They haven't seen Dad in three months. Haven't heard from him in two. John wouldn't leave Sam alone for as long as he planned to be away, so Dean had to stay, and it's a crappy town, a shithole in the middle of nowhere with a truck stop and a bar and a corner store and a motel and a high school that all the kids pour into from the farms all around.
It was supposed to be safe. It was supposed to be a place where Sam could finish out the school year while John went chasing yet another lead. But safe isn't just not getting killed by monsters, safe is a roof over your head and food in your belly and blending in, but John didn't seem to care about that.
Dean's always known it. Remembers feeding a crying baby when he could barely feed himself, remembers finding warm blankets when Sam was shivering while John was passed out drunk.
He remembers getting caught stealing a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, and not seeing Sammy for months. Remembers worrying that he wouldn't get enough to eat, remembers worrying that he wouldn't have anyone to tie his shoes or wash his clothes. Remembers giving up a chance at a normal life to make sure Sam was okay.
They ran out of money weeks ago. Dean hustled some pool, but there's one bar in this town, and though the clientèle changes, the bartender knows his face, already kicked him out when he tried his luck again. Can't even go in for a beer, now, if he could afford to buy a single beer.
He can't afford to buy beer, or food, and the motel manager has come knocking for the second time, because the card Dad gave them maxed out and they've used up all the cash he left.
That's why Dean's here. Standing in the parking lot of the one bar in town, staring at the door and kicking the pavement because the one source of ready cash he knows is closed to him.
"Buy you a drink?"
Dean whirls around, reaching for the weapon he left back in the motel, horrified that he let some guy sneak up on him. He's off his game, distracted, and he's hungry. Maybe he just didn't hear the guy over the rumbling of his stomach.
He finds himself staring at a suit, dark, fancy. Not the kind of dude who usually loiters outside of bars. Sandy hair that might be peppered with grey, Dean can't tell. Well cut and clean. A lined face, the guy's older, but hasn't had a hard life, not like the men Dean's used to at all.
"Sorry, did I startle you?" He thrusts out his hand, but leans back, and his eyes track down Dean's body. "Stuart. Let me buy you a drink."
There's a wedding ring on his right hand, patterned gold band on a well-manicured finger, but the way he's looking at Dean, he's interested. Dean's not, but he knows how to get things from people. Knows how to read them, and twist what he knows to his advantage.
Not that it's going to do him much good. "I can't go in there," he says, more's the pity, because alcohol would be really good right now. "Sorry."
"Underage?" The guys hand pulls back a little, uncertain, though he leans forward again, like he's studying Dean's face.
"No." Dean snaps the word, offended. He's twenty-one, got legit ID to prove it, and fuck all those wizened, hard-living hunters that give him shit for his 'pretty baby face'.
The guy relaxes. Stuart, whatever his name is. He doesn't offer his hand again, but looks around, and there's nothing on the lot but cars. "You're working?"
Dean wishes. No one in this podunk town will give him a job. He screwed himself with the bar. He offered to wash dishes or sling burgers at the truck stop, but they weren't hiring. Other than that, there's a convenience store and a high school, and they weren't hiring either. They've already pissed off the motel manager, owe him a weeks worth of rent, and he refused to let Dean work off the bill with odd jobs. So when he opens his mouth, that's all he's really thinking.
"Why, you got a job?"
Dean realizes his mistake as soon as the words are out of his mouth, takes a half-step back even as the guy moves into his space.
"Maybe I do," Stuart says, voice gone low, husky, predatory. "Why don't we go back to my motel room and talk about it?"
A million things go through Dean's mind, all at once. This guy, he thinks Dean is a prostitute. Thinks he's for sale. Dean's desperate, he's got Sam back at the motel, there's no food in the room and the manager gave them till tomorrow to pay up. They've been living in that motel almost three months, Dad said he'd be back a month ago, and they haven't heard from him in two and he's probably dead. Dean's desperate, and that's the only motel in town and this guy wants to take him back to the same motel where Sammy is waiting for him, wants to do God knows what to him...
But Dean's desperate.
"Sure," he rasps, voice gone thick with fear, but there's some things way more scary than the unknown, way worse than going into some motel room with a stranger, worse than doing things he tries never to think about doing with another guy, and they're not monsters, not werewolves or demons or ghosts. They're Sam going hungry and Sam getting taken away from him and Sam being hurt or scared. "Yeah," he says, after clearing his throat. "What the hell."
Stuart has a car, big black shiny Chrysler with gleaming chrome and a rental company sticker on the dash. Drives them the block and a half back to the motel, and Dean's heart pounds loud enough to drown out the engine the whole way. "Never done this before," Dean says, and it comes out thin and reedy, and he's got to cough to mask his fear. "Just so you know, wanna get that out there."
Stuart glances over as he pulls into the motel lot, thankfully parks down the opposite end of the row of rooms to where Dean's been living with Sam for months, and he smiles, and Dean knows that looks can be deceiving, but he seems harmless, benign, trustworthy. "Well, I don't have a lot of experience, but I know a little. So maybe we can help each other out."
Dean prays that Sam isn't doing anything stupid like looking out the window when he gets out of the car, sticks to the shadows and probably looks eager when he follows Stuart into his room. "I mean," he says, putting Stuart between himself and a stray window glance from Sam's direction as Stuart unlocks the door, speaking in a hushed whisper. "Never with a guy, either."
The door pops open, and Stuart's eyes flick up, surprise and concern. Dean looks down at his feet, can't bear the scrutiny, doesn't know what to do with it.
"You're sure you want to—"
"I don't have any other options," Dean mutters, and then flicks his eyes up, forces the cold, bold bravery (or foolhardiness) that he brings out when he's hunting. Never show fear, they can smell it. "So are we doing this or what?"
Dean relaxes a little when the door closes behind them. There's a bottle of whiskey beside the TV, and he eyes it as he looks around the room. It's identical to the one he shares with Sam, could be the same room except there's a queen bed instead of two singles and it's not lived in, everything is crisp and there's just a suitcase sitting on top of the dresser. "Just passing through?"
"Every Friday," Stuart says, as he pours two glasses of whiskey, hands one off to Dean, and it's almost full, like the guy knows he needs it. "Work. Keeps me on the road."
Dean throws back the contents of his glass, pulls a face and shudders, waits for the buzz to kick in.
Stuart sips at his own. "You thought much about this? Rules? Anything you don't want to do?"
Dean pretty much doesn't want to do this at all, would much rather be home with Sam, but he's not going back without cash, so he doesn't say it. "I won't let you fuck me." He's shaking, his hands, his voice. "What do you want?"
Stuart offers him a soft smile, almost amused. "Usually boys just ask me what I'm going to pay."
"That, too." It's the only reason Dean's here, after all.
Stuart takes Dean's empty glass from his hands, sets his own down, and he seems to shift, his demeanor, everything. "Most boys will fuck for less than a hundred," he says, suddenly all business. "You?" His eyes slide down Dean's body again, long and slow and hungry. "I'd go to two, but I won't push."
Dean's eyes go wide, because two hundred could square them with the motel manager and feed them for a couple days, too. There's a knot in his chest, painful indecision, because he needs that money, but letting a stranger fuck him in the ass is so far beyond what he's prepared for he can't even comprehend it. "I— I won't let you fuck me."
He jerks back when Stuart reaches out, but makes himself stop when it's just a warm hand on his cheek. "That's okay," he says, soft, gentle, and Dean's not used to it, not used to the compassion, it's rare in his world, and he reacts to it, leaning into the man's touch, and Stuart gives him a smile in return. "God, you're pretty—" He frowns. "What should I call you?"
"Dean," Dean says, and it doesn't cross his mind to give a false name until after it's out of his mouth, when he's been giving fake names his whole life. "Damn."
"Dean." Stuart drags his thumb over Dean's lower lip, pulls it open, drags the little bit of saliva across it to wet it.
Dean can hardly breathe, there's a knot in his chest, squeezing tight. "Can we get on with it? What do you want?"
Stuart's eyes flick up to Dean's eyes, then back down to his mouth. "You, naked." He brings his eyes up again. "I want to see all of you, I want to touch you everywhere. I promise, Dean, I won't try to penetrate you, but I want everything else. Do you understand?"
Dean's mind races with the possibilities, and there's probably things he could be agreeing to that he can't even imagine, but he can't afford to be picky right now. "How much?"
"A hundred if you let me fuck your mouth when I'm done." He stares at Dean with an intent gaze, like he's waiting for a reaction.
Dean swallows, hard, tries to clear the knot in his throat.
"One fifty if you let me kiss you."
"Deal." It comes out fast, easy. A hundred and fifty will get them fed, it'll get them most of the way square with the motel manager, and if Dean has to hang around outside the truck stop and blow a couple of truckers passing through to cover the rest? So what. That'll be nothing after this.
The word is barely out of his mouth when Stuart grabs Dean by the back of his neck and kisses him, hard. He gets out a moan before Dean shoves him away.
"I know how this works, man," Dean says, and lifts his hand, presses the back of it to his mouth, but he doesn't wipe anything away. "Cash up front. I'm not completely naive."
Stuart just smiles, reaches for the wallet in the back of his pants. "Of course." He peels off three fifties, lays them beside the TV, puts the whiskey bottle on top. "I'm good for it, don't worry."
Dean's eyes can't help but be drawn to the fat wallet. There's a lot more cash in there than the one fifty. He drags them back up again. "Okay. Good." He looks down at himself, at the clothes he needs to get out of. "Okay." He shrugs off his coat, Dad's leather coat, and he tosses it at a chair. "I can do this," he mutters, low, under his breath, so that only he can hear.
Then Stuart is there, fingers at the buttons of Dean's shirt, picking them open quickly while Dean's hands are shaking and fumbling. "Let me help you," he says, and his voice is soft again, like velvet, warm and low and soothing. "Let me undress you."
Dean closes his eyes, lets his arms fall to his sides.
"So you've never been with a man," Stuart whispers, his breath warm against Dean's cheek as he pushes Dean's shirt off his shoulders. His hands slide down over Dean's bare chest, and they're soft, like he's never worked a day in his life, but large, large enough that Dean can't forget they're masculine. "Ever wanted to?"
"Only doing this because I have to," Dean rasps.
"That's not what I asked." Stuart's finger traces a line across Dean's collar bone. There's a scar there, a ghost threw him through a window a couple years ago, and the skin doesn't feel quite right, lacks sensation. Dean still shivers when Stuart drops his lips to the flaw, drags his tongue along it. "You don't think you're going to enjoy yourself, but you are. I'm going to make you scream, and then beg for more."
"That how you get your kicks?" Dean's voice shakes as Stuart sucks on his neck, and he's going to leave a mark, but Dean's distracted by the fingers working open the buttons of his fly. Then there's a hand inside his jeans, long fingers, large, muscular hand covering his whole cock, and he's mostly hard, but he doesn't remember getting hard at all. Blocked out by the near panic, perhaps, but he's aroused. "Oh god."
Then the hand is gone, and so is Stuart as he drops to his knees in his nice suit, dragging Dean's jeans and underwear down with him. "Yes, Dean," Stuart breathes, warm over Dean's bare skin. "That's exactly how I get my 'kicks'."
Dean makes the mistake of looking down a split second before Stuart sucks Dean into his mouth, gets to watch his own cock slide between masculine lips. His knees buckle, he barely catches himself before he falls. "Oh god," he moans, when Stuart slides off again and looks up.
"Just a taste, for now," Stuart says, and helps Dean gets his boots and socks and the denim puddled around his ankles off, one foot at a time. "Now. On the bed."
Dean does as he's told, crawls up to lie in the center of the bed, lies down on his back and tries to ignore the fact that's he's hard and leaking puddles all over his belly. Okay, so maybe he's thought about guys from time to time, it wasn't something he thought he ever had to do anything about, didn't feel driven to act on it, just appreciated a beautiful man from time to time. He didn't think it warranted a definition, didn't even warrant thinking about more than the occasional wondering. What it would be like, to be naked with a man, to feel another erection against his own, to suck a cock. Always fleeting thoughts, there one moment and gone the next, easy to suppress if necessary. "Maybe I've thought about it," he says, dropping his eyes because he can't bear the appreciative, hungry stare Stuart gives him. "Never planned to do anything about it."
Stuart finally takes off his jacket, but that's all he takes off. He unbuttons his shirt cuffs, rolls up his sleeves. "You'll be glad you did. Now turn over."
"I made you a promise, Dean. I intend to keep it, but I paid for everything else. Turn over, please."
It's almost a command, a request made with authority, and Dean could still pull the plug on this, walk out the door—empty handed, but no one's forcing him to stay. But he doesn't. He rolls onto his stomach, hard cock pressed tight between the firm mattress and his belly, and his cock isn't on show now, but with his bare ass exposed, Dean feels more vulnerable. "Try it and I'm gone," he warns. "I don't know you, got no reason to trust you."
Stuart ignores Dean's warning, or maybe he takes it in. He doesn't acknowledge it, just runs his fingers down Dean's back, shifting in a pattern that Dean knows well. "So many scars," he whispers, like the words aren't meant for Dean at all. "How old are you, Dean? Eighteen? Nineteen?"
"Twenty-one." Dean squirms against the mattress, seeking friction, and this is crazy, because Stuart's just counting his scars, that shouldn't be sexy. "No shit. Everyone says I look younger."
"You do." Warm lips on his spine, wet tongue, and then gone as Stuart moves down. "Someone hurt you, but not recently." Dean hasn't hunted for months, since before Dad left them behind, so his most recent cuts and bruises have long healed. Stuart leaves kisses on more scars. "You're strong. You got away."
"You don't know what you're talking about." Dean gasps and stiffens when Stuarts fingers skim the crack of his ass.
"Have you been touched like this before?" Stuart's fingers go deeper, part Dean's cheeks just a little. "Ever?"
Dean takes quick breaths, tries to fight the instinct to clench. "Never. Swear to god. It's not what you think."
"Okay." Stuart shifts, the bed dips, and then there's warm breath on Dean's ass. "Remember I made you a promise, Dean. I won't break it." And then he gently parts Dean's ass cheeks with his thumbs and drags his tongue deep into the crack.
Shock and surprise and the unexpected warmth and wetness makes Dean moan and writhe and cry out. He doesn't know what to do with the feeling, doesn't know whether he should enjoy it or not, and it feels strange to have a stranger lapping at his asshole like that, wide, warm, wet tongue, rough pressure there where suddenly all the nerve endings in his body seem to be congregating. He humps the mattress, fucks his dick between rough motel sheets and a mattress he can almost feel the springs in, and his belly, muscles tight with tension.
Maybe he should feel bad about the fact that he's going to come so quick, but it serves Stuart right for sticking his tongue where it doesn't belong. Dean spreads his legs, so Stuart can get better access, can put more pressure right where Dean wants it, and he pushes back against the guys face, trying to ignore the fact that if Stuart stuck his tongue up Dean's ass right now, contrary to his promise, Dean wouldn't complain. He wouldn't complain at all.
The long slow licks, the quick flicks of Stuart's expert tongue, they're maddening. Dean could rub off against the mattress, but he forces himself to still his hips to prolong it, just a little bit. He's talking, saying words that make no sense. Yes, and please, and more, and a whole lot of 'do it, man, just fucking do it', and grunting and twisting.
And when he says those things, Stuart puts a little more pressure behind his questing tongue. Points it, stabbing at Dean's hole where all the nerves are screaming for more. But not enough, never enough to stretch Dean open, and he wants it, wants tongue and fingers and, god, would he still say no to being fucked if he was asked? If Stuart just tried it?
The words are on the tip of Dean's tongue. He wants to say it, so close. He bites his lower lip as he screams between clenched teeth, just to stop himself. He's not in his right mind, consumed with unaccustomed sensation, on the verge of begging for more like a man in pain might beg for morphine.
He's got to come. Just to make the torment stop. He thrusts against the mattress, whines and growls like a feral animal. "Fuck," slips past his lips, and he tastes blood as he bites through. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Stuart growls, and Dean can feel it against his hole, a gleeful, satisfied rumble, and then he pulls away, drags his teeth up the inside of Dean's ass cheek.
"No, please, no, more, fuck." Dean's out of control, pushing back, seeking that magic tongue that makes the whole world disappear. Up on his knees, ass in the air, face-planted against the mattress, just doesn't care what he looks like anymore. "Need it, hav'ta come, make me come, god, please."
And Stuart bites down on Dean's ass, bites him hard, enough to bruise, enough to leave a mark, maybe enough to break the skin and Dean doesn't care. It shocks his nerves, a rush of sensation that pushes him over the edge.
He's not even touching his dick when it jerks, when his balls suddenly draw up tight and hard. The first spurt paints his belly, then lays ribbons over the motel sheets. Dean arches up and cries out. His strangled scream echoes off the walls, and it suddenly occurs to him that Sam might be able to hear him from here, wonders if Sam will know it's him.
He's left shuddering, shaking, and suddenly ashamed of what he must look like, legs spread, ass in the air, covered in come. He curls up on his side, right in the mess, his own come sticking him to the sheets.
Stuart sits on the edge of the bed, and he strokes Dean's hair. Dean squeezes his eyes shut tight so he doesn't have to look.
"It's okay to like it," Stuart says, and his voice is soft, gentle. "You did, didn't you?"
A tear leaks from the corner of Dean's eye as he nods.
Stuart pulls him up. He's still in his shirt and pants, perfectly clean, pristine, but doesn't seem to care as he pulls Dean, covered in come, into his arms. "Open your eyes," he whispers, and then presses his lips to Dean's mouth.
Dean does, and he opens up, lets the man lick into his mouth, needs him inside, even just in this way.
And when Stuart unfastens his pants and pulls Dean's hand to his cock, Dean wraps his fingers around it, jerks it like he might his own, and he breathes in Stuart's pants and moans, until the man comes over his fist.
Dean slips out quietly in the early hours of the morning. There's cash in his pocket, and a cellphone number scrawled on motel stationery.
Stuart comes through town every Friday. All Dean needs to do is call the number, and he can keep a roof over Sam's head, keep him fed.
Keep him safe.