FIC: F*ck Or Die
Title: F*ck Or Die
Author: deceptivemirror
Rating: PG-13 for language and crudity
Genre: Gen (believe it or not)
Characters: Sam, Dean, one very dumb OC
Summary: Taking down a witch was supposed to be easy. It figured that the witch would do anything to make things hard.
Author's Note: welcome to the fourth story in the Anti-Trope 'verse, a series of unrelated fics dedicated to trope exploration and the hilarity therewithin. Welcome to yet another installment inspired by my enabler friend keep_waking_up, as we asked each other why the need to have sex with someone would in any way cause death.
Sam watched Dean, knife still clenched in his hand, fly over his head and hit a wall back first, and winced in sympathy as Dean slid down the wall and landed unceremoniously on his ass. That action appeared to be the witch's last, since he had collapsed on his heavy wooden chair, hand pressed dramatically to the bleeding wound in his stomach.
Hearing movement behind him, Sam risked a glance back to see Dean picking himself off the floor, and allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.
“Foolish mortals,” the man-witch wheezed. “This is only a temporary setback!”
“Looks pretty permanent from where we're standing,” Sam pointed out, gesturing with his own knife. “Stab wounds to the gut tend to have that effect.”
“It is but a minor inconvenience,” the man-witch declared with a grimace. “I shall heal, and then you shall most certainly be sorry!”
“I'm already sorry,” Dean groaned from behind Sam. “For a dying guy, you have some pipes.”
“I will only heal myself of the damage you have inflicted,” the dying witch proclaimed sonorously. Sam idly thought the guy had a lot of energy for someone supposedly on death's door. “But until I am fully healed, I shall curse you, green-eyed stabby man!”
Sam had to fight himself to keep from rolling his eyes. Insults from bad-guys seemed a lot more pedestrian these days.
“For now, you must fuck...or die!!!” The supposedly-dying witch declared. “I will make your dick so hard that, should you fail to fuck something within the next few hours, it will cause the vessels within to burst, and you shall bleed to death from within!”
Sam just stared.
Unsteady footsteps indicated that Dean, apparently recovered enough from his hard impact with the wall and subsequent reunion with the floor, was coming alongside. When he finally reached Sam's side, Sam noticed that he was staring dumbstruck at the dying man-witch too.
Sam blinked hard once, then swallowed. “So, let me see if I have this right,” he said slowly, trying to make sense of the situation. “You're making it so that my brother will die if he doesn't have sex?”
“It'll be a painful way to go,” the not-quite-so-fatally stabbed man agreed, nodding and holding his bleeding gut.
Sam gestured at Dean with his free hand. “You're cursing my brother to have sex or he'll die,” he repeated. “My older brother, Dean.”
The witch nodded.
“My brother Dean,” Sam said, because he couldn't seem to escape the need to reiterate. “Who hasn't had a problem finding someone to have sex with since girls realized he had a functional dick.”
The witch, now looking somewhat nervous, nodded a bit more hesitantly this time, but brightened. “But there's a time limit!” He said triumphantly, managing to look pale.
“You actually think telling me to go fuck someone is some kind of punishment?” Dean chose that moment to chime in, just like Sam knew he would. “And I'll die if I don't?” Dean seemed to take a big breath, and then he asked, incredulously, “and if I don't, your magical curse is going to kill me because of blue balls?!”
“And internal bleeding!” The dying witch protested, still trying to look victorious.
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked unimpressed.
“Where the ever-loving hell did you get the idea that cursing someone with magical Viagra was a good idea?” Dean demanded. “That's got to be the lamest death curse I've ever heard!”
“But the only person around to fuck right now is your brother,” the man-witch stated, finally starting to sound like a dying man.
Sam couldn't take it anymore. “Come on, Dean,” he said, laying a careful hand on Dean's shoulder. “Let's just go.”
“But---you can't!” The dying witch protested, struggling to get up, and failing miserably. “If you take me to a hospital, I'll take the curse off!”
Sam groaned. “Didn't you say that your injury's a 'minor inconvenience?'” He asked, making finger quotes with the hand holding the knife. “Besides, the curse isn't that damn hard to remove.”
“And I'm kinda getting tired of waiting for you to die,” Dean said with a dismissive shrug. “At this point, either you die or you don't. We stopped the shit you've been pulling in this town, and the cops have your mug-shot thanks to us, not to mention the evidence we planted.”
A siren suddenly blared into existence somewhere nearby, and Dean cocked his head. “In fact, here they come now,” he added with a grin. “Complete with an ambulance, I'll bet.”
With that final statement, they started walking out of the room, but Sam couldn't resist one last parting shot.
“You just said he had to fuck something, or die,” Sam said, finally sheathing the knife in its concealed holster. “Next time, maybe you'll want to be more specific.”
They left the house and the spluttering, half-dead witch behind and climbed into the waiting Impala, managing to get to the end of the street in time to see the sirens in the rear-view mirrors.
--()()--
When they got back to the motel room, Sam dug a small bag out of his duffel and tossed it to Dean. When Dean, already tenting his jeans and looking uncomfortable, caught it and arched an eyebrow, Sam shrugged. “You were going to get that on your birthday anyway,” he said, getting his wallet out and searching for a few single dollars. “I guess I can give it to you now, in order to save your life.”
Dean reached into the bag and pulled out a Fleshlight. Sam had had a hard time picking out the perfect one, but the shade of neon pink it was contrasted nicely with Dean's furious blush.
“I hate you so much right now, Sam,” Dean growled.
“Love you too, jerk,” Sam replied cheerily, heading toward the door. “I'm going to buy some sodas. You just make sure the only death you die in the next few minutes is a little one!”
The melodious sound of Dean's shouted expletives followed Sam on his way out.
Author: deceptivemirror
Rating: PG-13 for language and crudity
Genre: Gen (believe it or not)
Characters: Sam, Dean, one very dumb OC
Summary: Taking down a witch was supposed to be easy. It figured that the witch would do anything to make things hard.
Author's Note: welcome to the fourth story in the Anti-Trope 'verse, a series of unrelated fics dedicated to trope exploration and the hilarity therewithin. Welcome to yet another installment inspired by my enabler friend keep_waking_up, as we asked each other why the need to have sex with someone would in any way cause death.
Sam watched Dean, knife still clenched in his hand, fly over his head and hit a wall back first, and winced in sympathy as Dean slid down the wall and landed unceremoniously on his ass. That action appeared to be the witch's last, since he had collapsed on his heavy wooden chair, hand pressed dramatically to the bleeding wound in his stomach.
Hearing movement behind him, Sam risked a glance back to see Dean picking himself off the floor, and allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.
“Foolish mortals,” the man-witch wheezed. “This is only a temporary setback!”
“Looks pretty permanent from where we're standing,” Sam pointed out, gesturing with his own knife. “Stab wounds to the gut tend to have that effect.”
“It is but a minor inconvenience,” the man-witch declared with a grimace. “I shall heal, and then you shall most certainly be sorry!”
“I'm already sorry,” Dean groaned from behind Sam. “For a dying guy, you have some pipes.”
“I will only heal myself of the damage you have inflicted,” the dying witch proclaimed sonorously. Sam idly thought the guy had a lot of energy for someone supposedly on death's door. “But until I am fully healed, I shall curse you, green-eyed stabby man!”
Sam had to fight himself to keep from rolling his eyes. Insults from bad-guys seemed a lot more pedestrian these days.
“For now, you must fuck...or die!!!” The supposedly-dying witch declared. “I will make your dick so hard that, should you fail to fuck something within the next few hours, it will cause the vessels within to burst, and you shall bleed to death from within!”
Sam just stared.
Unsteady footsteps indicated that Dean, apparently recovered enough from his hard impact with the wall and subsequent reunion with the floor, was coming alongside. When he finally reached Sam's side, Sam noticed that he was staring dumbstruck at the dying man-witch too.
Sam blinked hard once, then swallowed. “So, let me see if I have this right,” he said slowly, trying to make sense of the situation. “You're making it so that my brother will die if he doesn't have sex?”
“It'll be a painful way to go,” the not-quite-so-fatally stabbed man agreed, nodding and holding his bleeding gut.
Sam gestured at Dean with his free hand. “You're cursing my brother to have sex or he'll die,” he repeated. “My older brother, Dean.”
The witch nodded.
“My brother Dean,” Sam said, because he couldn't seem to escape the need to reiterate. “Who hasn't had a problem finding someone to have sex with since girls realized he had a functional dick.”
The witch, now looking somewhat nervous, nodded a bit more hesitantly this time, but brightened. “But there's a time limit!” He said triumphantly, managing to look pale.
“You actually think telling me to go fuck someone is some kind of punishment?” Dean chose that moment to chime in, just like Sam knew he would. “And I'll die if I don't?” Dean seemed to take a big breath, and then he asked, incredulously, “and if I don't, your magical curse is going to kill me because of blue balls?!”
“And internal bleeding!” The dying witch protested, still trying to look victorious.
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked unimpressed.
“Where the ever-loving hell did you get the idea that cursing someone with magical Viagra was a good idea?” Dean demanded. “That's got to be the lamest death curse I've ever heard!”
“But the only person around to fuck right now is your brother,” the man-witch stated, finally starting to sound like a dying man.
Sam couldn't take it anymore. “Come on, Dean,” he said, laying a careful hand on Dean's shoulder. “Let's just go.”
“But---you can't!” The dying witch protested, struggling to get up, and failing miserably. “If you take me to a hospital, I'll take the curse off!”
Sam groaned. “Didn't you say that your injury's a 'minor inconvenience?'” He asked, making finger quotes with the hand holding the knife. “Besides, the curse isn't that damn hard to remove.”
“And I'm kinda getting tired of waiting for you to die,” Dean said with a dismissive shrug. “At this point, either you die or you don't. We stopped the shit you've been pulling in this town, and the cops have your mug-shot thanks to us, not to mention the evidence we planted.”
A siren suddenly blared into existence somewhere nearby, and Dean cocked his head. “In fact, here they come now,” he added with a grin. “Complete with an ambulance, I'll bet.”
With that final statement, they started walking out of the room, but Sam couldn't resist one last parting shot.
“You just said he had to fuck something, or die,” Sam said, finally sheathing the knife in its concealed holster. “Next time, maybe you'll want to be more specific.”
They left the house and the spluttering, half-dead witch behind and climbed into the waiting Impala, managing to get to the end of the street in time to see the sirens in the rear-view mirrors.
--()()--
When they got back to the motel room, Sam dug a small bag out of his duffel and tossed it to Dean. When Dean, already tenting his jeans and looking uncomfortable, caught it and arched an eyebrow, Sam shrugged. “You were going to get that on your birthday anyway,” he said, getting his wallet out and searching for a few single dollars. “I guess I can give it to you now, in order to save your life.”
Dean reached into the bag and pulled out a Fleshlight. Sam had had a hard time picking out the perfect one, but the shade of neon pink it was contrasted nicely with Dean's furious blush.
“I hate you so much right now, Sam,” Dean growled.
“Love you too, jerk,” Sam replied cheerily, heading toward the door. “I'm going to buy some sodas. You just make sure the only death you die in the next few minutes is a little one!”
The melodious sound of Dean's shouted expletives followed Sam on his way out.