Chapter Text
Dean groaned as he rose to consciousness, taking stock of his sore ass and neck. It was filming day again, his one day off a week concluded. Last night’s flavor was a bit of a masochist, full of himself, but well aware of the limitations placed upon him in exchange for a night with the star of Watson Whore. A nice dinner in City Central and a nice hotel with a good shower that didn’t skimp on clean water and preem towels. From his blurred vantage point, he could see two deep burgundy silken robes waiting on the hooks to the bathroom. He thanked his lucky stars that it hadn’t been another of those dreaded street gonk fantasies with a roach motel that stunk of piss, shit, spunk, and decay.
And deep in his gut, what normally burned now churned, letting him know he should get with the program of showering and showing up to wherever they decided to whore him out next. A couple of shots from the MedTech corpo croney and he’d be right as rain.
His current bed mate snored away, letting him know he’d be blissfully alone for at least a half hour. Their paid for night would have concluded by then, and a Delamain cab would be waiting for him out the front doors. It had taken extensive negotiations with the cab company to accept him as fare, given his complete lack of implants to identify him. There was a specially equipped vehicle just for him that pricked a finger and had old tech facial recognition installed to verify his identity. Honestly, just checking for chrome would typically identify him, but there were people out there who didn’t have any. Usually religious fanatics and the children of the deeply suspicious, but all were incredibly rare.
The shower was incredibly nice, but he was beginning to sweat as the withdrawal settled in. The nurse who handled him from MedTech would be waiting with the dreaded and loved syringe which was both his salvation and his curse. Alastair had her on his books and she was a complete witch who had sampled the goods more than once after his injections when he was at his most desperate.
She was probably the person he had slept most with, all things considered. A pseudo fucked up relationship of sorts. Lilith wasn’t a horrible lay, he’d been treated much worse by many other people. She enjoyed the treatment he gave her when he was at his most base after an injection. She had to get off on the freshness of his aggression and desperation, because she didn’t touch him otherwise.
He slipped on his clothes from last night, which was basically his attire no matter what unless dictated otherwise by clients or Alastair. Those fucking form fitting, black shiny vinyl booty shorts that emphasized his cock and balls and matching stiletto knee high boots.
His damp skin made them a bitch and half to wiggle into, and once they were on, his client began stirring and groping at where they thought Dean would be laying. The only silver lining of his very high end JoyToy status was that Alastair would flay them alive - literally depending on if their disappearance would be conspicuous, Dean had been privy to, and participant in said activity more than once - if they attempted to take more than they had paid for or damaged Dean in anyway that was permanent. Which meant no broken bones and no cuts or tears. Bruises were fine as the makeup department was fantastic.
Dean had walked away from an encounter with some dick named Uriel with his whole chest and ass black and blue and never got revenge for it as it was within specified contract parameter. The man hadn’t even fucked him, just beaten him while chuckling the whole time. Dean rated it as one of the longest nights of his life right after realizing his father had sold him for gambling debts at the tender age of twelve, and when he had landed his role as the Watson Whore when he turned sixteen and realized the full scope of the shithole his life had become.
He had been raped on live TV and had to act like he enjoyed it the whole time. And the crazy part? He had. Alastair was a mean fuck, but he wasn’t stupid. Giving Dean to someone that knew what they were doing, making sure they could take him apart as a virgin until he was begging for more was insidious. Dean still missed Cain. Though Dean had resisted, Cain was attentive to his pleasure the whole time, rimming and sucking his cock, fingering him carefully until he was stretched, grazing that magical spot inside just enough. Dean had become putty in the older man’s hands.
Still kinda wanted to be putty in his hands actually. No one since had really put effort into making sure Dean was having a good time. Sure, he still came occasionally, but overall it was the other party being a two pump chump and leaving Dean writhing unfulfilled when his amped up hormones went wanting.
But that wasn’t a fair assessment. With a single pill, Dean could fuck his way through a whole orgy and still be unsatisfied. He didn’t know what Alastair had Lilith injecting him with, but it made him insatiable.
When he made it outside, he became confused when no Delamain cab awaited him. Nothing awaited him. Here he was, standing in his slutty BDSM uniform from hell, and there was no secure vehicle to sequester away in. Delamain was never late, and Alastair had never failed to schedule a pick up.
He grimaced as he looked back into the lobby of the hotel. He was very recognizable and his reality TV persona preceded him everywhere he went. Who knew what the front desk staff would ask of him for calling the production studio?
But ask he must for that phone call, as filming was slated to begin in three hours. Dean had several hickies that needed attention on top of his battery of injections, and who knew where filming was occurring. People got really fucking lucky sometimes because Dean was set loose in a building occasionally with some trumped up excuse for needing money on his glossed lips. It was very often rent. Ya know, a rent boy?
God, Dean hated his life. But there was no escaping his contract unless someone released him. It had been notorized by the one and only Fergus ‘Crowley’ McLoud, the man known for his intentional loopholes and ironclad contracts. He could do either for the right amount of eddies. Alastair had called in a favor to make sure Dean’s was written in blood and etched in stone. There was no escape for him unless Alastair chose to release him, and that would never happen. The ratings for Watson Whore were stellar for common TV smut.
Only things that might have rated higher were the street tuned and snuff XBDs Dean had heard rumors of. He’d never know as he had no implants to watch any BDs with. He did know that a part of the agreement with clients who got him on his ‘day off’ was to turn over any recordings they had of fucking or beating Dean. Where they ended up, he had no clue. At no point had he heard of ‘Watson Whore XBD - Dean Winchester getting slapped around.’
He found himself at the front desk fighting off a blush as the clerk eyed him from stilettos to cropped sandy blond hair. The dude was gangly and dorky looking, but gave him a friendly smile, no lecherous look to be had after his inspection of Dean’s person.
“Howdy! Watched you walk outside and look lost for a bit there, compadre. How can I help you?”
What the fuck? Did Dean find the one guy who didn’t know who he was in Night City?
“Uh, yeah,” Dean stuttered, “you can. I need you call WNS and ask for Alastair Heyerdahl. Tell him his star needs a ride. Like…respectfully say that if you can.”
The dude nodded his head. “Sure. No problemo, my homie. Did you want to wait in our supply closet? We use it as an illicit break room occasionally. It’s against our employment contract to take any breaks, but this place is fancy enough that we get lots of down time.”
This guy has to be from Heywood. But he’s the least Valentino looking fucker I’ve ever seen. And I’ve fucked a lot of Valentinos.
Man. Valentinos. There are some people who know how to fuck like animals. Dean had never not come when they decided to use him as a panting, slobbering cock sleeve. Must be some weird cultural shit with them.
“…Sure?” Dean replied warily. Was the skinny dude going to ask for a favor in return? He seemed nice enough. Maybe Dean would get off with a quick handy? Slide a finger in the pucker to sweeten the deal?
“Well, come on then!” The dude gestured to door off to the right of the desk with a numerical pad on it, then led the way. “Anything I can tell them when I make this call?”
“Yeah,” Dean mumbled, glancing around to see who they had as an audience. He had to ham it up if there were, but the lobby was blissfully empty. “Tell them it’s Dean. They’ll know why I’m not calling them personally.”
“My man, I can see why you’re not calling them personally,” the guy chuckled, staring creepily at the pad until the door whisked open.
Chrome was creepy to be around when you had none. But it made Dean immune to a bunch of bullshit too, so it was par for the course not having any.
It really was a supply closet, filled with cleaners and a bot that mopped and vacuumed the floors charging on its dock. Wanting to get this over with, Dean stepped into the dude’s space and began pawing at his belt. “Wanna get off real quick? In trade for the call? I know some great tricks that will have you almost blacking out.”
The guy stiffened then immediately began batting Dean’s hands away, a look of panic on his face. “Wait, wait. What the heck, man? I’m married. Happily married.”
This is seriously the strangest man I’ve ever met. And that’s saying some shit.
Dean stepped back immediately, his hands raised. “Sorry. Sorry. Used to people expecting payment of the sexual kind when they help me.”
The guy calmed rather quick, then gave Dean an appraising, critical look. “Do you like paying people like that?”
Dean shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if I do or I don’t. I don’t have chrome or pockets to pay eddies. All I got is my body. Quite used to using it to settle debts.”
Especially my father’s fucking debts.
The man huffed, but was apparently not so innocent as to question that type of payment further. His eyes took on that strange hue when someone was calling using their gear, making them look unfocused and dazed. “Hey, yeah. Garth Fitzgerald of Petrochem Hotel. I’m calling on behalf of a Dean to get in contact with Alistair Heyerdahl about a missing cab?”
The guy, Garth, nodded as silent voices conversed with him. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Can do.” A pause. “He’s waiting in the lobby, out of sight. I can lead him out when they get here.” Another pause and Garth began to pace in that way that many people did when they were conversing using technology. Pacing of course, was taking two steps in one direction, only to pivot and take another two in the opposite direction.
The stench of disinfectant crawled up Dean’s nose, familiar and almost comforting in its assault of his sinuses. It meant clean. And clean generally meant comfort. Generally.
“Got it. He’ll be here obviously. I’ll let him know.” And then Garth’s eyes cleared up again and focused on Dean. “Someone will be here to get you in about twenty. Said to not worry about filming today because of the delay.”
“What?” Dean exclaimed. “What about Delamain?” Dean loved riding in Delamaine. The cab never judged him and actually spoke to him like he was human. It was the most normal conversation he had nowadays. Sometimes the cab had specially selected vids to play for Dean to watch while they maneuvered through traffic on a longer fare.
Crazy that Dean almost considered the car a friend. It was just a really well executed AI, but he like it all the same.
Garth shrugged. “Dunno. Sounded like the station was sending an actual person to come get you. They are coming from Pacifica, so you’ll be here a while.” The guy looked at a loss. “If I had a physical book, I’d give it to you to entertain yourself, but I was told to keep you in here for now, out of sight.” Soulful eyes that punched Dean right in the nostalgia gnads squinted at him. “Who are you? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
The hysterical laugh blurted out of Dean before he could stop it. “My ass - and I mean my literal ass - is plastered all over Night City. You a fuckin’-”
Garth clucked angrily. “Language. My Bessie don’t tolerate cussin’.”
“Jesus Christ, Petrochem find you under a rock? Everyone fucking cusses. Children cuss.” This whole conversation was like Dean had sucked up a whole canister of Deep Dive, minus the paranoia and pretty colors. His whole life since Alistair had become his master had been predictable. Film himself getting fucked in ridiculous situations, usually high or drunk, six days a week, then spend his day off getting fucked by paying customers who got to do whatever they wanted with him. Wake up, clean up, get picked up by Delamain, receive his battery of meds to keep him STD free and horny, then rinse and repeat. There had been no variation for six years. He at least knew it was six years thanks to Delamain, otherwise he had no way of knowing.
Garth shook his head in disappointment, then moved towards the door. “Been in here too long already. I need this job, we got two kids on the way. I’ll come get you when Gabe shows up.”
“Wait-” The door hissed shut in his face as Garth departed and Dean just kind of collapsed onto the cold floor. “Who the fuck is Gabe?” he finished weakly. He was so metaphorically fucked right now.