A strangled "Sam, stop it! I'm never letting you out in public with flip-flops ever again" is all Dean can manage as Sam's bare feet apply comfortable pressure over his jean-clad erection.
"Stop what?" Dean's ready to smack that smug look off Sam's face, but he's too busy trying not to moan and alert the big burly trucker in the booth behind Sam that he's getting a foot job with a plate full of blueberry pancakes in front of him.
"Stop it with the.." Dean can't hold back the gasp that interrupts what he was going to say. What was I going to say?
"Oh, you poor baby, you haven't even touched your plate!" Says the cheery waitress with blue hair and green eye shadow and Dean's never been one to hit a woman before, especially one in her late 60's, but he's about to come in his pants and he really doesn't want to be looking at her fugly face when he does it.
He tries to tell her he's fine, no need to hang around here lady, that guy in the corner looks like he could use some service. A whimper is all he can manage.
"He hasn't been feeling well, do you think you can box that up for him? He might feel up to eating it later." Dean's going to kill Sam. He doesn't even have the decency to stop what he's doing as he talks to her. And his voice is cheery.
Dean's trying to think of possible ways to kill Sam, maybe the fork next to his right hand, but that would mean releasing his death grip on the table, and Dean's pretty sure that the sharp edge of the table against his palm it the only thing keeping him grounded. Sam's foot sure as hell isn't.
As the waitress nods her head and picks up Dean's plate, Dean moan's. A full, back of the throat, loud moan. By the time she comes back with the container containing his cold pancakes, he's sure his hand is bleeding, and by the time she comes with the check, he's glaring at his brother across the table as best as he can in his post orgasmic haze.