In Dean's defense, he hadn't known at the time that the man eating syrup-drenched pancakes five feet away was a demi-god with a nasty sense of humor.
It was hard enough getting Sammy to split up to follow different leads. He's been clingy like a, like a, a leech, no, something Dean likes more than a leech, Sam's been clingy like a staticky dryer sheet - ever since Broward County. Having Sam all up in his personal space is the sweetest kind of torture for Dean, so he's been desperate to get some breathing room before he does something stupid like nibble on Sam's ear or rest a hand on the small of his back or fuck him raw and then get down on one knee and propose and maybe suck Sam's cock while he's down there. Yeah, splitting up was definitely the right call.
Dean doesn't want to push his luck and provoke a nervous breakdown, though, so he hurries back to Sam afterward. The skeezebag mayor's ex-wife didn't give Dean any leads on why the dude's now a peeping tom from beyond the grave, scaring the shit out of women all over town. Hopefully Sam's had more luck with the other women in the late mayor's life -- the ladies of Sizzle. (Which Dean doesn't think is much of a name for a strip club, it just makes him crave a steak.)
The first thing Dean sees backstage is a glimpse of Sam's hair and one huge booted foot visible through the wall of sequins and feathers and bare skin. All right, Sammy. He seems to have gotten the girls on his good side. Dean steps closer and shoulders his way in through the crowd of attentive women. Sam is sprawled in a chair in front of the lighted mirrors. One woman is bent over his right hand, carefully painting his nails a very light pink. His cheekbones are defined, cheeks more flushed than usual. There's a smear of bright red over Sam's mouth, like someone tried to put lipstick on him and he turned his head away. Sam's eyes are shut, and another woman - practically sitting in his lap - is putting the finishing touches on a barely-there smudge of black lining Sam's eyes. "That's some serious harassment. So how many of you did he follow home?" Sam asks. Six girls out of the group raise their hands. Sam carefully opens his eyes, blinking at his own image in the mirror, then counting the hands. Then he sees -- "DEAN." Sam's messy red mouth opens once silently, then shuts. "Um."
Dean says something intelligible, it might have sounded like it was just a distressed noise but that's cause of, you know. The music. The music out on the stage.
"Oh darn, we're out of makeup remover," says a woman in towering high heels.
Turns out Sam got all the information they needed by being an obliging plaything for as long as he spoke to them. Sam scrubs at his mouth with a hand as they walk out, and it just results in the trace of lipstick smearing and pinking up his face even worse. Now Sam just looks like he's been thoroughly debauched.
Dean hates his life almost as thoroughly as his life seems to hate him. He clenches the car keys in his hand till they're on the verge of breaking skin and definitely does *not* watch as Sam checks himself out in the visor mirror once they're back in the car.
Dean's coming out of Wal-Mart with a four-pack of t-shirts, a bag of rock salt, and a jug of Sunny D when he sees Sam coming out of Office Depot. "Hey, what'd you need to get at an office sup--"
"Paperclips," Sam says quickly. "We needed paperclips."
Dean squints at him and takes a chug of juice. "Okay." Sam is weird.
Their battered and annotated (for accuracy and opinion) Bible caught on fire a couple hunts ago, so when he needs to prove a point about demons Dean just has a moment of gratitude for the Gideons and reaches for the nightstand. He pauses with the drawer open and blinks. "Sam?"
Sam grunts questioningly.
"Why's there a ruler in the nightstand?"
Sam's eyebrows rise toward his hairline. "Beats me. People leave the weirdest things behind in motel rooms."
"Right," Dean says. He shakes his head and grabs the Bible. He needs to get more sleep, strange things are happening in Dean's brain.
1/2
In Dean's defense, he hadn't known at the time that the man eating syrup-drenched pancakes five feet away was a demi-god with a nasty sense of humor.
It was hard enough getting Sammy to split up to follow different leads. He's been clingy like a, like a, a leech, no, something Dean likes more than a leech, Sam's been clingy like a staticky dryer sheet - ever since Broward County. Having Sam all up in his personal space is the sweetest kind of torture for Dean, so he's been desperate to get some breathing room before he does something stupid like nibble on Sam's ear or rest a hand on the small of his back or fuck him raw and then get down on one knee and propose and maybe suck Sam's cock while he's down there. Yeah, splitting up was definitely the right call.
Dean doesn't want to push his luck and provoke a nervous breakdown, though, so he hurries back to Sam afterward. The skeezebag mayor's ex-wife didn't give Dean any leads on why the dude's now a peeping tom from beyond the grave, scaring the shit out of women all over town. Hopefully Sam's had more luck with the other women in the late mayor's life -- the ladies of Sizzle. (Which Dean doesn't think is much of a name for a strip club, it just makes him crave a steak.)
The first thing Dean sees backstage is a glimpse of Sam's hair and one huge booted foot visible through the wall of sequins and feathers and bare skin. All right, Sammy. He seems to have gotten the girls on his good side. Dean steps closer and shoulders his way in through the crowd of attentive women. Sam is sprawled in a chair in front of the lighted mirrors. One woman is bent over his right hand, carefully painting his nails a very light pink. His cheekbones are defined, cheeks more flushed than usual. There's a smear of bright red over Sam's mouth, like someone tried to put lipstick on him and he turned his head away. Sam's eyes are shut, and another woman - practically sitting in his lap - is putting the finishing touches on a barely-there smudge of black lining Sam's eyes. "That's some serious harassment. So how many of you did he follow home?" Sam asks. Six girls out of the group raise their hands. Sam carefully opens his eyes, blinking at his own image in the mirror, then counting the hands. Then he sees -- "DEAN." Sam's messy red mouth opens once silently, then shuts. "Um."
Dean says something intelligible, it might have sounded like it was just a distressed noise but that's cause of, you know. The music. The music out on the stage.
"Oh darn, we're out of makeup remover," says a woman in towering high heels.
Turns out Sam got all the information they needed by being an obliging plaything for as long as he spoke to them. Sam scrubs at his mouth with a hand as they walk out, and it just results in the trace of lipstick smearing and pinking up his face even worse. Now Sam just looks like he's been thoroughly debauched.
Dean hates his life almost as thoroughly as his life seems to hate him. He clenches the car keys in his hand till they're on the verge of breaking skin and definitely does *not* watch as Sam checks himself out in the visor mirror once they're back in the car.
Dean's coming out of Wal-Mart with a four-pack of t-shirts, a bag of rock salt, and a jug of Sunny D when he sees Sam coming out of Office Depot. "Hey, what'd you need to get at an office sup--"
"Paperclips," Sam says quickly. "We needed paperclips."
Dean squints at him and takes a chug of juice. "Okay." Sam is weird.
Their battered and annotated (for accuracy and opinion) Bible caught on fire a couple hunts ago, so when he needs to prove a point about demons Dean just has a moment of gratitude for the Gideons and reaches for the nightstand. He pauses with the drawer open and blinks. "Sam?"
Sam grunts questioningly.
"Why's there a ruler in the nightstand?"
Sam's eyebrows rise toward his hairline. "Beats me. People leave the weirdest things behind in motel rooms."
"Right," Dean says. He shakes his head and grabs the Bible. He needs to get more sleep, strange things are happening in Dean's brain.