Only The Angel Can Touch Me There
Written by Samantha Simard, © 2010
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All hail Eric Kripke. I also don't own the Austin Motel, or their genital-resembling sign. Colonoscopies aren't mine, either.
Warnings: Language, too many innuendos to name, and a smidge of homoerotic goodness for kicks.
Timeline: Any time after "Lazarus Rising", if it's that important to you.
Summary: Another crack!fic. "Home free. Well, almost. At least he didn't have a camera shoved up his ass." Some Dean/Cas, to appease my inner fangirl.
[Author's note: Yeah, it's me again, back with another crack!fic of epic proportions. This one includes Cas, though, so it's automatically better by leaps and bounds. I hope. xD Um, I got Dean's irrational fear of colonoscopies from my dad, and tweaked the actual purpose of one just slightly, to fit my needs. Hopefully this isn't a total letdown in the comedy department - enjoy, and leave me a review! I take all opinions in stride.]
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This doctor was nuts. Had to be. Guy was a first-rate whackjob, no question.
Still, Dean went slack-jawed. "You want to do what?"
The doc repeated himself calmly, as if he was perfectly sane and that was a completely normal thing to want to do to someone.
When the doc turned around to reach for an informative pamphlet (with a seemingly appropriate 40-Year-Old-Virgin stick-up-your-ass type smiling on the cover), Dean bolted.
He grabbed his heap of clothes, shoved them under one arm, and got out of there like his ass was on fire—and yes, the irony of that expression slapped him like a dead fish.
Running out of the clinic in nothing more than his boxers and one of those goddamn itchy hospital gowns, Dean fumbled for the keys to the Impala, while tripping on the curb and nearly smashing his beautiful face into a bicycle rack.
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye—shit, the doc and that busty redheaded nurse were coming after him—he finally unlocked his baby, practically threw himself behind the wheel, and gunned it out of the parking lot.
Home free. Well, almost. At least he didn't have a camera shoved up his ass.
Scratch the doc being nuts or a first-rate whackjob: try, batshit fucking insane, if he ever thought that was gonna happen.
Dean actually found himself feeling relieved at the sight of the Austin Motel sign, even with its dick-and-balls shape. The Impala rumbled to a stop and he plowed out of the car, banging on the door to the room, too impatient to dig in his jeans for the key. "Sam, it's me—open the damn door!"
Dean was just about ready to flip the bird to the old dude in his ratty bathrobe, drooling over him through a window—what, did everybody want to get in his pants?—when the door swung inward.
"S'about time," he grunted, pushing past his (confused) big-little brother and into the blue-and-green schemed bedroom. "I was freezing my ass off out there, man! Winter in Texas ain't as warm as everybody thinks—could you have been any slower, sloth boy?"
Sam blinked once, shaking his head a bit, before gesturing towards the towel wrapped around his waist with one bear-paw hand. "I was in the shower," he stated, eyebrows lifting, mouth twitching as he tried to stifle a smile. "Now, what's your excuse for being naked?"
Dean snorted. "Please. If I was actually naked, Mr. Rogers across the lot probably would've had a heart attack." He pulled off the nearly transparent gown with a look of disgust, adding, "Although it's not like these do much good at preserving a man's modesty."
"Since when do you have modesty?" Despite his words, Sam looked a bit concerned, tracking his brother's movements with knowing eyes, even as he plopped down on the edge of his bed. "You all right, Dean? 'Cause no offense, but you kinda look like the one who had the heart attack."
Seeing Dean's eyes flash and feeling himself flinch, Sam continued hurriedly, "Sorry—forgot you'd been there and done that."
He stared at the dark-blonde head in front of him for a moment longer, before sitting down, practically bent double to try and catch Dean's eye. "Seriously, though, what happened at the doctor's?"
The eldest Winchester sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face momentarily before glancing at Sam warily. "You want the truth? 'Cause it's not pretty."
Sam nodded, brow furrowing slightly. He'd practically had to sit on Dean to get him to go see a doctor about his—uh, well, "bowel problem" sounds a lot better than "explosive diarrhea for a week straight"—but when he'd offered to go with him, Dean didn't want to hear it, being the ever falsely-independent hothead he was.
Damn, and you'd think a forty-year long vacation to Hell would humble a guy.
(Then again, you'd also think that the aforementioned explosive diarrhea would give a guy second thoughts about eating two-thirds of Taco Bell's entire menu, but that was a whole different barrel of salty pickles.)
Dean sighed again, absently reaching over to shake his gun out of the leg of his jeans, where it had gotten stuck in his hasty exit. "Doc checked me out, says I need to have a… procedure done. Says it's normal, but I'm…"
He took in a breath, blocking the doctor's unnervingly cool words from bouncing around in his brain. "I'm not sure if I can go through with it, man."
Sam's internal Worry-O-Meter ratcheted up a couple notches, as he couldn't imagine what non-supernatural thing could've caused his oh-so-suave and collected brother to run out of a building in nothing more than his underwear—well, short of free greasy food or a bakery truck accident.
Or me, he added wryly, before nudging Dean with his elbow. "Come on, Dean, what is it? It can't be that bad."
Dean gave a shudder, looking at him sidelong again. "Don't bet the rent on that." He took in another breath, and finally uttered the dreaded word, which had been haunting him since he'd heard it twenty minutes ago.
"It's a colonoscopy."
Sam went completely still for a moment—kind of like an "ode to Sasquatch" statue or something, Dean thought fondly—before lurching forward a bit, shoulders shaking… with laughter? That little shit!
Sam was still doubled over five minutes later, arms wrapped around his own middle, when he managed to gasp out, "Are… you… serious?"
He caught a glimpse of Dean's curt nod through his bangs, and only laughed harder, tears now streaming down his cheeks. "Oh, Jesus, dude, that is rich! Seriously—I should send you to the doctor more often."
Sam saw the barely-there redness of Dean's ears and cheeks, though, and realized that his brother was actually embarrassed, even though he wasn't making eye contact with him. And… wow, was his bottom lip stuck out a little?
Dean was embarrassed and pouting. Oh, great.
Expression softening a bit (and laughter down to a dull roar), Sam managed to sit up and shoot Dean a reassuring smile. "It's not that big of a deal, bro… the doctor was right, a colonoscopy's a totally normal thing. You're not even really conscious for it."
He snorted. "Besides, if it keeps me from having to plan your bathroom breaks, it's like a friggin' Godsend."
Dean jumped up from the bed like he'd been shot in the ass (there's that irony again), pointing a finger in Sam's face and asserting, "There is nothing normal about getting a camera shoved up your ass! You hear me, Gigantor? Nothing! And I won't do it, random liquid shit or not!"
Dean refrained from breaking the lime-colored table lamp or the blue alarm clock, stalking around between the beds for a moment before flopping down on the other mattress, an arm flung over his face. "No way in hell some random bastard is lookin' up my ass—it's just not happening."
Sam rolled his eyes and snickered. "No, 'cause only your angel can do that, right? Or is he your boyfriend?"
Dean gave him a one-fingered salute and lobbed a pillow at Sam's sheepdog head simultaneously, just as Castiel popped in with a ruffle of movement, with a level-toned, "You knocked?"
Sam gave a rather non-masculine shriek at this, before falling off the bed and landing in a tangled heap of arms and legs on the carpet.
Dean barked out a laugh and sat up, sending a smile in the angel's direction and correcting, "Uh, I think it's 'rang,' Cas, not 'knocked.' Y'know, like a doorbell? Whatever."
He shook his head at the slightly bewildered look on Castiel's face and patted the spot next to him, raising his eyebrows invitingly. "Now, come sit with me, and tell Sam he's a jackass while you're at it."
Cas perched on the mattress with his usual grace, while covertly sitting as close to Dean as he could. Expression shifting slightly, he said, "For once, I do not disagree with Sam—you should have the procedure done, if it is what the doctor recommends."
Pausing for a moment, one corner of the angel's mouth pulled up into something resembling a smirk. "I only say this because the last time I was here, admittedly, the way we were interrupted was more… unappealing, than Sam himself entering the room. And as I recall, the smell was not much better."
Dean's whole face went hot, as he muttered something to the effect of, "oh, now he's got a sense of humor", while Sam sputtered a few times, wide-eyed and trying his best not to fall into another laughing fit. Cas, meanwhile, looked incredibly smug, apparently having aced the comedy test on his first try.
It stopped being funny when Dean's intestines started up an Irish step dance, and he made a quick dash for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
A minute later, Sam was choking on the toxic fumes emanating from the bathroom, and crawled over commado-style (still naked, if it's any consolation) to flip on the vent fan, ignoring his brother's groaning.
He glanced at Castiel over his shoulder—managing to swallow back the bile creeping up his throat—and deadpanned, "We take him tomorrow, even if you have to make out with him the whole time."
He got widened, almost eager blue eyes and a nod in response, before the angel had to grab a trashcan for Sam to throw up in.
Yeah, it was that bad.
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"See, Dean? It was nothing! Piece of cake—or pie, whatever."
"That wasn't 'nothing'—Sammy, I was violated! Tell him, Cas!"
"You were no more violated by that camera than you are by me on a regular basis; stop blathering."
"I know what we'll do! Castiel and I will take you out for ice cream—won't that make widdle Deanie feel all better?"
"Quit while you're ahead, bitch. S'long as it's not sushi-flavored, I should be good. Never again."