ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-19 05:23 am
ratherastory) wrote2010-01-19 05:23 am
Entry tags:
Take Me Home —Part 7
Title: Take Me Home
Summary: The Trickster decides to have some fun with Sam. Wackiness ensues, with a healthy helping of whump, because it's me and I can't leave the boys intact.
Spoilers: All aired episodes up to 5.10
Word Count: 1,527 for this chapter
Disclaimer: Luckily for them, I own nothing. Otherwise they'd be in for a world of hurt.
Warning: Utter crack. Language that is definitely not workplace-appropriate.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer: No beta, written in such a hurry I'm amazed my fingers managed to connect with the keyboard.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #2:I take NO responsibility for this, because it's cracktastic and weird and I can't believe it came out of of my brain. If you are scarred for life after reading it, it's NOT my fault!
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #3: It's basically "Lassie Come-Home," Winchester-style. I dunno. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!
Master Post
Part 6
***** WARNING: This has non-explicit, very vanilla, totally consensual heterosexual sex. Or, at least, the beginnings of it. Essentially, nothing you couldn't find in a movie aimed at thirteen-year-olds.*****
*****
The mechanic that Dean had so much faith in fails to come through. In all fairness, it's not his fault. There are a couple of things that need fixing in the car aside from the fan belt, and when the mechanic points out that he's on the verge of losing a wheel, Dean has to admit that he's probably right, and grudgingly agrees to stay another day. No use breaking down in the middle of the highway. So he calls Bobby, tells him there's going to be a delay, and tries to find something to do in this tiny freaking little town before he loses his mind. At the very least he's hoping there won't be any more demons: that little adventure this afternoon was more than enough for one day, thank you very much.
He ignores the reproachful looks he gets from Sam and leaves him in the motel room with the TV on, and bowls full of kibble and water, and heads to the nearest bar. It's not like he wouldn't be leaving Sam to do whatever it is he does if this was a normal night, right? And hanging out as a dog has to be better than hanging out and brooding and angsting and feeling sorry for himself, which is pretty much all Sam seems to be doing these days anyway. So Dean refuses to feel guilty. Absolutely 100% refuses. The dog will take a nap, have some kibble, gnaw on that new rawhide bone he seems to like so much. Doggy heaven.
It's been a long time since he's had the down time to do something like this: just go out, kick back, line up the PBRs on the bar in front of him. He orders a few shots of whisky, too, mixes himself some boilermakers. He's not far from the motel, he's not driving, and the apocalypse is pretty much on hold as far as he's concerned, at least until he's got his wheels back. He turns his back to the bar, leans on his elbows against it, beer in hand, and lets his eyes sweep the room. It's fairly crowded in the bar, but not so much that he can't pick out a couple of pretty faces, and eventually one of said pretty faces makes her way to the bar, having left her safety net of friends behind. She saunters up, all curves and a bit too much makeup, the dark red lipstick all but screaming 'I'm on the prowl,' and within about ten seconds he thinks he may have a sure thing.
“Buy you a drink?” he cocks his head, gives her a small smile, and is gratified to see her respond almost immediately to him. The tip of her tongue comes out, darts against her lips, darts back in behind white teeth.
“I like rum and coke,” she tells him, sliding onto a stool so that she can show off an expanse of very long and very attractive bare leg under the short skirt of the little black dress she's sporting. The generous cleavage isn't too hard on the eyes, either. He signals to the bartender, and like magic there's a rum and coke in front of her, complete with one of those little plastic swords.
“I'm Dean, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he takes her hand, gives it a suggestive squeeze, and she giggles when he lets his thumb drift over the pulse point in her wrist.
“Tracy. You're not from around here, are you?”
“Just passing through.”
She sticks the plastic sword in her mouth and sucks on it suggestively. “Just my kind of guy, then. I'm not into the whole commitment thing.”
Oh, this is the best night ever. It takes two more rum and cokes before Tracy cheerfully abandons her friends and lets him pin her against the wall just outside the ladies' room, her tongue darting against his, tasting sweet and tart from her drinks at the same time. She runs her hands up his shirt, manicured fingernails scraping against skin, nips at his lips with her teeth.
“God, your mouth is beautiful,” she murmurs, still kissing him, her words slurred. “I want it to do so many dirty things to me... please tell me you're staying nearby. Take me back with you?”
“Oh, hell yes!”
They almost don't make it back to the motel room, but he manages a heroic feat of self-control, unlocks the door and pulls her inside, trying not to focus too much on the fact that she's been trying to undress him for the past half-block —and turns to find Sam on his bed, staring balefully at him. Tracy giggles, still under the effects of her drinks. Apparently she's a cheap date, which is all to the good, as far as he's concerned.
“Cute dog.”
Great.
“Uh, yeah. Hang on, lemme just...” he grabs Sam by the collar. “Dude, this is way too weird. You're going in the bathroom,” he says, hopefully too low for Tracy to hear, and then hauls the dog off the bed, into the bathroom, and shuts the door firmly.
“Aww, poor doggy! You didn't have to do that,” Tracy kicks off her shoes, advances on him with a predatory look in her eye, obviously not too concerned with the dog's well-being.
“No, I really did. I am not doing this with him staring at us.”
“Whatever.”
She rubs up against him, encourages him to unzip her dress and peel it off her, and God she is just as curvy as he thought she'd be, and he sort of loses his train of thought as she tugs off his shirt and starts working on the buttons of his fly, shoving hard at him until he's on his back on the bed. He lets his hands play along her hips, grinning: he likes a girl who can take charge, and she obviously knows what she wants, pulling at his jeans as though they're the last thing between her and the lottery.
That's when the barking starts.
At first he tries to ignore it. Hell, it's not that hard: Tracy is all over him, murmuring obscenities into his ear, working over him with her tongue like he's a fucking ice cream cone, and it's all he can do to keep himself thinking straight, let alone worry about his dog —brother, whatever— locked up in the bathroom. Except the barking gets louder, more insistent, and then doesn't stop. Tracy laughs, but she's starting to look annoyed, too, and he knows exactly how she feels.
“Uh, your dog is kind of killing the mood here, honey.”
“I know, sorry.” He turns to the side. “Sam, shut up!” The barking stops, and he turns back. “Okay, where were we?”
Tracy smiles lasciviously. “You were about to do something unspeakably filthy to me with that sinful-looking mouth of yours,” she says, pulling him on top of her, her hands snaking past the elastic of his boxers, making him gasp at the contact.
“Not if you keep distracting me,” he manages, before using the aforementioned sinful-looking mouth to nibble at her neck, enjoying the feeling of her arching beneath him with a moan. He's never figured out why women like his mouth so much, but he's not going to stop and analyze it right now, that's for sure. Right now he's just going to take advantage of this little gift horse to make her make some really obscene sounds, the kind he loves listening to.
Or, rather, the kind he would love listening to if they weren't being drowned out by the sound of his dog howling on the other side of the bathroom door. Ignoring it doesn't work, the howling just gets louder and louder until the neighbours start pounding on the walls. He feels his shoulders sag, lets his head drop.
“Son of a bitch!”
Tracy rolls her eyes, laughs, then reaches for her dress. “Okay, honey, you're really hot and all, but there's only so much I'm willing to put up with. I didn't come here for a re-run of 'Best In Show.' Sorry.” She rearranges her dress, shoves her feet into her shoes, brushes one hand suggestively against the front of his boxers. “Next time, lose the mutt, 'kay?”
And she's gone.
He yanks open the door to the bathroom, lips pressed tightly together, makes an ironic 'after-you' gesture, and Sam trots past him and hops onto the bed, turning in several tight circles before dropping down with a happy grin.
“I hate you.”
Sam whuffs gently, doesn't seem especially concerned. When Dean slides under the bedclothes, though, Sam crawls right up next to him, nudges him in the ribs, then wedges his head in his armpit before falling asleep with a contented sigh. Dean rolls his eyes, reaches across his chest to scratch behind Sam's ears, then turns on his side, falls asleep with his arm draped loosely over Sam's ribcage.
*****
Part 8
Summary: The Trickster decides to have some fun with Sam. Wackiness ensues, with a healthy helping of whump, because it's me and I can't leave the boys intact.
Spoilers: All aired episodes up to 5.10
Word Count: 1,527 for this chapter
Disclaimer: Luckily for them, I own nothing. Otherwise they'd be in for a world of hurt.
Warning: Utter crack. Language that is definitely not workplace-appropriate.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer: No beta, written in such a hurry I'm amazed my fingers managed to connect with the keyboard.
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #2:I take NO responsibility for this, because it's cracktastic and weird and I can't believe it came out of of my brain. If you are scarred for life after reading it, it's NOT my fault!
Neurotic Authorial Disclaimer #3: It's basically "Lassie Come-Home," Winchester-style. I dunno. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!
Master Post
Part 6
The mechanic that Dean had so much faith in fails to come through. In all fairness, it's not his fault. There are a couple of things that need fixing in the car aside from the fan belt, and when the mechanic points out that he's on the verge of losing a wheel, Dean has to admit that he's probably right, and grudgingly agrees to stay another day. No use breaking down in the middle of the highway. So he calls Bobby, tells him there's going to be a delay, and tries to find something to do in this tiny freaking little town before he loses his mind. At the very least he's hoping there won't be any more demons: that little adventure this afternoon was more than enough for one day, thank you very much.
He ignores the reproachful looks he gets from Sam and leaves him in the motel room with the TV on, and bowls full of kibble and water, and heads to the nearest bar. It's not like he wouldn't be leaving Sam to do whatever it is he does if this was a normal night, right? And hanging out as a dog has to be better than hanging out and brooding and angsting and feeling sorry for himself, which is pretty much all Sam seems to be doing these days anyway. So Dean refuses to feel guilty. Absolutely 100% refuses. The dog will take a nap, have some kibble, gnaw on that new rawhide bone he seems to like so much. Doggy heaven.
It's been a long time since he's had the down time to do something like this: just go out, kick back, line up the PBRs on the bar in front of him. He orders a few shots of whisky, too, mixes himself some boilermakers. He's not far from the motel, he's not driving, and the apocalypse is pretty much on hold as far as he's concerned, at least until he's got his wheels back. He turns his back to the bar, leans on his elbows against it, beer in hand, and lets his eyes sweep the room. It's fairly crowded in the bar, but not so much that he can't pick out a couple of pretty faces, and eventually one of said pretty faces makes her way to the bar, having left her safety net of friends behind. She saunters up, all curves and a bit too much makeup, the dark red lipstick all but screaming 'I'm on the prowl,' and within about ten seconds he thinks he may have a sure thing.
“Buy you a drink?” he cocks his head, gives her a small smile, and is gratified to see her respond almost immediately to him. The tip of her tongue comes out, darts against her lips, darts back in behind white teeth.
“I like rum and coke,” she tells him, sliding onto a stool so that she can show off an expanse of very long and very attractive bare leg under the short skirt of the little black dress she's sporting. The generous cleavage isn't too hard on the eyes, either. He signals to the bartender, and like magic there's a rum and coke in front of her, complete with one of those little plastic swords.
“I'm Dean, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he takes her hand, gives it a suggestive squeeze, and she giggles when he lets his thumb drift over the pulse point in her wrist.
“Tracy. You're not from around here, are you?”
“Just passing through.”
She sticks the plastic sword in her mouth and sucks on it suggestively. “Just my kind of guy, then. I'm not into the whole commitment thing.”
Oh, this is the best night ever. It takes two more rum and cokes before Tracy cheerfully abandons her friends and lets him pin her against the wall just outside the ladies' room, her tongue darting against his, tasting sweet and tart from her drinks at the same time. She runs her hands up his shirt, manicured fingernails scraping against skin, nips at his lips with her teeth.
“God, your mouth is beautiful,” she murmurs, still kissing him, her words slurred. “I want it to do so many dirty things to me... please tell me you're staying nearby. Take me back with you?”
“Oh, hell yes!”
They almost don't make it back to the motel room, but he manages a heroic feat of self-control, unlocks the door and pulls her inside, trying not to focus too much on the fact that she's been trying to undress him for the past half-block —and turns to find Sam on his bed, staring balefully at him. Tracy giggles, still under the effects of her drinks. Apparently she's a cheap date, which is all to the good, as far as he's concerned.
“Cute dog.”
Great.
“Uh, yeah. Hang on, lemme just...” he grabs Sam by the collar. “Dude, this is way too weird. You're going in the bathroom,” he says, hopefully too low for Tracy to hear, and then hauls the dog off the bed, into the bathroom, and shuts the door firmly.
“Aww, poor doggy! You didn't have to do that,” Tracy kicks off her shoes, advances on him with a predatory look in her eye, obviously not too concerned with the dog's well-being.
“No, I really did. I am not doing this with him staring at us.”
“Whatever.”
She rubs up against him, encourages him to unzip her dress and peel it off her, and God she is just as curvy as he thought she'd be, and he sort of loses his train of thought as she tugs off his shirt and starts working on the buttons of his fly, shoving hard at him until he's on his back on the bed. He lets his hands play along her hips, grinning: he likes a girl who can take charge, and she obviously knows what she wants, pulling at his jeans as though they're the last thing between her and the lottery.
That's when the barking starts.
At first he tries to ignore it. Hell, it's not that hard: Tracy is all over him, murmuring obscenities into his ear, working over him with her tongue like he's a fucking ice cream cone, and it's all he can do to keep himself thinking straight, let alone worry about his dog —brother, whatever— locked up in the bathroom. Except the barking gets louder, more insistent, and then doesn't stop. Tracy laughs, but she's starting to look annoyed, too, and he knows exactly how she feels.
“Uh, your dog is kind of killing the mood here, honey.”
“I know, sorry.” He turns to the side. “Sam, shut up!” The barking stops, and he turns back. “Okay, where were we?”
Tracy smiles lasciviously. “You were about to do something unspeakably filthy to me with that sinful-looking mouth of yours,” she says, pulling him on top of her, her hands snaking past the elastic of his boxers, making him gasp at the contact.
“Not if you keep distracting me,” he manages, before using the aforementioned sinful-looking mouth to nibble at her neck, enjoying the feeling of her arching beneath him with a moan. He's never figured out why women like his mouth so much, but he's not going to stop and analyze it right now, that's for sure. Right now he's just going to take advantage of this little gift horse to make her make some really obscene sounds, the kind he loves listening to.
Or, rather, the kind he would love listening to if they weren't being drowned out by the sound of his dog howling on the other side of the bathroom door. Ignoring it doesn't work, the howling just gets louder and louder until the neighbours start pounding on the walls. He feels his shoulders sag, lets his head drop.
“Son of a bitch!”
Tracy rolls her eyes, laughs, then reaches for her dress. “Okay, honey, you're really hot and all, but there's only so much I'm willing to put up with. I didn't come here for a re-run of 'Best In Show.' Sorry.” She rearranges her dress, shoves her feet into her shoes, brushes one hand suggestively against the front of his boxers. “Next time, lose the mutt, 'kay?”
And she's gone.
He yanks open the door to the bathroom, lips pressed tightly together, makes an ironic 'after-you' gesture, and Sam trots past him and hops onto the bed, turning in several tight circles before dropping down with a happy grin.
“I hate you.”
Sam whuffs gently, doesn't seem especially concerned. When Dean slides under the bedclothes, though, Sam crawls right up next to him, nudges him in the ribs, then wedges his head in his armpit before falling asleep with a contented sigh. Dean rolls his eyes, reaches across his chest to scratch behind Sam's ears, then turns on his side, falls asleep with his arm draped loosely over Sam's ribcage.
Part 8
no subject
no subject
Dean's mouth ought to feature in *all* stories. It's lovely. Sinful-looking, in fact. I may have mentioned that once or twice. ;)
Tracy was totally up his alley. Too bad she's a shallow twit.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
I do come back to this scene from Sam's POV eventually, so you'll get your answer then. :)
no subject
no subject
I had this scene in my head almost from the start, so I'm glad people seem to be enjoying it. :D
no subject
no subject
I had that little scene in mind from the start, too, 'cause I'm a mean, mean person.
no subject
no subject
I based this off some hilarious stories my friends told me about their new dog who howls when they have sex. Apparently the howls get louder right in time with the, umm, intensity of their passion. It makes me giggle insanely each time.
no subject
There was NOTHING nice about that girl.....:)
no subject
Yeah, no. Nothing nice, except I think Sam might have thought she was willing to play and give him pats and scritches. Too bad it was only Dean she wanted to play with. ;)
no subject
Poor sammy tho! locked in the bathroom! [It's what we do to my malamute when she's naughty. It's the only 'punishment' she understands.... solitary confinement in the powder room. and the howling!!]
While I would love the chance to get to 'know' Dean winchester, I'm not sure I could put up with the howling.
no subject
My cats yowl VERY loudly outside the bedroom door. So, uh, you get used to it? ;)
no subject
I know, sounds great doesn't it.....
no subject
Sounds about right. It also helps to have a very understanding partner. ;)
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thank you for commenting!
Is that Coyote in your icon?
no subject
no subject