Watchman Alternate

WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! This was Sammy, his little brother, Sammy. The kid he kept fed and clothed and schooled. But there he was on stage, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, ass swaying for all to gawk at. It was Sammy who, at fourteen asked, frustrated and discouraged if there was something wrong with the way he kissed. Laura-May from third period had told him she didn’t like how he did it. Dean had teased him for hours until Sammy snapped that he should just show him how to do it right, if he was such an expert. And Dean had. He always helped Sammy. If he needed to know something, Dean would learn it and teach it to him. Besides, it would’ve reflected badly on Dean if he’d let the kid out into the world not knowing his way around. Sam’s tongue had tasted like root beer when his body spasmed in Dean’s lap, an impressive stain forming on the front of his jeans. He’d been so embarrassed that he’d run into the bathroom and stayed there for almost an hour after he’d washed his pants in the sink. When Dean finally coaxed him out, he’d given him the ‘hey, it’s okay; it happens to everybody sometimes, and it isn’t you fault’ talk.

The Sam on stage was climbing down from the stage and into the lap of some balding accountant type, who’d stuck a handful of bills into his Speed-o. Where had the pants gone? The motherfucker said something into Sam’s ear. Sam glanced in Dean’s direction and Dean was suddenly grateful for the little barrier between his booth and the stage. Even so, Sam’s eyes dropped to where Dean’s hand was pressing painfully into his erection as he tried to get himself to calm down a little. Shit! He had to have seen the movement, or something in Dean’s face. Sam’s focus shifted back to the loser under him as he nodded and smiled, said something back. Ass-face grinned and started pawing at Sam’s muscular chest and back. Dean could see the fine smattering of chest hair that Sam usually shaved, and his hands itched with the need to know exactly what that short stubble felt like on his palms, his face, his lips. His pulse was ringing in his ears as he watched Sam grind his ass into the guy’s pathetic little pencil-dick. He couldn’t see the bastard properly from that angle, but he KNEW wasn’t packing anything worth talking about. Dean himself may not have been freakishly huge, but he was proportional and well-shaped and knew what to do with it. He could do the job a damn sight better than this bitch. Said bitch flashed Sam a thick money clip.

Fuck! ABORT! Sam and Dean had both agreed to strict boundaries while Sammy was up there. Not all of the dancers at this shindig were prostitutes, and not all were there for freebies, so it wouldn’t raise too many alarms if Sam said no touching, or to keep things above the waist. That was not lap-dance money being waved under his baby brother’s nose. That was full service, right in front of everyone, money. SHIT! Dean adjusted himself quickly as he got up to pull Sam out as soon as he got the signal. Instead, Sam looked right at him, and there was no way he missed Dean’s hard-on this time. Not when his gaze flicked down, and Dean could read his lips all the way across the room: “Oh fuck yes…”