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Dean had a thing for Paula Deen. Obviously, he loved Sam. But he had this thing for Paula.
He’d seen her for the first time on the Oprah show. It’s not what you think, or anything. He didn’t actually watch Oprah. What he liked to do was jerk off to porn or thoughts of Sam or boobies, and then, just as he was about to come, he’d flip the TV to the Oprah show and shoot all over the screen, trying for Oprah’s face. Sometimes he missed, and got the audience or a new vacuum cleaner, but sometimes he didn’t.
Oh man, he’d love to see her face if she knew he was jizzing all over her. She’d be so fucking pissed, and maybe that asswipe Steadman would be all offended in the corner of the room, appalled that someone else had to balls to come on Oprah’s face. It made Dean smile just to think of it.
So he maybe he was a bit of a caveman, like Sam was always talking about, threatened by a powerful woman. But Dean thought it was pretty fun, so whatever. It’s not like Sam was there to criticize, and besides, Dean also liked to take it in the ass, so he couldn’t have that much of a problem with losing power.
Something which the Sam in Dean’s head tried to debate, but the Dean in Dean’s head hit him in the face and told him to shut up.
The point of this whole thing was, Dean had somehow managed to transfer his amusing nut-busting on Oprah to a serious hardon for Paula Deen.
She’d been on the Oprah show, and Dean had switched over from She’s Not A Lesbian, She’s a Vagitarian just in time to catch Paula saying, “I fried so damn much chicken I thought I’d start cluckin’,” and he was hooked.
Because seriously, fried chicken and a Southern accent? Dean didn’t have a defense for that. Add to that the fact that he was about to come all over the place, and you’ve got one of those dog situations. Y’know, with the bell? Pavlov’s dogs, the Sam in his head supplied. Head Dean gave Head Sam the finger, and Head Sam pretended to be shocked.
Dean had flopped back onto the scratchy motel bedspread, his ass all naked and touching it, and watched the rest of Paula Deen’s cooking interlude with Oprah. He wiped come from under his chin and stared in wonder at the delicious cake she was making. His muscles were still loose and pliant, and his dick twitched heroically as he let her voice, her laugh, roll over him. He grinned when she bent double, laughing hysterically, and drooled when she put together a pound cake with ice cream, strawberries, whipped cream, and icing sugar.
And then he turned the TV to mute and jerked off again, really taking it slow, thighs and ass flexing as his toes clenched in the bedspread, knees bent and splayed, face flushed at the thought of her.
It developed into this thing for Paula Deen. He was sure to try and make it back to the room-of-the-week in time to watch her show. Luckily, it was looped throughout the day, so it wasn’t hard to get caught up on the episodes, the specials. The recipes.
He didn’t let it interfere with work, though. Okay, there was that one time in Scotland County, he’d been methodically lopping the heads off of a bunch of young greaseworms – black, slick, oily, and smelling strongly of vinegar, greaseworms lived in chimneys and sucked the life out of men through their lats – when he noticed that it was time for Paula’s Home Cooking. Obviously, this had nothing to do with the fact that about ten seconds after this totally innocent observation a greaseworm managed to latch onto his back and nearly kill him. The worm was just a fucking sneak, that’s all.
The next day Dean watched Paula’s Home Cooking from his crisp white hospital bed and tried not to tent his crisp white hospital gown.
Dean spent some time – not a lot, but some – thinking about what Paula would be like to fuck.
She would be a lot of fun, that much was obvious. Dean liked having fun, in bed and out of it, and he was sure they’d have a lot of fun together. They’d laugh, and then he’d grab her hips and her laugh would turn into a husky moan, Southern through and through, and she’d be all softness and warmth and rounded tits, and she’d smell like baking and her soft curves would welcome his own hardness, and afterwards, there’d be ribs and chicken and pie.
Dean sighed dreamily. Sam glared and whapped him with a pillow, muttering something about perving on grandmas.
“Dude, she’s fucking hot, don’t even try to pretend,” Dean told him, face showing his superior dis-fucking-dain.
“You look constipated, asshole,” Sam laughed, totally side-stepping the issue.
“Shh, she’s on, you dipshit.”
“Are you thinking about that cook again?” Sam huffed, somewhere below him.
Dean, startled, looked down. Sam was craning his neck around, trying to glare, but his sweaty hair kept falling in his eyes. Obligingly, Dean brushed it back.
“Dude, I’m not thinking about Paula Deen.” He sighed and pulled out, sensing another one of Sam’s Discussions coming on. And he couldn’t talk about feelings when his dick was happily rooting around in his brother’s posterior. Head Dean snickered while Head Sam looked disgusted.
He sat back on his haunches and watched the real Sam flex as he turned. Dean wondered if he should put some Michael Bolton on or something, to like, facilitate the chick-mood.
“Look, Sammy, I don’t think about her when I’m fucking you. I don’t think about her when you’re fucking me. I don’t even think about her when you’re bitching about your hair, or whatever. No man, shut up, I’m talking,” Dean said, when Sam opened his mouth and looked pissy. “Paula Deen is fucking hot. I can’t help it. Have you seen her cookies? Sam, seriously, it’s like they’re full of awesome. But she’s not you, and I’d much rather have you even if your cooking skills suck hardcore. Now. Is that enough of a speech for you? Can I get back to my boning?”
Sam sighed dramatically, and made a big show of rolling over very hesitantly. “I feel like I should cry, or something,” he said into the pillow, but settled for waving his ass around instead.
“Puh-aula,” Dean moaned hugely, shoving back in, and felt his stomach shift happily when Sam burst out laughing.