Title: Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.
Spoilers: none, though I suppose it is set somewhere in Season 5
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Supernatural.
Warnings: reference to underage sex and child prostitution
The title is from a quote from Paul Tournier.
Dean lies there on the ground as footsteps walk away and remembers the first time he'd had sex. It wasn't a girlfriend, or a random pretty girl, or even a hooker – he'd been the whore. Fourteen years old and bending himself over for a middle-aged guy with a six-figure salary, a white picket fence, his trophy wife, and their two point four children.
He'd cried the whole time.
It had hurt like hell and he'd felt different after - been different after – but Sam had never said anything. Sam… Dean groans, and tries to sit up. He grimaces. No, not yet. He eases himself back down with a sigh. He'd promised himself never again, but that only lasted until the next time John had gone off on a hunt and left them without enough money for food. Then the next. And the next. Dean could always go without, but he'd never ask Sammy to. It was his job to look after Sam, after all, and nothing has changed with time except they've both gotten older.
Older, but definitely not wiser, Dean surmises. At least where he was concerned. Money first, that's how it's supposed to be. Money first then you open your mouth, or bend over, or do whatever the hell it is they're paying you to do.
A bitter gust of wind blows down the alley, and he shivers. It's cold, and it's late. Sam won't worry. Won't come looking for him. He'd said he was going out for a few drinks, but what Sam would have heard is, 'I'm going to get laid – don't wait up.'
Sex is just sex to Dean – there's nothing special about it. Once you've had another guy's dick rip you apart, the only way to get through it is to disconnect from everything, even your emotions. Dean's a performer – he always has been. He knows all the right moves to make, the sounds to say, and he can be as gentle or as rough as they like – but ultimately it's a very one-sided show. He supposes that's why, after a particularly embarrassing experience in a cheap-shit porno, they'd offered him another deal. If they hadn't been chasing after their dad at the time and could have stayed in town another couple of days, Dean would probably have said yes. It was easy money, after all.
He'd had to learn quickly to prepare himself beforehand – most guys (who very definitely aren't gay) just want a quick fuck, like a drug addict chasing a quick fix; something to keep them going until the next time the desire becomes too strong to resist. He's lost count of the number of guys who've screwed him, and the number of times he's been screwed. He's always careful; never doing anything or even eyeing up potential 'customers' when Sam is around: not after the age of seventeen when Sam had walked into the men's room looking for him and he was sucking some guy's dick in a cubicle. He'd had to sneak out the too-small window so he could stroll back in the through the café entrance, nearly breaking his ankle falling to the ground, and then fend off a hundred questions about where and why he'd gone.
He sometimes wonders if perhaps his dad had suspected he was doing something illegal – though he'd never have suspected what – but he can't bear to imagine the look of horror and disgust on Sam's face if he ever found out.
The tell-tale flutter of wings tells him that he can't hide this from everyone – not any more – and he closes his eyes, as if that will make the angel disappear. "Go to hell," he grumbles.
" I've been there," a gravelly voice says. "I have no wish to return." A hand places itself gently on his arm, over the hand print burnt into the skin there. "Why?"
The voice is quieter as he asks this; sadder than Dean has ever heard it. He opens his eyes. "Money," he coughs. "I gotta take care of Sam."
The hand slides around his back, and down. Dean tenses, and tries to fight him off. But the angel is so much stronger than he is, and a second later the hand is on his ass and a warmth is spreading through him. As the warmth ebbs so does the pain, until Dean is left shivering in the bitter night air once again.
"Why?" he asks, repeating Castiel's question back at him.
"You are Michael's vessel and, being the one who raised you out of Hell, I feel responsible for your safety. And… it pains me to see you suffer," he admits.
"How did you even find me?" he questions.
"I… do not know," the angel sounds genuinely confused for once. "I think… I felt you. Your pain – it called to me."
"Fucking great," Dean mumbles as he hauls up his jeans, not embarrassed at all be the fact his junk's on full display – if you sell yourself often enough, you soon realise that embarrassment is a luxury you can't afford to feel.
As Dean fumbles with his buckle and his shirt rides up Castiel can see the true extent of Dean's injuries: the small, circular bruises from fingers that gripped his hips too tight; the outline of the boot that stomped down hard over his ribs. He wants nothing more than to cure Dean of those as well, but he knows that Dean would refuse, too stubborn and afraid of being perceived as weak. "I'll take you back to Sam," Castiel says instead, reaching out to him.
Dean jerks back. "Nu-uh." He doesn't like getting angel-zapped places. "If I go back now Sam''ll wonder why I'm back so soon. I'll just park the car up somewhere and sleep there tonight."
"Then I shall stay with you," Castiel insists. "I'll watch over you."
"No you won't."
"It is not a request to remain in your presence, Dean – I shall watch over you while you sleep."
"Whatever. Fucking angels," he mumbles, but he's not irritated – not really. He'll never admit it, but he kind of likes the fact he's got another pair of eyes looking out for him and Sam. Because Cas does look out for Sam, if only because he means so much to Dean.
They get in the car and drive around for half an hour in silence, as Dean looks for somewhere to sleep that won't bring the cops rapping on his window to see if he's getting up to anything untoward with Cas. There are only two motels in town, and eventually he pulls into the car park of the one he and Sam aren't staying in and turns the engine off. He crosses his arms and snuggles down in his seat, leaning his head against the door without another thought about Cas sitting next to him.
Castiel studies him, watching the gentle heave of his chest as his breathing deepens, and is fascinated by the shapes in the mist caused by his warm breath on the cold widow. When he is convinced Dean is finally asleep he places a finger to the hunter's temple, and a soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He doesn't sleep – doesn't need to sleep – and he doesn't move from that position all night, eavesdropping on the hunter's dreams.