Happy Birthday, Lemmypie
It's the birthday of the wonderful, talented, Lemmypie, and in honor of her natal day, I present her with an extremely foul-mouthed Dean Winchester, restrained, as per her request...Here is, THE GIFT
He’d have made it, if it hadn’t been for the waitress with the baseball bat.
I mean, c’mon. So Dean played a little pool, flirted a little too much with a couple of the local yokel’s wives and girlfriends. It wasn’t like he MADE them sit with him, let him buy them beers, tell a few jokes and lay a friendly hand on a thigh or two. Uh uh. That was all on them.
All he did was misrepresent how well he could play pool for five or ten games…until he finally and quite thoroughly divested the denizens of the barroom of their paychecks. Was it his fault that they all bet against him when he offered to double the stakes? Just because he’d acted drunk, didn’t mean he was drunk. And really? Weren’t they trying to take advantage of HIM?
And THIS? This was just beyond the pale. A total overreaction to a friendly little pool hustle. I mean, if they had asked nicely, he might have given them their money back. No harm, no foul.
No, Ernie Banks, masquerading as a waitress, hit him full on in the chest when he turned for the door. He knew he should have tipped her better. What a slugger. She hit a home run, knocking the air in his lungs out of the park, definitely busting a couple of innocent ribs, and then, that yahoo with the freakin’ steel toe boots kicking him in the head when he was lying there, gasping like a bluegill on the shore. He couldn’t even protect himself, couldn’t move his arms to cover his face. Caught him on the cheekbone, and damned if that didn’t feel broken too. Probably about the size of a softball, but he couldn’t see it because his left eye was swollen shut. And worse, he couldn’t reach up and feel it, because the inbred, toad sucking, mother-loving, father-fucking, ass-crack eating, nose-picking, pig-licking, dickless, heartless, brainless, soulless sons of bitches had pulled his pants down around his ankles and tied him to a chair in front of the motherfucking bar. On the main street. At, what must be, 0h-dark thirty in the morning because there wasn’t a man, dog, beast or wendigo stirring in this one-horse, two-stoplight shithole of a town.
And if pantsless, beaten unconcious and tied to a chair on Main street in the middle of the night wasn’t enough…the sadistic goat fuckers had also tied a big red bow on his dick.
He looked a like a freaking birthday present for some nice, Midwestern wife and mom with an amazing sense of style and a wicked talent for taking photographs, who is celebrating her birthday by watching an awesome tv show, and having cake, or maybe pie, and then someone drops him, wrapped up like a pig in a blanket on her doorstep…or something like that. Or not like that at all. Did I mention the whole “kicked in the face” thing? Yeah, because that was making him kinda dizzy and a whole lot of confused.
And dammit, the fucking bow really was digging into the goods, fer crying out loud. And his naked ass was resting on a chair of unknown origin. Fuck this. Dean tested the ropes, tried to pull his arms free, tried to kick out his legs, tried to stand, but the ropes, (and oh, damn, they weren’t the nice, soft, cottony kind, they were the damned itchy twine-y kind that dug into your skin like little razor blades when you pulled against them,) the ropes were tight as a nun’s cunny. Those dog-fuckers knew how to tie a man up.
The only weakness he could find was in the chair. It creaked when he pulled on the arms. He decided that maybe if he could tip it over, his weight might cause the thing to come apart when it hit the ground. Dean started rocking, side to side, and the chair started moving, and tilting, and then it was balanced on two legs and he was feeling pretty hopeful as it tipped over…until, just before he hit the ground, he remembered his ribs. FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!
When he woke, he was on the ground. Still fucking tied to the fucking chair. Only now, his chest hurt so bad that breathing was problematic…’cause, god knows he didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice. At least for now, breathing was preferable to the alternative.
Dean was out of ideas, out of breath, out of his pants, and nearly out of his mind. God, what had he done to deserve this? And why the hell hadn’t anyone come along and cut him loose? Fucking town where people actually turned in at ten-thirty at night and watched Letterman in bed. Why the hell wasn’t anyone driving down the street? And thank god no one was driving down the street. And why the hell wasn’t Sam here, cutting him loose? And, fuck it, he didn’t want Sam to see him tied up with ribbons on his Johnson. And the damned ribbon was really starting to hurt now. He wondered, desperately, how long he had until his dick fell or froze off. Because it was February 8th, he thought, and it was kinda cold here in Lisle, Illinois in February. And he really couldn’t feel his ass anymore…
And then…he heard it. The rumble of his girl, coming down the street. Headlights shining, blinding his one good eye. And suddenly, Sam was there, and Sam was standing over him and Sam…was fucking laughing.
“Goddammit, Sam. Shut up and untie me,” Dean growled, breathlessly.
Sam knelt by his brother, and shook his head. “Where should I start?”
“Untie my fucking hands and feet, I’ll untie the rest,” Dean grunted.
“Okay,” Sam replied, pulling out his knife and starting to work on Dean’s ankles. “Who did this to you anyway?” he asked.
“Fucking clowns,” Dean replied, and Sam’s head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
“Clowns?” Sam asked, head swiveling left and right.
“Not real clowns, moron,” Dean grumbled. “Sore loser, bastard, ass wipe, needle dicks from the bar. Thought I cheated them.”
“Oh, that again,” Sam replied, and finished cutting Dean loose. He helped his brother sit upright. “Do you want me to…?” he asked, holding out the knife and eyeing Dean’s beribboned member.
“Fuck no. Get that fucking knife away from my fucking dick,” Dean said, and with trembling fingers he untied the ribbon and tossed it to the side, angrily. Then he tried to rub a bit of warmth back into his cold penis. “Does that look blue to you?” he asked.
“Dude, I’m not looking at your dick. I’m already scarred for life.”
“Help me up,” Dean said, “and be careful. I think they busted some ribs.”
Sam got Dean to his feet, and even helped him pull up his jeans.
“Thanks, man,” Dean said, holding onto Sam for support. “I feel like shit,” he moaned. “Oh…fuuuuck,” he breathed, leaned over and puked an evening’s worth of beer, pretzels and nachos onto his brother’s shoes. Then he passed out.
When Dean woke, he was in bed, covered in blankets, with an ice pack on his face. Things were still swimming around, but at least he was warm and after a quick check, he determined that there was nothing attached to his package. At least nothing that didn’t belong there.
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Sam said, smiling down at him from what appeared a great height. He bent forward and laid his hand on his brother’s face, and pulled up his swollen eyelid. “Hey, your pupils match now. Good.”
“Fuck…” Dean moaned.
“Yeah, hey, did you know that when you’re delirious, you swear. A lot.”
“Huh. Whad I say?”
“Mostly fuck. About a gazillion times. Also, shit, damn, piss, and several variations on fucker…pigs, dogs, hamsters, frogs, mothers, sisters, brothers, grandmas, babies, popes…”
“Popefucker…heh heh…”
“Wish I’d had the brains to turn on the phone and have you leave a message…”
“Dude,” Dean said, sniffing and wrinkling up his nose. “Did I puke on you?”
“Uh huh,” Sam replied. “You owe me shoes. And jeans. And years of therapy…”
“Sorry, man.”
Sam sat on the bed and smiled. “’S all right. They really messed you up.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“Keep the icepack on your face, and we’ll wrap your ribs when you feel like getting up.”
“Okay, then, never.”
Sam shook a couple pills into his hand. “Advil?”
“Christ, yes.” Dean dry swallowed the pills and shut his eyes. “I’m gonna go back to sleep for awhile, okay? Then we’ll go and put the smackdown on those dickheads at the bar.”
“Okay, sounds like a plan.” Sam stood. “I’ll go make a run to the hardware store, pick up some supplies.”
“Good,” Dean grinned weakly and settled into the bed. “Too bad we don’t have any Brownies. Those little shits know how to wreak havoc…”
The next evening, after last call, the brothers Winchester paid a little visit to the Friendly Tap. It took them almost four hours, but, when they left, they were quite satisfied that the bar wouldn’t be back to business as usual for several weeks…if ever.
The first sign of trouble came soon after Big Jim, the bartender arrived to open the bar. Inside, everything looked normal, but there was a box on the bar, wrapped in festive paper. Jim didn’t know who had left it, but the first customer came in seconds later, and Jim put it aside, meaning to ask Shirley, the waitress, if she knew who it was for.
“Beer and a bump,” Charlie said, grinning as he sat on a bar stool. “We sure gave that guy the business the other night. He show up again?”
“Nah, probably in the next county by now,” Jim said and reached for a mug, and nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. The glass was stuck firmly to the rack. “The hell?” Jim said, trying to free the mug to no avail. He tried another one, and another, but all of them were stuck like glue.
Jim frowned, then started to look around his bar. He tried to lift a bottle of scotch, but it was anchored to the shelf, as were ALL of the liquor bottles. The beer taps were welded shut. The register keys were glued so that they couldn’t be pressed.
Charlie got off his stool and tried to move it, but it was stuck to the floor. He tried the next stool…it was stuck. They were all stuck.
The ashtrays were glued to the bar, to the tables. The peanuts in the snack bowls were glued together. Jim’s bar rag was even glued down. The juke box had only one button that worked, and that one was “Muskrat Love.”
The pool cues were glued into the racks. The balls glued to the table. Even the chalk was stuck in the trays.
The heat was on, full blast, and Jim couldn’t get the thermostat to move…it felt like it was frozen.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!!”
“Hey, Jim,” Charlie yelled. “The toilets won’t flush…and the urinals are stopped up with something.
Just then, Shirley came in the back door. “Why is it so hot in here? And why does it smell like fish in the back?”
“FUCK!!!” Big Jim yelled again.
“What’s this?” Shirley asked, pointing to the mysterious box.
“I don’t know…” Big Jim said, “but I’m gonna find out.” He untied the ribbon from the box and took off the lid. He pulled tissue paper out, felt around inside until his hand met something solid, and he pulled it out.
In his hand was a very realistic looking rubber dildo with a red ribbon wrapped around it, and a note taped to it.
“GO FUCK YOURSELF” it said. And Big Jim knew who had done this to him, and why.
“Fuuuuck,” he moaned.
Happy Fuckin’ Birthday, Lemmypie!!
He’d have made it, if it hadn’t been for the waitress with the baseball bat.
I mean, c’mon. So Dean played a little pool, flirted a little too much with a couple of the local yokel’s wives and girlfriends. It wasn’t like he MADE them sit with him, let him buy them beers, tell a few jokes and lay a friendly hand on a thigh or two. Uh uh. That was all on them.
All he did was misrepresent how well he could play pool for five or ten games…until he finally and quite thoroughly divested the denizens of the barroom of their paychecks. Was it his fault that they all bet against him when he offered to double the stakes? Just because he’d acted drunk, didn’t mean he was drunk. And really? Weren’t they trying to take advantage of HIM?
And THIS? This was just beyond the pale. A total overreaction to a friendly little pool hustle. I mean, if they had asked nicely, he might have given them their money back. No harm, no foul.
No, Ernie Banks, masquerading as a waitress, hit him full on in the chest when he turned for the door. He knew he should have tipped her better. What a slugger. She hit a home run, knocking the air in his lungs out of the park, definitely busting a couple of innocent ribs, and then, that yahoo with the freakin’ steel toe boots kicking him in the head when he was lying there, gasping like a bluegill on the shore. He couldn’t even protect himself, couldn’t move his arms to cover his face. Caught him on the cheekbone, and damned if that didn’t feel broken too. Probably about the size of a softball, but he couldn’t see it because his left eye was swollen shut. And worse, he couldn’t reach up and feel it, because the inbred, toad sucking, mother-loving, father-fucking, ass-crack eating, nose-picking, pig-licking, dickless, heartless, brainless, soulless sons of bitches had pulled his pants down around his ankles and tied him to a chair in front of the motherfucking bar. On the main street. At, what must be, 0h-dark thirty in the morning because there wasn’t a man, dog, beast or wendigo stirring in this one-horse, two-stoplight shithole of a town.
And if pantsless, beaten unconcious and tied to a chair on Main street in the middle of the night wasn’t enough…the sadistic goat fuckers had also tied a big red bow on his dick.
He looked a like a freaking birthday present for some nice, Midwestern wife and mom with an amazing sense of style and a wicked talent for taking photographs, who is celebrating her birthday by watching an awesome tv show, and having cake, or maybe pie, and then someone drops him, wrapped up like a pig in a blanket on her doorstep…or something like that. Or not like that at all. Did I mention the whole “kicked in the face” thing? Yeah, because that was making him kinda dizzy and a whole lot of confused.
And dammit, the fucking bow really was digging into the goods, fer crying out loud. And his naked ass was resting on a chair of unknown origin. Fuck this. Dean tested the ropes, tried to pull his arms free, tried to kick out his legs, tried to stand, but the ropes, (and oh, damn, they weren’t the nice, soft, cottony kind, they were the damned itchy twine-y kind that dug into your skin like little razor blades when you pulled against them,) the ropes were tight as a nun’s cunny. Those dog-fuckers knew how to tie a man up.
The only weakness he could find was in the chair. It creaked when he pulled on the arms. He decided that maybe if he could tip it over, his weight might cause the thing to come apart when it hit the ground. Dean started rocking, side to side, and the chair started moving, and tilting, and then it was balanced on two legs and he was feeling pretty hopeful as it tipped over…until, just before he hit the ground, he remembered his ribs. FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!!!
When he woke, he was on the ground. Still fucking tied to the fucking chair. Only now, his chest hurt so bad that breathing was problematic…’cause, god knows he didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice. At least for now, breathing was preferable to the alternative.
Dean was out of ideas, out of breath, out of his pants, and nearly out of his mind. God, what had he done to deserve this? And why the hell hadn’t anyone come along and cut him loose? Fucking town where people actually turned in at ten-thirty at night and watched Letterman in bed. Why the hell wasn’t anyone driving down the street? And thank god no one was driving down the street. And why the hell wasn’t Sam here, cutting him loose? And, fuck it, he didn’t want Sam to see him tied up with ribbons on his Johnson. And the damned ribbon was really starting to hurt now. He wondered, desperately, how long he had until his dick fell or froze off. Because it was February 8th, he thought, and it was kinda cold here in Lisle, Illinois in February. And he really couldn’t feel his ass anymore…
And then…he heard it. The rumble of his girl, coming down the street. Headlights shining, blinding his one good eye. And suddenly, Sam was there, and Sam was standing over him and Sam…was fucking laughing.
“Goddammit, Sam. Shut up and untie me,” Dean growled, breathlessly.
Sam knelt by his brother, and shook his head. “Where should I start?”
“Untie my fucking hands and feet, I’ll untie the rest,” Dean grunted.
“Okay,” Sam replied, pulling out his knife and starting to work on Dean’s ankles. “Who did this to you anyway?” he asked.
“Fucking clowns,” Dean replied, and Sam’s head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
“Clowns?” Sam asked, head swiveling left and right.
“Not real clowns, moron,” Dean grumbled. “Sore loser, bastard, ass wipe, needle dicks from the bar. Thought I cheated them.”
“Oh, that again,” Sam replied, and finished cutting Dean loose. He helped his brother sit upright. “Do you want me to…?” he asked, holding out the knife and eyeing Dean’s beribboned member.
“Fuck no. Get that fucking knife away from my fucking dick,” Dean said, and with trembling fingers he untied the ribbon and tossed it to the side, angrily. Then he tried to rub a bit of warmth back into his cold penis. “Does that look blue to you?” he asked.
“Dude, I’m not looking at your dick. I’m already scarred for life.”
“Help me up,” Dean said, “and be careful. I think they busted some ribs.”
Sam got Dean to his feet, and even helped him pull up his jeans.
“Thanks, man,” Dean said, holding onto Sam for support. “I feel like shit,” he moaned. “Oh…fuuuuck,” he breathed, leaned over and puked an evening’s worth of beer, pretzels and nachos onto his brother’s shoes. Then he passed out.
When Dean woke, he was in bed, covered in blankets, with an ice pack on his face. Things were still swimming around, but at least he was warm and after a quick check, he determined that there was nothing attached to his package. At least nothing that didn’t belong there.
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Sam said, smiling down at him from what appeared a great height. He bent forward and laid his hand on his brother’s face, and pulled up his swollen eyelid. “Hey, your pupils match now. Good.”
“Fuck…” Dean moaned.
“Yeah, hey, did you know that when you’re delirious, you swear. A lot.”
“Huh. Whad I say?”
“Mostly fuck. About a gazillion times. Also, shit, damn, piss, and several variations on fucker…pigs, dogs, hamsters, frogs, mothers, sisters, brothers, grandmas, babies, popes…”
“Popefucker…heh heh…”
“Wish I’d had the brains to turn on the phone and have you leave a message…”
“Dude,” Dean said, sniffing and wrinkling up his nose. “Did I puke on you?”
“Uh huh,” Sam replied. “You owe me shoes. And jeans. And years of therapy…”
“Sorry, man.”
Sam sat on the bed and smiled. “’S all right. They really messed you up.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“Keep the icepack on your face, and we’ll wrap your ribs when you feel like getting up.”
“Okay, then, never.”
Sam shook a couple pills into his hand. “Advil?”
“Christ, yes.” Dean dry swallowed the pills and shut his eyes. “I’m gonna go back to sleep for awhile, okay? Then we’ll go and put the smackdown on those dickheads at the bar.”
“Okay, sounds like a plan.” Sam stood. “I’ll go make a run to the hardware store, pick up some supplies.”
“Good,” Dean grinned weakly and settled into the bed. “Too bad we don’t have any Brownies. Those little shits know how to wreak havoc…”
The next evening, after last call, the brothers Winchester paid a little visit to the Friendly Tap. It took them almost four hours, but, when they left, they were quite satisfied that the bar wouldn’t be back to business as usual for several weeks…if ever.
The first sign of trouble came soon after Big Jim, the bartender arrived to open the bar. Inside, everything looked normal, but there was a box on the bar, wrapped in festive paper. Jim didn’t know who had left it, but the first customer came in seconds later, and Jim put it aside, meaning to ask Shirley, the waitress, if she knew who it was for.
“Beer and a bump,” Charlie said, grinning as he sat on a bar stool. “We sure gave that guy the business the other night. He show up again?”
“Nah, probably in the next county by now,” Jim said and reached for a mug, and nearly pulled his arm out of its socket. The glass was stuck firmly to the rack. “The hell?” Jim said, trying to free the mug to no avail. He tried another one, and another, but all of them were stuck like glue.
Jim frowned, then started to look around his bar. He tried to lift a bottle of scotch, but it was anchored to the shelf, as were ALL of the liquor bottles. The beer taps were welded shut. The register keys were glued so that they couldn’t be pressed.
Charlie got off his stool and tried to move it, but it was stuck to the floor. He tried the next stool…it was stuck. They were all stuck.
The ashtrays were glued to the bar, to the tables. The peanuts in the snack bowls were glued together. Jim’s bar rag was even glued down. The juke box had only one button that worked, and that one was “Muskrat Love.”
The pool cues were glued into the racks. The balls glued to the table. Even the chalk was stuck in the trays.
The heat was on, full blast, and Jim couldn’t get the thermostat to move…it felt like it was frozen.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!!”
“Hey, Jim,” Charlie yelled. “The toilets won’t flush…and the urinals are stopped up with something.
Just then, Shirley came in the back door. “Why is it so hot in here? And why does it smell like fish in the back?”
“FUCK!!!” Big Jim yelled again.
“What’s this?” Shirley asked, pointing to the mysterious box.
“I don’t know…” Big Jim said, “but I’m gonna find out.” He untied the ribbon from the box and took off the lid. He pulled tissue paper out, felt around inside until his hand met something solid, and he pulled it out.
In his hand was a very realistic looking rubber dildo with a red ribbon wrapped around it, and a note taped to it.
“GO FUCK YOURSELF” it said. And Big Jim knew who had done this to him, and why.
“Fuuuuck,” he moaned.
Happy Fuckin’ Birthday, Lemmypie!!