A/N: Yes, I know I just got rid of two stories because I couldn't keep up with them all, but... Well, there is no excuse. I am just horribly mean and selfish like that. But y'all love me anyways, right?
Anyways, disclaimer: I own nothing. Duh.
Warnings: Underage prostitution, rape, language, drug use, underage drinking, etc, and so on.
If you like, please review. That way, I'll at least feel guilty when it takes me a week to update... : ' (
I've asked myself that question a million times since I was six years old. Never really got a satisfying answer.
God's will? Hard to believe in a god that cruel. Fate? It was gonna happen to somebody, might as well be me? Find that hard to believe too, after all the people my family has saved. Things just happen?
Well… I think that's just a piss poor excuse for laying back and taking what life throws at you.
My name's Dean. Dean Winchester. I've been on my own for five years now. I was kidnapped almost four years before that.
I don't know what happened to my father and little brother. But I've come to accept the fact that I'll never see my dad again, and the idea that my little brother is more than likely dead.
Mel and Tom –the two men who kidnapped and later sold me –broke into the motel room where Sammy and me were waiting for dad to get back from a hunt. He was supposed to be gone a week.
Mel and Tom grabbed me on day three. Even if dad had been home on time –which happened hardly ever –it still would have been way too late. Sammy would have starved to death long before then.
But I try not to think about it too much. Life's depressing enough out here; spend too much time thinking about your family or shit like that, and you'll put a bullet in your head quicker than someone will rob your corpse.
By 'out here' I mean Los Angeles. 'City Of Angels'. What a laugh. I've met a lot of people out here, and ain't none of 'em been angels.
I spend my nights as a whore; spend my days sleeping in cardboard boxes, or scrounging in dumpsters for somewhat edible food. 'Somewhat edible' means 'only partially covered in mold'.
That's been my life for the past five years. Fucking and sucking complete strangers for next to nothing, while starving and trying not to freeze to death in the fucked up L.A. weather.
After I was kidnapped, Mel and Tom spent two weeks beating and molesting me to 'get me ready'. For what, I couldn't figure out; at the time, I couldn't even begin to imagine how it could get any worse. Two guys beating the shit out of me, just for the hell of it? Feeling me up, making me suck 'em off? How the fuck could it get any worse than that, right?
I found out, yeah, it could get a hell of a lot worse. Two weeks into my captivity, I was sold to a man I would only ever know as 'Sir'.
No matter how hard I try… No matter how drunk, stoned, or high I get… I'll never be able to escape the memory of that first night with Sir. I thought I was going to die.
Hell, by the time it was over, I was hoping I would die.
I spent the next four years getting passed from whorehouse to whorehouse. Being fucked by random Johns, and the occasional Jane.
Four years of hell. Four years of being beaten, tortured, and raped, before I finally managed to escape.
After I escaped, I realized the major flaw in my plan: I had nowhere to go. My dad moved around from town to town, never letting the dust settle before he was putting the town in his rearview mirror.
I didn't have any other family.
So I took to the streets. Making fifteen dollars a blow job, and forty bucks selling my ass. Most of it goes to Jerome, to make sure I don't have any 'accidents' other than the occasional beating he gives me.
The little bit I have left over is usually enough to buy me a fast food meal for the night, and a cheap pack of cigarettes if I'm lucky. Occasionally, I'll be able to buy a dime bag of pot, or a line or two of coke.
And that was my life.
"That's it, boy. Take it deep. Oh yeah, baby!"
Dean struggled to keep from gagging on the John's thick dick. Normally, he had good control over his gag reflex, but the John wasn't looking for a BJ. He'd just wanted a mouth to fuck.
Dean knew he'd be lucky if he didn't lose another tooth.
He would have liked to stop, tell the John to get lost, but it wasn't gonna happen. Right before he'd started getting rough, the John had pinned his hands to the wall.
He briefly considered biting the guy, but dismissed it; one tooth wasn't worth what the asshole would do to him, or how many customers would avoid him if word got out.
So he'd buck up and bear it. Like always.
It seemed like an eternity before the man shot his load halfway down his throat. It was probably closer to three or four minutes.
Dean coughed as he spit a bit of semen out. "That's… That's it," He said hoarsely. "It's another sixty if you want a fuck."
The man's hands tightened around Dean's wrists. "You said forty."
Dean coughed again as he spat, "Yeah, that was… was before you… tore my throat… all to hell."
"You said –"
"There a problem, Dean?"
Dean silently thanked whoever was listening as Shawn sauntered down the alley.
"Get outta here, boy, this ain't your business," The John snapped, still glaring down at Dean.
The tall, lanky teen leaned against the dumpster lazily, but his blue eyes flashed.
"Nah, see, it is my business. That happens to be my pimp buddy. You beat him up, our pimp gets mad, and that never ends well. So why don't you just get lost?"
Dean held his breath, waiting. He had no doubt that he and Shawn could take the guy, but it wouldn't end well for either of them. Cops would ask questions; of course they would side with the John. No bleeding hearts in real life; that shit only happened in the movies. So the boys would end up with a fine, or worse, some jail time. Either way, Jerome would beat the hell out of them.
"Just get outta here, man. Our pimp is on his way down. Let's all go our separate ways before shit gets outta hand."
The John hesitated for a second, before slowly releasing Dean's hands. But his sigh of relief quickly turned to a yelp of pain, as the man punched him in the face, before tearing out of the alley.
"Hey!" Shawn yelled at the man's retreating back. "Fuckin' perv!"
"Let it go, Shawn," Dean said tiredly, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. "Doesn't fuckin' matter."
Shawn sighed as he slid down the wall, and sat next to Dean, silently offering the shorter boy a cigarette.
"You okay?" Shawn asked after a few minutes.
Dean let out a short, harsh laugh. "Oh yeah, Shawn, I'm just fuckin' awesome," He said bitterly, still trying to keep the blood from gushing from his nose.
"I don't wanna hear it, Shawn. It's not 'okay', things aren't 'fine', and nothing's ever gonna change. I just lost another tooth, pretty sure that asshole just broke my nose, and that's the third time this week that a Johns' got rough with me. Second time a John's skipped without paying.
"I'm… Ugh, I'm… I don't know how much longer I can do this."
Shawn scoffed. "Ain't like you got a whole helluva lot of options, Dean. We both know you ain't gonna off yourself. You ain't the type."
Dean gave the blond a grim smile. "Yeah… But it's a nice thought."
Shawn chuckled darkly as he flicked his cigarette. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. Hey, you mind if I ask you a question?"
"You just saved my ass, I think that entitles you to at least one question."
"You got anybody who's gonna miss you when you bite the big one?"
Dean was quiet for a few minutes, as he took a few deep drags from his cigarette, before finally answering.
"My dad already thinks I'm dead. Thinks I died nine years ago."
"Shit. Would have made you what? Five or six? How the hell did that happen?"
Dean gave Shawn a sideways glance. "You've known me for a year, Shawn; why all the sudden curiosity?"
" 'Cause we ain't gonna make it, Dean. Whether a John gets to rough and goes to far, or some other down-on-their-luck kid stabs me over a slice of rotting pizza, we're gonna die. Don't know about you, but ain't nobody gonna notice or care when I'm gone. My old man might crack a beer in memory of the best fuck he's ever had… If anybody could even find him to tell him."
Dean sighed, grinding his cigarette out as he stood, staring down the alley, his green eyes dark.
"Two guys kidnapped me from the hotel room that my dad, my little brother and me were staying in. Dad was gone for a few days… They told me later that they'd been watchin' us, waitin' for him to leave. They…"
Dean paused, choking on the words, as he bit his lip, shifting from foot to foot before continuing.
"They sold me. Found an underground whorehouse that catered to pedophiles. Passed me around for four years, before I managed to get free. Didn't know where to find my dad…. So I ended up out here."
He glanced down at Shawn, as he wiped his nose with his sleeve, not caring about the blood trail it left on his only shirt. He couldn't meet the other boy's eyes, so he looked away.
"I gotta get back."