fic: a boy and his dildo (SPN, Gen, R, Sam POV, Dean)
a boy and his dildo
Author: Regala Electra
Rating: R
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Language, References to Sex Toys and Pornos (starring a certain Winchester)
Spoilers: References up to S2 Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things, but set early 2007
Summary: The trouble started the moment they crossed the threshold and there it was right up in front: a display of The Winchester, with a guarantee of 100% satisfaction or your money back. Sam's kind of scarred for life and Dean's a freak, but that's okay, because Sam's secretly freaky too.
Word Count: 2,505
Author’s Notes: A wee bit of crackfic that ignited can be blamed for, except where this entire story is totally my fault. Feedback appreciated as much as Dean loves weirding out his brother.
*
When they were kids, they saw each other’s all the time and it didn’t matter anyways, nothing weird at all. Not that there wasn’t anything interesting to look at back then (but puberty really did change things), it was just another part of the body.
Hey, they’re guys (even when they were so little they had to push rickety chairs up to counters just to raid the snacks spread across the top like a not-so secret treasure trove), so they weren’t born with the gene that had any fears about catching sight of gnarly stuff. Every new day, back in the day, meant that one of them was gonna wind up seeing everything. Deal and move on, that’s one of the unspoken Winchester mottos, after all.
Not to mention an affliction that Dad had grumbled about under his breath, an allergy to clothing, which had struck them both at different intervals when they were young, had ended the mystery that is the male body a long time ago.
And swimming? May as well take off everything because thrift store and Salvation Army clothing could withstand most things but shrink those clothes and it could be a long time until the next round of shopping allowed one of them to toss out shirts and jeans that had gotten way too stretched out or shrunk for comfort’s sake.
Nudity didn’t matter back then and a penis is a penis, after all.
This though, this thing that Sam’s staring at right now, this right here?
This does matter.
*
A rewind may be needed to explain how Sam got here but all Sam can process at this very moment is this: he is staring at multiple versions of his brother’s dick.
In every freaking color under and over the rainbow. And it’s not that it’s a flattering imitation, no, it’s a perfect replica of the original Dean Winchester brand.
They’re at a place called The Secret Treasure Chest (hand to God, that’s what it’s called and Sam still hopes that he’s hallucinating that awful name, at the very least). With a “sexy” pirate-themed window display which advertises a sale on blindfolds. So it’s here that Sam’s brain has finally broken but good.
Investigating a sex shop for leads in a haunting had been a bad, bad, bad idea. But unfortunately for Sam’s brain, which will never ever scrub out this knowledge of his brother’s dick in dildo form, once Sam stupidly mentioned how the last victim worked at a porn store, Dean could not fathom a reason why they wouldn’t go in to at least interview the coworkers.
Because, you see, they’re professionals and they have to examine every angle.
Well, Sam’s seen enough of Dean’s angles. And curves. And, God, the outline of veins, perfectly molded to mimic the actual flesh.
The trouble started the moment they crossed the threshold and there it was right up in front: a display of The Winchester, with a guarantee of 100% satisfaction or your money back. Well, store credit. Still, that’s pretty, uh.
Okay, Sam is kind of dumbstruck.
“Huh,” Dean says, picking up a purple replica of his penis. Sam’s experienced bleeding eyes before, thanks to Bloody Mary. This sensation is pretty damn close to that fond little incident only he doesn’t feel anything dripping down his face. Give it a minute. “Monique’s damn talented.”
“You...you let someone,” Sam tries to bring his voice as low as possible, because he can’t let anyone else hear him say this, “you let someone make a cast out of your...”
“Dick? Cock? Penis? Sex organ? Phallus?” Dean’s a hop-step away from breaking out into a full-blown jig. “C’mon, Sammy, it’s not a big deal. Well, I mean, heh, it is, but -”
“No, I am not listening to you. You have a dil...no. I’m not saying that either. God Dean, it’s called The Winchester.”
“Vibrator’s called the Fully Loaded Winchester,” a voice interrupts, pleasant and amiable. A champion salesman’s smile is directed towards Sam and Dean, this guy is the kind of person who could sell edible strawberry panties to a person with a severe strawberry allergy. “Thirty dollars off if you buy a cock ring.”
The salesman, a short man (well, to Sam, so he’s probably an inch or so below normal height) who clearly embraces leather as a lifestyle, points towards a counter display of shiny silver rings that looked disturbingly like oversized rings done in the style of...
Dean twists his silver ring around his finger, coughing, “Uh, we’re still looking.”
“We’re not looking,” Sam hisses. But the salesman takes off again, looking to convince a milling customer to buy the Rabbit vibrator.
Dean actually gives the girl a thumbs-up, then an eyebrow waggle and head nod to point her towards the Fully Loaded Winchester. His smile is still ridiculously huge when he turns to Sam, saying, “So how’d you know it was my dick straight off one look? You been peeking?”
“What? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we grew up together and we’ve been sharing a room since we hit the road.” Sam forces himself not to look at the display anymore, muttering darkly under his breath, “And you only bother to get dressed in the bathroom half of the time, so I know what it looks like now.”
“Okay.” Dean’s keeping an eye out for the other customer, quick quirk of his lips, probably a sign that she’d gone and purchased the vibrator named and designed after Dean’s penis, because Sam realizes that look on Dean’s face? Yeah, that’s pride. “You know you love it, Sammy. Don’t worry though, you want one of these babies, I’ll do right by ya.”
“Dean.”
“You know,” the salesperson says, walking back towards them, sure to bring another tidbit of information that Sam never ever needed to know, “this model is extremely popular with women.”
“Is it?” Dean says and dammit, his eyes are sparkling at that.
“Oh yes.” Then, as though imparting an obvious fact, scanning over Dean and Sam (which takes longer as the guy has to crane his neck to take in the both of them), he says, “And men.”
That may be worth the future therapy bills, Dean’s face at that. He’s kind of blushing, red starting at the tips of his ears and working its way down his face and then his neck.
“It’s ideal for a strap-on. I’ve had female customers rave that their boyfriends would have never accepted another kind but the Winchester was just perfect.”
“Is it?” Sam chokes out, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice.
“Good if you’re curious,” the salesman declares.
“Dean’s definitely curious,” Sam enthuses, delight at giving Dean just a smattering of revenge for this bizarre experience.
There’s no need for Dean to tell Sam how very much he is going to kill Sam. Huh, Sam realizes, he never thought his face looked that pissed off the many, many times he’d tossed that murderous look at Dean.
Lucky for Dean that the phone rings and the salesman takes off again or Sam would’ve made it a point to ask another horrifying question, all for Dean.
“Okay, so we’re going,” Dean announces, clearly spooked.
“What? I thought we really needed to ask some questions here.”
“Well, the only questions I think you’re about to ask are all gonna be about riding my jock.” Dean gives the massive display of dildos a final parting look before he declares, “Yeah, Monique’s talented and all...man, that was an awesome weekend, dude, the things she knew how to do, but there ain’t nothing like the real thing. C’mon, we got a son of a bitch to hunt.”
Sam really doesn’t have a problem with leaving this store behind. And maybe, with some hearty sessions of blocking out this experience, he’ll be able to push this down with all the other freaky experiences that have thus far defined the freakass life that is his existence.
*
That doesn’t happen.
Here’s what happens: they do figure out what they need to do to stop the killing and it involves fire, so Dean’s in a great mood afterwards. Sam’s a little annoyed that he still smells like whatever the hell is in that slime, but he’s not going to think about it.
And of course, Dean’s gotta to toss his leather jacket across the bench seat and Sam just rolls his eyes, not bothering to push it over to Dean’s side. Screw it, he’ll sit on Dean’s stupid jacket and Dean can complain that his jacket smells like ass or whatever, because that’ll serve Dean right.
Too late and Sam feels the hard outline pressing right between the crack of his ass and Dean actually freaking convulses with quiet laughter until Sam jumps out of the car. Sam really doesn’t want to know what’s under there, but Dean’s never one to hold back on a surprise, only it’s no surprise. It’s fuchsia, that’s what it is, fuchsia and has an actual black ribbon around it, like it’s a considerate Dean Winchester present - the Winchester dildo.
“Happy Wednesday,” Dean says to Sam. He clarifies, starting up the car, picking up the proffered gift, like it’s the most precious thing in the world as it flops at Sam, saying, “Hump Day. I figured you’ve been dying to get a real feel, but this is as close as you’re gonna get, Sam.”
“You are twisted,” Sam says as he gets back in the car.
Dean waves his dildo in Sam’s face, so Sam has to slap it away, knocking it out of Dean’s hand. It rolls somewhere behind them and Dean says, “Okay, you’re fishing that out.”
“No, we should keep it there as a surprise,” Sam says, sarcasm running deep. “Maybe we should pick up a hitchhiker now and really give them a good traveling story.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Freaky-style.”
“I can’t believe you bought your own dildo.”
“Hey man,” Dean offers, “We can always swing by Monique’s, she’s only, uh, around two hundred miles away, and have her create The Winchester II: The Sammy-ing. Not as popular as mine, but it’ll do the trick in a pinch, right?”
Sam keeps his hands over his face for about thirty miles as they drive off, unable to say anything that won’t wind up getting a perverted twist to it.
*
Revenge is not a Klingon saying or something that Shakespeare created. Revenge can be somewhat embarrassing, but kind of worth it in the end.
It’s not like Sam hasn’t had his own strange brush with pornography, it’s just that he’s never discussed it, with anyone, not even Jess.
Sam’s accidental foray into the world of adult entertainment is finally made known to Dean while he’s picking up lunch. Dean calls him not fifteen minutes after Sam leaves the motel room, while Sam is on the road towards the only place they’d passed before that looks like it had a slim chance of earning a gentleman’s C in health code scores.
“Dude,” Dean breathes over the phone, voice pitched right at a familiar edge of frustration, one that Sam’s visited far too many times than he’d ever admit, “what the hell? You were in a porno?”
The conversation that follows, stammering and dude-filled as it is, does give Sam ample ammunition later to drive Dean into a stonewalled silence when necessary.
When Dean tries to bring up anything about the stupid Winchester, Fully Loaded or otherwise, all Sam has to do is ask Dean’s opinion on Sam’s technique. This leaves Dean (learning his lesson from the first time around when he’d grudgingly admitted to Sam that he’d been kind of impressed), with no other option save silence.
Sam smiles as he commandeers the radio station, a fleeting victory that’ll last until a song that Dean deems as horrible starts up. Just as a song that’s actually been produced in the past year begins, Sam, sensing Dean’s annoyance, decides to do what all younger siblings have done since the beginning of time: push that irritation to the breaking point.
“So Sonia’s tattoo?” Sam gestures to his left thigh, snaking a curving line from knee to groin, saying, “They didn’t film her that well because it undulated when she as much as shivered. I’m serious, man.”
“You’re a sick man, Sam Winchester.” But the pride leaks through the false disgust, Dean’s poker skills failing him completely. Dean swerves around a slow car - a Honda daring to drive at the posted speed limit. Not on Dean Winchester’s time, it’s twenty and over the limit or you may as well be walking on the road.
Smacking Dean’s hand away when he attempts to tune into a classic rock station while Sam’s looking the other way, Sam retorts, ‘Takes one to know one.”
“Sam, you’re busting out that? Weak, dude.” Then, all casual like, Dean pats himself on the chest, where his denim jacket pocket is, and all of a sudden, Sam hears a faint, but distinctive buzzing. “By the way, happy birthday. Look under your seat.”
“It vibrates and it’s not a phone,” Sam says, like this is Twenty Questions or something. It’s not as big as a breadbox, but that won’t deter Dean from making a gross breadbox single entendre. Sam presses the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure of a headache. “First of all, my birthday’s not for a few more months, genius. Secondly, why do you keep on giving me your dick as a present?”
“It’s remote-controlled,” Dean protests, like a new twist on a sex toy is a perfectly reasonable argument for purchasing it. “Limited edition. Monique even signed it.”
“I’m going to start mailing these precious gifts to people we know. People who don’t realize you’re the King of Pervs.”
“Okay, Paris Hilton,” Dean says back, words coming out like quick-fire, “so you’re cool with everyone seeing you going balls-deep into that chick, uh, Mercedes, right?”
“Yeah.” Sam still remembers how he’d drunkenly exclaimed No, that can’t be your name! to her at the mixer, and a couple of hours later, he was in his first threesome. Which, unbeknownst to him, was being filmed as a scene for Casa Erotica IV. Go figure.
“Okay, Dean, so we both have incriminating sexual misdeeds. Maybe we should, I don’t know, call a truce? You stop giving me vibrators and dildos and I stop, hey,” he says, the light dawning, a choir of perverted angels singing Hallelujah, “Are you freaked out that I’m kind of freaky too? Is that what’s gotten you all weirded out?”
“No,” Dean grumbles, which is a pretty evident yes, let the record stand. “I just never knew you had it in you.”
“We are related.” Sam raises his hands in mock-defeat, adding, “But you still hold the title, okay?”
Dean finally concedes, ending the porn battle with a dismissive comment, saying, “Yeah, sure. So long as I do best in porn sales, I’m a-okay.”
end
Author: Regala Electra
Rating: R
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Language, References to Sex Toys and Pornos (starring a certain Winchester)
Spoilers: References up to S2 Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things, but set early 2007
Summary: The trouble started the moment they crossed the threshold and there it was right up in front: a display of The Winchester, with a guarantee of 100% satisfaction or your money back. Sam's kind of scarred for life and Dean's a freak, but that's okay, because Sam's secretly freaky too.
Word Count: 2,505
Author’s Notes: A wee bit of crackfic that ignited can be blamed for, except where this entire story is totally my fault. Feedback appreciated as much as Dean loves weirding out his brother.
*
When they were kids, they saw each other’s all the time and it didn’t matter anyways, nothing weird at all. Not that there wasn’t anything interesting to look at back then (but puberty really did change things), it was just another part of the body.
Hey, they’re guys (even when they were so little they had to push rickety chairs up to counters just to raid the snacks spread across the top like a not-so secret treasure trove), so they weren’t born with the gene that had any fears about catching sight of gnarly stuff. Every new day, back in the day, meant that one of them was gonna wind up seeing everything. Deal and move on, that’s one of the unspoken Winchester mottos, after all.
Not to mention an affliction that Dad had grumbled about under his breath, an allergy to clothing, which had struck them both at different intervals when they were young, had ended the mystery that is the male body a long time ago.
And swimming? May as well take off everything because thrift store and Salvation Army clothing could withstand most things but shrink those clothes and it could be a long time until the next round of shopping allowed one of them to toss out shirts and jeans that had gotten way too stretched out or shrunk for comfort’s sake.
Nudity didn’t matter back then and a penis is a penis, after all.
This though, this thing that Sam’s staring at right now, this right here?
This does matter.
*
A rewind may be needed to explain how Sam got here but all Sam can process at this very moment is this: he is staring at multiple versions of his brother’s dick.
In every freaking color under and over the rainbow. And it’s not that it’s a flattering imitation, no, it’s a perfect replica of the original Dean Winchester brand.
They’re at a place called The Secret Treasure Chest (hand to God, that’s what it’s called and Sam still hopes that he’s hallucinating that awful name, at the very least). With a “sexy” pirate-themed window display which advertises a sale on blindfolds. So it’s here that Sam’s brain has finally broken but good.
Investigating a sex shop for leads in a haunting had been a bad, bad, bad idea. But unfortunately for Sam’s brain, which will never ever scrub out this knowledge of his brother’s dick in dildo form, once Sam stupidly mentioned how the last victim worked at a porn store, Dean could not fathom a reason why they wouldn’t go in to at least interview the coworkers.
Because, you see, they’re professionals and they have to examine every angle.
Well, Sam’s seen enough of Dean’s angles. And curves. And, God, the outline of veins, perfectly molded to mimic the actual flesh.
The trouble started the moment they crossed the threshold and there it was right up in front: a display of The Winchester, with a guarantee of 100% satisfaction or your money back. Well, store credit. Still, that’s pretty, uh.
Okay, Sam is kind of dumbstruck.
“Huh,” Dean says, picking up a purple replica of his penis. Sam’s experienced bleeding eyes before, thanks to Bloody Mary. This sensation is pretty damn close to that fond little incident only he doesn’t feel anything dripping down his face. Give it a minute. “Monique’s damn talented.”
“You...you let someone,” Sam tries to bring his voice as low as possible, because he can’t let anyone else hear him say this, “you let someone make a cast out of your...”
“Dick? Cock? Penis? Sex organ? Phallus?” Dean’s a hop-step away from breaking out into a full-blown jig. “C’mon, Sammy, it’s not a big deal. Well, I mean, heh, it is, but -”
“No, I am not listening to you. You have a dil...no. I’m not saying that either. God Dean, it’s called The Winchester.”
“Vibrator’s called the Fully Loaded Winchester,” a voice interrupts, pleasant and amiable. A champion salesman’s smile is directed towards Sam and Dean, this guy is the kind of person who could sell edible strawberry panties to a person with a severe strawberry allergy. “Thirty dollars off if you buy a cock ring.”
The salesman, a short man (well, to Sam, so he’s probably an inch or so below normal height) who clearly embraces leather as a lifestyle, points towards a counter display of shiny silver rings that looked disturbingly like oversized rings done in the style of...
Dean twists his silver ring around his finger, coughing, “Uh, we’re still looking.”
“We’re not looking,” Sam hisses. But the salesman takes off again, looking to convince a milling customer to buy the Rabbit vibrator.
Dean actually gives the girl a thumbs-up, then an eyebrow waggle and head nod to point her towards the Fully Loaded Winchester. His smile is still ridiculously huge when he turns to Sam, saying, “So how’d you know it was my dick straight off one look? You been peeking?”
“What? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we grew up together and we’ve been sharing a room since we hit the road.” Sam forces himself not to look at the display anymore, muttering darkly under his breath, “And you only bother to get dressed in the bathroom half of the time, so I know what it looks like now.”
“Okay.” Dean’s keeping an eye out for the other customer, quick quirk of his lips, probably a sign that she’d gone and purchased the vibrator named and designed after Dean’s penis, because Sam realizes that look on Dean’s face? Yeah, that’s pride. “You know you love it, Sammy. Don’t worry though, you want one of these babies, I’ll do right by ya.”
“Dean.”
“You know,” the salesperson says, walking back towards them, sure to bring another tidbit of information that Sam never ever needed to know, “this model is extremely popular with women.”
“Is it?” Dean says and dammit, his eyes are sparkling at that.
“Oh yes.” Then, as though imparting an obvious fact, scanning over Dean and Sam (which takes longer as the guy has to crane his neck to take in the both of them), he says, “And men.”
That may be worth the future therapy bills, Dean’s face at that. He’s kind of blushing, red starting at the tips of his ears and working its way down his face and then his neck.
“It’s ideal for a strap-on. I’ve had female customers rave that their boyfriends would have never accepted another kind but the Winchester was just perfect.”
“Is it?” Sam chokes out, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice.
“Good if you’re curious,” the salesman declares.
“Dean’s definitely curious,” Sam enthuses, delight at giving Dean just a smattering of revenge for this bizarre experience.
There’s no need for Dean to tell Sam how very much he is going to kill Sam. Huh, Sam realizes, he never thought his face looked that pissed off the many, many times he’d tossed that murderous look at Dean.
Lucky for Dean that the phone rings and the salesman takes off again or Sam would’ve made it a point to ask another horrifying question, all for Dean.
“Okay, so we’re going,” Dean announces, clearly spooked.
“What? I thought we really needed to ask some questions here.”
“Well, the only questions I think you’re about to ask are all gonna be about riding my jock.” Dean gives the massive display of dildos a final parting look before he declares, “Yeah, Monique’s talented and all...man, that was an awesome weekend, dude, the things she knew how to do, but there ain’t nothing like the real thing. C’mon, we got a son of a bitch to hunt.”
Sam really doesn’t have a problem with leaving this store behind. And maybe, with some hearty sessions of blocking out this experience, he’ll be able to push this down with all the other freaky experiences that have thus far defined the freakass life that is his existence.
*
That doesn’t happen.
Here’s what happens: they do figure out what they need to do to stop the killing and it involves fire, so Dean’s in a great mood afterwards. Sam’s a little annoyed that he still smells like whatever the hell is in that slime, but he’s not going to think about it.
And of course, Dean’s gotta to toss his leather jacket across the bench seat and Sam just rolls his eyes, not bothering to push it over to Dean’s side. Screw it, he’ll sit on Dean’s stupid jacket and Dean can complain that his jacket smells like ass or whatever, because that’ll serve Dean right.
Too late and Sam feels the hard outline pressing right between the crack of his ass and Dean actually freaking convulses with quiet laughter until Sam jumps out of the car. Sam really doesn’t want to know what’s under there, but Dean’s never one to hold back on a surprise, only it’s no surprise. It’s fuchsia, that’s what it is, fuchsia and has an actual black ribbon around it, like it’s a considerate Dean Winchester present - the Winchester dildo.
“Happy Wednesday,” Dean says to Sam. He clarifies, starting up the car, picking up the proffered gift, like it’s the most precious thing in the world as it flops at Sam, saying, “Hump Day. I figured you’ve been dying to get a real feel, but this is as close as you’re gonna get, Sam.”
“You are twisted,” Sam says as he gets back in the car.
Dean waves his dildo in Sam’s face, so Sam has to slap it away, knocking it out of Dean’s hand. It rolls somewhere behind them and Dean says, “Okay, you’re fishing that out.”
“No, we should keep it there as a surprise,” Sam says, sarcasm running deep. “Maybe we should pick up a hitchhiker now and really give them a good traveling story.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Freaky-style.”
“I can’t believe you bought your own dildo.”
“Hey man,” Dean offers, “We can always swing by Monique’s, she’s only, uh, around two hundred miles away, and have her create The Winchester II: The Sammy-ing. Not as popular as mine, but it’ll do the trick in a pinch, right?”
Sam keeps his hands over his face for about thirty miles as they drive off, unable to say anything that won’t wind up getting a perverted twist to it.
*
Revenge is not a Klingon saying or something that Shakespeare created. Revenge can be somewhat embarrassing, but kind of worth it in the end.
It’s not like Sam hasn’t had his own strange brush with pornography, it’s just that he’s never discussed it, with anyone, not even Jess.
Sam’s accidental foray into the world of adult entertainment is finally made known to Dean while he’s picking up lunch. Dean calls him not fifteen minutes after Sam leaves the motel room, while Sam is on the road towards the only place they’d passed before that looks like it had a slim chance of earning a gentleman’s C in health code scores.
“Dude,” Dean breathes over the phone, voice pitched right at a familiar edge of frustration, one that Sam’s visited far too many times than he’d ever admit, “what the hell? You were in a porno?”
The conversation that follows, stammering and dude-filled as it is, does give Sam ample ammunition later to drive Dean into a stonewalled silence when necessary.
When Dean tries to bring up anything about the stupid Winchester, Fully Loaded or otherwise, all Sam has to do is ask Dean’s opinion on Sam’s technique. This leaves Dean (learning his lesson from the first time around when he’d grudgingly admitted to Sam that he’d been kind of impressed), with no other option save silence.
Sam smiles as he commandeers the radio station, a fleeting victory that’ll last until a song that Dean deems as horrible starts up. Just as a song that’s actually been produced in the past year begins, Sam, sensing Dean’s annoyance, decides to do what all younger siblings have done since the beginning of time: push that irritation to the breaking point.
“So Sonia’s tattoo?” Sam gestures to his left thigh, snaking a curving line from knee to groin, saying, “They didn’t film her that well because it undulated when she as much as shivered. I’m serious, man.”
“You’re a sick man, Sam Winchester.” But the pride leaks through the false disgust, Dean’s poker skills failing him completely. Dean swerves around a slow car - a Honda daring to drive at the posted speed limit. Not on Dean Winchester’s time, it’s twenty and over the limit or you may as well be walking on the road.
Smacking Dean’s hand away when he attempts to tune into a classic rock station while Sam’s looking the other way, Sam retorts, ‘Takes one to know one.”
“Sam, you’re busting out that? Weak, dude.” Then, all casual like, Dean pats himself on the chest, where his denim jacket pocket is, and all of a sudden, Sam hears a faint, but distinctive buzzing. “By the way, happy birthday. Look under your seat.”
“It vibrates and it’s not a phone,” Sam says, like this is Twenty Questions or something. It’s not as big as a breadbox, but that won’t deter Dean from making a gross breadbox single entendre. Sam presses the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure of a headache. “First of all, my birthday’s not for a few more months, genius. Secondly, why do you keep on giving me your dick as a present?”
“It’s remote-controlled,” Dean protests, like a new twist on a sex toy is a perfectly reasonable argument for purchasing it. “Limited edition. Monique even signed it.”
“I’m going to start mailing these precious gifts to people we know. People who don’t realize you’re the King of Pervs.”
“Okay, Paris Hilton,” Dean says back, words coming out like quick-fire, “so you’re cool with everyone seeing you going balls-deep into that chick, uh, Mercedes, right?”
“Yeah.” Sam still remembers how he’d drunkenly exclaimed No, that can’t be your name! to her at the mixer, and a couple of hours later, he was in his first threesome. Which, unbeknownst to him, was being filmed as a scene for Casa Erotica IV. Go figure.
“Okay, Dean, so we both have incriminating sexual misdeeds. Maybe we should, I don’t know, call a truce? You stop giving me vibrators and dildos and I stop, hey,” he says, the light dawning, a choir of perverted angels singing Hallelujah, “Are you freaked out that I’m kind of freaky too? Is that what’s gotten you all weirded out?”
“No,” Dean grumbles, which is a pretty evident yes, let the record stand. “I just never knew you had it in you.”
“We are related.” Sam raises his hands in mock-defeat, adding, “But you still hold the title, okay?”
Dean finally concedes, ending the porn battle with a dismissive comment, saying, “Yeah, sure. So long as I do best in porn sales, I’m a-okay.”
end