So my Patron Saint of Anonymous smut surprised me with heart wrenching angst about Dean Winchester and underage prostitution today. It’s beautifully in depth and so well written. 

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He wears his prettiest clothing down the ugly neon illuminated street in Madison, Wisconsin. Straight grey shirt John bought him when they’d needed to blend in at a funeral once, hunting down a grave-digging ghost that buried mourners alive. Dean kept it, folded it at the foot of his duffel. Of course, it was scrunched newspaper on the lines of bone now. Too long on the road, just like Dean’s tight coiled muscles and aching core. He wore the jeans without holes, too big to let Sammy wear, even though he should get the nicest clothing. They’re darker than his usual blue, too nice to risk on hunts. Of course, John couldn’t give a shit, couldn’t afford to. Getting shredded by a shifter, no-one cares if the bloody rags on you are nice fabric or not. Clothes don’t matter. Being agile, and fast, and hidden matters. Today, though, Dean wants to look angelic, fuck-able, so he tugs the worst creases out, and buttons it barely, far below his collar. He gapes in horrified trepidation, the restroom mirror flickering with a dying white glow. He looks pallid, pretty, 15 and nubile. Every red blood vessel in his lips, and his cheeks, and around his tired scared eyes gets a sharp sweep of enhanced contrast. The green eyes stare back, deader than if he were staring into empty sockets. A childhood of nothing stares right back. Fear and hope were costly. He is a utility.

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posted 4 weeks ago with 90 notes

◦hooker!dean◦underage◦prostitution◦nsfw◦favorite◦;A;◦so in love with this◦fic