Burger Shack
And another one.
Title: Burger Shack
Author: malcolm_stjay
Rating: R - swears, fantasies, pre-slash Wincest, an uneasy medium of not-quite-porn-yet.
Disclaimer: They ain’t mine. I ain’t making no money.
Spoilers: Season two finale, and my own vague and rather stupid idea of how that whole mess is resolved.
Feedback: Yes please!
Notes: I went through about 5 different versions of this stupid prompt before I hit on this one. Normally, I can punch out a story in about 40 minutes, plus another 5 for editing (if I’m being generous). Any longer than that and I lose interest. This one took me THREE DAYS. And if I’m being honest, I would hazard a guess that this one’s not nearly as good as my previous stuff. I blame it on trying to force my virgin-white brain to write porn. This is the not-so-good compromise.
Dean was eating a double patty double cheese double bacon extra mayo extra pickles when It happened. He eyes, screwed shut in absolute blissed-out pleasure, dropped open and stared sightlessly at the empty vinyl booth in front of him.
What had gone through his mind was something along the lines of, ‘Damn, this burger is good. I think I love this goddamned burger. I love it like I love Sam.’
And that, in and of itself, was not out of the ordinary. He knew he loved his brother, you were supposed to, and they’d both of them proved that they’d do anything for each other. From trading a soul for a life, to punching that demon-bitch with a flaming mojo fist as she came to collect, hard enough to break the mortal head and go right on through and into black swarmy-thing. Yeah, Dean knew he loved his brother.
And now that they were both alive for sure again, Sam had started in with the hugs. Again. Dean grumbled, but good-naturedly. He’d kinda missed the hugs, in a small, demented part of his brain.
So no, ‘I love Sam,’ was not a strange thought. But ‘I wonder what his face’d look like if I snuck a finger up his ass as I sucked his dick?’ was. And the accompanying mental picture was even stranger. Worse, he didn’t even notice it was supposed to be weird until he’d reached a hand under the table to readjust his rapidly swelling cock.
So now he was no longer enjoying his gut buster. He was chewing it as fast as he could, swallowing before he should’ve and feeling giant chunks of meat-bun-cheese-bacon-pickles-relish work their way lurchingly down his throat.
But the thought, the feeling, which had managed to elbow, push, and shove its way up from the buzzing background of Dean’s brain, would not be bowed by a mere burger. Oh no; it was knocking around loudly in his inner monologue, smashing the lights and kicking the ass out of the furniture.
‘I bet Sam’s got a nice, tight ass,’ it rumbled, as most background thoughts, when brought to the fore, are wont to do. ‘Think about his lips around your cock. His eyebrows pushing up his giant forehead while you push those stupid bangs out of the way. Mmhmm.’ The thought paused to think. ‘What do you think would be better, you pounding him into the mattress, or him fucking you up the wall?’
Dean’s inner monologue was shocked and appalled. His body had finished the burger, and moved on to stuffing fries in his mouth. The monologue sighed, and derisively addressed the stray thought. ‘Listen, you disgusting piece of fungusing ass-cheese,’ although it must be said that the inner monologue had taken a leeeetle bit of an interest, ‘it is fucking wrong to desire your brother in that way. Very wrong. So how’s about you fuck right off, and let me enjoy what’s left of my hamburger!’
The thought merely repeated, ‘Fuck you up the wall,’ blew a raspberry, and sulked off to the welcoming ranks of the background thoughts (many of whom were also Inappropriate Thoughts of Sam).
Dean came back to himself, mostly, and glanced around the diner. No one was giving him dirty looks, or shouting, ‘Somebody stop that brother-molester!’ He dragged his final fry through the ketchup and chewed thoughtfully.
His reasoning went something like this:
Sam is my brother.
I love him.
He loves me.
I may want to do some dirty things to his body.
Okay, okay. I really want to do some dirty things to his body.
He is my brother.
…
Dude, I’m totally gonna go back to the motel and fuck Sam. Or at least jerk him off until he comes on the ceiling.
Dean stood up with a renewed sense of purpose. He wiped his greasy hands on his jeans, threw a few bills on the table, and headed out to the Impala. By the time he got there, he was almost running.
Title: Burger Shack
Author: malcolm_stjay
Rating: R - swears, fantasies, pre-slash Wincest, an uneasy medium of not-quite-porn-yet.
Disclaimer: They ain’t mine. I ain’t making no money.
Spoilers: Season two finale, and my own vague and rather stupid idea of how that whole mess is resolved.
Feedback: Yes please!
Notes: I went through about 5 different versions of this stupid prompt before I hit on this one. Normally, I can punch out a story in about 40 minutes, plus another 5 for editing (if I’m being generous). Any longer than that and I lose interest. This one took me THREE DAYS. And if I’m being honest, I would hazard a guess that this one’s not nearly as good as my previous stuff. I blame it on trying to force my virgin-white brain to write porn. This is the not-so-good compromise.
Dean was eating a double patty double cheese double bacon extra mayo extra pickles when It happened. He eyes, screwed shut in absolute blissed-out pleasure, dropped open and stared sightlessly at the empty vinyl booth in front of him.
What had gone through his mind was something along the lines of, ‘Damn, this burger is good. I think I love this goddamned burger. I love it like I love Sam.’
And that, in and of itself, was not out of the ordinary. He knew he loved his brother, you were supposed to, and they’d both of them proved that they’d do anything for each other. From trading a soul for a life, to punching that demon-bitch with a flaming mojo fist as she came to collect, hard enough to break the mortal head and go right on through and into black swarmy-thing. Yeah, Dean knew he loved his brother.
And now that they were both alive for sure again, Sam had started in with the hugs. Again. Dean grumbled, but good-naturedly. He’d kinda missed the hugs, in a small, demented part of his brain.
So no, ‘I love Sam,’ was not a strange thought. But ‘I wonder what his face’d look like if I snuck a finger up his ass as I sucked his dick?’ was. And the accompanying mental picture was even stranger. Worse, he didn’t even notice it was supposed to be weird until he’d reached a hand under the table to readjust his rapidly swelling cock.
So now he was no longer enjoying his gut buster. He was chewing it as fast as he could, swallowing before he should’ve and feeling giant chunks of meat-bun-cheese-bacon-pickles-relish work their way lurchingly down his throat.
But the thought, the feeling, which had managed to elbow, push, and shove its way up from the buzzing background of Dean’s brain, would not be bowed by a mere burger. Oh no; it was knocking around loudly in his inner monologue, smashing the lights and kicking the ass out of the furniture.
‘I bet Sam’s got a nice, tight ass,’ it rumbled, as most background thoughts, when brought to the fore, are wont to do. ‘Think about his lips around your cock. His eyebrows pushing up his giant forehead while you push those stupid bangs out of the way. Mmhmm.’ The thought paused to think. ‘What do you think would be better, you pounding him into the mattress, or him fucking you up the wall?’
Dean’s inner monologue was shocked and appalled. His body had finished the burger, and moved on to stuffing fries in his mouth. The monologue sighed, and derisively addressed the stray thought. ‘Listen, you disgusting piece of fungusing ass-cheese,’ although it must be said that the inner monologue had taken a leeeetle bit of an interest, ‘it is fucking wrong to desire your brother in that way. Very wrong. So how’s about you fuck right off, and let me enjoy what’s left of my hamburger!’
The thought merely repeated, ‘Fuck you up the wall,’ blew a raspberry, and sulked off to the welcoming ranks of the background thoughts (many of whom were also Inappropriate Thoughts of Sam).
Dean came back to himself, mostly, and glanced around the diner. No one was giving him dirty looks, or shouting, ‘Somebody stop that brother-molester!’ He dragged his final fry through the ketchup and chewed thoughtfully.
His reasoning went something like this:
Sam is my brother.
I love him.
He loves me.
I may want to do some dirty things to his body.
Okay, okay. I really want to do some dirty things to his body.
He is my brother.
…
Dude, I’m totally gonna go back to the motel and fuck Sam. Or at least jerk him off until he comes on the ceiling.
Dean stood up with a renewed sense of purpose. He wiped his greasy hands on his jeans, threw a few bills on the table, and headed out to the Impala. By the time he got there, he was almost running.