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kelly_girl
Title: Bride of the Antichrist
Pairing: Sam/Dean, pre-slash
Rating: R
Genre: Pure crack, baby
Spoilers: Maybe one for the first ep of S3
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being earned
A/N: No idea why the crack bunnies visited me. Evil bunnies.
Summary: Even the potential king of hell has to settle down one day.
It all started when Dean opened his car door and found a Bridal magazine propped up on his seat. He glanced at the cover for a moment, frowning in confusion before he chucked it out the window. Sam got in a few minutes later.
The next night, Dean was half-asleep when an infomercial about having the perfect wedding came on. He changed the channel a few times and went back to sleep without noticing the same infomercial was on every the channel.
A week went by and even Dean couldn’t ignore all the hints about dresses, and shoes, and reserving your church right now. After two more magazines mysteriously showed up in his duffel bag, one thick with articles about stuff like, ‘Getting him to make an honest woman out of you,’ and ‘The Perfect Honeymoon,’ Dean threw one of the magazines at Sam. “Dude, this is not funny. I mean, is it even a prank? Stop it.”
Sam frowned and picked up the magazine. He leafed through it before setting it on the table between their rickety beds. “I’m not doing this, Dean.”
Dean frowned and waved his hand at Sam. “Whatever.” Baywatch was on and he settled down to watch an hour of breasts jiggling in slow motion.
The next morning the only song the car radio would play clearly was, ‘Going to the Chapel.’ On the third rendition of “Gonna get married,” Dean sighed and turned it off.
Sam was trying not to laugh, but little snorts kept escaping. Dean glared at him while his brother sounded like he was imitating a pig. “It’s not me, Dean. I swear.” He scratched his head and looked uncomfortable. “But I think I know who it is.”
Dean poked his shoulder. “Who?”
Sam mumbled something about his flowers. Dean poked him harder and ignored the glare that got him. “What?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “My followers! Okay? This is their way of being subtle.”
“Your followers? What the hell are you talking about?” Dean started the car and slipped in some Zeppelin.
Sam narrowed his eyes and pouted. “Your deal that came due two months ago? You remember right? I accept that I may possibly be the Antichrist and you don’t go to hell. Any of this ringing a bell?”
Dean glanced at him before turning into the parking lot of the local diner. “Honestly, Sam? After she said I wasn’t going to hell, everything else sounded like the adults do on all the Charlie Brown cartoons; mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa.”
Sam frowned and followed Dean into the restaurant. “I thought you were just being you and didn’t want to discuss it. Maybe they blocked you or something.”
Dean plopped down into a booth that had definitely seen better days. “What’s all this got to do with what’s going on now?”
Sam glanced at a menu to avoid looking at his brother. “My followers…” He ignored Dean’s chuckle. “They want me to get married.”
Dean frowned. “But, that would mean they want you to marry me.” Dean laughed and pulled off his jacket. “That is twisted, man. And why am I the chick?”
Sam kicked Dean’s leg under the table. “Cause you’re pretty and you’d look like a princess in a white wedding dress.”
The waitress was making her way over, gum snapping, pen and pad ready. Dean smiled at her and ordered a bacon double cheeseburger and fries. Sam ordered a turkey sub and soup.
After she left, Dean turned to him. “Okay, first of all? I do not wear dresses and second of all, White? That’s for virgins and I am far from that.”
He gestured at himself then back at Sam. “And we’re guys. That isn’t legal except in a few states and hello? Your ‘followers’ know we’re related?” Dean perked up. “Wait! Are your followers like that woman who hung herself for little Damien in ‘The Omen?”
Sam sighed. “Kind of, but I told them not to do that.”
Dean frowned, then made a face like he was working something out. “So you’re the Antichrist, but you discourage suicide?”
Sam threw a sugar packet at him. “Shut up. And to answer your questions, yes, they know we’re men and that we’re related. They like those twists. Says it adds flavor and belief about the acceptance of my destiny.” He smirked at Dean. “You know, if we did get married, people would have to give us gifts.”
The waitress brought their drinks and eyed them carefully. Sam blushed and as she walked away, Dean snorted. “Some Antichrist; can’t even talk gay marriage in front of a little old waitress.” He swallowed a bite of burger. “Still not gonna do it.”
Sam then demonstrated why he’d one day make the perfect King of Hell. “There’d be food at the reception.”
Dean perked up, but tried to act casual. “Really? What kind?”
Sam smiled. “Anything you want. Those little Philly steak sandwiches you like? We can have them and some steak quesadillas, maybe some shrimp toast. How about some of those fancy French fries like we saw on that food show?”
Dean put down his soggy fries and almost whimpered. “With the different dipping sauces?”
Sam nodded and sprung the trap closed. “I was thinking about a chocolate wedding cake, three tiers high, and four different kinds of pie.”
Dean silently finished his burger, and chugged some soda. He wiped his mouth, and declared, “I’m not wearing a dress. No flowers and no veil, either.” Sam stared at him for a long moment and Dean shrugged. “I saw that Julia Roberts movie.”
Sam spread his hands. “You can wear a white suit.” Off of Dean’s look, Sam amended, “Beige, so everyone knows you’re not a trembling virgin.”
Dean finished his drink. “What are you going to wear?”
Sam sipped his coffee. “Black suit.”
Dean nodded. “Cause you’re evil.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “No, because one of my followers insisted on classic Armani.”
Dean pulled out a credit card and whistled. “Nice. Can mine be Armani, too?”
Sam smiled, his teeth white and a little scary. “That can be arranged.”
They paid at the register and made their way back to the car. Dean got in and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “No carrying me over any thresholds either.”
Sam nodded. “Okay.”
They were almost back to their hotel room when Dean brightened. “Hey, you have to buy me a ring, right?”
Sam glanced at him, his face clearly saying ‘what the hell?’ Then he shrugged. “They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
Dean clapped a hand over his heart. “Oh, Damien, your harsh words flay me.” He frowned. “Can you really flay someone? Like if we’re behind some ass that won’t get out of my baby’s way, can you flay them? Cause that’s kind of cool.”
Sam crossed his arms. “I’m not flaying someone just because they don’t go twenty miles over the speed limit!”
Dean scowled. “I want a platinum ring, bitch.”
Sam opened his mouth to explain that just because he was the Antichrist didn’t mean he was made of money. He studied the look on Dean’s face and closed his mouth. “Really?”
Dean mumbled something and got out of the car. Sam followed and didn’t ask again.
Later that night, after more discussion about the food-- yes Dean we can have a chocolate fountain-- Sam was almost asleep when Dean sat on his bed and smacked him on the top of his head. He blinked at his older brother and wondered if he could get away with making Dean sleep in the car. “What?”
Dean folded his arms over his chest. “What about the wedding night?”
Sam snickered. “What about it?”
Dean’s eyes widened and he said, “I’m not sleeping with you! That’s weird and I bet you still kick. I remember this one night, you were seven; man you hit me dead on in the balls. I had to crawl to the kitchen for an ice pack, while you slept on all peaceful. I should have known then you were going to be evil.”
Sam set up and scratched his chest. He ignored Dean’s little trip down memory lane. “You know, we’ll have to do more than sleep. Sex at some point would be involved.”
Dean laughed. “I thought once you got married, sex disappeared.”
Sam tried to read the look on his brother’s face, but all he was getting was irritated Dean. “So you’re okay with us having sex?”
Dean gave him a ‘how can someone I share genes with be so dumb’ look. “Um, no, no, I’m not. We’ll just fake it or something.”
“What?”
Dean yawned. “What, what?”
Sam pushed him off the bed. “What are you talking about? Fake what? And why?”
Dean jumped back onto his own bed. “Your followers need to believe you’re all twisted and potentially evil.” He spread his arms wide. “Trust me, if you were evil, you’d definitely want this.”
Sam choked back a laugh. “Dude, you are not my type.”
Dean slid into his own bed before he flung his pillow at Sam’s head. “I’m everybody’s type. I’m hot and you know it.”
Sam shook his head and scooted back down onto his bed, taking Dean’s pillow and putting it behind his own head. “Go to sleep, Dean.”
The room was quiet and Sam was once again almost asleep when Dean said, “Fried snicker bars! And some taquitos. Hey! You and your followers aren’t planning on eating me after the wedding, right?”
Sam mumbled and rubbed his face against his pillow. “We will if you don’t shut up.”
The last thing Sam heard was, “You’re a grumpy ass Antichrist. See if I let you have the first dance.”
End
Pairing: Sam/Dean, pre-slash
Rating: R
Genre: Pure crack, baby
Spoilers: Maybe one for the first ep of S3
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money being earned
A/N: No idea why the crack bunnies visited me. Evil bunnies.
Summary: Even the potential king of hell has to settle down one day.
It all started when Dean opened his car door and found a Bridal magazine propped up on his seat. He glanced at the cover for a moment, frowning in confusion before he chucked it out the window. Sam got in a few minutes later.
The next night, Dean was half-asleep when an infomercial about having the perfect wedding came on. He changed the channel a few times and went back to sleep without noticing the same infomercial was on every the channel.
A week went by and even Dean couldn’t ignore all the hints about dresses, and shoes, and reserving your church right now. After two more magazines mysteriously showed up in his duffel bag, one thick with articles about stuff like, ‘Getting him to make an honest woman out of you,’ and ‘The Perfect Honeymoon,’ Dean threw one of the magazines at Sam. “Dude, this is not funny. I mean, is it even a prank? Stop it.”
Sam frowned and picked up the magazine. He leafed through it before setting it on the table between their rickety beds. “I’m not doing this, Dean.”
Dean frowned and waved his hand at Sam. “Whatever.” Baywatch was on and he settled down to watch an hour of breasts jiggling in slow motion.
The next morning the only song the car radio would play clearly was, ‘Going to the Chapel.’ On the third rendition of “Gonna get married,” Dean sighed and turned it off.
Sam was trying not to laugh, but little snorts kept escaping. Dean glared at him while his brother sounded like he was imitating a pig. “It’s not me, Dean. I swear.” He scratched his head and looked uncomfortable. “But I think I know who it is.”
Dean poked his shoulder. “Who?”
Sam mumbled something about his flowers. Dean poked him harder and ignored the glare that got him. “What?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “My followers! Okay? This is their way of being subtle.”
“Your followers? What the hell are you talking about?” Dean started the car and slipped in some Zeppelin.
Sam narrowed his eyes and pouted. “Your deal that came due two months ago? You remember right? I accept that I may possibly be the Antichrist and you don’t go to hell. Any of this ringing a bell?”
Dean glanced at him before turning into the parking lot of the local diner. “Honestly, Sam? After she said I wasn’t going to hell, everything else sounded like the adults do on all the Charlie Brown cartoons; mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa.”
Sam frowned and followed Dean into the restaurant. “I thought you were just being you and didn’t want to discuss it. Maybe they blocked you or something.”
Dean plopped down into a booth that had definitely seen better days. “What’s all this got to do with what’s going on now?”
Sam glanced at a menu to avoid looking at his brother. “My followers…” He ignored Dean’s chuckle. “They want me to get married.”
Dean frowned. “But, that would mean they want you to marry me.” Dean laughed and pulled off his jacket. “That is twisted, man. And why am I the chick?”
Sam kicked Dean’s leg under the table. “Cause you’re pretty and you’d look like a princess in a white wedding dress.”
The waitress was making her way over, gum snapping, pen and pad ready. Dean smiled at her and ordered a bacon double cheeseburger and fries. Sam ordered a turkey sub and soup.
After she left, Dean turned to him. “Okay, first of all? I do not wear dresses and second of all, White? That’s for virgins and I am far from that.”
He gestured at himself then back at Sam. “And we’re guys. That isn’t legal except in a few states and hello? Your ‘followers’ know we’re related?” Dean perked up. “Wait! Are your followers like that woman who hung herself for little Damien in ‘The Omen?”
Sam sighed. “Kind of, but I told them not to do that.”
Dean frowned, then made a face like he was working something out. “So you’re the Antichrist, but you discourage suicide?”
Sam threw a sugar packet at him. “Shut up. And to answer your questions, yes, they know we’re men and that we’re related. They like those twists. Says it adds flavor and belief about the acceptance of my destiny.” He smirked at Dean. “You know, if we did get married, people would have to give us gifts.”
The waitress brought their drinks and eyed them carefully. Sam blushed and as she walked away, Dean snorted. “Some Antichrist; can’t even talk gay marriage in front of a little old waitress.” He swallowed a bite of burger. “Still not gonna do it.”
Sam then demonstrated why he’d one day make the perfect King of Hell. “There’d be food at the reception.”
Dean perked up, but tried to act casual. “Really? What kind?”
Sam smiled. “Anything you want. Those little Philly steak sandwiches you like? We can have them and some steak quesadillas, maybe some shrimp toast. How about some of those fancy French fries like we saw on that food show?”
Dean put down his soggy fries and almost whimpered. “With the different dipping sauces?”
Sam nodded and sprung the trap closed. “I was thinking about a chocolate wedding cake, three tiers high, and four different kinds of pie.”
Dean silently finished his burger, and chugged some soda. He wiped his mouth, and declared, “I’m not wearing a dress. No flowers and no veil, either.” Sam stared at him for a long moment and Dean shrugged. “I saw that Julia Roberts movie.”
Sam spread his hands. “You can wear a white suit.” Off of Dean’s look, Sam amended, “Beige, so everyone knows you’re not a trembling virgin.”
Dean finished his drink. “What are you going to wear?”
Sam sipped his coffee. “Black suit.”
Dean nodded. “Cause you’re evil.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “No, because one of my followers insisted on classic Armani.”
Dean pulled out a credit card and whistled. “Nice. Can mine be Armani, too?”
Sam smiled, his teeth white and a little scary. “That can be arranged.”
They paid at the register and made their way back to the car. Dean got in and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “No carrying me over any thresholds either.”
Sam nodded. “Okay.”
They were almost back to their hotel room when Dean brightened. “Hey, you have to buy me a ring, right?”
Sam glanced at him, his face clearly saying ‘what the hell?’ Then he shrugged. “They say diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”
Dean clapped a hand over his heart. “Oh, Damien, your harsh words flay me.” He frowned. “Can you really flay someone? Like if we’re behind some ass that won’t get out of my baby’s way, can you flay them? Cause that’s kind of cool.”
Sam crossed his arms. “I’m not flaying someone just because they don’t go twenty miles over the speed limit!”
Dean scowled. “I want a platinum ring, bitch.”
Sam opened his mouth to explain that just because he was the Antichrist didn’t mean he was made of money. He studied the look on Dean’s face and closed his mouth. “Really?”
Dean mumbled something and got out of the car. Sam followed and didn’t ask again.
Later that night, after more discussion about the food-- yes Dean we can have a chocolate fountain-- Sam was almost asleep when Dean sat on his bed and smacked him on the top of his head. He blinked at his older brother and wondered if he could get away with making Dean sleep in the car. “What?”
Dean folded his arms over his chest. “What about the wedding night?”
Sam snickered. “What about it?”
Dean’s eyes widened and he said, “I’m not sleeping with you! That’s weird and I bet you still kick. I remember this one night, you were seven; man you hit me dead on in the balls. I had to crawl to the kitchen for an ice pack, while you slept on all peaceful. I should have known then you were going to be evil.”
Sam set up and scratched his chest. He ignored Dean’s little trip down memory lane. “You know, we’ll have to do more than sleep. Sex at some point would be involved.”
Dean laughed. “I thought once you got married, sex disappeared.”
Sam tried to read the look on his brother’s face, but all he was getting was irritated Dean. “So you’re okay with us having sex?”
Dean gave him a ‘how can someone I share genes with be so dumb’ look. “Um, no, no, I’m not. We’ll just fake it or something.”
“What?”
Dean yawned. “What, what?”
Sam pushed him off the bed. “What are you talking about? Fake what? And why?”
Dean jumped back onto his own bed. “Your followers need to believe you’re all twisted and potentially evil.” He spread his arms wide. “Trust me, if you were evil, you’d definitely want this.”
Sam choked back a laugh. “Dude, you are not my type.”
Dean slid into his own bed before he flung his pillow at Sam’s head. “I’m everybody’s type. I’m hot and you know it.”
Sam shook his head and scooted back down onto his bed, taking Dean’s pillow and putting it behind his own head. “Go to sleep, Dean.”
The room was quiet and Sam was once again almost asleep when Dean said, “Fried snicker bars! And some taquitos. Hey! You and your followers aren’t planning on eating me after the wedding, right?”
Sam mumbled and rubbed his face against his pillow. “We will if you don’t shut up.”
The last thing Sam heard was, “You’re a grumpy ass Antichrist. See if I let you have the first dance.”
End
