Spoilers: 6.11, set between 5.22 and 6.01
Contents/warnings/kinks: Time-travel, prostitution, humiliation, violence, asphyxia, underage (Dean is 16)
A/N: Written for blindfold_spn for the prompt RoboSam/Dean, older!Sam/younger!Dean, prostitution. Many thanks to the delightful sargraf for the beta!
Disclaimer: SPN and its characters do not belong to me.
Summary: Sam can't remember how to feel.
Sam didn't think that he'd actively been looking for Dean.
Yet here he'd found him, in 1995, in Upstate New York, standing at a crossroad not far from town. Sam remembered that John had had a hunt in the area before, but he didn't care enough to remember what it was that his father had hunted; once a monster was dead, it became irrelevant.
When he spotted Dean, he hadn't intended to stop. He'd planned to drive on and find a way to go back to his year, to kill the fucker that had sent him here in the first place. However, something -- Dean's stance and the way his face was pinched in a sultry look -- made him stop.
Dean, turning tricks.
Sam considered that tidbit of information while he waited for Dean to approach him.
Dean shouldn't have been trying for sultriness, really. The sort of men who'd approach him wouldn't give a shit about the way he posed. All they'd see was a pretty boy who was free for the taking. Acting coy probably even pushed away some potential customers; if they wanted someone experienced and sexy, they'd get an adult to fuck, not a teen.
Back in 2010, even past thirty, Dean was a handsome man. Pretty. Breathtaking, at times. But in 1995, Dean the teenager was already showing that potential. He only needed to fill up and lose some innocence, and then he'd be Sam's brother.
Sam rolled down the window.
Dean's face soon filled the spot where the windowpane had been. Sam should've driven away, but he was curious, and this was too good to be true.
"You interested?" Dean finally asked. His wariness made his attempts at seducing disappear, which made him all the more appealing.
"That depends on what you're offering."
Dean hesitated and looked away from Sam for a moment, then squared his shoulders -- not as wide as they would become, but just as determined -- and said, "Twenty for a handjob, thirty-five for a blowjob."
"And full intercourse?" Sam asked.
Dean gaped at him, mouth opening and closing with surprise. His eyes were wide, and a slight flush brought his freckles into a sharp contrast.
Sam had forgotten that about his brother. He'd forgotten about Dean's freckles.
Dean took it as a sign that Sam was displeased with him. That wasn't true, but Sam didn't care enough to disabuse him of the notion.
"Seventy," Dean blurted.
Sam looked him up and down as much as he was able through the open window. "Fifty," he said.
Dean's flush deepened. Sam wondered if this was the first time Dean was selling his ass to a stranger, and decided that he liked the freckles.
Dean said, "Sixty-five." Stubborn.
"Fifty-five, and I get us a room," Sam countered.
"A room?" Dean echoed.
Sam ignored the question and asked, "Do you have condoms?"
"Get in the car," Sam ordered, "and tell me where the nearest motel is."
And, just like that, Sam bought a fuck from his teenaged older brother. Getting back to 2010 could wait.
He left the car -- Ford Taurus '91, stolen -- in the back parking lot of the motel and told Dean to wait in the car.
Sam didn't go to the office. When he'd said he'd get him and Dean a room, he'd never said he'd pay for it; he'd break in, bring Dean, fuck him, and then they'd be gone within the hour.
But Dean didn't need to know that.
Sam vaguely remembered the place. He'd stayed here with Dean as a kid once, while John had left them alone. He lockpicked the door and remembered that he'd done it twice while he'd been there -- at that time in Sam's life, Dean had had the annoying tendency to disappear whenever Sam needed him.
Picking the lock took Sam less than a minute, and he found himself having to wait before getting Dean. He didn't think Dean would disappear; he couldn't afford to chicken out when he didn't know how long he and Sam-the-younger would have to stay in town.
The requisite five minutes passed uneventfully. He checked if it was unoccupied (it was); the commodities (scratchy sheets, an even scratchier blanket and a leaking toilet) and turned on a few of the lights (one didn't work). Eventually he filled a glass in water and drank it, just to get the time to pass. It was taking too long to have Dean under him, and for some reason -- curiosity, possession, jealousy; he couldn't decide -- he couldn't wait. His cock was on its way to hardening as he thought about Dean's freckles and how they went all the way down to his chest. Sam adjusted himself in his pants, stealing a stroke that made him twitch, and headed to get Dean.
It was time.
Just as Sam had expected, Dean was still in the car, slouching low in the passenger seat, putting his crotch directly into Sam's view.
"Stay that way," Sam said roughly when Dean noticed him, opening the passenger's door to get a better view.
Dean obeyed, color slowly returning to his cheeks. He looked at Sam while Sam observed his crotch and the way the material of Dean's pants stretched over it.
Even though Dean's discomfort was obvious, his hands were steady as they rose to his jeans. He started to undo his buttons, but that wasn't what Sam wanted.
"With your pants on," said Sam. "Fully buttoned."
Dean buttoned himself again and started touching his crotch over the material. Sam wondered if Dean had gone commando that day and how the denim would chafe the delicate skin of his dick if he had. Sam hoped that he had, hoped that the roughness would chafe at his burgeoning erection, and hoped in particular that Dean's face and moans gave voice to the pain. Sam liked his partners expressive.
He enjoyed Dean's hand and Dean squirming in the seat, but there was one thing missing.
"Look at me," Sam said.
It was with difficulty that Dean turned his face and met his eyes.
Something eased in Sam, suddenly, and suffused his chest with warmth that he could not remember feeling in a long time.
And just as easily, the feeling disappeared, and Sam's chest squeezed itself tighter than it'd been before. He grabbed Dean's arm in his hand and hauled him bodily out of the car.
Dean stumbled, of course. Sam was a strong man, much stronger than this young, weak version of Dean, so Sam kept him upright as he dragged the boy to the room.
"Hey, hold on," Dean said, but he wasn't struggling very hard to escape Sam's hold.
"I'll pay extra," said Sam and didn't let go, knowing that Dean's wrist would bear bruises of his fingers on its skin.
Sam had a flash of the irrational urge for his mark to go all the way down to Dean's bones, but he knew better than that. He forced his fingers to relax around Dean's wrist without looking at him.
Eventually, he let go.
He half expected Dean to leave.
But aside from a moment of hesitance when he saw which room Sam had gotten, he kept on walking past the threshold, into the room, and closer to Sam's reach.
The harsh light in the room had no mercy on Dean's pallor; his cheeks looked slightly sunken, like he was too hungry (there would be ribs visible under his shirts, Sam remembered), too tired, too worn out.
"Enjoying the view?" Dean asked.
"For now," Sam said and continued studying the boy. The knees of Dean's jeans were worn through, white threads weaving between the blue denim, and the sole of his left shoe was at an odd angle that implied it had come out and was put back in.
Dean should've been wearing boots. Thick, sturdy and steel-toed leather boots, the kind that you could depend on in a hunt. He should've been wearing jeans that weren't thin and threadbare, because good, thick clothes were much more reliant and harder to break than skin.
He should've been wearing his leather jacket.
"Strip," Sam said.
Dean was looking down at his hands as he stripped, but that wouldn't do.
Sam ground out, "Look at me, Dean."
Dean started, and Sam remembered that this Dean had never given Sam his name. But that didn't seem to be the matter when Dean raised his eyes and met Sam's gaze easily -- even while his fingers fumbled with undressing without looking at what he was doing.
The Dean that Sam knew could be naked in under a minute without having to see what his hands were doing.
In that, Sam preferred this Dean, who didn't know the lay of his own body all that well yet and had to look to get things right, who worried he'd make mistakes if he didn't double-check himself every once in a while, who was confident enough to admit that he was capable of being wrong. At least to himself, at least like this.
His shirts off, Dean crouched low to undo his shoelaces and take off his shoes and socks. It was a slow process and a tricky position to keep with his head raised high enough to still be able to look up at Sam. He didn't tremble with the effort of staying balanced with only one limb anchored to the floor. Sam wasn't surprised; Dean had, after all, gotten superb training from John, and his brother had always been one to maintain and improve his physical abilities.
Now half naked, Dean stood up and put his hands at his waistband, and this was Sam's test, the thing that he'd been waiting for from the start.
Would Dean hold his eyes? Hesitate? Take in a breath so fortifying that Sam would have been able to read it from the bathroom? How strong would be his blush?
The boy had already proved he didn't know his body all that well, perhaps even didn't completely trust it yet, and Sam itched to know how he would react to having someone like Sam having his hands on it.
But Dean surprised him again: he didn't hesitate, didn't tremble, didn't take in the breath Sam had expected. Dean's hands were steady and as assured as they could be without the visual referencethat he preferred. Other than a slight blush to his cheeks and the minute clench of his jaw, there was nothing that implied that Dean was embarrassed.
Sam pondered that development as Dean dropped his jeans and underwear to the floor, stepped out of them, and kicked them the few inches across to the pile of his shirts.
Dean lowered his gaze, and Sam was about to snap at him for it again before he noticed that Dean was studying him with a critical eye. "Aren't you going to get undressed?"
"Maybe later." Sam stepped closer. "Stand still."
He circled Dean a few times.
Without the bravado lent by his clothes, Dean looked human. Vulnerable and weak, even despite the wiry strength in his limbs and how tight his ass was and the hint of a developing six-pack.
Dean was a child. His chest was free of the light dusting of hair, and his cock hadn't finished growing yet. His shoulders weren't as broad as they would be.
He was almost entirely without scars.
Sam noticed only half of that with his eyes. The rest he discovered through touch, by putting his hands against Dean's skin and pressing, testing Dean's flesh and muscles, looking for the stiffness that came from injury and age.
"Stop moving," he told Dean when the boy fidgeted under his touch. Dean finally took in that breath Sam had been expecting, but he stood still.
Sam cupped Dean's cock and weighed it in his palm. It was silky smooth where the pubes didn't reach and coarse where they did. Sam decided he liked the contrast. Next he reached for Dean's balls, hanging just out of his view. He squeezed them, rolled them between his fingers, and pressed one of his fingers lightly against the scrotum.
"You've gotten off recently," he said, letting go, but not before he felt Dean shiver. "When?"
He didn't have to tell Dean to look at him. Dean had always been a quick study.
"None of your business."
"Was it this morning?" Sam asked. Dean fisted his palms. That was an answer enough. "Turn around."
Sam pressed his hand between his shoulder blades, testing the stance and the way that the vertebrae aligned in his back. "Now bend over and hold your asscheeks open. Keep your knees locked straight."
Dean bent over impressively low -- flexible boy; now that had its advantages -- and spread his cheeks open for Sam's inspection. Sam slipped his fingers along the crack and down to Dean's hole, seeing it pink and tight. He pressed against it, relishing on the involuntary flutter of muscles against his fingertips.
"No recent penetration," he mused aloud and pushed a little past the muscle ring. "You don't have a partner, so this morning was masturbation, not sex." He chuckled. "Really, before going out to pick customers? You enjoy whoring that much?" He had to raise his voice; somebody in the room next to theirs was making a racket, throwing things on the floor and stomping around. Dean tensed around his finger, which Sam enjoyed very much. "Dean, are you a virgin?"
"No," Dean lied.
"Excellent," Sam said. He pulled out his finger and wiped it on Dean's thigh. "Get the condom out and get on the bed."
Sam undressed while Dean crouched next to his jeans and got both a condom and a tube of lube that Sam hadn't known that Dean had, but was probably a good idea.
As Sam had instructed him, Dean got onto the bed and lay on his stomach, putting both condom and lube next to his shoulder.
"Sit up," Sam said. "I want you looking at me."
With Dean sitting, Sam went to the foot of the bed. He stood there, watching Dean spread out on the bed, waiting for Dean's eyes to drop lower and see his half-hard dick. When that happened, Sam wrapped a fist around himself and pumped. Dean tore his eyes away from Sam's hardening cock.
Sam smiled. "How does it feel to know that I'm going to be fucking you in a few minutes?" He was honestly curious about Dean's answer.
"Good," Dean answered with a cracking voice.
The mattress sagged under his knees as Sam climbed onto the bed. He crouched in front of Dean and enjoying the way that Dean's eyes occasionally darted to Sam's bobbing dick.
"You like it?"
Dean bit his lower lip. Sam might be pushing him too hard; he'd have to consider whether he wanted Dean pushed over the edge or not. Both options had merit, but since he could only have this once ...
Maybe he should take it easy on Dean for a bit. The thought of Dean breaking was supposed to bother him, he knew, and for now, that was enough for Sam. Sam had to do something to put Dean at ease, to make him relax, and he knew of no better way than sex.
He scooted closer and closed his hand around Dean's half-mature cock. He squeezed it, started pumping, kept his hold firm on the base and light on the upstroke. Caught off-guard by this unexpected pleasure from the man who'd humiliated him -- or so Sam assumed -- Dean let his eyes flutter shut.
"Look at me!" Sam growled and squeezed Dean's cock hard enough to cause pain. Dean's eyes flew open, and so did his mouth; he took a sharp breath, held it in, and within three more strokes Sam had him panting.
"How quickly could I get you to come?" he asked Dean, and Dean replied, "Not ... that fast," and groaned loud enough and low enough that Sam's insides vibrated with the sound.
Sam had heard that sound before. He remembered it.
He tried to get Dean to emit it again, spreading his fingers differently, reaching down to the boy's sack, passing his thumb over the gland. Eventually it worked, and Dean groaned again, his fingers twitching against the bed sheets.
Sam still couldn't remembered when he'd heard it.
He had Dean coming before long. There was color high in Dean's cheeks, his breathing was labored, and his eyes were wide open and glassy as they looked at Sam.
Now that Sam had Dean relaxed and happy, he nodded toward the objects on the bed. "Get me fully hard," he instructed Dean. "Then put the condom on and lube me up."
Dean's eyes cleared up and refocused. He blushed harder, and the freckles Sam had decided he liked became clearer and even more alluring.
Dean brought the condom and the lube closer and took Sam's cock in his hand. His hold was inexperienced and clumsy, awkward in the best of ways, and Sam grunted his appreciation. Dean took a few strokes to find the grasp and pace that worked for him, and his hold became more confident, more effective, and even though Sam preferred the squeeze harder and the pace quicker, it wasn't a complete bust. He'd get it right once he was in Dean; there was no harm in keeping Dean unrushed.
As far as foreplay went, this wasn't so bad.
"The condom," Sam said once the friction got to be too much. He regretted that Dean had to take his hands off Sam's dick to open the packet, but the brush of his fingers returned, accompanied by the embrace of latex. "Now lube me up." The lube was colder than Sam had expected it to be. Luckily, the condom kept some of the chill at bay.
With that done, Sam pushed Dean down onto the bed and was upon him within seconds. Dean didn't like the sudden change of position, because he gave out a cry of protest -- or perhaps just one of surprise -- and that was familiar, too.
Sam paused. His dick was positioned at Dean's anus, the head just about touching it, and he tried remembering.
But the need was too great. He pushed the half-memory aside and started pushing into Dean. He did it slowly, carefully, because Dean had never done it before and the last thing Sam wanted was for Dean to start making a fuss from the pain. No, that was out of the question.
He kept himself in check until he was seated all the way in and his balls touched Dean's ass. Even seconds after, he couldn't exactly remember having thrust in or how Dean's insides gave way to his breach.
The result, though -- the result was marvelous and tight, and Dean's gasps -- half from pleasure, half from pain -- were music in his ears.
This was what life was about. This was the fire in his veins and the speeding of his pulse. This was pleasure and enjoyment, intimacy and friendship. This was when he felt the most connected.
This was love.
Sam pulled out slowly, then pushed in again and again, until he reached a pace he liked and was comfortable with. He kept his eyes locked with Dean's, saw the emotions there flickering past, and let the moment ride him as he rode Dean.
And as he got closer to orgasm, as his thrusting turned erratic and broken, he closed his eyes and let himself feel.
Under him, Dean moaned. Low and long, hitting Sam in the gut, and Sam remembered where he'd heard it before.
Sam had been twelve. He'd returned to the motel from school.
He hadn't been surprised to discover that Dean hadn't returned yet, because Dean sometimes stayed out late and returned with groceries after nightfall.
But on that day, Dean had been on the other side of the wall, and Sam had heard him moan long and low, and the only way to escape the sound was to leave the room.
When he'd returned, Dean had been in the bathroom, and everything was quiet for the longest time over the spray of the shower.
The memory slapped deep into Sam, robbed him of his breath and of his calm.
Sam had heard Dean whoring himself out to strange men, and he hadn't known. Hadn't even guessed, and Dean hadn't been forthcoming with the information.
Sam's hands tightened around Dean, grabbed him hard by the shoulders. He continued thrusting because he didn't want to stop, but at the same time he said, "This is the last time, Dean. You hear me?" He shook the boy, who'd gone pale with fright. Sam was hurting him, but that was all right. Dean deserved it.
Dean was his.
Dean deserved this, because he should've known better than to turn tricks, should've known better than to endanger himself like that, opening himself to strange men who could hurt him.
Sam shook him again. His hands crept up to Dean's neck, and he placed his thumbs against Dean's windpipe. He pressed.
Dean choked and thrashed in an attempt to get Sam off, his limbs occasionally connecting with Sam's sweaty skin and slipping off.
"You understand me?" Sam hissed.
Dean kneed his hipbone.
"Do you understand me?" Sam repeated. "This is the last time, Dean! You hear me?"
"Yes!" Dean forced out, tensing in preparation to finally throw Sam off --
Then Sam came.
He came with stars in his eyes and the sudden loss of control that orgasm brought, and it was the strongest orgasm Sam had experienced in a while.
-- Dean brought his knees up again and kicked Sam hard, getting Sam off of him, forcing his cock out of his ass. Dean scrambled off the bed and onto the floor and stood taller than Sam, something that hadn't happened since Sam had hit sixteen.
"Get out," Dean spat at him, and rounded his palms into fists.
Sam nodded. He stood up, slowly and unthreateningly, and walked over to his pile of clothes. But he didn't pick them up and he didn't get dressed; instead he took out his wallet and pulled out seventy bucks, throwing them at Dean's feet.
The bills were from the future. He didn't tell Dean that.
Sam bent over again, picked up his clothes and walked out of the room naked.
originally posted at dreamwidth