Sam stood there in a tacky, tiny denim skirt that barely covered anything. Underneath, skimpy pink panties were clearly visible, the thin straps of a matching pink bra peeking out from beneath his short, cropped blouse that left his smooth midriff completely exposed.
He couldn’t even walk straight in those vulgar high heels. His ankles wobbled like a little girl’s, knees knocking together as he struggled to stay upright. His face was flushed, eyes glassy. Despite being dressed like a total whore — cheap and illegal, Sam still looked so fucking pure and innocent it made Dean’s cock throb.
He’d make such a perfect prostitute, Dean thought. He could easily pull in hundreds a night, bent over in some alley or on his knees in a dirty motel. But that was never happening.
Dean suddenly grabbed Sam by the waist, his strong hands digging into soft skin as he yanked him forward and lifted him onto the table. Sam stumbled as his heels touched the wooden surface, instinctively trying to tug the tiny skirt down, but it was pointless.
Dean leaned back in his chair, looking up with a smirk, “Don’t just stand there,” Dean ordered. “Dance for me.”
He pulled out a crumpled, dirty $20 bill and slid it slowly under the waistband of Sam’s skirt, tucking it against his hip.
“I just paid for you, baby. Earn it. Move those hips.”
Sam bit down on his lower lip, his cute bunny teeth pressing into flesh as fresh tears welled up. Dean smirked again, imagining how perfect Sam would look with black mascara running down on pretty, crying cheeks while he choked on cock.