Personal Canon (NC-17, Sam/Dean)
The prompt on the kink meme was, "Chuck tries to write S/D porn fanfic. Meanwhile, somewhere else, Sam and Dean are horrified to realize that they're being act it out!"
I discovered it about a month too late for the meme. Oh, well!
"Oh Dean," Sam groaned as Dean slipped his thick and juicy spear of love into the deep crevice of Sam's quivering, pink hole. Sam mewled like a kitten, thrusting his perfect little ass back onto Dean's manmeat, which just made said diamond-hard manmeat throb all the harder.
"That's right, baby brother," Dean murmured, running his hands up and down Sam's the sculpted yet somehow vulnerable expanse of skin that was his sweat bronze back. "Take my delicious incest-flavoured cock."
Chuck closed the window, eyelid twitching. That had been unpleasant. And now he kind of wanted pickles. Why would he… oh, eww. Eww.
Come on, man, you’re a prophet, he pointed out, quite reasonably. You can do this. Becky has been put through an amazing amount of shit because she did you a favor.
That made him wince again. She’d still been real positive, assuring him there was no permanent damage and her arm would be better in a few months with rehab, but she wouldn’t talk about her encounter with Zachariah and her smile trembled whenever he brought it up, and it made him feel like a puppy-murderer, except that probably puppy-murderers were sociopaths and didn’t feel nearly this guilty. And so he’d said, is there anything I can do? And she’s looked up, eyes shining with hope, and said, there is one thing…
And now there were love-spears and turgid meat and yeah okay so most writers don’t look to fanfiction for inspiration but how does mansex even work?! Except that it apparently involved quivering pink… Chuck swallowed. The craving for a pickle had morphed into an intense urge for a dirty martini. Heavy on the gin.
It’s not like he had seen this. No visioning involved. Deep breath. Okay, so maybe the visions made things a bit easier. A true writer could create anything and make it believable. He nodded to himself. A few times. Maybe there was somewhere else he could find out about, uh, anal love. Like, somewhere far FAR away from this database.
“Oh, god, Dean, put it in me right now!” Sam moaned sensuously.
Suddenly everyone in the diner was looking at Sam.
Chuck pursed his lips. Yeah, right. Get in touch with your characters, Shurley! It should be easy. You met the guys!
Dean had tried waving his forkful of pie around to demonstrate. People shook their heads and went back to their meals, but it was pretty clear nobody had bought it. They quickly paid and fled, Dean hissing under his breath and Sam babbling frantically. “Goddamnit Sam seriously what the fuck--” “Dude sorry I didn’t mean for it to come out like--” “No fucking idea what goes on in your head dude but--” “I don’t KNOW where it came from man--” They slid into the Impala, both slamming their doors. The atmosphere was tense.
Damn fine pie, too, Dean thought ruefully. Well, not piegasm-worthy pie, but pretty tasty.
No, okay. Chuck had taken a break, a little moment to clear his head, just a finger or two of scotch. Okay, that was weird. Maybe try again?
Sam slid his fingers below the waistband of Dean’s boxers, eagerly grabbing what he found. His mouth opened in surprise, and Dean quickly silenced him with a kiss.
“Jesus, man, who leaves their car keys in their boxers?” Sam rifled gingerly through, trying to keep his hands away from the bad parts. Sought object found, he dangled the keychain from his fingers, mouth moving as he tried to figure out what to say about the tiny fuzzy stuffed Stitch figure smiling back at him.
“For quick getaways in the morning,” Dean shot back, grinning salaciously and rummaging through his bag to find clean clothes to replace his towel. He made smooch-noises at Sam, who bitchfaced impressively. Whatever, Stitch was probably just a gift from some ditzy conquest.
Screw it, Chuck thought at his remaining scotch. I’ll try again later.
Something was definitely weird. Like weird even for them.
Sam figured Dean was just getting back at him when Sam handed him his pickle at lunch (as per usual) and Dean responded, “Mmm, I cannot wait to get my lips around that thing.” Of course, maybe Dean hadn’t meant to be so successful, because they were pretty equally embarrassed, and that was another diner they had to remember not to hit up again for awhile.
Then there was when Sam got awfully handsy helping Dean adjust his jacket (Sam yielded to the temptation to run his hands over Dean’s lithe, muscular body with a shudder of need). He’d been really cold all of a sudden, he’ reasoned, so naturally he’d figured Dean better bundle up. And there was that time (same day) when Dean combed his fingers through Sam’s hair (“What? You had a leaf,”) that Sam was not prepared to acknowledge (Dean lovingly caressed Sam’s locks as Sam luxuriated in the feeling of Dean’s comforting, masculine touch). Not to mention later on their way to the bar when Sam came up behind Dean in the bathroom while Dean was admiring his reflection and responded to Dean’s “like what you see there, sasquatch?” with an “oh yeah man, I’d do you in a second,” that came out way less sarcastic than either of them expected (no, Chuck reconsidered. Sam would never say that). Dean’s smile faltered, Sam’s eyes grew wide and his mouth got tiny and he looked at the floor in confused mortification, and there was no eye contact for half an hour. But it wasn’t completely impossible to ignore until… until…
Chuck trembled with excitement. This was good, this was exactly what he’d needed. Strong writing didn’t need to be couched in metaphors and poetry - strong writing said exactly what it meant! Christ, he’d been so blind, so wrapped up in his own style. Inspiration had been staring him in the face the whole time.
Across the booth, Sam and Dean looked up from their menus to each other at the same moment, both struck with a horrible foreboding.
It was nothing. Obviously, it was nothing; sometimes intuition was (eerily) misleading. They went back to ordering fries and beers (Dean had never noticed how sensual Sam’s mouth was) and discussing the case and whatever else crossed Dean’s mind (Sam had a moment where he realized that Dean talking with his mouth full was not only completely not-irritating, but actually sort of hot; luckily he hid his shock successfully). Dean went to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, confused and angry and wondering if it had always been like this and he’d just never noticed, because what the fuck? Sam, head in his hands, was at that moment panicking over that same question. It was like a first date, but worse, Dean thought at his reflection. It was like all Sammy’s first dates, way back when nobody looked happy to be there and the evening ended with Dean picking him up and trying (and failing, usually) to wheedle out all the details from Sam’s tightly-sealed lips.
Sam’s tight lips… Jesus Christ on a stick!
“Look,” Dean spoke gruffly (nervously) sliding back into his seat. The check had come. They had managed to get through an entire meal without doing anything awkward. Somehow this was worse. There was still the eww jesus he’s my brother but somehow it had managed to coexist harmoniously with oh fuck yeah. “Something is fucked up. With us.”
Sam nodded forlornly. “Definitely.” He looked up at Dean. Their eyes met for the first time since they’d ordered.
Both briskly stood up from the table, Dean hurriedly counting out a few bills onto the table. With a focus that usually accompanied only the most critical moments of a hunt, they headed back out across the parking lot to the car. The music that came on when the car started was left to play and commented on by neither party, although normally Sam would’ve given Dean no end of shit. The drive home was businesslike but efficient, silent not through awkwardness but because speech seemed extraneous.
Sam was last through the door and he gave it a push, but was too busy to see it slam shut. He walked right into Dean’s space, and then they were grabbing each other’s faces and kissing furiously.
“Dean,” Sam said, taking a desperate breath but unable to stop long enough to get out a whole sentence at once. “What the - fuck - is going on?” The backs of Dean’s knees hit a bed and they toppled onto it, one of Sam’s elbows landing unfortunately on Dean’s shoulder. Dean hissed in pain but couldn’t keep his mouth off Sam longer than an instant, tongue working across his jawbone while Sam’s hands began claiming, first Dean’s chest then working down. Dean’s breath was on his clavicle -
Clavicle? Chuck shook his head firmly. No, too clinical.
“We’ve got to,” Dean panted once and then went back in, at this point suspended above Sam and enjoying his chest in ways Dean had never expected of himself “call someone, something - something must be doing this to us - jesus!” Sam’s hand had just reached his cock. For all this made no sense, for all Sammy was his little brother for fuck’s sake, physically it was kinda great. Dean made the mistake of looking at Sam again and the OH JESUS overwhelmed the pleasure because, blech, this was little Sammy and he was supposed to be (ah Christ) little, goddamnit! Sam caught his eye and some of the haze lifted off him, too; enough so that he pulled back and gave a confused and lost-looking cringe.
“Okay,” Dean lunged over to the side of the bed, trying to keep his mind on rummaging through his pants and not the ridiculously attractive naked guy (when had that happened?) in his bed who was HIS LITTLE BROTHER he of the prissiness and homework and no-time-for-target-practice-right-now-Dean-don’t-make-me ah god, and he dialed Chuck because, who else was he going to call? Certainly not Bobby.
It didn’t even ring once before he heard a smug voice on the other line. “Hey, Dean,” Zachariah sounded pretty amused. “Having an unusual day?”
“Zachariah. You’re doing this?” Dean spluttered. Sam grabbed him and hauled him back onto the bed, planting him face-up with his head on the pillows. Dean began groping Sam with his free arm. “What, so angels do incest now? The eleventh plague or something?”
A mocking laugh. “Oh, Dean,” Zachariah sighed. “You’re never not funny! No, sad to say, this was just us taking advantage of a ticklish situation. Funny, I’ve never been a muse before. That concept predates Greek mythology, you know.”
“You don’t say,” Dean growled, before Sam’s tongue on his stomach reminded him that the situation was a bit urgent for this kind of back-and-forth. “So, what, Chuck doesn’t know you’re there?” And what the fuck was Chuck doing writing this garbage anyway? Sick, that’s what it was!
“Dean, I want you to understand something. Heaven will take every opportunity to ruin you and those you love until you say yes to us. I saw the situation, and I took advantage of it. Maybe next time it’ll be something a little more dangerous.”
“Seriously dude?” Dean was really pissed now. “You think I’ll keep telling you to blow me through the stomach cancer but cave instead of fuck my brother?” Sam looked up at those words, experiencing another lucid moment. Then he looked down. At Dean’s cock.
“Probably not,” Zachariah agreed. “Oh, what a position. You think he’ll do it, Dean? I can make sure he does. Just a little spark of motivation…” Meeting Dean’s gaze once more, Sam licked his lips.
“Wait wait wait wait wait,” Dean held up his other hand in a stop pose, breathless. “Look, you know this isn’t gonna be what makes me say yes. So why not just - ngh!” Dean was pretty sure that Sam could not actually deep-throat, but apparently this was fiction and oh sweet jesus that’s amazing.
Zachariah laughed again, and it brought Dean back to himself. “Wow, man, I’m really suffering,” Dean managed to spit out. “What next, he fucks me? Gee, mister, anything but that!”
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” and goddamn did that guy enjoy being condescending. Probably getting off on it, too; Dean was betting Zach was harder than he was - okay, gross. Luckily his boner hadn’t been paying attention. “Sam isn’t going to fuck you.”
Dean was frowning, wondering why the guy sounded so pleased, when Sam flipped them again, and Dean was on top. Momentarily overtaken, Dean gripped a fistful of Sam’s hair and began kissing him again, but it didn’t last long before he felt himself turning his head, reaching over to the nightstand, where there was a condom and, for some reason, lube.
“Sam bought it last week,” Zachariah’s voice choked with laughter. “On a whim.” Now he was really enjoying himself, unable to hold back a laugh. Tight-lipped, Dean began preparing himself, sliding a few fingers into Sam, who bucked beneath him but swallowed nervously, face tightening into a frown for the span of a moment. Dean got way, way more pissed off.
“Listen, you twisted fuck - ,” he began.
Zachariah cut him off. “Shame, Dean. You think this is twisted? I think you’re going to love analingus. I haven’t decided who should receive, though; what do you thi - ,”then Zachariah hissed in a breath and went mysteriously silent.
No. Chuck shook his head, and went back to his scene. He was on such a roll. Except - he listened as hard as he could - he kind of thought he could hear something from the other room…
“Chuck!” Dean yelled through the phone at the top of his lungs, now inside his brother but trying to keep still as much as he could. “Chuck!” He couldn’t resist a snap of his hips, and then worriedly started murmuring to Sam, “hey man, it’s okay, I’ve got this…” Sam did not seem overly concerned, but he smiled anyway at Dean’s words, eyes closed, and gripped Dean tighter. From the next room over, someone yelled at them to shut up, ya faggots.
Dean heard a scuffle on the line and then, thank god (haha), “Oh my god, Dean? Why was Zachariah - ”
“Chuck!” Dean interrupted , unable to contain his relief. “You’ve got to stop writing porn man, it’s - no, I don’t really care right now, it doesn’t matter, I forgive you, just - just stop right now because we’re doing it, man, we’re doing everything you write. YES, dude, that stuff too!”
“Uh, okay,” Chuck stuttered, terrified. “No, I’m stopping, I’ve stopped. No more, no more ever, okay man? Holy crap.” He hung up the phone, walked back to his computer, and sat staring at the screen. Traumatized, that’s what he was. Scarred. Where did he put the scotch?
Dean held still for a few seconds, indecisive, until Sam sad “For fuck’s sake man, just finish.” So they did. To be honest, Dean thought as he collapsed gasping next to Sam, this beat stomach cancer all to hell.
The problem was, Chuck knew, that now he had something else to make up for, so his problem really hadn’t been solved at all. Still, handing the printed out pages to Becky over coffee made him feel a whole lot better. She jumped up and down, and hugged him, and kissed his cheek, and he found himself laughing, and making her promise not to share it (he was pretty sure she would’ve promised him anything right then), and then she mentioned that if he needed an editor or something she was always available and before he knew it he was telling her about the apocalypse storyline and she was so interested in this Castiel guy and wanted to know if there were any character sketches, and for once it was exactly what he always hoped talking to a fan would be like.
Still, no matter how much he wanted to win her over, he was never ever telling her that those pages in her hand were canon.
With credits to wanttobeatree for the bad!porn.
I discovered it about a month too late for the meme. Oh, well!
"Oh Dean," Sam groaned as Dean slipped his thick and juicy spear of love into the deep crevice of Sam's quivering, pink hole. Sam mewled like a kitten, thrusting his perfect little ass back onto Dean's manmeat, which just made said diamond-hard manmeat throb all the harder.
"That's right, baby brother," Dean murmured, running his hands up and down Sam's the sculpted yet somehow vulnerable expanse of skin that was his sweat bronze back. "Take my delicious incest-flavoured cock."
Chuck closed the window, eyelid twitching. That had been unpleasant. And now he kind of wanted pickles. Why would he… oh, eww. Eww.
Come on, man, you’re a prophet, he pointed out, quite reasonably. You can do this. Becky has been put through an amazing amount of shit because she did you a favor.
That made him wince again. She’d still been real positive, assuring him there was no permanent damage and her arm would be better in a few months with rehab, but she wouldn’t talk about her encounter with Zachariah and her smile trembled whenever he brought it up, and it made him feel like a puppy-murderer, except that probably puppy-murderers were sociopaths and didn’t feel nearly this guilty. And so he’d said, is there anything I can do? And she’s looked up, eyes shining with hope, and said, there is one thing…
And now there were love-spears and turgid meat and yeah okay so most writers don’t look to fanfiction for inspiration but how does mansex even work?! Except that it apparently involved quivering pink… Chuck swallowed. The craving for a pickle had morphed into an intense urge for a dirty martini. Heavy on the gin.
It’s not like he had seen this. No visioning involved. Deep breath. Okay, so maybe the visions made things a bit easier. A true writer could create anything and make it believable. He nodded to himself. A few times. Maybe there was somewhere else he could find out about, uh, anal love. Like, somewhere far FAR away from this database.
“Oh, god, Dean, put it in me right now!” Sam moaned sensuously.
Suddenly everyone in the diner was looking at Sam.
Chuck pursed his lips. Yeah, right. Get in touch with your characters, Shurley! It should be easy. You met the guys!
Dean had tried waving his forkful of pie around to demonstrate. People shook their heads and went back to their meals, but it was pretty clear nobody had bought it. They quickly paid and fled, Dean hissing under his breath and Sam babbling frantically. “Goddamnit Sam seriously what the fuck--” “Dude sorry I didn’t mean for it to come out like--” “No fucking idea what goes on in your head dude but--” “I don’t KNOW where it came from man--” They slid into the Impala, both slamming their doors. The atmosphere was tense.
Damn fine pie, too, Dean thought ruefully. Well, not piegasm-worthy pie, but pretty tasty.
No, okay. Chuck had taken a break, a little moment to clear his head, just a finger or two of scotch. Okay, that was weird. Maybe try again?
Sam slid his fingers below the waistband of Dean’s boxers, eagerly grabbing what he found. His mouth opened in surprise, and Dean quickly silenced him with a kiss.
“Jesus, man, who leaves their car keys in their boxers?” Sam rifled gingerly through, trying to keep his hands away from the bad parts. Sought object found, he dangled the keychain from his fingers, mouth moving as he tried to figure out what to say about the tiny fuzzy stuffed Stitch figure smiling back at him.
“For quick getaways in the morning,” Dean shot back, grinning salaciously and rummaging through his bag to find clean clothes to replace his towel. He made smooch-noises at Sam, who bitchfaced impressively. Whatever, Stitch was probably just a gift from some ditzy conquest.
Screw it, Chuck thought at his remaining scotch. I’ll try again later.
Something was definitely weird. Like weird even for them.
Sam figured Dean was just getting back at him when Sam handed him his pickle at lunch (as per usual) and Dean responded, “Mmm, I cannot wait to get my lips around that thing.” Of course, maybe Dean hadn’t meant to be so successful, because they were pretty equally embarrassed, and that was another diner they had to remember not to hit up again for awhile.
Then there was when Sam got awfully handsy helping Dean adjust his jacket (Sam yielded to the temptation to run his hands over Dean’s lithe, muscular body with a shudder of need). He’d been really cold all of a sudden, he’ reasoned, so naturally he’d figured Dean better bundle up. And there was that time (same day) when Dean combed his fingers through Sam’s hair (“What? You had a leaf,”) that Sam was not prepared to acknowledge (Dean lovingly caressed Sam’s locks as Sam luxuriated in the feeling of Dean’s comforting, masculine touch). Not to mention later on their way to the bar when Sam came up behind Dean in the bathroom while Dean was admiring his reflection and responded to Dean’s “like what you see there, sasquatch?” with an “oh yeah man, I’d do you in a second,” that came out way less sarcastic than either of them expected (no, Chuck reconsidered. Sam would never say that). Dean’s smile faltered, Sam’s eyes grew wide and his mouth got tiny and he looked at the floor in confused mortification, and there was no eye contact for half an hour. But it wasn’t completely impossible to ignore until… until…
Chuck trembled with excitement. This was good, this was exactly what he’d needed. Strong writing didn’t need to be couched in metaphors and poetry - strong writing said exactly what it meant! Christ, he’d been so blind, so wrapped up in his own style. Inspiration had been staring him in the face the whole time.
Across the booth, Sam and Dean looked up from their menus to each other at the same moment, both struck with a horrible foreboding.
It was nothing. Obviously, it was nothing; sometimes intuition was (eerily) misleading. They went back to ordering fries and beers (Dean had never noticed how sensual Sam’s mouth was) and discussing the case and whatever else crossed Dean’s mind (Sam had a moment where he realized that Dean talking with his mouth full was not only completely not-irritating, but actually sort of hot; luckily he hid his shock successfully). Dean went to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror, confused and angry and wondering if it had always been like this and he’d just never noticed, because what the fuck? Sam, head in his hands, was at that moment panicking over that same question. It was like a first date, but worse, Dean thought at his reflection. It was like all Sammy’s first dates, way back when nobody looked happy to be there and the evening ended with Dean picking him up and trying (and failing, usually) to wheedle out all the details from Sam’s tightly-sealed lips.
Sam’s tight lips… Jesus Christ on a stick!
“Look,” Dean spoke gruffly (nervously) sliding back into his seat. The check had come. They had managed to get through an entire meal without doing anything awkward. Somehow this was worse. There was still the eww jesus he’s my brother but somehow it had managed to coexist harmoniously with oh fuck yeah. “Something is fucked up. With us.”
Sam nodded forlornly. “Definitely.” He looked up at Dean. Their eyes met for the first time since they’d ordered.
Both briskly stood up from the table, Dean hurriedly counting out a few bills onto the table. With a focus that usually accompanied only the most critical moments of a hunt, they headed back out across the parking lot to the car. The music that came on when the car started was left to play and commented on by neither party, although normally Sam would’ve given Dean no end of shit. The drive home was businesslike but efficient, silent not through awkwardness but because speech seemed extraneous.
Sam was last through the door and he gave it a push, but was too busy to see it slam shut. He walked right into Dean’s space, and then they were grabbing each other’s faces and kissing furiously.
“Dean,” Sam said, taking a desperate breath but unable to stop long enough to get out a whole sentence at once. “What the - fuck - is going on?” The backs of Dean’s knees hit a bed and they toppled onto it, one of Sam’s elbows landing unfortunately on Dean’s shoulder. Dean hissed in pain but couldn’t keep his mouth off Sam longer than an instant, tongue working across his jawbone while Sam’s hands began claiming, first Dean’s chest then working down. Dean’s breath was on his clavicle -
Clavicle? Chuck shook his head firmly. No, too clinical.
“We’ve got to,” Dean panted once and then went back in, at this point suspended above Sam and enjoying his chest in ways Dean had never expected of himself “call someone, something - something must be doing this to us - jesus!” Sam’s hand had just reached his cock. For all this made no sense, for all Sammy was his little brother for fuck’s sake, physically it was kinda great. Dean made the mistake of looking at Sam again and the OH JESUS overwhelmed the pleasure because, blech, this was little Sammy and he was supposed to be (ah Christ) little, goddamnit! Sam caught his eye and some of the haze lifted off him, too; enough so that he pulled back and gave a confused and lost-looking cringe.
“Okay,” Dean lunged over to the side of the bed, trying to keep his mind on rummaging through his pants and not the ridiculously attractive naked guy (when had that happened?) in his bed who was HIS LITTLE BROTHER he of the prissiness and homework and no-time-for-target-practice-right-now-Dean-don’t-make-me ah god, and he dialed Chuck because, who else was he going to call? Certainly not Bobby.
It didn’t even ring once before he heard a smug voice on the other line. “Hey, Dean,” Zachariah sounded pretty amused. “Having an unusual day?”
“Zachariah. You’re doing this?” Dean spluttered. Sam grabbed him and hauled him back onto the bed, planting him face-up with his head on the pillows. Dean began groping Sam with his free arm. “What, so angels do incest now? The eleventh plague or something?”
A mocking laugh. “Oh, Dean,” Zachariah sighed. “You’re never not funny! No, sad to say, this was just us taking advantage of a ticklish situation. Funny, I’ve never been a muse before. That concept predates Greek mythology, you know.”
“You don’t say,” Dean growled, before Sam’s tongue on his stomach reminded him that the situation was a bit urgent for this kind of back-and-forth. “So, what, Chuck doesn’t know you’re there?” And what the fuck was Chuck doing writing this garbage anyway? Sick, that’s what it was!
“Dean, I want you to understand something. Heaven will take every opportunity to ruin you and those you love until you say yes to us. I saw the situation, and I took advantage of it. Maybe next time it’ll be something a little more dangerous.”
“Seriously dude?” Dean was really pissed now. “You think I’ll keep telling you to blow me through the stomach cancer but cave instead of fuck my brother?” Sam looked up at those words, experiencing another lucid moment. Then he looked down. At Dean’s cock.
“Probably not,” Zachariah agreed. “Oh, what a position. You think he’ll do it, Dean? I can make sure he does. Just a little spark of motivation…” Meeting Dean’s gaze once more, Sam licked his lips.
“Wait wait wait wait wait,” Dean held up his other hand in a stop pose, breathless. “Look, you know this isn’t gonna be what makes me say yes. So why not just - ngh!” Dean was pretty sure that Sam could not actually deep-throat, but apparently this was fiction and oh sweet jesus that’s amazing.
Zachariah laughed again, and it brought Dean back to himself. “Wow, man, I’m really suffering,” Dean managed to spit out. “What next, he fucks me? Gee, mister, anything but that!”
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” and goddamn did that guy enjoy being condescending. Probably getting off on it, too; Dean was betting Zach was harder than he was - okay, gross. Luckily his boner hadn’t been paying attention. “Sam isn’t going to fuck you.”
Dean was frowning, wondering why the guy sounded so pleased, when Sam flipped them again, and Dean was on top. Momentarily overtaken, Dean gripped a fistful of Sam’s hair and began kissing him again, but it didn’t last long before he felt himself turning his head, reaching over to the nightstand, where there was a condom and, for some reason, lube.
“Sam bought it last week,” Zachariah’s voice choked with laughter. “On a whim.” Now he was really enjoying himself, unable to hold back a laugh. Tight-lipped, Dean began preparing himself, sliding a few fingers into Sam, who bucked beneath him but swallowed nervously, face tightening into a frown for the span of a moment. Dean got way, way more pissed off.
“Listen, you twisted fuck - ,” he began.
Zachariah cut him off. “Shame, Dean. You think this is twisted? I think you’re going to love analingus. I haven’t decided who should receive, though; what do you thi - ,”then Zachariah hissed in a breath and went mysteriously silent.
No. Chuck shook his head, and went back to his scene. He was on such a roll. Except - he listened as hard as he could - he kind of thought he could hear something from the other room…
“Chuck!” Dean yelled through the phone at the top of his lungs, now inside his brother but trying to keep still as much as he could. “Chuck!” He couldn’t resist a snap of his hips, and then worriedly started murmuring to Sam, “hey man, it’s okay, I’ve got this…” Sam did not seem overly concerned, but he smiled anyway at Dean’s words, eyes closed, and gripped Dean tighter. From the next room over, someone yelled at them to shut up, ya faggots.
Dean heard a scuffle on the line and then, thank god (haha), “Oh my god, Dean? Why was Zachariah - ”
“Chuck!” Dean interrupted , unable to contain his relief. “You’ve got to stop writing porn man, it’s - no, I don’t really care right now, it doesn’t matter, I forgive you, just - just stop right now because we’re doing it, man, we’re doing everything you write. YES, dude, that stuff too!”
“Uh, okay,” Chuck stuttered, terrified. “No, I’m stopping, I’ve stopped. No more, no more ever, okay man? Holy crap.” He hung up the phone, walked back to his computer, and sat staring at the screen. Traumatized, that’s what he was. Scarred. Where did he put the scotch?
Dean held still for a few seconds, indecisive, until Sam sad “For fuck’s sake man, just finish.” So they did. To be honest, Dean thought as he collapsed gasping next to Sam, this beat stomach cancer all to hell.
The problem was, Chuck knew, that now he had something else to make up for, so his problem really hadn’t been solved at all. Still, handing the printed out pages to Becky over coffee made him feel a whole lot better. She jumped up and down, and hugged him, and kissed his cheek, and he found himself laughing, and making her promise not to share it (he was pretty sure she would’ve promised him anything right then), and then she mentioned that if he needed an editor or something she was always available and before he knew it he was telling her about the apocalypse storyline and she was so interested in this Castiel guy and wanted to know if there were any character sketches, and for once it was exactly what he always hoped talking to a fan would be like.
Still, no matter how much he wanted to win her over, he was never ever telling her that those pages in her hand were canon.
With credits to wanttobeatree for the bad!porn.