Laptops Not Lapdances (a comment fic & art meme!)
Dean: ...Now you want to go hang out at a strip club? You hate strip clubs.
Sam: No I don't.
Dean: Dude, the last lapdance you had was at Christmas. It was a gift paid for by me. You spent the entire song trying to convince the girl that she should go to nursing school.
(Video of scene in question hereWhether you've seen the episode or not, you'll ( Read more... )
Sam: No I don't.
Dean: Dude, the last lapdance you had was at Christmas. It was a gift paid for by me. You spent the entire song trying to convince the girl that she should go to nursing school.
(Video of scene in question hereWhether you've seen the episode or not, you'll ( Read more... )
Just when enough time have passed for Dean to start considering to call the pizza place again, because he reckons he should be going to his fifth slice by now, Sam blurts out, “She was new.”
Dean turns to him, furrows his brow. “Huh?”
“She was new,” Sam continues, “She probably hasn’t been doing this for too long.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, but. You know what? You need to stop thinking everyone likes things the same way you do. Like, you like watching, and I respect that, but…” Sam trails off.
“What, you saying you don’t like watching?” Dean asks. “What the fuck do you like, then?”
Sam turns his head to look at him, a shadow of a smirk in the corner of his lips.
He won’t say it, but when it slots into place inside Dean’s mind there’s no need to.
Dean blows out a breath, the room suddenly too small. He clears his throat, “How did you know she was new at it? She looked pretty damn good to me.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t good.”
Dean snorts. “You might as well have. Nerd.”
Stealthily, Sam moves to retrieve his laptop, and the song that starts playing from its speakers means business. He stands up between the two beds, unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down his ridiculous long legs, “Let me show you.”
Dean holds his breath, doubting his own two eyes as the scene of Sam undressing displays itself in front of him. “Show me what?”
He’s sat with his back against the headboard, and sits up straighter when Sam throws one leg over his, positioning himself over him. He presses one hand on Sam’s chest in a futile attempt to keep him away. “Woah, Sam, what are you--”
Sam’s way past drunk. It’s the only plausible explanation.
“What’s the first rule of lap dances?” Sam asks, looking from Dean’s hand on his chest to Dean’s face with raised eyebrows, like Dean is the one being inconvenient here.
“No touching,” Dean mutters, closing his hands into fists and keeping them by his sides.
“Right,” Sam nods. “So you can’t touch. But the person giving it to you needs to make you want to touch, and want it bad. It’s basically foreplay, you know?”
“Yeah, I get it, Sam, you can stop-- Stop screwing around.”
Sam holds onto Dean’s shoulders for leverage, closes his eyes. He starts rocking his hips to the song, moving them back and forth, in circles. Dean watches his abs flex as he pulls his shirt off, and licks his lips at the sight of the shape of Sam’s dick inside his tight boxers. Sam basks in the attention, half lidded eyes as daring as a prey that wants to be caught. He’s drunk, alright. Not terribly so, but enough to let down his inhibitions and forget why he shouldn’t be doing this.
Not having a boner, Dean repeats to himself in a silent mantra. Not having a fucking boner right now. I’m fine. He wants to tell Sam to knock it off, that he’ll regret this when morning comes. But the words don’t come out.
He lets his eyes wander, cataloging Sam’s skin and every move. He shoved down everything he ever felt regarding this for years, and now the realization of the possibility of it bursts something open inside of him.
Sam looks good. His skin reflects the light in golden tones, the determined expression on his face a silent promise.
Against Dean’s lips he asks, “You sure you want me to stop?”, and grinds down.
The kiss is an immediate response. Dean tucks Sam’s hair away from his face, licks into his mouth. Sam sucks on his tongue, and he’s not so much dancing anymore as he’s trying to rub off on Dean.
Wrestling comes in handy in situations like this. Dean grabs Sam’s ass and pushes all of his weight onto him. Sam falls back against the bed, and Dean kisses him deep, breaks the no touching rule with curious, desperate hands.
Under him, Sam writhes, flushed, panting softly.
“Alright, Sammy,” Dean says, pulling away briefly, his voice rough with lust, “I think it’s my turn to teach you something.”
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