To the known world, there were about 60 books published to chronicle "The Winchester Gospel" series.
But, there were hundreds more pages never to be seen by another human being's eyes.
Except… well, for the one who prophesied their occurrence.
Chuck routinely visited those pages kept hidden in pass-coded files — and sure, masturbating to hardcore incest was a bit on the iffy side of the moral spectrum — but, c'mon…
We're all going to hell, right?
"The weight of Sam's brooding thoughts intensifies as Dean unpacks their things inside another slummy motel room.
Having to watch Dean die again and again and again in a ceaseless loop of time, and then without him for six months while tracking down the Trickster- they aren't dreams he can forget over time. They really happened. And Sam doesn't know how to deal with those memories."
Dean shoots him a glance over his shoulder as he zips up the weather-beaten duffel and throws off his jacket.
It's one of those 'you've-got-your-grump-on-Sammy' glances that he doesn't care for.
"Never said if it was clowns or midgets," Dean points out, smirking, yanking the edge of his tee over his head. Sam's eyes follow over a path of sun-tanned, muscular chest.
"There's no bullet wound. There's no evidence that Dean had died at all on Wednesday," Chuck narrates on. "The wash of relief is immediate."
He doesn't let on as Dean continues to busy himself, raiding through a crumpled bag of food he managed to scrounge up for dinner. "One midget I already know," Sam announces after a brief pause, smirking back.
One of Dean's eyebrows quivers, irritated. "Douche," he mumbles, wolfing down a half-ripped turkey sandwich. "You'll be sorry later when I whoop your stinkin' ass." He jerks to attention when a fleecy motel pillow smacks him across the back of his head. From the other side of the bedroom, Sam sniggers, tossing off his jeans and slipping under his covers, mumbling a good night before flipping off the lights.
The shitty mattress bounces with Dean's added weight. The wrestling pillow fight escalates with grunts from the pair of them and hits exchanged with satisfied impact, feathers billowing in the shadows.
"Dean is always going to be Sam's weakness. The person to strike that will cripple Sam to his knees and bleed him out until there's nothing else left living for."
Neither of them notices but the woeful nature of Sam's eyes hazes out, as he tugs Dean's head down with both of his hands buried in his hair. They pant into the open-mouth kiss, fumbling for each other.
"It's really scary to think about- so, Sam decides to focus on the moment."
A slow love-making, completely in the darkness, and they're not the type of people to romanticize anything in their lives.
The world is cruel and dangerous, and moments like these are fleeting and sublime. Laid out on the single cot, side-by-side, face-to-face. Dean's fingers callused from years of handling guns and blade hilts — (perhaps more callused than his own fingers) — spread up and over Sam's cheek and temple with no similar harshness to cradle the side of his head. The iron ring on Dean's middle finger makes contact to Sam's burning skin, pressing cooling and reassuring. Dean murmurs his name, again, and again.
An old, habitual sense; a charge of pleasure, naked and tensing himself against Dean's hand smoothing over with warm cum. His hand smooths over the tip of Sam's cock.
He shudders quietly.
Chuck flinches outwardly as his land-line rings shrilly at him, right beside his keyboard. He lifts the phone to his ear, removing his hand from his underwear.
"Mr. Edlund!—? Did I get the right number this time?—! It's me—!"
"Hi Becky," he deadpans. His erection begins to soften. Damn. "Didn't I tell you last time to not call me, that I would call you?"
"I know," she chirps. "But you haven't called in aaaaages and I was wonderiiii~iing when Sam and Dean would—"
"They're very busy right now. Saving the world." (Having very loud reunion sex in Tucson, Arizona after the serious mindfuck of Dean's time travel — should call that book "The End" — okay: mental note.)
Becky blows a faint, disappointed raspberry into her cell phone.
"Gosh darn it."
"Ha-ha, okay," Chuck insists, laughing weakly. "Becky, now's not a real good time…"
"Oh," she breathes, horrified. "Oh! You're writing, aren't you!—? I'm soooo sorry—!"
"It's fine, yeah, talk to you later, bye." He hangs up on her still babbling away apologies, making an exasperated face to himself.
Time to quit with the break and get back to writing, he supposes. The erection would come back eventually. Chuck double clicks an new document open on his computer screen, adjusting his glasses.
Now… where were they… ah, yes: Tucson.
Supernatural Kink Meme prompt:
"Sam/Dean, Chuck/his hand: Chuck didn't publish everything. He kept for himself all the porn. And every night, he jacks off reading The Winchester Gospel uncensored."