an agent of the random (riyku) wrote,
an agent of the random

fic: snips and snails and puppy dog tails, that's what little boys are made of

Okay guys. Here's the scoop: I wrote this months and months ago and wasn't going to claim it, then I sorta quietly archived it over at the AO3, and now the urge to have all my writing in one place caught hold and here you have it. Not-so-new fic, with actual honest-to-god new fic coming later tonight. Finally.

Kink ahoy! Long live kink!

Title: snips and snails and puppy dog tails, that's what little boys are made of.
Genre: Sam/Dean/Emma (but it's probably safe to say it's all about the wincest, folks)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,000
Notes: A spin off of the ending of Slice Girls in which the Winchesters don't kill Emma, and written for this prompt over at spnkink_meme. Many many thanks for flawlessglitchfor always having my back and never ever flinching. In the spirit of the meme, please feel free to comment anonymously.
Warnings: Underage, violence, training, double penetration, a whole pile of psychological fuckery, abuse, dub-con, daddy!kink, parental and fraternal incest. Sam and Dean are not at all good guys in this fic.

Summary: In the end, Sam can't do it. She still tried to kill his brother, though, and he still hates her. That doesn't change.

In the end, Sam can’t do it. He watches as Dean lowers his gun, his fist unsteady around the grip of his own. He sees the knife in Emma’s small hand, hidden behind her back like a bouquet of flowers. She turns to him, such an old look of malice on such a young face. Her eyes are a specific shade of green that Sam’s only ever seen in one other place and in the end, he can’t do it.

She still tried to kill his brother, and he still hates her. That doesn’t change.


“I gotta tell ya, Sam, you have the best ideas,” Dean says from behind him, breath hot and moist on the side of Sam’s neck.

“Girl’s gotta do something to earn her keep,” Sam whispers, and tilts his head to give Dean more room to suck at one particular spot below his jaw.

Dean’s squirming, hard, dry humping against Sam’s ass, the hand not holding his machete kneads at Sam’s hip then roams up under his shirt. Dean gets this way when they’re hunting vamps nowadays, probably some sorta throwback to those few days he spent as one a year or so back. Sam sometimes wonders if he misses it, the speed and the strength and the black and white nature of a vampire’s base existence. It goes both ways; if Sam’s honest with himself, he’d admit to a certain amount of fucked up nostalgia over the year he spent without a soul, the simplicity of living as a creature of pure logic that never needed to sleep.

Sam arches back as Dean grinds into him, rubs his ass up and down along Dean’s cock and earns a quiet, needy moan from his brother for his efforts.

Before them, Emma is trussed up in the center of the large warehouse, slow trickles of blood seeping from half a dozen shallow gashes on her forearms. They figured out early on that werewolves go crazy over the shocky, fitful beat of her heart, and vampires find the scent of her sweet, candy-laced blood downright irresistible. Besides, Sam would rather use her as bait over himself or his brother any day of the week.

She’s staring at them, squinting to see into the shadows that partially hide them, and tracks it as Dean slides his hand down to Sam’s crotch and lightly squeezes at his dick. Her cheeks are going pink, her breath quickens and she bites down on the gag. It’s not fear that Sam sees in her face. It’s more like curiosity, and a gradually building heat.

“Hey,” Sam breathes, hitching his hips against Dean’s hand and leaning his shoulders into his chest, “I think she likes what she sees.”

Dean’s chuckle is silent, comes out as a burst of hot breath on Sam’s skin. “Who can blame her?”

There’s a flicker in the far corner of the warehouse, a dark figure moving in the gloom, the lightest fall of footsteps, and Dean pulls away after one more hard suck at Sam’s neck.

“Looks like it’s show time, Sammy.”


Two months pass before they stop looking in the rearview, constantly over their shoulders, waiting for some wonder woman in a business suit to come and claim what’s hers. It’s another three before they untie the girl for longer than five minutes at a clip.

It’s Dean’s idea that first time, but it’s Sam who has to go after her, chase her across the hotel parking lot, her blonde hair like a beacon in the darkness and her bare feet slapping on the gritty pavement. Emma’s got the body of a twelve year old, but a left hook like Muhammad Ali, and maybe Sam uses a little more force than is strictly necessary, knocks her to the ground and lets her take the full measure of his weight until she runs out of air and finally goes quiet. By the time he gets her back to the room, slung over his shoulder like some spoil of war, Sam’s got a busted lip and a suspicion that he’ll be pissing blood come morning from the jab that she managed to land on his lower back.

Dean wanders out of the bathroom, boxers riding crooked on his hips, toothbrush stuck in his mouth and water beaded on his bare shoulders. His expression slides from surprise to cool calculation.

“I got this,” he says and tosses the keys at Sam. “Go find us some burgers. I’ll take care of her.”

Sam has to go two towns over to find a burger joint open this late at night. An hour has passed when he gets back, takeout bags jammed under his arm. He has a strawberry milkshake for the girl in one hand and something a little stronger for the grown-ups tucked into his back pocket.

Apparently Dean has a vastly different definition of what taking care of the girl means, on a dozen different levels. Dean’s still bare from the waist up, sprawled in a chair with his legs spread wide. Emma’s on his lap, swimming in one of Sam’s thin, white undershirts. The bruised split in her swollen bottom lip is new, and so is the cotton-candy pink nail polish on her fingers and toes. She’s snug against Dean’s chest, her feet resting on his knees and her legs pulled up under her chin.

There’s a charge to the air, some electrical thing that makes the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up and a warmth seep down into his cock. Dean’s talking low in her ear, telling her all about Old Mother Hubbard and Little Jack Horner, and he doesn’t stop speaking as his eyes lock onto Sam’s with a crack that’s almost physical. They hold Sam there, unable to look away as Dean seeks out Emma’s hips and digs his fingers in, pulls her down and rocks up against her slowly.

Emma’s mouth falls open and so do her knees, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her upper thighs, the pattern of little blue hearts and stars on her cotton panties. She shifts, rolls her hips back and then bucks forward with snap, a movement so decisive that it has to be intentional.

“Snips and snails and puppy dog tails,” Dean goes on, speaking directly into her ear and making her shiver.

“That’s what little boys are made of,” Sam finishes, and now he can see the tiny peaks of her hard nipples poking through the thin cotton of the shirt she’s wearing, see the small swells of flesh that weren’t there last month.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and it comes out as a sigh. He wraps an arm around her chest and pulls her in even tighter, hanging on while she rubs off on the thick ridge of his cock, all instinct and blind need. Dean’s shorts have gotten rucked up with all of her wriggling, the flush head of his dick peeking out of the slit and gleaming wetly.

She’s got her daddy’s eyes and that familiar little bend on the bridge of her nose. She’s got her daddy’s mouth too, plush pink lips that seem specifically designed with Sam’s dick in mind, and Sam wonders if she could suck him off nice and sloppy, take him all the way down just like her father. It’s startling how similar to Dean she is when she’s like this, a doppelganger only gentler, without all the mileage and all of Dean’s jagged edges, his hard earned laugh lines sanded down and soft. Sam feels something inside of him slip.

Sam spreads himself out on the bed across from them, back against the headboard. He draws a mental line in the sand, a monumental fucking line, but then jumps over it with both feet as Dean reaches around and runs a finger between Emma’s legs, draws a ring around her clit, playing connect-the-dots with little blue stars and hearts.

Emma groans, and Sam does too, pops open his fly and takes his cock out, jacks himself fast and frantic, watching as the girl clenches her thighs together then releases them, moves against his brother’s hand even as she hides her face in his neck, breath coming in gasping, high-pitched whines when Dean picks up the pace, allows one of his fingers to dip beneath her panties. She comes with her small hands wrapped around Dean’s wrist to hold him still, riding his hand with obscene thrusts of her hips.

Sam finishes off the night on his knees, Emma asleep in the bed three feet away and Dean’s cock huge and thick in his mouth. Dean pushes two fingers past Sam’s lips, slides them in and out right alongside his dick, and now Sam can taste her too, hums and moans and gets hard all over again. He winds up jerking himself off for the second time that night as Dean fucks into his mouth, fists buried in Sam’s hair.

After, Dean bends over him, back curled like a question mark, hips stuttering through the aftershocks of his orgasm. He keeps whispering to Sam, rough and low. “What if. What if.”


Sam’s face down on the ground, scrabbling to get a bead on something that makes sense. He’s got dirt in his mouth and it’s a full five seconds before he can wrap his head around how he got there. They’re hunting a ghoul. Goddamn bottom feeder.

Leaves rustle to his left and Dean groans somewhere close as he regains consciousness.

“Sam, eleven o’clock,” he slurs, and Sam struggles to move, get his hand on his Glock, but down is still feeling a hell of a lot like up and his arms refuse to get with the program. Something yanks at his shirt and a he feels pressure on either side of his waist, wrenches himself around in time to see Emma standing over him, determination in the set of her mouth and her eyes burning brighter than a pyromaniac’s wet dream as she squeezes off three rounds in fast succession, obliterates the head of the ghoul closing in.

“Why’d you do this to yourself?” Sam says later, after they’ve limped to the Impala and got Emma seated on the trunk. Her wrist is scraped raw and bloody, her thumb dislocated from when she'd forced her hand out of the handcuffs they’d used to lock her to the handle of the car.

“You’re all I have,” she says.

“You’re a good girl,” he tells her and she smiles up at him. Sam can be a very convincing liar. He turns to his brother. “Maybe she deserves a reward.”

“Absolutely,” Dean agrees, and pushes her backward until she’s sprawled across the trunk. “It’s all about positive reinforcement, right?” He rucks her shirt up, bunching it under her armpits while Sam spreads her knees wide.

Emma hisses, begins to squirm as Dean grazes her nipple with his teeth, takes the other one between his fingers and teases it until it’s hard. Sam runs his tongue slow up the inside of her thigh and nuzzles at her crotch, pulls her panties aside and fucks his tongue inside of her, so warm and already damp. She moves against him, knees hooked over his shoulders to hold him close, makes a mess of his mouth and his chin, the smell and taste of her everywhere.

When she comes, she moans, breathes out “Daddy,” and Sam’s not sure if she’s talking to him or to Dean.

He’s also not sure if it matters.


Sam and Dean are good teachers, and Emma’s a quick study. She pays attention, figures out that Dean likes a little bit of teeth, that Sam likes to watch, and that he gets off on how fast her body is changing, the way her hips are starting to flare and how her tits have filled out enough to almost fit his hand. She learns that good behavior will most likely earn her a fast and dirty finger fuck in the back seat of the car, that she can tease and play but that she can never ever pit one of them against the other and get away with it.

Last night was a good night. They’d hit up three different bars, helped some of the good ol’ boys part with a hefty cut of their paychecks. Sam’s pockets are full and he’s in a generous frame of mind, leaves Dean in their room to sleep it off and takes Emma out to a department store they passed on the way into town. The girl’s been living in hand-me-downs, flannels down to her knees and Dean’s blue jeans rolled up at the cuffs and cinched tight around her waist, and Sam thinks it’s not a bad idea to get her something nice. Girly.

She strolls through the racks with Sam as her shadow, holding shirts and dresses up to her chest, eyebrows raised. The ladies in the junior’s department keep looking at them, questions and sympathy barely hidden beneath indulgent smiles.

Sam follows her into the fitting room, a pile of clothes in one arm, latches and locks the door behind them. Two small taps to her cheek—Dean’s trick and it’s a good one—and Emma sinks gracefully down to her knees, kitten-licks at the head of his dick until he’s fully hard and blows him proper, tugs and rolls his balls between her fingers and rubs at the sensitive skin behind them. Sam comes like a shot the instant she peeks at him through the thick fringe of her lashes, and damn if that’s not another trick she’s learned from her father.

The looks they get from the women in the store are a little different afterwards, once they see Emma’s swollen lips and Sam’s smug, sex-dazed smile, but Sam shrugs it off. He’s saved the world from certain destruction a time or two in his day, and fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

Sam leaves the store a couple hundred bucks lighter than he walked in, vaguely wondering who’s training who.


Emma might be half monster, but the other half’s all Winchester, and that’s the part that doesn’t give an inch. There wasn’t a flicker of pain in her expression the first time Dean bent her over, slid inside and opened her up on his cock, his fist tangled in her hair so he could shove her face into Sam’s lap.

She didn’t give into the pain then, and she isn’t now. She’s light, balanced between them like this, hardly any weight at all. Only fifteen months old and Sam can’t get over it, any of it. The crease between her brows that looks so much like his brother, the way they both sink their teeth into their lower lip when they orgasm, a total mindfuck the couple of times they’ve done it at the same time. How responsive she’s become to every single touch they give her, and all the ways she’s entirely their creation.

Dean lifts her up slightly, helps her get at exactly the right angle and drops her onto Sam’s cock. Immediately, Emma wraps her legs around Sam’s waist, her arms around his neck and leans her back to Dean’s chest, uses him as leverage to draw herself up before sliding back down to take him in straight to the base.

“Have you been good, sweetheart?” Dean says, a wicked shape to his smile. “Have you been good enough for both of us?”

Emma licks her lips, her whole body going rigid with anticipation, clenching down tight all around his cock. “Yeah, Daddy. Yeah.”

“I think so, too.” Dean agrees, and thrusts himself inside of her, forcing her body flush against Sam.

It’s tight, so fucking tight and slow, the rub of Dean’s cock against his a shade shy of torturous. All the air is drained out of Sam’s lungs and he’s left gasping, knees weak and shivery, all wrapped up in their little girl and even more wrapped up in Dean. Sam reaches for his brother, palms his ass so he can feel the flex of muscle inside and out as they pound into her, quiet except for the filthy wet slap of skin against skin and the harsh sound of their breathing.

Dean’s expression goes slack, nothing but blissed out, pure animal pleasure as he heaves a huge thrust, his cock pulsing so hard that Sam feels it in his toes, and now it’s even better, sloppier, Emma’s slick and Dean’s spunk coating Sam’s balls and dripping down between his thighs. She’s gone limp between them, her thighs quiver and sweat pools in the hollow of her throat, her breasts deliciously bouncing with every sharp jab of Sam’s hips. Sam fucks into her relentlessly and the tip of his cock drags along the flared head of his brother’s each and every time.

Dean grabs Sam by the back of the neck and kisses him, pries his tongue between Sam’s clenched teeth then presses their foreheads together. “C’mon, Sammy. C’mon,” he says, and the rasp of his brother’s voice is enough to do him in, tear him apart and make him shoot inside of her, thick and hot.

A gentleman would get Emma cleaned up, perhaps get her into the shower and scrub her back. Kiss her on the cheek and tell her she’s beautiful. They’re not gentlemen. They like the smell of themselves on her skin. They don’t kiss her. They never, ever do. All she needs to do is take one look at her father to know she’s beautiful, and anyway, there are plenty of mirrors in this world.

Dean does spread her out on her bed, though. He tucks her in and swipes her sweaty hair back from her forehead. It’s a practiced move, and Sam’s been on the receiving end of it more times than he can count. He bends low and whispers in her ear, barely loud enough for Sam to hear.

“Sugar and spice and everything nice. That’s what little girls are made of.”


Thanks for reading.

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