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apocalypsosTitle: Desperately In Need Of A Hobby
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,400 words
Spoilers: General show spoilers
Pairing: None
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to the biggest fangirl on the planet. Surprisingly enough, that's not me.
Summary: It's after the hunt in Montana when Dean starts acting really fucking weird.
Author's note: First it's an icon. Now it's a story. Heh.
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Desperately In Need Of A Hobby
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October 24th
It's after the hunt in Montana when Dean starts acting really fucking weird.
They stop at this restaurant on the way out of the state that Dean almost vetoes as soon as they pulled into the parking lot. God only knows how a joint like this ended up in the middle of nowhere at the last exit for forty miles, but that just seems to be their luck these days. It's one of those trendy chain places with a fireplace and soft lighting and free wi-fi for anyone who swills more than their body weight in peppermint cappuccino.
Dean pulls a face when he spots a pair of annoyingly fashionable parents coming out the front door, the father carrying an adorable blond moppet wearing pink tights and patent leather shoes when it's not even a goddamn holiday.
"Not a chance," Dean snaps.
Sam grabs the keys before he can start the ignition. "No other choice," Sam points out, "unless you want to go back to the last exit to Big Bob's Sushi Extravaganza."
Yeah, Dean doesn't really have an argument for that one.
It turns out that the food isn't bad at all. It's pretty good to be perfectly honest, although Dean makes a point of bitching loudly about the size of his smokehouse turkey sandwich and goes up to the register to buy another one like it's some kind of protest. Sam just nurses his iced chai latte and takes distracted bites of his lemon chicken panini as he skims the usual websites. Dean comes back to the table carrying another turkey sandwich and a gigantic slice of chocolate cheesecake that must have caught his eye at the register.
"Mind if I check something?" he says, and slides the chocolate cheesecake towards Sam like a peace offering.
And really, who's going to turn that down?
Sam's halfway through devouring the slice when Dean makes a quiet, "Huh," shrugs, and starts typing furiously on the laptop.
"What's up?" Sam asks.
Dean just waves him off and goes back to typing, and after a moment's consideration Sam decides to let it slide. At worst, Dean's found a photo of some hot blonde with huge tits on a dating website and is firing off an email under Sam's name claiming that he hasn't gotten laid in two years. At best, Dean's starting another blog he'll forget about in a week after he's made three grammatically criminal posts about how awesome Led Zeppelin is. It could go either way.
Then Dean pauses, brow furrowing with confusion, and says, "Do you think I could write a book?"
"I think you could write down your phone number," Sam says. "And have, a lot."
"Yeah, real funny," Dean mutters.
He goes back to his typing, but a moment later ...
"I think you could write a phone book."
"Shut it, Sammy."
"You know, given thirty years."
"I hate you," Dean says, and steals the rest of Sam's cheesecake.
October 27th
On their way to Vicksburg to hunt what appears to be some African legend neither one of them had ever even heard of before now, Dean pulls over at a Wal-Mart and buys a five-subject notebook, two packs of black ballpoint pens, a pack of index cards, and five bags of Pixie Stix, something Dean only buys when he's desperate to pull an all-nighter on something.
When he gets back into the car and Sam spots the contents of the bag, he stares at Dean in full-on bitchface mode like Dean's deranged.
"There something you want to tell me?"
"Yeah," Dean says as he starts the car, "steal my Pixie Stix and I'll kill you."
October 31st
Halloween is just like every other Halloween they've spent together since their early teens, hunting something under cover of darkness with guns in hand. The only difference seems to be the slight edge Dean's on, the way he keeps constantly checking his watch so often that he very nearly gets pounced on by a man-eating demon in the shape of a man-eating lion. Apparently, it's not the most fashionably creative of demons.
A half hour before midnight, the two of them walk back into the motel room smelling like blood and dirt and the surprisingly hardy scent of apple cider. It probably would have helped if they'd tried a little harder not to be flung headfirst into a vat of the stuff, or if the guy who'd summoned the man-eating demon hadn't made the big old vat of cider in the first place.
Just another reason for Sam to really fucking hate Halloween.
As soon as they walk into the room, Sam expects Dean to dive into the bathroom for a quick shower, but instead Dean heads straight for the laptop. "Dude, you take first shower. I've got something I've gotta do."
Sam shrugs off his grimy brown coat and grimaces. "What, does the eBay auction for Jimmy Page's unfinished pancakes end at midnight or something?"
"No, I just signed up for this thing that starts at midnight, and I want to get a good head start on it just in case."
"Oh, really? What is it?"
"Uh ..." Dean glances up from the computer screen and frowns. "It's nothing, honest. Go wash your hair, Sasquatch. The demon guts are drying funny and making it stick up in the back."
Sam rolls his eyes and heads into the bathroom. Fine, whatever. If Dean wants to haunt some Star Wars chat room without his little brother's interference and look for hot Princess Leia lookalikes who actually own gold bikinis, let him.
November 3rd
Sam comes back from the store down the street with a case of Budweiser and the last bag of extra-salty pretzels in the place only to find Dean watching something with large-breasted cheerleaders who appear to be both sexually creative and supernaturally flexible.
That's not the weird part, though.
The weird part is that Dean's taking notes.
"Okay, this is awkward," Sam says as he closes the door to the motel room. It's not, though, not by a long shot. Oh, sure, when Dean walks in on him when he's watching porn, it's a tad more embarrassing because he's always so afraid of what's going to happen when he gets caught by Dean that he never gets to the part where he jerks off. Sad, but true. On the other hand, walking in on Dean jerking off to porn just means that's Thursday, or Tuesday, or any of the other days. And also, that his hand isn't broken.
But taking notes?
All right, that's just fucked up.
Dean doesn't look away from the television screen, scribbling down what looks like a fairly creative use for a strap-on. "Problem, Sam?"
You mean, aside from my big brother trying to write his thesis in Pornography 101?, Sam thinks.
What he says, though, is, "Are you going to be long?"
He probably should have seen it coming, but the double entendre doesn't smack him upside the head until Dean's lips curl in a wicked grin. "Dude, I'm not even going to touch that one. Consider it an early Christmas present."
"Thanks a lot."
"Don't mention it."
"Oh, trust me. I won't."
November 7th
Sam starts to think something is seriously amiss when he realizes that Dean's on the laptop now more than he's ever been, and that's even when he counts the time Dean got hooked on Farscape and spent every waking moment downloading torrents like crazy.
Dean pounds away on the keyboard once again from the minute they return from the hunt to the moment Sam gets up the next morning, a pen clenched between Dean's teeth and the glasses he rarely ever wears perched on his nose. He had to have been staring at the damn screen for hours, Sam figures. He only puts on his glasses when the eye strain makes the contacts a bitch for him to wear.
"Uh, Dean," he says as he sits up in bed, "have you been typing all night?"
"Just about, yeah."
"Why?"
"Because we spent six hours yesterday up to our ears in grave dirt, that's why."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Sammy," Dean says in a warning tone of voice, "do you mind? I've got a quota to reach here."
Sam groans and head into the bathroom. Maybe after a shower and banging his head against the wall, Dean won't sound quite so much like he's gone out of his freaking mind.
November 13th
Right before they're set to leave South Carolina for a poltergeist in Connecticut, Dean closes up the motel room and tosses Sam the car keys.
"You drive," he says, and Sam looks at him like his ears have started spontaneously ejecting shrimp.
"You're going to let me drive without an argument or some comment about me playing with the radio?"
"Damn straight," Dean says. He plucks his notebook from the backseat and waves it in midair. "The girls are down to their panties and looking for love, little brother."
No, really, Sam doesn't want to know.
November 18th
"Sex pollen! Come on, dude!"
Sam closes his eyes and tries desperately not to commit fratricide. "Dean, didn't you just spend the last twenty-four hours making sure I didn't claw through the bathroom door and fuck everything that stands still long enough?"
Okay, Dean can't argue that one. One false move on the hunt and Sam had ended up hornier than he'd been on every other day of his life combined, rubbing up against Dean on the car ride back to the motel so much that Dean had finally resorted to spraying him in the face with a shaken bottle of Mountain Dew. It hadn't cured Sam -- a day locked in the bathroom stroking his cock and coming like a freight train over and over again until he'd blown a few synapses had done that -- but it sure as hell had made him back the fuck up off Dean for the last five minutes of the car ride.
Dean chooses to ignore Sam's question and says, "Don't you think it'd make for some hot porn, though?"
"There is something seriously wrong with you, you know that?"
Dean sighs. "Nothing that December first won't solve. Trust me, man."
November 24th
As usual, the Winchester family Thanksgiving comes in a bucket with Colonel Sanders on the side. Sure, it's not turkey but there's still wings and a beak (hopefully, that's not in the bucket), which is close enough.
They eat it in the motel room while Sam cleans the guns for once and Dean scribbles into his notebook as four girls do something on the television screen that Sam could have sworn he'd seen debunked on the sex-related pages on Snopes. This motel definitely had better porn than the last place, where the best movie Dean had been able to order had featured women who weighed as much and were as old as the two of them put together. Hell, Sam's amazed his dick still works at all after that fiasco, which is evidenced by the fact that just listening the moans coming from the television that he's trying desperately to ignore have him at half-mast anyway.
"Do we have to watch this?" he asks, and he really hopes he doesn't sound half as whiny as he thinks he does.
Dean frowns. "Would you rather we watch the Macy's parade?"
Well, I definitely won't get hard looking at the Garfield balloon, Sam thinks, but just grumbles something about it not being the kind of stuff normal people watch on Thanksgiving as he picks up the nearest shotgun for cleaning.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, "I've only got ten thousand words to go here."
Sam doesn't even bother to question it anymore. If Dean wants him to know all of the sordid details, he'll tell him.
Yeah, probably when it'll embarrass him the most like around pretty girls or priests, but still.
November 29th
Sam wakes up right before midnight as Dean stumbles into the motel room with lipstick smeared on his neck and the familiar scent of Jack Daniels rising from his clothes like he's been sprayed with a fire hose full of it.
"Congratulate me, Sammy," he proclaims, "I wrote fifty thousand words of hardcore lesbian threesome porn!"
Sam blinks in confusion, then says, "You wrote porn?"
"Correction. I wrote a lot of porn."
Dean raises his fists in triumph and beams, swaying on his feet.
And that's when he decides to pass out.
Sam just leaves him there on the floor. After all, if that's the reason for Dean's weird behavior for the past month, it serves Dean right if he wakes up with gross motel carpet imprinted in his skin.
December 2nd
Dean realizes he's in trouble the second he figures out his hard copy of the novel he wrote is missing.
He digs through every corner of the Impala and every nook and cranny of their current motel room before the frighteningly familiar noises coming from the bathroom register in his brain. He freezes in mid-search and glances over at the door in thinly veiled terror.
Sammy's in the bathroom. And the erotic opus -- okay, lesbian porn, whatever -- that he wrote is missing.
Uh ... okay, that's not good.
Ten minutes later, Sam emerges from the bathroom with a grin on his face and drops a recognizable pile of computer paper onto the bed.
Dean makes a mental note to print out another hard copy that Sammy will never ever touch.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,400 words
Spoilers: General show spoilers
Pairing: None
Warnings: Bad language, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: The Winchesters belong to the biggest fangirl on the planet. Surprisingly enough, that's not me.
Summary: It's after the hunt in Montana when Dean starts acting really fucking weird.
Author's note: First it's an icon. Now it's a story. Heh.
Desperately In Need Of A Hobby
++
It's after the hunt in Montana when Dean starts acting really fucking weird.
They stop at this restaurant on the way out of the state that Dean almost vetoes as soon as they pulled into the parking lot. God only knows how a joint like this ended up in the middle of nowhere at the last exit for forty miles, but that just seems to be their luck these days. It's one of those trendy chain places with a fireplace and soft lighting and free wi-fi for anyone who swills more than their body weight in peppermint cappuccino.
Dean pulls a face when he spots a pair of annoyingly fashionable parents coming out the front door, the father carrying an adorable blond moppet wearing pink tights and patent leather shoes when it's not even a goddamn holiday.
"Not a chance," Dean snaps.
Sam grabs the keys before he can start the ignition. "No other choice," Sam points out, "unless you want to go back to the last exit to Big Bob's Sushi Extravaganza."
Yeah, Dean doesn't really have an argument for that one.
It turns out that the food isn't bad at all. It's pretty good to be perfectly honest, although Dean makes a point of bitching loudly about the size of his smokehouse turkey sandwich and goes up to the register to buy another one like it's some kind of protest. Sam just nurses his iced chai latte and takes distracted bites of his lemon chicken panini as he skims the usual websites. Dean comes back to the table carrying another turkey sandwich and a gigantic slice of chocolate cheesecake that must have caught his eye at the register.
"Mind if I check something?" he says, and slides the chocolate cheesecake towards Sam like a peace offering.
And really, who's going to turn that down?
Sam's halfway through devouring the slice when Dean makes a quiet, "Huh," shrugs, and starts typing furiously on the laptop.
"What's up?" Sam asks.
Dean just waves him off and goes back to typing, and after a moment's consideration Sam decides to let it slide. At worst, Dean's found a photo of some hot blonde with huge tits on a dating website and is firing off an email under Sam's name claiming that he hasn't gotten laid in two years. At best, Dean's starting another blog he'll forget about in a week after he's made three grammatically criminal posts about how awesome Led Zeppelin is. It could go either way.
Then Dean pauses, brow furrowing with confusion, and says, "Do you think I could write a book?"
"I think you could write down your phone number," Sam says. "And have, a lot."
"Yeah, real funny," Dean mutters.
He goes back to his typing, but a moment later ...
"I think you could write a phone book."
"Shut it, Sammy."
"You know, given thirty years."
"I hate you," Dean says, and steals the rest of Sam's cheesecake.
On their way to Vicksburg to hunt what appears to be some African legend neither one of them had ever even heard of before now, Dean pulls over at a Wal-Mart and buys a five-subject notebook, two packs of black ballpoint pens, a pack of index cards, and five bags of Pixie Stix, something Dean only buys when he's desperate to pull an all-nighter on something.
When he gets back into the car and Sam spots the contents of the bag, he stares at Dean in full-on bitchface mode like Dean's deranged.
"There something you want to tell me?"
"Yeah," Dean says as he starts the car, "steal my Pixie Stix and I'll kill you."
Halloween is just like every other Halloween they've spent together since their early teens, hunting something under cover of darkness with guns in hand. The only difference seems to be the slight edge Dean's on, the way he keeps constantly checking his watch so often that he very nearly gets pounced on by a man-eating demon in the shape of a man-eating lion. Apparently, it's not the most fashionably creative of demons.
A half hour before midnight, the two of them walk back into the motel room smelling like blood and dirt and the surprisingly hardy scent of apple cider. It probably would have helped if they'd tried a little harder not to be flung headfirst into a vat of the stuff, or if the guy who'd summoned the man-eating demon hadn't made the big old vat of cider in the first place.
Just another reason for Sam to really fucking hate Halloween.
As soon as they walk into the room, Sam expects Dean to dive into the bathroom for a quick shower, but instead Dean heads straight for the laptop. "Dude, you take first shower. I've got something I've gotta do."
Sam shrugs off his grimy brown coat and grimaces. "What, does the eBay auction for Jimmy Page's unfinished pancakes end at midnight or something?"
"No, I just signed up for this thing that starts at midnight, and I want to get a good head start on it just in case."
"Oh, really? What is it?"
"Uh ..." Dean glances up from the computer screen and frowns. "It's nothing, honest. Go wash your hair, Sasquatch. The demon guts are drying funny and making it stick up in the back."
Sam rolls his eyes and heads into the bathroom. Fine, whatever. If Dean wants to haunt some Star Wars chat room without his little brother's interference and look for hot Princess Leia lookalikes who actually own gold bikinis, let him.
Sam comes back from the store down the street with a case of Budweiser and the last bag of extra-salty pretzels in the place only to find Dean watching something with large-breasted cheerleaders who appear to be both sexually creative and supernaturally flexible.
That's not the weird part, though.
The weird part is that Dean's taking notes.
"Okay, this is awkward," Sam says as he closes the door to the motel room. It's not, though, not by a long shot. Oh, sure, when Dean walks in on him when he's watching porn, it's a tad more embarrassing because he's always so afraid of what's going to happen when he gets caught by Dean that he never gets to the part where he jerks off. Sad, but true. On the other hand, walking in on Dean jerking off to porn just means that's Thursday, or Tuesday, or any of the other days. And also, that his hand isn't broken.
But taking notes?
All right, that's just fucked up.
Dean doesn't look away from the television screen, scribbling down what looks like a fairly creative use for a strap-on. "Problem, Sam?"
You mean, aside from my big brother trying to write his thesis in Pornography 101?, Sam thinks.
What he says, though, is, "Are you going to be long?"
He probably should have seen it coming, but the double entendre doesn't smack him upside the head until Dean's lips curl in a wicked grin. "Dude, I'm not even going to touch that one. Consider it an early Christmas present."
"Thanks a lot."
"Don't mention it."
"Oh, trust me. I won't."
Sam starts to think something is seriously amiss when he realizes that Dean's on the laptop now more than he's ever been, and that's even when he counts the time Dean got hooked on Farscape and spent every waking moment downloading torrents like crazy.
Dean pounds away on the keyboard once again from the minute they return from the hunt to the moment Sam gets up the next morning, a pen clenched between Dean's teeth and the glasses he rarely ever wears perched on his nose. He had to have been staring at the damn screen for hours, Sam figures. He only puts on his glasses when the eye strain makes the contacts a bitch for him to wear.
"Uh, Dean," he says as he sits up in bed, "have you been typing all night?"
"Just about, yeah."
"Why?"
"Because we spent six hours yesterday up to our ears in grave dirt, that's why."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Sammy," Dean says in a warning tone of voice, "do you mind? I've got a quota to reach here."
Sam groans and head into the bathroom. Maybe after a shower and banging his head against the wall, Dean won't sound quite so much like he's gone out of his freaking mind.
Right before they're set to leave South Carolina for a poltergeist in Connecticut, Dean closes up the motel room and tosses Sam the car keys.
"You drive," he says, and Sam looks at him like his ears have started spontaneously ejecting shrimp.
"You're going to let me drive without an argument or some comment about me playing with the radio?"
"Damn straight," Dean says. He plucks his notebook from the backseat and waves it in midair. "The girls are down to their panties and looking for love, little brother."
No, really, Sam doesn't want to know.
"Sex pollen! Come on, dude!"
Sam closes his eyes and tries desperately not to commit fratricide. "Dean, didn't you just spend the last twenty-four hours making sure I didn't claw through the bathroom door and fuck everything that stands still long enough?"
Okay, Dean can't argue that one. One false move on the hunt and Sam had ended up hornier than he'd been on every other day of his life combined, rubbing up against Dean on the car ride back to the motel so much that Dean had finally resorted to spraying him in the face with a shaken bottle of Mountain Dew. It hadn't cured Sam -- a day locked in the bathroom stroking his cock and coming like a freight train over and over again until he'd blown a few synapses had done that -- but it sure as hell had made him back the fuck up off Dean for the last five minutes of the car ride.
Dean chooses to ignore Sam's question and says, "Don't you think it'd make for some hot porn, though?"
"There is something seriously wrong with you, you know that?"
Dean sighs. "Nothing that December first won't solve. Trust me, man."
As usual, the Winchester family Thanksgiving comes in a bucket with Colonel Sanders on the side. Sure, it's not turkey but there's still wings and a beak (hopefully, that's not in the bucket), which is close enough.
They eat it in the motel room while Sam cleans the guns for once and Dean scribbles into his notebook as four girls do something on the television screen that Sam could have sworn he'd seen debunked on the sex-related pages on Snopes. This motel definitely had better porn than the last place, where the best movie Dean had been able to order had featured women who weighed as much and were as old as the two of them put together. Hell, Sam's amazed his dick still works at all after that fiasco, which is evidenced by the fact that just listening the moans coming from the television that he's trying desperately to ignore have him at half-mast anyway.
"Do we have to watch this?" he asks, and he really hopes he doesn't sound half as whiny as he thinks he does.
Dean frowns. "Would you rather we watch the Macy's parade?"
Well, I definitely won't get hard looking at the Garfield balloon, Sam thinks, but just grumbles something about it not being the kind of stuff normal people watch on Thanksgiving as he picks up the nearest shotgun for cleaning.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, "I've only got ten thousand words to go here."
Sam doesn't even bother to question it anymore. If Dean wants him to know all of the sordid details, he'll tell him.
Yeah, probably when it'll embarrass him the most like around pretty girls or priests, but still.
Sam wakes up right before midnight as Dean stumbles into the motel room with lipstick smeared on his neck and the familiar scent of Jack Daniels rising from his clothes like he's been sprayed with a fire hose full of it.
"Congratulate me, Sammy," he proclaims, "I wrote fifty thousand words of hardcore lesbian threesome porn!"
Sam blinks in confusion, then says, "You wrote porn?"
"Correction. I wrote a lot of porn."
Dean raises his fists in triumph and beams, swaying on his feet.
And that's when he decides to pass out.
Sam just leaves him there on the floor. After all, if that's the reason for Dean's weird behavior for the past month, it serves Dean right if he wakes up with gross motel carpet imprinted in his skin.
Dean realizes he's in trouble the second he figures out his hard copy of the novel he wrote is missing.
He digs through every corner of the Impala and every nook and cranny of their current motel room before the frighteningly familiar noises coming from the bathroom register in his brain. He freezes in mid-search and glances over at the door in thinly veiled terror.
Sammy's in the bathroom. And the erotic opus -- okay, lesbian porn, whatever -- that he wrote is missing.
Uh ... okay, that's not good.
Ten minutes later, Sam emerges from the bathroom with a grin on his face and drops a recognizable pile of computer paper onto the bed.
Dean makes a mental note to print out another hard copy that Sammy will never ever touch.
