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"All right, G-Man, show me your cuffs!"
"Um. What?" Dean says, looking around in surprise. He thought he'd blown it when Cas apparated him to the old movie theater, but Jamie must have forgiven him for standing her up.
"Handcuffs!" she says, snapping her fingers impatiently. "Come on, G-man, hand 'em over!" Even though she's behind the bar, he can tell she's tapping her foot by the soft tap-tap of her shoe, and Dean suddenly—viscerally—understands what people mean by hot under the collar, because a fire is climbing his chest, up his throat, his cheeks.
Which is stupid, because how many jokes has he made about handcuffs over the years? A lot! That's how many! Jamie doesn't know him. She's just flirting, and it's objectively hot and not embarrassing at all. Every guy in this place—and probably most of the girls too!—wishes they could be where Dean is now!
Still, he stammers, "I, um, I forgot the—them—they're in my other… pants?" His voice rises at the end, making it a question, and all he needs is for his voice to crack, and he'd sound exactly like he did in tenth grade when he lost that library book in the cemetery.
Jamie gives Dean a slow up-down. Like she sees right through him. Like she knows exactly how lame he is. She sets both hands flat on the bar and leans across it—giving him an excellent view of her cleavage, thank you very much!—and says, "Well, G-Man, you're in luck. I've got my own pair right here."
And, suddenly, there's a set of handcuffs on the bar between them, pink and fluffy.
The quality of noise in the room changes, and Dean glances around the bar—packed for the last night of Novemberfest. No one is looking at him, but it feels like everyone is looking at him. The hum of conversation sounds just like the hum Baby's engine makes when he revs her at the stop light.
He looks back at Jamie.
She's really pretty.
The bar is dim and deserted on this final night of Novemberfest. It's so quiet that the shush of satin is loud when Jamie brings a pair of pink panties out from behind the bar. "But you're going to have to wear these," she says, smiling slyly.
"I'm—" Dean swallows. "Um, what?"
He can't look away. Where did they even come from? Are they hers? Was she wearing them under her lederhosen the whole time?
"G-Man. Focus!" she says, sharply, and Dean's eyes snap up.
Jamie is dangling the panties from the tip of her finger.
"I don't… Um," he says stupidly.
"You like them, G-Man, don't you?" she asks, her smile turned knowing.
And Dean doesn't want to disappoint her.
She's really pretty.
"Yeah. Yeah, of course I do. It's just…" he trails off, uncertain.
Jamie gives him a warm, approving smile. "They're going to look so good on you, G-Man."
Smooth fabric is pressing Dean's hard cock to his belly, and he remembers sneaking the panties into the motel bathroom. Making sure Sam didn't see. Changing into them before he came back to the bar. Driving over from the motel with the lace band digging into his waist.
A man brushes against Dean's shoulder. He's in Dean's space. It's always so crowded during Novemberfest. Jamie hands the man a beer. Dean shifts from foot to foot, feeling smooth satin drag against the wet tip of his cock.
It feels like the whole bar is watching him.
Jamie's attention is entirely on Dean.
She's so, so pretty.
She pats the bar. "Up here, G-Man."
"But—" Dean says.
But what?
He deserves to right some wrongs.
Doesn't he?
No bullet wounds. No knife cuts. All his fingers perfectly straight.
There's no one here but them.
His hide is as smooth as a baby's bottom.
It's easy to climb on top of the bar.
Dean's on the bar. He's stretched out on his back. He's wearing Jamie's pink panties and nothing else. She's tender when she cuffs his hands over his head, winds the chain around the tap. No one has touched him so gently in forty years.
The bar is crowded on the last night of Novemberfest.
Jamie leans in and presses her lips to his cheek. She blows a soft "Good boy" into his ear.
Maybe Dean could get free. If he wanted to.
He doesn't want to.