The first time it happens, he's thirteen. Winter in Colorado, rundown apartment complex, and Sammy broke a vase in the hallway. It was an accident, he was running around, playing, and he tripped.
Their landlord said the fucking vase was expensive, and money's tight as it is. Dad won't be back until the end of the week. Dean'd been given a choice: pay for the damage, get dragged to the police for vandalism, or blow the guy and everything's forgotten. He knew the guy was lying, that the ugly fucking thing wasn't worth shit, but he couldn't take the chance.
What the hell else was he supposed to do?
They do it in the janitor's closet, surrounded by mops and paper towels still in their plastic packing and with the scent of lemon-fresh cleaner in his nose, so intrusive it even covers the heady smell of the landlord's junk. Sam's outside the door, still crying because he's sorry and the landlord had been screaming and Dean, what's happening, where are you going, I'm scared.
Without any experience, Dean doesn't see the signs that the guy's coming, swallows by accident. He takes the time to puke into a floor-washing bucket before he goes to take Sam for ice cream from the truck around the corner to calm him down.
Dad gets home on Friday, a day earlier than he'd said, and Dean expects him to know. To look at him, give him one glance, and know what he'd done.
From there on in, well. Seems like after you've done it once you carry a neon signing saying I blow perverts for money on your forehead, there to see in blinking, bold letters for anyone who cares to look.
And Dean can't always afford to say no.
Sometimes the money isn't just tight, but completely gone. Sometimes he can't find anyone willing to employ a kid of fourteen, fifteen. Sometimes there's no bar that'd let him in, let alone play.
It's not so bad, sucking cock. Ten minutes, twenty bucks, quick money. One good night can carry him over another for week. He finds out that rubbers are the rule rather than the exception, and the taste of latex is easier to deal with and get rid of than spunk. There are tricks to get a man off fast, have it be over sooner rather than later, and Dean learns them all.
Dean's sixteen when Dad's up against a werewolf that deals out almost as good as it takes and sends him to the hospital for two weeks. He calls Dean, voice so weak and thin and different that Dean doesn't dare tell him the truth when he asks if they'll get by without him for a little while longer. They're dangerously low on funds already and rent's due in a few days, but Dean's found a bar with a pool table that doesn't give a flying fuck about the fact that his boyish face doesn't jive with the year of birth on his fake ID.
The guy – tall, lean, but butt-ugly, baseball cap over a bald scalp – approaches him with that look on his way to the bathroom on the second night, throws a leer his way and grins knowingly when Dean cuts his eyes away a beat too slowly. He follows Dean to the restroom, and, once there, corners him against the sink. He must take his final cue from the way Dean just goes lax and turns his head away, but doesn't try to escape, because the next thing Dean knows he leans in and grabs hold of Dean's jaw to pulls his head around and brings his lips to Dean's.
He tastes like stale cigarettes and booze, smells of the road, days spent in a truck of some kind without a shower or a bed, and it's a scent Dean's well used to. It doesn't take much to imagine the state his lower regions must be in, and Dean assures himself he's got a condom in his pockets before he draws his head back, searches the guys eyes and says, “I'll blow you, but not for free.”
Dean doesn't like the way the guy inclines his head at that, eyebrows raised, but it's fine. Dean's taken down Vamps and Wendigos, he can deal with a drunk trucker if he tries anything. There's no reason to be worried, but nevertheless his heart beat speeds up for the time it takes the guy to answer, and even more so when he does. “Not sure a blowjob's gonna do it for me tonight, kiddo. How much for a fuck?”
And yeah, no. It's not the first time Dean gets that offer, and he hasn't done it. He won't. No way. It's one thing to let guys fuck his mouth, but no one's gonna get anywhere near his ass. Just not happening. He shakes his head, moves to get away from the sink, push the guy off. “No fucking. Blowjob, and that's it.”
“What a shame,” says the guy, and Dean's more relieved than he'd ever admit out loud when he steps out of the way. But when Dean turns to go back into the bar – he'll hold his business for another couple of minutes, no reason to get careless here – he adds, “I'd make it worth your while. Hundred bucks. Hell, nah. You're pretty enough that I'd make it a double. Two hundred.”
Dean hates to be called pretty, but... He didn't score much yet, a damn town full of stingy tight-asses, and that much money at once would go a long way to making his problems disappear. He wouldn't have to worry so much about only raking in scraps with pool. He could be home with Sam one hell of a lot sooner.
It can't be that bad, right? Just sex. He lost his virginity to Sadie Coulton in North Dakota six months ago, done it a few times since. “Two hundred?”
“Yeah,” the guy says. He pulls out his wallet, holds it out for Dean to look inside, to show him a bunch of green notes sitting in there; money that could be his in a couple of minutes.
Dean doesn't trust his voice, nods instead, and the guy grins at him, waves a hand to beckon him closer again. It isn't until they've retreated into a stall and Dean's undoing his belt before he realizes that the guy might not let him do the fucking, that he'd probably expect him to bend over. He pauses, panic returning full force, but it's too late to back down now. Still, just sex. Hey, maybe it'll even be good.
The guy seems to notice his hesitation, gently pushes Dean's hand away and takes over the task of peeling Dean out of his jeans. He reaches inside Dean's boxers to stroke him, and for a moment there Dean hopes that it's okay, he'll get to pitch, no big deal, before he pulls them down, directs Dean – now naked from the waist down with his pants pooling around his ankles – towards the wall face first and pushes at his thighs to widen his stance.
Dean's face heats up with shame when he feels the guy part his cheeks, rub a long line from his balls up to... There.. His asshole. Which he just sold for a fuck. He curses under his breath, tenses when he feels a finger prod at him, circle the line of his rim and push in, and yeah. That's it. He changed his mind.
“You know what? Sorry, but I don't think I wanna do this. Let's call it off.” He straightens up, reaches a hand behind himself to stop the guy's movements when he doesn't let up.
There's no answer. Instead the guy's hand wanders away from his hole, cups his balls, and when Dean moves to pull his pants up and end things that way – fuck this shit, he'll get dressed and walk away and that'll be it – the guys squeezes them painfully.
That's when it occurs to Dean that there might be no easy way out of here. He starts to struggle, thinks better of it when that results in a harder grip on his nutsack. Fuck. The guy yanks at it, making Dean yelp with pain, and leans in with his whole body, effectively pinning him against the cold tile. “Too late, man. We're doing this, whether you want to or not.”
Under different circumstances, Dean could take him down in the blink of an eye. But not like this, with his jeans and boxers around his ankles and practically acting as shackles while the guy's literally having him by the balls. He struggles harder anyway, ignores another brutal yank he receives as punishment, keeps fighting right until he hears a zipper go down and feels something decidedly bigger than a finger poke at his ass. The pain at the first push in paralyzes him; it's like he's split open. That the pressure on his balls eases and then stops hardly registers in comparison, and Dean doesn't have it in him to protest or resist when he's bent over slightly for a better angle. Something in him tears before the guy's all the way in, every new thrust sending sharp stabs of pain up his spine and he feels rivulets of a thick and warm liquid run down his inner thigh, knows it isn't come yet. The guy's barely gotten started. He's grunting behind Dean, driving into him again and again, pushing—parallel constructions Dean's head hard against the wall when he finally bottoms out. It has Dean see stars, but he's almost grateful; that means he's less aware of what's happening. He wishes it'd have been enough to knock him out, but he's not granted that kind of mercy.
He doesn't know how long it takes until the guy's rhythm speeds up, two or three particularly harsh thrusts and then it's over. Dean's knees give underneath him when the guy pulls out and lets go, throws a couple of bills at Dean before he leaves. Dean doesn't bother getting up until way after he's heard the doors of the stall and then of the restroom open and close.
In a daze, he pockets the money, pulls his pants up and rises to his feet, but he doesn't make it for more than a couple of steps out of the stall before he stumbles and falls. There's a voice somewhere above him, but he can't figure out what it's saying before his world turns black.
He wakes up to bright lights and road noises, and it takes him a moment to figure out that he's not in the restroom anymore. No, he's in an ambulance, and there's a young, blonde EMT holding his hand, stroking a thumb along the meat of his palm absentmindedly. She smiles down at him when she notices he's awake, but Dean draws his hand back and it falls away.
“It's okay, sweetie”, she says, tone low and soothing and so fucking sympathetic. “We'll take care of you. He can't hurt you anymore.”
All Dean hears is, she knows. Someone probably called the cops too, and they're going to tell Dad. And Sam. Everybody will know what happened to him. He tries to sit up, not caring that he won't get any further than the other end of the ambulance anyway, winces when the movement jars something deep inside.
The pressure of her hand on his chest his gentle but firm. “No, come on. Please. It's over, you're okay.”
He wants to tell her that he knows where he his and what's going on, thank you very much, but somehow, what comes out is: “They can't know. Don't tell – Fuck.”
She just looks at him with that same expression, sighs, and smiles again. It makes him feel fragile, and weak, and all the other things he just can't be.
In the hospital, after he's gotten stitches for damage and painkillers for the concussion, he tells the cops his Dad's on a business trip and he won't be home for another day or two, makes up a neighbor that doesn't exist and pretends he can't remember her phone number due to the shock. The scruffy old officer he's dealing with doesn't seem to buy half of that, but he reluctantly agrees to let Dean go if he leaves his address and lets them do a kit.
He's pretty sure the guy's already miles away by now and won't be coming back, and if he's wrong, then whatever. As soon as Dad's back they'll pack up and leave anyway.
It's way past 2 AM when Dean's finally home, and Sam's fast asleep. He showers until the water turns cold and then goes to wrap himself around his brother. The kid stirs once, but doesn't wake, not even when Dean comes apart with loud sobs while he presses his face to Sam's shaggy hair.
That's the only time he lets himself cry about this.
The pain's not that bad; Dean's had it worse. There are no bruises – at least not in places that can be seen when he's dressed – and the headaches are bearable. Nothing hunting didn't prepare him for, really. But he finds blood in his underwear for days, enough that it shows even on his worn dark boxers.
Sam's over the moon that he's getting relieved from laundry duty for the week.
By the time Dad's back, Dean hardly feels it anymore. He doesn't have to suppress a hiss every time he sits or otherwise pulls his stitches, he's off the pills for the headaches, and the bleeding has stopped. If he flinches away when his dad reaches out for his shoulder to heave himself out of the car, well, that'll pass. A few more days for Dad to get well enough for a few hours of driving, and then they'll be out of this town and what happened here will be a fading memory.
The next morning, Dean gets woken up by the doorbell, and when Dean steps out of his room Dad's already got the door open, blocking the way of two policemen.
One of them is the old officer Dean dealt with at the hospital, and Dean wants nothing more than to run back into his room and pretend this isn't happening. Fuckfuckfuck. His throat is dry as sandpaper, and even if he knew what to say to defuse this, he wouldn't be able to get the words out, can't do anything but watch as the officer introduces himself, extends his hand and scowls when John doesn't take it.
“We're here because we have a few follow-up questions to your son,” he says, gaze straying from John and settling on Dean. Dean shakes his head slightly before John turns around to address him, but either the officer didn't see or he ignores him. “Also, to be honest, I wanted to see how he's doing.”
“How he's doing,” Dad parrots, and his eyes zero in on Dean. “Care to explain to me what he means?”
The officer saves him from having to answer. “The assault, last week. He didn't tell you?”
“Assault? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I've been called to a local bar last week, after someone reported a sexual assault on a minor. Your son.”
Dad's head keeps flitting from the policemen to Dean and back, it'd almost be comical if Dean wasn't so mortified. “That can't be true. You got your facts wrong. My son knows how to defend himself.”
“Sir, no offense, but I don't think that sort of attitude is conductive in helping him heal. The last thing he needs right now is for someone to tell him –“
“That sort of thing wouldn't happen to him. He wouldn't let it. Right?”
The last bit is spoken in Dean's direction again, and he swallows hard while he's grabbling for an explanation. His mind is going a mile a minute, and of course, Dad's right. Normally, Dean wouldn't have let anyone sneak up on him. But he can't lie about it happening, the kit is evidence that he got fucked and that it didn't happen gently. He can't tell Dad the truth either, admit that he's been in it for the money and got stupid, made himself vulnerable. “I... It wasn't, uh. I might have been unclear about that, but it wasn't like that. It was consensual.”
It's not even really a lie. He did agree to it, initially, didn't he? His own fucking fault for not thinking it through, for miscalculating, for getting himself into a situation like that in the first place.
The officer's eyes narrow. “So what you're saying is that it wasn't rape? You had sex with a man who then left you bleeding and unconscious in a public restroom of your own free will?”
He doesn't buy what Dean's trying to sell, that much is obvious. But it's not him Dean needs to convince, it's his father. “It got a little rough. Wasn't what I expected. And I... I slipped. On the floor, afterwards. Hit my head.”
Shrugging, the officers exchange a look. “If that's what you want on record, then –“
“Oh, for fucks sake,” John interrupts. “He just told you what happened. He's no victim, and none of your concern. I'll have a stern talk with him about his behavior and carelessness. We done here?”
Sam strolls out of their shared bedroom as soon as the door's fallen shut behind the officers, rubbing his eyes, and that's what postpones Dean's stern talk until later that evening. Fittingly, Dad doles it out over a hand-to-hand training session.
“This morning, what you told the cops,” he starts while him and Dean are circling each other. “You been straight with 'em?”
“Sure,” Dean lies. “Or do you really think I'd let someone get the jump on me?”
Dad looks at him long and hard. “No. I don't. But that's some fucked up shit, son, and I'm not talking about the fact that you're into men. Your business who you fuck. But you gotta look out for yourself. Be safe. Pick 'em better.”
Dean doesn't say anything, just nods, and after another long moment Dad throws the first punch for him to dodge.
It wasn't rape. He told Dad, told the cops, that it wasn't. Bought and paid for, his right to say no given away when he agreed to take the money. Not a crime, but a simple business transaction.
He's got no right to the nightmares, to the flinch when some guy pushes past him in a cramped diner the week after they left town, or to the cold sweat when another one winks at him in a bar later that month.
To prove that to himself, he lets the second one fuck him in another dingy bathroom stall, against another cold tile. It's quick, it hurts, and Dean stays soft all throughout. He blames it on the booze when he's got to run back to empty his stomach into the toilet bowl as a soon as the door to the main room swings shut behind the other guy.
It wasn't rape.