Pretty in Pink (Isn't He?) Chapter 6: Now You're Messing With a...

[justinedelarge]

Author: justinedelarge
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Words: 1500
Warnings: Wincest, crossdressing
Disclaimer: I don't own what I don't own.
Summary: What you've all been waiting for. Dean goes to meet Sam in the bar as directed, and gets the surprise of his life.

Dean checked the address again. It was the one Sam had texted him, alright. “Meet me here at 7 pm.”

He’d been there for ten minutes. No sign of Sam.

The bar was not too crowded. A few attractive women at the pool table, some people at the bar, and a small crowd gathered near two girls dancing to music on the jukebox.

Based on what Dean could see of the ass on one of the women, he could understand the crowd surrounding them. He hadn’t seen an ass that nice in… he didn’t even know. Poured into that black leather miniskirt, with long, toned, smooth legs… He whistled quietly to himself in appreciation, then settled onto a barstool. “Shot of Old Granddad.” The bartender slid the shot glass to Dean. “Hey, have you seen a really tall guy come in here?” The bartender shook his head no.

Dean sipped his whiskey and waited. The girl with the nice ass was apparently very popular. Several guys sidled up to her and tried their best icebreaker. The platinum blonde with her shooed them off quickly. The girl, crazy tall with legs for days, laughed and tossed her hair—and her eyes met Dean’s.

She froze, lips parting slightly, then turned around quickly. Her blonde friend looked over at Dean and her eyes went wide, and she started giggling.

“I still got it, “Dean thought with a little smirk.

The girl poured into the black leather miniskirt walked to the jukebox, which had fallen silent, and inserted a bill.

A few buttons pressed, and then the song began to play.

A familiar guitar riff spilled from the speakers, and Dean grinned. He knew why Sam had picked this place to meet up. Good whiskey, and classic rock on the jukebox. He could almost forgive him for making him wait.

The girl flipped her hair in her face like she was shy, and they started bar dancing with her friend again—that kind of dancing that’s anchored in the hips and pelvis, that whiskey-soaked slow grind where the women revel in what it feels like to have a body like that, and the men dream of what it’s like to touch it.

Heartbreaker, soul shaker… I’ve been told about you…

The girl turned towards Dean, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. Christ, she was gorgeous. Fucking tall, though. Huge brown eyes, perfect mouth gleaming red, a tight little hardbody, and fucking hell, was she wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt?

Suddenly Dean felt like watching her was wrong. Shouldn’t be doing that. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Neither could the other men in the bar. One tried to slide up on her and grind, but Pretty Girl’s best friend shoved him away and hissed something at him angrily enough that he backed up a few feet, looking confused, and stalked away.

The pretty girl watched Dean watching her, and such a strange, complex series of expressions flitted across her face. It ended with a smile and a sex-drenched look in her eyes that stopped Dean’s breath.

…red hot mama, velvet charmer, time’s come to pay your dues…

She faced him directly now, hands sliding along her hips, spine so limber, hips swaying to the music, then spun on her heels, raising her arms up overhead and letting her hair fall back, brushing the top of that wicked leather skirt, tickling the bare skin at the small of her back, then smoothing her hands down the curve of her ass.

…now you’re messing with a (son of a bitch)…now you’re messing with a son of a bitch…

Dean tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “Sam, goddamn it, where the fuck are you?” he muttered. And signaled for a second shot.

The pretty girl turned halfway back around, in profile now, arching and curling in a series of subtle but effective body rolls that drew Dean’s eyes, unwillingly, to her perfect, tanned stomach. She gathered up her hair in both hands at the back of her neck and, made bolder by Dean’s unmistakable notice of her, blinked at him in a way that wordlessly signaled a clear invitation.

Dean growled, “Goddamn it, Sam, where are you?” but could not for the life of him tear his eyes away from her.

And then, with superhuman effort, he did so.

He didn’t see the expression on the girl’s face, but if you’d asked him to guess, he would have said it was disappointment.

It wasn’t.

It was pride, tinged with a little relief.

* * *

“One more?” She squeezed in next to Dean at the bar, turned away from him slightly, and signaled to the bartender.

Fuck.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You’re gorgeous, but I’m not on the market.”

She just stood there, standing right next to him. When she picked up her shot, Dean could have sworn her hand was shaking. She swallowed half the drink, and turned to face him. “No? I don’t see anyone with you.”

Dean scowled. “He’s late.”

She laughed.

“What?  Yeah, I said he. So what?”

“That’s not why I’m laughing.” Her voice was as gorgeous as the rest of her, husky and tinged with a faint Southern accent.

“No? Alright. What's so funny?”

The girl leaned in slowly, breasts pressing against Dean’s upper arm, hair swinging down against his chest. She placed a hand on his shoulder. Dean swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Brushing her lips over his neck, she whispered, “He’s not late.”

“What?” Dean sat up. “You... wait, you know him?” Suddenly, the pretty girl’s height and voice made sense now. The case they were on. The murder of those transwomen. Dean couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to get it. Sam must have sent her over to flirt with Dean, as some kind of prank.

“You’re helping him. I get it. So, where is he?” Dean scanned the room---and his eye was caught by something he did not expect. There, on the woman’s chest, underneath a layer of perfectly applied makeup, was the faintest trace of a sun flare surrounding a pentacle.

If Sam’s hand wasn’t already on his shoulder, Dean would have fallen off the stool.

He couldn’t speak.

Sam smiled.

Dean stared, trying to remember how to operate his lungs.

“You ok?”

Dean was beyond words. Just stared at Sam. The long, reddish-brown hair. The lush eyelashes and smoky eyeliner highlighting his eyes, bringing out the green in them. The gleaming red lips. The long, long, smooth legs. Christ, the breasts. They looked so real.

Dean raised his hand to Sam’s face, traced his baby-soft skin, moved trembling down his throat to the perfectly smooth skin of his chest.

Sam made a soft, helpless sound.

Then he offered Dean the rest of his shot of whiskey.

Dean drank it. He was still unable to speak.

Sam took Dean’s hand. “C’mere. Dance with me.”

Dean was so stunned, Sam led him easily to the small dance floor. His blonde friend punched a few buttons on the jukebox. She watched them carefully, oh so carefully, poised for…something. Anything.

The sound of organ and drums filled the bar. Sam slipped his arms around Dean and pulled him close. Dean slid his hands over Sam’s waist, fingers on his bare flesh. If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you…

Sam swayed with Dean, pressing his face against Dean’s hair. Dean took a deep, shuddering breath, fingers tightening convulsively. The body in his arms, pressed up against him, was gloriously, perfectly female. He could feel it. He could feel what was there, clear as day. He could feel what wasn’t there. He trembled. “Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured. “It’s me.”

Dean ran his hands down Sam’s hips, fingertips caressing the butter-soft leather, looked up into his face, his green eyes wide. “Sammy.”

“Are you ok? Dean. Is this…is this ok?” Sam tensed up.

Dean immediately shut that down. “Shh… it’s ok. It’s… Christ. Sam?”

Dean looked so perplexed, Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

“But… how… I mean…” Dean stared down at Sam. “I mean, fucking hell, Sam, how…”

“S’alright. I’ll tell you all about it later. But Dean.” Sam’s voice was so quiet. “Do...do you like it?”

Dean stopped moving, and raised his hand to Sam’s face, rubbing his thumb across Sam’s jawline in that familiar way that never failed to comfort him. And then tough, taciturn Dean Winchester whispered, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sam couldn’t help it. He started to cry. And right there, in front of God and everyone, Dean gently brought his brother’s exquisitely made-up face to his and kissed him, slow and sweet.

Author’s note: This is NOT the end. There’s more to come. So, so much more.