Another day another iplayer inspired hooker fic. This was me thinking, oh ok, I'll write some porn, and then I liked the set up so much that I didn't want to cheapen it.
The sheets slop wetly as he throws another bundle of soiled linens into the tub. Castiel wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, rolling the cuffs on his dingy shirt well up past his elbows as he plunges his hands into the tub of grey water. He fists the soaked sheets and picks up the cake of yellow soap off the side of the tub. The scent of sweat and fornication rises up from the steaming water, usually he would wrinkle his nose at it, but on this day, these sheets...it is the scent of one particular man that rises to him.
He selects a stain on the sheet, wrinkled skins of expulsion that peel in the water, sending flakes over his skin. He scrubs the soap into the mark, arm rough as he jerks his hand, working the stain with more force than necessary until his back aches with the effort of it. His breath hisses through his nose in the close, steamy room, heart picking up its speed as he cleanses the sheets of a dozen men, and one in particular, readying them for another use.
This house is not perhaps like many other houses of its supposed kin. Other places such as this have women, have velvet layered with dust, cheap wine and creaking floors and beds. Castiel knows because he has served in them, decanted the wine, taken up the soiled sheets and guided gentlemen to and from the salon and chambers. Since he was very young and born to a mother who'd soaked herself in gin and other poisons, just to eject him from her womb as a dead thing, a bludgeoned snake. But she had died instead, and he had been born alive but cursed, his brain crisscrossed with bad wires that led where they oughtn't.
Unlike the men who came here, seeking the services of the boys and men of the house, whom Castiel had seen take their business elsewhere, to women, on occasion. Castiel had no choice in the matter. He had been attracted to men since some poison worked its way through the cord that anchored babe to mother, and now he wanted Dean above all else. A cheap male whore older than any of the others, and fast approaching that troublesome point where he would coarsen and no longer take men inside of him without the notion that he should fight. That he could fight.
Castiel scrubbed his sheets for a fraction of the money that any human needed to live.
Dean screwed his long limbs into a ball and huddled on the one small chair in the room. The bed, a straw filled mattress on the floor with a top sheet, was covered again in stains and spillings. The ache between his legs was still sharp enough to hurt as he shifted his posture and looked out of the window, through a gap in the rags and covering of newspaper that shut out the light and the prying eyes.
He rubbed a hand across the slight sanding of hair on his cheeks, present despite his rigorous work with the razor. He was twenty seven, and the boy thin hairs of his younger years were growing wiry and rough. He was as old as his first client, back when he was practically a child. He wondered if Sam were to rise out of his small plot behind 's, would he recognise him now? He was so far gone from the adolescent he had been, small and wide eyed as Sam himself.
Dean looks down at his broadened chest, covered in small bruises, a bite, threads of hair – with a kind of detached distain. He's not what his client's want. He's not even what he wants. He remembers a time when feeling the heavy bodies of his slightly more attractive clients pressing down on him made him feel desire. Now he has become like them (though some of his first must surely be dead by now) he wants smooth limbs to contrast his own, which are thicker now and rougher. He has become the elder to the many young slips that populate the lower floors of the brothel. He wants them just as much as men once wanted him. Though they still value his experience, he is an old hand after all, he knows that he and the gentlemen are much to similar to rub along as they once did, side by side.
Now they are in competition.
The cracked door swings open and the house boy comes in, heading straight for the bed, eyes down in thought. He's in a threadbare shirt, neck open and braces hanging loose at his sides as he lays capable hands on the stained sheet, tugging it loose with his back to Dean's seat.
He touches the sullied linen without disgust, and this is what catches Dean's attention, watching silently and unobserved from his seat, aching dully inside. That and the slimness of the boys hips, the fawnish arch of his back. He can't be more than sixteen.
The boy twists around, startled, eyes wide.
"Sorry, I thought you were done with the room."
Dean shifts and winces despite himself.
"I'm done. You can - " he waves at the bed. The boy gives him a long look, but turns back to his work, a flush creeping up his neck.
Oh good. He's not totally without his charms then. Dean contemplates the roundness of the kneeling boy's buttocks as he bends over the bed, reaching for the furthest corners.
"You work in the parlours much?" he asks, wondering if this is a duel purpose invention of John's, to get the young whores doing chamber work on the side.
"No sir." The boy says quietly.
"Just the bed linens then, laundry and service?" Dean taps a foot on the floor. "Can't pay much."
"No sir." He says again, freezing over the sheets like he knows what's coming, and Dean hopes the drudge doesn't bolt like a rabbit when he make his move.
"You ever think of turning over to this work?" he says, painfully standing from his seat and coming to stand just behind him.
Castiel fixes on the words 'turning over' and wonders if Dean is suggesting what it is he thinks he reads in his words.
"I doubt there would be any interested parties." He hedges.
"I can think of some." Dean touches the back of his neck and Castiel moves into the pressure willingly. "Could always start you myself." He says softly. "Someone familiar...someone who knows what they're doing."
"It would hurt." Castiel mutters, because he is, despite his desire, a virgin in the ways of this...act.
"I wouldn't let it, hardly at all." Dean whispers, kneeling behind him and running a hand up the curve of Castiel's spine. "I'd be so careful." He promises, and unlike his first client, he actually means it. The boy is quite pretty, quite nice to listen to as well, and Dean feels less and less like coaxing him into the business, and more like keeping him. As he keeps the small trinket box his mother once owned, containing Sam's first curl and his baby teeth. Something for him and him alone to hold on to.
Castiel twists, dropping from his crouch to sit on the half unclothed mattress, legs extending slowly on either side of Dean.
"Don't pay me." He says softly, and Dean blinks. "When it's over..." Castiel says, more clearly. "Please don't pay me."
Dean kneels between his spread legs, reaches a hand to touch the cheek of the strange, pale adolescent.
"If it pleases you." He says, and it seems right, because he boy goes soft and trusting underneath him, and Dean presses him to the rough mattress eagerly.