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The no-tell motel comforter is scratchy against his cheek and the air is too cool on his skin and there's a piece of hair – he hopes it's his own – sticking to his lip. But those things are secondary to the splitting feeling in his lower half, the harsh slide and tear of a cock without enough lube, the barbed wire shove into his body that pushes broken glass shouts against his teeth he refuses to let out. He's shaking, he thinks, but he can't really tell because each wild animal thrust rattles his joints together and probably would've clicked his jaw shut if he wasn't clenching it so hard he can feel the bones creaking. There are thick, calloused (dirtyuglyfilthy) fingers digging into his hips and the bite of denim on his skin each time the man slams so deep Dean's certain his lungs are being bruised.
"Fuck— Such a hot ass— Goddamn—"
The stream of filth is less comprehensible now, thank god, but just as obscene. Dean blocks it out best he can, but the words worm under his armor and stick in the rusting hinges. Whore. Slut. Hole.
His T-shirt clings to his skin, damp with sweat, as the man slides his hand over Dean's spine then back down to deliver a sharp slap to his ass. Dean picks his head up and whips it around to glare at the guy. "Hey! I told you, just fucking. Anything else and I'm gone, pal."
The trucker grunts and shoves Dean's face back into the mattress, but beyond that he keeps his hands on Dean's hips, fingers pressing into the hollow there and filling it with heavy shame.
It's years later when Dean finally feels the guy finish. At this point, his ass is mostly just dully sore, though there's an ache deeper than that, carving a hole in his chest and he doesn't care to address it right now. What he does care to address is the matter of his payment, but before he can get a word out, the door opens.
Oh God. He forgot.
There's a silence and then he swears the room drops ten degrees. Dean can hear his brother's footsteps coming closer – he's facing the wrong way to see them, but they sounded pissed, purposeful – and the guy is torn off of him, cock ripping out of Dean so quickly he can't hold back a low cry. Dean scrambles to put his pants back on – Sam's in the guy's face snarling threats that almost make Dean want to run – grabbing Sam's bicep and repeating his name until he actually looks.
"Sam! For Christ's sake, put him down, alright? It wasn't...like that."
Sam stare is blank. "What?"
"Just let go, dammit."
The trucker looks irate now – probably because he'd looked scared to all hell when Sam grabbed him – scowling at Dean. "I think we're done here, green eyes."
Sam's giving him that look and he can't bear to meet his eyes. He hasn't even buttoned up his jeans yet, for God's sake. He shoves Sam towards the door, bundling him outside and shutting it before he can protest. He's going to ignore that problem as long as possible.
The trucker is still quietly fuming when he turns back, tucking himself into his pants.
"That's two hundred and fifty."
The man shakes his head. "No way. Not after your fucking boyfriend burst like that. A man has his pride."
I don't, Dean thinks fleetingly. "Doesn't make a difference. Pay up."
"No. I came for a fuck, and I should've gotten that fuck uninterrupted. Dunno why anybody would wanna hang around a whore like you anyway."
Dean's stunned silent for a moment and the trucker leaves him with a hand fisted in the front of his open jeans, an ache in his ass, and one very confused, angry, and demanding brother.
Sam stands in the door for a second, glaring after the guy, then his eyes are on Dean, and Christ, he can't meet them. Sam is everything pure in his life, everything good and innocent and free, and now he's here, understanding just how fucked-up Dean has become. He tries for a shit-eating grin, zipping his jeans back up and trying his hardest not to limp when he steps back, puts a cautionary cushion of air between them.
"Heh. Guess I never told you I swing both ways."
That lie bounces off his brother like a pea off a brick wall, so Dean tries for another.
"Look, his sister--"
"Are you whoring yourself out, Dean?"
Not a shred of delicacy in that kid. Dean winces visibly, clearing his throat and scoffing. "What? No, that's stupid, Sam. C'mon. Do I look like a hooker to you?"
Sam's eyes are too slow when they drag over the ripped-up jeans that flash more thigh than Dean should be comfortable with, too understanding as they take in the two-sizes too-small T-shirt and the eyeliner Dean suddenly remembers he's wearing. Sam's eyes turn down sadly, painfully, when he speaks. "Yeah. You do, Dean."
The air in Dean's lungs is frozen, so he chokes up ice cubes instead of oxygen, turning away to grab a bottle of whiskey. "Uh, yeah. There was this party earlier today, so..."
He can't look at Sam. His eyes are weighted down with shame, skittering around the floor by Sam's feet as he pushes a glass of whiskey at him -- is Sam even legal? He doesn't even know. Sam puts it on the table and Dean can fucking feel his stupid eyes, all hurt and protective, staring him down.
"So, um, right. I need to give you the money for this term, right? How's school? You're doin' good, right? I ain't paying if you're flunking, Sammy." He's running his mouth, desperate to fill the cotton silence with something, anything sharp enough to kill the elephant in the room.
"Is this how you've been making the money? Why you wouldn't tell me how you got it?"
Dean's got his back to Sam, but he can see it in his head. The tone of voice might as well be a photograph. Sam's shoulders are probably slumped down, his face is filled with something like disappointment and disgust, he's horrified that he's been paying for his college tuition with fuck money. So Dean doesn't turn around, because he doesn't want to acknowledge that this is happening. It can't. It isn't.
"Dean, you're limping. Are you okay?"
He spins, grabbing the wad of cash from where it had been shoved in his boot. He doesn't have enough to cover Sam's tuition from the cash he made this month, thanks to that trucker fucker, so he'll have to dip into his food money -- which means he'll have to eat a little less, but that's alright -- but he'll still be a couple hundred short. "Here, here's most of it. Tell the college you'll have the rest by Monday, alright? I bring it right to you and--"
He shoves the money at Sam's chest, eyes darting anywhere, anywhere but his brother's hands closing around his, tossing the bills on the table, and then those massive paws are on his shoulders and Sam's ducking down to his height, trying to look him in the eye, but he can't, can't do it--
"Dean. Look at me."
Dean's eyes dance along Sam's collar bones, across his jaw, his left ear, before they dodge around his face and dart up to the ceiling. "Alright, I do what I gotta do, okay? It's none of your business. I got something people want, right? Why not make 'em pay for it?"
He manages a smirk and his gaze finally falls to meet his brother's eyes and what he sees makes him want to run and hide where he'll never been seen again. Sam's not angry or disgusted or shoving him away like he should be because Dean is dirtyuglyfilthy. He's not pitying him or fashioning himself into some damn Prince Charming. There's just an ocean, boiling with understanding and guilt in his pupils and Dean can't bear to look at something like that. He turns his head away, making to shove Sam's hands off, but suddenly his brother is everywhere.
Sam's arms wind around his waist and his back and pull him in, molding him against his little brother's body in a way that makes his spine curve almost painfully and Dean's never felt something so good in his whole damn life even as he’s cursing the growth spurt that put Sam three and a half inches higher than him. He wants to melt and just let Sam hold him for an eternity or two, but his brother has better things to do than worry about the crap Dean gets himself into.
He's pushing at Sam's chest, struggling to get away from the wash of warm acid that melts down his walls like they're made of paper, and his chest aches, pulsing in time with the pain between his legs, and it's a reminder that his brother belongs to a different world than his.
"Dean-- Don't walk away from me, Dean, we need to talk about--"
Dean spins, suddenly livid. He snarls, jabbing Sam's chest and crowding against him like his tsunami of rage can drive his brother out. "Talk about what, Sam? The fact that I let strangers use me for money? Or that I don't give a fuck anymore? Or maybe we can talk about how every creep over the age of thirty-five has been telling me that I have cocksucking lips since I was sixteen. Or-- or we can blame this one on Dad, because obviously it's his fault that I'm good for nothing but a quick fuck."
His face feels red and wet and he thinks Sam is staring at him, shocked, but the motel room's gone blurry and he just wants to curl up under his soiled covers and sleep. Sam shouldn't have to deal with his shit. He waves a dismissive hand, carefully erecting the walls again and scrubbing his eyes before sighing. "Sorry. Never mind. Just get out. I'm tired." He tries to sound irate, but his voice trips on the self-loathing starting to bubble up, right on time. He prefers to spend his post-fuck time drowning in booze, but Sam interrupted and now he's thrown all off kilter.
Sam steps forward again and Dean raises a shaking finger -- when did he start shaking? -- retreating until the back of his knees hit the bed. He can't do this. Not now.
"Don't touch me."
Sam is as inevitable as a typhoon, roaring closer and Dean has nowhere to run away to.
"Sam. Stop. Just leave, please."
"Dean, just let me—"
"No. No, get out, Sam, I'm just gonna—"
Dean's world goes upside down. Sam tosses him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, and it's more than a little humiliating that Dean didn't see it coming and can't wriggle out of his grip. For a moment, they're just brothers and he's outraged by this ragdoll treatment.
"Sam! For fuck's sake, put me down, or I'll--"
He hasn't really thought the threat out yet, but it doesn't matter, because Sam drops him down in the bathroom, his brother's massive hands moving to tug off his shirt and his jeans and there's just so much of him everywhere that Dean doesn't know where to go for a moment.
"Sam-- Quit it, would you? I can-- Jesus, stop it!"
He's forgotten how much taller Sam is than him -- or maybe he's just tiny and bent with the weight of his guilt. Sam manages to get his shirt off and unbutton his jeans before Dean shoves away, panting slightly and wild like a spooked animal. Sam raises his hands placatingly, tone gentle, and it just strengthens the wild animal comparison.
"I just wanna clean you up, Dean," Sam says cautiously, stepping closer. Dean retreats and he feels so trapped, so out of control, hands raised defensively. "We don't have to talk. Just let me help you. Promise I won't say anything."
Dean's shoulders drop. He's so tired. He wants nothing more than to let Sam take care of him. He wants to hand over the reins, but he can't put all this crap on Sam. So he stiffens his shoulders again, pretends this is his idea. "Fine. I'm just a little insulted you think I need to be 'cleaned up'."
Sam sighs, letting the snarkiness pass him by with more maturity than Dean can muster up right now. He lets Sam work the jeans off his hips, hands far more gentle than the last pair. His fingers pause briefly on the purple, finger-shaped mottling on his skin before continuing purposefully. Dean's head tips back, gaze locked on the ceiling. He should be sending Sam away. He doesn't have the energy to – that's what he tells himself, at least.
Dean almost doesn't want to let Sam take his boxers off. Scratch that. He really doesn't want to let Sam strip him. But his brother's fingers are persistent and he doesn't stop him. Sam slides his boxers off without so much as a glance towards his crotch and frankly, in that moment, Dean's a little insulted. Sam ushers him into the tub -- Dean can't remember Sam turning on the water, but he must've, because the bathtub's full -- and Dean sinks into the warm water with a groan. It's awesome, he has to admit.
He feels a little bit like a kid when Sam starts washing his hair for him and he half-expects his brother to break out one of those foam visors designed to keep water out of your eyes. But it feels nice, like nothing has in a long time, so he stays quiet and docile. This isn't so bad. But Sam should really go once they're done here.
Sam's hands trail from his head to his shoulders, rubbing and scrubbing and wandering down his back in a way that makes Dean shiver. He's a little hunched, so Sam gently corrects him, straightening his spine up. Dean can't help but hold the upright position, eyes tracking Sam's face.
~~~
This should be weird, him bathing his twenty-five-year-old older brother. But it's not. What is weird is how quiet Dean is. Sam expected way more bitching, even after he'd convinced Dean to let Sam wash him. Dean's not exactly the agreeable type. But his brother sits unmoving and compliant, almost eerily still. Sam wonders briefly if it's a habit built up from Dean's nightly escapades and immediately feels guilty for considering it.
Honestly, though, he hadn't know what to think when he walked in and saw that ugly trucker bending his brother over. Sam's head jumped to the worst conclusion first – oh God some monster is raping Dean – and acted on that. He'd been confused when Dean bundled him out, and then understanding coiled sickly in his chest when he heard Dean talking about payment.
He still isn't sure how he feels about Dean whoring himself out. Obviously he doesn't like it, doesn't like that his tuition money had pays for Dean's body before it pays for his education, doesn't like that Dean even considers it an option. He suddenly feels like the older brother, disapproving of his brother’s choices and overcome with the urge to shield him from the world.
“Dean, I just… You’re worth so much more than—"
“You promised you wouldn’t talk, Sam.”
What hurts him aren’t the words. It’s how scared Dean sounds, like he’s afraid if they talk about this it’ll make it real, or that Sam will come to some horrible realization. It hurts somewhere in his chest, right over his heart and squeezes like a fist. It’s an ugly, nauseous pain that almost makes Sam want to cry. But Dean’s the one in trouble, here. He has to be strong for his big brother.
He pours some lukewarm water over Dean’s head – he’s hunched again, shoulders curved in around his body in what Sam recognizes as the adult version of the fetal position from his mandatory beginner’s psychology class – ignoring his brother’s sputtering and making sure all the suds have been rinsed off.
“There’s a towel right here. I’m gonna go get you some clothes,” Sam says as evenly as possible, because if he knows anything about his brother, he knows that Dean needs a moment to himself to get himself dressed.
Sam leaves the bathroom and rifles through Dean’s duffel bag – still packed and folded neatly, where has Dean been living? Does he have a home? Sam’s lungs jerk. God. He’s been so selfish. Hasn’t given a single thought about how Dean’s life is going while he’s been living it up at Stanford. Sam has to stop and grip the wall, forcing tears back. Christ. He never wanted this for Dean. He never wanted his brother to be driven to this. Sure, he’d been more than grateful when Dean offered to pitch in a big part of his tuition, but he never thought…
He shakes himself and grabs the first articles of clothing he can find, pointedly ignoring the packets of lube and condoms buried at the bottom of Dean’s bag. “Here.” He passes them into the bathroom without looking. “I’ll be out here.”
Sam starts to sit on the bed, then thinks better of it and changes the sheets, dumping the dirty ones out in the hall and replacing them with clean ones. He doesn’t want Dean sleeping on dirty sheets. And he never wants Dean to sell himself out like that again. Ever.
When Dean finally emerges – he’s been in there for something like half an hour, and Sam has no doubt he’s been crying – his eyes are red and puffy, wet lashes dark against his pale skin, freckles nearly swallowed by the ugly splotchiness on his cheeks, his hair flat and half-dry by now, and Sam can’t help but think how beautiful his brother is when he’s been crying. It takes him another moment to realize that Dean is wearing one of his shirts and just a pair of boxers, though they’re barely visible under the overlarge T-shirt.
“You gave me one of your shirts,” Dean mumbles, eyes down, and those ridiculously long lashes brush against his cheeks as he fingers the hem, “And no pants.”
Sam can barely muster up a, “Sorry,” because his first thought is, then you had one of my shirts in your bag, and his second thought is, oh my god. Because the boy – and that’s what he is – in front of him is homeless and penniless and friendless and swimming in borrowed clothes and owns nothing more than the tall, tall walls he erects around himself. There must be something in Sam’s face that breaks his brother, because Dean’s expression cracks and breaks and his eyes are wet and then it’s just a tidal wave.
“I’m so sorry, Sammy. God, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
And Sam doesn’t even have to think about hugging his big brother (who is looking the smallest Sam has ever seen him) and murmuring reassurances into his hair. He’s horrified to feel Dean trembling and shuddering with sobs, so he holds him harder. Sam gradually guides them to the bed and Dean won’t let him go, so Sam resigns himself to spending the night (and when he thinks about, he wasn’t even considering leaving anyway).
His brother falls asleep eventually, though he must’ve passed out from exhaustion, because his cheeks are still fresh with sparkling, precious tears. Sam wraps him up in his arms and makes sure his brother is dead asleep before following him into unconsciousness.
~~~
Sam wakes up slowly, his front warm with the pressure of Dean’s body. Dean is still asleep in his arms, his eyelids swollen and curled up all tiny like a child. It’s easy to forget he’s an adult, let alone four years older than Sam. Sam combs his fingers through his brother’s hair, just watching his face. He imagines, if he were to touch Dean’s cheeks, that they’d be tacky with dried tears. His freckles are pronounced against his pale face, dotting his cheeks and nose and forehead. There’s even some on his eyelids. Sam traces the delicate skin with a fingertip, brushing those long, long lashes. They’re just as soft as they look.
Dean’s eyes flutter open, his eyelashes sweeping across the pad of Sam’s finger. His eyes are pink, and that makes the green of them so much more vivid and vulnerable. “Sam?” he murmurs, and he’s all soft edges and malleability. He’s too groggy to worry about pushing Sam away right now, and Sam intends to keep him like this for as long as possible.
“Shh, Dean. It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”
Those pretty eyes contemplate him blearily for a moment, quietly exploring Sam’s face before he nods and drifts off again. Sam is warmed by how much Dean must trust him to simply go back to sleep without doing a sweep of the room first.
There’s something crushingly beautiful about his broken brother. Sam seen lots of pretty girls, had the good luck to date a few, but Dean is…incredible. He’s hard and strong and stubborn and stubbly, and still, he’s pretty with his full lips and doll’s lashes and postcard green eyes. He’s a walking contradiction, and all Sam wants to do is unravel him and take him apart until he’s nothing but the soft, needy thing Sam is certain lies at his core.
Sam leans forward and presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, gently and no more than a brief brush. Dean is his. And he’ll keep him safe. His lips move to his brother’s cheek, and he’s wishing he could kiss each freckle. He kisses Dean’s nose, his jaw, the two-day stubble shadowing his face. Dean’s eyes flicker behind his lids, aware but unaware. His lips part in a quiet sigh, and Sam’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to them. Soft, pink, chewed and a little chapped-looking, but perfect. Just like every part of him.
Sam kisses his brother’s cheek, fighting the deep urge to just press his lips to Dean’s. He wouldn’t do that to Dean, not after…not after what his brother has been allowing strangers to do to him. If Sam’s gonna make his affections clear, it’ll be with Dean’s complete and aware consent.
The thought takes less than an moment or two, but in that time, Dean’s eyes have flickered open, and no matter how many times Sam watched those gorgeous green irises peek out from thick lashes, he’ll be stunned every time. Dean contemplates him for a moment, and Sam knows he knows. He reads the intention in the curve of his mouth, the withheld tip of his head, the indecision in his eyes, and he closes the gap and kisses Sam just like that.
Sam’s too stunned to react, his mouth lax as Dean’s lips move lazily against his, casually, like they wake up in bed together and make out all the time. Sam draws away, painfully, painfully, because he needs to be sure. He’d love to just… But he can’t.
Dean’s brows push together with confusion, and even like that, he’s adorable. Sam’s eyes are locked on the silent, slow words pushing at his brother’s lips, distracted by the fact that he now knows what they feel like (softpinkperfectDeanmine).
Dean is the first to speak. He gives Sam a half-smile that stops there, shifting a little closer, calculatedly sensual and too deliberate for Sam not to notice. That motion has to be practiced, and the thought makes Sam a little sick.
“It’s okay, Sammy. You deserve it, don’t you? M’brother. Should be the first person to take a ride, right?”
His tone is gentle and understanding, and beneath that, utterly crushed and betrayed. Sam sucks in an unsteady breath, simply blown away by how damaged his brother is. Dean leans up to kiss him again, a slave to his own battered self-worth, and Sam pulls back, wrapping a firm hand around Dean’s shoulder.
“Dean, I’m not… That’s not… How could you even think that? How could you think I’d want you like that?”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Dean’s face crumples so pathetically, vulnerable and off-guard in his early morning fragility. He makes to draw away, the hurt quickly walled up behind the layers of armor Sam’s brother is so quick to shield himself with. Sam shakes his head, no no no, that’s not what I meant, and hugs Dean tight, despite his weak struggling.
“Dean, you have to listen. Listen, just for a second, please.”
There’s a frustrated grunt, and Dean is too groggy to fight properly, then he goes still, head tucked under Sam’s chin and his aggravated breath puffing against Sam’s throat. Sam holds him there for a second, just to be sure, before he speaks.
“I love you, Dean. More than life itself, okay? And I do…want you. Like that. But not because I think I deserve your body, or some shit, okay? I’m not entitled to you because you’re not an object, you understand? You’re your own damn person, and you’re smart and stubborn and brave and incredible, Dean. You’re not a…a fucking commodity.”
Dean flinches at the word, but he’s seemed to have calmed down, his body only shaking slightly in Sam’s grip. Sam waits for the outburst, the indignation and denial as he cards his fingers carefully though his brother’s hair.
Dean sighs. “How would you know, Sam? Just…go back to sleep.”
Sam pulls back and makes sure Dean’s looking at him before he speaks, eyes intense and honest. “Let me show you how much you’re worth, Dean. Let me show you how much I love you.”
There must be something in Sam’s gaze that get through to his brother, because he feels Dean stop breathing for a moment as he stares back, abruptly the lost child in the overlarge clothing again. Then his face rearranges itself into the scowl Sam’s so accustomed to seeing and he turns over, hiding from Sam.
“What’re you, fuckin’ Prince Charming? Just leave me alone.”
His voice wavers too much. Sam wraps himself around Dean’s back, unthreatening and loose, because he doesn’t ever want to remind Dean of the people who’ve touched him like this before. He doesn’t say a word, mouth traveling over the back of his brother’s neck. He stops to kiss and suck on spots of skin, pausing when Dean shivers and protests half-heartedly. When he gets to the soft area just behind Dean’s ear, his brother lets out the cutest little sigh and Sam can’t help but chuckle against his skin, his voice throatier than he’d expected.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, the back of his neck lighting red.
Sam just hums and continues his gentle assault on the spot. He traps some skin between his teeth then licks at it slowly, relishing the way his brother shivers, and not because he’s scared or cold, but because he’s enjoying the hot press of Sam’s mouth.