fic: Four Things That Dean Imagined, and One That He Didn’t
I thought I'd try my hand at one of those Five Things fics. And woo boy, this turned out waaay angstier than I thought it would. Ah well, what can you do?
Also, I'm SO SORRY, but I owe a million comments, so. Yeah. I'm going to try to go and get through them. In the meantime, have some fic! *bribes*
Title: Four Things That Dean Imagined, and One That He Didn’t
Rating: Adult. Or something.
Word Count: 1,200
Blah blah blah: Wincest-y, one-sided-y, angst-y, unbeta'd-y, and stupid. Lalala!
Dean was on a podium in some nowhere little town. It looked like the Old West, all false-front buildings and dusty roads, tumbleweeds blowing by the corner of his eye. The townspeople were gathered in front of him, eyes wide and gazes rapt, watching as their mayor presented him with the key to the city.
He’d just single-handedly saved their asses from a killer clown that lurked in the sewers (Dean, thirteen, had just read It for the first time and it struck him that he could do a way better job than those dumbass kids), and they were thankful. As well they should be, he told himself, smiling heroically as the townspeople applauded wildly.
A girl at the back of the crowd caught his eye. He’d saved her kid brother in this version, and he could tell she was just itching to show him her gratitude. He fast-forwarded through the grateful speeches, the tearful mothers thanking him for saving their children, the new sandwich named in his honour. He sped through it all with his eye on the girl, seventeen at least, and then they were in the Impala (which was his, of course), and she was murmuring about how much she appreciated his heroics, unbuttoning her blouse to the tune of her thanks.
And he leaned back and in his mind let her blow him, and rode his hand, and came like only a thirteen-year-old kid can, and it tasted like fucking valor.
Dean took Sam to the bus station, chest tight with anger and fear and things unsaid, knuckles white around the wheel. Sam was silent in the passenger’s seat, staring out the window like he wanted nothing more than to get away.
At the terminal, Sam’s bus was called - Final boarding call - and Dean knew with certainty that it was now or never. So he grabbed Sammy’s sleeve, tugged him back, said, Don’t leave, and kissed him. Strong and powerful, showing him the force of what Dean was feeling, had felt forever, and Sam. Sam couldn’t resist it, just like Dean never could, and the kiss turned sloppy and needy and became everything, everything, not just to Dean but to Sam as well. And the firm length of Sam’s cock slotted against his hip was validation, was solidarity, was Dean no longer alone.
And later, in the bright afternoon sunlight, Sam’s lips against his abdomen told him it was okay, it was good, it was normal.
But Sam was gone, left for his own version of normalcy, and Dean was left with his fucking imagination.
Dean was in Harpo Studios, stake in hand. He could hear her, voice pitching widely, playing to the adulation of her followers. Like a shadow, he crept onstage, sharp eyes on the lookout for her minions. Face set, he rushed the stage. Oprah turned, lips parted in a hideous snarl.
Growling, she leapt at him, teeth bared in the bizarre lighting onset. Dean hurdled forward, soaring through the air. They met in midair, two adversaries bent on the destruction of the other. The stake smashed straight and true through her heart and Dean bore her shuddering, heaving body to the ground.
The audience was wailing, shouting about A-Ha Moments and Favourite Things, and black sludge pumped slowly from the monster’s chest.
You’re free, he told her followers, spreading his hands wide. As one, they fell limp, exhausted from the spell she’d had over them. All but a little girl in a purple dress, hair done back in plaits.
Thank you, she said, stepping forward shyly. She held out a daisy, white and fragile in her tiny hand. Thank you for saving us.
And Dean took the flower and scooped her up, hugged her little body tight before setting her down beside her sleeping mother. Be a good girl, he told her, and smiled at her solemn nod. And don’t be afraid of the dark.
Dean had cornered Ole Yellow-Eyes in an alley. The chase itself was unimportant; but he’d done it, succeeded where his father had not, and he was about to bring the pain.
He ignored the demon’s hissed threats of death and hell and humiliation, and instead cracked his knuckles menacingly. The demon looked into his eyes, saw the ass-whuppin’ they promised, and deflated slightly. Dean smirked, cold steel, and moved forward.
The fight went long. Dean was enjoying toying with the sonofabitch, breaking parts of him that would hurt. Dean ripped him apart, put him back together, broke his face, his arms, legs, back, pulled out his eyes and spilled his foul guts. And the demon fought back, mounting assaults that Dean bravely weathered. His face remained stoic throughout.
He paused before delivering the killing blow: 20-something years, and he wanted to savor the moment. The demon howled, begged, repented. He gibbered that he should’ve known not to mess with Dean friggin’ Winchester, that he’d realized his mistake, that he’d take it all back in a little black heartbeat. He pleaded for Dean to reconsider, to have mercy, but Dean just shook his head. Slowly. Licked the blood off his teeth and said, Fuck you, asswipe.
Hmm…
Licked the blood off his teeth and spat it in the demon’s face. With a voice like consecrated iron, he said, You don’t mess with my family, fuckhead.
Oh yeah.
Howling, the demon died. Split into a million disappearing pieces, his cries of agony ringing in the ensuing silence. Dean smiled grimly. John appeared at his side, dressed like a fucking hunter, and clapped him on the back. I knew you could do it, son, he said, voice echoing weirdly, and then he floated on up. His mom showed up then, dressed in white, and kissed his forehead and followed John.
Sam strolled into the alley, looking healthy and rested, smile shining out of his face. Bruce Willis was behind him, giving him the thumbs up. Sam held him, arms tight, and Bruce grinned approvingly, and then Vincent Price showed up and handed him a burger, and Dean sighed and gunned the engine and watched Sam sleep fitfully beside him, forehead bunched in pain.
He was in Hell, that much was obvious. Had been obvious for the past eternity or so, while he felt himself pulled apart in so many more ways than one. No body, no name, no soul.
And then, holy fucking shit and then. Sam rode in on a fucking white horse and held his limp body tenderly in his arms, and rode back out, and put him back together. And Dean, yeah, Dean. Well Dean woke up and saw him through fluttering eyelashes and Sam held him, in his arms, and whispered in his ear and told him everything was going to be all right. And Dean didn’t imagine it when Sam’s breath hitched as they hugged, didn’t imagine the relief in Sam’s eyes, didn’t imagine that things were all right, that they stayed all right.
So now, at 30, Dean no longer imagines. He’s got enough weird shit going on in his life; he doesn’t need fantasy to keep things interesting. Sometimes, though, he’ll look over at Sam and let his mind wander.
Lets himself believe in the possibility that one day, one day, Sam will look up at him from under heavy lids, breath fanning soft over Dean’s face, skin warm under Dean’s palms, and say, “It’s just how I imagined.”
Also, I'm SO SORRY, but I owe a million comments, so. Yeah. I'm going to try to go and get through them. In the meantime, have some fic! *bribes*
Title: Four Things That Dean Imagined, and One That He Didn’t
Rating: Adult. Or something.
Word Count: 1,200
Blah blah blah: Wincest-y, one-sided-y, angst-y, unbeta'd-y, and stupid. Lalala!
Dean was on a podium in some nowhere little town. It looked like the Old West, all false-front buildings and dusty roads, tumbleweeds blowing by the corner of his eye. The townspeople were gathered in front of him, eyes wide and gazes rapt, watching as their mayor presented him with the key to the city.
He’d just single-handedly saved their asses from a killer clown that lurked in the sewers (Dean, thirteen, had just read It for the first time and it struck him that he could do a way better job than those dumbass kids), and they were thankful. As well they should be, he told himself, smiling heroically as the townspeople applauded wildly.
A girl at the back of the crowd caught his eye. He’d saved her kid brother in this version, and he could tell she was just itching to show him her gratitude. He fast-forwarded through the grateful speeches, the tearful mothers thanking him for saving their children, the new sandwich named in his honour. He sped through it all with his eye on the girl, seventeen at least, and then they were in the Impala (which was his, of course), and she was murmuring about how much she appreciated his heroics, unbuttoning her blouse to the tune of her thanks.
And he leaned back and in his mind let her blow him, and rode his hand, and came like only a thirteen-year-old kid can, and it tasted like fucking valor.
Dean took Sam to the bus station, chest tight with anger and fear and things unsaid, knuckles white around the wheel. Sam was silent in the passenger’s seat, staring out the window like he wanted nothing more than to get away.
At the terminal, Sam’s bus was called - Final boarding call - and Dean knew with certainty that it was now or never. So he grabbed Sammy’s sleeve, tugged him back, said, Don’t leave, and kissed him. Strong and powerful, showing him the force of what Dean was feeling, had felt forever, and Sam. Sam couldn’t resist it, just like Dean never could, and the kiss turned sloppy and needy and became everything, everything, not just to Dean but to Sam as well. And the firm length of Sam’s cock slotted against his hip was validation, was solidarity, was Dean no longer alone.
And later, in the bright afternoon sunlight, Sam’s lips against his abdomen told him it was okay, it was good, it was normal.
But Sam was gone, left for his own version of normalcy, and Dean was left with his fucking imagination.
Dean was in Harpo Studios, stake in hand. He could hear her, voice pitching widely, playing to the adulation of her followers. Like a shadow, he crept onstage, sharp eyes on the lookout for her minions. Face set, he rushed the stage. Oprah turned, lips parted in a hideous snarl.
Growling, she leapt at him, teeth bared in the bizarre lighting onset. Dean hurdled forward, soaring through the air. They met in midair, two adversaries bent on the destruction of the other. The stake smashed straight and true through her heart and Dean bore her shuddering, heaving body to the ground.
The audience was wailing, shouting about A-Ha Moments and Favourite Things, and black sludge pumped slowly from the monster’s chest.
You’re free, he told her followers, spreading his hands wide. As one, they fell limp, exhausted from the spell she’d had over them. All but a little girl in a purple dress, hair done back in plaits.
Thank you, she said, stepping forward shyly. She held out a daisy, white and fragile in her tiny hand. Thank you for saving us.
And Dean took the flower and scooped her up, hugged her little body tight before setting her down beside her sleeping mother. Be a good girl, he told her, and smiled at her solemn nod. And don’t be afraid of the dark.
Dean had cornered Ole Yellow-Eyes in an alley. The chase itself was unimportant; but he’d done it, succeeded where his father had not, and he was about to bring the pain.
He ignored the demon’s hissed threats of death and hell and humiliation, and instead cracked his knuckles menacingly. The demon looked into his eyes, saw the ass-whuppin’ they promised, and deflated slightly. Dean smirked, cold steel, and moved forward.
The fight went long. Dean was enjoying toying with the sonofabitch, breaking parts of him that would hurt. Dean ripped him apart, put him back together, broke his face, his arms, legs, back, pulled out his eyes and spilled his foul guts. And the demon fought back, mounting assaults that Dean bravely weathered. His face remained stoic throughout.
He paused before delivering the killing blow: 20-something years, and he wanted to savor the moment. The demon howled, begged, repented. He gibbered that he should’ve known not to mess with Dean friggin’ Winchester, that he’d realized his mistake, that he’d take it all back in a little black heartbeat. He pleaded for Dean to reconsider, to have mercy, but Dean just shook his head. Slowly. Licked the blood off his teeth and said, Fuck you, asswipe.
Hmm…
Licked the blood off his teeth and spat it in the demon’s face. With a voice like consecrated iron, he said, You don’t mess with my family, fuckhead.
Oh yeah.
Howling, the demon died. Split into a million disappearing pieces, his cries of agony ringing in the ensuing silence. Dean smiled grimly. John appeared at his side, dressed like a fucking hunter, and clapped him on the back. I knew you could do it, son, he said, voice echoing weirdly, and then he floated on up. His mom showed up then, dressed in white, and kissed his forehead and followed John.
Sam strolled into the alley, looking healthy and rested, smile shining out of his face. Bruce Willis was behind him, giving him the thumbs up. Sam held him, arms tight, and Bruce grinned approvingly, and then Vincent Price showed up and handed him a burger, and Dean sighed and gunned the engine and watched Sam sleep fitfully beside him, forehead bunched in pain.
He was in Hell, that much was obvious. Had been obvious for the past eternity or so, while he felt himself pulled apart in so many more ways than one. No body, no name, no soul.
And then, holy fucking shit and then. Sam rode in on a fucking white horse and held his limp body tenderly in his arms, and rode back out, and put him back together. And Dean, yeah, Dean. Well Dean woke up and saw him through fluttering eyelashes and Sam held him, in his arms, and whispered in his ear and told him everything was going to be all right. And Dean didn’t imagine it when Sam’s breath hitched as they hugged, didn’t imagine the relief in Sam’s eyes, didn’t imagine that things were all right, that they stayed all right.
So now, at 30, Dean no longer imagines. He’s got enough weird shit going on in his life; he doesn’t need fantasy to keep things interesting. Sometimes, though, he’ll look over at Sam and let his mind wander.
Lets himself believe in the possibility that one day, one day, Sam will look up at him from under heavy lids, breath fanning soft over Dean’s face, skin warm under Dean’s palms, and say, “It’s just how I imagined.”