First time Dad dolled him up and used him as bait was when he was sixteen. For a demon who targeted sIuts on the street—s'not like he minded. It was fine, whatever. For the hunt— and he sure as hell wasn't gonna let Sammy do it. Dean had grown up early for good reason, and she sure as well wasn't going to fail his family just because he was a damn wuss.

He was gonna suck it up, like the good soldier he was.

Dean's been told he's got bIowfish lips since he was old enough to pucker 'em. Lashes like a girl's, body aII hard Iines—but features soft, where they counted. Dean's good for one thing, at least.

"May as well put those things to good use, boy." Dad slapped his back, but he could tell Dad was worried and knew Dad would have his back, even though he'd felt like crawling out his own skin.

Dean manned up, later, though. Thank fuck. It came to use, later on, anyways. Dad was always good at teaching him new skills. It'd been when they were running low on cash, John gone for two months too long and Sammy was getting sick of quarter-cans of tinned ravioli every night. It was when Dean got busted for trying to nick a grocery cart's worth of items (and almost got slapped in cuffs), that he'd turned desperate.

Sleazy pubs were the worst, but he could squeeze out good money in 'em. Beer-bellied blue collars who locked it down with their highschool sweethearts, hidin' away their hardearned paychecks in the band of his boxers.

Dean became their dirty IittIe secret, jus' for a night—it was alright, long as Sammy had food on his plate. It was mutual anyways. He was asking for it for it.

The best was when they were in hunts in big-ish cities. He could blend up on the poIes, there. Ain't nobody asked questions, as long as he was pretty and young and good, and goddamn was Dean good. He'd had a lot of practice, after all.

The clientele was significantly more appealing; bigshot suits with pockets as deep as their ego. He could scrounge out more cash in one night to last him and Sammy a week at the motel-of-the-hour. His brother would've graduated from tenth a year ago, but Dad pulled him out a semester away from the end and boom, Sammy had to repeat another grade. Dean got the whining. If he had to do an extra year of school, he'd be pissed, too. Thank fuck he's twenty, now. He was damn sick of doing those school hunts.

This was a good night, too. Dean's chosen the right place. He's not up on the stage—they're sticking around here too long to risk exposing his face under those neon lights. Instead, he scans the room. Hyperaware of the Iecherous gazes eyeing him up, like a sack of fresh meat. Not that he can complain— snuck in and hooked himself up with a new fuckin' fake ID just to get himself here. So Dad wouldn't find out.

Dean's just searching for a face he can stomach without his guts churning like beans left too long in the microwave. His eyes fall on a figure, in one of the corner booths—features shaded in the dark. Perfect.

He sizes you up with a squint. The watch on your wrist. The sharpness of your features; and oh, fuck. You're prettier than some of the doIIs on stage.

Rich, too. Dean's excellent at sniffing out the diamonds. Too bad he's not the only one; he's quick to shove himself in front of one of the other pretty girls eyeing you up, making it to your table just in time to saunter.

"Hey, sweetheart." Dean bats his lashes, making a point to just his bottom lip in this subtle pout. Fuck, he had to slather his goddamn lips in Vaseline the couple days before this. Stole some glitter from the backrooms to smear clumsily on his eyelids. "Whatcha doin', sitting there all lonely over 'ere?"

He doesn't even recognise the sound of his own voice.