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“Un-fucking-believable,” Sam complained when Dean rolled into their motel room with red, swollen lips and sex hair. “How do you always know exactly which sleazy, cheesy pickup line to use to make a girl fall into bed with you?”
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dean slurred. “Have I taught you nothing? Doesn’t matter what you say. It’s aaaaall about the delivery.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said skeptically.
“I’ll prove it,” Dean offered. “I pick the girl, you pick the line, and I’ll close the deal.”
Two nights later they were in a bar with sawdust on the floor and Garth Brooks on the jukebox. Dean nodded to the tiny, hard-eyed blonde sitting alone at the next table.
“What ya got for me,” Dean murmured to Sam.
Sam pulled out a pen, scribbled something on a napkin, and slid it towards Dean. Dean glanced down, read it, and smirked. He sauntered over to the blonde’s table. “Hey,” he said, “Can I buy you a drink?”
She held up her bottle of Shiner Bock, unimpressed.
“Well then, mind if I sit a spell?”
She eyed him up and down and shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
Dean turned the chair around and sat down, bracing his arms across the seat back. “Look,” he told her. “The life of man is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and -” Dean had been staring into her eyes, but now his gaze traced her lips and down her neckline, focusing on the nipples that stood out prominently under her tight black tank top. He licked his lips, and she gasped. “-short,” he concluded. “So, wanna fuck?”
“Thought you’d never ask, sugar,” the woman said, practically hauling Dean out of his chair.
Dean winked at Sam on his way out the door. Sam rested his forehead on the cool, sticky table and groaned.