Work Text:
Babe You're A
Title: Babe You're A
Author: Impertinence
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Brosex, language, the usual.
Summary: The brothers get a flat tire and their credit card has been discontinued. OH NOES.
“Fuck.”
It was a word normally associated with sex, but Sam knew that getting laid was currently the furthest thing from Dean’s mind. “What’s going on?” He’d been jerked from sleep by Dean’s cussing; for some reason, they were parked on the side of the road.
“We got a flat,” Dean said grimly, pounding the steering wheel.
Sam frowned. “But it’s ok, isn’t it? We’ve got the spare in the back.”
“That we used last week, remember?”
They’d pissed off the local motorcycle gang, and the next day, all four of their tires had been slashed. It had made sense at the time to use the spare they had.
“Shit.”
“Right.”
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the cars race by on the highway.
“So…” Dean shifted wearily; he’d bruised most of his left side on their last job. “How far do you think it is till the nearest gas station?”
They were smack dab in the middle of Illinois, so Sam’s guess was, “A long way.”
“Guess we’d better start walking.”
||
They were tough. They could spend an hour chasing down a werewolf before fighting and killing it and still have enough energy left to have some fun down at the local bar afterwards. But the prospect of walking mile upon endless mile bored them both to death.
“Wanna play 20 questions?” Sam asked after awhile.
“Wanna play ‘who’s a bigger geek’?” Dean countered.
“We’ve been walking for hours. I’m bored.”
“Yeah, well, the sign said Aurora was only 20 miles away. We’ll get there soon.”
Sam shivered; it was still winter up north, and the “flat as a pancake that had been squished by an 18 wheeler” terrain was offering absolutely no cover. The road was creepily straight, too, like it’d been laid out with a ruler. Maybe it had. All Sam knew was that he was tired of passing by fields, fields, and more fields, without a house in sight.
“You cold?”
“What? Uh, no,” he lied quickly.
“You can’t fib to save your life, Sam.” Dean shrugged off his coat, not even breaking stride. “Here, wear this.”
“Or not,” Sam said snidely. “I’m not a big enough pussy to need your jacket.”
“Sam, put the damn thing on or I’ll kick your ass.”
It was a familiar threat, and one that had been played out enough times for Sam to know that Dean was dead serious. He put the jacket on obediently, inhaling the musky leather scent. Warmth enveloped him immediately. “Did you have a warlock spell this thing or something?”
Dean snorted. “You’ve been readin’ too many novels, Sam. It’s just leather.”
“Your body heat is insanely high, then.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Dean’s eyes scanned the horizon restlessly. “Where the hell is this shithole Aurora anyway?”
“I don’t know, but my guess is we’ll see it way before we get to it.”
The road ahead was still flat, and all either of them could see was fields and old barns. There wasn’t even a lonely security light; for all intents and purposes, it was a wasteland.
“We’d better move, then.” But Dean didn’t speed up; Sam wasn’t even sure that he could. He was already half-limping, favoring his left leg extensively, and Sam himself was the one carrying all their supplies.
He knew Dean would leave him dead by the roadside if he so much as mentioned any injury, though, so he shut his mouth and kept going.
||
Midnight had come and gone, according to Sam’s watch, and they were still walking.
“Dean?”
“What now, Sam?” Dean was crotchety as hell—understandably so, he guessed, but that didn’t make Sam any less irritated.
“What’s that up there?” He pointed to the pinprick of light he could just see, so far up the road that it actually disappeared behind a distant line of trees every now and then.
“Uh. Trees?” They’d passed several groves of trees on the side of the road, apparently tended by no one. Idiot highway maintenance crew, Dean had said.
“No, the light behind the trees,” Sam said impatiently.
Dean frowned. “Sam, what are you talking about? There’s trees. And then darkness. And that’s it.”
“No, man, there’s a light up there. It’s really faint, the trees keep blocking it—“ And then Sam realized the problem.
Dean was too short to see the light.
“What?” Dean said sharply as the grin began to spread over his face. “What’s so funny? Man, if you don’t tell me what the hell is up I’m gonna—“
“Nothing,” Sam said quickly. “It’s just that you’re, uh…”
“Spit it out, Sammy.”
“Too short to see past the tree line,” Sam finished, grinning widely.
For a second there was dead silence, then Dean grunted. “Well, lemme see.”
“I’m not picking you up,” Sam said, snorting.
A pause. “Fuck,” he grumbled. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”
“Nope,” Sam said cheerfully, not even pausing. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me when I say there’s a light up there.”
“Dickwad.”
Sam just laughed.
||
The closer they got, the more impatient Dean became. Sam had never really understood how his brother survived the life they had, because he had about as much patience and attention span as the average fruit fly, and right now was no different. If anything, it was worse now that they knew civilization wasn’t that far off.
Sam got bored easily, but then he was also easily amused. Dean got bored and bitched about it.
So he was thanking God and every other deity he could think of when they finally arrived at Moe’s Gas Station, a slumped little building almost on top of the Crazy Eight’s Gentlemen’s Club.
Wait, what?
Sam stared incredulously at the building’s worn front. It looked like it had been a general store once upon a time, but now the windows were boarded up and the silhouette painted on the door made it very clear what business the establishment was involved in now.
“Huh,” Dean said, eyeing the place. “Maybe we can go there while we wait.”
Sam stared at Dean incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I be joking?” Dean looked blank.
“Dude. It’s a club!”
“So?”
“So,” Sam said with an exaggerated sigh, “That means there are naked women. And horny men.”
“And again I say, so? It’s at least guaranteed to be open.”
Sam couldn’t believe his ears. “You tryin’ to tell me you want to hang out in a tacky strip club?”
Dean shrugged. “Beats sittin’ around. Now come on—we gotta call a tow truck.”
Sam, still staring incredulously, followed him inside.
||
The room was just as tiny and washed-out as the outside, and while there was a payphone, there wasn’t a phone book. Dean muttered something about dumbass hicks under his breath and approached the counter.
“Uh, hi,” he said. The cashier raised an eyebrow at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a high, clear voice. Sam did a double take and looked over at the counter. Yeah, she was hot, even if apparently she had nothing better to do than man a gas station in the middle of the night.
Dean leered. “Sure, babe. You got a phone book around here?”
Her eyes narrowed. “If I did, I’d hit you on the head with it. But no, we don’t. Sorry.” Her tone indicated that she was anything but.
“Uh, well, you wouldn’t happen to have a tow truck, would you?” Sam interjected hastily. Dean glared at him, but right now he couldn’t care less—the absolute last thing they need is to alienate the only human beings for miles.
“Sure, my uncle owns the county tow service,” she said. “You got a way to pay? It’ll be a lot, late as it is.”
Dean produced the credit card with a suave smile, and despite the girl’s bristling, Sam let him hand it over without a word. He hated this part—lying to decent people.
She took the card and ran it through the computerized scanner, tapping it against the counter as she waited for the approval. Sam shifted from foot to foot, nervous; Dean just took his sweet time checking her out.
After a minute she frowned at the screen. “I’ll be out in a sec,” she said, disappearing in the back room.
“Crap,” Sam muttered. “Do you think they halted it?”
“Maybe,” Dean said. “It’s not anywhere near the limit.”
“Who’s it registered to?”
“Some random guy in Amarillo.”
Their whispered conversation was interrupted by the girl coming back out, this time with a beefy older man in tow. “Here they are, Dad.”
“Boys, the computer says this card’s been halted. Fraud.” His eyes perused them both. Sam tried to put on an innocent face, but he could feel himself blushing.
“Fraud? Well, that’s funny, sir—me and my brother here haven’t been up to anything.” Dean grinned, as smooth and guileless as ever.
But even Dean jumped when the man slams his fist down on the counter. “Quit bullshittin’ me,” he ordered. “Now, I don’t give a damn who you are or why your card got discontinued. You need a ride, I’ll have Bobby get your car and fix it, but you’ll have to find another way to pay.”
“Well, there ain’t any restaurants—we can’t wash dishes,” Dean said with a cocky grin.
The girl smirked at him.
“Actually, there is.”
||
“You are dead meat,” Sam informed him.
“Relax, dumbass.” Dean flicked some suds at his brother’s face. “It’s just a strip club, not like you haven’t been in one before.”
“It’s a strip club!” Sam exclaimed as he scrubbed a dirty dish. “There are naked girls out there!”
“Jesus, would you just calm down?” Dean took the newly washed dish and rubbed it dry, setting it in the dish drainer. “Once we get a break we’ll be able to head right out into a roomful of naked women.”
“Naked women who are probably riddled with diseases.” Sam’s tone reflects—disgust? No—fear. Dean chuckled in amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the big bad vaginas, Sammy.”
“Shut up,” Sam mumbled. He was washing a meat platter, and Dean watched his speed almost double as he scrubbed it.
“Sam.” Dean reached out and placed a hand on his brother’s sudsy wrist, honest worry making him serious. “Why is this such a big deal to you? It’s not like you’ve never been to a club before, right?”
Sam didn’t answer.
Well, shit. “You tryin’ to tell me you’ve never been to a strip club before?” Dean snorted in disbelief.
“Um. No,” Sam admitted.
Dean rolled his eyes. “God, you’re pathetic. Alright, hurry up—we gotta get you out there.”
“What? No! It’s a strip club! They’re tacky!”
“No,” Dean corrected him, “They’re hot. Now hurry up.”
Sam grumbled, but after Dean threatened to dunk his head in the dirty dishwater he gave in and washed more quickly. They were done in just under an hour, the flow from the club having finally stopped.
“Dishes are all clean and shiny,” he told the girl’s dad, who’d told them to call him Kilgore. “We’re gonna go grab a soda, if that’s alright.”
“Can get you pop back here,” the man said darkly, glaring at them.
“But we wouldn’t want to miss the ambiance of your lovely club!” Dean’s smile was abruptly cut off when Sam elbowed him in the stomach. Cut the sarcasm, his brother’s glare said.
Dean just smirked unrepentantly. “So, we’re gonna go on out,” he said, and all but dragged Sam out of the kitchen door and into the dark, smoky atmosphere of the club.
What he saw made him stop dead. Oh, fuck it.
This was a strip club, all right.
But it wasn’t for men.
||
Strip clubs were tacky.
Strip clubs had always been tacky.
Strip clubs would always be tacky.
Sam had no intention of ever changing his stance on the matter, which was why he’d been so reluctant to go out in the first place. But he went from vaguely disgusted and annoyed with Dean to horrified and furious when he realized that they weren’t at a men’s strip club, where there would at least be relatively attractive women on stage.
No, they were at a ladies’ club. Men were writhing onstage in tight thongs and body glitter.
And the sign hanging above the stage proclaimed that it was amateur night.
“Shit,” Dean breathed, suddenly clutching his arm.
Sam was inclined to agree. “If we mange to get out of here unmolested, I’m going to kill you,” he informed his brother.
Dean’s smirk was unbelievably annoying. “How ‘bout we stick together? That way, if one of us gets molested, the other will too.”
Was he suggesting—oh, god, he was. “You know, threesomes are barely okay if you’re not related to anyone you’re having it with,” Sam ground out.
Dean snorted. “Nothing’ wrong with sharing, Sammy.”
“I hate you,” Sam announced, absently watching the stage. Most of the men were weirdly muscled and hairy and one was freakishly huge, but the guy in the middle was just right—compact but not too defined, smooth all over, tall but not gangly.
It was only when he adjusted himself in his jeans that he realized Dean was watching him with what could only be called glee.
“What?” he snapped, but he knew Dean had already seen.
“You’re queer.”
“What? I am not!” Sam exclaimed, but his voice broke and jumped a register. Well, crap. That couldn’t be helping his case.
He was right. “So, you’re not gay, but somehow you get turned on seein’ naked guys on the stage.”
“Something like that, yeah.” And Sam knew that his defense was beyond pathetic, but right now there was no way he was gonna back down.
“You’re pretty stupid, you know that?” Just like that Dean’s dismissed him, turning back to the strippers and eyeing them speculatively. “Hunh. Not bad.”
Sam blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Well, the guy in the middle’s a bit scrawny, but the guy on the end—I’d hit that.”
Sam felt like someone had just hit him. “Did you just say what I think you just said?”
“If you think I said I’d fuck a guy, then yeah.”
Normally Dean’s bluntness just sort of annoyed Sam, but right now it was enough to bring him to his knees.
Metaphorically speaking, anyway.
“You do know that the guy in the middle looks like you, right?” he asked, ignoring Dean’s declaration entirely.
Dean blinked. “Dude. I’m not that short. And I’m way more toned.”
“Well, you’re short compared to me,” Sam said with a grin.
“Very funny.” Dean’s still watching the stage with a speculative look. “Hey, Sam, I dare you to get up there.”
“What?” Now Sam really can’t believe his ears. “No!”
“Why not? It’d be a great way to meet Lover-Boy up there.”
Now he was leering, and honestly, there was only so much Sam could take in one day. “What is your problem, man?” he exclaimed. “Do you have to joke about this!” It was too angry, too aggressive, to be a question.
“Uh, yeah.” Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. “Honestly, man, what’s your problem? I don’t give a flying fuck if you like guys.”
“Yeah, but—“
Okay, that was resolved. He couldn’t tell Dean to his face that he didn’t just like guys, he liked his brother. Fine then. Sam set his face stubbornly. “I’m going to go sit down,” he told Dean. “Go hit on that tall guy, if you like him so much.”
The sly look that instantly passed over Dean’s face really should’ve been an indication that something wasn’t right, but Sam was so tired and distracted that he didn’t even notice. He slumped down at a table, cradling his head in his hands and trying to think of something that didn’t involve men who looked disturbingly like his brother writhing naked under hot spotlights.
He was so absorbed in his moping that he almost didn’t hear the announcer declare, “And now we’ve got a solo act, folks, a man calling himself ‘Dean, the Sex Machine’!”
Sam’s head snapped up so fast he damn near gave himself whiplash. He was praying that he was wrong, that he was just hearing very sick, wrong things—but nope, there was Dean, standing on the stage in nothing but a very tight black thong.
Oh, yeah. He was a dead man walking.
Sam was, in fact, about to get the hell up on that stage and tell him so when music started to play. He had no idea what it was—some 80s techno crap—but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Dean had started moving—slow, sinuous movements, oiled muscles flexing under the flashing multicolored lights.
Sam couldn’t look away.
It was insane, because objectively, he looked ridiculous. Dean wasn’t exactly a professional stripper, and aside from the slick muscles and cocky grin, he looked way out of his element. But the way his hips undulated as sweat slid down his body, the way his confidence grew even more when the audience hooted and whistled at him—the throbbing of the music, the hands—
God, his hands.
The chair was hard and uncomfortable and the music alone should have been enough to keep him from getting hard, but in spite of all that Sam was wiggling in his chair, images of oil-slicked hands running through his mind like something from a very low-quality, very hot porno.
This was just not good.
It got even worse when Dean caught his eye and grinned, a slow sly smile that told Sam his brother knew exactly what he was doing. Jesus fuck.
It was like a farce, Dean bouncing around under the light, all hard muscle and strong, flexing fingers…no. Wait. They were supposed to be working off their debt. He couldn’t let Dean distract him with this stunt.
Then Dean took the thong off, and Sam high-tailed it for the nearest bathroom.
||
“Problem, little brother?”
Dean watched with satisfaction as Sam shuddered against the wall, head thrown back with a painful-sounding crack. It was a good look for him, Dean decided as he moved forward and thrust his erection against Sam’s.
“Dean.” Choked out because Sam could barely breathe. Good; neither could he.
“Saw you watching me,” he explained softly. “Though I was gonna come right up there on the stage in front of everyone. It would’ve been funny, but then I wouldn’t have been able to do…this.”
It was easy work to wiggle a hand in between them and grip Sam’s dick tightly, his fingers brushing up against Sam’s. Little bastard hadn’t even bothered to stop jerking himself off.
Dean grinned.
“You liked seeing me up there, all nice and oiled up,” he murmured. Every word made Sam’s lips twist defiantly.
How long until he gave up?
“You look good wearing my jacket, by the way.” He stroked Sam softly, twisting his hand and ever so slowly grinding his hips forward.
“Fuck you.”
Dean cocked his head. “Is that an invitation? I figured the doors were closed after that whole thing in Des Moines—“
That was all it took, just as Dean had known it would be. Sam’s hands left his dick and came up to Dean’s shoulders, slammed him clear across the bathroom and against one of the cold metal stalls.
“Don’t talk about it like that,” Sam gritted out between clenched teeth. “It’s not a fucking joke, Dean.”
“I know,” Dean shot back—and then he bounced up, and suddenly they were kissing.
Okay, then.
Sam kissed like he fucked, a combination of hard and hesitant, like he was worried he might hurt Dean but at the same time he wanted to. He kissed Dean like he was kissing a chick, and it pissed Dean off.
He tangled his fingers in Sam’s hair, yanking viciously, biting his lower lip until his blood rushed into Dean’s mouth. It probably wasn’t normal to feel adrenaline pumping through him at the taste, but he honestly didn’t care.
“Come on, Sam,” he urged as Sam gripped him way too tight, smiling cruelly. “Do it. You know you want to.”
Apparently Sam did, because now he was unzipping Dean’s own pants, yanking out his dick, stroking it roughly and—
Wait.
Dean blinked, because he could’ve sworn that Sam had just gotten on his knees in a dirty bathroom, which really wasn’t his style. Too gross.
But nope, Sam was definitely on the ground, and he was—oh Jesus God— taking Dean into his mouth, slow and wet and hot.
Deans hands flew out convulsively but encountered nothing except the smooth expanse of the stalls behind him, so he settled for gripping Sam’s hair, twisting it shamelessly and—whimpering? No.
Dean didn’t whimper.
But when Sam did that thing with his tongue there might’ve been a second, maybe, when Dean let something loose that sounded a bit like a whimper, if you’d just come home from a rock concert and were half-deaf.
Maybe.
But he definitely groaned and urged Sam on in a soft voice, unable to stop himself from thrusting his hips, whispering, “God, Sam, the way you look—your fucking lips—ah, shit, I can’t—you’re just—“
And Sam smiled around his dick like this was some kind of joke for him, something fun, and when Dean felt a finger go up his ass and saw Sam’s hand jerking himself off he knew that it was, and it was that thought right there—the idea of Sam getting off on wrapping his lips around Dean’s dick—that had him coming all over Sam’s face, on his shirt, on the floor.
When it was over Sam stood up, a disgusted look on his face. “Dude. That was nasty.”
Dean snorted. “Oh, please. Like some of the stuff on the floor isn’t yours.”
Sam’s look was rueful. “Okay, yeah.”
“Looks good on you.” Dean took advantage of Sam’s surprise to land a messy one square on his now sticky lips. “Kneeling, I mean. With my cock practically choking you.”
Sam shoved Dean into the stalls, but he was laughing. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth. I seem to remember a time in New Orleans when you—“
And then they both stopped dead, because the Kilgore girl was standing in the bathroom door.
With a video camera.
She shone the little red light in their faces with a smug smile on her face.
“I think you boys have paid for your tire,” she said silkily. “So, Dean. How much do you think the girls would pay for a sex tape of their favorite sex machine?”
Sam didn’t think he was going to stop laughing for a long, long time.
||