad that he didn't give a single shit
what had happened. He just wanted the pain to stop.
He laid there, spread out over the dusty ground as the truck drove away. He
couldn't get up. He let his head loll to the side.
He didn't know how long he'd been laying out there when a familiar voice shouts
his name, panicked, loud. A figure, tall, with a black leather jacket comes
into focus, a pretty girl trailing behind.
Dean.
Someone touched the side of his face that was still throbbing and Sam's lower
body twisted, trying to get away from those fingers. It hurt. God, it hurt.
Then a hand slid under his neck, through the blood that had turned the dust
purplish-orange, lifting him to sit up.
He was forced to swallow a mouthful of blood during the movement and gagged,
spitting what filled his mouth next down his front. Dean said something,
something loud and frightened, and Sam wondered why he was so scared. He didn't
like to hear his brother scared.
Dean lifted him into his arms and he let him, didn't protest like he would
usually. He was suddenly grateful for the man, for the tissues stuffed down his
pants. If Dean saw the blood, he'd either have to say he'd been raped, or spill
everything. Neither sounded like a good idea.
He was laid on something cold, something he guessed was the hood of the impala.
Something dabbed at his face, something wet, and the smell of blood wasn't so
prominent when the cloth retreated. He opened both eyes, but only one opened,
and he guessed that the other was swollen shut. Dean's face came into his
vision, twisted with concern. He was saying something, something that Sam tried
to listen to.
"....fucking idiot, shouldn't'a left you alone, Christ, you look like you got
hit in the face with a sledgehammer..." He tuned Dean out after that. This was
so shitty. So fucking shitty.
He shouldn't have done this. Dean was going to get in an ridiculous amount of
trouble with John. Dean might have his impala privileges revoked. Sam had done
that to him.
Dean got a bottled water from the bar, and pressed it to Sam's aching face. It
hurt more from the pressure for a moment, but the numbness that soon came was
blessed.
It was a few minutes of that, and then Dean laid him in the back of the impala.
He was still out of it, but with the quiet of the leather interior his mind
cleared. By the time Dean returned, an absolutely furious John in toe, Sam was
sitting up with a hand touching the swollen puffiness of his eye and cheek.
He had drunk some of the water, used it to swish the blood from his mouth and
spit it out the half-open window. John opened the door, ordered him to get out.
He did, standing, and his father inspected his face. Sam spared a glance toward
his brother and found him standing stiff, guilt written all over his face. That
only made Sam feel shittier.
John screamed at Dean until people came out of the bar to see what was wrong,
and then they piled into the car and took off. Sam asked if Dean would sit
beside him in the backseat. He didn't want him sitting next to John.
Dean folded himself into the backseat beside Sam, let the kid sling his legs
over his lap, didn't bother to complain about his shoes getting his jeans
dirty. The car was silent for most of the way.
They stopped again a few miles down the road, John disappearing into the ball
to hustle money, not before snapping at Dean to stay with Sam. Sam looked at
his hands, which folded in his lap, playing with his fingers. His heart ached
at the abuse his brother was suffering because of him.
He looked up when John was gone.
"Dean, I'm sorry."
Dean looked over at him, and smiled, but it was small and held no humor.
"'s alright, kiddo. You didn't do anything wrong. What the hell happened to
you, anyway?"
He shrugged, guilt making his eyes burn. If only Dean knew. "Some random guy
punched me out. I dunno."
"Yeah. I can tell." His fingers brushed against Sam's forehead where there was
no swelling. "You look like shit."
Instead of responding, Sam moved a little and took a look at himself in the
rearview mirror. It was true- his eye was purple and blue and swollen shut, and
his lip was split. A new wave of misery washed over him. How the hell was he
supposed to pull customers with his face a mess? As soon as he realized he'd
had the thought his stomach twisted in knots and he sat back.
He shifted off of Dean's lap and back into his own seat. He heard Dean inhale,
about to speak, but then he went completely silent.
Sam looked over, startled.
Dean was looking down at his lap where Sam's butt had been. There was a round
bloodstain on his jeans.
Sam immediately went numb. He knew if he made too many excuses Dean would know
exactly what happened.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice was so quiet that Sam barely heard him.
"It's just from my face, Dean." He tried to keep his voice steady. "You picked
me up, remember? I probably got some on you."
Neither spoke for a while. Dean finally broke the silence.
"Sammy, if he hurt you, you gotta tell me." Dean's voice was stinted, awkward,
urgent.
"He did hurt me. In my face. Jesus, what are you even saying?" His voice was
too-high as he began to panic.
Dean opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He closed his eyes.
Sam watched him, and neither of them spoke until John returned to the car.
That night they slept in the back of the car, and Sam may have been imagining
it, but Dean didn't dare come close enough to touch him.
***** Hiding *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean finds out exactly what Sammy's been up to.
Chapter Notes
     Hope you enjoy!!!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
It took nearly a month for Sam's face to heal completely. He didn't do much
work while it did. A couple of handjobs, some frottage, nothing too extensive.
It made him around two thousand by the time his face had returned to its usual
baby-soft status.
It was difficult to find time, too. Ever since he'd been hit Dean hovered
around him constantly. Sam would have found it cute if he'd not been trying to
make money to support his family. He managed to sneak off, sometimes during
pitstops when they'd park by a truckstop and get some sleep, and Sam would
stumble out saying he had to take a piss, rushing into the bar area and
collecting a customer as quickly as possible. Sometimes he did it out the side
of the car (but was careful to aim the man towards the ground rather than the
Impala's sleek exterior) when Dad and Dean were hustling. It was good enough to
keep him satisfied for the time being.
He began to wonder how long it had been since he'd had an orgasm during sex. He
estimated it had been roughly five months, considering all the sex he'd had
back at the Catholic school before he'd been pulled out. He didn't really
masturbate anymore, which was funny, considering he'd nearly rubbed himself raw
for over a year after he'd discovered the concept of self-pleasure. It felt
dirty somehow, wrong to do. Especially when no one was paying him.
The largest amount of money he'd ever made off of one customer came a week
after his face had stopped swelling. It was a man who'd pulled up to him in a
slick black car, and Sam could almost see the price sign flashing behind his
eyes. It was hot outside, and Sam was wearing cutoff denim shorts and an old t-
shirt that rode atop his bellybutton. Neither of them thought much of it- it
was better than sweating to death.
However, the man had leered at Sam, who had gone numb with fear. He was certain
that somehow Dean would figure out everything from that one little look. As
strong as his fear was, he couldn't resist the money. He gestured with one
thumb at the back parking lot, and the man had continued to stare until Dean
took notice.
"Hey," he'd said, stepping up to the car. "You got a fuckin' problem, old man?
Drive away."
And the man had done so. Twenty minutes later, the two of them still sitting
outside the dusty diner waiting for John, Sam said he had to pee again and
snuck out to the back.
He had crawled into the car, nervous though this was routine for him. It was
strange how even unspoken their agreement was clear. Sam was startled by the
amount of men who never questioned it, never asked if he was a prostitute, just
assumed. It almost made him self-conscious, really. Did he look like a whore?
He'd asked Dean that once, and Dean had burst out laughing, patting Sam's
shoulder.
"What movie didja get that from, kiddo?" Sam hadn't laughed along.
He sucked the guy off. It wasn't pleasant for him, but then again, he wasn't
the one paying. It was easy for him to remember what to do- up, down, up, down,
suck, lick, cup his balls with one hand and rub the base with the other. When
he came, Sam didn't pull off fast enough, and was offered a tissue to spit out
what had landed on his tongue.
This man wasn't anything special. Unattractive, but that was sort of to be
expected. Obviously very wealthy; Sam spotted an 'Armani' tag on his suit. Gray
hair, blue eyes. He stayed hard, and Sam guessed that there had been some
Viagra involved. Either way, he wasn't complaining. He didn't want to wait in
the car for fifteen minutes while the man tried to get himself hard again.
He fucked him, and it was easy. Sam remembered to get on his hands and knees,
spit in one hand, reach back and stroke. Of course it wasn't a perfect push in,
it still burned and the friction sucked, but he could deal with it. He had been
quite surprised when a large, almost-wrinkled hand reached around and grabbed
his soft cock.
At first he was frightened. He'd been the recipient of quite a few ball-kicks,
courtesy of his big brother, but this hand was nice. It stroked him, and he
closed his eyes.
He didn't get hard, but he very much appreciated the sentiment, giving the man
a large smile over his shoulder that was received with a look of mild surprise.
He finished on Sam's back and then wiped it off. Two minutes later Sam was
handed the biggest wad of cash he'd ever seen at one time, beside his own stash
tucked deep in his duffel bag.
He didn't bother counting it, just dressed and gave the man a tentative kiss on
the cheek. He figured he deserved it. He slipped out of the car and tiptoed
into the diner, rubbing the foamy soap from the dispenser onto his legs and
stomach and crotch to get rid of the thick smell of sex.
Afterward he limped back out to Dean, who looked up at him.
"That was the longest piss ever."
He shrugged and sat down, grimacing. He wasn't necessarily in pain, but it
wasn't exactly comfortable to have your anal cavity stretched in that way. He
felt sticky on the inside, and it bothered him.
He felt eyes on him and looked over.
"What?"
"That guy. He was creepy, that's all." Dean said, but he eyed Sam's shirt and
frowned. A moment later he pulled off his leather jacket and laid it over Sam's
shoulders. "Put that on. We need to get you clothes that fit."
Sam wished he could say he was pleased at Dean's protection, but he wasn't.
These clothes were how he subtly picked up prospective customers. No one would
like him once he was tucked away in jeans and baggy shirts.
Nonetheless he slipped his arms into the warm jacket, not caring about how
unbearably hot the leather made him. It was Dean's, so he'd bear it.
Later that night in the Impala when he was tucked safely in the backseat by
himself, the jacket draped over his lap, he counted the cash. It was eight
thousand dollars, along with a business card tucked between the bills. He
unzipped his duffel bag and pressed the money inside, sliding the business card
into his back pocket.
It was exactly two weeks later when everything shattered around him. He thought
he'd been careful, so careful, but evidently it wasn't enough. In retrospect,
he should have known that this would happen. Dean was too smart, too
perceptive, it was Sam's fault for not realizing that sooner.
He knew something was wrong from the first moment he opened the front door.
They were staying in a small apartment in Michigan, again whilst their dad
hunted. Dean was usually watching TV, talking to himself, thudding a baseball
into the wall. When Sam stepped inside it was dead quiet.
At first he was worried. Had Dean hurt himself? Had a monster come through
while he was at the library? He worked himself up so much as he was removing
his shoes and jacket that he could have cried with relief by the time he heard
rustling and saw a familiar face and body come from the kitchen.
His relief was gone just as quickly when he saw the look on Dean's face. It was
the look a parent gave their child when they'd done something seriously wrong.
Sam knew something was very, very wrong, and he paused.
"Dean? What's wrong?" His voice shook. He had a horrible sinking feeling that
he knew exactly why he was in trouble.
His brother didn't say a thing, just gestured to the kitchen table. When Sam
looked over his throat closed up and his hands began to shake.
On the coffee table lay the lube, the pairs of panties, the condoms, and the
thick wads of cash. Everything he'd collected from the beginning. All of his
shame laid out in front of him like some sort of fucked-up shrine.
He stood there and he trembled and no one spoke. The silence was so heavy that
he couldn't fucking breathe and he tried desperately to think of some way, any
way out of it.
There were none. He couldn't run, this was his home, and his brother. He
couldn't hide, that was childish, and he'd messed up enough already.
"Are you going to tell me what the fuck all of this is?" Dean's voice was
steady, but Sam knew him well enough to hear how difficult it was for him to
speak.
"Dean, I..." He trailed off, helpless. He didn't know what to say. "It's...
It's just..."
"Tell me this isn't what I think it is." Sam's eyes beaded up with tears at the
near-pleading tone of Dean's voice.
"It's... It's..."
"It's what, Sam?" Now he was yelling. Sam was almost glad. He'd prefer Dean
yelled than be sad.
He didn't respond, and Dean's voice got louder.
"Tell me. Fucking tell me, Sam, tell me what the fuck all this shit is. Now!"
He was close to screaming and Sam looked at the floor. He felt like he was
rooted in place.
There was silence for a long time.
"I just... I just wanted to make some money." His voice was tiny, and a fat
tear rolled down his cheek.
"Sammy," Dean's voice cracked and Sam wanted to die. "Sammy, don't tell me it's
true. Tell me I'm wrong, kid. Please. Tell me I'm wrong."
He looked up at Dean, and more tears cascaded down his face. Dean closed his
eyes and looked away.
"Dean, please, I'm so-"
"Go to your room." He snapped, and began to gather everything off of the table.
"Now, Sam."
Sam grabbed his sleeve, desperate for his big brother's comfort.
"Dean, don't... don't..."
"Now." Dean yanked his arm away and Sam was certain his heart shattered. He
turned and quietly walked to his room, closing the door and shoving a chair
under the door. It was his way of taking control of the situation, of making
himself feel like he was the one who had something to be angry about.
He laid on his bed, absolutely miserable. He didn't give two shits about the
money, and what Dean did with it. The humiliation of being caught doing what he
had been doing was overpowering, and he cried for a long, long time, trying to
forget about what had happened.
Dean would never love him again, he convinced himself. Dean thought he was
disgusting, and horrible, and a whore. Nothing else. He heard his doorknob turn
a few times, but Dean never tried to open his door.
He spent the rest of the night generally feeling shitty about everything. When
he ran out of tears he just laid there in a little ball. Dean made no move to
speak to him, and by the time the sun rose he realized that it was the longest
he'd gone without speaking with his brother in years.
His stomach was rumbling so loudly by six thirty AM that he had to get
something to eat. He removed the chair as quietly as possibly and crept out of
his room into the kitchen, eyes so swollen he could barely see out of them. He
tiptoed like a criminal in his own home (well, sort of home) and grabbed an
apple and small bag of chips, running back to his room fast and slamming the
door. Once the chair slid back into place he let out a relieved breath.
He ate in silence, paging through a book he'd brought from the library though
he didn't register any words.
He fell back to sleep for lack of anything better to do, and it was noon when
somebody opened his door. He vaguely heard the wooden frame squeak and rolled
over, not awake enough to be frightened.
A weight settled beside him on the bed, and a warm hand laid on his shoulder.
He pushed it away, overheated from the sunlight streaming through the window
and the covers on top of him. The hand returned a moment later, shaking him.
"Sam. Sammy, wake up."
Sam's eyes immediately snapped open and he squirmed away from the hand. That
was definitely Dean. He didn't look up, heart pounding in fright, staring at
the dull wall and praying that his brother would leave.
"You gotta eat something. You didn't have dinner or breakfast, and it's
lunchtime."
Sam didn't respond. He'd had chips and an apple, he was fine.
"Sam." Dean stood. "Come on. Just eat something. I'm gonna go to work, okay?
You gonna be okay?"
The amount of concern in Dean's voice made Sam want to start crying all over
again. How dare he act so worried after how he'd humiliated Sam?
There was still no response, and Dean sighed, standing. A moment later Sam's
door closed again and he rolled onto his back. He waited until he heard the
familiar purr of the Impala's engine to get up, get dressed, and sulk into the
kitchen.
He made himself a peanut butter sandwich, which tasted like sawdust. He felt
minutely better afterward. He didn't feel so hollow inside.
He tried to watch television but his mind kept wandering. Would Dean ever look
at him the same again? Had he ruined their entire relationship with his
carelessness?
He headed into Dean's room and found his panties and condoms. There was no hint
of the money. He took the former, beginning to sniffle again as he folded the
cotton into his pocket, and set them back in his duffel bag when he returned to
his own room. It just didn't feel right that Dean had them.
He was in the midst of an early dinner, another sandwich, this time with
bologna and tomatoes, when the front door opened. He froze. There was no way he
could make it to his bedroom before Dean came into the kitchen.
He looked down at the counter, eyes fixed to the last few bites of his
sandwich. Dean came in like nothing was wrong, grabbing a beer from the fridge,
a bag of pretzels from the cabinet.
"Didja go to school?"
Sam didn't answer. There were no schools within walking distance and no buses.
He wasn't attending school in this city.
"You can't ignore me forever, kid."
Still quiet. There was nothing to say.
"I'm not mad at you."
That caught his interest. Dean had more than enough reasons to be absolutely
furious. He looked up, and Dean was sweaty, his forehead smeared with grease.
Sam guessed he'd found a job at another car place.
"You should take a shower. I can smell you from here." He was glad that his
voice was relatively steady, and took a small bite of the sandwich in his hand.
Dean ignored him. That was ironic.
"We need to talk."
"About?" He scowled.
"I have an appointment for you at the doctor's down the street. For tomorrow.
You're gonna be tested 'n stuff."
"Tested? For what, STDs?" He was honestly hurt that Dean thought he would be so
stupid. "I used condoms. You found them in my bag. Thanks for looking through
my stuff without my fucking permission, by the way."
"Sammy, you're.. you're fifteen." He shook his head. "There's gotta be some
sort of internal damage, right? I want you to go to the doctor anyway. I'll
come with you."
"No. They didn't all use my ass, you know." He sneered. He wasn't even sad
anymore. He wanted to hurt Dean, hurt him for humiliating him this way.
"Apparently my mouth's just as good."
Dean went white, and a moment later he was gone, his bedroom door slamming hard
enough to make the counter shake.
Sam rested his head on the cold marble, immediately regretting his words. He
dumped the sandwich into the trash.
He shouldn't have said that. He shouldn't have gotten Dean angry. The angrier
Dean was, the more likely he was to tell John. Sam's life would be over if John
found out. The both of them knew he'd be dumped in some facility and left by
himself while the two of them left together and abandoned him. Maybe that was a
little dramatic, but it would be something similar.
Now he just had to wait. Wait until John got home.
Chapter End Notes
     What I'm thinking is basically Sam's gonna go stir-crazy not having
     his normal routine of sex and money and he's so desperate that he
     starts fantasizing about Dean ha ha ha.
***** Cabin Fever *****
Chapter Summary
     Dean cracks down on Sammy-security.
Chapter Notes
     This is incredibly short, please forgive me!
It was two weeks later, and Dean and Sam were still alone in the house.
Dad had called and said he would need another week, and then that turned into
two, and now three. Sam didn't mind, really- he was certain Dean was going to
tell their father and he wanted to put off being disowned for as long as
possible.
They didn't really talk. Well, they did, because they fuckin' lived together
and it would be impossible not to, but it was awkward, stilted. Nothing like
how close they'd been before.
Sam was ashamed, and frightened to show any affection to Dean, terrified of it
being rejected, of being rejected in general. He had no idea what his big
brother was thinking and really wished he did, because Christ, that would be a
little helpful. He craved attention, needed it, especially since he was
literally not allowed to leave except for school.
Dean dropped him off in the mornings, showed up at school and watched for him
to go outside with his friends, was there ten minutes before school ended to
catch Sam running into the building last-minute to trick him. Of course Sam
never tried anything like that, he was already too frightened of what Dean
would do from just thinking about it.
He was withdrawn now. He locked himself in his room as soon as he got home from
school and only left to pee, shower, and eat. He couldn't turn tricks with Dean
watching his every move, and it was driving him absolutely fucking crazy.
Jacking off did nothing for him. He couldn't finish. All he wanted was someone
in his ass or mouth or hand, and only then did he realize what an extent his
actions had gone to.
He would say, even, that he was well and truly addicted to sex. Or at least
making money from it, the rush that it gave him. He wanted it so fucking badly
and it was eternally frustrating that he couldn't have it.
It got bad. Really bad. One night during dinner he found himself staring at
Dean's junk through his pants and wondering what that might feel like. That was
weird, even for him, and it freaked him out so bad that he ran off to his room
without taking another bite.
He continued to think those things, and it frightened him more and more as the
days went on. Sneaking a peek after his brother stepped out of the shower,
eyeing him when he walked around in boxers, searching for the line of his cock
through his pants when he drove the Impala with Sam in the passenger's seat.
 
The night it came to a head was a quiet Thursday night. Dean had gone out for
the first time in a while, saying that he was going to meet a girl, and Sam had
dutifully stayed behind. He was getting ready to settle down and sleep when
he'd heard the front door open, along with some too-high, fake giggles.
Oh, great. Dean had brought a fucking girl home.
Sam waited, and within ten minutes moaning was coming from his big brother's
room. He grumbled and stood up, stomping down the hallway, ready to curse Dean
out, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the scene through a crack in Dean's
mostly-closed door.
Dean was on his back on the bed, and the girl was on top of him, riding him.
Jesus, since when had his brother's cock been so thick? It was wet, too, slick
with the girl's juices every time she lifted off of him and then ground her
pussy down hard onto his cock. He was hard within seconds at the sight.
Dean was kissing all over her breasts and neither of them noticed Sam watching
through the doorway, so he very, very guiltily snuck a hand down into his pants
and began to touch.
Oh, fuck. It felt better than anything he'd tried in almost a month, and he
couldn't stop himself from continuing to fist his cock in his jeans while he
watched his brother fuck a girl. That cock driving in and out of her, her
delighted squeals, Dean's heavy grunts- it was all too much. He came into his
boxers silently, a hand clamped tightly over his mouth.
He escaped to the shower quickly afterwards, and the noises stopped, but his
guilt didn't fade even when he was back in bed and the sun was coming up. He'd
just masturbated to the sight of his brother having sex. His fucking brother.
He couldn't even look Dean in the eye when he left for school that morning, nor
when he was picked up. All he could think about was that thick pink cock, those
heavy balls that he wanted to lick a stripe u-
He stopped himself there, heart pounding, frightened by where his mind had went
while in the car beside his brother. Oh, Christ.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
End Notes
     Leave a comment if you'd like me to continue, this is gonna get very
     graphic in the next chapter, just a warning!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
