The Gospels of Porn

[vlbuehle]

Title: The Gospels of Porn

Author: vlbuehle 

Fandom: SPN

Pairing: Gabriel/Sam, Dean/Castiel

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: If they were mine, Chuck would've had to gouge his eyes out long ago.

Word Count: ~1,000

Summary:  From the spn_gabriel  kink meme prompt for Sam/Gabriel, Chuck. It was bad enough when the visions started up with Dean and Castiel going hot and heavy. Add in the new stuff about Gabriel and Sam, and Chuck thinks the Winchester Gospels are going to read more like a porn novel than a gospel.

 A/N:  My second crack!fic and it too is about porn.  This is becoming a very bad habit that probably says lots of things about my sense of humor.  Huh.

 

 

Chuck shuddered awake, whimpering. It was bad enough that he had to be a Prophet of the Lord, worse yet that being a Prophet entailed seeing horrific things that would become reality as soon as he wrote them down. And the angels were dicks, pure and simple, even the Archangel who theoretically was guarding his ass.

He reached for the vodka, remembered Becky’s lectures on the merits of abstaining from liquor—really, for a girl who wrote incestuous fanfic, she had some weird priorities and weirder hangups—and picked himself up to stumble for the kitchen. There, a nice dollop of orange juice to flavor the vodka and he gulped it down. Then inspiration struck and he reached for the regular-sized glasses; he’d earned them.

Vodka safely in hand, he staggered back for the couch, shuddering again at the sight of his computer glowing away. He could thumb the touchpad and pull up the waiting blank documents, but that would mean writing it down. Which meant thinking about what he’d seen, and dear God, his brain was going melt if this kept up. It’d been bad enough reading the fanfic—which he’d once enjoyed, thank you very much—after he’d learned his characters were real. And were snarky and broken and scary as all hell. But this? He hadn’t done anything to deserve this.

Shuddering, he took a hefty swig of vodka. Seriously, he was the Prophet! He should be writing about grand and glorious things, like—like all the other prophets whose gospels abounded in the Bible. After all, it hadn’t started out half bad: two brothers, family business, killing evil sons of bitches. Even having a vicarious sex life through Dean, and occasionally Sam, hadn’t sucked, not with the kind of women the Winchester brothers drew to them, women who’d never look twice at a geek like Chuck.

But then Dean had died, and Sam had gone batshit insane, and the sex had been rape/pillage/horror in Hell, and demon!sex in real life, and between the two he’d seriously thought he had some kind of major mental disorder. He hadn’t cared what his editor thought about it, there was no way, absolutely no way he’d been adding those sex scenes. Hell, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with Supernatural, not after that.

He hadn’t thought it could get worse than watching Dean and Sam fall apart and away from each other, knowing where it would lead. Hadn’t thought anything would be worse than watching the horrors the demons and Lucifer would unleash upon the unsuspecting world, especially since even he didn’t know where it was going to end.

Then, the impossible happened: it got worse. It’d turned out that all the fanficcers had been right—Dean had a major thing for Castiel. Which mean vision after vision of mind-blowing, eye-melting sex. Gay sex. Between an angel and the mortal he’d pulled out of the Pit, and hello, wasn’t that blasphemy? Seriously, corrupting an angel!

Dean, as Chuck knew painfully well, had one hell of a sex drive, and now he had a willing angel too. The merciful hiatus from being in the front row for the Winchester Sex Chronicles had been broken, and Chuck had found himself waking up hard and aching from the Winchester Sex Chronicles, Round 2—How to Corrupt Innocent Angels. Who, as it turned out, didn’t stay innocent for long, and whoever thought angels were wonderful and pure beings hadn’t met any of them.

He hadn’t thought it could get any worse. But at least they’d seemed to be settling down—and then the Trickster, Gabriel, whatever-the-fuck he was calling himself nowadays, had shown up. And he’d gone after Sam with single-minded determination. To Chuck’s relieved disbelief, Sam had appeared utterly oblivious to the archangel doing his considerable best to charm his way into Sam’s pants, but that hadn’t lasted long. Gabriel had given up on anything remotely resembling subtlety, and the next thing Chuck knew, he was dreaming about an angel corrupting a human, for God’s sake! If that wasn’t bad enough, Gabriel was even more inventive than Dean—which Chuck would’ve sworn was impossible two weeks ago—and he was a omniscient being with phenomenal cosmic powers which he loved using for sex. Eye-gouging, brain-frying sex.

He’d had to drive three hours to a Barnes & Noble where he was damn sure he wouldn’t be recognized to buy the latest edition of the Gay Kama Sutra. If it wasn’t for Gabriel and his penchant for positions Chuck wasn’t even sure were humanly possible, he wouldn’t have had to go to such lengths, but it was a damn sight easier on his nerves if he could put the position in question into the Gospels rather than a blow-by-blow description. 

And then Gabriel, apparently satisfied Sam wasn’t going to run away screaming, had gotten really creative, and not just with positioning. That had involved a computer full of gay sex bookmarks, and several deeply mortifying discussions on the Yahoo groups and Livejournals that Becky had recommended.   He planned on spending the rest of his life in denial that such things had ever happened. It wasn’t that he was homophobic—but that didn’t mean he liked having to see people he actually kind of liked and respected getting their groove on in 3D, complete with surround sound. Particularly since he wasn’t getting any himself, and guys really didn’t do it for him even if they were actually divine beings.

Chuck moaned and sucked down a swig of vodka straight from the bottle. Dear, sweet God, they never stopped. Here he was, innocently writing the Winchester Gospels, and now they’d turned from action adventure into hardcore porn! It was all ‘kill monster of the week, go back to shitty motel room, and get fucked/fuck your angel senseless.’ Non-stop.

He finished off the vodka and belched in resignation. Well, at least he’d never have to pay for porn again. With a little judicious tweaking of names—he didn’t want a pissed-off archangel on his ass—and a suitably anonymous female pseudonym, he’d probably have a best-seller on his hands. The Gospels of Porn, he could see it now. And hey, if Becky thought Dean and Sam were hot, he wondered how she’d like Sam and Gabriel…

 

FINIS