@dcotn replied to your post: you know how when people play too much tetris they...
i thOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO DREAMED GAMES OH THANK GOD
oh yeah my dude the tetris effect is a documented scientific phenomenon!! so is the fact that playing lots of video games can help with nightmares/controlling your dreams
holy shit, if you need a reason to continue that hooker!sam cop!dean au, I AM IT
I’ve been working on it on-and-off for several months now. This is probably the first time I’ve really shared any part of it. I mean, it really is a rough draft. Like 20 pages, but still a rough draft. I think I’ve been reluctant to work on something that’s going to be another 70k Douglas County fic. So I make no promises to finish anything. But if you like, here’s what I have from the beginning to that first scene I posted:
V I C E
1 | 2 | 3
The east side of Chicago, where most of the living is done. Suburbs skirting the city. Quiet until five o’clock and then clogged with traffic. It’s four o’clock now. Rush hour starting to build. Dean Winchester glances out the window of his motel room but there’s nothing to see, the blinds have been drawn closed. Heavy, thick curtains. It’s suffocating. Dean turns for something else to look at. Anything but the endless pages of nude women on his screen.
There’s three other men in the room with him. Ed, to his right is doing the same thing as him, on the phone now, pretending to be a John, luring in women who have posted ads online. Ed’s partner, a novice, Robert something or other, is listening in and taking notes. Their superior, Bobby, is looking down his nose at all of them.
This isn’t any better than staring at his screen, he thinks. At least there’s a promise in all of the posed shots and exposed flesh. An allure. Come have a good time. I’ll give you a night to remember. It’s not true. There’s nothing but shame and regret after, and if his Taskforce has anything to say, a night jail or a hefty fine. But even after six months of this, Dean can still see the appeal. He’s got nothing in his life that offers the same kind of hope. Even false hope.
He turns away from the other officers. There’s a pain building behind his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose to ease the tension, but the relief is temporary. He’s familiar with this pain. It comes on, suddenly like this. Blinding hot behind his head and stabbing deep into his gut, twisting him apart and weighing him down like cement. Phantom pains his physical therapist calls it. Not unusual after such a traumatic attack. PTSD his mental therapist calls it. And you really shouldn’t be going back to work so soon afterwards, even if it is a different division.
But Dean feels he has no choice. Sitting in his apartment, thinking about everything he’s lost. That’s the thing, that will finally drive him mad. No, better to keep working.
But the pain builds. Dean wants to scream, shout. He doesn’t know what, or at who. Just some strangled sound from a dying animal.
He’s not taking demotion very well.
“I’ve got a girl,” Ed declares. He hangs up his phone, disposable, issued by the department..
“How many is that?” Their superior asks. Bobby Singer, a short man with a round face. Gray mustache and beard frame his jaw, makes him look like he’s always frowning. Which he probably is.
“Three,” Robert answers. The new kid’s been keeping track. Good boy.
“One more and we’ll call it a night,” Bobby grunts. They have a much smaller quota than the girls they pull in.
Dean closes his eyes and tries to empty his head. Go to your happy place. That’s not what his therapist says but the idea is the same idea. Except his happy place has been ripped from his fingers. The best he can hope for is to think of nothing. He pushes everything his mind and sighs. Ten, nine, eight. The pain begins to fade. Seven, six, five. The panic fades.
He opens his eyes to the worried look of his superior. The doubt on Bobby’s face. Did he make a mistake, taking a chance on Dean?
Dean turns his back on Bobby, focuses on meeting their quota.
Like Craigslist before it Backpage’s adult section has been transformed into a marketplace where women sell the promise of sex. Under the heading “massage” some of the women who post ads still use code words, knowing people like him are watching. But most don’t bother.
Dean scrolls listlessly through the postings, trying to summon the sanctimonious fervor you need for a job like this. At random, he mouses over an ad. Black and white photo. The sleek curve of an ass, not much else. The girl looks small, thin, and that usually means young. Good, the thinks. Not for her but for them. He can at least appreciate pulling a juvenile off the street for a night. He’s not that cold, not yet.
Dean clicks the posting. He scans the information on the left hand side while the pictures load. When they finish loading, he takes everything in simultaneously and leans back in surprise.
Oh.
“Got something?” his superior asks, a little too eagerly. He hovers over him like he can shield the others, in case he explodes. That irritates Dean. But right now he’s not irritated, he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t know how to preface this discovery to his superior.
Luckily, Bobby gets a glimpse and quickly summarizes his surprise. “A boy.”
Dean nods. Shaggy hair, feminine lips, a flat chest and a long stomach. It took him a minute to realize it wasn’t a girl. One glance below the navel, though, and there’s no doubt. A boy. Definitely a boy. Not a man. There’s a separate section for men on Backpage. But that’s not where this ad was posted.
Odd how it makes his cheeks burn. Dean feels caught, like his privacy has been invaded. Hundreds of photos of nude women a day and this is what makes him feel dirty?
“What do you think?” His superior asks. “Juvenile?”
“Fourteen, fifteen,” Dean guesses.
“What’s the name?”
“Baby Boy,” Dean reads, and feels stupid for it. Shame. For the kid behind the screen.
“Well,” Bobby sighs. “Same as the rest, isn’t he? Let’s give this kid a break.” That’s what they say when they set up a fake date with the girls online. Pull them off the street. Give ‘em a chance to go to a center, get counseling. Not put them in prison or slap them with a fine like other counties, or other states. They’ve been doing this long enough to realize the girls, 90% of the time, were tricked into doing this, forced into the lifestyle with no way out. So why punish them? The Cook County Taskforce sets up stings to pull girls out. Give ‘em a break, if they want it.
But Dean frowns when he realizes Bobby means him. He’s good at bullshitting, getting girls to come in, but calling a boy makes him angry, fills him with disgust. Does he have to act gay? Or like some kind of pedophile? His shoulders tense at the idea.
His superior senses his hesitation, grips his shoulder, squeezes and lets go. Just do your job, son. It says. It’s supposed to be a comfort, but Dean finds it humiliating, especially in front of Ed and the novice. It betrays an obvious favoritism that Dean doesn’t like to be reminded of. Bobby wouldn’t stick his neck out for any of them the way he did for Dean. And that knowledge weighs heavily on him.
So Dean swallows whatever’s stuck in his throat and turns back to his laptop, punching in the phone number from the ad. As the phone rings he steels himself to play a John who wants to fuck a boy, a kid. Whoever the hell that is.
Dean picks up the phone, and dials the number. It rings, and goes to a generic voicemail.
“No answer,” Dean says, hanging up. Secretly, he’s relieved.
“You can’t even get a prostitute to answer the phone?” Ed jeers. “That’s a new low. Even for you.”
Richard laughs, not that he knows what he’s laughing at, just that Ed’s said something that’s supposed to crawl under his skin. And it does.
“Eat me,” Dean scowls.
“Settle down,” Bobby says, just as the radio transmitter clipped to his belt starts to garble. Their superior checks in with the officers parked in an unmarked car out in front. They’re telling Bobby the first girl is on her way up and Dean knows the rest of the night is going to speed forward, full throttle.
“Alright, this is it ladies. Get yourselves together.” Bobby says. Once again he’s looking at Dean expectantly. It’s his turn to play John.
Dean sends a follow up text to the number he just called. In case there’s a chance “Baby Boy” calls back. Then he stands and strips himself of anything that might identify him as cop: badge, gun. He checks his wallet for cash, makes sure he has enough for an exchange. He’s ready.
“Don’t scare her away now,” Ed trolls. “They can smell a loser a mile off.”
Bobby shoots him a look. Him, Dean, not fucking Ed. Like Dean’s the loose cannon that needs to be controlled. And fuck it, maybe he is.
“I think I know why you like this job,” Dean sneers. “It’s the closest you’re ever gonna get to pussy.”
This time, the novice laughs at Ed.
Bobby gives them both a frown when he hands him the key card to the room next door, but Dean ignores it. He’ll work with Ed but there’s no rule in the handbook that says he has to like the prick. So he takes the key card and heads toward the exit, walking slowly, to mask the limp.
Outside room 7B and the door clicks closed. He moves one door over, to his left, and enters room 7A.
Dean has a routine. First, he pulls back the sheets on the bed, messes them up, just to look he’s been sitting around for a while. Then he turns on the tv, lowers the volume. Finally he takes two beers from the mini fridge and brings them to the bathroom. He cracks them open, and pours them down the drain. Briefly, he’s tempted to take a drink. But he resists. That’s for later.
He rinses the beer down the drain. He looks up and catches his reflection in the mirror. Is this what a loser looks like? Dean examines himself. His skin is pale, the bags under his eyes are heavy. His five o’clock shadow is becoming permanent. His hair is messy, unkempt, careless. But then again, Lisa always liked it when he got a little scrufty. Those was her word for it. Scrufty.
Dean closes his eyes. No. He can’t do this. Not now. Not here. There’s work to do.
Empty beer cans. Back to the bed. He shoves them on the stand, next to the lamp. As he does this there’s a knock on the door. He glances quickly at the television where the camera and microphone are wired up, then he answers the door.
The woman on the other side is tall, with dark skin. She’s wearing jeans with holes in the knees, a crop top, and lots of makeup. She scans him from head to toe and smiles.
“Hi,” she says, one arm wrapped around herself self-consciously.
“Hi,” Dean replies. “Sugar?” She nods, and he steps aside to let her in.
A timer starts in his head: tick, tick, tick. They’ve started playing a game. She pretends he doesn’t make her gag. He pretends he’s interested. She wants his money. He wants to do his job. They both want to get out of there as soon as possible. Tick, tick, tick.
“Go ahead, get comfortable,” Dean says, motioning to the bed.
Sugar begins to strip immediately, throwing her clothes on the bed. He wishes she wouldn’t. Personally, Dean likes the shy ones. They negotiate with their clothes on and Dean doesn’t have to fake interest. Which Sugar already notices.
“Go ahead honey,” she urges. “Don’t be shy now.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not shy,” he smiles, insincere. “I just want to be sure about what I’m getting.”
“You’re getting this,” she says spreading her legs so Dean can see between her thighs.
Dean has to not look like a cop. He has to look like he enjoys sex. So he approaches her spread legs with fake interest and removes his shirt. Once he even had to strip down to his underwear, just to convince the girl he wasn’t wearing a wire.
Sugar looks up at him, she seems satisfied. No more stripping for him.
“And what we talked about,” Dean asks. “It’s the same price?”
“Hundred for an hour,” she confirms.
“Good deal.”
And his role is done.
He steps back from the bed and reaches for his shirt on the floor. Sugar is briefly confused until the Cook County Taskforce enters the room demanding she keep her hands where they can see them. Not that she, naked on the bed, has much to hide. They realize her nakedness. Their tactics change, now she can put on her clothes, but they don’t avert their eyes. There’s no space for shame, she’s being arrested.
Dean puts his shirt back on and sits on the bed opposite from all the action. He watches Ed ask her questions, try to weedle out if she’s working for a pimp or not. Dean watches on, numb to the sound of officers, walkie talkies, and the girl that’s starting to cry now. It’s hard for Dean to accept that this is his life. He feels a million miles away from what’s happening, barely hears it, like everything’s on mute. Until Bobby walks into the room now, wagging the radio in his hand.
“Clear out,” he barks. “Next girl’s here.”
Dean runs a hand through his hair and prepares for the next round.
~~~~~
Dean gets back late. The apartment is dark. He doesn’t turn on the lights, doesn’t want to see how empty this place is. One bedroom technically all he needs. But he used to have a lot more. He likes to keep that memory dark too.
Dean goes to the fridge. Sense memory. Opens it up and blinks at the light. He squints, reaches inside and pulls out a beer. Cracks it open under a drawer handle and makes his way to the couch where he’ll stay until morning.
When was the last time he used the bed?
He grabs the remote from the cushions and turns it to some show on wildlife, something mindless, palatable. He sips at his beer and sinks further into the couch cushions. The tv continues to drone.
Then a flash of light in the kitchen catches his attention. He turns. It’s his phone, lighting up in the dark. He has a message. Dean’s heart stills. Is it Lisa?
No. Stupid. Of course. She said you were done, how many times does it need to be said? One hundred and two, apparently, because Dean still has hope everything will work out. He stands, heart beating a little faster now. He reaches the kitchen counter where he threw his keys and his phone. Two phones. Work and home. And he sees it’s not his personal phone, which means it’s not Lisa.
Dean’s heart sinks. His fault, shouldn’t have even thought. But then curiosity prompts him to check the other phone. Who would text him this late at night, Bobby? But he wouldn’t use the work phone, that’s strictly for contacts. Dean swipes left and opens the text from a number he doesn’t recognize.
Hey, sorry I missed you earlier. Still up for some fun?
Dean frowns. Who is this? The he opens his recent calls list and -ah- there it is. This was the last call he’d made on this phone.
Baby Boy? Dean texts back.
A minute later, he gets a smiling winky face.
Dean smirks. Isn’t past your bedtime?
I need someone to tuck me in. Another winky face.
Dean gets to the point. Tomorrow, Motel 8. Around four. Same place he was at today.
‘Baby Boy’ texts back his consent. Good. This was going good. Straightforward, like all the others. That was the thing that amazed Dean the most about this. How business-like it was, to swap cash for flesh. Just like you were ordering pizza.
What’s your rate? he asks.
Of orgasm? 100%
Dean snorts. This kid thinks he’s funny. I might mess up your stats, he texts back.
Why??? :(
Dean grimaces. Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say. It’s been a while since my ex-wife, he replies.
Awwww. So you want me to fuck you better?
Dean snorts. I guess that’s it.
You sound pretty busted, might take awhile.
Maybe we can work something out. Dean pats himself on the back for getting to the point.
$350 an hour.
Dean whistles. I could pay a shrink with that, he texts back.
You’ll enjoy this more. is the reply.
We’ll see.
And that’s the end of his shift tonight. Dean lets the phone slip from his hand and goes back to nursing his beer. He falls asleep in front of the tv, to the complex mating rituals of the Birds of Paradise.
