#jordanissmiling

Sam's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed in a solid #6 and Dean felt his own shoulders tense in instinctive defensive response as his brother hustled him into the booth with a combination of shoving and crowding, dropping in quickly behind him like he was worried Dean was going to try and dive back out. 

Dean casually slid around the half circle in a slightly awkward scoot, pointedly stopping at the very edge of the other side. 

Sam rolled his eyes. "Can't you keep your mind out of your pants for ten minutes? I mean, really Dean, remember...you know, the harpy?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I remember, Sam." He was glad Sam was feeling better but that didn't mean he had to take his unwarranted bitching. "I know how to keep my eyes open. Which one of us is still shaking off two years of rust, huh?" 

This was an easy job, not one they'd been driven to by Sam's head-splitting vision dreams, and even if it wasn't, Sam had no right to get angry over Dean appreciating the eye-candy in an adult-circuis, for God's sake. Just then, the lights dimmed a little further, and two spotlights came on, angled up. The room quieted at the queue.

"That means you don't make mistakes?" Sam hissed, voice dropping in response to the change in volume. "Bullshit, man. I've seen you after them. Hell, I've stitched you up after a few."

Dean glared, but his attention was pulled up at the sound of gears. There was a false top to the roof that was rolling open now, lowering someone on a giant swing.

"It's him!" One of the men whispered in the booth beside them. "Thurday's Sapphire!"

Dean stared as the man was lowered closer, the fine structure of his features becoming easier to make out in the dim light. His chin was cleffed, the fine arch of his mouth just generous enough to be interesting without overwhelming. The blue of his eyes was so intense that Dean could feel the intensity when they passed over him briefly. 

"You need a minute?" Sam asked, tearing Dean's attention from the descending form. 

"Huh?" 

Sam narrowed his eyes and Dean exhaled forecefully. "Harpy, 2 o'clock."

Sam blinked, automatically looking that way. Dean knew what he was seeing: the girl was pretty, but not pretty enough to get a front spot in any of the shows. She was fit enough, but not so much that she might be tapped for one of the acrobatic numbers. Nothing exceptional that would put her in the spot light at all. Nothing except the faint white lines the spilled just a bit over her shoulder and continued, from Dean's quick perusal, down her back. 

Those lines could raise in a heartbeat, becoming nearly invisible and razor sharp wings, according to the lore they had. 

"Good work," Sam muttered, ducking his head in a silent apology. Dean shrugged and Sam continued with a lopsided, sheepish smile. "We'll find her tonight, I guess."

"Less potential casualties," Dean murmured, eyes straying back up to the showrunner to find himself pinned by those deep blue eyes before they slid away as he stepped from the platform to the ground.

"The lights are on but you're not home," the man sang, drawing out the words with a teasing carress. Dean swallowed as the rough tremble of his voice slipped into his ears and down his spine with a warm shiver. The heat only grew as the man continued. "Your mind is not your own...your body sweats, your body shakes...another kiss is all it takes."

The dude -- he was NOT calling him Thursday's Saphire, fuck that -- turned back towards Dean's side of the room and this time, when his eyes drifted toward the booth, they lingered deliberately. Dean lost a moment caught in those eyes and watching his mouth shape the words of the song. Eyelids fell incrementally, somehow translating as a smirk, and Dean blinked, breaking the spell.