Inspired by a peanut butter cookie, a kid's book, and chapter 5 of Bring It On Home by thecouchcarrot. I highly recommended it! It's a very amusing and deep Dean and Castiel AU.
Enjoy! :)
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Hello, my name is Samuel Winchester and I have been cookie-free for fifteen days.
By the way, I'm moving to Australia.
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To call it a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day… was a bit of an understatement.
Sam's no stranger to bad days or horrible days or no good days or even the combination of all three. After all, he survived the unluckiest day of anyone's life. (He was NEVER touching another rabbit's foot.)
He had a feeling it was going to be a very bad day, when his wallet disappeared. It wasn't hiding in his pockets or Dean's pockets or under the beds or in the Impala. Wasn't at the front desk or lurking in the parking lot or in the greasy spoon they ate at last night.
He KNEW it was a no-good day when he had to play hide-and-go-seek with a murderous ghost. Dean fumbled around with the stupid lighter that refused to light until after Sam was thrown at three different walls and stabbed in the leg by his own knife. The ghost finally went out in a blaze of freakin' flamed glory, just in time for the home owner to walk in the door. Of course, she was the hottest babe this side of the Mississippi. And of course, she completely ignored him, in favor of plastering her jailbait body all over Dean.
Dean and the car keys and the overly-thankful single lady disappeared upstairs before Sam could protest. His wallet was who-knows-where, so he couldn't storm off without walking two miles on an injured leg or cock-blocking his brother who apparently was already 'fucking her brains out.' Plus, they're upstairs and Sam really really doesn't want walk up any stairs. He doesn't even want to move, much less interrupt to drag his jerk of a brother off. So, Sam waits downstairs, with the TV cranked up to max volume, and raids the under stocked medicine cabinet. His leg wound is disinfected and wrapped before the first commercial break. He convinces himself that the little bit noise that not even the TV drowns out is just the attic fan.
In the car, Dean insists on Metallica… again. The no-good day morphs into a horrible day as a migraine forms and his brain rattles around to the loud beat. Dean just turns up the volume when he points out that they listened to the same tape yesterday and the day before yesterday and the entire week before then. It wasn't a bluff, when he says, "I'm going to hurl all over your dashboard, if you don't shut it off." It's not his fault that Dean disbelieves him. Just one of those days. And to top it all off…now he's hungry.
When they arrive at the sleazy motel, Dean's still angry about his baby and Sam can still smell puke under the fumes of an entire Lysol can. Dean ditches him at the hotel with a bag of cheap drive-through and roars off with an offended squeal of tires.
It's officially a terrible day when Sam opens the greasy bag of to-go food and it's the wrong order. He doesn't know exactly what the jiggling pile of purplish brownish goo is, but he knows that's there no way in hell he's eating it. He's whining, but it doesn't matter—no one can hear him. His forehead thuds against the flimsy motel desk.
The desk breaks. He doesn't even attempt to fix it.
Screw it.
Screw it all to hell and back.
The silver lining to this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad day is the HUGE cookie he finds wrapped up in a napkin, hiding in the bottom of the bag. A peanut butter cookie. He holds it with both hands because it's that enormous. Sweet, and moist and he pretends that his Mother lived long enough to bake him homemade cookies and this is what they tasted like.
He takes another bite of the cookie and remembers a similar taste on an obnoxious mouth. Remembers a man almost half his size grinding against his leg. Pinning him against a poster for Herpex and sucking and touching and nibbling until he finally caves in and starts kissing back. Then, Gabriel is the one slammed against the stupid genital herpes sign as Sam thrusts against him and yanks his head back grazing down his throat with his teeth… and then Sam stops remembering and starts fantasizing.
Fantasizing about what would happen if the man was here, right now. Wearing that stupid pornstache and making silly eyebrow waggles in his directions and he would say Gigantor, miss me big boy? And Sam would tell him to Shut the fuck up and start fucking and then push him into the bedspread and suck the sugary sweetness right out of his skin till he was trembling and moooaaaning and wrapping his hands around Sam's cock stroking until all Sam can hear was the sound of slick flesh hitting flesh and licking like it was one of his damn lolipops and Sam tearing clothes off that annoying jerk of an angel and he likes it and Sam's shredding every last inch of fabric, then slams Gabriel to his knees, buries his hands in the wild hair twisting pulling thrusting into the hot wet mouth—
Then, Sam realizes that his hand is in his pants and he's actually masturbating to a damn cookie.
Sam stops.
Sam crushes the cookie to crumbs in his hand.
What.
The Hell.