Chapter Nine

"Hey, Pretty Freak!"

Sam closed his eyes before standing up. He had known the distance the guards had given him, acting like he was invisible - and in Freak Camp, being invisible was a damn good thing - wouldn't last. It figured that Victor would be the first to break it. In a group of sadists, thugs, and Campbells—the last of whom didn't like to get their hands dirty outside of Special Research—Victor was the smartest.

Victor was grinning at him, hands on his hips, watching him approach. Sam kept his eyes lowered, shoulders down. "Sir."

"How was dinner?"

Sam swallowed reflexively. The mealworms had gotten into the bread again. He could tell himself all he wanted that it was extra protein, but the two slices of vaguely moving bread and a cup of tepid, flavorless liquid hadn't done anything to make him full or feel less like he was consuming himself instead of the food. He had hated touching the guards, but he had never realized quite how much of his food came from what he did on his knees until it was gone. He didn't answer.

Victor brought his billy club under Sam's chin, nudging his head up. Sam kept his eyes almost shut. "I asked you a question. Still hungry?" He tapped the club sharply against Sam's jaw, and Sam jerked. He clenched his fists, angry at his body's betrayal at so light a move.

"Yes, sir," he muttered, because whatever was going to happen now, it could only be worse if he lied.

The billy club fell away. "I have a nice fat roast beef sandwich back in my office. You want it?"

Sam's face didn't twitch.

"Come on," Victor wheedled. "Don't you even want to know what I'm asking for it?"

Sam inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose. Might as well ask. "What's the price, sir?"

"Not much. You on your knees in Head Alley. One-time payment."

Not much work, usually over quickly. Yeah, it was worth it. He just had to hope Victor really did have a sandwich in his office. Sam jerked his head in a nod.

"Did I read that right? Let's be absolutely clear." Victor held up his hands, open and mock-innocent. "I'm not forcing you into anything. You are voluntarily offering to blow me in exchange for a treat, something extra that monsters shouldn't get. So don't go running to Winchester that you've been raped, when I'm doing you a favor. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you don't want it, you can walk away right now. If you want it, you gotta tell me, clearly."

Sam sucked in his breath. "No, sir. I want it."

"Good." Turning, Victor strode away to the breaking room, not even looking to see if Sam followed.

They started up again, after Victor, but it was different. They didn't just force him down any more, or wrap his hand around their cocks and hurt him until he jerked them off. There was always something—a sandwich, an apple, a blanket—after, and they always made it very clear that he had to want it. And there were no interrogations at all.

Sam figured that it was all because of Dean—he'd seen what Karl's face looked like now, and it wasn't pretty—and he was both grateful for the space and terrified, every day, that Dean would come back and know what he had done, what he was doing. Dean wanted him untouched, and Sam was anything but.

He shared with Kayla, when he had more than he could easily use (building up credit, for when he needed something and couldn't get it himself). They weren't friends, but she watched his back, and it was good to have at least one monster that wouldn't try to cut his throat for his blankets or just because he was the Whore. He fed her and occasionally gave her advice, which she always took. The guards called her Dream now, because after the first time Crusher had fucked her, she never made a sound when they touched her.

"Carpenter's dream," Crusher had said, pushing her into the showers with the other monsters. "Lies still like a board, waiting to get nailed."

Victor looked up. "Not your taste, then?"

"Boring as hell," Crusher said.

A vamp might be Toothy, because he couldn't retract his second set of teeth, and witches tended to get named "Handy"—especially if they put out—the name traveling from one witch to the next as they died or moved on to their executions, but Sam called the shapeshifter girl Kayla, and she called him nothing because she hadn't talked since the first time Crusher spread her legs.

Until one day, after an assembly demonstration—one naked werewolf, caught planning to escape, between the whipping posts, four guards hurting him any way they pleased until he couldn't scream any more—Sam and Kayla found a place where they couldn't see the bloodstained dirt. Sam leaned against the wall, trying to think only about how it was a good temperature today (bound to get worse, but good right then) while Kayla looked at her hands.

Her voice, when it came out, was rough and emotionless, like the words were put together by someone with a perfect understanding of the meaning but no comprehension of the emotions involved.

"I want to rip off their dicks and stuff them down their throats."

Sam looked at her in surprise. After a second, he licked his lips and answered the only way he could. "We don't get to want things."

She turned her head to look up at him, face flat and inscrutable, until she spoke with the same utter lack of inflection or feeling. "You want that hunter boy to come see you."

Sam jerked hard, twisting his head sharply away. He had reacted far less during his last beating. No wonder the guards all used that against him, if he was so fucking transparent.

Kayla was still watching him. "Why? What does he do with you?"

He drew his arms tight around his knees, setting his chin between them. How could he possibly talk about Dean's visits - how Dean talked to him so differently from anyone he'd ever met, how he touched him so lightly and never to hurt, how he never asked anything from him. There weren't any words for it, none Kayla would understand nor believe. Sam didn't have any words for it himself, because he didn't understand it either. It was beyond comprehension or any sort of sense, the brief flashes of light that were Dean's visits, the fact Sam had ever been in his presence. It just was, and while he couldn't have begun to say why Dean always returned to see him and smiled the way he did when he saw Sam, the truth that Dean would come back (God, please come back, I'll be good for you) was the only reason Sam didn't rush the guard towers, hoping to get a bullet before a club.

Kayla's eyes remained on him, though if she was impatient with his silence, she didn't show it. "Does he fuck you?" she asked at last.

Sam took a sharp inhale through his nose. "No."

She leaned closer, to get a better glimpse of his face. "But he's going to, right? That's why no one else's fucked you. That's what they all say."

Dean had never said anything about it, not one comment or suggestive smirk, never reached past his hands, shoulder, and occasionally his cheek, but never even his lips. He'd never hurt Sam, even that time he was so angry. "I guess so." He didn't know why else Dean would be so interested in him.

"What's he waiting for?" At last, Kayla's flat tone changed, rising on a note of incredulity.

Sam shrugged and turned away. He wished he could answer, but he just didn't know. She had been silent long enough to understand his silence now.

When Dean could finally get back into Freak Camp—eight fucking weeks had never felt so much like forever—he thought at first they were hassling him because of what he'd done to Karl (sonuvabitch deserved a lot worse). They took the blood tests a hell of a lot more seriously, practically dumped a cup of holy water over his head, and read an exorcism. They did an honest-to-God pat down for weapons when he was going through security and for once did not allow him to keep his gun or his knife when he went through. The standard issue rifle they gave him—loaded with a mix of blessed silver and iron buckshot—felt like cheap shit in his hand.

They tried to give him shit about the sandwich, too, and Elmer Rosenstein insisted on poking through it, but they let him pass eventually. Dean kept his opinion of their asswipery behind his teeth and did his best to smile. If it looked a little bit like he was baring his teeth, well, that was okay too.

Only when he got out into the yard—no private rooms were being issued without appointments, the new cold-eyed Campbell secretary sitting in Madison's chair had said—did he realize that maybe it was about more than just him. The guards were all heavily armed and sweating under the extra weight of flak jackets. There were a lot fewer monsters on the yard, and any that got too close to a guard got a cuff to the head or a club against the ribs. Dean actually saw two monsters get clubbed down in the short walk from Reception to the barracks area.

When he asked where to find Sa—88UI6703, the sandy-haired guard with a healing scrape along his scalp told him to "find the freak yourself."

Dean felt something in him relax, a fear that had been growing in his chest. Because he hadn't seen Sam anywhere, and there were so few monsters in the yard and clearly, some kind of shit had gone down….

He found him eventually. Sam was huddled with a group of other monsters in a narrow strip of shade between the barracks, but the second he saw Dean his eyes widened and he scrambled up toward him, into the light.

The first thing Dean saw was Sam's expression: massive relief washing over the happiness. Then Dean saw the damage.

The sunlight—so bright Dean was squinting even through his sunglasses—brought into sharp relief the faded bruise along Sam's cheek. He was limping, too, not obviously, but Dean could tell from watching Dad, and practicing it himself often enough, that Sam was placing every step carefully to avoid showing weakness.

"What the hell happened, Sam?" Dean snarled. Not getting enough information last time had landed him in that eight-week shithole. This time he wasn't going to fucking abandon Sam in some dark interrogation room without telling him anything. This time he would be calm, collected. He would gather information and be polite while filling out whatever forms it took to beat the fuck's face in. Or at least he would wait until the guy was off work to jump him and punch his lights out.

See, Dean Winchester could be rational and professional. Suck that, Mark.

Sam stopped, and Dean got a second's glimpse of the smile vanishing under pure fright before Sam dropped his gaze to the ground. Immediately Dean felt like the complete ass he was. Sure, eight weeks had sucked for him. But that had been plenty of time to think of how Sam hadn't even known what the hell was going on, and Dean had just left him.

Dean was trying to put together an apology that would actually say what he wanted to say and sound neither flippant nor groveling, when Sam answered the question he thought that Dean had asked.

"There was a…raid," he said. "About two weeks ago. Demons tried to…I don't even know, really, we've been in lockdown and high security since they tried to breach the loading gate and…I'm sorry I don't know more, Dean. I'm sorry." Sam was looking fixedly at some point at the ground.

Aw, fuck. Dean came up and brushed Sam lightly on the arm. "That's not what I meant, Sam," he said. Sam's head snapped up, his eyes wide, but Dean rubbed his arm soothingly. Part of him was just fucking glad that Sam wasn't flinching from the touch. Maybe there were no more goddamn fucking smiley faces burned into his skin. "No, that's fine, Sam. I guess that's why you look a little knocked around."

Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said again, his eyes fallen as sure as gravity to somewhere around Dean's middle.

There was something still going on here, something that Dean didn't like at all. But he was afraid that grabbing at it would only hurt Sam more. Like a goddamn burn. "Sam, don't be. I just meant your face and…" Dean gestured to the leg that Sam had been favoring. Guards and monsters were watching—not explicitly, but Dean could tell, he knew from long practice how to tell when someone or something was watching him.

Sam looked relieved. He carefully raised one of his own hands to his face, as though making sure that nothing else had happened to his cheek. "Yeah," he said. "It's just because of the raid. Everyone's been…upset."

Dean couldn't stop himself. He put a hand on Sam's arm again, even though last time he had touched Sam he had hurt him and the time before that…fuck. "Hey, Sam," he said. "Look at me." He waited until Sam did. "I'm sorry I was gone so long. I lost my temper and… fuck, I'm sorry. I was so pissed off that they'd been hurting you, and I didn't know - I kinda lost it. They haven't…you're okay, right? Now, I mean."

Sam stared at him, stared at him like Dean had spoken only gibberish, and then smiled. It was the smile that put the sunlight to shame. "I'm fine, Dean. They haven't…they stopped after…last time."

Dean nodded. "Good. They hassle you, Sam, you tell me, okay? I'm sure there's some paperwork I can fill out to let me smash their faces in."

Sam smiled and ducked his head. "Yeah, probably," he said. "I'm fine, Dean. They've done nothing I haven't…they've done nothing."

"Good. And it better stay that way." Dean stretched and wiped his forehead. It was already September, but it was still fucking hot. "Hey, wanna play cards?"

They found a spot in the shade—Dean felt a little bad at how the other monsters just scattered out of the cooler spot next to Reception, but when he glanced at the doors to Administration and saw the guards posted there in heavy armor, he figured he probably wouldn't be able to get himself and Sam inside.

Dean dug in his jacket pockets while Sam shuffled the cards almost as fast as a Vegas dealer.

"Poker?" Sam asked, already dealing five.

"Yeah. Aha!" Dean pulled the squashed sandwich from his pocket and ceremoniously presented it to Sam. "For you!"

Sam froze at the sight of the sandwich, cards fluttering from his hands.

Dean frowned. "Sam? Sam! Are you okay? Dude, I know it's fish patty but…I thought you should try something new…Sam?"

Sam shook himself. "Sorry," he said, and his voice was a little hoarse. "I've been…eating better lately, and it just…"

Dean looked down at the sandwich, feeling a little bit like shit. Sure, he loved bringing Sam food, but maybe he should be happy for him, that he'd actually been getting enough to eat for a change—Dean knew that the monsters didn't get much, knew he couldn't change that except by bringing Sam as much as he could every time—but a selfish part of him was disappointed that the food he brought, the gifts he had, might not be the best part of Sam's day. "Well, that's…you still want it, maybe to save for later?"

"Yes, I want it, s—" Sam said the words as though by rote, and utterly without emotion, until he cut himself off by jerking his head to the side. He curled in on himself, shrinking his shoulders down with his chin to his chest, and clenched his hands over his knee. His grip crushed the queen of diamonds, and he didn't seem to notice, despite how appalled he'd been the last time he thought he'd bent the corner of one of Dean's cards.

This whole visit was weirding Dean out, because he knew that something was happening, something had happened, and he had no fucking clue what it was. Something was wrong and he didn't know how to ask, and he didn't know what he could do about it if Sam gave him an answer.

So he settled for what he knew how to do. He shoved the sandwich into Sam's hands and shifted a little closer to him. "It has tartar sauce on it," he said. "I hope you like tartar sauce. I was going to stop at a burger joint like usual, but I was coming from the other direction and there was this fish shack and I figured, Hey, never got Sam a sandwich from here before, so I pulled over and this chick at the counter…"

Dean talked, and Sam slowly opened the sandwich, took a bite, stopped and smiled. Dean talked until Sam had eaten, until he had dealt out the cards—not poker, Dean didn't feel up to poker, and he didn't want to bluff to Sam right now—and they played War until the sun had moved a couple hours in the sky, and Sam was smiling at him, laughing a little with him, and telling him about books he had read and work he had done around the camp. There was this one thing he'd read about altering engines that sounded like it would make the Impala purr and Dean thought, once again, how amazing it was, that Sam could stay here, never leave, and still be the smartest person Dean knew.

I'm getting you out of here, Sammy, Dean thought. He just didn't know when.

There had to be paperwork for that. And Dean would find it.

How can he never change? How can he always be wonderful when I'm…? Sam stood watching Dean leave for a long time, one hand moving restlessly over the spot where Dean had touched him, over and over again, the taste of tartar sauce on his tongue. Only when he couldn't see Dean any more, when the guards were starting to notice a monster standing suspiciously out alone—during the raids, monsters had been killed for that, shot down in the yard with silver because everyone was so damn jumpy—did he turn and go back to the shade.

Kayla was waiting for him. When he came, she shoved a werewolf out of the shade and bared her teeth at him when he made a move to come back to the place Sam had taken. Few knew that Kayla could talk, but everyone knew that she could bite.

When he slid down next to her, the cool of the shade compensating for the heat of too many bodies close together, she turned her head just slightly, eyes watching everything. Her lips moved—her lips often moved, Sam had heard some of the newer guards say they thought she was brain damaged, probably from being under Crusher—but he heard the word.

"Unfucked," she said.

He gave a short nod, just a jerk of his head downward, in affirmation. I still am.

Eight weeks, and Dean had still come back to him. Sam had lived through the raid and the new interrogations—all monsters were being interrogated again; after the scare with the demon attack, the Director thought that someone on the inside could be feeding information out—and Dean had come back, just to play cards, to give him a sandwich Sam had paid nothing for. To smile at him.

It never made any fucking sense. But it was still goddamned good.

Crusher came into the barracks right after bedcheck. He nodded at Lonny, then let his eyes rove over the huddled monsters.

"You sure you're not in?" he said. "I mean, Davey's really not that into it, said he'd spell your shift if you wanted. And he doesn't really give a shit about Maxwell, so missing his bachelor party's no big deal."

Lonny shrugged. "Thanks, but I'll pass. Davey's a fuck-up, and I'm already on the Campbells' shit list this week. I'll catch a show later."

"You sure? We got authorization."

"I'm sure. Make the choice and get out of here, I need to put the monsters to bed."

Crusher's eyes lighted on Sam, and for a second the crazy in his eyes flared bright enough that Sam could almost swear they glowed.

"Pretty Freak," he said.

"Rosenstein! " Lonny snapped. "No one will go for that. Not after what Karl got…"

"Easy, Fitzpatrick, not gonna do a damn thing he doesn't ask for. Let's see, aaaand…" He reached down and grabbed the collar of a skinwalker woman who was still fairly pretty, even with claw scars down her face. He snapped one of the heavy-duty lead lines, one that kept a stiff pole between the guard and his victim, to her collar. "I'll take this pretty bitch, too. Now, I need a volunteer!"

The monsters shifted uneasily, not sure if that was a joke or a test. Or an offer.

"Come on, no takers? I'll throw in a blanket and a sandwich, and all you have to do is fuck this bitch."

A vampire shook off his blankets and stood. "Mrrd?" he asked, the muzzle almost completely obscuring the word.

Crusher put a hand to his ear. "What was that? Speak up, Toothy."

The vamp almost growled, remembered himself in time. Talking back at a guard had gotten him a broken jaw and a permanent set of overfangs. Instead he mimed shoving a needle into his arm.

"Blood? Sure, I'll throw in a whole pint. You might even get to take it out of her vein."

The vamp nodded and joined Sam, the skinwalker, and Crusher by the door.

They left the barracks, the woman on the stiff line, Sam on a short, looser leash attached to Crusher's belt, and Crusher brought them to a huge room in Administration that looked more like an indoor exercise yard than an interrogation room. Sam only knew what it was by the restraint bolts in the walls, the cameras in the corners, and the shadow of old bloodstains on the floor.

Other guards were already in the room, out of uniform and more relaxed than Sam had ever seen them, except for the second or two after they had come. Most wore jeans and T-shirts, older clothes no one would mind getting dirty. Someone had even brought some second-hand furniture—Sam recognized the couch from the breaking room—so the men could sit down and sprawl comfortably.

They were all still armed.

Crusher let Victor snap the vampire onto a chain connected to one wall. It was just long enough that he couldn't get to the guards' seats. The chain Crusher hooked to the woman's collar was considerably shorter. Wherever she tried to run, the vamp would be able to reach her. Following on his short lead, only Sam was close enough to hear what Crusher whispered in her ear while he secured her chain.

"You bring him down before he comes, and you walk out of her with all the goodies, pretty bitch."

She had been in Freak Camp for a while - maybe a year, Sam thought he remembered seeing her last winter too - so she wasn't shaking or blubbering pointlessly yet, but from the vacant look she gave Crusher, Sam couldn't tell if she had understood or not.

Crusher stepped back, pulling Sam by the leash. "Remember, you have to spray your freak jizz inside her, vamp, or it doesn't count. Let the show begin."

Instead of taking a seat and securing Sam somewhere in the back, Crusher gripped both of Sam's arms behind his back and pulled him against his chest while he leaned against the wall. "Watch," he breathed in Sam's hair, his boner nudging against Sam's ass, while the vamp stalked almost leisurely toward the skinwalker. "Watch so you can learn how it's done."

Sam swallowed and looked up from the floor just as the vampire seized the skinwalker's chain and hauled her within reach.

Hard to tell what Crusher wanted him to learn. Sam had seen rape before, and this sex wasn't even something all the guards would enjoy. It was half-sex, half-battle, with the woman doing her best to claw the vamp's eyes out, and the vamp slowly gaining ground, pinning her to the floor and pushing down both their pants. He didn't completely manage to block her from tearing ribbons of skin off his face, and she was finally sobbing, gasping and kicking as he slid over her, pinning her arms over her head.

Even though it wasn't something they would want to do themselves—no real would let a monster be that free to fight while getting fucked—most of the guards seemed to be enjoying the show. Davey looked a little sick, keeping his attention locked on a corner of the room, but Maxwell was jerking himself hard and panting, a dirty grin on his face, cock already tight and ready to burst.

About half of the rest already had their cocks out as well, but no one else was nearly as close as Maxwell. Bernard—hand down his pants—gave a little jerk every time a sob broke the woman's lips, and Victor looked almost thoughtful, one hand resting on the bulge in his jeans.

Sam swallowed and looked down when Crusher started moving against him, his hips grinding harder against Sam's body each time the monster on the floor managed to thrust into his writhing, screaming victim.

Crusher jerked his arms up, and Sam gasped involuntarily. "Watch, little whore," Crushed twisting his arms higher. "Or I'll break your arms."

And because Sam looked, Crusher grunting against him, he saw the end.

The woman, apparently defeated, had moved her legs up to wrap around the vampire's waist and was writhing with his moments. But between one second and the next, her terrified expression settled into one deadly and determined. She lifted her legs to lock her ankles and squeezed her thighs together, hard.

If he had been human, she probably would have crushed his ribcage, cutting off the vamp's air at the very least, but even as a vampire he was distracted enough to let her hands go. She took the opportunity to get her long, bloody fingers wrapped around his neck and twist.

After the sharp pop, there was a long moment of silence. Then the skinwalker pushed the vamp off her, pulled up her pants, and stood, shakily. She was breathing hard with one hand on the wall, her eyes on the watching guards.

She looked at Crusher, half-defiant, half-terrified, while the other guards went for their guns. "You said—" she stopped to cough, spit blood out of her mouth where she had bitten through her lip in the struggle. "You said if I brought him down, I walked out. No questions asked."

"Fuck, Elmer," Victor said. "Sonuvabitch."

Crusher nodded at Maxwell, who was scowling and still painfully hard. "Max asked me to. You like the show, right Max?"

Maxwell never took his eyes off the skinwalker. "I thought it would fucking last longer, though."

Bernard grinned, hand still down his pants. "You should transfer to IC, Max. I've told you what we do to keep the dogs awake. Lasts as long as you want it to."

"Rosenstein," Max said. "I don't fuck guys. Convince her."

Crusher pushed Sam to the side and moved to where the skinwalker was shaking, and Victor raised an eyebrow at Max. "You still want to fuck a woman who can break your neck before you get off?"

Maxwell shrugged. "So we hold her down."

The woman watched Crusher approach, eyes wide, hand curling into fists. "You promised," she said. She didn't believe that would make a difference, but she had to say it.

"I did," Crusher said. "And you can walk out here right now, with a fat little sandwich." He leaned forward and slid his hand over her shoulders. "But if you spread and lie quiet while the boys fuck you tonight, then I won't find you tomorrow, like I was planning." His hand drifted down to her chest and twisted one nipple, hard. "Now, you going to be a good little bitch tonight, or will I have to teach you…tomorrow?"

She stared at him, chest rising and falling under his hand. "Tonight," she said.

"Say it again, bitch. Make sure Max can hear you."

She cleared her throat. "I'll be a good bitch tonight," she said, and the other guards looked over. Max smiled and started sliding his hand along his cock again.

Crusher nodded. "And we'll all keep off you tomorrow." He turned her around and pushed her with enough force toward Max that she only stopped when the chain choked her down.

Max stood. "Hold her for me, boys. Just want her busting my nut, not my neck."

Crusher turned back to Sam and shoved his back against the wall, hard. "You heard the deal I gave her, right, Pretty Freak?" he said, sliding his knee between Sam's legs and pressing. "You know I can hurt you and it won't leave scars?"

Sam knew. He knew that very well. "What's my deal? One sandwich, not enough." He couldn't believe that he'd said that. He wasn't sure what would push Crusher over the edge, but he had to push, because he could hear the noises that the skinwallker was making under Max, he could hear the sounds from the vampire as the more indiscriminate guards turned him over, and he didn't want that.

Crusher slapped him. "Not enough, sir."

"Yes, sir."

Crusher eased back. "This is voluntary, remember, freak? You're going to hit your knees because you like it, because you want it. You're going to say that you want it, every time, because you do, you little whore. And for every load you swallow, I'll get you a sandwich. Not right away, but over this week. Every day, a sandwich, until you run out of our come. Just say yes, Pretty Freak."

That was a good deal. A fucking good deal. And Sam wanted to run like hell.

But that wasn't an option.

"Yes, sir," he said. "I want it, sir."

Crusher smiled, and Sam wondered if he'd be first. Crusher was usually first. But instead he turned him around. "Good whore," he said. "Bernie's waiting for you on the couch. Go use that mouth of yours." Then he gave him a shove.

Sam walked to where Bernard was waiting, smiling, his dick out.

"You want this, Pretty Freak?" he said. "You want me down your throat, you want to choke on me?"

Sam knelt. "Yes, sir, I want it."

Bernard grabbed his head. "Then take it."

Four, Sam thought as Pete finished, pumping into his mouth and gasping above him. Sam swallowed, forcing himself to swallow even though his jaw ached, he felt sick, his stomach full, full of them. Some of the guards—Davey, Maxwell—preferred handjobs or women, or just to jerk themselves off, but he had done four and had at least two more to do. Crusher had only gone once, and there was someone else, Sam didn't remember, it was hard to keep track, why the fuck should he keep track of whose dick it was when all he needed to remember was that he had done four. Four days he wouldn't have to worry about hunger cramps affecting his concentration, of what might happen if he passed out during roll call. Unless Crusher took that away. Which he could - what could Sam do if he decided to back out of the deal?

The dick popped out of his mouth, and Sam gasped, fighting the need to vomit. Pete grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up to his feet— Sam's knees twinged, he hadn't stood up since he'd gone down for Bernard—and slid a hand to the waistband of his pants.

"Fucking sweet mouth," he breathed into Sam's face, and Sam could smell the alcohol on his breath. Could feel the guard's fingers closing on his pants and tugging them down. "Bet your ass is just as hot."

No, no, no, Sam thought, but his voice wouldn't work, his jaw wouldn't close. Sam fought, clawing at the guard's hands, at his pants, and Pete just laughed. Around him, the other guards watched, fucked-out and buzzed. Crusher's pupils were wide and his breathing uneven. Pete was a fairly new guard, but he had jumped in on the guards' extracurriculars with speed and enthusiasm. His first protests of hell no, I'm not a fucking fag had been forgotten once Crusher showed him how it felt to fuck a tight ass, ride a monster's mouth. Pretty Freak sucks cock better than any of the females. There used to be one who was pretty good, Crusher had said, holding Sam's head in place, but they pulled her to SR a couple weeks ago. Too bad you missed her. Pete hadn't turned down an opportunity to fuck Sam's mouth since.

"Bet Winchester won't mind if I break you in," he panted, getting Sam's pants below his hips. "Bet he'd thank me for making it easier for him, teaching you how to take a fat cock up your ass."

At that threat, he found the strength to move his jaw and lips. "Bet he wouldn't," Sam returned, the words rasping through his abused throat. "Bet he'd fuck you with your own club for it."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to break, and in it Sam heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing.

Then a fist slammed into his stomach and he dropped, vomiting come and stomach acid over the guard's shoes.

He got kicked a couple times and curled into a ball to protect his face—would have curled the other way, not like his face was important—but what he expected, the hands on his pants, dragging him to a surface to get fucked, didn't happen. Instead Pete dragged him up again and threw him at Crusher.

"Get the little fuck out of sight." If Sam hadn't known better, he would have thought the guard almost sounded scared.

"Don't have the balls for it now, do you, Pete?" Victor said, while the skinwalker took his dick into her mouth.

"Shut up, Todd," Pete snapped. "I don't see you fucking Winchester's property."

"That's because I'm not—yeah, right there, slut, harder, down your throat, wanna feel you choking—a fucking idiot."

Crusher dragged him to the door of the huge interrogation room, pulled his pants back up over his hips, and then hauled him the rest of the way out of Administration.

"Dirty whore like you doesn't even have the right to think Winchester's name, you got that, slut?" Crusher said, pinning him once more to the wall. "You talk shit like that again, and next time Winchester's here I'll tell him about your fucking uppity mouth and let him deal with it, got that?"

"Yes, sir." But he hadn't been fucked. Sam held onto that, because, even though Dean would have the right to beat him bloody for using his name like that, it had worked and he was still there, still clean for Dean in the only way he could possibly matter. So he was going to push, while it still felt like the guards couldn't touch him, when they seemed to have remembered the first couple weeks after Dean had disappeared and wouldn't touch him again. "What about my sandwiches, sir?"

Crusher looked at him. "You're lucky I don't break your skull, freak. But we'll see. Now get back to your fucking barracks."

Sam swallowed. That, too, was better than he had hoped for. "Yes, sir," he said, and turned to limp through the dark, cool camp, hoping no one would be around the water spigot on the side of the barracks, where he could ease his burning throat and drink enough to vomit again.

The second Dean stepped into the dark, smoky bar, his well-trained eye identified the biggest threat in the room, which was a table of chicks way too hot to be drinking vodka martinis alone. He sauntered over to rectify the situation, leaning companionably on their table. Since he turned nineteen, he had honed a perfect combination of confidence and charm that almost always got him laid.

This batch, unnaturally, wasn't biting. They liked when he flashed his credit card for the next round, but when he notched up the flirting, they all claimed to have boyfriends. He figured at least a couple were telling the truth, but before he could identify the liars in the bunch—maybe the bleach-blonde with the boob job would give him the inside scoop—their ringleader stood and announced it was time to go.

Watching his marks stroll out the door—every other girl in the place was either clearly with someone, or clearly not his type—Dean saw a few glance back at him regretfully. The bleach-blonde held her hand up to her ear and mouthed Call me, but she hadn't given her number.

"Strike out, Winchester," Dean muttered to himself, and turned to the pool tables. The girls may not have panned out—and had cost him twenty imaginary dollars on the fake credit card—but the night need not be a complete loss.

Parting losers from their money took an unexpected upswing two games and fifty bucks in the green later, when a fit guy in a tight shirt with dark hair, an easy grin, and wandering eyes stepped up. "You're pretty good, hot stuff," he said. "Think you can handle my game?"

Dean grinned. He heard another promise beneath the words, but he wasn't going to bite yet. Some parts of the country, guys could get bent out of shape. Better to be sure. "I'm game," he said.

Halfway through the game, the guy propped his hip against the table. "I like how you handle your cue," he said. "Oh, and I'm Zach, by the way." He grinned. "Always good to get the formalities out of the way before the game gets too far."

Zach wasn't bad, certainly better than the other marks he'd played that night, but Dean got the feeling the guy was distracted, concentrating on something other than getting the balls into the right holes. Pretty soon Dean was having a harder time sinking the shots himself, distracted more and more by the way Zach slowly rolled his pool cue from hand to hand, hooked his forefinger around the tip and stroked down. No accident, or a distraction ploy either, Dean was sure. The way Zach kept meeting his eyes, it was pretty clear he wanted more than a round at the table.

Dean Winchester wasn't a man to limit himself, whether that was with food, drink, speed, monster hunting, or getting laid. If there was a pretty face—and a willing body below it—well, he was game.

Granted, both genders had their advantages. He liked the game with girls, the cover stories he created and they pretended to believe. He liked watching them melt, and sliding inside so easily when they were wet for him, but sometimes it was nice to cut the chase and pretense. With guys around a pool table, the cue sticks could do all the talking, the occasional brush of a hip—as Zach leaned closer pretending to see how Dean was 'lining up a shot'—making an offer that Dean just had to reach out for. No backstory or attachments required, just the assurance he would find a libido and enthusiasm that would match his own better than almost any girl's. Right then, Dean decided this could be a great night after all.

He deliberately scratched a shot to even the score a bit, though Zach was clearly more preoccupied with Dean than the game at this point. As soon as Dean sank his winning shot, Zach flashed another smile as he held up the ten bucks he'd lost. Dean took it slowly, his fingers sliding over Zach's.

"Hey, no hard feelings. I'll buy you a beer," Dean held up the ten. "Think of it as buying me a drink."

Zach grinned, leaning against the table and placing his hands not-so-subtly on his thighs, fingers directed inward. "I have a better idea than that. Save your cash and come back to my place for a drink."

Dean thought for maybe a second. It was always a little tricky deciding if he wanted to take the next step. At moments like this, with a pretty face staring at him, his father's warnings—monsters wear the face that gets them closest, Dean—rattled through his head. And when a dude propositioned, he was never sure what entering the other guy's territory entailed. A couple times it turned nasty, once ending with the other guy down and bleeding.

But Zach didn't ring any warnings—just a horny civilian—and Dean hadn't had so many drinks that he worried about his reaction if the guy pulled out vamp teeth.

So he grinned and stepped a little closer to Zach, so he could look down into his eyes. "Separate cars," he said. "I'll follow your lead. Unless you do something I don't like."

Zach seemed pretty pleased with that answer. As soon as they stepped outside the bar, he grabbed the front of Dean's shirt, pushing him out of the porch light and against the rough wall for a rough kiss. It was practically an assault, his tongue fucking into Dean's mouth with an aggressiveness that assured him of everything yet to come. Dean never submitted to a challenge like that, and he pushed back as he twisted Zach around so he was the one against the wall. When they broke apart, Zach was grinning wide, and he reached around to grip Dean's ass.

"Oh yeah," he breathed. "I knew I found a stud."

Zach's apartment wasn't far, and Dean was still half-hard by the time he pulled up beside Zach's Ford truck. They kissed again outside the gate, and Dean got his turn groping ass as Zach struggled to get the key in his door.

"Just so you know," Zach huffed, "Jake might still be here -"

Dean was about to ask who the hell that was, but Zach had the door open and was pulling Dean inside, and the only question left was which way to the bedroom.

But they halted before the kitchen, spotting someone bent in front of the fridge. He turned to face them with a beer in hand, and Dean abruptly felt like he'd been whaled with a sandbag.

The boy, maybe a year or two younger than them, was tall and incredibly lanky, long tanned limbs running from his T-shirt sleeves and shorts. His floppy, sandy-brown hair hung almost over his blue eyes, but even his face -

If Sam got three meals a day and decent exercise - if he were a real - this was exactly how he would look in a couple years.

Then the boy smiled, slow and direct, right at Dean, eyes raking over his body without the thinnest pretense. "Hey there." He leaned against the counter as he popped open the bottle. "Where'd you wander in from?"

Zach pressed in close, hand on Dean's back. "Uh-uh, babe, I found him first."

Dean managed an awkward huff of a laugh, glancing at him. "What, are you guys - together?"

Zach's eyes glinted in amusement. "Nah, not really. More like roommates with benefits."

"Sounds fun," Dean said, eyes drawn back to Jake.

Zach got his attention again by nipping Dean's neck with his teeth and pushing him once again toward the bedroom. "This way, pretty boy."

Dean almost objected to the nickname - used too often in undesirable situations with older men - but Zach barely paused to push the door closed before tearing Dean's jeans and boxers down, and Dean decided there wouldn't be much more talking anyway. Zach rolled a rubber down his prick in record time, and Dean barely managed to fall back into a padded chair behind him before Zach swallowed him down all at once. Dean's brain instantly short-circuited. He bucked up, groaning and swearing at the top of his voice, and barely managed to pull himself together so he didn't come within five seconds. Zach could have been a porn star, the way he squeezed Dean's balls in exactly the right counter-rhythm with his bobs, and when he did finish a few minutes later, Dean felt he could hardly be blamed.

Zach propped his arms on Dean's thighs, grinning with swollen wet lips. "Like that?"

"Holy shit," Dean said weakly.

Smirking, Zach tugged the condom off, rolling it up neatly before tossing it in the trash and sliding over a tissue box to wipe him down. Dean hissed at the sensation on his sensitive skin, and he reached forward to grab Zach's shoulders. "Hang on," he muttered, "just give me a minute, and I'm going to fucking blow your brains out."

"I'm counting on it." Zach shimmied out of his jeans, and Dean managed to catch him off guard, knocking him back onto the bed. Zach might have been a porn star, but Dean had a few tricks of his own. He pushed the condom down with his mouth, including liberal use of tongue, as he pinned Zach's wrists to the bed. Then he just held him there, nose almost brushing his pubic hair as he refused to budge or let him thrust up, until Zach was writhing and begging mindlessly. Then Dean focused on the head, flicking his tongue over and around and finally nudging the slit, even through the rubber. Zach came about as fast as he had, Dean decided, pleased.

Afterwards, he rolled up next to him on the bed, still feeling the last ebb of his own post-orgasm glow. They caught their breaths as Dean finally noticed, with appreciation, the posters of sexy boys in assless chaps and other skimpy cowboy outfits on the walls and ceiling.

Zach interrupted his reverie by nudging him in the shoulder. "You ready to bring Jake in?"

Dean's head snapped around so fast he heard a pop, but he was busy staring incredulously at Zach. "Dude. Are you serious?"

Zach raised his eyebrows. "Why would I be bullshitting you? I told you, we're not the possessive type. And I saw how you two were eying each other."

Dean almost choked. "I wasn't -"

"Dude. You totally were. And trust me, Jake was lit up like a Christmas tree for you at first glance." He jerked his head towards the door, and Dean belatedly realized it had never closed all the way but left several inches ajar. "What do you want to bet he's right outside, jerking off as he listened to you moan? I'd win back my pool money." He smirked before rising up to one elbow, calling, "Weren't you, baby boy?"

The door slowly swung in, revealing Jake leaning against the doorframe. His cheeks were flushed, but he was doing nothing to hide the tent in his khaki shorts. He looked directly at Dean and wet his lips. "Didn't get off yet." His voice was both soft and husky. "Was hoping you'd touch me."

And just like that, Dean was breathless and up again. Propping himself up on his elbows, he stared as Jake came toward him, dropping his shirt and shorts on the way, until Jake climbed up naked over him. Dean couldn't take his eyes off Jake's swaying cock, pointing straight at him and dipping just a few inches above his own curved dick. Jake tugged Dean's shirt up, over his head, and spread his hands over his chest. "You're so hot," he breathed, and lowered his head to take Dean's nipple between his teeth.

Dean thrust up hard, groaning through his clenched teeth, and he couldn't keep his hands off Jake any longer, didn't know why he had so far. Grabbing his hips, Dean pulled him down to grind their cocks together. Jake whimpered, long fingers clutching at Dean's biceps as he moved his mouth over Dean's chest, up his neck and to his mouth. His kisses were entirely unlike Zach's: slow, exploratory, lingering like he could do this all night. Dean struggled to pull down his pace to match, even as his hand slid from Jake's hip, running over his back before gliding, lightly, over the curve of his ass.

"Fucking hell," Zach breathed, and Dean was just barely aware of him sitting at the head of the bed, watching them and moving his fist over his own dick. "You two are so fucking hot."

Jake whimpered again, tantalizingly, and Dean drove his hips up again in frantic need. Fuck, he hadn't been this wild, this out of control since the first time he'd felt the warm heat of a pussy around his cock. That same trembling all through his muscles told him he would have no control over when he lost it. Pushing his fingers hard through Jake's shaggy hair, he groaned and tugged back Jake's head hard to reach his neck with his teeth.

Keening, Jake struggled for balance, pulling up his knees to relieve the pressure between their cocks, which was not acceptable. Dean reached to take hold of Jake's hip and make that point clear, but then he felt Jake's fingers sliding down his prick, over his balls, and reaching farther - oh, fuck -

Dean released Jake's throat, gasping and shuddering and lifting his hips so Jake's fingertips could better nudge against his hole.

"Wanna fuck you," Jake whispered, head dropped so his mouth was against Dean's ear. "Want you to fuck me -"

Dean came, spurting hard over his own stomach and Jake's, vision blacking out for several long seconds until his muscles stopped spasming. Coming back to himself, he realized Jake was still panting above him as he jerked himself. "Oh God, oh God -"

Dean reached with both hands to squeeze Jake's ass cheeks, spreading them wide apart as he whispered for him to come, come for him now -

Jake did, crying out again - kid was so fucking vocal, made the sexiest noises - as he dropped down on top of him. Dean could feel his cock pulsing against his stomach, their semen mixing together, and he sighed contentedly, resting his hand on Jake's warm back. It felt exactly right, his weight and limbs splayed over Dean, long hair tickling his face. His brain wasn't back on board yet, fucked out of his mind, but he already knew bone-deep that this one time wouldn't be enough.

Jake shifted, lifting his shoulders to prop himself up and smile down at Dean. "So. Who's Sammy?"

The heady warmth suffusing him took an abrupt plunge, leaving him cold and clammy and a sick coil in his stomach. Without thinking, he pushed Jake off to the side, ignoring the sticky slide as their bellies parted.

"Hey!" Jake protested, reaching for him, but Dean sat up, grabbing an edge of the blanket to wipe himself off and immediately hunting for his clothes.

"Awww, c'mon," Jake whined. "Forget I said anything. We just barely got started, I didn't even get to taste your dick."

Dean shoved the thought aside hard, refusing to think about how Jake's head would look bobbing on him. Yanking up his boxers and jeans together, he glanced at both of them. "Trust me, this is not my usual policy, but I gotta head back. Nothing personal."

"Seriously lame," Zach informed him. Dean noticed, distractedly, he had come again at some point, and his dick rested flaccidly now on his thigh. "We aren't chicks, but you can't just take off like that."

"Call me a douche if it makes you feel better." Dean patted his pockets for keys and wallet. "You two will be fine without me, I'm sure."

Jake didn't argue again, but Dean caught sight of the glower and pouty lip, and hastily looked away again.

Zach sighed. "Man, I was totally going to get your number to do this again, but if you're gonna be such a pussy - whatever." He waved his hand. "Go deal with your issues, go find your Sammy."

The queasiness hit Dean's stomach again, and he swallowed before grabbing his jacket from the floor. "Seriously, I know it's a bitch move. I just - I gotta go." He ducked out of the room before either of them could say another word.

He didn't stop until he was in his Impala, where he rested his forehead on the wheel and began swearing in a low continuous rush under his breath.

Dean had done a lot of kinky shit in bed and even more out of it. He hadn't minded, when picking up the best chick available, fantasizing about his last truly hot fuck as he pounded her. He hadn't even had much yammering from his conscience when he screwed the perky cheerleader who was almost definitely not the sixteen she swore she was. But he had never felt so much like a dirty pervert as he did tonight.

He knew why he should feel that way, what anyone else would tell him if they knew - that he should be ashamed for getting off on a monster like that. But Dean couldn't even kid himself about that. Sam hadn't been a monster to him in years.

What Sam felt like instead was just a kid - like if he had been a real kid, not yet fifteen, definitely not someone Dean should be thinking about like that. He and Sam were... As always, his brain came up short. "Friends" never seemed right, and from the start he had never been allowed to think of them that way. Whatever it was, he cared about Sam, cared what happened to him, and he had made that abundantly clear to everyone several months ago. He had shown then he wasn't ashamed; he had essentially claimed Sam for his own that day, and it made him feel steady and assured, like this was right and the way it should be, when he saw everyone else acknowledging it.

But dammit, he had not meant it in a sexual way. He wasn't the same as those filthy bastards who thought that way and made those constant dirty jokes. He wasn't going to touch Sam, ever.

Unless Sam wanted it.

He bit his lip at the thought, grinding his palms down hard on his knees in denial of the twitch his twice-spent dick had just given. No, no, dirtyandwrong, he wasn't going to think that way about a poor kid who'd grown up in that hell of a camp and clearly never had enough to eat, who probably would never have the slightest bit of interest in Dean that way. Why would he want a hunter?

It was a fucking sick fantasy and Dean was not going to lower himself by giving into it.

He would not.