I would just like to say that I'm not normally sick and/or twisted, I aimed for that specifically for this story.
Also, DeanxSam is just plain wrong, but it was a good fit for the story.
I watched my brother, Oliver, twirl more spaghetti around his fork. Ugh, spaghetti. Another typical Tuesday night dinner for the O'Brians.
I watched as my brother lift the fork to his mouth. His beautiful mouth. I have often wondered what it would be like to have those luscious lips kiss mine the way I've watched him kiss those other girls.
I imagine it would be almost as satisfying as me shoving his hockey stick up his ass, which I have also thought about.
I switched my gaze to my father. Paul O'Brian, former Olympic swimmer. First I stared at his neck. I've dreamt about carving out his lungs, one at a time. I then looked at my father's large, strong hands and wondered if he ever considered using them on me the way he used them on my mother.
Just the thought of this, and my throbbing, caused me to turn to my mother. My mother noticed my attention. "Want some dessert, Bunny?" Ugh, Bunny. That stupid childhood nickname.
"Yes, Mommy. Thank you." I replied with my sweetest smile.
My eyes follow my mother as she leaves the dining room. Patricia O'Brian, former dancer. I'd like to see her dance after I've cut her Achilles' Tendons.
My mother's the only one I haven't considered being intimate with. She does nothing for me. My mother's looks might not get me off like my father and brother, but thinking about torturing her sure does.
The window caught my eye next. I stared at the reflection. Bonnie O'Brian, typical college freshman from Ohio. That's how the world sees me. Typical, beautiful Bonnie.
Apparently everyone thinks I'm gorgeous, like my mother. I look almost exactly like her, except for the color of my hair and eyes. I get my jet black hair and baby blues from my father.
My eyes have a creepy shine to them. Well, I think that's how others should classify it. But they don't know how sick and twisted I really am.
The doorbell rang. "I'll get it." Patricia calls from the kitchen. I listen as she walks to the front door. I hear two male voices answer Patricia and I make out the word "phone". Patricia takes the two strangers to the kitchen, where I hear nothing because Oliver has just turned on NPR.
I am just about to excuse myself, so I can go upstairs and raid Oliver's 'secret' sex tapes, when Patricia walks back into the room. One of the men has a knife to Patricia's throat. Bright eyes and dark hair, my height. I was looking at the male version of me.
The other man walks in, sawed-off in hand, and I look him over. Tall, longer brown hair, oddly soft eyes.
It takes a gasp from Oliver before I realize I've seen these men before. Dean and Sam Winchester. The serial killing brothers that have been sweeping the nation. I've worn out many batteries thinking about these two.
Sam keeps his gun trained on Paul while Dean ties up my family. Patricia first, then Oliver and Paul. When Dean leans across me to tie my arm, I lean towards him. "I'm just as sick and twisted as you are." I whisper in his ear.
Dean looks at me, the same shine in his eyes I've seen in my reflection when I think about mutilation, torture or killing. "Oh yeah?" He smirks. He crosses over to Sam, pulls both of their pants down and begins to thrust into his brother, also taking Sam in his hands. Upon their completion, Dean turns to me. "Are you that sick and twisted?"
"I've never gotten the chance to screw my brother. But I think about it every night." I replied, a wicked grin spreading across my face. "Untie me and I'll show you what else I think about." Dean and Sam exchange equally wicked grins before Dean unties me.
A couple rounds of incestual experimentation and one threesome, and three murders later, Paul, Patricia and Oliver were left in the dining room, mutilated with their lungs cut out, their Achilles' tendon severed and a hockey stick in their rectum.
It wasn't until we, the three murderers, were two counties away that Dean turned to me, a satisfied grin on his face. "I guess you are just like us."