Chapter Text
Dean is young and naive and easily influenced. “Dont play with what you don’t know,” John always used to say. Never tamper around things you know will get you in hot water and never start what you know you can’t ever finish. It’s a shame Dean’s foolish and has to learn the hard way.
Yet, who could blame him? He is no more than 17 at most, his birthday only having been a few days ago. He is nothing if not just a kid who was still learning the hang of things even if his own dad strongly disagreed. John always saw Dean as a man ever since he was little and it only exacerbated ever since he hit puberty a couple of years ago. While Dean appreciated it in little bits here and there, it mostly did nothing but tick him off.
Things only got worse when John started actually treating him like some big, burly thing. Handing him weapons which weighed a few pounds too close to tearing his own damn arms, rough slaps on the back which Dean had to put an awful amount of effort into not tumbling forwards and look like some weak bitch, pairing him up on hunts that left him injured and scarred for weeks. It was clear that Dean was frail, or rather, average. He wasn't built for the hunting life unlike John was. Dean didn't possess any muscles to deliver hard blows and it was embarrassing that Sam of all people had already begun this transformation himself. But not Dean. Never him, so it's almost a cosmic miracle when John drops them both at Bobby's while he goes off to his next prolonged hunt.
It's not long until Dean finds different ancient tomes and lore books encompassing him in his temporary bedroom upstairs. Nervously biting at his nails, he mindlessly continues to turn the pages of each book in front and beside him after skimming through. He doesn't know what he's looking for, not really, yet his gut is screaming at him to persist. That maybe he'll reach that one page he's desperately been needing, and he does. It's a subtitle beneath a much larger heading but it's big and bold enough to thankfully attract his eyes.
Crossroad Deals.
The text beneath is lengthy. Extensive lists of what to do and what not to do, items needed in order to carry out a deal, what to expect when a demon shows up and lastly, how deals are sealed and binded with a kiss. The way his cheeks heat up by just reading the text is wicked enough. From where he was sitting, he pushes the bedroom door until a soft click registers. He continues perusing the page, eyes flitting left to right. There's a warning in the same bold format as the subheading at the end of the last paragraph. A reminder of the willing sacrifice that is done and the 10 years that would follow afterwards. It only helps to hook Dean's attention more as he straightens his posture.
Following the text are illustrations of crossroads. Dean's bones shudder with thrill at the mere idea of it. He's stumbled across demons before in his various hunts with John. The usual, nasty, malicious creatures of the underworld who threw him around like a ragdoll with no questions asked. It piqued his interest to find out there were now — apparently — different sub types when it came to them. Demons who were ready to bargain and slum it up with anyone who called on them in exchange for their names etched on the caller's soul. In all his teenage glory, he didn't know whether to feel scared or excited over it.
Inherently speaking, he knows it's wrong and entirely egregious. He doesn't need to be told twice or a third time that it's a bad idea, not because of the fact that he's 'responsible', but rather he knows he won't listen anyways. That way one way or another, curiosity will eventually clutch and suspend him and he'll eventually capitulate. Which is why he is doing it right now; doing his curiosity a favor by stepping one foot out of the window of the bedroom with the other following. He makes sure to carry his weight when he walks so that his steps are bereft of noise. He grunts as he lands on a heap of tires before escaping the cluttered scrapyard.
A tiny wooden box is in his hands as his legs continue their stride throughout the dark, deserted roads. In it contained the exact ingredients which the book had catalogued: clumps of graveyard dirt, a bone of a black cat, and a worn down picture of him, all in courtesy of sneaking into Bobby's private stash of drawers excluding the latter. Dean goes to bite his nails again as he gets closer to his destination. It's a place not far from Bobby's, half a mile from a nearby antique bar before the road narrows and diverges into three clearings. It's nothing if not the most suitable and perfect place in Dean's eyes.
He arrives shortly after half an hour of walking. His legs cramp uncomfortably as he drops to his knees in the center of the crossroads. Setting the box down, he begins to dig with his hands, pushing away dirt and leaves and rocks until a sizable hole's been made. Dean brushes off any remaining dirt on his hands and jeans once he finishes placing and covering his offering. He waits a few in anticipation, breath bated until his skin pricks not only at the wind but at the unfamiliar presence of another.
Dean shifts until he meets eyes with a man. Tall—much taller than him, middle aged, brunet, and eyes that looked nearly soulless; a demon before anything else. Unless Dean got too excited and he was nothing more but a man on a midnight jog.
The man paces closer to Dean and he mentally kicks himself from jerking and stepping back. He forces himself still a couple of seconds later to allow the— demon? Man? —access to work his dojo on him. Despite their current close proximity, the demon surprisingly doesn't touch or push at Dean. He just stares, looking at him like some kind of open exhibit.
“You're one of John Winchester's boys ain't ya?” The drawl is thick between the two of them. The younger man shudders at the mention and recognition. “Let's see, er– Sam isn't it? Samuel?”
“..Dean,” he hesitantly corrects. His eyes flicker as a smile spreads across their face, tugging unnaturally at aged skin. For some reason, Dean can't put it to himself to look away, watching as the planes and contours of their face shift. Though, he does give a little sneer back.
“Daddy’s little sermons about us never stuck in your head?” the demon looks him over before giving space again. “To what do I owe my pleasure?”
Dean scrapes the earth underneath his nails, little specks of dirt falling on his bleached jeans. “I want you to change me,” Dean says, a little stronger this time. “I want to change my hair, and uh maybe my eyes and my face, and my height.”
The spilled words taste weird on his tongue and Dean half-expects the demon to laugh in his face and shoo him off like a fly. At most, he braces himself for a quirk of the lips and the eyebrows yet he gets none. What replaces it is a simple hum.
The demon repeats, “You want me to change your body, is that it?”
Dean nods. He chews the inside of his cheek and asks sheepishly, "Can you change it as a whole? I– I just wanna be prettier."
"Long as you don't tell your daddy 'bout it, I can do whatever you want me to."
Dean squirms internally as the older man moves closer. A hand suddenly shoots out, thick fingers digging and grinding against the bones of his shoulder. He's scared it'll shatter into a million pieces from the pressure.
"Don't move."
The murmur is barely audible through the pounding of Dean's heart in his esophagus. He's struggling to breathe as his face is practically now cushioned against the demon's chest, but he obeys. His body is stiff, unmoving, and unyielding as the demon forces his chin up with a large hand.
"You're one of them smart ones, right? Read about this...exchange before you dove head first, yes?"
Dean recoils at the underlying stench of tobacco. He nods eagerly causing the grip to turn painful. A hitched gasp escapes his throat as the demon's wants bridge to his brain. He sputters out, "Yes sir.” The demon nods at him, indicating him to continue. “I’ll kiss you to seal the deal and you’ll come back for my soul after a while.”
“10 years,” the demon corrects, “but not tonight.”
Dean’s young—the demon can see that at the very least—he doesn’t want to take his soul just yet. Half being orders from down below and half his own little selfish intrigue. Instead, he proposes an idea: come back to this same clearing 3 days later and he’ll have a different form of payment. Something less detrimental than the whole soul thing.
Dean acquiesces.
Everything else feels like a walk in the park afterwards as the demon tugs the young boy closer, hoisting him up to stand on his vessel’s feet and tiptoe to match his height. The pain which rightfully followed was easily overlooked. One of his hands slither down to hold Dean’s waist, stabilising him while the other snakes up to his hair, pushing back any strands that fell on his forehead. “You ever kissed anyone?”
The words feel sultry and wrong coming from the demon. Dean swallows a growing lump, “No…sir.”
The demon’s hand up above is back and pushing hair back again. This time it stays grounded by fisting the strands right at the roots. Dean shuts his eyes closed while his mouth gaped. His mind runs wild, he’s fighting back against the grasp and pushing the demon back until he stumbles. He’s using his instincts and he’s running and running until his legs begin to buckle, but he doesn’t. He stays right there enduring the pain and the shameful pleasure that rode alongside it.
A small puff of air landing on his neck tells him the demon is enjoying this too. The sight of him, the way he felt wrapped around his hands—the undeniable, perverted nature of one of John Winchester’s boys. The demon kisses him.
It’s uncoordinated and Dean’s trying his best to keep up with the smooth gliding of lips and fuck, the demon’s pressing inside of his mouth. It’s intoxicating. His tongue is bitter with traces of citrus orange. The boy falters, breaking the intimate dance.
Dean’s eyes catch a string of saliva connecting both of their lips that eventually breaks off and falls on his chin. Dean licks it back up.
A large hand is pressing against his hot cheek, the fingers brushing against many bumps. A feral growl sounds out as the demon nicks one last kiss from the boy. It’s rough and it leaves his bottom lip bruised as he says, “Go home. Bring your things with you.”
Dean’s withdrawing and on his knees digging for the box in a flash. As he stands up, he touches the sore area given by the demon. It’s tender to the touch and Dean can still feel the ghost of their teeth and tongue. He gives them one last wild look before sprinting back to Bobby’s.