Wincest/prostitution/drug use/PINK PANTIES
anonymous prompt at spn_masquerade
beta by darkhavens and tabaqui Thank you. <3
All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name.
It was seven months since Sam left before Dean called, and all he got was voice mail. Four months after that, same thing. The first time, Dean left a message. The second time he just tossed his phone into the back of the Impala. He couldn’t admit, not even to himself, how much he missed his little brother, how utterly miserable he was without Sam. Dean kept himself busy with job after job; working with John, working by himself.
The car was too empty, the days were too long, and the nights…. Fuck, Dean swore to himself that he’d never complain about never getting to sleep alone ever again. As weird as it might seem to any outsider, because they were brothers, they’d grown up with only each other to count on, to trust, to find acceptance and approval from. For Dean, Sam was his world, his everything.
Even as pissy as Sam got when he kept denying how he felt about Dean, saying how wrong it all was, Dean would just shake his head and smile. He’d reach up and grab a handful of Sam’s hair to bring his face down and kiss him; pull him closer so he could wind himself around Sam’s big, warm body.
Dean hadn’t had a single good night’s sleep since Sam left.
Eighteen months, and Dean was calling the school, counterfeit FBI badge number and Sam’s real social security number to hand. After ending the call, Dean sat at the desk in his motel room, stiff and uncomfortable in the straight-backed chair. He didn’t move for hours; darkness filling the stale smoky, musty room as night fell. Dean didn’t reach for the light, didn’t turn on the TV. He didn’t pour a drink from the bottle of whiskey he’d brought in from the car.
Sam had never enrolled. He wasn’t in college earning perfect grades and teasing the girls (and boys) with his big puppy eyes and his bashful grin.
Sam wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
Twenty two months, and Dean was done waiting. He was held off from leaving with one more job, but nothing could stop him when it was finished. Dean was driving west with bandaged and barely scabbed over scratches on one thigh, bruised ribs and a black eye from the werewolf he’d killed.
Thirteen hours later, he was in Palo Alto, wearing his good blue suit and showing Sam’s picture around. A slight lead led to another, and another and before the sunset, Dean was headed north on highway 101 to San Francisco.
Another round of questions, throwing fake authority and very real threats of physical violence at people that were annoyed Dean was knocking on their door during the dinner hour. Dean was exhausted, running on fumes and frayed nerves; filled with worry about and for his brother. He was too tired to play nice.
Dean checked into a motel with a fabricated name and bogus ID. He’d found Sam – or at least where all his contacts said Sam was – and Dean stripped off his suit. He pulled on his jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel over that because it was damp and chilly outside and he couldn’t get warm. He shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he’d found out. He didn’t want to believe it.
He tried calling first, but no amount of money would sway the guy that answered the phone.
“No outcall, sorry. Really, I am. In call only, boss’s orders and the house rules. You want one of these pretty girls or boys, you gotta come here. It’s what makes them so special, you know?”
Dean rolled his eyes, taking a deep breath as he sat his phone down on the small table, then stood up and stripped off the flannel. The place was listed as ‘dress appropriate’, whatever that meant, so Dean dressed in the one nice shirt he’d brought, sliding a tie under the collar. Putting his suit jacket back on, he grabbed his keys.
Inside the old Victorian house, Dean walked up to the bar that had been built into the living room. He asked for a whiskey and took a drink, a little shocked that it was the good stuff. Not watered down, not cheap shit. There were a couple girls dressed in négligées sitting on a small couch, giggling and playing with their hair. Three college age boys in tight jeans with bare chests were playing pool, or pretending to; they were really just leaning on the edge of the table, kissing and groping each other.
The pimp sauntered over with a grin and it took Dean’s entire slim grasp on his control to not pull the gun from his waistband and hold it to the man’s skull.
“I bet you’re looking for a wild girl tonight, right? One that will rock your world? Two? I’ve got the best in town.”
Dean shook his head, took another drink and licked his bottom lip.
“Looking for a twink. Young guy, really tall.” Dean grinned, hoping that he looked like he wasn’t lying. Because he really wasn’t. “I like ‘em tall. And I’ll pay extra for dimples.”
If the other man was surprised, he hid it well. He simply smiled and nodded.
“Got just the one for you. He’s already turned a couple tricks tonight, so I won’t charge you premium. But then again, he’s nice and slick, already stretched and ready for you.”
Dean paid in cash that he’d withdrawn from two different ATMs on the way here. He was relieved it was enough, although he would’ve paid more. Fuck, he would’ve– He should’ve just burst in and shot everyone that wasn’t Sam. But he still needed to make sure that Sam was really here… and, if he was… that this was his choice.
Dean climbed the stairs, a numbered key in his hand. Third floor, last door on the right. He stood in front of the solid wood, wondering briefly if he should knock first. Then he just slid the key into the lock and turned it, opened the door and walked into the room, closing it behind him.
The room was lit by four thick white candles, their flames dancing as a soft, cool breeze blew in through lace curtains, and Sam was on the bed.
And yes, it was Sam. Dean would know that body anywhere, even in this dim room with so many moving shadows. Sam, sprawled out, his fingers around the iron bars of the headboard, completely naked except for a pair of pink lace panties that barely covered his hard cock and balls.
Sam writhed on the sheets, hair in his eyes. He was thin – too thin. All long legs and arms, muscle and sinew and bones under tight pale skin that was too colorful; faded yellow bruises and fresh purpled and red on his thighs, his neck, his chest.
“Sam,” Dean whispered, his voice hoarse. His limbs felt leaden; he couldn’t move.
Sam grinned and slid off the bed, walked over to where Dean stood and looked down at him.
“Hey,” Sam said, his spine arching forward. His hips rubbed against Dean’s. “You’re very pretty.”
Sam slid his fingers under Dean’s tie and pulled, stepping backwards towards the bed, trying to bring Dean with him.
“Come over here. You can be m’daddy, if y’want.” Sam was slurring his words and as the candlelight flickered over his eyes, Dean could see how unfocused they were. Sam looked like he had on the rare times they’d gotten drunk together.
Dean jerked into motion, forcing his arms up to Sam’s face as he followed Sam to the bed. Sam’s skin felt too hot, his hair was damp with sweat.
“Sam…Sammy, it’s me. Dean.”
Sam pulled Dean down onto the edge of the mattress, lifting his long legs up over Dean’s thighs. He kept pulling at Dean’s tie, pulling Dean closer, licking the corners of Dean’s mouth, kissing him, and Dean was losing the battle inside his brain so quickly. Too quickly. Sam took Dean’s hand and put it on the silk that covered his hard cock.
“Fuck me, pretty. Fuck me.”
Dean groaned, and kissed Sam, all lips and teeth and tongue. It had been so long, so very long. His hands went to Sam’s hair, pulling him closer, and then Dean stopped. He pushed Sam back, his palms flat on Sam’s smooth chest.
“Sammy, it’s me. Dean. You know me, right?”
“Sure, baby, sure. I know you.” Sam nodded, leaning back on the bed. He reached up for the bars of the headboard and wrapped his fingers around them again, stretching his long legs out again, his hips rising off the bed. “Come on, come get t’know me.”
It was all Dean could take. His control unravelled and he tugged the tie loose from around his neck, sank down over Sam, kissing him. He could feel Sam’s hands on his shoulders, pushing his jacket back, and Dean whipped it off. Remembering only at the last minute to grab the gun from his waistband, Dean shoved it quickly between the mattress and box spring. Then he was all over Sam, biting at the long line of his neck. Sam was trying to unbuckle his belt and failing miserably, so Dean sat back just long enough to do it himself. Sam’s hands were shaking, and Dean grabbed his wrists.
“You want this, right, Sammy? Fuck, I’ve missed you so much.”
Dean didn’t wait for an answer. Sam was writhing under him and Dean needed him; needed to feel Sam all over him; needed to drown himself in Sam’s body.
He reached down to pull off the tight silk around Sam’s hips, but Sam’s hand stopped him.
“Leave ‘em on... Leave ‘em,” Sam whispered, his hand guiding Dean’s lower. He pressed Dean’s fingers past his balls, his legs spreading wider. He rubbed them over his slick opening, moaning in a low, gruff voice that went straight to Dean’s cock. “They’re f’my bro.”
Dean startled at that, at those words, his breath catching in his throat.
“I’m here, Sammy. I’m here.” Dean growled, his mouth on Sam’s chest, biting at his nipples, licking and sucking until the skin underneath his teeth and tongue was puffy and hot. Sam never stopped moving; wrapping those long legs around Dean’s hips, Sam’s hands shoved at Dean’s pants until they were low enough that his cock was pushing up hard against the silk and lace that covered Sam’s groin.
“Just fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, p-please.”
“Yeah, Sammy... fuck, yeah.” Dean slid aside the elastic and lace and pushed in, the head of his cock popping past the tight ring of muscle and into the clenching grip of Sam’s ass. Moving easily, Dean put the thought of other men on his brother -in his brother - out of his mind by burying his face in the warm hollow between Sam’s neck and head. Breathing in the scent of Sam’s hair, his hips moved, thrusting in and pulling out, going back in and in and in and in.
It was the closest feeling to being home that Dean had ever known; that he would ever know.
He could feel Sam’s cock hot and hard between them, and Dean reached down, sliding one hand from Sam’s shoulder to his abdomen, and pressed his thumb over the wet head. His own orgasm would not be stopped, his body pushing down on Sam’s, and Dean’s hips snapped forward, his cock going deep as he came. Shaking, he trembled above Sam, gripped in that perfect, familiar heat.
“You gotta come for me, baby... Come with me, Sammy.” Dean groaned, lifting up as he felt Sam’s hair move, brushing against his cheek, as Sam shook his head back and forth.
“C-can’t- Fuck... can’t come. N-not a-allow- Can’t.” Sam was rocking underneath him, moving his hips in circles that were making Dean lose his mind. He pushed himself back, up higher on his hands, fighting with the need to come again, the lust that filled his brain at the words that Sam just told him.
“You can’t come?” Dean bit down on his bottom lip hard, forced his hips to stop moving and his lungs to work again. “Like not now? Not ever? What are you talking about, Sam?”
Dean groaned as he pushed himself up and his cock slid out of Sam’s body. He sat back between Sam’s thighs, hands pinning Sam’s hips down. Sam was grabbing at him, moaning and begging, and Dean finally saw how completely out of it that his brother was: the unfocused eyes, the shaking hands, the way he talked. He held Sam’s wrists together in one hand and pulled aside the lace panties. There was a steel ring at the base of Sam’s cock which looped back around his balls; a small padlock hung between.
He jerked one of Sam’s arms up into the light from the candles, ran a finger down from elbow to wrist, and he could see, fuck, he could feel the needle tracks. There were bruises and scars around each of Sam’s wrists as if he’d been tied up - shackled and handcuffed repeatedly.
Dean hissed between his teeth, getting up off the bed. He pulled up his pants, closing them quickly. He didn’t bother with the belt.
“Come on, Sam. You’re coming with me.”
Sam shook his head again, hair falling across his face and into his eyes.
“Can’t. Can’t leave, can’t come, can’t get out. Rules. Gotta f-follow the rules.”
Dean just reached down and pulled Sam up to his feet.
“Sam.” Dean grabbed his brother’s head and held him still. His thumbs on Sam’s temples, Dean waited for Sam’s eyes to find his own. His pupils were huge, his eyes bloodshot, and Dean didn’t like the way he could feel the bones through Sam’s thin, fever hot skin.
“Sam, do you see me?” Dean asked. Fuck, now he was begging. “Please, Sammy. Come on, wake up.”
There was a long moment and Dean grinned as Sam’s slack expression finally changed. As awareness flickered and Dean thought he saw hope in Sam’s eyes.
“D-Dean?” Sam whispered and then he was jerking out of Dean’s hands as someone knocked on the door.
Dean was in fluid motion instantly, grabbing his gun from under the mattress with one hand and Sam’s arm with the other, pausing only long enough to snatch up the bedsheet and toss it over Sam’s shoulder.
“Come on, we’re getting out of here.”
Dean moved to the door, threw it open and aimed the barrel of his gun at the bouncer standing on the other side. The big man stepped back instinctively and Dean followed him, glancing back to make sure that Sam was coming. It took his attention away from the bouncer just long enough for the man to make an unsuccessful grab for Dean’s gun.
Dean punched, not even feeling the pain when his fist connected with the bouncer’s jaw. His vision went red, his heart pounding in his chest. All he knew was that he had to save Sam, had to get him out of this brothel, had to get him well again. Safe. Keep him safe.
This was his job.
Dean got them to the first floor, Sam stumbling behind him. Sam had wrapped himself in the sheet at some point, and now clung to it as Dean pushed and punched their way out. He had to fire his gun twice to clear their way, which only made him move faster, dragging Sam down the stairs. The shots would bring the cops, and, although that was what Dean wanted, he didn’t intend to still be here when it all went down.
Dean’s boots hit the main floor and he reached back for his brother; they were almost free and clear, except…. The pimp stood at the front door, a double-barreled shot gun leveled at Dean’s chest.
“You’re not taking my best boy,” the man said, and Dean didn’t hesitate, didn’t take a breath and didn’t count to ten. Still walking, his finger on the trigger, he shot the man straight through the head. The shotgun clattered to the floor and the man fell with it. Dean stood over him and emptied his clip into the pimp’s chest until the gun was clicking, empty. It took Sam’s arm around Dean’s chest to stop him, to push him back into motion.
“Dean, he’s dead. He’s dead.” Sam was shaking behind him, but he was holding Dean tight, and Dean turned around in his embrace, his smile a grimace of pain and hurt and loneliness.
“Come on, Sam.”
Back in the motel room, the drapes pulled, Dean was a little shocked that it was still night, still dark out. Sam had taken a shower, then slept for hours, and Dean had sat in the chair by the small table, just watching and sipping whiskey from a plastic cup until he stirred.
Sam woke up slowly, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands before sitting up and looking across the room.
“Dean. Thank you.”
“Feeling better?” Dean asked. He left the chair, grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge and handed it to Sam.
Sam drank half of it in one gulp.
“Still dizzy, I think. But better, yeah. It’ll wear off in a day. He never drugged us on off days - just chained us up. I was- Fuck, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Dean. How much I missed you; how much I needed you. I- I’m sorry.”
Sam moved so that his feet were on the floor. He looked down and then back up at Dean with a small grin, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, and Dean was glad that he’d prepaid for a couple more nights in the motel. They both deserved a few days. Just to recover.
“Didn’t get the keys, did you?” Sam asked, his eyes dropping from Dean’s face to the hard bulge in his brother’s jeans.
Dean smiled and pulled a leather case from his back pocket.
“Lock pick.” Dean pulled the thin blanket back from Sam’s thighs as his brother spread his legs wide. Sam’s cock was still hard, pushing up against the faded pink lace, and Dean’s dick throbbed, uncomfortably curved in his jeans. He sank to his knees, looking up into Sam’s hazel eyes.
“I do like the panties, Sammy.”
~ Sam said he was going away to Stanford, but he actually never got into college. He just needed a reason to run away from his unnatural feelings for Dean.
Two years later, Dean comes looking for him in Palo Alto, but they have no record of Sam Winchester as a student.
Dean tracks Sam down to a sex house in San Francisco where the owner keeps the working boys high on a dangerous cocktail of drugs to make them more compliant to customers' strange demands.
Dean has to pose as a client to get close to Sam. Sam seduces him.