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Entry tags:
Fic: Anything, implied Dean/OMCs, R, 1/1
Title: Anything
Pairing: Implied Dean/OMCs
Rating: R
Words: 420
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers; this is pre-series. Warnings…implied (possible) underage prostitution. I didn't specify an age for Dean, but assume he's probably 18 or younger. Nothing graphic.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, sadly. I'm just borrowing them.
A/N: Meep, I wrote something. Words! I'm kind of stunned over here. Prompted by comments Jensen made in his latest interview, about Dean's promiscuity…and comments in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
without_me's journal regarding that. A, this is for you. :) Hope y'all enjoy.
Sometimes, when money's especially tight, he hustles more than just pool. It's not a big deal, though Dean knows people -- People -- would try to make it one, if they knew. So he makes sure no one knows.
But every so often hunts take Dad away longer than he means for them to, and Sammy still needs to eat. Still needs clothes to cover his ever-growing frame; still needs things like notebooks and pencils and whatever for school.
So, when the money runs out and pool or poker don't seem like viable options, Dean goes down to the nearest bar, slouches against the side of the building, and waits.
He never has to wait long. Someone always approaches. Asks him how much.
He didn't know how to answer the first few times; after that, it got easier. Now he knows; sometimes asks for what seems like ridiculous amounts of money.
Thing is, Dean's learned, when you got an itch needs scratching and can't -- or won't -- scratch it yourself, you'll pay someone big bucks to scratch it for you and keep quiet about it.
Those are the ones that like to talk, usually.
Got a gorgeous mouth. Made to suck cock, weren'tcha?
Look so pretty spread out under me.
Gonna fuck that pretty ass 'til you scream.
He's heard it all, every variation of it. Lets each word roll off his back, slide off his skin. None of it means anything to him; they're just words. Random words from anonymous fucks he'll never see again in his life.
After he's scored enough for whatever it is they need (groceries, gas, school, clothes), Dean heads home. Slips quietly into whatever is home this week (apartment, trailer, rundown shack), double-checking salt lines as he goes. He stands under the shower spray and lets the water pour down over him, washing everything away.
Sam's sound asleep when Dean pads into their room (sometimes he has his own room, bed, couch), but he shifts restlessly when Dean draws the covers back to slide into bed.
"Dean?" He sounds so young, voice all rough and sleepy. Dean presses a gentle kiss to his forehead and pushes him back onto his side.
"Shh, go back to sleep, Sammy."
Sam makes a quiet noise of assent, asleep again before Dean's finished spooning up behind him.
Nope, not a big deal. He'll do anything, so long as it means Sammy's fed and clothed, and safe and he can come home and curl up against him.
Anything.
~fin~
Pairing: Implied Dean/OMCs
Rating: R
Words: 420
Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers; this is pre-series. Warnings…implied (possible) underage prostitution. I didn't specify an age for Dean, but assume he's probably 18 or younger. Nothing graphic.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, sadly. I'm just borrowing them.
A/N: Meep, I wrote something. Words! I'm kind of stunned over here. Prompted by comments Jensen made in his latest interview, about Dean's promiscuity…and comments in
without_me's journal regarding that. A, this is for you. :) Hope y'all enjoy.Sometimes, when money's especially tight, he hustles more than just pool. It's not a big deal, though Dean knows people -- People -- would try to make it one, if they knew. So he makes sure no one knows.
But every so often hunts take Dad away longer than he means for them to, and Sammy still needs to eat. Still needs clothes to cover his ever-growing frame; still needs things like notebooks and pencils and whatever for school.
So, when the money runs out and pool or poker don't seem like viable options, Dean goes down to the nearest bar, slouches against the side of the building, and waits.
He never has to wait long. Someone always approaches. Asks him how much.
He didn't know how to answer the first few times; after that, it got easier. Now he knows; sometimes asks for what seems like ridiculous amounts of money.
Thing is, Dean's learned, when you got an itch needs scratching and can't -- or won't -- scratch it yourself, you'll pay someone big bucks to scratch it for you and keep quiet about it.
Those are the ones that like to talk, usually.
Got a gorgeous mouth. Made to suck cock, weren'tcha?
Look so pretty spread out under me.
Gonna fuck that pretty ass 'til you scream.
He's heard it all, every variation of it. Lets each word roll off his back, slide off his skin. None of it means anything to him; they're just words. Random words from anonymous fucks he'll never see again in his life.
After he's scored enough for whatever it is they need (groceries, gas, school, clothes), Dean heads home. Slips quietly into whatever is home this week (apartment, trailer, rundown shack), double-checking salt lines as he goes. He stands under the shower spray and lets the water pour down over him, washing everything away.
Sam's sound asleep when Dean pads into their room (sometimes he has his own room, bed, couch), but he shifts restlessly when Dean draws the covers back to slide into bed.
"Dean?" He sounds so young, voice all rough and sleepy. Dean presses a gentle kiss to his forehead and pushes him back onto his side.
"Shh, go back to sleep, Sammy."
Sam makes a quiet noise of assent, asleep again before Dean's finished spooning up behind him.
Nope, not a big deal. He'll do anything, so long as it means Sammy's fed and clothed, and safe and he can come home and curl up against him.
Anything.
~fin~