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Sex Bomb (Baby You Can Turn Me On) ~ SPN Fic
Warnings: to the best of my knowledge, this fic requires no warnings.
Title: Sex Bomb (Baby You Can Turn Me On)
Rating: Nothing explicit, but still fairly adult. PG-13/R.
Disclaimer: not mine not mine not mine not mine not mine
Wordcount: 1, 416
So, Sam has this girlfriend. She's the first girlfriend he's had for longer than a month and she's smart and funny and ten different kinds of smoking hot. If you have the time, Sam will list - and describe, at length - eight of the ten kinds of smoking hot his girlfriend is. The last two are for him, and him alone; and if he catches you thinking about them, he will send a quietly meaningful look your way, and you will find yourself thinking of churches and glaciers and definitely not the other two kinds of smoking hot Sam's girlfriend is.
Sam's girlfriend has this preternatural sense: she can tell when he's thinking 'My girlfriend is hot.' She smirks when he thinks it, which is a lot of the time, but also whaps him upside the head and says, "I have a name, stop thinking 'my girlfriend' you loser."
Sam gapes at Jess, because he's never really sure how the hell she knows when he's objectifying her in his head.
"You know," Jess tilts her head, "you look kind of like a puppy like that. A brain dead one."
x
Jessica Lee Moore.
These are the things Sam knows about her:
she was on the track team in high school and likes to wake up at 5:30 every morning and go running around Lake Lag (it was how they met, on the trail, and Sam caught her checking out his ass while he checked out hers)
her big sister died and she talks about it never, unless she's very very drunk, and then all she does is keen
she shop-lifted a lip gloss once when she was ten, but she felt so guilty about it afterward that she couldn't use it and still has it today, and it's not funny Sam, stop laughing!
she likes to be kissed behind her ears, where the curve of her jaw meets her neck
all her favourite music can be found in Sam's dad's collection of tapes, which Sam is kind of freaked out by, but takes advantage of when he wants to serenade himself back into her good graces after objectifying her in his head (except, instead of it being romantic, Jess throws things at his head and tells him to stop imitating a dying cat. She's laughing, though.)
she's the worst dancer he's ever seen.
x
No, really, she's the worst dancer he's ever seen.
She loves to dance, turns the music on high and bops around the room like the energizer bunny hopped up on crack. She doesn't care that she looks ridiculous, that her face is turning red and her hair is flying everywhere, that she has no rhythm and no grace and looks like she's having seizures.
Sam walks in on this and stops in the doorway, staring, horrified. "Oh my God."
"Sam!" Jess whirls toward him, beaming and beautiful. "C'mon in." She doesn't stop moving.
"What are you doing?!"
"Dancing." She says it like it should be obvious; Sam just shakes his head.
"Jess. You look like something's trying to kill you. Like, from the inside."
Jess just laughs though, like his words can't stop her from moving; and they don't.
x
The thing about Jess being a horrible, horrible dancer is that it makes her such an easy target, and Sam can't help but take pot-shots every chance he gets. Part of the teasing is growing up with an older brother, part is how she gets riled up and flushed and pokes him in the chest with her finger, and actually expects it to hurt.
The thing about Sam constantly bugging Jess about her horrible, horrible dancing is that sooner or later, she starts bugging him back. She says things like, "Well, I've never seenyou dance, for all I know you're ten times worse than me." The only way to defend against such an accusation is to prove that he can move to the beat of music; but voluntary dancing is something Sam's masculinity will never recover from, and nothing Jess can say will con him into it.
Except that Sam's girlfriend is an evil genius.
x
"But Sam, think of the children."
Little Becky Warren stares up at him, imploring, the sincerest kind of sincere. She is fellow pre-Law student, sharer of evening hell classes, provider of the good caffeine during Dead Week. She is trust-fund baby, spoiled but unpretentious, dangerously naive, kind to strangers and strays. She is organizer of benefits, and she has invoked the name of suffering children everywhere.
Sam looks down at her helplessly, unable to say anything when faced with Becky's Begging Eyes of Doom. He is completely aware that anything he offers as protest will make him look like a jackass, because, you know, the children. Still, he futilely attempts, "I don't know - how does me stripping in front of two hundred people help anyone?"
He should have known better; this is Becky Warren, she of the flawless 4.0 GPA, the neurotic obsessor over details. She has graphs; she has pie charts, showing how Sam taking his clothes off in front of two hundred people will directly affect the quality of life of starving children in Africa, or wherever, Sam isn't paying that much attention since he's too busy glaring at his smirking girlfriend, who is standing behind Becky, looking smug.
And also hot, which Sam wishes he didn't notice, because it's going to make it hell to ignore her for the next week, which he is going to do, because he is mad at her for somehow convincing Becky of this crazy plan.
When Sam finally manages to escape Becky and her pie charts, he is slotted in for the 7:30 p.m. performance and told to buy sexy underwear.
x
There's this popular myth circulating Stanford's student population of a third year who, in the first semester of his first year, slept with the entirety of two dorm buildings, and half of two more. He is regarded with awe and scrutiny; his conquests speak wistfully of their one night of bliss as those that missed out listen enviously.
His reputation is epic; his name, Sam Winchester.
Word rapidly gets around that he is Stripping For A Cause, and tickets to watch quickly sell out.
Little Becky Warren is ecstatic.
x
Thing is, no one actually expected Sam to be good at stripping.
It was supposed to be a gag show.
It was supposed to be a joke.
But then. Oh, then.
x
The crowd rustles slightly, hushed giggles bursting from patches here and there.
The lights dim; 'Sex Bomb' starts to play.
The spotlight falls centre-stage, high-lighting the beautifully posed, leather clad Sam Winchester. He wears only leather: leather jacket, leather tie. Tight, tight leather pants; you'd think he wouldn't need that belt, too, to hold them up. No shirt, and the lines of his pectoral and abdominal muscles flash briefly as the leather jacket gapes open, as he whirls around to present his back to the audience and rakes one large, long-fingered hand through his hair.
'Oh, oh,' the crowd gasps. As one, they lean forward. The music picks up tempo; he gyrates across stage, turning around again, hips canted forward and hands molesting himself indecently. There is a brief flash of nipple; the crowd sighs longingly; and then he is tugging his leather tie off jerkily, with one elongated elegant movement pulling it over his head and throwing it out to some lucky, lucky girl.
He moves like he has the beat inside him, aggressive like a fight turned into a dance, stride long and stretching. His jacket is gaping open more and more now, and the flashes of miles of golden skin are tantalizing.
And then - then! The jacket is shrugged off first one arm, then the other - picked up and twirled over his head - tossed to the side of the stage - and shirtless Sam Winchester is revealed to the world. He has timed it to match a pause in the music; he takes the pause to pose, muscles glistening, skin slick and sheening with sweat, nipples dusky and erect.
Around the time he gets his belt unbuckled, one girl screams, "TAKE IT ALL OFF, BABY!"
Another girl faints.
x
After, in bed, Jess marvels at how good Sam was. How magnetic, how perfectly timed. Almost as if he had had practice.
Sam smiles enigmatically and resolves never to tell Jess about his summer job.
Rating: Nothing explicit, but still fairly adult. PG-13/R.
Disclaimer: not mine not mine not mine not mine not mine
Wordcount: 1, 416
So, Sam has this girlfriend. She's the first girlfriend he's had for longer than a month and she's smart and funny and ten different kinds of smoking hot. If you have the time, Sam will list - and describe, at length - eight of the ten kinds of smoking hot his girlfriend is. The last two are for him, and him alone; and if he catches you thinking about them, he will send a quietly meaningful look your way, and you will find yourself thinking of churches and glaciers and definitely not the other two kinds of smoking hot Sam's girlfriend is.
Sam's girlfriend has this preternatural sense: she can tell when he's thinking 'My girlfriend is hot.' She smirks when he thinks it, which is a lot of the time, but also whaps him upside the head and says, "I have a name, stop thinking 'my girlfriend' you loser."
Sam gapes at Jess, because he's never really sure how the hell she knows when he's objectifying her in his head.
"You know," Jess tilts her head, "you look kind of like a puppy like that. A brain dead one."
x
Jessica Lee Moore.
These are the things Sam knows about her:
she was on the track team in high school and likes to wake up at 5:30 every morning and go running around Lake Lag (it was how they met, on the trail, and Sam caught her checking out his ass while he checked out hers)
her big sister died and she talks about it never, unless she's very very drunk, and then all she does is keen
she shop-lifted a lip gloss once when she was ten, but she felt so guilty about it afterward that she couldn't use it and still has it today, and it's not funny Sam, stop laughing!
she likes to be kissed behind her ears, where the curve of her jaw meets her neck
all her favourite music can be found in Sam's dad's collection of tapes, which Sam is kind of freaked out by, but takes advantage of when he wants to serenade himself back into her good graces after objectifying her in his head (except, instead of it being romantic, Jess throws things at his head and tells him to stop imitating a dying cat. She's laughing, though.)
she's the worst dancer he's ever seen.
x
No, really, she's the worst dancer he's ever seen.
She loves to dance, turns the music on high and bops around the room like the energizer bunny hopped up on crack. She doesn't care that she looks ridiculous, that her face is turning red and her hair is flying everywhere, that she has no rhythm and no grace and looks like she's having seizures.
Sam walks in on this and stops in the doorway, staring, horrified. "Oh my God."
"Sam!" Jess whirls toward him, beaming and beautiful. "C'mon in." She doesn't stop moving.
"What are you doing?!"
"Dancing." She says it like it should be obvious; Sam just shakes his head.
"Jess. You look like something's trying to kill you. Like, from the inside."
Jess just laughs though, like his words can't stop her from moving; and they don't.
x
The thing about Jess being a horrible, horrible dancer is that it makes her such an easy target, and Sam can't help but take pot-shots every chance he gets. Part of the teasing is growing up with an older brother, part is how she gets riled up and flushed and pokes him in the chest with her finger, and actually expects it to hurt.
The thing about Sam constantly bugging Jess about her horrible, horrible dancing is that sooner or later, she starts bugging him back. She says things like, "Well, I've never seenyou dance, for all I know you're ten times worse than me." The only way to defend against such an accusation is to prove that he can move to the beat of music; but voluntary dancing is something Sam's masculinity will never recover from, and nothing Jess can say will con him into it.
Except that Sam's girlfriend is an evil genius.
x
"But Sam, think of the children."
Little Becky Warren stares up at him, imploring, the sincerest kind of sincere. She is fellow pre-Law student, sharer of evening hell classes, provider of the good caffeine during Dead Week. She is trust-fund baby, spoiled but unpretentious, dangerously naive, kind to strangers and strays. She is organizer of benefits, and she has invoked the name of suffering children everywhere.
Sam looks down at her helplessly, unable to say anything when faced with Becky's Begging Eyes of Doom. He is completely aware that anything he offers as protest will make him look like a jackass, because, you know, the children. Still, he futilely attempts, "I don't know - how does me stripping in front of two hundred people help anyone?"
He should have known better; this is Becky Warren, she of the flawless 4.0 GPA, the neurotic obsessor over details. She has graphs; she has pie charts, showing how Sam taking his clothes off in front of two hundred people will directly affect the quality of life of starving children in Africa, or wherever, Sam isn't paying that much attention since he's too busy glaring at his smirking girlfriend, who is standing behind Becky, looking smug.
And also hot, which Sam wishes he didn't notice, because it's going to make it hell to ignore her for the next week, which he is going to do, because he is mad at her for somehow convincing Becky of this crazy plan.
When Sam finally manages to escape Becky and her pie charts, he is slotted in for the 7:30 p.m. performance and told to buy sexy underwear.
x
There's this popular myth circulating Stanford's student population of a third year who, in the first semester of his first year, slept with the entirety of two dorm buildings, and half of two more. He is regarded with awe and scrutiny; his conquests speak wistfully of their one night of bliss as those that missed out listen enviously.
His reputation is epic; his name, Sam Winchester.
Word rapidly gets around that he is Stripping For A Cause, and tickets to watch quickly sell out.
Little Becky Warren is ecstatic.
x
Thing is, no one actually expected Sam to be good at stripping.
It was supposed to be a gag show.
It was supposed to be a joke.
But then. Oh, then.
x
The crowd rustles slightly, hushed giggles bursting from patches here and there.
The lights dim; 'Sex Bomb' starts to play.
The spotlight falls centre-stage, high-lighting the beautifully posed, leather clad Sam Winchester. He wears only leather: leather jacket, leather tie. Tight, tight leather pants; you'd think he wouldn't need that belt, too, to hold them up. No shirt, and the lines of his pectoral and abdominal muscles flash briefly as the leather jacket gapes open, as he whirls around to present his back to the audience and rakes one large, long-fingered hand through his hair.
'Oh, oh,' the crowd gasps. As one, they lean forward. The music picks up tempo; he gyrates across stage, turning around again, hips canted forward and hands molesting himself indecently. There is a brief flash of nipple; the crowd sighs longingly; and then he is tugging his leather tie off jerkily, with one elongated elegant movement pulling it over his head and throwing it out to some lucky, lucky girl.
He moves like he has the beat inside him, aggressive like a fight turned into a dance, stride long and stretching. His jacket is gaping open more and more now, and the flashes of miles of golden skin are tantalizing.
And then - then! The jacket is shrugged off first one arm, then the other - picked up and twirled over his head - tossed to the side of the stage - and shirtless Sam Winchester is revealed to the world. He has timed it to match a pause in the music; he takes the pause to pose, muscles glistening, skin slick and sheening with sweat, nipples dusky and erect.
Around the time he gets his belt unbuckled, one girl screams, "TAKE IT ALL OFF, BABY!"
Another girl faints.
x
After, in bed, Jess marvels at how good Sam was. How magnetic, how perfectly timed. Almost as if he had had practice.
Sam smiles enigmatically and resolves never to tell Jess about his summer job.