WARNING THIS FIC CONTAINS STRIPPERS. AND DEAN. THAT IS ALL.
AN: I DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. I was supposed to be writing an assignment and then BOOM. PEGFIC. GOD DAMN.
And thanks as ever to Sir-Mercutio, who is an enabling enabler who enables. All the way from Sydney.
Also, for those who want to know this takes place after Pas de Trois. I might write a little one-shot about Peg's actual birthday party, but this is pretty much the after-party. It's named after one of my favourite party songs, New in Town by Little Boots. Dean would be so appalled.
New in Town
There have been times in Dean's life where he's honestly been tempted to write into the Penthouse forum, because, for real, how can his life possibly be this unrelentingly shitty and yet be riddled with moments of mind-bogglingly glorious sex?
'I never thought this would happen to me…' is practically his very own personal by-line.
Now is one of those moments…although perhaps that by-line should be altered to, 'how the fuck did we get here again?'
Not that he's complaining.
Here is a strip club.
In retrospect this is, of course, all Peggy's fault.
He and Sam had rocked into LA for her birthday, as requested – although it's hardly a fucking chore – and after doing the gift-giving and cake-eating and mixing-mingling thing with her friends (which they managed quite well, thanks very much), they sat around the apartment a few days later, occasionally basking in the sun in the rooftop garden or going for ice cream, or researching like fiends while Peggy was at work and dealing with the crackpots who call themselves screenwriters.
Then she got home one night, looking restless, and Dean kinda knew things were about to get interesting.
"I think we should go out."
Sam shot him a look, but Dean sat up, interested. The last time he'd really been out had been in Elizabethtown, and that had been a complete clusterfuck, despite the cheap liquor and ladies of ill-repute. "Yeah?"
Peggy smiled a smile neither of them had really seen on her before. She looked almost…wicked. Dean smirked as Sam shifted next to him. This was going to be good.
"Yeah," she said, blue eyes fox-sharp, "I mean, you've never really seen much of the nightlife here, right?"
"Uh, no," Sam said, now sounding a little uncomfortable, the giant party-pooper. Seriously, the kid was such a grandma. Dean hoped Adam wasn't as much of stay-at-home.
"Whatcha thinkin', Peg?" Dean asked, smirking again. "Hookers and blow?"
"Not quite." She grinned. "But I know this bartender…"
The bartender turns out to be statuesque brunette by the name of Finleigh, who smiles with open heat at Peggy over the bar of the club and starts pouring complimentary shots.
Sam makes a noise at the back of his throat and mutters, once Finleigh is safely down the other end of the bar popping the caps off beers for a pair of tipsy guys big enough to be lumberjacks, "what the hell was that?"
"That," Peggy says, knocking back her shot, "was free drinks on me."
She licks across her teeth, chasing the taste and apparently threatening to give Sam some kind of facial tic. His brother looks caught between desire and the need to pull a serious bitchface. Dean doesn't know what the problem is; Peggy has never really set of his radar'o'lust, but the idea of her and the bartender getting down to bow-chicka-wow-wow is pretty hot.
It's still kinda early, so they get seats near the runway that branches off from the stage – hallelujah – and Dean gets acquainted with all several shots of his own. Peggy does a straight swap with him for one of hers; a jelly donut for one of Dean's stag bloods and Dean finds himself doing the same thing she had at the bar, chasing the traces of Chambord and Bailey's and white rum around his mouth.
"Fuck," he says, grinning, "that shit really does taste like a jelly donut."
"Told you," Peggy grinning back and tipping back the stag. "Just like Dunkin Donuts."
Then the house lights go down, the stage lights go up and the music starts.
"Is this what I think it is?" Dean asks.
"If you think it's 'Pink' by Aerosmith, then yes, it's exactly what you think it is," Peggy responds. Then she does another shot, leans over and plants one on Sam. "Just like a jelly donut, right?"
Sam looks like he's taken a two-by-four to the face. But in a happy way.
…yeah, Dean's starting to feel that Jagermeister.
Then a girl struts onto the stage and gets her slow, sweet groove on to the music. The outfit's reminiscent of a fifties waitress uniform – pink candy stripes, big bows and ruffles and…and swiftly disappearing.
"Peg-leg," Dean says happily to Peggy, who by this point is just about in Sam's lap, "you have the best ideas."
It should be noted that strippers are far more likely to approach a group of people and take their money – and offer a motorboat – if there's approachable looking ladies amongst them. Also, said approachable ladies are more likely to get the motorboat…
…Which is how Sam and Dean find themselves doing further shots with increasingly exotic names while watching Peggy flirt with the stripper and use her teeth to deposit a tenner in the girl's cleavage.
Dear Penthouse, I never thought this would happen to me, but…
Well.
Dean finds himself cheering like former fratboy at a stag night while Sam watches the two girls croon and smile at each other and looks as though he's going to suffer some kind of cardiac event.
Or explode. Who knows.
All Dean knows is that it's the opening salvo of girl-on-girl action, of which he fully approves, so he calls, "GO PEGGY! GET SOME!" and laughs when there are drunken wolf-whistles and shouts of 'yeah baby!' from around the club.
It's awesome.
Sam is losing his mind.
He's just…he's just losing it here.
Peggy is…Sam's pretty sure he's never met anyone like Peggy by virtue of the fact that she seems to react to strip clubs the way most dudes do.
She gets drunk.
And then she gets grabby.
Its – okay, it's not that he minds, exactly, but he's always been aware of that fact that getting into this with Peggy sets them up for a lot of hurt…
And yet that's exactly what's been happening for a while now.
Also, the booze is going to make him weird and introspective if he doesn't – uh.
Okay, there's really no risk of that; Peggy is in his lap again, sideways, with one long pale leg crossed over the other, showing off the three inch heels on the velvet ankle boots and riding up the hemline on the metallic blue dress, which to be honest didn't cover much in the first place.
When she looks at him her eyes are drowning-dark, pupils blown with liquor and the club's dim lighting and ringed with that familiar oceanic blue. She curls her body towards him, legs uncrossing as one of them rides up against his hip. Her arms are looped loosely over his shoulders, and he has to hang on to her to keep her in place, hands splayed helplessly at her waist. She smiles, bright in the dark.
"Having fun?" He's always liked her voice turned down low; it's almost husky like this. Smoky, warm. Given half a chance she'll make him think in poetry.
He smiles back, because yeah, even though he was dangerously close to having his brain shut down with the force of the mental images – Finleigh's knowing smile, the stripper's teasing touches – he is having fun. Strip clubs have always seemed so seedy to him, and okay, yeah, they are really. But like most things the experience really depends on who you have it with. Positive attitude goes a long way too, and it's hard to be a downer with Peggy making patterns on the back of his neck with her fingers.
"Yeah," he says, breathing it across her mouth before he kisses her.
"Don't you come the raw prawn with me, buddy," Peggy says seriously. "I'll kick your arse."
"C'mon," leers one of the lumberjack-look-alikes, "just a peek." He peers speculatively at her legs and Dean thanks every available deity Sam's in the john right now. "Y'sure you ain't a stripper?"
"I'm really fuckin' sure," says Peggy, looking about ready to bust out the use of deadly force.
"She's not," confirms the girl in camo print panties who's currently upside down on the nearest pole. "You could be though, honey. You got a great ass." She grins at Dean when he holds out a twenty and takes it in her teeth before performing some crazy-sexy ninja feat to get upright and bends over to slip it into one of her combat boots, gazing at him through her bangs the whole time.
Dean sighs the sigh of a deeply happy man.
Peggy is still berating the lumberjack when Sam comes back, although the guy disappears pretty quickly after that…
Then the camo print panties make themselves scarce and Dean stops caring.
Peggy slides back into his lap as he sits down, smoke-slow, knees either side of his hips, hemline fucking soaring, and Sam can only grin and put his hands back on her hips. She's laughing a little against his mouth, singing along with the DJ's latest offering.
Take me on a trip, I'd like to go some day.
Take me to New York, I'd love to see LA.
I really want to come kick it with you.
You'll be my American Boy.
"My American boy," Peggy croons, smile still tasting of those goddamn jelly donut shots.
Sam's hands start to wander.
Things are kind of hazy after that.
Sam has a vague notion of more shots and less clothing and then following the bright flash of Peggy's bare legs as they club hopped for a while; Peggy still leading the charge and laughingly calling greetings to the bouncers she knew before dragging the boys inside behind her, her smile sharp and lovely as she faced the glares of those still waiting in the line.
He remembers dancing – or rather, grinding – and thinks Peggy might have been on a table top at one point, but he's not sure…
And now, it appears to be morning.
Or, later in the morning. There's sunlight, which, ugh…
Sam hides his face in Peggy's back and – hang on.
Hang on.
What.
What's he doing in Peggy's bed?
Um. Again?
Sam felt himself colour as he remembered the last time this had happened; he'd driven all night to get to her place on time for her birthday. While Dean had gone out for taken out, Sam had stayed back at the apartment, waiting for Peggy to get home. Or, he'd tried to. He'd been…just really freaking tired, and had sort of walked towards a door he thought might be the spare room and face-planted a bed. When he'd woken up, however, it turned out to be Peggy's bed, and with her in it. She was curled up tight against him, completely knocked out, and seemingly unaware that he'd done one of his octopus impressions in his sleep and practically wound all four limbs around her to hold her in place.
And then, god, to compound matters his body had gotten the impression that it was the morning, as in the morning, and he'd had to use every cautious move in the book in order to ease Peggy out of his grip without waking her up and causing what would then be a supremely uncomfortable conversation (or a potentially interesting one). Thank God and whoever else was listening that Dean hadn't gotten back for another twenty minutes.
Only this time there's no such reprieve. The door to Peggy's room is only ajar, but Sam can hear his brother's snores and knows he'll be on Peggy's futon couch with the cat on his chest…but any minute he'll wake up and go to kick Sam out of the spare room to help get breakfast ready only Sam won't be there…
Peggy hums in her sleep and rubs her face against his bicep where it's cushioning her cheek. Sam tries not to tense up when she backs closer to him – shitshitshit – and rolls over, wriggling down so she can put her face against his shoulder. She sighs and Sam is dying here, really, he is, because this time his body knows it's the morning and is reacting accordingly.
Luck is never really on the Winchesters' side, but right now it appears to be actively giving him the finger.
So, of course, Peggy picks this time to open her eyes, right when Sam's working on ignoring the most inconvenient hard-on of all time.
She squints a little in the nearly-noon sunshine streaming in through her half-closed bedroom curtains and blinks at him. Then her eyes slip closed again and she smiles.
"Hi," she murmurs, voice a rasp of warm contralto notes.
"Hey," he manages back. There's mascara flecked across at the corners of her eyes and smoky underscores of eyeliner around them, but to Sam she looks like some kind of sleepy, masked goddess, pale and languorous and lovely.
…thisisnothelping.
"Wha' time'mizit?" she mumbles, wriggling in closer and pressing a half-dreaming, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbones. Sam first prays there is a god and then prays that he's listening to Sam's earnest request that Peggy not get closer, or at least not close enough to…
"Uh." Sam swallows hard, throat parched. "I – I think about eleven? I can't see your clock from here."
"Mmm, kinda late for breakfast," she hums. "Have to be brunch then."
"I guess so," Sam says, strained. He feels as much as hears her laugh softly against his throat.
"Why so tense?"
"I'm not –" her hips slot neatly into place against his and knock him onto his back "– ohfuck."
She laughs again, lying over him, breasts pressed hot against his chest. One long-fingered hand glides down his side, fingers hooking on the hips of his boxers while its mate cups his jaw. "Sounds like a plan."
"Peggy –"
Her face turns serious for an instant, those eyes deep as oceans.
"Sam. This emotional self-flagellence stops now. It's not doing either of us any favours – rather the opposite, in fact. And besides which," she adds when Sam opens his mouth, "I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself. Which I like to think I've proved a few times, actually."
"And if I go out on a hunt I don't come back from?"
"Then…" her eye close briefly, but they're both awash with tenderness and crackling with some kind of hardness when they open again. "Then you don't come back. And I'll…cope. I'll mourn. But I'd mourn whether sex was involved or not."
Sam struggles to breathe for a second.
Well. That answers that question.
"O-okay."
"Awesome." She presses a hard kiss against his mouth that swiftly moves into something more liquid, more hungry. "Now lose the pants."
In the next room, Dean gives up the pretence of snoring (not that they notice) and quickly hops off the futon. He dresses, thanks god he thought to rinse off last night and dashes out the door, taking his keys and leaving a note on the kitchen counter.
When he gets to the parking garage below Peggy's apartment building, he pulls his phone out and makes a call.
"Hey, you still in LA?"
"On my way back in," Jo says, and Dean can hear the engine of her truck in the background, the rush of wind through an open driver's side window. Using her hands-free kit like a good girl. "Just hit the city limits, why?"
"Kinda at a loose end for the day, if you wanna do something?"
"Loose end? Thought you and Sam would be hanging with Peg."
"Yeah, well," Dean says, unable to keep from grinning, "Let's just say Sam and Peggy have their own plans for the day."
Jo whoops on the other end of the line, laughing, "Go Sam!"
"Go Peggy," Dean adds. "So, any ideas?"
"I don't know, man, I mean I'm sure LA got a lot going for it, but its kinda…how can I put this…tacky."
"That's half the fun!"
"If you say so. I could be tempted by hockey game…"
"Hockey, really?" He thinks about it for minute. "You mind who's playing?"
She laughs. "Not really, as long as there's beer and candy, and maybe a fight. We'd have to hit the beach afterwards though – shake off the cold."
Dean grins again. "Sounds like a plan."
Sometime later in the afternoon, Sam is lazily making his way down Peggy's bare stomach, leaving a trail of open, biting kisses in his wake. He looks back at her along the pale length of her chest when he draws level with her hipbones.
"Dean was right you know."
"Shocking," Peggy says, looking back, eyes dreamcast and dark. "…what was Dean right about?"
Sam smiles, slow and hot and sly, and says, just before sinking his teeth into the creamy rise of her hip:
"You do have the best ideas…"
THE END
AN2: So...was it good for you?