Author: Regala Electra
Length: 1,304 words
Spoilers: S5, Future!fic, AU
Summary: Dean really loves diner lingo.
Warnings: Sexual content, language.
Author’s Note: Written for the salt_burn_porn challenge. Prompt: “Let’s make a sandwich.” In honor of the prompt, I was heavily inspired by Lady Gaga's Telephone video. Major thanks to memphis86 for the beta and assisting me in my spazzy moments. Any mistakes, American Gods riffs, and jokes about God are entirely my fault.
A recipe is a collection of instructions that provides a straightforward explanation of how to execute the same thing over and over again.
If constantly fucking up counts as following the recipe; then yeah, Dean’s a goddamn gourmet.
Slap it between two pieces of bread and call it whatever the fuck you want as long as you can eat it, it’s a goddamn sandwich. Quick lesson for the fresh meat: it’ll keep you going in the middle of an all night no holds barred fuckathon.
Dean knows this for sure now. It only took him getting slammed a couple of times a week before he learned how to swallow it high and dry, cramming meat into his mouth as he hauled ass in record speed.
He’s become a professional multi-tasker and fuck you very much for ordering the steak well-done. The beautiful bloody hank of flesh gets dumped into the fryer and he spares a moment to mourn the waste of cow.
“They never tell you about the sacrifice,” he says, later. “That t-bone never had a chance.”
“You should’ve given him cow feed,” Sam says after, in the dark when the smell of fryer grease and smoke from the grill gets replaced with the stale odor of rushed, greedy sex.
Dean sucks hard at the sharp juncture between hip and leg, a sensitive spot that has Sam gasping and his cock twitching eagerly.
“Cow feed, huh? I’ll show you cow feed,” he says and he wraps his lips around Sam’s cock, hands pushing Sam back down when he tries to surge forward.
One of these days, Dean’ll stop sucking Sam off, that’ll show him. Just not tonight.
Flip the switch back a few months ago when all the cool kids were betting that Team Free Will, also know as Team Fuck-It-We’re-All-Gonna-Die, was set to fail spectacularly.
They would’ve too, but God showing up in a rust bucket that didn’t need the Greased Lightning treatment—‘cause, hey, God—and he scolded the armies of heaven and hell and just like that, it was all over.
Turns out that all their fuckups and mistakes had been something of a test and all along, they had a lucky ace in their invisible pocket.
After that, things got fuzzy, so waking up in the middle of nowhere without an angel or a demon in sight didn’t really give them much of a taste of victory. More like, as Sam said, they got lucky.
“So which of us has the horseshoe up his ass?” Dean didn’t expect much of an answer and Sam’s irritated glare was enough.
God finally showing up to set things straight by sticking the angels and demons in an eternal penalty box wasn’t so much underwhelming, as it was seriously stupid.
“So God’s real and he’s an asshole. Awesome.”
Sam was standing a few feet away from him, studying the absence of it all, not a signal sign of the battle beforehand. Nothing.
Dean considered yelling out a few more blasphemies but the numb realization that they weren’t set to die finally worked its way into his head and he pushed forward, brushed the dirt off his jacket, and began the trek towards the horizon. “What’s next?”
“Hunting,” Sam said, looking down the road where the world bended into forever. “It never stops.”
“I’m going to get a job,” Dean said, testing the words in his mouth, surprised to find that he meant each one. Rest, he decided, was over-fucking-rated.
“A job,” Sam said like Dean announced he was planning to go on a murder spree.
“First place looking to hire.”
“You really want to do this?”
“Sure. We kicked off the Apocalypse, failed to stop it, and had to have freakin’ God step in. Why the fuck not? Hell’s frozen over, we ain’t dead and maybe it’ll be okay. I’ve worked, on and off,” he added, a little defensive at Sam’s doubtful expression.
That’s how they found the old diner on a dying highway looking for exactly the kind of employees who don’t talk much and keep their heads down and don’t steal from the till.
“You mind working late hours?” The owner was about eleven hundred years old and everyone called him 'Pop' which he asked them not to call him, ever.
“You’re hired.” To Sam he said, “Nice hair. Get a haircut.”
Sam didn’t get a haircut and they wound up calling him Pop like everyone else.
Hell, they find out later, hasn’t actually frozen over. According to the psychics and various demi-gods (who for some reason find the diner like it’s a freakin’ beacon crying out “Hey dumbass! Come harass the Winchesters here!”) hell and heaven seem to have been wiped off the spiritual charts entirely.
Imagine there’s no heaven. Just like that.
“I always knew God liked John Lennon more,” Sherrie, Destroyer of Worlds (retired), had confided to Sam. “Who’s your favorite Beatle?”
Sam wisely decided he had to urgently refill the drinks at a four-top.
Sure, a Destroyer of Worlds might say she’s retired but you can’t really trust a former god.
Dean did make sure he handled her order personally. Sometimes it’s good to keep a god in line, and a sprinkling of lamb’s blood really does the trick.
Yeah, so Sam?
Sam’s a waitress.
“Waiter,” Sam argues. He shudders as he watches Dean dismantling a thick hunk of ham bigger than both of their heads put together. “I can’t believe you stole that.”
Dean might also be whistling, as he worked.
“I didn’t steal this ham. We had extra ham and they were gonna toss it in the dumpster. C’mon, Sammy, you want Noah’s boy on bread or what?”
“I hate that you only speak in diner lingo.”
“Shut up, it’s awesome. You know you love it when I give you a Dusty Miller.”
Sam scrubs his face. “Yeah but that’s different from, uh, you know… bloodhounds in the hay is not a sex act, okay?”
“Well, that weird thing you wanted to do in the Kama Sutra is not happening until you suck it up, Sammy. Don’t bitch at me when you get all cramped.”
Sam smirks, leaning back into the crummy motel desk chair. “You’re scared that you’ll like it.”
Ham to the face? Is really fucking funny especially when the piece of ham kind of sticks there for a while until it finally slides off, landing with a wet thump.
Sure, Dean pays for that later with a position that from now on he will refer to as Noah’s boy on bread.
It’s probably one of the kinkiest things he’s ever done with ham, only it’s only in the top ten of stuff he’s done with Sam.
He’s glad that he won’t be on laundry duty this week, that’s all he’s saying.
“You ate all my jelly.”
Dean learns that the stickiness of drying jam really fucks with his usual flair for apology handjobs.
But all is forgiven thanks to the miracle of a slow, comfortable screw up against a wall.
The act of fucking, not the drink.
A cookbook is a collection of recipes that have been tested and proven to be successful, popular, and worth a repeat performance.
But sometimes, you gotta mix it up.
“Let’s make a sandwich,” Dean says, three years later and six jobs later.
“You want the works?”
Dean considers how long it took to recover from having the works last time. “Whatever’s the blue plate special.”
The blue plate special involves handcuffs, a stolen roll of police crime scene tape, and a challenge to come quick before they get caught screwing around in public.
Fuck the Thelma & Louise ending; only time they might hold hands is when they need to get a better angle when they’re fucking.