What can I say, not a lot of Chippendales in this, but plenty of Sam and Dean … and I mean PLENTY! I know this is supposed to be a comment fic - this is just a really long comment!
Warnings: Rated T for nudity, as if you needed telling.
Word Count: 1,100
Disclaimer: If I owned them, would I have to write about them?
"You always said you wanted to work a hunt in a strip club," Sam snorted sourly; "well, be careful what you wish for."
"Shut your friggin' piehole," was his response.
Sam had tried pretending this wasn't happening. That it was all just a real bad dream and that if Dean shouted at him loud enough, he would wake up; but he knew his life could never be that simple.
The undeniably horrible reality was that he was standing in a shabby cramped dressing room at the back of a shabby strip joint pulling on a shabby fireman's uniform at least three sizes too small over nothing but a red sequinned thong (which had to be at least ten sizes too small – no wonder they had to let their last male stripper go.)
In addition, he was doing everything in his power to avoid looking across the tiny room at his brother railing and raging and stomping back and forth wearing only a similar sparkly red thong and his workboots.
"I'm not doin' it," Dean bellowed, throwing his arms in the air; "I'm not going out there with all those women. He turned, and for the first time Sam saw genuine fear in his eyes; "have you seen them? They're like the freakin' mongol hordes, dude … they'll eat us alive!"
"Can I remind you," Sam began, keeping his voice calm and training his eyes to remain fixed at a level no lower than his brother's throat, "that when Bobby told us about this hunt, you didn't stop to find out that the spirit was a late lamented barmaid who only manifested on ladies nights. Once you heard the words 'strip joint' you were out the goddamn door like a rat up a drainpipe."
"How the hell else are we going to go undercover here?" he added angrily, trying not to dwell on the irony of the word, 'undercover'.
Dean continued to stomp round the room like a caged animal, his bare legs looking comically skinny sticking out of massive workboots, his bare round butt cheeks clenching and unclenching like some kind of nervous tic.
Ever since the moment Dean had, without warning, bent over to pull his boots on, and confronted Sam with an image that made him wish he could take a blowtorch to his retinas, Sam's trauma levels were already sky high. In addition, watching (or trying not to watch) Dean continuously squirming and gyrating as he repeatedly attempted to excavate 'this friggin ass-floss' from between his butt cheeks had without doubt left Sam disturbed for life. Maybe being torn limb-from-limb by a crowd of five hundred oestrogen-drunk women would be a merciful release.
"What do they think I am?" Dean snapped; "a piece of meat?" He gestured up and down his still unclothed body; "it's disgusting, that's what it is … that a man should be treated like this in the twenty-first century …"
Sam rolled his eyes. This, coming from the man who could slip dollar bills into a stripper's cleavage with his teeth. The hypocracy was mind boggling, but that wasn't an argument he had the wit or inclination for at the moment. "Dean, stop your bitching, and get dressed for God's sake," he pleaded; "there's way too much skin on display in here, and it's those women who want to see it not me."
They both glanced up on hearing a knock on the door.
"On in five," the MC's voice called urgently.
"Last chance to bail," Sam prompted hopefully as Dean reluctantly pulled on his fireman's leggings.
Dean shook his head; "let's get the job done; Bobby'll never let it drop if we wimp out."
The brothers opened the dressing room door and gagged in unison as the strains of 'Burn Baby Burn' struck up in the auditorium ahead of them.
Sam prayed for a sinkhole or a meteor strike, anything that could remove him swiftly and violently from this place and this moment, as he trailed inelegantly around the stage after his brother, trying his best to be invisible, despite blushing a similar shade of scarlet to his thong.
It seemed, however, that shallow objectification brought out the best in Dean.
Strutting round the stage, pouting and posing like Mick Jagger on speed, he waved his ass in the direction of the audience and hurled his shirt at them, basking in the scream of approval that almost lifted the roof.
Standing in the middle of the stage, he raised his arms, flexing his shoulders and chest, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he baited the increasingly wild audience; "you can look ladies, but don't handle the merchandise; I bruise easily!"
Sam began to slink unnoticed into the shadows at the side of the stage. Really; where was an earthquake when you needed one?
The audience whooped with delight as Dean tore his pants off and hurled them aside, not even acknowledging when they wrapped themselves round Sam's face, and proceeded to whip the crowd into a frenzy by singing along to the pounding soundtrack, thrusting his pelvis in every possible direction.
Sitting slumped in the dressing room, Sam listened to Dean singing himself hoarse in the shower. He would never stop reliving that moment when Dean decided to go crowd-surfing at the end of their performance. When Dean had finally fought his way back to the stage, he had somehow aquired teeth marks and lipstick stains in all manner of places Sam really didn't want to think about.
Dean had gallantly collected thirteen pairs of panties and four bras that had been thrown onto the stage. There had also been a pair of boxers, but Dean had politely overlooked them.
Still, the job was done, they'd found out what they needed to know about the spirit, and a quick salt and burn later tonight would see an end to it. No longer would the male performers be strutting their stuff in the presence of the club's only posthumous audience member.
It was finally over, Sam breathed out a deep sigh of relief.
"You know Sammy," Dean announced, striding out of the shower with the most smug, self-satisfied smirk Sam had ever seen – and on Dean's face, that was saying something; " if ever we're short of cash, we could always …"
Sam didn't mean to punch his brother - it just, kinda, happened.