Work Header

The Wincester Gospel

Chapter Text

Story Banner

Chuck awoke with a start, half hard and drenched in sweat. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked out the window of his shabby bedroom. It was still daylight. The alarm clock on the nightstand flashed 5:00 PM. He'd only been asleep for three measly hours. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and threw his hands over his eyes. He'd barely been sleeping lately and was exhausted, but after the nightmare he'd just suffered through, again, for the fourth time in so many days, he doubted he'd be getting back to sleep for a good, long while. This was probably the worst dream about Sam and Dean he'd ever had and no matter hard he tried it just was not going away. He groaned and slid out of bed. It was shit like this that made Chuck really hate being a prophet.

He hadn't always minded the dreams. The headaches that accompanied them were terrible, of course, but for years he'd thought that they just opened up his imagination; what other explanation was there for this interesting tale complete with compelling, fully formed characters that just seemed to write itself so effortlessly? And, even though his series about two brothers who hunted monsters never exactly flew off the shelves, it was still a great story if he did say so himself, even if he couldn't write it very well. But after his two main characters had just waltzed into his house a few ago, thinking about all the shit he'd seen them do over the past four and a half years went from being interesting to just creepy and awkward. The sex dreams were usually the weirdest part. It's not that Chuck minded having wet dreams; those weren't so bad. But having to watch two guys who were way better looking than him get to have sex with beautiful women was just unfair. And then there were the times when the sex was just disturbing, or so sad that he just felt sorry for them, like Sam's involvement with Madison and the grief that followed, not to mention the whole disturbing mess with Ruby, or having to experience Dean's long list of drunken hook-ups, some with probably more clarity than Dean had firsthand. But now, well, now this new dream had him yearning for those good old days.

Four days. For four fucking days this dream had been playing itself out in his head, each successive time the details just getting richer and more vivid. Chuck had realized a while back that his having a recurring dream usually meant that whatever he was dreaming about was important and needed to be written down. After all, he was writing the fucking Winchester Gospel. But somehow Chuck couldn't see this being part of the gospel, no matter how modern and… unique it was. Although he had seen the boys do some pretty surprising shit, he just couldn't believe Sam and Dean would ever have sex with each other. No way.

Chuck stumbled downstairs to the living room, grabbed the half empty bottle of whiskey sitting on his computer desk, and flopped down on the couch. He needed to get really, really drunk, not that it would help him forget, of course; the moment he passed out, he had a sneaking suspicion the dream would come back, and in even higher definition than it already was, as unimaginable as that seemed. Regardless of whether this dream was a prophesy or just some sick creation of his own imagination, it was disturbing. Even if the sex was good for them, and in Chuck's dream it certainly was, Sam and Dean were brothers. And straight. Seeing them together like that was more than a little distressing. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a swig of the bitter brown liquid one, two, three times while he considered his options. He couldn't stand one more occurrence of this dream. Writing things down usually made his dreams go away but they also often times made them come true. Although that was only prophesies and he was pretty sure that this wasn't one of them. He took another swig but the images continued to dance through his brain with increasing strength: Dean kneeling on the bed in front of Sam, holding one leg under each arm, driving into him and wondering what it would be like to be in Sam's place, both of them drenched in sweat, calling out each other's names as they both headed quickly towards climax. Chuck took another swig. Maybe when he wrote prophesies, it didn't make anything come true – maybe he was just...reporting on them. Maybe if he wrote this down – this dream, which was totally not a prophesy, but just some errant, persistent idea – it would help clear his mind and make the dream go away, and no one would ever have to know about it. He took one last hit from his bottle, got up off the couch, and carried the bottle over with him towards the computer. Hell, it was worth a shot.

He sat down in front of his computer and cringed at what he was about to write. If either Sam or Dean knew about this, he was a dead man. But it didn't matter because he was going to write the draft, get some sleep, and delete it in the morning and neither of them would ever know. And hopefully he would forget too.

In his dream, the boys had just come back from a hunt, excited and still pumping with adrenaline. Instead of heading out to a bar as usual, Dean broke out a bottle of Jack Daniels in the room and Sam, as he did on rare occasion, shared the bottle with him. Then Dean moved on to some tequila and after that the two shared a six pack. By then both of them were very, very drunk. More drunk than Chuck had ever been. This actually made sense as these conditions were the only ones where Chuck could even remotely see this…situation actually unfolding.

He wrote out the dream exactly as he had seen it for the past four nights without re-reading or editing. Sam would probably be a little sore the morning after. Yep, if either of them ever found out about this, he was a dead man. Dean's thoughts especially flowed to him in this piece and he found himself unconsciously writing phrases such as, "nothing would compare to the taste of Sam's skin." and "Dean would have preferred to be the bottom." Dean would have Chuck's head blown off with a sawed-off shotgun if he read that. It was a good thing he was never going to.

The words stopped flowing after "they woke in the morning, both sick with hangovers, the events of the night before blacked out from their alcohol soaked brains, and Sam wondered why he was naked in bed with his brother as he rolled over to grab the ringing cell phone on the nightstand." Chuck didn't read over what he had just written; that would be beyond a degree of weird. He saved the document as DO NOT READ and stored it away in a complicated series of folders. For now it would be best to have this story hidden as deeply as possible. He would decide once and for all what to do with it in the morning. For now though, it was midnight and in the seven hours he was writing he had managed to get himself drunk enough that he didn't trust himself to go up the stairs. He stumbled over to the couch and passed out.

When Chuck awoke, the sun was streaming through the tattered curtains and into his eyes. He groaned and tried to roll away from it. He hadn't had any more dreams and, for one blissful moment, couldn't remember why he was sleeping on the couch instead of his bed. But then, the memories trickled back too easily; he hadn't gotten drunk enough. Giving up on sleep, he stumbled toward the kitchen and went about setting up the coffee machine. Once it was brewing, his eyes flickered from the coffee pot to his cell phone on the counter. It probably wouldn't hurt to give Sam a call. Not that he thought anything was going on, of course. He was just wanted to…check in. Right before he deleted that word document. He probably should have done that last night. At least he had finally had a solid night's sleep for the first time in days. Sighing softly, Chuck picked up the phone, dialed Sam's number, and silently counted the rings.

Sam rolled towards the sound of the phone without opening his eyes, which he soon learned was a bad idea because his stomach did a massive flop and he sensed impending intestinal doom of epic proportion. Shaking his head and cracking one eye open, he heard the obnoxious ring tone again and wondered who the hell was plastered up against his side. Naked. Dean. Oh. Groaning, Sam flailed his hand about and grabbed his phone. His lifted it to his ear, "Hello?" heard nothing, looked down at the phone and squinted at it to push the connect button. "'Lo?"

Chuck swallowed and turned to his coffee pot and mug. Sam sounded like shit. Maybe he was sick. Probably sick. "Uh, hey. Hey Sam. It's me. Chuck. How's it going?" If Chuck sounded a little overly casual it was because it was still early and he hadn't had coffee. It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd just written about Sam having sex with his brother or anything. Cause Chuck basically didn't do that. Maybe he'd dreamed that too.

"Chuck?" Sam's throat felt sore and he scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to wake himself up. "Ugh, what – what time is it?" Sam squinted and tried to pick up his head to look at the alarm clock beside the bed but his head spun when he moved and he had to shut his eyes. "Oh God… my head..." He flopped back down on the pillow.

"Your... head? Ow shit," Chuck jerked as scalding hot coffee poured over the rim of his mug and splashed down off the counter and onto his foot. "Jesus Christ sorry, coffee... incident. Uh, it's – it's pretty early. Sorry. I just... Sam? Your head? Why does your head hurt?" Chuck's stomach clenched as he set the coffee pot too hard down into the sink.

Beside Sam, Dean rolled over slightly and slapped an arm across Sam's chest. "Fuck off," he growled.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam looked over at his brother for a second, then quickly looked away at the ceiling. The blankets barely came up to Dean's waist, showing off a lot more of his brother than Sam ever thought he'd see while in bed with him. Oh God, what even happened? "Um Chuck, now's not a real good time." Sam tried to sit up, but his vision blurred, the room spun, and he suddenly tasted bile in his throat. "Oh god, bad idea." He moved his hand up to his pounding forehead and then he fell over sideways, dropping the phone and landing face first into Dean's stomach.

Dean awoke to feeling something hard collide with his stomach, followed by something soft tickling him. He tried to sit up but the agony in his head and stomach rioted against him, so instead he closed his eyes and reached his hand down to his stomach to feel whatever it was on him. He felt hair from what felt like the back of someone's head and wondered if he had picked up a chick last night. He couldn't readily recall the events of last night and the roaring pain in his head stopped him from trying very hard. But the girls he picked up didn't ever sleep over; it made Sam so uncomfortable that he refused to be in the motel with one of Dean's hook-ups. So if some chick was laying on his stomach this morning…

"Sam?" He quickly regretted shouting as he felt a loud ringing in his head.

Sam tried to respond but he was still getting a face full of his brother's stomach and all he managed was a muffled, "Dn."

"What the?" Dean's eyes shot open in confusion and alarm. Despite the ringing in his head and the gymnastics of his stomach, he quickly rolled Sam off of him and then cocked his head to get a look at him. When his eyes focused enough, he realized he was looking at his brother's bare hip. He quickly pushed up the blankets to cover them both. He wished he could have done more, but at that moment anything that didn't involve laying still, puking, or dying was definitely off the agenda.

"What the – how – Sam, why are you naked and in my bed?"

"My bed, Dean. We're in my bed." Sam winced and managed to slowly roll off of Dean and onto his back. He scrubbed his face with his hands for a second and then nearly went back to sleep until he remembered the phone. "Oh shit, Chuck! Dean, help me find the phone!"

Dean groaned in pain. "No Sammy, can't move. Tell him to call back later; when I have the strength I'm crawling into the bathroom to die."

Sam gave Dean a hard shove on the shoulder; too hard, in fact because instead of rolling him over a tad to encourage him to help look for the phone, Dean rolled off the bed, taking half the covers with him.

"Oh dude, sorry, I didn't mean to push you that hard." Sam was met with an answering groan that told him Dean was pissed off and in pain but didn't need any immediate attention. With the bed all to himself, he felt around for the phone. "Oh God, why does my head hurt?" He shifted his body to the left to more effectively reach out for the phone when he felt another pain, this time in a place he had least suspected. "Ow! Why does my ass hurt? Dean, what the Hell? What did you do to me?"

Dean lay on the floor, groaning loudly. "Didn't do anything," he mumbled into the carpet, "but now I'm gonna fucking kill you… just as soon as my head stops spinning."

Chuck swallowed hard. Dean sounded way too close to the phone and although he hadn't heard all of their discussion, he had caught some important words, like "naked," "bed" and something unpleasant about Sam's ass. Chuck was a dead man. Past dead. He shuddered to think especially of what Dean would want to do to him. Dean was already a little homophobic but now with his brother of all people…

Sam finally found the phone and brought it back up to his ear. "Chuck?"

"Um, yeah, S-Sam, I'm h-here," he stammered. "Um, hey, could you guys come to my house? I, ah, I think I need you guys, um, over here, I mean, right away…i-if you can."

Sam squinted, confused. "Right now?"

"Well, um, no…no, not right now, obviously s-since, since, you're…" he swallowed hard and shifted his weight a little from one foot to the other, "not feeling well. But yeah, as soon as you can I think you should come over."

Sam searched his mind for whatever would be so important that it would make Chuck so insistent and so obviously scared. "Is this about a prophesy?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, you could say that." Chuck had no idea why he was inviting his future murderers over to his house so he could explain exactly why they should murder him. "It's kind of important."

"Yeah," Sam answered, his voice thickly laden with sarcasm and frustration, "I got that." His stomach did a flip-flop and he knew he wasn't going to last much longer. "Ohgodgottagobye." He quickly punched the "End Call" button and then launched himself out of bed faster than he thought he could, only to trip over Dean on his way to the bathroom. Sam fell to the ground, his legs spread over his brother's back, his head mere feet from the bathroom.

"Jesus Sam, you want to die, is that it?"

Sam made no reply as he pulled himself off the floor and made a beeline for the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before a geyser of fluid shot out of his mouth. It tasted like straight liquor and bile and his throat burned as he continued to expel it from his body. He put his arm on the front of the toilet seat and then rested his head there. Well, that explained why his head hurt so much; he was hung-over. The most disturbing part of this was though that he had had so much that he didn't even remember drinking in the first place.

Despite having been tossed off the bed and kicked on Sam's way to the bathroom, Dean couldn't help but feel a little sorry for his brother. But right now he had much larger concerns: he had to vomit and there was no way he was going to make it to the bathroom. Thankfully, there was a trashcan nearby and he grabbed it just in time. He tasted copious amounts of what could only be straight tequila and felt relieved. He had been beginning to wonder if the two of them had been poisoned, but it turned out they had only been drinking. A lot. Probably even more than Dean ever had before; even completely wasted, he always remembered at least part of the evening. But last night, all he could remember was a big, fat ball of nothing. Although he had some distressing questions to answer, like why he had awoken in bed naked next to his brother, once again, right now he had larger concerns and couldn't trouble himself with it too much. Dean stumbled to his feet and made his way slowly to the nightstand where he grabbed two pairs of boxers. He put one pair on himself and then carried the larger pair, along with the full trashcan, to the bathroom. He threw the boxers across Sam's back.

"Here, Sasquatch; put these on."

He needed to empty the trashcan without disturbing his little brother. The bathroom was small and Dean had to carefully step over Sam's calves to get around him. The puke got poured out into the shower and then washed down with some water from the faucet. It was disgusting, but the shower had probably seen a hell of a lot worse. Sam let out a faint moan and Dean turned around to get a look at his little brother. He was sweating profusely and the ends of his long bangs were wet with liquor vomit, as were his lips and chin.

Dean walked over to the sink and filled up a small plastic cup with some water, then sidled over to Sam and handed it out to him. "Here, drink."

A memory flashed through Sam's head from last night of the two of them doing shots of whiskey from the same type of cups. Just the thought of drinking made Sam groan and puke just a little more. "No, no more."

"Come on, Sam! You need water. Just drink this; it'll help."

Reluctantly Sam took the cup and began slowly sipping the water. That was when Dean noticed the oddly shaped oval bruise on Sam's collarbone. He didn't remember him having that bruise yesterday morning when Sam had changed shirts in front of him. Not that he stared at his brother's body, of course. He didn't, not most of the time, so it could have been there before and he just hadn't noticed it. It looked like a hickey though and as far as he knew, Sam hadn't been laid in months, maybe even close to a year. But Sam had kept secrets from him before, so maybe he had and just wasn't talking about it. A quick glance down the rest of his body yielded no other bruises, no tell-tale marks as to what kind of trouble they might have gotten themselves into last night.

Even practically living on top of each other for most of their lives, once he and Sam had hit their teenage years, they had developed a kind of unspoken agreement about being careful to always wear at least some kind of clothing around each other, even if it was just a towel. They had still seen each other naked a dozen times or so over the years, but Dean, at least, tried to avoid it for a few reasons, not the least of which was that seeing Sam naked sometimes gave him odd, errant thoughts that made him feel a little nauseous, like the ones he was having right that moment: wow, even leaning over a toilet, Sammy's looking good recently. I knew his arms were getting bigger, but that v cut of muscle at his hips is more defined than before. Looks pretty sexy. And – damn, Sam sure had grown a lot since he was a kid in, uh, every place imaginable. The ladies must like that. Guys too, if he's even a little into that sort of thing. Bet they'd probably like his ass, too, with those nice, perky, little, muscular curves – Sam's definitely been working out those gluts. Dean quickly looked away from his brother, suddenly feeling supremely uncomfortable. He really wished Sam would just put on his boxers already. Dean clenched his jaw as that all too familiar nausea added to the already insufferable feeling of his hangover and he quickly made his way out of the bathroom, hurrying so much that he nearly tripped over Sam in the process.

"Going to bed," he growled.


Dean turned around to see Sam looking up at him pitifully. "Dean, help me up."

Sam held out his arms in front on him. Dean snatched the boxers off of Sam's back then grabbed him by the elbows and helped haul him up. Sam winced as he stood.

"You okay? You gonna be sick again?"

Sam looked embarrassed. "No, it's…it's just my ass. It really hurts. Dean, why does my ass hurt? What the hell happened last night?"

Dean let go of Sam's arms and held out his boxers, being sure to look over at the wall as he spoke. "Not sure, Sammy, but one problem at a time. Just put some clothes on." His brother put on the item of clothing while Dean made his way to the bed, flopped down and then opened up the nightstand once more to take out a white cotton shirt, which he threw on immediately. He lay down and brought the blankets up to his chin. "Get some sleep, Sam. We gotta sleep off these hangovers if we're gonna be any use later on."