i take no responsibility for this.
In fact, I blame this entirely on kimboosan.
There I was innocently remarking on Twitter how much this picture of Sam and Dean (taken from here) reminded me of a trashy m/m romance cover.
She had to wonder if the m/m equivalent of a 'bodice ripper' was a 'codpiece yanker'.
And so, here you have it:
The Hunter's Tale [947 words, PG13, crack, AU, Sam/Dean, one-sided and/or future Dean/Cas]
A medieval tale of Sam, Dean, and a voyeuristic angel. In which codpieces also feature, and the yanking thereof.
There was once a Hunter yclept Dean, and oh, what a Hunter was he. Well-versed he already was in the Fine Arte of Slaying even before he came to serve as an apprentice under the learned Lord Singer, for his father had taught him well, and young Dean had taken great pride in applying himself as diligently to mastering the intricacies of the dagger and the bow as other young boys his tender age would have their grammar at dame school. Young Dean’s reputation only grew even as his apprenticeship progressed, and by the time his seven years were up, even the busy folk of distant London knew of how many a child of the occult had died cursing Dean’s name. He was fair of face and his hands were quick with any blade. He held his drink well and was a formidable opponent at cards. He also had an impressive codpiece.
Everyone who spoke of Dean spoke too of his codpiece, for it was truly worthy of much speech and praise. Rumor had it that a witch had made it for Dean, shaping it out of cloth blessed specially by a traveling monk and stitching it all together with an enchanted needle. Fair Dean generally agreed with the praises most people sang of his codpiece; he was proud of it, and rightfully so, for many a foe had quailed at the sight of it peeking out from behind the skirts of his jerkin. He took great care in checking its shape every night before he went to bed, stuffing and re-stuffing it every other week with a variety of protective herbs and charms.
Unfortunately, Dean had many cares plaguing his still-young life, chief of which was the strange disappearance of his father, Mad Ol’ John, who, after depositing Dean with Lord Singer, had gone out to avenge his late wife. No one had heard from him since, and so Dean took to travelling the length and breadth of green Britain, seeking out any and all traces of his absent sire. It was on one of his journeys that he met Sam.
Dean was watering his trusty steed, the sleek and black Impala, at a babbling brook, when he chanced upon a dark-haired stranger resting beneath a tree. Dean would later learn that this dark-haired stranger bore the name of Sam, but in the meanwhile, he found his gaze drawn to the stranger’s codpiece, for it was an impressive codpiece indeed. In fact, Dean was most certain that the stranger’s codpiece was bigger than his, and he said as much after calling a friendly greeting.
“It is not much,” said the fellow who, now that he had risen, was clearly much taller than Dean. “It is but a mere piece of linen.”
“That’s impossible,” cried Dean, who knew a thing or two about codpieces. “Surely you jest, good sir, for it is verily huge.”
“Alas,” exclaimed the stranger. His brows were knit in dismay. “In sooth, what you see in size is but my taile, which doth strain against the cloth of my drawers and hose.”
“I hope you forgive me, good sir,” said Dean in his most apologetic manner as he strode forward and knelt before the stranger, “for I have seen much over the course of my long travels, and I have learnt never to simply take a man at his word. I will have to see this for myself.”
Nimble were Dean’s fingers as he undid the knots which fastened Sam’s codpiece to his hose, and trembling were his hands as he yanked the now-detached flap away. Sam began to moan, and it was a while before they spoke again.
“What drives you onto the road, Sam?” asked Dean after they had finally exchanged their names, and more besides.
“I seek vengeance,” sighed Sam, pausing in his study of Dean’s freckles. “I knew a lass in Oxford who died in an unholy fire, and now I hunt for her murderers.”
“I had a brother once,” said Dean contemplatively, for Sam’s thighs were hard beneath Dean’s hands and most worthy of contemplation. “He ran away to Oxford shortly after I began my apprenticeship to join the university.”
“I had a brother too,” murmured Sam. “I left him in the city of Winchester when I ran away to the university in Oxford. I loved him dearly, and I miss him still.”
“How strange,” cried Dean, sitting up and pulling himself out of the circle of Sam’s arms. “For I myself hail from Winchester, and my brother was called Sam.”
“My brother was called Dean,” Sam exclaimed, sitting up too.
They stared at each other in horror. A blackbird sang from its perch amidst the branches of the tree.
“But,” said Sam meaningfully, “Winchester is a big city, and there are many people.”
“Yes,” agreed Dean thoughtfully as he carefully settled himself in Sam’s embrace once more. “You’re probably right.”
Let us speak not about what the startled blackbird saw.
=-=-=
High above in heaven, Castiel, an angel of the Lord, watched the two brothers with great interest. He figured it was never too early to get to know the one whom he would one day have to grip tight and raise from perdition. It was unfortunate that he didn’t know which brother it was to be; specificity had never been the strongest suit of Heaven’s various prophets. He hoped it might be the fairer one, for he liked the look of the fairer one’s face and, impressive as the darker one’s taile might be, he was still more enamored of the former’s codpiece.
Castiel himself didn’t wear a codpiece. He was always fond of a good breeze.
END.
I don't even know if I should crosspost this anywhere.
And now I must return to working on a moot submission. I must write a Good Omens version too. chairman_wow, I'm looking at you.
There I was innocently remarking on Twitter how much this picture of Sam and Dean (taken from here) reminded me of a trashy m/m romance cover.
She had to wonder if the m/m equivalent of a 'bodice ripper' was a 'codpiece yanker'.
And so, here you have it:
The Hunter's Tale [947 words, PG13, crack, AU, Sam/Dean, one-sided and/or future Dean/Cas]
A medieval tale of Sam, Dean, and a voyeuristic angel. In which codpieces also feature, and the yanking thereof.
There was once a Hunter yclept Dean, and oh, what a Hunter was he. Well-versed he already was in the Fine Arte of Slaying even before he came to serve as an apprentice under the learned Lord Singer, for his father had taught him well, and young Dean had taken great pride in applying himself as diligently to mastering the intricacies of the dagger and the bow as other young boys his tender age would have their grammar at dame school. Young Dean’s reputation only grew even as his apprenticeship progressed, and by the time his seven years were up, even the busy folk of distant London knew of how many a child of the occult had died cursing Dean’s name. He was fair of face and his hands were quick with any blade. He held his drink well and was a formidable opponent at cards. He also had an impressive codpiece.
Everyone who spoke of Dean spoke too of his codpiece, for it was truly worthy of much speech and praise. Rumor had it that a witch had made it for Dean, shaping it out of cloth blessed specially by a traveling monk and stitching it all together with an enchanted needle. Fair Dean generally agreed with the praises most people sang of his codpiece; he was proud of it, and rightfully so, for many a foe had quailed at the sight of it peeking out from behind the skirts of his jerkin. He took great care in checking its shape every night before he went to bed, stuffing and re-stuffing it every other week with a variety of protective herbs and charms.
Unfortunately, Dean had many cares plaguing his still-young life, chief of which was the strange disappearance of his father, Mad Ol’ John, who, after depositing Dean with Lord Singer, had gone out to avenge his late wife. No one had heard from him since, and so Dean took to travelling the length and breadth of green Britain, seeking out any and all traces of his absent sire. It was on one of his journeys that he met Sam.
Dean was watering his trusty steed, the sleek and black Impala, at a babbling brook, when he chanced upon a dark-haired stranger resting beneath a tree. Dean would later learn that this dark-haired stranger bore the name of Sam, but in the meanwhile, he found his gaze drawn to the stranger’s codpiece, for it was an impressive codpiece indeed. In fact, Dean was most certain that the stranger’s codpiece was bigger than his, and he said as much after calling a friendly greeting.
“It is not much,” said the fellow who, now that he had risen, was clearly much taller than Dean. “It is but a mere piece of linen.”
“That’s impossible,” cried Dean, who knew a thing or two about codpieces. “Surely you jest, good sir, for it is verily huge.”
“Alas,” exclaimed the stranger. His brows were knit in dismay. “In sooth, what you see in size is but my taile, which doth strain against the cloth of my drawers and hose.”
“I hope you forgive me, good sir,” said Dean in his most apologetic manner as he strode forward and knelt before the stranger, “for I have seen much over the course of my long travels, and I have learnt never to simply take a man at his word. I will have to see this for myself.”
Nimble were Dean’s fingers as he undid the knots which fastened Sam’s codpiece to his hose, and trembling were his hands as he yanked the now-detached flap away. Sam began to moan, and it was a while before they spoke again.
“What drives you onto the road, Sam?” asked Dean after they had finally exchanged their names, and more besides.
“I seek vengeance,” sighed Sam, pausing in his study of Dean’s freckles. “I knew a lass in Oxford who died in an unholy fire, and now I hunt for her murderers.”
“I had a brother once,” said Dean contemplatively, for Sam’s thighs were hard beneath Dean’s hands and most worthy of contemplation. “He ran away to Oxford shortly after I began my apprenticeship to join the university.”
“I had a brother too,” murmured Sam. “I left him in the city of Winchester when I ran away to the university in Oxford. I loved him dearly, and I miss him still.”
“How strange,” cried Dean, sitting up and pulling himself out of the circle of Sam’s arms. “For I myself hail from Winchester, and my brother was called Sam.”
“My brother was called Dean,” Sam exclaimed, sitting up too.
They stared at each other in horror. A blackbird sang from its perch amidst the branches of the tree.
“But,” said Sam meaningfully, “Winchester is a big city, and there are many people.”
“Yes,” agreed Dean thoughtfully as he carefully settled himself in Sam’s embrace once more. “You’re probably right.”
Let us speak not about what the startled blackbird saw.
=-=-=
High above in heaven, Castiel, an angel of the Lord, watched the two brothers with great interest. He figured it was never too early to get to know the one whom he would one day have to grip tight and raise from perdition. It was unfortunate that he didn’t know which brother it was to be; specificity had never been the strongest suit of Heaven’s various prophets. He hoped it might be the fairer one, for he liked the look of the fairer one’s face and, impressive as the darker one’s taile might be, he was still more enamored of the former’s codpiece.
Castiel himself didn’t wear a codpiece. He was always fond of a good breeze.
END.
I don't even know if I should crosspost this anywhere.
And now I must return to working on a moot submission. I must write a Good Omens version too. chairman_wow, I'm looking at you.