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The Impala's engine growled low through the rain-slicked streets of this godforsaken sprawl, a city that swallowed light and spat out shadows. Dean Winchester gripped the wheel tighter, the neon haze from dive bars and pawn shops blurring past the windows. It was the kind of night where the air hung heavy with regret, the kind that made a hunter like him itch for a case—anything to cut through the monotony of endless roads since the world almost ended and they barely scraped by to fix it.
He'd been cruising aimlessly, radio crackling with some forgotten classic rock station, when the figure on the corner caught his eye. Slouched against a flickering streetlamp, hood up but not enough to hide the sharp angles of a kid's face. Skinny, too skinny, in ripped jeans that hung low on narrow hips and a jacket that screamed desperation. The way he shifted, eyes scanning the passing cars with that practised mix of hope and wariness—it hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He'd seen it before. Hell, he'd been it, back when John was off chasing monsters for weeks, leaving Dean to scrape by with whatever kept Sam fed. A quick blowjob in an alley for twenty bucks, the shame burning hotter than the hunger. But this? This was a kid. No older than fourteen, maybe fifteen.
Dean slowed the car, heart slamming as he got a better look. The streetlight caught the boy's profile—dark hair falling into eyes that were too old for that face. Ben. Ben Braeden. The kid he'd bunked with for a year, taught to swing a bat, shared burgers and bad jokes with while Lisa tried to build something normal. Stepdad Dean, the one who'd tucked him in after nightmares and promised the world wouldn't always be this rough. But that was three years ago, before the jinn snatched Lisa and Ben to get to him, before the blood and the bullets and Dean begging Cas to wipe their memories clean. Safer that way. Keep the monsters away from the people he... cared about.
What the hell was Ben doing here, in this armpit of a city hundreds of miles from Cicero? Selling himself like some street hustler? Dean's jaw clenched, a surge of protective rage mixing with the guilt that never quite left him. He couldn't just drive by. Not this kid.
He pulled the Impala to the curb, engine idling rough in the damp night. Rolling down the window, he leaned out, keeping his voice steady, like he was just another john looking for company. 'Hey, kid. You got a name?'
Ben straightened, wiping rain from his face, those eyes flicking over Dean with cautious appraisal. No spark of recognition—just the blank stare of a stranger. It stung, but Dean shoved it down. 'Ben,' the boy muttered, stepping closer, hands shoved in his pockets. 'What're you lookin' for?'
Dean forced a grin, the kind that said he wasn't trouble. 'Not that. You look half-starved. When's the last time you ate something that didn't come from a dumpster?'
Ben's shoulders tensed, but his stomach chose that moment to rumble loud enough to hear over the patter of rain. He glanced away, pride warring with need. 'I'm fine.'
'Bullshit.' Dean nodded to the passenger door. 'Get in. There's a diner up the block—greasy spoons on me. No strings.'
The kid hesitated, weighing the offer against whatever hell had driven him to that corner. Finally, he yanked open the door and slid in, the scent of wet clothes and cheap soap filling the car. Dean peeled away from the curb, questions burning on his tongue—how'd you end up here, Ben? What's Lisa think? But he held back. Kid was skittish; push too hard, and he'd bolt.
The diner loomed ahead, a beacon of yellow light in the gloom, promising pie and privacy to pry out the truth. Dean eased the Impala into the lot, killing the engine as the rain drummed on the roof.
The diner's door jingled as Dean pushed it open, the warm glow of fluorescent lights hitting them like a slap after the chill rain outside. The place smelled of frying bacon and stale coffee, booths cracked with vinyl that stuck to your jeans. Dean slid into a corner spot, waving off the waitress with a nod toward the menu. Ben followed, perching on the edge of the seat like he might bolt any second, eyes darting to the door.
Dean flagged her down quick. 'Two of everything—burgers, fries, pie. And coffee. Black for me, milk for the kid.' He shot Ben a look, the kind that dared him to argue. The boy just shrugged, pulling his jacket tighter around his frame.
As the food hit the table steaming, Dean dug in, but his eyes stayed on Ben, watching the kid tear into the burger like he hadn't seen real food in days. Grease smeared his chin, and for a second, Dean saw the boy he'd known—eager, alive, before everything went to hell. But this Ben was hollowed out, a ghost in his own skin.
'So,' Dean started casual, wiping his mouth with a napkin, 'what's a kid like you doing out there in the rain? Family? School?'
Ben paused mid-bite, fries dangling from his fingers. He chewed slow, then leaned back, forcing a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. 'You really wanna talk, huh? Most guys just want the action.' He glanced around the diner, voice dropping low. 'Figure you're one of those who likes the story first. The broken boy routine. Gets you hard, right?'
Dean's gut twisted, but he kept his face neutral, playing along. 'Maybe. Or maybe I just hate seeing a kid waste away. Spill it, Ben. How'd you end up hustling corners?'
The boy shrugged again, picking at his fries, but something in Dean's steady gaze pulled the words out. He started slow, like he was reciting a script for a trick, voice pitched low and teasing, but it cracked at the edges, hollow as an empty shell. 'Three years back, Mom got in this wreck. Nothing big—just banged up the car, some bruises. But it messed her head. She was in the hospital a while, and that's where she met him. Doctor guy, all charm and white coats. Swept her off her feet quick. Married him before the casts came off.'
Ben took a sip of milk, eyes on the table, but he kept that fake seductive lilt, like he was spinning a bedtime story for cash. 'At first, it was okay. New house, fancy shit. But he turned fast. Yelling, shoving. Broke her ribs once 'cause dinner was late. She just... took it. Said he loved her.' His fingers tightened on the glass, knuckles white, but he pushed on, voice dipping huskier, like foreplay. 'Then, a year in, she couldn't anymore. Swallowed a bottle of his pills one night. Left me with him.'
Dean froze, fork halfway to his mouth, the pie turning to ash in his throat. Lisa—gone? Suicide? The implanted memory of the accident had covered the jinn's work, the kidnapping that nearly killed them both to draw him out. He'd made Cas erase himself from their lives to keep them safe, but this? This was a nightmare he hadn't seen coming. He swallowed hard, voice rough. 'And him? What'd he do after?'
Ben's laugh was bitter, short, but he leaned in closer, eyes flicking up with that practiced come-on gaze, even as his hands shook under the table. 'Took real good care of me, he did. Started with the touches—'helping' with showers, saying it was just family stuff. Then it got... repetitive. Night after night, pinning me down, making me keep quiet or he'd make it worse. Fucked me raw till I bled, told me it was my fault for being such a tease.' The words tumbled out like he was describing some kinky game, breathy and inviting, but his face stayed blank, voice echoing empty in the diner's hum. 'Ran the first chance I got. Streets are better. At least here, I pick who touches me. Charge what I want. No pretending it's love.'
Dean gripped the edge of the table, rage boiling under his skin—not at Ben, never at Ben, but at the monster who'd twisted that kid's world into this. The doctor, the abuse, Lisa's end... it all crashed over him, guilt sharper than any blade. He'd walked away thinking he'd protected them, but he'd left Ben to this hell. 'How long you been out here?'
Ben shrugged, finishing his pie with mechanical bites. 'Couple months. Pays the bills.' He met Dean's eyes then, the smirk fading just a touch. 'That enough story for you? Ready to get to the fun part?'
Dean tossed cash on the table—more than the bill, enough to cover the 'night' without saying it outright. 'Yeah. Let's go.'
They stepped back into the rain, the Impala waiting like a black beast in the lot. Ben slid into the passenger seat without a word, buckling up as Dean fired the engine, the diner's lights shrinking in the rearview.
The Impala's wipers slapped against the rain, cutting through the downpour as Dean gripped the wheel tighter than necessary. The city lights blurred past, neon signs reflecting off the wet asphalt like smeared blood. Ben sat silent in the passenger seat, staring out the window, his body language screaming tension—knees drawn up, arms crossed like a shield. Dean shot him glances, the weight of the kid's story pressing on his chest like a lead vest. Lisa dead. That bastard doctor raping Ben night after night. And him, Dean, who'd thought walking away was the right call. Bullshit.
The motel loomed up ahead, a squat brick building with flickering vacancy signs and a parking lot pocked with puddles. Dean killed the engine outside room 12, the one he and Sam had crashed in for the past two nights while chasing leads on a wendigo sighting upstate. 'This is it,' he said, voice low. 'Safe spot. Dry clothes if you need 'em.'
Ben nodded, but his eyes were wary as they stepped inside. The room smelled of cheap pine cleaner and gun oil, the queen bed unmade with Sam's duffel spilling clothes onto the floor. And there, on the rickety table by the window: an arsenal. Knives laid out for sharpening, a shotgun propped in the corner, ammo boxes stacked like bricks. Dean's .45 sat holstered on the nightstand.
Ben froze in the doorway, face draining of color. His breath hitched, eyes wide as he backed up a step, hand fumbling toward the door. 'What the fuck? You guys... you're gonna kill me? Some psycho serial killer shit? I knew it—story time, buy the kid, then dump the body.' His voice cracked, not the hollow tease from the diner, but raw fear, body coiling like a cornered animal.
Sam, sprawled on the bed with a lore book open on his lap, looked up sharp. His eyes locked on Ben, recognition flashing—the kid from three years back, the one Dean had all but adopted before the memory wipe. But Sam clamped it down, face neutral. 'Whoa, easy. No one's killing anyone.' He set the book aside, standing slow, hands visible.
Dean stepped between them, palms out. 'Ben, listen. We're not... that. The gear? It's for work. Nothing to do with you—construction gigs, security stuff up north. You don't have to worry about it.' He grabbed the .45 from the nightstand, checked the clip empty for show, then held it out butt-first. 'Take it. Or the knife—pick one. Keep it on you. We're not here to hurt you.'
Sam nodded, sliding a hunting knife from the table, its blade glinting under the lamp. 'Yeah. And look, we'll grab another room. Give you space. Adjacent one, if that's cool. But you're not staying out in the rain alone.'
Ben's gaze darted between them, chest heaving. He snatched the knife first, fingers wrapping tight around the hilt, then eyed the gun like it might bite. 'Bullshit. Serial killers don't arm the mark. You'd just slit my throat and be done.' But he took the .45 too, tucking it into his waistband, the weight seeming to steady him a fraction. 'Fine. Stay. Whatever. But...' He raked his eyes over Sam—tall, broad, all quiet intensity—then back to Dean, that practiced street smirk flickering back. 'Servicing two? That's extra. Double the rate.'
Dean's jaw clenched, a flash of fury at the world that had turned the kid into this. 'Not what this is, Ben. No one's touching you. Not like that. Ever.' His voice came out rough, protective edge sharpening it. Sam met his brother's gaze, silent understanding passing—keep the kid safe, figure out the stepdad later, hunt the bastard down.
They moved quick after that. Sam tossed Ben a clean t-shirt and sweats from his bag—too big, but dry—while Dean stepped out to the office, rain soaking his jacket again. The clerk, a gum-chewing old guy, grunted and handed over the key to room 11 for twenty bucks. 'Adjacent,' Dean confirmed, pocketing it. Back inside, he nodded to Ben. 'Room's yours. We're next door. Door's thin—yell if you need anything.'
Ben clutched the clothes, knife still in hand, suspicion lingering in his narrowed eyes. But he didn't bolt. 'Yeah. Sure.' He edged toward the connecting door, the one they'd cracked open between rooms for hunts, now a flimsy barrier.
Sam lingered a beat, grabbing his duffel. 'Get some rest, kid. Food in the mini-fridge if you're hungry later.' Then they were out, door clicking shut behind them, settling into the dim mirror of the room next door. Dean paced, listening to the faint sounds through the wall—the creak of bedsprings, the rustle of fabric.
In room 12, Ben stripped off his wet clothes, the chill raising goosebumps on his skin. He pulled on the oversized shirt, the fabric swallowing him, smelling faintly of soap and something woodsy—Sam, maybe. The gun weighed heavy in his pocket as he climbed onto the bed, knife under the pillow. Sleep clawed at him, exhaustion pulling like weights on his eyelids, but his mind raced. Weapons. Work. Not killers, but... what the hell? The stepdad's face flashed—grinning, hands pinning—then the streets, hands grabbing for cash. These two? They looked at him different. Not hungry like that.
He curled up tight, knees to chest, the knife's hilt digging into his palm. The rain drummed on the window, a steady roar, but sleep wouldn't come. Just the cold comfort of steel against his skin, guarding the dark.
The rain had eased to a steady patter against the motel's thin roof, but the night air hung heavy with humidity and unspoken tension. In room 11, Sam and Dean sat on the edge of their bed, the space between them charged like a live wire. The connecting door stood ajar just a crack, enough to hear if Ben stirred, but not enough to invite intrusion. Dean's hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, knuckles white, as he stared at the faded carpet.
'So, spill it,' Sam murmured, voice barely above the hum of the AC unit. 'What'd the kid say in the diner?'
Dean exhaled slow, rubbing a hand over his face. 'Lisa's gone. Suicide, after marrying some piece-of-shit doctor. The guy... he started in on Ben after. Nightly. Kid ran, ended up hustling to eat. Thinks he chose it, like it's better than home. But his eyes... Sammy, it's like looking at a ghost of what could've been if Dad hadn't always at some point come back.' His voice cracked on the last word, throat tightening. Guilt clawed up from his gut, hot and unrelenting—the memory wipe, the jinn kidnapping, walking away to 'protect' them. All it did was leave Ben to this hell.
Sam's hand landed on Dean's shoulder, firm, grounding. 'Hey. Not your fault. You did what you thought was right back then.'
'Right? Look at him now.' Dean's eyes burned, and he blinked hard, hating the sting. Tears welled anyway, spilling over as his chest heaved. 'I should've fought harder. Kept him close. Now he's... broken. And it's on me.' The sobs came quiet but fierce, shoulders shaking under Sam's grip. Dean swiped at his face, furious. 'Fuck. Hate this shit. Crying like a damn baby.'
Sam pulled him in, arms wrapping tight around Dean's frame. 'You're not. Let it out.' His lips brushed Dean's temple, soft, reassuring. He knew this dance—words only went so far with Dean. What worked was touch, skin on skin, chasing away the shadows. Sam shifted, guiding Dean back against the pillows, hands sliding under his shirt to trace the familiar ridges of muscle and scars.
Dean's breath hitched, tears still wet on his cheeks as he leaned into it. 'Sammy...' He tugged at Sam's belt, fingers clumsy but urgent, needing the distraction, the connection. Sam obliged, stripping off Dean's shirt first, mouth following the path of his hands—kissing salt from his jaw, down the column of his throat. Dean arched, a low groan escaping as Sam's fingers worked his jeans open, palming his hardening cock through the fabric.
'That's it,' Sam whispered, voice rough with want. He shoved Dean's pants down, freeing his cock, already thick and leaking at the tip. Sam wrapped his hand around it, stroking slow, deliberate, thumb circling the head to smear the pre-cum. Dean bucked into the touch, tears drying as heat built low in his belly.
Sam shed his own clothes quick, body pressing down, weight a solid anchor. He slicked his fingers with spit—nothing fancy in a dive like this—and reached between them, teasing Dean's entrance before pushing one in, gentle, scissoring to open him up. Dean gasped, legs spreading wider, nails digging into Sam's back. 'More. Fuck, little brother, need you.'
Sam added a second finger, curling them just right, hitting that spot that made Dean whine. 'Got you, big brother. Always.' He withdrew, lining up his cock—hard, flushed, tip nudging against Dean's hole. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, watching Dean's face for any flinch, but Dean just pulled him closer, hips tilting to take him deeper.
They moved together then, rhythm steady and unhurried. Sam thrust deep, grinding against Dean's prostate, while Dean rocked up to meet him, cock trapped between their stomachs, sliding slick with sweat. Grunts spilled out—'Little brother, yeah, right there' from Dean, 'Big brother, so tight' from Sam—voices carrying just loud enough through the thin walls, raw and intimate.
In room 12, Ben lay rigid under the scratchy blanket, the knife's hilt still clutched in his fist like a lifeline. Sleep had dodged him, mind spinning with the day's chaos: the diner, the food that filled his gut for the first time in days, Dean's green eyes boring into him like he knew secrets Ben had buried deep. And the weapons—knife at his side, gun heavy in his pocket. Work, they said. Bullshit, probably. But they hadn't touched him. Not yet.
A muffled thump from next door jolted him upright, heart slamming. Then voices—low at first, whispers he couldn't catch, but rising now. Grunts, rhythmic, like bodies slapping together. 'Little brother...' The words echoed faint but clear through the door, followed by a deeper groan: 'Big brother...'
Ben's stomach twisted, cheeks heating despite himself. Brothers? Fucking? He pressed his ear to the wall, breath shallow. The sounds painted pictures—flesh on flesh, moans building, bed creaking under the weight. His own body reacted traitorously, cock twitching in his sweats, but fear coiled tighter. Kind eyes, sure. Talk of help, getting him off the streets. But an arsenal? And this? They were liars, just like the rest. Waiting to pin him down, use him like the stepdad, like the johns on the corner.
He curled tighter, knife edge biting into his palm. As long as they paid—food in his belly, cash in his pocket—and kept those guns pointed away, he'd play along. Let them think he was easy. Survive another night. The grunts peaked, a shared cry cutting through—'Fuck, Sammy' and 'Dean'—then quieted to heavy breaths. Ben swallowed hard, staring at the door, wondering when his turn came. Better than the rain, at least. Better than alone.
The morning light filtered through the motel's grimy curtains, casting a hazy glow over room 12. Ben stirred under the thin blanket, his body stiff from a night of shallow sleep, the knife still wedged under his pillow like a talisman. His mind replayed the sounds from next door—the rhythmic thuds, the grunts of 'little brother' and 'big brother' echoing like a twisted lullaby. They bought him, fed him, and then fucked each other with him right there, listening. Keeping him on edge, waiting for the knock, the door creaking open to drag him in. That's how it always went. Pay up front, use the body, toss it aside. His cock stirred at the thought, half-hard from habit, from the way his brain wired survival to sex. But his gut churned too, PTSD flickering like a bad signal—flashes of his stepdad's hands pinning him down, breath hot and sour. 'This is how we bond, boy.' Ben shoved it down, sitting up, sweatpants tenting slightly. Better to offer first. Control the game.
He splashed water on his face in the tiny bathroom, avoiding the mirror's judgment, then pulled on his hoodie. The door to the connecting room stood half-open now, voices murmuring low from the other side. Ben knocked lightly, stepping through without waiting, knife tucked in his waistband just in case.
Dean looked up from the small table, coffee mug in hand, eyes red-rimmed but sharp. Sam sat across, laptop open, but he closed it quick when Ben entered. The room smelled of stale smoke and something earthier, like sweat and sex lingering from the night. Arsenal scattered—guns on the dresser, blades in a duffel—but they were careful not to draw attention to them, just everyday tools for 'work,' nothing more.
'Morning, kid,' Dean said, voice rough, sliding a plate of diner takeout his way: eggs, bacon, toast. No questions, just food. 'Eat up. We got plans to talk.'
Ben eyed the food, stomach growling despite the suspicion. He sat, picking at it slow, legs brushing Dean's under the table. 'Yeah? About what?' His tone came out sultry, automatic—leaning forward, letting his shirt ride up to show a sliver of skin. That's what they wanted, right? Brothers fucking, now adding the rentboy to the mix. He wondered how it started between them. Dean pinning Sam down young, like stepdad did to him? Forcing it under the guise of family? Abuse dressed as love. Ben's mind flashed: stepdad's cock shoving into his mouth after school, 'Swallow it all, or Mom finds out.' He blinked it away, forcing a smile. 'You guys had fun last night. Sounded intense.'
Sam's cheeks flushed, but Dean just chuckled, low and deflecting. 'Eavesdropping, huh? That's on the thin walls. But listen, Ben—we ain't here for that with you.'
'Bullshit.' Ben's hand slid onto Dean's thigh under the table, fingers tracing higher, bold. He was good at this, body a tool honed on street corners. Johns grabbing his ass in alleys, bending him over crates, pounding until cum dripped down his thighs. 'You paid for me. Might as well get your money's worth.' His voice dropped, hypersexualized edge sharpening—PTSD twisting desire into armor. He leaned in, breath ghosting Dean's ear. 'I can suck you both off. Or ride one while the other watches. Whatever brothers like.'
Dean caught his wrist, firm but not cruel, pulling it away. 'Stop. We mean it.' His green eyes held Ben's, raw with something like pain. Guilt, Ben thought. From knowing what he'd been through? Or planning worse? 'Look, kid, we want you off the streets. For real. No strings, no using you.'
Sam nodded, voice steady. 'Our work's... complicated. Keeps us on the road, but it's not about that. Yours? We pay you to stick around. Fifty bucks a day, cash, just to stay with us. Room, food, no expectations. You wanna bail anytime, door's open.'
Ben laughed, sharp and disbelieving, but his heart raced. Steady cash? No immediate hands on him? Memories surged: running from stepdad's house after the last rape, belt marks on his back, blood in his underwear. Hitting the streets, first john a fat trucker who face-fucked him in a parking lot, choking until tears streamed, then flipping him to fuck his ass raw. 'Paying without wanting it? Come on. Everyone wants something.' He stood, shrugging off his hoodie, standing in just his tank and sweats, body lean and marked—faint bruises from rough tricks. 'Let me prove it. On my knees for you, Dean. Sam's big brother gets first.'
Dean's jaw clenched, shoving back from the table. 'No. Damn it, Ben, sit your ass down.' He paced, hands raking through his hair. 'This? Paying you to stay safe, learn a trade maybe, figure out life—that's it.'
Ben's eyes narrowed, suspicion deepening. No history, no personal hook—just strangers offering a lifeline? It didn't add up. PTSD clawed at him: stepdad's fingers in his hair, forcing his head down onto the thick shaft, gagging him until he puked, then making him clean it. 'You don't know me. But fine. Fifty a day? Deal.' He didn't believe the no-sex promise. Brothers like that? It'd come. Started innocent, turned ugly. Like wondering if Sam was the 'little brother' taking it first, Dean's cock splitting him open young, calling it comfort. Abuse in a motel, just like this.
They hit the road that afternoon, Impala rumbling under a gray sky, Ben in the back with a duffel of new clothes Sam bought—jeans, shirts, nothing flashy. No tricks today. Dean drove, Sam shotgun, both shooting glances back. 'First payout at the next stop,' Dean said, tossing a twenty over the seat. 'For today.'
Ben pocketed it, fingers itching to touch himself, body wired for contact. Nights blurred: stepdad tying him spread-eagle, vibrator buzzing against his prostate until he came dry, sobbing. Then streets—gang of teens paying extra to double-team him, one in his mouth, one in his ass, laughing as he clenched around them. He shifted, cock hardening at the recall, but he kept hands to himself. For now.
At the next motel, same setup—adjacent rooms, weapons stashed away from prying eyes. Ben tried again that night, slipping into their room after dark, stripping to his boxers. 'Come on. I owe you.' He dropped to his knees before Dean on the bed, hands reaching for the zipper.
Sam pulled him up gentle. 'Bed's yours. Alone.' They locked the door behind him, leaving Ben fuming, aroused, confused. No force. No grab. Just... kindness? He jerked off in the shower, fast and furious, imagining their cocks—thick, veined, filling him—but the afterglow brought tears. PTSD crash: stepdad's cum flooding his throat, 'Good boy.' He curled on the bed, knife close. Steady pay. If it turned monster—worse than the human beast he'd fled in the rain, that stepdad with his fists and cock always lurking—he'd run. Again.
Days stretched into a week, pattern holding. Mornings: breakfast, Dean teaching him basic car maintenance in empty lots, hands guiding without lingering. Afternoons: Sam showing him how to research odd jobs online, no pressure. Nights: Ben pushing—straddling Dean's lap during a movie, grinding down, whispering, 'Fuck me, big brother style.' Dean shoving him off, red-faced. 'Kid, no.' Sam watching, then pulling Dean into their room, door shutting on moans that Ben strained to hear. How'd they start? Dean comforting Sam after some rough day, hand on thigh turning to stroke, then suck, then more? Like stepdad's 'lessons'? Ben's memories intruded: bent over the kitchen table, stepdad's hips slamming, ass burning as he begged to stop. Streets: old man tying him up, whipping his cock until it wept pre-cum, then riding the guy reverse.
He didn't believe their promises, but the cash piled—$350 now, hidden in his sock. Food without strings. A bed that didn't reek of strangers. Hypersexual haze fogged him; he'd wake hard, humping the pillow, but they never took. One night, after a tense drive through a sketchy town—Dean and Sam whispering about 'trouble' they avoided—adrenaline high, Ben cornered Sam in the bathroom. 'Let me blow you. For keeping me safe.' Lips parting, tongue out.
Sam cupped his face, thumb gentle. 'We keep family safe. You're that now. No payment needed.'
Ben retreated, body thrumming, mind fracturing. Abuse or not, this felt different. But trust? That monster he'd run from before—the stepdad's shadow in the dark, fists like claws, grip like a demon's—taught him better. Steady income bought time. If they turned, he'd bolt. For now, he stayed, trying, waiting, surviving.
Later that week, in their room after Ben had gone to bed, Dean slumped on the edge of the mattress, head in hands. Sam sat beside him, arm around his shoulders. 'How the hell do we tell him? About the real world out there. Monsters worse than his stepdad, worse than those bastards on the street. Kid's already broken—how do we drop that bomb without shattering him?'
Sam sighed, pulling Dean closer, lips brushing his temple. 'We ease him in. Show him we're not like them first. Build trust. Then... maybe he can handle it. He's tougher than he thinks.' Dean nodded, turning into the embrace, their bodies pressing together in quiet need, hands roaming slow as they sought comfort in each other, the weight of unspoken secrets heavy in the air.
Weeks blurred into months on the road, the Impala's engine a constant growl under the endless stretch of highways. Ben had settled into a fragile rhythm with the brothers—mornings wrenching on engines with Dean, afternoons buried in Sam's lore books disguised as 'history research,' nights alone in his room, knife under the pillow, body aching for touch that never came from them. The cash stack grew, hidden in his boot: over a grand now, enough to bolt if the mask slipped. But it hadn't. Not yet. They fed him real meals, taught him to shoot at abandoned ranges—'for protection, kid, world's rough'—and kept their hands to themselves, even when Ben pushed, grinding against Dean's thigh during a rain-soaked stop, whispering offers of his mouth or ass. Dean always shoved him away, jaw tight, eyes haunted. Sam watched, steady, pulling Dean aside after for their own locked-door comfort, moans filtering through like ghosts.
It started small, cracks in the facade. A hunt gone sideways in a podunk town—Dean and Sam vanishing for hours, returning bloodied, salt rounds in their duffel spilling out. Ben found a silver knife etched with symbols, not just 'work tools.' Questions piled: 'What the hell do you really do?' Dean deflected with burgers and bad jokes, but Ben's PTSD sharpened his instincts, memories of stepdad's lies twisting every evasion. Then came the night in a crumbling warehouse on the city's edge, tailing what they called 'trouble.' Ben insisted on coming, pistol tucked in his jeans. He saw it—a shape in the shadows, claws raking concrete, eyes glowing like hellfire. Not human. A ghoul, Sam later named it, feasting on roadkill turned fresh. Dean's shotgun boomed, rock salt tearing flesh; Sam drove a machete through its neck, black blood spraying. Ben froze, then vomited, the thing's gurgle echoing his stepdad's grunts in the dark.
Back at the motel, steam rising from the shower as Ben scrubbed the stench off, questions exploded. 'What the fuck was that? Monsters? Real ones?' Dean sat on the bed, bandaging a gash on his arm, while Sam brewed coffee strong enough to wake the dead. They spilled it then—the life, the hunts, the family business since Dad. Demons, ghosts, vamps worse than any john in an alley. 'Stepfathers are monsters too,' Dean said, voice gravel. 'Human kind. But out there? Darkness that crawls into beds worse than any man.' Ben's mind reeled: stepdad's weight pinning him, cock thrusting deep, but now layered with fangs and rot. Hypersexual fog lifted slightly, replaced by rage-tinged fear. They were hunters. Protecting him like family. But why him? Why the erased past he sensed in Dean's glances?
It built over days, lore lessons turning real. Ben gripped the lore book, fingers white-knuckled. 'You knew me before. Don't bullshit. Those looks— like you lost something.' Dean's face crumpled under the fluorescent buzz. Sam nodded, giving space. 'Kid... Ben. Three years back, I was with your mom. Lisa. Tried to go normal. You were part of that. My kid, in a way. But the life—hunters, monsters—it followed. Jinn took you, nearly killed us. Cas... an angel... wiped your memories. Made it like you guys never knew me. To keep you safe. I walked away. Thought it was best.' Dean's eyes glistened, guilt raw. 'Left you to that accident story, but it was the kidnapping. Erased me from your head so you wouldn't chase the dark.'
Ben's world tilted. Lisa's 'accident'—false, planted. Dean, the almost-dad who bailed, leaving him to the doctor, the abuse, the streets. Flashes: stepdad's belt cracking skin, then cock forcing entry, 'Mom's gone, boy, you're mine now.' Running, body sold to survive, ass stretched by strangers, mouth filled with cum. All because Dean abandoned him to monsters—human first, then the rest. Anger boiled, hot and vicious, PTSD igniting like gasoline. 'You made me this,' Ben snarled, lunging from the chair. 'Orphaned me into a whore. Left me to be raped into it—your fault, every thrust, every dollar for my holes.'
Dean stood, hands up, but Ben was on him, shoving the older man back onto the bed. 'Kid, wait—' No fight, just shock in those green eyes. Ben straddled him, yanking Dean's jeans open, zipper rasping. Dean's cock lay limp against his thigh, soft from the guilt and horror, but Ben didn't care. He spat into his palm, slicking his own hole roughly—fingers probing, quick, prepping from habit—then gripped Dean's flaccid shaft, forcing it against his entrance. 'This what you wanted? See what you built?' He sank down, shoving the limp length inside, ass clenching around the unresponsive flesh. It burned, no lube, no hardness, just violation born of fury. Ben rocked, grinding down, tears streaking his face. 'You left. Mom dead, stepdad fucking me raw every night. Then streets—gangbangs in dumpsters, cocks in every hole till I bled. Your actions, Dean. Fucked me into this slut.'
Dean grunted, body tense but unmoving, hands fisting the sheets. No thrust up, no grab—just endurance, eyes squeezed shut, breath ragged. Not into it, face pale, guilt etching deeper. 'Ben... stop. Please.' Voice broke, but he didn't push away, taking the punishment like penance.
Sam burst from the bathroom, towel dropping, eyes wide. 'Ben! Get off him!' He hauled Ben up by the shoulders, strong arms peeling him away, Dean's cock slipping free with a wet slide, still soft and slick. Ben thrashed, sobbing now, fists pounding Sam's chest. 'He did this! Left me to monsters—human ones crawling in my bed!' Sam held firm, pinning Ben's arms without hurting him, guiding him to the floor. 'We know. We're fixing it. But this? Not you. Not like them.' Dean curled on the bed, zipping up slowly, face buried in hands, shoulders shaking.
The room hung heavy, air thick with sweat and regret. Ben slumped against Sam, rage ebbing to hollow ache, the truth a blade twisting deeper than any abuse. Monsters lurked—supernatural, human, past. But now, fractured family stared back, piecing what was left.
The days after the motel meltdown stretched like frayed wires, the motel room feeling like a pressure cooker, air humming thick with unspoken barbs and sidelong glances. Ben packed his duffel twice—once at dawn, jeans, the knife they had handed him that first night, the pistol Sam had shown him how to load, fingers trembling on the zipper, the wad of cash from Dean's wallet burning a hole in his pocket. The door loomed, freedom or folly, but outside waited the night things: ghouls with jagged teeth, shadows that whispered stepdad's name in the wind. Door handle in hand, heart slamming, he'd freeze at the growl of a distant siren or the rustle of wind like claws on glass. He unpacked, slamming drawers, heart pounding. Monsters weren't just stepdads anymore; they were real, lurking in alleys with fangs and hunger. Leaving meant facing them solo, ass up for whatever ghoul or john found him first. Staying meant choking down the rage at Dean, the man who'd ghosted him into hell. Forgiveness? A joke. Dean's abandonment carved too deep, a scar throbbing with every glance the older man stole, loaded with regret. Forgiveness wasn't even on the horizon. But survival? That chain held him tighter than any belt mark from the past.
Dean kept distance, nursing beers in the Impala's front seat, engine idling like his stalled words, nursing bruises on his pride more than body. He'd hole up in the Impala, polishing chrome till it gleamed, or vanish on solo drives, radio blasting Zeppelin to drown the guilt. When their eyes met, it'd be quick—Dean's green gaze raw, apologetic, Ben's narrowed to slits, fury simmering like a fresh bruise. Meals were silent affairs: burgers wolfed at the table, Ben picking at fries while Sam filled the void with neutral chatter about routes or weather, forks scraping plates, Ben's eyes flicking between them—Sam's calm gaze, Dean's averted one. Nights, the thin wall between rooms amplified everything—Ben's shallow breaths syncing with the low rumble of Dean's snores next door, or the creak of bedsprings when Sam and Dean sought solace, Dean's grunts muffled but unmistakable as he thrust into Sam's willing body, Sam's moans a plea for release.
Sam bridged the chasm, voice steady as he cleared the table. 'We eat together. We talk. Or we fall apart.' Echoes of their childhood, when Dean played referee between Sam's rebellion and John's iron rule. Sam remembered the flare-ups: fists clenched over dinner, John's hunts leaving them scraping by, Dean on his knees in dim motel rooms, mouth working strangers' dicks for rent money while Sam pretended to sleep. The darkness John dragged in—demons, deals, blood—stole normalcy, etched survival into their bones. Sam wouldn't let the darkness claim Ben too. He was the empath now, piecing the fractured trio. Sam saw it all, the fractures spiderwebbing their makeshift family. He was the glue—the tall frame that blocked blows without striking back, the voice that soothed demons, internal and external. 'We start small,' he told himself, mapping a path through the minefield. First, empowerment. No more victim curled in corners; Ben needed tools to stand tall.
It started in a dusty gym on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kansas, the kind with peeling paint and punching bags that swung like pendulums. Sam laced up gloves for Ben, towering over him with that gentle bulk. 'Not just running, kid. Fighting back.' Punches flew—Ben's fists thudding into pads, sweat stinging eyes, body uncoiling from its coiled trauma. Sam corrected stance, hands on hips, voice low: 'Elbow in, power from the legs. You're not prey anymore.' Ben gasped through reps, muscles burning, the rhythm drowning flashbacks of stepdad's grip bruising his thighs, cock slamming home. Empowerment trickled in, slow as blood from a fresh cut. Knife drills followed in abandoned lots—Sam demonstrating slices to tendons, Ben mimicking, blade flashing under streetlights. 'World's got teeth. You get sharper.' Ben nodded, grip tightening, the weapons no longer foreign but extensions of his rage.
Sam's blueprint unfolded, deliberate: mornings with Ben, building strength; afternoons drawing Dean in, shared target practice where words edged out sideways. 'Shoot straight, both of you. Aim for the target, not each other.' Tension thawed in fragments—Dean grunting approval at Ben's bullseye, Ben muttering thanks for a passed water bottle. Nights, Sam mediated over lore books, skirting hunts but weaving lessons on patterns in the dark. Ben watched them closer, the way Sam's hand lingered on Dean's shoulder after a long drive, the locked gazes that spoke volumes. Their bond pulled at him, a tether in the storm. Fantasies crept in unbidden: Ben sandwiched between them, Sam's long fingers tracing his spine while Dean's mouth claimed his neck, cocks pressing insistent against his skin. The taboo of it—brothers tangled in sheets, grunts and slaps echoing—stirred heat low in his gut. His mind, warped by abuse and streets, twisted it into invitation: if they fucked each other raw, defying norms, maybe room for him. Ass clenching at the thought, he palmed himself in the shower, imagining joining, mouth on Sam's thick shaft, Dean's hands guiding. But they offered nothing, boundaries ironclad, leaving him aching, wanting that fractured family embrace.
One evening, after a gruelling spar where Ben landed his first solid hit on Sam's guard, they collapsed on the motel's sagging couch. Dean nursed a bruise, ice pack to jaw, while Ben stretched sore limbs. Sam brewed tea—'calms the nerves'—and sat between them, the air thick. 'Time for truth, Ben. All of it.' Dean tensed, beer halfway to lips, but Sam pressed on, voice even. 'Dean's drowning in this guilt, kid. Not just you. Reminds him of his own shit.' Ben's eyes narrowed, curiosity cutting the fog. Sam leaned forward, elbows on knees. 'Dad—John—he hunted monsters, but dragged us into it. Long hunts, weeks gone. Dean was your age, maybe younger, keeping us both fed. When cash ran dry, he'd... do what he had to. Alleys, bars. On his knees, taking cocks in his mouth, ass bent over crates for bills. Survived that way. I was too young to help, hid in the room while he came back bruised, swallowing shame.'
Dean's face drained, staring at the floor, fingers white on the bottle. Ben's breath hitched, world tilting. The man who he'd pinned in fury, whose limp cock Ben had forced inside—had been there himself, young and desperate. Sam's hand found Dean's knee, squeezed firm. 'We always figured if John hadn't pulled us in, we'd have had normal. School, friends, safe beds without the hauntings. Dean tried that with Lisa. You. Walked away after the jinn, memories wiped, to give you what he never got. A shot at clean. What he wished Dad did for us.'
Ben's chest tightened, anger fracturing like glass under boot. Not erased—lessened. Dean's abandonment, a twisted mercy, mirroring pains Ben knew too well: stepdad's thrusts, johns' grips, survival's bitter cost. It didn't absolve, didn't stitch the wounds, but the fury dulled, replaced by a raw ache of shared scars. He met Dean's eyes for the first time in weeks, seeing the boy who'd knelt in shadows, the man who'd tried to break the cycle. 'Fuck,' Ben whispered, voice cracking. Sam nodded, the glue holding, as the room shifted—tension not gone, but bending toward something like understanding.
The road called again, Impala loaded, but now Ben rode shotgun sometimes, Sam's lessons etched in his stance. Fantasies lingered, heat pooling when he caught Dean and Sam's quiet touches, but he held back, testing the fragile peace. Monsters waited outside, but inside, the darkness ebbed, inch by inch.
The motel room felt smaller that night, walls pressing in like the weight of confessions yet to spill. Ben sat cross-legged on the bed, knees drawn up, fingers picking at the frayed hem of his shirt. Sam had stepped out for supplies—'Give you two space,' he'd said with that knowing nod—leaving the air thick between Dean and Ben. The older man's admission hung unspoken until Ben's gaze sharpened, voice low and edged. 'Why didn't you fight? When I... when I did that to you.'
Dean leaned against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest, green eyes shadowed. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, stubble rasping under his palm. 'Grief, for one. Hit me like a freight train, seeing you like that—broken, lashing out. But it wasn't just that.' He paused, breath steadying, the words clawing their way up from buried places. 'Brought back shit from when I was about the same age you were when your mom died. Twelve. First time someone cornered me in a back alley after Dad vanished on a hunt. Pinned me down, ripped my jeans, shoved his cock in dry. Raped me raw, ass burning, bleeding, tears mixing with dirt on my face. When he finished, he tossed a crumpled twenty at my feet like I was trash worth paying for.'
Ben's stomach twisted, the echo of his own first time slamming back—stepdad's hands rough on his small body, cock forcing entry while whispers called it love. Dean's voice pulled him, rough but unflinching. 'That cash? Kept us in ramen for a week. Planted the seed. Figured if I could take it once, I could do it on my terms. Alleys, truck stops—bent over hoods, mouth full of strangers' dicks, cum dripping down my chin for bills to pay rent. Survived that way. Your rage... it dragged me right back there, kid. Couldn't swing. Just froze.'
Ben swallowed hard, throat tight, the shared fracture bridging something jagged in his chest. He shifted, uncurling slightly, eyes searching Dean's face. 'How? How'd you learn love doesn't have to hurt like that? All I've known is pain wrapped in it.'
Dean's lips quirked, not quite a smile, more a ghost of one haunted by scars. He pushed off the dresser, sinking onto the bed's edge, close but not touching. 'Love hurts, kid. Tears you up inside and then rebuilds you and makes you fly just to tear you up again and repeat the process. But the people who you love and who love you, they do their best to make sure that love doesn't have to hurt, at least not so much, and they work their hardest not to hurt you. They'll mess up sometimes, and so will you, but they'll still try. Sammy taught me that.'
The door creaked open then, Sam returning with a plastic bag rustling—sandwiches, sodas, the mundane anchor. He caught the tail end, eyes flicking between them, but said nothing, just set the bag down and grabbed a chair. Ben's mind reeled, the words settling like balm on raw skin. Fantasies flickered again—Sam's strong arms pulling him close, Dean's mouth soft on his shoulder—but now laced with something tentative, a hope that love could rebuild without breaking first. The night deepened, the trio quieter, the darkness outside held at bay by the fragile light of truths laid bare.
Weeks blurred into a fragile routine in the motel chain they hopped between, the city's underbelly fading as Sam drove them toward quieter roads. Ben's nightmares eased some, jagged edges dulled by Sam's patient self-defense lessons—fists wrapping around pads, body learning to strike without shattering—and Dean's gruff cooking, burgers sizzling on a hot plate, plates passed without demands. Trust crept in like dawn light, tentative, but the air hummed with unspoken wants. Ben watched them, always, the way Sam's hand lingered on Dean's shoulder after a long drive, fingers kneading tension away, or how Dean's gaze softened when Sam laughed, pulling him close in the dim room light for a kiss that started soft but ignited, bodies pressing urgent against the wall.
One evening, rain pattering the window like impatient fingers, Ben cracked. They sat around a rickety table, takeout boxes open, steam curling up. His fork scraped the Styrofoam, voice small but insistent. 'You said love doesn't have to hurt so much. Teach me. Please. I want to know what it's like—yours. The real kind.'
Dean paused mid-bite, exchanging a glance with Sam, brows furrowing in that protective way. 'Kid, that's what we're doing. Meals together, no strings. Teaching you to stand tall, keep safe. Family stuff.' Sam nodded, reaching across to ruffle Ben's hair gently, like an older brother might. 'Yeah, Ben. Hugs when you're down, talking shit out. No one's gonna lay a hand on you wrong here. We're building that—steady, no pain.'
They doubled down that night, pulling him into a group movie on the laptop, shoulders bumping on the bed. Dean slung an arm around Ben's shoulders, casual, while Sam squeezed his knee in reassurance during the tense scenes. Laughter broke through when Dean mocked the hero's dumb lines, and Ben leaned in, soaking it up—the warmth, the ease. But inside, it twisted. This was soft, safe, like a blanket over wounds, but not the fire he'd glimpsed. Not the way he'd snuck peeks through the thin door crack last week: Sam on his knees, mouth sliding down Dean's thick cock, sucking deep with wet, rhythmic pulls, Dean's fingers tangled in Sam's hair, hips thrusting shallow, groans low and raw. Or the morning after, Dean bent over the sink, Sam's body flush behind, cock plunging in steady, powerful strokes, ass clenching around each drive, sweat slicking their skin as they chased release together, fierce and unyielding.
Ben shifted under the blanket, his own body stirring, cock hardening against his thigh at the memory. This family love they offered? It patched holes but didn't fill the ache, the hunger for that intensity—the push and pull, bodies colliding in desperate need, love that scarred and healed in the same breath. He wanted to be in it, wrapped in their heat, Sam's strong hands pinning him while Dean's mouth claimed his, cocks grinding, fucking him until the hurt melted into something explosive.
Days later, during a sparring session in an empty lot, Ben dodged Sam's jab but faltered, breath hitching as their bodies brushed close. 'Is this it?' he blurted, wiping sweat from his brow. 'Just punches and pats? I saw you two. The way you... fuck each other. Raw, like nothing else matters. That's love not hurting—it's everything. Teach me that.'
Sam froze, punch glove dropping slightly, face flushing under the surprise. Dean, leaning on a fence nearby, straightened, jaw tightening. 'Ben, no. That's... us. Private. You're family, but not like that.' Sam's voice softened, stepping back to create space. 'We get you're curious, confused from everything. But we'll show you love the right way—guiding you, protecting you. Hugs, talks, being there. Not... that.'
Ben's chest burned, frustration bubbling. He nodded, fists clenching, but the want gnawed deeper. That night, alone in his room, he palmed his cock through his jeans, imagining Sam's weight over him, Dean's tongue tracing his hole before pushing in, their bodies enveloping him in that fierce rhythm. The normalcy they pushed? It was a cage of kindness, but he craved the wild, the merge where love hurt just enough to make the pleasure shatter.
The days stretched into a tense rhythm, the motel rooms swapping like old habits, each one a temporary anchor in their nomadic life. Ben's eyes followed Sam and Dean more intently now, tracing the subtle currents between them—the way Dean's hand would ghost over Sam's lower back when they thought he wasn't looking, or how Sam's voice dropped low during late-night talks, coaxing Dean into vulnerability. Ben's body thrummed with it, a constant undercurrent of heat, his cock twitching at the memories of stolen glances: Dean's ass flexing as Sam pounded into him from behind, grunts echoing through the wall, or the softer nights when they tangled slow, Sam's fingers interlacing with Dean's as he rode him gently, lips brushing in murmured affections.
One afternoon, after a grueling self-defense drill in a dusty field, sweat clinging to their shirts, Ben couldn't hold it back. They collapsed against the Impala's hood, water bottles passed around. 'I know what I want,' Ben said, voice steady despite the knot in his gut. 'From you two. Not just the pats and the talks. I've seen how you love—fierce, even when it's messy. The way you fuck, bodies slamming together, no holding back. That's what I need. With both of you.'
Dean choked on his water, coughing as his face hardened. 'Ben, that's not... We can't. You're a kid. Family means protecting you, not—'
Sam held up a hand, eyes flicking between them, thoughtful. 'Hold on. Let him finish.' He turned to Ben, voice even. 'Talk to us. Why?'
Ben swallowed, the words spilling out raw. 'Because it's real. Not the shit from the streets, guys shoving cash in my hand after bending me over in alleys, cocks ramming my ass until I bled, telling me to take it like a good boy. Or my stepdad—' His voice cracked, a flash of memory hitting: the doctor's office basement, stepfather's hands pinning his wrists, thick fingers forcing into his mouth before flipping him, cock thrusting deep into his young hole, grunting about how he'd 'fix' him, night after night until Ben learned to spread his legs just to end it faster. PTSD clawed up, chest tightening, but he pushed on. 'He took everything. But you two... you give. Even when you fight, it's passion. I want that love. With you.'
That night, in their room while Ben paced his own, Sam and Dean lay tangled on the bed, the air heavy. Dean's head rested on Sam's chest, but his body was rigid. 'This is fucked, Sammy. He's traumatized. We can't just... jump in bed with him.'
Sam stroked Dean's hair, pressing a kiss to his temple. 'I know. But think about it. Everything's been stripped from him—choice, control. If he says this is what he wants, denying it takes more away. We're not predators; we're giving him power back. Honoring what he asks. It's the only way to really help.'
Dean shifted, rolling to face him, doubt etching lines on his face. 'And if it's just the hypersexuality talking? Kid's wired that way from the abuse, jumping anyone for a fix.'
Sam pulled him closer, hand sliding down to cup Dean's ass, squeezing gently. 'Then we guide it. But we owe him this respect. After all the shit—his stepdad raping him, the johns using him like a hole—we let him lead. If he needs us to show him love like ours, we do it right.' Their lips met, slow at first, tongues sliding soft, Dean's cock hardening against Sam's thigh. Sam flipped him onto his back, entering him with tender thrusts, hips rolling deep and unhurried, whispering, 'We'll figure it out together. For him. For us.' Dean arched, moaning low as Sam's cock filled him, the reassurance seeping in like warmth.
Ben saw the conflict in Dean's eyes the next morning over coffee—hesitation flickering behind the gruff exterior. It twisted something in him, a need to prove it, to seize control like he'd never had. That evening, as rain drummed the roof again, Ben knocked on their door, stepping in without waiting. 'Dean. I need to show you. This is me choosing.'
Dean's jaw clenched, glancing at Sam, who nodded subtly. 'Kid—Ben—if you're sure.'
Ben's heart pounded, but he moved forward, pushing Dean back onto the bed with surprising force, hands trembling but determined. This was his first time topping, first time anyone bent for him without force or payment. He stripped Dean's shirt off, jeans yanked down, exposing Dean's thick cock already half-hard from the tension. Ben's own pants hit the floor, his young cock springing free, slender but rigid, pre-cum beading at the tip. He grabbed the lube from the nightstand—knowing where they kept it from eavesdropping—and slicked himself, then Dean's hole, fingers probing quick but careful.
Dean tensed beneath him, breath hitching, but didn't resist. Ben positioned himself, pressing the head of his cock against Dean's entrance, pushing in slow. The tightness gripped him, hot and unyielding, Dean's ass clenching around his length as he sank deeper, inch by inch. 'Fuck,' Ben gasped, bottoming out, the sensation overwhelming—power surging through him, his hips starting a tentative rhythm, thrusting shallow at first, then harder, cock sliding in and out with wet sounds.
'Sam,' Ben directed, voice husky, eyes locking on the taller man standing frozen. 'Hands off your own dick. Play with my balls—roll them, tug light. And Dean's cock—stroke it, focus on the slit, thumb the piss hole, make it leak.'
Sam hesitated a beat, then knelt beside them, his massive frame careful. One hand cupped Ben's sac, fingers massaging the soft skin, rolling the balls gently as Ben fucked into Dean. His other hand wrapped Dean's shaft, pumping slow, thumb circling the sensitive slit, pressing in just enough to draw out beads of pre-cum, Dean groaning deep, hips bucking up.
Ben's thrusts gained confidence, pounding Dean's ass now, the slap of skin echoing, his young body driving with a ferocity born of pent-up need. Memories flickered—stepfather's cock forcing down his throat in the garage, choking him until tears streamed, or alley blowjobs, knees on gravel, sucking strangers off for a twenty, cum swallowing bitter. But this was different; this was his. 'Finger me, Sam. Open me up. Two fingers first, curl them, hit that spot inside.'
Sam's free hand slicked with lube, pressing against Ben's hole as he rode Dean. One finger breached, then two, scissoring slow, prostate nudged with precision. Ben moaned, pace faltering then surging, cock buried deep in Dean's clenching heat. 'Yeah—add a third. Stretch me wide. When I'm close, you're gonna fuck me, Sam. Hard, from behind. Grab my hips, slam in deep, no mercy. Make me feel it while I cum in Dean.'
Dean's face twisted in conflict even as pleasure built, eyes squeezing shut, but his body betrayed him—ass milking Ben's cock, pre-cum slicking Sam's hand on his piss slit. Sam worked Ben open, fingers thrusting in time with Ben's rhythm, the room filling with grunts and slick slides. Ben's control held, directing every touch, every plunge, until the edge hit.
'Now, Sam—fuck me.' Ben pulled almost out of Dean, then slammed back, as Sam's fingers withdrew. Sam stood, shedding clothes, his long cock throbbing untouched. He positioned behind Ben, aligning and pushing in—Ben's hole yielding after the prep, taking the girth with a sharp cry. Sam gripped Ben's hips, thrusting powerful, cock driving deep, balls slapping against Ben's as he fucked him relentlessly.
Ben shattered first, cock pulsing inside Dean, cum flooding hot and thick, ropes painting Dean's walls. The sensation triggered Dean, spilling over Sam's hand with a guttural moan, piss slit oozing under the thumb's pressure. Sam followed, pounding Ben's ass until he buried deep, unloading with low growls, filling the boy completely.
They collapsed in a heap, breaths ragged, Ben sandwiched between them. Dean's arm draped over hesitantly, conflict still simmering in his eyes, but Sam pressed a kiss to both their shoulders, murmuring, 'See? His choice. We're giving him what he needs.'
Later, as Ben slept curled against them, Sam and Dean slipped out to the motel's edge, under stars. Dean leaned against the wall, voice rough. 'Feels wrong, Sammy. Like we're no better than those bastards who hurt him.'
Sam pulled him into a rough embrace, hands fisting shirts. 'We're not. We're loving him his way. Remember the streets? He bottomed for survival. Now he's topping, calling shots. That's healing.' Their kiss turned hungry, Dean shoving Sam against the brick, yanking pants down to suck his cock fierce—lips sealed tight, throat working around the length, tongue lashing the underside until Sam came down his throat with a hiss.
Ben's nightmares crept back sporadically, waking him sweating, flashes of stepfather's belt cracking before the rape, or johns pinning him in cars, cocks alternating in his ass until he was raw. But in the daylight, with Sam teaching him lore disguised as stories and Dean fixing his stance in fights, the wholesomeness shone—hugs without strings, meals shared laughing. They weren't predators; their touches lingered protective, eyes soft with care. Sex with Ben came only when he initiated, Dean's reluctance fading to quiet acceptance, Sam's empathy guiding them all.
One night, after a tender scene—Sam and Dean making love slow on the floor, Dean on his back legs wrapped around Sam's waist, cock sliding deep with whispers of 'love you'—Ben watched from the door, then joined, directing again, his hypersexuality a bridge over trauma. Dean's conflict eased in fragments, reassured by Sam's words: 'We're protecting his soul, Dean. One choice at a time.'
The road ahead twisted, but in their tangled bonds, love took root—fierce, flawed, healing.