Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just a fan.

Pre- series ... Sam ... Dean ... John... OMC ... Bobby

WARNINGS... SLASH...WINCEST...UNDERAGE SEX...NON/CON...ABUSE...REFERENCES TO CHILD ABUSE... READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

A/N ...yes I know its been done before, but hopefully not enough to stop you enjoying my take on the, in this case, Sam rent boy thing.

==000==

Dean pulled the car over to the curb and just stared. He could do nothing else, letting the motor idle as he just sat and stared across the street. He was beautiful, the kind of person people would call an Angel. Dean would have too if he had believed in such a thing. It was hard at this distance to tell just how tall he was, standing on his own in the pool of light streaming down from the streetlamp as if spotlighted. Stood casually, weight on one hip, he was just surveying the street. Slim narrow hips were hugged in so tight low jeans, the pale blue t-shirt tight across his chest which, as he moved, was not long enough, exposing a strip of pale skin on a flat belly.

Dean's breath fled as he became mesmerised by that strip of flesh, his eyes only being drawn away as slim fingers tucked too long hair, darker than his own, brunette, almost black in the false light, behind a delicate ear. Once more he thought the word, 'Angel'. But the image was of a Botticelli Angel, not one clothed in armour and fury as in a cathedral, or cute and fluffy as on a hallmark greetings card.

He wondered what he should do. Wondered if the youth was lost and needed help or wanted to go for a coffee. He wondered if he would want to come back to the hotel. Undecided, he just sat and stared, until a car pulled up blocking his view.

How could he have been so stupid? Thinking the boy a vision from Heaven when he was a rent boy, a street hustler. Anger welled up in Dean as the lad got into the car and it drove slowly around the corner into a darkened alley. He was fuming but unsure who or what at, himself for being so ridiculous, being mesmerised by a whore, or the boy for being one?

He became aware of his surroundings, realising the street was crawling with them and, as he looked around, another caught his glance and headed across the road to him. Dean pulled away from the curb feeling disgusted, not truly at the hustlers for doing what they had to do to survive but at himself as he so nearly turned the Impala into that alley, wanting to grab the boy and pull him away from whatever pervert had got his hands, or worse on him.

And if he did, just what did he want to do with the lad? Was he so different? It had been hard to judge his age but knowing a thing or two about the seedier side of life hazarded, he was young. The expiry date on a rent boy was short. The appeal soon wore off as younger meat was always just around the corner. He could not fool himself in to thinking that he had any intention of saving the boy from a life of prostitution. He was not that noble, because, as he had stared at the 'vision', his thoughts had been anything but altruistic. He drove away, not looking back.

=0=

It did not prove easy to forget the boy. He had spent the rest of the night sat morosely in a bar wanting the noise and alcohol to drown out the thoughts in his head, much as he did every night. He wished John was here but he was off somewhere with some woman and he did not want to think what the pair were up to. Thoughts of his father and sex did not sit well. Like many a child, he was convinced parents stopped having sex after they were born but Dean knew different. That was another trait he had gained from his lone parent, random, frequent pick-ups, along with the killing skills.

Things were bad lately. Very bad. There seemed to be a never ending carnival of freaks and nasties that needed putting down and both he and his father had ways of dealing, ways of numbing the pain. Alcohol, curvy women and sex. But now? All he could see was a beautiful boy, shaking his ass for Lord knew what lecherous bastard. He hoped he was okay. Enough, and swinging from the barstool Dean headed unsteadily back to the hotel.

The walk unfortunately, cleared his head. He had gone to the bar on foot as he had had plans to get completely wasted but sobering up, he had had to rummage in his duffle for a bottle hidden from his father. He was fed up with the constant bitching, the constant, 'You need to be on your game, Son. You're too young to keep drinking like this'. It was not as if John didn't fuckin' drink too. It took a while and most of the bottle but, finally, oblivion took him.

=0=

"What?" just once he would like to wake up without seeing that disapproving expression. John just dropped his eyes back to the newspaper on the table before him, leaving Dean to struggle to sit up without saying a word. His father's pointed silence was as bad as the bitching so Dean stumbled into the bathroom, finally getting undressed.

Half an hour later, immerging clean but in no better a mood, he dressed and asked John, "You ready for breakfast?"

Raising brows at him in that infuriating manner that was pure John Winchester he replied, "Breakfast? It's gone two in the afternoon."

"So?"

"It's a bit late for 'Breakfast' don't you think?"

"Fine!" grabbing his jacket from the floor and keys from the nightstand, he slammed his way out of the room ignoring his father as he called out his name, telling him that 'things had better change around here'.

=0=

He knew he should be hungry but his stomach churned with anger and bile and he needed a drink. But it was 'gone two in the afternoon' and, no matter how damned annoying he was, he knew his father was right. His drinking was becoming a problem. It was making him moody and reckless, not to mention his new attitude to his father. He could just not follow him around like the obedient puppy anymore. He was a grown man, he was twenty, not twelve.

But, damn he felt rough. Reaching the car, he unlocked the door getting in then, just sat there, kind of hoping his dad would appear at the window, praying he would not. He did not know what to do so, switching on the ignition, pulled out and just drove.

Feeling the wheels on 'his baby', not that the Impala was officially his, he had to wait for his twenty first for that, turning on the blacktop always soothed him, but they were in a city not out on the 'open road'. He had to concentrate on the traffic which he found hard as his mind wondered dangerously. After two near misses, he pulled to the curb and just sat. Then, with a, "fuck it", he rummaged in the glove box coming up empty then checked under the seat. Damn it! Searching the back, "Bitch!" he cursed as he realised John had emptied out the stash of alcohol. He sat back, hands hitting the steering wheel none too gently.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked around for a liquor store and saw him, saw where he was. Was it coincidence or had he purposely driven here? He did not know, but what he did know was he was as beautiful as he remembered and could do nothing but watch as the tall teenager sauntered over to the Impala, swinging his hips suggestively.

A tap at the window and Dean could not move, continuing to just stare. There was a laugh and the face smiled in at him. "No need to be shy," he was told, "I won't bite, unless…?" there was no need to finish the sentence. Thinking this was so not a good idea, Dean leant over and rolled down the window then sat back as the teenager folded his arms, leaning on the door but not too far into the car.

The boy had worked these streets for over a year now, way long enough to have learnt many a lesson. "So? What can I do for you?" his voice was low and pleasant with an accent Dean could not immediately place but not native to this northern town. He just licked his lips still gazing at the youth.

Dean had never paid for sex. Hell, he had never needed to. He himself had been offered money often enough not to be embarrassed or too angry about it but looking at that face, he wanted him and knew the only way would be to pay. There was no chance the youth would give away the only thing he had to sell. And Dean had fuck all cash in his pocket. It was not as if this was planned. He dragged his gaze from that mouth to the eyes, beautiful but cold, hazel eyes. "How much do you…?" he found it hard to ask, "How much?"

The boy had a good idea what the man wanted, as he had done nothing but stare at his mouth, but he asked coyly, "That depends on what you expect me to do." 'Anything you damn well want' he thought. The man was fucking hot. What the hell did he need to pick a Rent Boy off the street for? He should be charging not paying for it. He only looked to be a few years older than himself. And that mouth? Those lips would earn him a fortune.

Fuck, he could be a freak! A psycho or something. He so hoped not but he would have to be careful. More so than usual. He had never seen him or the car around here before. He hoped he was not be a beater or worse, a biter. The bruises always put the next trick off. But he was, gorgeous.

Dean was lost. He felt so stupid, so inept. This was ridiculous. What was he doing negotiating for sex? But he could not take his eyes off him. There was just something about him that had Dean yearning but not just for a fuck. He reminded him of someone but could not think who. He wanted him, wanted to hold him, wanted to make life right for him. Being this close up had changed his mind. He wanted to save him.

He groaned internally. That was what all those serial killers on the cops shows wanted. He should just drive away and forget about him. He leant to the side pulling his cash from his pocket and counting said, "I've got twenty seven dollars?" and looked up hopefully.

Sammie was good looking and popular. So his prices were marginally higher than most of the boys up and down the block. For that he would normally allow a bit of a grope and a quick hand job but this guy was, as stated, gorgeous. He opened the door, wondering if everybody could hear the squeal, and jumped onto the bench seat, grabbing the money and slamming the door behind him amused at the wince it produced on the man's face. "Sorry," he said lightly, laughter in his voice. He had a good feeling about this punter, one he had not had since he was fresh enough to think some rich sugar daddy would come along and take him away to a better life, keeping him all to himself and treating him right. Treating him well. At fourteen he had been so naive. Not now though.

Dean, still unsure what he was getting, started up the engine. He coughed nervously then asked, "Where to?" The boy leant over close to him and pointed to the alley he had seen him use the night before. He was disappointed, stupidly, but pulled from the curb turning as directed.

It did not look good in the alley and he winced at the thought of his baby sitting here amongst the trash. He looked at the other cars 'parked up'. 'Dean, what the fuck are you doing?' he asked himself yet again.

"Up to the top and left." The boy's smooth hand pointed out the way then came to rest high on Dean's thigh.

He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing hard at the contact. He did not know why the boy was having such a damned affect on him. It was not simple lust. Although that was something that had rarely happened in reaction to a male, he would have understood and recognised the feeling. This was something…more. There was something emanating from the slim youngster that had Dean saying a revealing spell under his breath, just in case of beguilement, watching from the corner of his eye.

Nothing happened but the boy smiling at him inquisitively.

"What's your name?"

"My name?" slightly surprised that the punter would care, "Sammie….. Unless you don't want it to be?" seeing the expression darken on the man's face.

"No…. Sammy's fine. Um… Dean." Crap! Why did he have to be called that? Of all names, why did it have to be that?

"Pleased to meet you, Dean," he said brightly, ignoring the slight tensing on the man's brow.

'Bet you are' Dean thought uncharitably, 'in more ways than one'. Then felt himself go hot. Not blush, he did not do that but he felt hot none the less.

"Just here, under the bridge. No one will disturb us here."

"You sure?" as he pulled up and killed the engine.

"Yes," and he moved along the bench seat to press against Dean's side, his right hand reaching across to the opening on Dean's jeans.

Dean had been relieved on leaving the alley but was still convinced people would be watching them, no matter how deserted the area appeared. They were in a deserted lot next to a seemingly abandoned warehouse. Just another run down area of city. There were plenty of those these days.

Warm breath on his face and he turned his head to look at the boy's, at Sammie's, face, so close to his as his hands had his jeans undone, one moving inside. The boy smiled at him but it never reached his eyes. He was a professional after all and no matter what Dean felt, to him, he knew, he was just another sleaze paying for sex.

Sammie was sure the man wanted him to go down on him, the way he was still staring at his mouth but if he could get away with just a hand job he would. Of course. Give as little as possible for as much as you could get. That was what Hutch had taught him and taught him well, the hard way. He pushed his hand onto the man's prick, semi hard already but he did not move in response, just carried on staring at his mouth. Guess he would have to suck it then. He had already taken the money and he was honest, no matter him being a whore. He moved back slightly, twisting on the seat so he could bend down, careful not to hit his head on the steering wheel.

Realising what the boy was doing, Dean stopped him, pushing him gently, but firmly back against the door and pulled the hand from his prick. Not that he would not mind the attention but all he had thought about since seeing Sammie the day before was, what would it be like to kiss that mouth? It had him mesmerised. He felt he was under a spell and wondered briefly if he was. It would explain his behaviour. He slid out from behind the steering wheel and placing a hand on the side of the boy's face, leant forwards wanting to find out.

Sammie pulled away from him, a worried look on his face. He seldom if ever let one of his tricks kiss him. Not that many wanted to. But the man, he had forgotten his name already, was looking at his mouth again and ran the thumb, of the hand now cradling his face, so delicately along his bottom lip as he licked his own. It unaccountably sent a shiver down Sammie's spine and he slowly, hesitantly, leant forwards to press his lips against the man's, admittedly, beautiful full ones.

Dean let out a breath just before their lips met. He had thought the boy would deny him this intimacy that did not seem part of the price. As Sammie softly kissed him, he knew that he was indeed under a spell, because for the first time since forever, the screaming heartache quietened.

He pulled back, looking into the boy's hazel eyes as they gazed back appearing almost confused. There was no guile. No discernable plan, just a kind of mystery and deciding he would worry later, Dean leant forwards once more, this time capturing those lips, kissing him tenderly but insistently, his hand running around his head into the thick soft hair.

Sammie let the man continue to kiss him as he conceded he was damn good at it. And the way he was holding him, cradling his head as his other hand gently slid around his waist, said anything but whore. He kissed him as a lover would, or how he thought a lover would. He had never had one.

He and Billy sometimes got it together but that was more often than not for comfort, helping each other chase the memories away after a bad trick. And they never went 'all the way,' just touching.

No one had ever kissed Sammie the way that this man, this Dean, as the name came back to him, was kissing him. He kissed him as if he was worth something. As if he was worth kissing because of who he was. He felt a smile inside as he recognised a feeling of hope and possibility then quickly shut it down. There was no hope. He was just a paying customer, and a cheap one at that. Sammie knew he could not afford to forget that. So he would just enjoy the moment and maybe, think about it from time to time.

Dean sank into the feel of the other's mouth on his, not pushing, not forcing, but enjoying. He had not kissed someone for this long, without losing clothes, since he was at school and even then as a junior. Slowly he pulled back, sucking on that bottom lip then letting it go, smiling at the pout on Sammie's face. He was wise enough not to believe it but liked it anyway.

Sliding both his hands to the lad's slim waist, he half lifted, encouraging him to climb onto him, to straddle him and he did smiling down at Dean as he settled onto his lap, thrusting his hips a couple of times stoking Dean's ardour. He pushed his hand back into that long hair and pulled him down for another kiss, this time much deeper, pushing his tongue into the hot mouth, eliciting a moan from the younger as he responded.

Sammie pushed his hands down the back of the man's leather jacket, forcing it off his shoulders as he, too, deepened his kiss, pushing his own tongue against the other's, fighting to get into his mouth. He was actually getting turned on himself and just went with it, deciding to get what he could before it went sour. It would. It always did.

Dean's hands held the boy's sides, pulling him, intensifying the rhythm he was setting as he moved in his lap. He slid down on the bench, his hands moving to grasp the small tight butt over the denim, the jeans being too tight to let him in.

Sammie pulled his right hand from down the man's back as his left slowly lifted up his shirt and t-shirt wanting to feel his skin. The man did not stop kissing him. No longer gentle or tender, but wet and hot as he repeatedly thrust his tongue in, in time to Sammie's grinding onto his lap. He lifted up slightly, catching the man's swollen bottom lip between his teeth as he pushed his right hand back onto the man's now, significantly, hard prick.

The boy's hair kept brushing Dean's face as he moved up and down on him, panting into his mouth as his body, his hand and mouth all moved on him, his rhythm becoming faster as he worked his hand on Dean's prick whilst rubbing against him. His knees slid on the bench seat but he kept using Dean to pull himself up, his hand clutching his back.

Dean's own hands travelled up the boy's back, pushing up the blue cotton, feeling his ribs, his shoulder blades as the arm and hand continued to work him. He had to stop kissing him, his breathing becoming laboured but still he rested his lips on the other's, his younger mouth open breathing on him. It had all become so frantic, so sexy, so damned 'hot' and Dean felt his body draw up as it prepared for that release. He spared a thought that he hoped the boy would cum too as he rubbed his own bulge against the hand stroking Dean then he did not give a fuck as he tensed and came with a groan into the boy's mouth as his spunk pumped onto his hand.

Sammie continued to move on him but slowing, knowing it was too late and he would not to get to cum too. It was rare that he wanted to but he had gotten caught up in the moment and jerked the softening prick in his hand a couple more times making the man shudder then collapse back and he let him go, wiping as much of the spunk off his hand onto the man as he could get away with. The grasping hands left his back and one moved to catch his jaw between thumb and fingers and lifting his head, the man gazed sleepily into his eyes. His other hand moved to stroke softly over Sammie's own cock through his jeans, making his eyes widen in surprise and Dean smile.

"Want you to cum too. Keep moving." And as he did, the older man pressed, rubbing his erection through his jeans. It did not take long as, pushing, rubbing against the man's hand, his face was cradled once more and brought down to be kissed. He thought it was the tenderness of the kiss, slow deep and so sexy that did it to him and Sammie came in his underwear, sobbing into the man's mouth.

Dean let the boy go and he sort of slumped onto him, his head on his shoulder, breathing hotly against his neck then relaxed licking his lips. He was not too sure, never having been with a pro before, but he was a bit surprised at the amount of involvement. He had thought he was to get a quick, disinterested hand job but now he was knackered in that good, well sated, way and the boy looked fucked. He slowly wrapped him in his arms as he would a lover and waited till the bubble burst.

Sammie slowly came back, getting himself under control and hardened his heart, putting back up those barriers that amazingly he had let slip. He levered himself up on the back of the seat and climbed off his 'trick' not looking at him and sat back down, tight against the door. "Take me back, please."

"S..ure," confused at the sudden distance and, fastening himself up, Dean slid behind the wheel and started the engine, continuously glancing across at the boy who sat, arms wrapped around his waist, staring out of the side window, his face hidden from him.

"Here. Stop here," the boy commanded as they neared the exit to the alley he had turned down not knowing what was to happen. Dean pulled to a stop and before he could say anything, the boy had the door open and was gone, the slam of the door crashing over Dean like a vicious backhanded slap. He just peered ahead for a moment then pulled the car from the alley, looking to the left and saw him being dragged along the pavement by the upper arm, the man holding him looking ugly and angry.

There was a short conversation and Sammie pulled money from his pocket, handing it over. The 'gorilla' shook the money at him, shouting something. Sammie stepped back and his reply must have been the wrong one as he was slapped across the face, hard enough to make Dean wince and open his door to go help him only to have it slammed back by a thin body and as he looked up, another of the hustlers appeared in warning, "Don't. You'll just make it worse for him," then quickly moved away, heading back to the curb.

Realising he was just passing through a different world, Dean pulled out into the light traffic and reluctantly left Sammie to his fate.

=0=

"Where the fuck have you been?" grabbing hold of Sammie's arm, dragging him along the pavement just because he could.

The boy looked up into the ugly, seething face of his 'protector', as the pimp liked to be referred to as, and awaited the sourness. "With a client," he answered, another preferred term.

Hutch held out his hand and Sammie reluctantly pulled the crumpled money from his pocket. "Is this it?" waving twenty dollars in his face.

"He was a few dollars short. But I did him a quick hand job anyway. Its only five dollars short." His voice fearful, pleading understanding. If the bastard did not believe him and decided to strip search him, as he had before, and he found the seven stuffed in his briefs, he would pay, pay dearly for it.

"A quick hand job? You were gone over half an hour! That should 'ave taken ten minutes, max. What the fuck were you doing?"

"I told you. But he took ages. Couldn't get it up." The slap stung.

"Then you should've worked harder at it! Your regular client was here. The one that pays a damn site more than twenty, fuckin', dollars."

"I'm sorry,"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Sir. I am. I'm sorry, Sir." He was trembling and it was not just for show. He was scared.

Hutch looked to be a little mollified. "Well, you should be," and he handed over Sammie's earnings, less than half. As he had been stiffed five dollars, it was not coming out of his cut. "Right, get that ass moving. That's two hundred bucks you've got to make up!" he stroked Sammie's reddened cheek, "If you're short, I'm gonna take it in trade," and he moved off to check on his other 'employees' leaving Sammie to stare at the dirty sidewalk, desperately holding in tears he had not let himself shed since he was twelve.

=0=

"You okay, Son?" John asked concerned. Dean had been in a strange mood since his return to the hotel and had sat staring out of the window barely speaking.

"Sure," he replied not wanting to have to deal with John's recent, continual concern over his 'emotional health'.

"You've been staring out there for over an hour. You sure you're okay, Son?"

"Yes!" lifting the bottle to his lips taking a drink just to piss his Dad off. And to stop the hollow pounding inside. It had started up in the background as soon as Sammie 'fled' the Impala and had started up in earnest as soon as he saw that freak with his hand around Sammie's arm.

"Right! Have you at least eaten something?" trying to stop the anger from entering his voice. John had only just realised he had missed something changing within his son, who now seemed determined to drink himself to death.

"Eat this!" giving him the finger not even bothering to turn and look at him.

"That's it! What the hell is wrong with you?" grabbing at his son's shoulder, swinging him around on his seat.

Dean looked up into the so angry face of his father and realised what he had just done. Horrified, he dropped his head, "I'm sorry, Sir."

"So you should be. What is it? What's making you act like this?" What they needed was to move on. He had to find them another hunt, get back on the ball. He had thought what they needed was a little R and R, he knew he certainly had. These last few months had been exhausting and he had felt they needed down time. But now he was not so sure. Dean was becoming restless yet seemed to spend all his time either in a bar or in bed, alone or not.

Bringing the ever present bottle up once more, then thinking better of it, Dean put it down on the table. He would have to keep his eye on it though or else it would be gone when he next went for it. John was costing one, Mr. A. Butler a fortune in wasted booze. He tried to think of what to say to his father. Of a way he could explain what he was feeling and why. The problem was, he did not understand himself.

This life had never bothered him before. Growing up he had known no different. It was what they had to do. They had to find and kill the thing that had destroyed their family. Track down and some how eliminate the thing that had killed both his mother and his baby brother. And until that day, they would kill anything else that did not have a right to live.

As teenage years hit, it had been cool to be the hero, to know that he was a fighter on the side of all that was good. A kind of Avenging Angel in a leather jacket. Even if he could not tell the chicks about it, he knew, and his father knew.

But now? It was not enough. With each kill, the satisfaction he had felt had begun to be hollow. So they were saving the world, destroying one 'evil son of a bitch', a phrase he gotten from John, after another, but what about him? What was really in it for him? Some nameless gratitude? That did not keep him warm at night. That did not fill the empty space that was growing inside him, day after day, mile after mile. He needed more. He just did not know what that more should be.

He sighed looking up at his father. He could not answer him, he did not know the answer. He just shook his head and repeated, "I'm sorry, Sir," adding sadly,"I just don't know."

Mollified only slightly, John Winchester shook his head and told him, "Well, when you do know, do something about it. I need you active, attentive and able to watch my back. Enough with the moping around. Whatever it is, deal with it!"

"Yes, Sir," after all his father was right, as usual.

Grabbing up his jacket, John headed for the door. "Come on. You may not want to eat but I do and I'm not leaving you behind this time."

Dean just looked up at him but seeing that look gave in and climbed slowly to his feet. He did not have the energy to argue, to contradict. Maybe a burger would help with that.

==000==

TBC...