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apocalypsosTitle: Subtle Innuendo Follows
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC
Spoilers for: "Route 666"
Warnings: Wincest, sexual situations
Disclaimer: Dear![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trollprincess's gym teacher, please excuse her from class, as she has borrowed these characters without permission and with no intention of making money off this.
Summary: There are things Dean doesn't want to think about in some situations, and Sam's one of them.
*****
Subtle Innuendo Follows
*****
In Boston, this girl leans over the jukebox at this perfect angle, like all the best parts of her body are on parade. Her hair tumbles down her back in dark brown waves, thick bangs hiding twinkling eyes the same dark shade of brown. The dimples are killing him and the slope of her neck is driving him quietly wild and when she sees him looking at her, she flashes him this girl-next-door grin that goes straight to his cock.
Everything about the entire night has this terrifying familiarity to it, this odd sensation that crawls up his spine like something dark and sinister fixing its gaze on the back of his neck.
Her name is Sam, it turns out, and when they fuck, he comes harder than he ever has before just from groaning her name.
Dean can't delude himself about most things, about creatures that go bump in the night and the things he's had to do to bump back, but he's doing a hell of a job deluding himself about this.
*****
Of course Dean knows exactly where Sam is. He's buried in a very thick, very boring book somewhere at Stanford, and Dean would bet a thousand bucks and his favorite gun that Sam's not within a hundred feet of a pretty girl, a filled keg, or true unadulterated evil.
But it's hard to believe what he knows when he's lying on the floor of some creature's warehouse lair staring up at a set of blood-stained fangs set in a puppy-dog smile under familiar dark eyes.
Doesn't stop him from pulling the trigger, not that time, but then not much does.
The rest of his memories of that night come in short static bursts -- a long row of empty beer bottles, the snap and crackle of the air before a barfight, the comforting sting of split skin over his knuckles. Somewhere in there is Dad hauling him out of the Impala and dumping him into the bed in their motel room and there are twelve straight hours lost to what could arguably be called an amateur coma.
When Dean comes to, Dad's holding his cell phone out for him to take as this worried voice on the other end keeps saying his name. He says nothing before going back to sleep, because hanging up the phone's the best answer he's got.
*****
Cassie has dark hair and dark eyes and never stops arguing with him.
Jessica was strikingly gorgeous and could apparently make Sam do anything she wanted him to with just the right smile.
If the Winchester brothers have types, Dean thinks after Sam comes back into the fold, he's not really sure he wants to know what they are.
*****
The first time one of the bastards tries it, he's ten years old and it's the third time Dad's taken him on a hunt, the weight of a gun in his hand and the hint of a threat in the shadows still a thrilling novelty. Dean turns a corner in some crumbling old house and there it is, standing right there, its hair in dark, sweaty curls and tears spilling down its round cheeks.
"Dean, help me," it calls out in a weak, tremulous voice, arms outstretched.
It's wearing the same damn Batman T-shirt he's seen a million times, which is about as many times as he's seen Sammy wearing it. Part of him wants to shoot it just for raiding Sammy's wardrobe, and when Dad finds him standing over its body, he's tempted to give him that as an excuse just as soon as he stops crying.
*****
Dean knows Sam's first word and first steps and first day of preschool because you've got to focus on something when you're four and your mother vanishes in a rippling wave of fire.
Dean knows every bone Sam's ever broken and every scar left behind on Sam's skin by something that started out growling in the shadows because he was there for them all.
Dean knows Sam's first time with a girl because he paid for it and Sam's first blowjob because he was in the room for it and Sam's first handjob because it was Dean's fingers at work.
*****
And the thing is that he hates sounding like a fucking chick flick moment in action, but the girl in Boston even smells like Sam, just a little, like sandalwood and old books and something spicy and intoxicating he's only ever scented with Sam in the next motel bed. His hands trail over her flesh, olive-tinted and even-toned, and that's familiar, too, like the deja vu that comes from remembering a darkly erotic dream.
He slips and calls her the wrong thing, the wrong nickname, and she gives him a teasing smile before licking a trail along his flesh that makes all reason leave his head. "It's Sam," she insists, her breath stirring across his hipbone. "Sami's a twelve-year-old with zits and bad hair."
The way she says it strikes something in his chest like a hammer against metal, a loud clang that cuts off when her mouth starts distracting him better than any thoughts of the past can manage.
Sam's at Stanford, he reminds himself. Sam's not here, Sam's not doing that incredible thing with his tongue, Sam's not fucking me within an inch of my life ...
The thought jolts him so hard, he sniffs to test the air for sulfur or ozone before he can stop himself.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC
Spoilers for: "Route 666"
Warnings: Wincest, sexual situations
Disclaimer: Dear
trollprincess's gym teacher, please excuse her from class, as she has borrowed these characters without permission and with no intention of making money off this.Summary: There are things Dean doesn't want to think about in some situations, and Sam's one of them.
Subtle Innuendo Follows
*****
In Boston, this girl leans over the jukebox at this perfect angle, like all the best parts of her body are on parade. Her hair tumbles down her back in dark brown waves, thick bangs hiding twinkling eyes the same dark shade of brown. The dimples are killing him and the slope of her neck is driving him quietly wild and when she sees him looking at her, she flashes him this girl-next-door grin that goes straight to his cock.
Everything about the entire night has this terrifying familiarity to it, this odd sensation that crawls up his spine like something dark and sinister fixing its gaze on the back of his neck.
Her name is Sam, it turns out, and when they fuck, he comes harder than he ever has before just from groaning her name.
Dean can't delude himself about most things, about creatures that go bump in the night and the things he's had to do to bump back, but he's doing a hell of a job deluding himself about this.
Of course Dean knows exactly where Sam is. He's buried in a very thick, very boring book somewhere at Stanford, and Dean would bet a thousand bucks and his favorite gun that Sam's not within a hundred feet of a pretty girl, a filled keg, or true unadulterated evil.
But it's hard to believe what he knows when he's lying on the floor of some creature's warehouse lair staring up at a set of blood-stained fangs set in a puppy-dog smile under familiar dark eyes.
Doesn't stop him from pulling the trigger, not that time, but then not much does.
The rest of his memories of that night come in short static bursts -- a long row of empty beer bottles, the snap and crackle of the air before a barfight, the comforting sting of split skin over his knuckles. Somewhere in there is Dad hauling him out of the Impala and dumping him into the bed in their motel room and there are twelve straight hours lost to what could arguably be called an amateur coma.
When Dean comes to, Dad's holding his cell phone out for him to take as this worried voice on the other end keeps saying his name. He says nothing before going back to sleep, because hanging up the phone's the best answer he's got.
Cassie has dark hair and dark eyes and never stops arguing with him.
Jessica was strikingly gorgeous and could apparently make Sam do anything she wanted him to with just the right smile.
If the Winchester brothers have types, Dean thinks after Sam comes back into the fold, he's not really sure he wants to know what they are.
The first time one of the bastards tries it, he's ten years old and it's the third time Dad's taken him on a hunt, the weight of a gun in his hand and the hint of a threat in the shadows still a thrilling novelty. Dean turns a corner in some crumbling old house and there it is, standing right there, its hair in dark, sweaty curls and tears spilling down its round cheeks.
"Dean, help me," it calls out in a weak, tremulous voice, arms outstretched.
It's wearing the same damn Batman T-shirt he's seen a million times, which is about as many times as he's seen Sammy wearing it. Part of him wants to shoot it just for raiding Sammy's wardrobe, and when Dad finds him standing over its body, he's tempted to give him that as an excuse just as soon as he stops crying.
Dean knows Sam's first word and first steps and first day of preschool because you've got to focus on something when you're four and your mother vanishes in a rippling wave of fire.
Dean knows every bone Sam's ever broken and every scar left behind on Sam's skin by something that started out growling in the shadows because he was there for them all.
Dean knows Sam's first time with a girl because he paid for it and Sam's first blowjob because he was in the room for it and Sam's first handjob because it was Dean's fingers at work.
And the thing is that he hates sounding like a fucking chick flick moment in action, but the girl in Boston even smells like Sam, just a little, like sandalwood and old books and something spicy and intoxicating he's only ever scented with Sam in the next motel bed. His hands trail over her flesh, olive-tinted and even-toned, and that's familiar, too, like the deja vu that comes from remembering a darkly erotic dream.
He slips and calls her the wrong thing, the wrong nickname, and she gives him a teasing smile before licking a trail along his flesh that makes all reason leave his head. "It's Sam," she insists, her breath stirring across his hipbone. "Sami's a twelve-year-old with zits and bad hair."
The way she says it strikes something in his chest like a hammer against metal, a loud clang that cuts off when her mouth starts distracting him better than any thoughts of the past can manage.
Sam's at Stanford, he reminds himself. Sam's not here, Sam's not doing that incredible thing with his tongue, Sam's not fucking me within an inch of my life ...
The thought jolts him so hard, he sniffs to test the air for sulfur or ozone before he can stop himself.
