If It Pays The Bills

Pairing: Sam/OMC

Rating: M+

No idea where this story came from. It was just rolling around in my head and wouldn't go away. Damn the plot bunnies.

Warnings: Adult Content. It's not especially graphic, but some people might find the content disturbing.

My beta said I'd be shunned for posting this, so don't say I didn't warn you. SERIOUSLY, GUYS, DON'T GO IN UNPREPARED.

Alright, before I say anything else, I want to make one thing perfectly, crystal, no-two-ways-about-it, clear as ice and uncolored glass and air.

I like sex.

Really.

There's nothing bad about it. Maybe the way I got to where I am. Maybe not. Whatever. There's no point lingering in the past.

I like sex. I like everything about it. I'm trained to. There's nothing wrong with it; in fact, it helps more than it hurts. When Dean can't hustle enough money from pool or darts or credit card fraud or anything like that, he thinks I don't notice. He thinks I can pull some money right out of my ass and somehow, we always manage to get a room. I remember some untapped card, or pull out some bills that he'll never know the origin of.

Ha, I just looked back at my comment. Pull the money right out of my ass.

Well, it does factor into the equation.

I'm sorry; usually I'm not so bland and cynical about stuff like this. Whatever, again; life is too short for things like guilt and pity and starvation through lack of funds. When Dean and I need money, we get it. No matter what the cost.

But it doesn't matter, because I like sex.

A lot.

After all, what's wrong with mutual pleasure through the teasing touch of another body against your own, the slide and slant of lips and hips and quiet, muffled groans in dark alleys, or loud, unadulterated screams in a hotel room? What's wrong with wanting to feel closeness to another person? What's wrong with paying for it? We pay for everything else.

America. Such a consumerist society.

Dean thinks I'm a hermit, a monk…what else does he call it…Oh well, I'm sure there are other examples, other derogatory and teasing-playful slurs he's aimed in my direction. I don't mind.

Because I like sex. And it pays the bills.

Another thing I quite enjoy is lying…It gives me a thrill, looking right into my brother's eyes, lying straight to his face and there's an odd tingling that shoots down my spine whenever he believes me. Sometimes it all I can do not to scream his naiveté at him, to paint the words as a fucking neon sign in the sky for him;

Hey Dean, your brother whores himself out for a place to sleep.

Yeah, Dean. I have sex for money, so that he can afford to drink himself stupid and bring random fucks to the motel room, and force me into the Impala because I have to keep up the pretense of sex making me uncomfortable. But I like it.

I'm trained to.

I like everything. It makes sure I always have an income. I like giving, I like receiving, I like sucking and blowing and touching. I like multiple partners, I like only one. I don't care because I like everything. What I really, really like? Knowing that Dean hasn't got a fucking clue.

I'm not sure when it started. Maybe it was when I went off to Stanford – I lied then, too. I didn't get a full ride. Almost, but not quite. And even then the expenses of books and food and partying with Jess and my friends made sure I was driven onto the streets more than once, prowling the alleys with the Ladies of the Night, loitering on street corners and waiting for the cars that would pull up along the sidewalk and offer me a job for the hour.

The cars always had tinted windows. I remember that about them.

No one wants to be seen picking up a whore for the night. Especially a male, close-to-underage whore. I still looked young well into my twenties, and I remember a cop pulling up on more than one occasion to the door of my current job, making sure there wasn't one more illegality on top of what I was doing.

Then, when I gave proof of my age, they asked if they could be next.

Soon enough I was well-known, pretty much. At least, enough that I was never out of work. It's amazing what a small flash of dimples, a smoldering look underneath shaggy bangs and a coy, innocent expression did to a man's libido.

And a woman's.

Or both.

It was a little colder than usual that night. I had forgone the leather jacket I usually wore and was beginning to regret it, but I kept my stance relaxed, leaning back against the wall without a care in the world in the slightly-too-tight t-shirt that clung to the barest hint of muscle I kept on. I would have attained and kept up more of the muscle mass I'd gotten from hunting, but no one wants a fuck that could overpower them or posed as a more dominant partner, so I'd had to let myself go if just a little. I made sure I didn't gain any weight, but I didn't work out with the same vengeance as before.

A midnight blue Mercedes pulled up on the street corner, the rear tinted window rolling down to reveal the face of a man in about his thirties, with a slightly receding hairline, though what was left was thick black locks. His eyes were dark, almost demon-black in the light but I shook the thought away – I took precautions, always. If there were demons in the car they wouldn't have been able to cross the salt-lines I'd placed around the street corner. A little bit over-done but with my life there were no risks.

Call me a hypocrite, I don't care.

His eyes landed on me almost immediately, and I flashed him my million-dollar smile and even threw in a toss of the bangs for good measure. "Can I help you?" I drawled, letting a little bit of the Kansas accent slip through as I stepped towards the car.

Immediately he smiled back, sliding away from the door so that he could open it, allowing me to slide in. Good thing we didn't have to bother with price negotiations; that corner was kind of pre-priced. Anyone you picked up on that corner always charged a hundred bucks an hour. Always. The man tossed me three Benjamin's, which I pocketed instantly, and he nodded to whoever was driving to head on their way, wherever we were going.

I'm trained to like everything.

Maybe it started when Daddy Dearest himself could never scrounge together enough cash to keep me and Dean well enough while he was hunting. The man might have been a heartless bastard to me, but he knew that pushed far enough Dean would do whatever it took to make sure I was fed and clothed and safe. God forbid he subject his perfect little soldier to the thing he willingly sold me into. I knew Dean was always the favorite son, the better son, but Dad was giving me a chance to prove myself, paying special attention, and I was okay with it.

It started off small. Well, as small as something like that could get. I was young, I was naïve. I didn't care, because I kind of liked it. Maybe it's the demon side of me, the depraved part that gets off on wrong and deliciously sinful.

Maybe that's why John didn't mind whoring me out. After all, I was demon-spawn. An abomination.

Anyway, it started with me on my knees for one of my Dad's hunting buddies. The guy was pretty small, and even my eleven-year-old throat could handle it. I got pretty good at blowjobs once my Dad let me practice. That's what he kept calling it, and I never minded. If it kept food on the table, what was wrong with it? It was just like another job, and it didn't hurt anybody, and it looked like I was helping other people enjoy themselves.

Like an entertainer.

It wasn't a bad thing. It was oral sex.

And I liked it.

Then…well, my first fuck had actually been with a man named David, or something like that. I was fifteen years old, and it's kind of amazing that Dean never seemed to notice the way I was always limping. Maybe Dad told him a little about it; maybe he was just too willing to overlook anything. Or maybe he honestly didn't know, maybe Dad was better at covering his tracks than I gave him credit for. Or, more likely, Dean was too wrapped up in discovering his own sex life to worry about mine. I was only fifteen after all, and his little innocent, pain-in-the-ass little brother. He didn't need to worry about me now that I knew how to work a stove.

But I don't mind. Honestly I don't. I could never blame Dean.

I don't even blame my Dad.

Because if it weren't for him, I would have never gotten all of that practice, and I would have been starved out of Stanford and forced to live as a hunter with my father and my brother, and even then it doesn't really matter, because making money is never a bad thing. Never.

I like it. I like money, and I like sex.

And other people like me giving them sex and taking their money.

So it's a win-win for everyone.

The guy took me to a little fancy hotel, it was a suite and I didn't take in the décor of the room, because that wasn't what I was meant to do here. I only had three hours with the guy – that pretty much guaranteed all the way sex – and I wanted to get started so that I could finish so that I could go back and earn more money.

I let him slam me back into the door, the smell of Lynx deodorant overwhelming me when his slightly rounded body pressed flush with mine. I smiled, letting out a little groan of pleasure – he likes it rough. Fantastic. So do I.

His teeth were brutal on my neck, and for a moment I feared he would tear the skin, until he did and lust flooded through me with enough force to make it easy to fake pleasure from it. Yeah, that didn't really make sense. Whatever. I'm meant to like everything, and so when I say that I mean it. I like it when people bite me, break the skin, taste my blood, taste my life and threaten me with taking it away.

Man…that guy was a fucking psycho. He brought in some of his buddies – and yeah, they also paid hundreds for time with me, which I wasn't complaining about – and I took them all, in my mouth, in my ass. Some of them I could take two, three at once in my body. And that's not including my hands. And they all had knives. Never once did I fear for my life, though, because that's not my job. I'm meant to like everything.

And fuck it all did I like it. I liked the feeling of the cold blades slicing into the flesh of my shoulders and arms, the feel of blood coating my fingertips, which I would coat their cocks with and then suck them clean. I liked the feeling of them pounding my ass raw with only spit and blood and sweat to ease the way. And I liked the weight of the money in my pocket when I pulled my jeans back on and left the room with the same smile and a quick wave, another drawl of 'Drop by again sometime', and I was off to earn another hour's pay.

I like everything. Except that Dean still thinks he's better than me. He thinks he needs to protect me and trying to somehow make it on his own. There was no way in hell, though. I took care of him more often than he took care of me, and yes, lying to him straight to his face was a thrill and all, but I also…I don't know. I love my brother. I want to make sure that he knows that…I'll be alright. When he leaves. Because he will leave me one day. He has to.

I'm just an abomination.

But before I could get to him, Bobby found me prowling a street corner. We were in Asheville, North Carolina, working on a case and our funds were depleted. Dean was working over a bar, and he'd told me to do the same thing. I knew from the look in his eyes that he expected me to come back empty handed. I had no intention of doing so.

I couldn't get away in time before he was cutting me off, pulling me into his car before I could turn away and bolt again.

"What the hell are you doing out here, Sam?" His voice was a low, rough growl. And I liked it. Not the time, though. Bobby wouldn't be willing to pay. "Does Dean know what you're doing?"

I shook my head – no point lying to Bobby. I couldn't pull the wool over his eyes like I could with Dean. Ironic, I know, since my brother prides himself on knowing me so well. He doesn't know jack shit. "We need money. He's hustling pool. He thinks I'm in some bar doing the same thing."

"And why aren't you?"

I shrugged, like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. I wasn't ashamed, so if that's what Bobby was looking to see, he was screwed. "Because I'm good at this." It wasn't difficult to see the shock in his eyes when I met them, small smile on my face. I wasn't doing anything wrong – I wasn't risking my health in any way and I wasn't damaging anyone by doing what I was doing. "I make more money in one night than Dean does in several."

"Damn it, boy!"

I wasn't paying attention. I didn't care enough; I just nodded and smiled and promised it wouldn't happen again. Once again, lying right to his face, and he believed me because he wanted to believe me, and we went our separate ways. He never said anything to Dean, I never mentioned it, because it's not how I do. I came back to the motel room that night two hours later and a hundred dollars richer, and it was enough to pay for two more nights while we researched our next case.

Dean says I must be getting better at pool. I smile and do nothing to make him think otherwise.

Because I'm not doing anything wrong.

I'm repaying my brother for years of taking care of me.

And I like doing that.