WARNINGS: Underage prostitution and dub-con. Wincest.

Sam didn't know where his life was going. He knew what he was good at, what he was bad at, and what he was great at that a seventeen-year-old shouldn't have any experience with. And he wasn't talking about hunting.

Dean thought it was because Sam was neurotic. But really, Sam only carried Listerine because sometimes they made him swallow. Sam really doesn't like the taste of come.

Sam is careful, because it isn't always clean. That became clear about the tenth time, when some jerkwad decided to pull his dick out of Sam's mouth and come on his face at the last second. He spent the next half an hour trying to get all the semen off, at least of his face, so he could go home and wash his clothes without Dean noticing.

It wasn't really Sam's choice to do this. Wasn't completely his fault that he whores himself out. It was almost year ago that Dean and his dad left him alone while they hunted, and there wasn't enough money for anything. Sam wouldn't have been able to pay the motel rent, and there was no Impala to sleep in. It's not entirely his fault. Or at least he tries to tell himself that as he pulls up his pants over the come oozing out of his ass.

Sam forgot that sometimes, things don't go the way you want them to. The guy isn't that bad, and he's had broken bones more painful than this, but seriously. He didn't even bother to stretch Sam, or lube his dick in any way, before he bent Sam over and fucked him dry.

It's not that bad.

He'll just have to be careful when he sits down, is all.

Dean jokes at Sam when he sits on the couch, and accidentally winces. "You're sitting on your ass in that library for too long if it hurts Sam."

Sam grimaces, not just at Dean, and shifts so he can grab the stupid couch pillow and toss in onto the floor.

"Seriously Sam, you alright?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. Just ran into a table."

It's a plausible excuse. And Dean will believe him for the most part, if he doesn't let a wince slip again. "Alright Sammy."

Sam really should've given Dean more credit.

"Sam! What the fuck?"

Dean is yelling in his face, green eyes pleading with themselves to forget what they saw.

Sam sits on the couch, staring listlessly at the wall.

"What was that?" Dean is still yelling, but it is pure instinct and the only way Dean can cover up the sheer wapanic and worry that colors his vibrant eyes. But Sam can see everything. Sam knows his brother, after all.

It's exactly what it looked like.

Sam doesn't say anything though. His brother is smart despite his façade. Dean knows what was going on, and right now, he's probably realizing when it started.

Sam twitches when his ass gives a throb of pain. Maybe he shouldn't have gone back out so soon, not after the guy that practically impaled him.

"Montana." Dean says, flat and emotionless, like he gets before he's about to kill something.

Bingo.

Montana was the beginning, and this might be the end. Might, because Sam has no clue what Dean is going to do now.

"I'll kill him."

Sam pauses, no, that can't be right, Dean never makes death threats at him.

Because he knows best, and Dean will follow wherever he goes.

"I told him no, Sam. You know that right?"

Sam is confused, because last time he checked, Dean didn't even hesitate when he got into the car with his father and left Sam by himself. It was okay for a few days. Until it wasn't, and Sam had to suck dick in backwater bumfuck just to keep food in his stomach.

"I told him we shouldn't leave you there, Sam." Dean grabs Sam's shoulders, bent over and staring Sam in the face.

"You…what?"

"Sam," Dean starts, and no, God no, Sam can't hear an apology for this, it's not Dean's fault, and even if it was Sam could never do that to Dean-

Then they're kissing.

They're kissing, and nothing could be more right and wrong at the same time.

Dean isn't really doing anything, until his tongue pokes into Sam's mouth and runs all over, and God, Sam really loves his brother.

"Dean," Sam starts, "S' not your fault." Dean kisses harder when Sam gets that out, and Sam grabs onto Dean's hips and tugs forward till Dean gets the hint and straddles Sam.

Sam runs his thumb over Dean's hipbone, and its times like these when Sam's height really strikes him, how his hands grew and he can look down at Dean instead of up.

"Never again Sam."

Sam smiles at Dean, deciphering from Dean-talk, where 'Never again' means 'Mine'.

"Yeah Dean." Sam says while he buries his face in his brother's neck, where it smells like gun oil and sweat. "Yours."

That must be some cue for Dean, because he surges all over Sam, nipping and licking.

Sam feels the ache in his ass again.

Sam feels dirty.

"Dean-" Sam tries to call to his brother, but Dean only makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, and at any other time that would've turned Sam on, but now, "Dean," He tries again, pushes at Dean's chest to back him up.

Dean sits up from Sam's neck, lips swollen and plush, but Sam still feels nasty, and he just needs to shower, wash it all off before Dean gets anywhere near Sam's filth.

"Sam?"

"Just…shower. I need a shower."

"Oh." Dean says, dumbfounded, but Sam can understand because one second they're making out and the next Sam is taking carefully measured steps to the bathroom. He can hear Dean say 'Oh' to himself again, before the bathroom door is a sturdy wall between Sam and the world.

He lets his jacket hit the ground, ignores the distinct tap of his spare bottle of lube hitting the tile.

Sam slips his shirt off over his head, eyes skirting over the mirror in front of him, but he can't entirely avoid looking at the bruises that peek over the edge of his low slung jeans. Sam can still feel all the hands that held him there, the fingers that dug in to leave marks.

Next to go are the jeans, thankfully loose and easy to remove once the button is undone. He steps out of the pile of jean and spots the money that he shoved into his pocket when Dean found him. Filthy money.

Sam divests himself of his come-stained boxers, hurrying to the shower to get rid of the itchy feeling.

He leans against the shower wall, pays attention to nothing but the slip and flow of the water and the cracks in the tile wall.

Sam doesn't even know why he's been doing this, why he's still doing this when Dean and his father are around again and they haven't left him alone since Montana.

He doesn't know why he kissed Dean either.

He wants to do it again.

Sam shivers underneath scorching water, takes his time scrubbing his hair and carefully washing himself all over without causing the pain to spark again.

He slowly turns the water off, stands in the tub with arms wrapped around his stomach and staring at the wall. Sam really wants his brother.

Not to fix his problems, not to help him, not to talk to. He just wants his brother, and everything that comes with him.

When he finally staggers out of the bathroom, covered in a cold sweat and aching all over, the first thing Sam sees is Dean, sitting patiently on the couch right where Sam left him.

His first reaction is anger, rage that Dean would still want anything to do with someone like Sam, but it's an empty anger that leaves him hollow on the inside and cracked wide open for Dean to see. To see everything.

"Oh God, Sam, Sammy," Dean reaches for him, grabbing his arms and pulling him gently onto the couch. Sam knows he must be all kinds of fucked up for Dean to sound….he can't even place it honestly, or maybe he's too scared to process it.

Too afraid to listen to the sheer amount of love.

Sam curls up into Dean's side, still able to fold his tall frame into the space of Dean.

Dean holds him close, Dean still loves him, after all of this. It's a liberty Sam doesn't think he deserves.

"No, Sam," Dean shakes his arms a little, drawing Sam's attention to his face. "You deserve it. You deserve so much Sam." He says with deadly finality, no room for argument at all.

Sam realizes he spoke aloud, realizes he sobbed the words into his big brothers chest, and again the overwhelming love in Dean's voice washes up and over him.

He feels warm in place he hasn't felt in months.

Sam is crying again, hiccupping apologies into Dean's shirt, burying himself in the smell of home.

Dean lets him, wraps his arms around Sam and proclaims fierce statements of forgiveness. Tells Sam over and over it's okay, tells Sam he won't tell Dad when Sam asks, and eventually Sam starts to drift off into sleep.

The last thing he knows is a kiss being pressed to his forehead.

Sam knows he won't have any nightmares.

After Sam falls asleep in his arms, Dean watches.

Sam looks more like a child than he has in a long time, face red and eyes puffy, but worn with a peaceful expression.

It makes Dean feel much better.

Not about the…whoring. No. That will never ever be okay, but it's not Sam Dean blames.

Dean pushes Sam's hair off his forehead, and lays him down on the couch. Sam is still in nothing but a towel, and Dean lays a blanket over the sleeping form of his brother.

He walks through their temporary home, and freezes at the bathroom door.

It's stupid, this fear that he'll find something so much worse than what already knows is in there. Dean pushes his fear down, his disgust at the sick people that would pay a boy to pleasure them.

On the floor are Sam's clothes.

In the clothes are a bottle of lube, and money.

Dean throws the lubricant in the bathroom trashcan without a second thought.

He stares at the money, the crumpled bills that were stuffed into Sam's back pocket. Thin green papery wads, that's what all of this was for. So Sam could use these dirty cotton sheets to feed himself.

Dean reaches into his pocket, eyes never leaving the money clasped in his hand.

He pulls out a lighter, flicks it on, and sets the money aflame. Dean throws the burning bills into the sink and watches them turn to ash.

After they've disintegrated, he turns the sink on, washing all the grey residue down the pipes.

Never again.