another fic
Here's another piece of fanfic from spnflashfic - I call it 'Big Guns' becuase I suck at titles. Once again, copied and pasted.
Title: Big Guns
Author: Malcolm St James
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13, for swearing
Word Count: 541
Spoilers: Nada
Summary: It's a fight in a dumpy motel. A shirtless fight. *headdesk*
Notes/Warnings: This is crack!fic. Once again, un-beta'd. Done extremely quickly, and probably ramble-y. Comments are appreciated, criticism welcomed. Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: Borrowed from Kripke,and the rest. No profit being made, just my own sad entertainment.
Sam was, once again, walking around without a shirt on. Dean groaned and turned over, burying his face in the nasty-ass motel pillow. He stayed like that until he ran out of breath (which was a pretty damn long time - Dean practiced holding his breath in the shower while he beat off), then peered out at the room again. Sam was in front of the bathroom mirror, door wide open, flexing his muscles. Again.
“Dude,” Dean shouted, “do you have to keep doing that?”
Sam spun guiltily. “Uh, what? Doing what?”
“Fuckin’ flexing, man,” Dean growled. He flipped over. “We get it, okay? You’ve got muscles now, congratulations. You now look like a man and not a ten year old girl.”
“You’re such a jerk, Dean.”
“And you’re a bitch. A bitch who thinks she’s the shit.”
Sam snorted and came out of the bathroom. He curled his arms and flexed. “Dean, I am the shit. Just look at these guns.” He paraded around, striking poses as he went until Dean got fed up and threw his pillow at him. “Gross, Dean, you drooled on this thing.”
Dean jumped up from the bed and peeled his own shirt up over his head. “This is what a real man looks like,” he said, jamming his thumbs through his belt loops. “Excellent muscle definition, not too bulky, visible but not disgusting, and I look great in everything I wear. Perfection, dude.”
“Oh yeah?” Sam did not look impressed. He turned around and pointed at his ass. “Go on,” he urged, shuffling backwards with his butt pushed out at his brother. “Feel it. It’s rock hard. You could bounce a quarter off this baby.”
“Tell me something, Sam,” Dean said, smacking his brother in the ass so he yelped and leapt forward. “You ever get tired of being such a douche? Look at these,” he pointed to his arms. “Pythons of pain.”
“More like worms of despair,” Sam laughed, and slapped Dean on the back of the head. Dean retaliated by reaching down Sam’s pants and yanking his boxers up. Sam squealed and twisted Dean’s nipple. The fight quickly deteriorated from there, until they were lying in a heap on the floor, bitch-slapping each other.
“Dude, truce! Truce!” Sam yodeled as a stray elbow smacked him in the kidney.
They rolled apart, panting.
“Maybe you should put on a shirt, or something,” Dean mumbled, flailing his hand around over his head to find his own. “Then I wouldn’t have to beat your ass down all the time.”
Sam gusted out a laugh. “A shirt, Dean? You think a shirt is going to stop your jealousy issues? Dean, I think we should hug.” He rolled over onto Dean and clamped his struggling brother with his arms and legs.
“Get your freak ape-arms offa me!” Dean bellowed. “You know I hate hugs! And you’re gay!”
Sam broke off and grinned at the ceiling. “See, if I didn’t have these muscles, how could I give you hugs?”
Dean turned to stare at him. “You seriously grew King Kong muscles to hug me?”
“I just, you know, love you so much, Dean,” Sam said wetly, then burst out laughing.
“Shut up, bitch,” Dean said, and slapped him.
Title: Big Guns
Author: Malcolm St James
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13, for swearing
Word Count: 541
Spoilers: Nada
Summary: It's a fight in a dumpy motel. A shirtless fight. *headdesk*
Notes/Warnings: This is crack!fic. Once again, un-beta'd. Done extremely quickly, and probably ramble-y. Comments are appreciated, criticism welcomed. Thanks for reading!
Disclaimer: Borrowed from Kripke,and the rest. No profit being made, just my own sad entertainment.
Sam was, once again, walking around without a shirt on. Dean groaned and turned over, burying his face in the nasty-ass motel pillow. He stayed like that until he ran out of breath (which was a pretty damn long time - Dean practiced holding his breath in the shower while he beat off), then peered out at the room again. Sam was in front of the bathroom mirror, door wide open, flexing his muscles. Again.
“Dude,” Dean shouted, “do you have to keep doing that?”
Sam spun guiltily. “Uh, what? Doing what?”
“Fuckin’ flexing, man,” Dean growled. He flipped over. “We get it, okay? You’ve got muscles now, congratulations. You now look like a man and not a ten year old girl.”
“You’re such a jerk, Dean.”
“And you’re a bitch. A bitch who thinks she’s the shit.”
Sam snorted and came out of the bathroom. He curled his arms and flexed. “Dean, I am the shit. Just look at these guns.” He paraded around, striking poses as he went until Dean got fed up and threw his pillow at him. “Gross, Dean, you drooled on this thing.”
Dean jumped up from the bed and peeled his own shirt up over his head. “This is what a real man looks like,” he said, jamming his thumbs through his belt loops. “Excellent muscle definition, not too bulky, visible but not disgusting, and I look great in everything I wear. Perfection, dude.”
“Oh yeah?” Sam did not look impressed. He turned around and pointed at his ass. “Go on,” he urged, shuffling backwards with his butt pushed out at his brother. “Feel it. It’s rock hard. You could bounce a quarter off this baby.”
“Tell me something, Sam,” Dean said, smacking his brother in the ass so he yelped and leapt forward. “You ever get tired of being such a douche? Look at these,” he pointed to his arms. “Pythons of pain.”
“More like worms of despair,” Sam laughed, and slapped Dean on the back of the head. Dean retaliated by reaching down Sam’s pants and yanking his boxers up. Sam squealed and twisted Dean’s nipple. The fight quickly deteriorated from there, until they were lying in a heap on the floor, bitch-slapping each other.
“Dude, truce! Truce!” Sam yodeled as a stray elbow smacked him in the kidney.
They rolled apart, panting.
“Maybe you should put on a shirt, or something,” Dean mumbled, flailing his hand around over his head to find his own. “Then I wouldn’t have to beat your ass down all the time.”
Sam gusted out a laugh. “A shirt, Dean? You think a shirt is going to stop your jealousy issues? Dean, I think we should hug.” He rolled over onto Dean and clamped his struggling brother with his arms and legs.
“Get your freak ape-arms offa me!” Dean bellowed. “You know I hate hugs! And you’re gay!”
Sam broke off and grinned at the ceiling. “See, if I didn’t have these muscles, how could I give you hugs?”
Dean turned to stare at him. “You seriously grew King Kong muscles to hug me?”
“I just, you know, love you so much, Dean,” Sam said wetly, then burst out laughing.
“Shut up, bitch,” Dean said, and slapped him.