"Don't laugh." Sam huffs. Muffled, through the bathroom door.
"Oh, I'm laughing." Dean claps his hands, rubs his palms together. He's seen what the housekeeping staff wear around here: pink polyester smocks and maroon skirts. Sam's gonna be a vision. The knob rattles. "Come on, loser, lemme see my prize!" He's pretty sure Sam even shaved his legs. Dean's been smelling something too fruity to be motel-issue, and Sam definitely took three times longer than normal to shower.
Hinges squeal and Sam walks out in front of the vanity, backlit with arms folded. He squints at Dean, chin out, ready for the comedy but Dean forgets what spit is, he gets tunnel vision, his knees shake.
"Sammy, what…"
It's… a handkerchief as much as a dress. Lacy bra cups barely reach Sam's nipples. Micro-mini skirt brushes the tops of his thighs in front—but the back, that's the real star. Mismatched fluorescents buzz and glow, highlight his reflection. Still-damp curls point in every direction. Shoulders sheen, gleam—with sweat or steam, no way to tell without—Dean swallows. Tasting.
White ribbon apron strings dangle from a bow behind his neck. His back flexes, naked to the waist. The lace-hemmed skirt doesn't cover his ass; it sits—Dean stiffens in his jeans—above white shiny panties with three rows of lace on the seat.
"If you lose, you have to dress up like a maid and do everything I say this weekend."
on AO3
written for spn masquerade | photo by stevebuissinne
love and thanks to @samshinechester for the hand-holding 🩷