Chapter Text
There were exactly two reasons why people chose to stay at the Kimberly Hotel, and they were the same two reasons people were motivated to do a lot of the things they did. Sex and money.
The day manager, Vinnie, had developed a fine eye for both kinds of clientele, who were not, by the way, mutually exclusive. Mostly this meant married folks looking for some afternoon nookie, and the hotel Kimberly had the winning combination of being both cheap and discrete. And then there were those who rented a room by the day or the week, people down on their luck who just couldn't afford better.
Right up until last night, he had James Hetfield (obviously a fake name but this in no way made him stand out from the crowd) and his little brother pegged as the latter. Worn clothes and a way of handling themselves made it clear they weren't suburbanites spending the week in the city on a lark. He saw them several times during the course of the six days they'd been here, passing through the lobby, mostly quiet but sometimes bickering the way brothers did.
Last night, however, something had happened to change his perception of the situation.
There was a moment, just one moment, when the two had paused before climbing the stairs. Vinnie had thought for a minute that a fight or at least an argument was about to break out, and was gearing up to shut that down real quick like before it escalated into something Bad (like that time a few years back, when that hooker had taken an ice pick to her pimp over by the ficus tree, and he'd been the one stuck cleaning up the blood).
As it turned out, the charged atmosphere turned out to be for a different reason. It was nothing really obvious, no kissing or fondling or anything like that. But there was a look between them, heated and heavy, followed by a touch. Nothing overtly sexual, just a brush of hands, and yet.
And yet it was obvious these two weren't brothers, or if they were, they weren't the kind of brothers Norman Rockwell painted. Vinnie wasn't a man overly burdened by a conscious. As far as he was concerned, what two (or more) people did together was their business, no matter what the law had to say about it. However, he did draw the line at kids.
This situation had come up a few times before, always with a john and an obviously way too young hustler, and so Vinnie was prepared. He flipped through his Rolodex, cracked and faded with age, until he got to the business card stapled inside belonging to one Olivia Benson, one of the detectives who'd shown up after the ice pick incident.
He was halfway through the call when the pieces slid into place and he realized who, exactly, he had had staying in his hotel for the past week.
Dean Winchester.
“Gimme a second, there, detective, I think I got something else for you. Something big.”
He tucked the phone under his chin as he rooted around through the stack of magazines on his desk, stopping when he got to a lurid true crime rag - the kind that generally featured a half naked, pretty young woman on the cover.
The detective on the other end was getting impatient by the time he got to the picture he remembered – a deadly looking man holding a gun, standing in the open doorway of a bank. If he remembered correctly, it was a bank he happened to be robbing at the time. He quickly skimmed through the article and sat down with a thump.
“You, ah, might wanna bring SWAT with you this time. I'm thinking you're gonna need 'em.”
*
Detectives Benson and Stabler did, in fact, bring a SWAT team along, after hearing who they had in their city. Learning that there was also a child on scene with a high probability of said child being used as a hostage or human shield just made it even more imperative that nothing go wrong.
They emptied out the rooms to both sides of Winchester, just in case gunfire broke out, before the team broke in.
When the all clear was given, Elliot and Olivia went in to find four officers facing down a man standing near the bed, a man Olivia recognized from the picture she'd hastily pulled up before they'd got there. Dean Winchester.
In all his naked glory.
One of the other SWAT team grabbed a pair of jeans from the floor and threw them at their perp, who lowered his hands to catch them.
“Hands up,” the team leader barked and Dean just smirked in response.
“Make up your mind there, chief. You want me dressed or you want me with my hands up in the air? 'Cause the good citizens of New York might have something to say about me parading down the street with my dick hanging out. Then again...”
“Put 'em on, smart ass,” Elliot barked even as Dean anticipated the order and pulled on the jeans smoothly.
Most people, even hardened criminals, tended to be a little off balance when a SWAT team invaded their space. Especially if they were in middle of sex, as he appeared to have been. And most especially, if their partner was clearly underage by a good four or five years.
Dean Winchester, apparently, was not most people.
Olivia left Elliot to deal with their perp while she saw to their victim.
He was sitting up in the bed, hunched up near the headboard, covered with the thin polyester bedspread provided by the hotel. His shoulders and arms, the only body parts that were visible, were bare, and she didn't doubt the rest of him was just as naked. His eyes were wary but calm.
Olivia had to wonder what sort of life he'd led that the morning's events hadn't triggered more of a reaction. It was a sure bet that it hadn't been an easy one, or in any way pleasant. At least not recently.
Then again, he just may be in shock. Only one way to find out.
“Hey there. My name is Olivia. I'm a police officer, here to help you.” She paused and got down on her haunches, making herself as small and non-threatening as possible. “You're safe now,” she said softly.
The boy just continued to watch her, his face empty of all expression. Maybe he didn't speak English. They were seeing an upswing in immigrant prostitution rings lately. Kids and young adults from all over the world, most of them tricked into believing they were going to work in legitimate jobs, all of whom ended up in a nightmare world of sex slavery.
“Do you understand?”
The boy nodded, hazel eyes darting from her to Winchester to those holding weapons and back again.
“Can you tell me your name?” she asked gently as Elliot began leading their perp out of the room, now fully clothed and shod, escorted by several officers.
She could practically see the wheels turning in his mind as he considered the question. Olivia didn't push, instead waiting patiently for the boy to decide whether or not she was to be trusted.
She saw the minute he made up his mind, as one side of his mouth quirked up almost wryly.
“I'm Sam,” he said. “Sam Winchester.”