The Velvet Room
Roan, WV
November 2006
Dean Winchester stepped inside the club, brushing off the evening's cold embrace like an unwelcome memory. His eyes swept over the shadowy interior, taking in the haphazardly arranged tables, the bar teeming with tired faces, and the modest platform where a flickering sign hinted at an upcoming performance.
"Well, this place is a dump," Dean muttered. He could have walked out at any moment, but maybe this dive could offer a distraction from the heavy shit weighing him down.
With a resigned sigh, he settled onto a stool at the bar, and that's when he saw her. She leaned against a pole on stage, a hottie in a clingy white dress that hugged her curves. Her dark hair was styled like a vintage pinup, cascading in perfect smooth curls, with a few rebellious ones falling out of her updo.
For a moment, it reminded him of Rose from Titanic, a movie he'd been forced to watch by an ex-fling. But he'd had a crush on Rose, so it wasn't all bad.
When he leaned back against the bar table, a dancer approached, offering a lap dance that would make even Cas raise an eyebrow.
"Not tonight, sweetheart," He said.
He wasn't desperate enough to take any of these broads home tonight. Maybe if he was more drunk, but if they keep serving beer that tastes like ass... he will be more sober than when he walked in.
She shrugged, and asked the old guy sitting in front of him, who happily obliged, sticking a fifty in her g-string
The dancer seemed to be on pilot mode. But then again, if he had to resort to giving lap dances to creepy men, when a stallion rejects them, he would be the same way.
Intially captivated by the lap dance progressing before him, the interest quickly turned to discomfort as the situation took an odd turn. They looked like a pair of dead fish. Filled with disgust, Dean scanned the room for a free booth, and when located, he made a beeline for it. But when he got there, it was covered in empty bottles.
Souvenirs of countless nights, drowning troubles in booze. He has been there before. So... He just shrugged, planted his feet onto the table, sent the empties clattering to the floor, and sank into the distressed leather booth. The seat creaked in a familiar, comforting way, like it understood the load he was carrying.
Laughter erupted from the crowd as the stripper began her set, the sheer fabric of her outfit clinging to her goddess-like curves. The opening notes of "Cherry Pie" filled the air, and the crowd cheered.
Dirty, rotten, filthy, stinking
"Nothing gets more American than this." Dean chuckled to himself. Watching a hot girl strip to Warrant had been a long-held dream, and now it was happening right across from him. Perfect song too. He wished he'd come sooner; hell, that could've been him enjoying the show from a cozy booth up close. Upon noticing, he never ordered a drink.
She's my cherry pie
Cool drink of water,
such a sweet surprise
Tastes so good, make
a grown man cry
Sweet cherry pie
Wow! Ha ha
"Man, I just got comfy too!" Dean remarked. He walked up to the barstool. Sulking because he was about to miss the beginning of her set.
Well, swingin' on the front porch,
swingin' on the lawn
Swingin' where we want
'cause there ain't nobody home
Swingin' to the left and swingin' to the right
Think about baseball,
I'll swing all night, yeah
Yeah, yeah
"First time here?" the bartender asked, pouring Dean a drink, Bourbon on ice.
Swingin' in the living room,
swingin' in the kitchen
Most folks don't 'cause they're
too busy bitchin'
Swingin' in there
'cause she wanted me to feed her
So I mixed up the batter and
she licked the beater
