The Winchester brothers were hunched over on a table, staring intently at the screen of Sam's laptop. Dean's lips moved slightly, subconsciously mouthing the words he was reading, and Sam's pointer finger slowly rolled the scroll button on his touch-pad.
Suddenly they both leapt backwards, exclaiming loudly. "That's disgusting!" Dean shouted, simultaneously repulsed and impressed.
"I need bleach… for my brain," Sam moaned, pressing his palms into his eyes.
Eventually they recovered, and Dean reached for the pen and paper on the table behind the laptop. There was a line down the center of the paper, and the two halves were titled: "Sam" and "Dean". "I think that counts as a point against you," he told Sam.
Sam grimaced. "I don't think that counts as catching, but I'm gonna give it to you just so we don't have to keep on reading that one."
"It totally counts," Dean rebutted, making a tally mark in the Sam column. "Hell, it should count twice. Most chicks wouldn't let me do that." He surveyed the tally. Out of the 100 stories they'd read, they were dead even. There wasn't a majority on either side, and those were the terms of the bet: 50 bucks on Sam bottoming in a majority of the Wincest fanfiction. He sighed. "Welp, it looks like a draw, Sammy. Thus concludes the gayest thing we've ever done. Now, hows about we pick up some hot women and reassert our masculinity for a few hours?"
Sam ignored him, engrossed by something on the computer. He snorted. "Dean," he said, clearly suppressing laughter, "the fangirls have written some really interesting stories about you." He burst out laughing. "And Castiel."
Dean had a horrible, sneaking suspicion about how "interesting" these stories were. "How do they even know who Cass is?" he demanded. "He's not in the books."
"Chuck must have mentioned him at the convention, when he was answering questions about his upcoming books," Sam deduced. "These fans don't seem to know a whole lot about him, just that he's an angel and…" he snickered. "That you two are pretty close."
"Gimme that," Dean ordered, grabbing the laptop to see for himself. The page was filled with links to stories about him and Castiel, doing everything imaginable in all kinds of places – in the shower, in a motel, in the woods, in the Impala. His face paled, then flushed. "Stop laughing!" he yelled at Sam. "This isn't funny!"
"It so is!" Sam cackled, barely able to stay on his chair. "Dude, you should see your face!"
Dean slammed the laptop shut and thrust it angrily at Sam. "Take your stupid computer," he muttered, sulking.
"Hey, be careful!" Sam rebuked him, looking wounded. "Treat my laptop as you would your Impala." He opened it up gently and set it back on the table.
"The Impala could never give me nightmares," Dean grumbled.
Sam didn't respond. All the blood had left his face, and he was frozen, staring at the screen.
"Earth to Sammy," Dean called playfully. "What are you so interested in?"
"I can't believe they'd…" Sam whispered, barely audible.
"What, somebody write about you and Zachariah gettin' it on?" Dean quipped. He scooted his chair to lean over and peer at the screen.
It wasn't about Sam and Zachariah. It was something far, far worse.
"Those sick fucks!" Dean bellowed, leaping out of his chair. He punched the wall, but it wasn't enough. He grabbed his chair and hurled it across the motel room, the leg snapping and leaving a dent in the wall.
"Dean, stop!" Sam cried. "We'll have to pay for that!"
"I don't care!" he snarled. Suddenly it was hard to see; he realized there were tears in his eyes. "Those bastards are writing that shit for pleasure, Sam. Those perverts are getting off on stories about our dead father -" he could barely choke out the words- "molesting me." His mouth tasted sour just from saying it. The hand he'd hit the wall with started to ache, and he collapsed on the edge of the bed, his rage at the writers turning into frustration at his own impotence. He couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't salt and burn it and make it go away. He couldn't punch it or stab it or exorcise it. Nothing.
Sam sighed a weary, shaky sigh. "They don't understand, Dean. To them, we're not real."
Dean looked up, about to snap something about how well Sam was taking it, and saw the tears glinting in Sam's eyes. No, this was just how Sammy handled things – quiet, rational to a fault. "How can they not understand?" Dean whispered, his voice dangerously close to cracking. "He was our father. He was good man. He doesn't deserve this." He rubbed the back of his head. Dad had traded his life for his, and while Dean had never quite forgiven the son of a bitch for it, he couldn't bear to see his name dragged through the mud by people who thought he was a figment of Chuck's imagination.
The worst part of it was, he'd seen the summaries. The stories weren't even just about John abusing him. They were… consensual. As if that's what Dean wanted, as if that's what his constant need for approval was really about. Yeah, he and Sam and Dad, their family was fucked up, but not like that. Never like that. It made him feel sick to his stomach. These people didn't have the slightest clue what family was about.
"Dean." It was Sam, sitting opposite from him on the other bed. His voice was gentle, pleading. "They don't know us. They didn't know Dad. They're writing about fictional characters violating taboo, because it would never happen in real life. And there's nothing we can do about it." He slumped a little more, dejected. "I guess all we can do is be thankful that Chuck never published our last names. Sam, Dean…" He swallowed hard. "John. They're pretty common names. No one will ever know they're talking about us."
"Yeah, except for anyone who ever knew us," Dean growled. "Anyone who ever knew Dad, knew about his sons."
"Dean." Sam's voice was even, reasonable. "How many hunters do you know that read fantasy fan fiction?"
Dean had to crack a tiny smile at that. Sammy had a point.
"For that matter, how many hunters have you ever seen pick up a book that wasn't for research?" Sam asked, eyebrows raised.
"I don't think Bobby's the bookworm type," Dean admitted.
"Exactly. He thinks that reading for pleasure is 'something that pansy-asses do when they run outta doilies to crochet and trees to hug,'" Sam replied, imitating Bobby's voice.
That got a definite smile out of Dean. Yeah, that'd be Bobby alright. He looked at Sam, who was still staring at him in concern, trying his little guts out to make Dean feel alright. Well, they weren't little guts, per say. Sam hadn't been little in a long time, but he'd always be little to Dean. And here he was, playing the grown-up and trying to take care of his big brother for a change. It was downright heartwarming – a little too heartwarming for Dean's taste. "I guess that makes you a pansy-ass then, huh?" he joked.
"Jerk," Sam said.
"Bitch," Dean replied.
It was stupid, but for some reason, it made everything a little more okay.