Birthday Fic;; Open The Sky; Wincest; Wing!fic Open The Sky Summary: When Dean gets his wings, they start out as a bit of a burden, but a gift none-the-less. But when they discover the truth, the wings become a curse Dean can’t seem to get rid of. Fandom:Supernatural (Sam/Dean – wing!fic) Rating: PG-16 Characters: Dean, Sam, random OCs Word Count: 8031 Warnings: dark things, Wincest, handjobs Author’s Notes: I made all the angel stuff up. Don’t bother looking for it, because it just came to my head as I wrote it.
Birthday fic for angelnetgirl. Hope you enjoy it and I really hope I didn’t rile you up for something that’s not gonna happen =P
- - -
"I don’t think we’ve ever faced anything this dark." Sam shifted his feet an inch or two across the cement floor and a thick line of dust was pushed away with the toe of his boot.
Dean shrugged. "What about the daevas with Meg?"
Sam shook his head. He rolled his shoulders back, feeling the tension of sitting in one position too long gradually build in his neck. "Worse, by what I’ve read."
"It’s just a bunch of kids thinking they can summon demons with badly translated Latin," Dean said reassuringly. "You’ve always said that translators that weren’t fluent in the language are pointless."
"Yeah, but by what I’ve read – and heard – these kids know exactly what they’re doing." Sam turned his head to look at Dean the best he could for being shoved between wooden crates in an abandoned warehouse with so much does it made Sam’s eyes water. Sam wanted to know why these kids couldn’t have held their meetings in more spacious surroundings, like a meadow. Or a house.
"More than us?" Dean asked with raised eyebrows.
Sam thought for a moment, his research running in a list through his mind. "Well, no, but -"
"Well, there you go," Dean said, cutting Sam off before he could go on. He looked back to the slit between the crates. "They have bed sheets for capes and we have guns."
Sam sighed, shifting his body back to staring between the crates. They had been waiting for close to two hours for a group of teenagers to waltz into the warehouse in southern Texas and begin their summoning and stop them before they could actually do some real damage. It was the middle of summer, a heat wave had just hit the town and all Sam really wanted was to be back at their sordid motel, sitting in a bathtub of ice and cold water.
"Fuck, what’s taking these amateurs so long?" Dean grunted, squinting at his wrist watch. "I could be hunting real Satanists if I wanted to."
Sam rolled his eyes, knowing Dean wouldn’t see in the dimly lit room. "They could be real Satanists."
"Dude, they call themselvesThe Summoners," Dean said with a tone of annoyance that dripped as thick as the air around him. "They have no idea what they’re doing. And if they think they’re doing something, they’re probably doing it wrong."
"You have to stop underestimating them, Dean," Sam chided, trying to push himself into a sitting position, but the boxes wouldn’t give him anymore room. "They could be very knowledgeable in demonology and Satanism."
"You’ve gotta stop giving these punks a chance!" Dean shook his head. "Jesus, Sammy."
Sam drew his mouth into a tight, angry line. He wasn’t giving them a chance at all – it was more then likely they did have no idea what they were doing, but better to be safe then sorry – but Sam learned never to underestimate someone’s abilities. Especially if he didn’t know them.
"When you were their age, you knew a lot about that sort of stuff," Sam pointed out coolly.
"Yeah, but I actually knew it," Dean said defensively. "Getting info off a website that has glittery graphics and background music from some wannabe rock band isn’t a very reliable source."
Sam couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle.
"Have I broken the tough outer shell of Samuel Winchester?" Dean cooed in a mocking voice, poking Sam in the knee.
"Shut up, idiot," Sam muttered under his breath, kicking Dean’s snaking fingers away from his legs.
"Oh, com’n, I’m just kidding." Dean looked back to the open warehouse. There was a click and the whir of lights buzzed across the silent warehouse. "Here cometThe Summoners. Better be on our toes for this."
Sam ignored Dean’s quiet chuckle and pressed his face against the crate to see better; six illuminated figures appeared from the farthest door and walked slowly towards the center of the room, where one lone light flickered down on an empty table. A dark boy stood in the center of the group with a box resting gently in his hands – the leader, obviously. The others followed in what seemed a choreographed position – a triangle or a diamond, Sam wasn’t sure, they kept moving around.
The leader set the box down on the table and two assistants appeared at his side, immediately pulling things from the box: a cross, a bible, a broken skull of a human, a flask of dark liquid – blood, Sam thought with a churning stomach – and other Satanic symbols and necessities for a demonic summoning. Dean snorted loudly and Sam kicked him awkwardly in the foot. Two assistants stepped aside when the last of the things were set on the table, bowing and bright red capes – sheets, actually – billowed around them.
"Summoners," the leader called in low, demanding voice that housed a heavy Texan drawl, which completely ruined the effect that he was obviously trying to go for. "We have gathered here tonight for our last step in the summoning of thedark archangels."
There was a rustling of crisp sheets – Sam could almost catch the sickening scent of fabric softener over dust and industrial fumes – as the rest of the group moved around the table, reciting shoddy Latin in terrible accents that made Sam cringe inwardly.
"Christ, are these guys for real?" Dean whispered huskily in the dark.
Sam bit his lip from laughing and concentrated on the ceremony. He could see the head of the leader lean into the table and systematically set up the table. Sam watched through two bodies the way the cross and skull were set and reminded himself to praise the kid - if Dean didn’t beat him to the ground for wasting his time - with his accuracy to the traditional ceremonial ways.
"Satan must be writhing on his fiery throne."
"Dean, shut up!" Sam breathed, holding back his laughter in failed attempts.
"I can’t stand this any longer," Dean muttered, jumping from the hiding spot while tipping over the crates. They clattered to the cement floor, causing the girls in the group to scream in fright and their screams intensified as Dean walked towards them with a raised gun.
Sam pushed himself from the tight space and ran after Dean. "Shit, Dean! Put the gun down!"
Dean looked back at Sam innocently and lowered his gun to his side. "Sorry, habit."
Sam nodded, breathing in deeply. "Sure," he muttered under his breath and turned to the petrified teenagers. "Look, you kids, you don’t know what you’re doing and we’re only here to stop you before you make a mistake."
"And fuck us all over," Dean added.
"Thanks for the unnecessary comment Dean," Sam said through gritted teeth. He fought back the urge to tear out his hair at Dean’s attitude towards the entire situation and the looks on the faces of the teenagers before him like they had been struck blind, deaf and stupid. "You don’t know what kind of… evil you’re putting yourself into and we’re just trying to stop you before you hurt yourselves."
"Also, you’re all really stupid and we like to obliterate stupid people, because it only puts a bad name on the human race," Dean added again, nodding his head earnestly.
"Dean! Shut up!" Sam hissed.
"No! We will summon the dark archangels!" cried the leader. Sam could tell he was the persistent type and wouldn’t back down easily from his escapade.
Dean rolled his head back, sighing deeply. "Look you little twerp, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. I know what I’m doing because I’ve been doing it for years and all you do is prance around in a blanket and shout out Latin that could be anything."
"I have done my research," the leader muttered darkly, his accent slipping through more heavily.
"Right, you have. Fine, say a summoning charm in Latin. I want to see the earth split open and for the fires of Hell to bring Satan to my face," Dean ordered, stepping towards the table. The rest of the group scattered, retreating into the shadows. "I’ve been meaning to have a chat with him."
"Dean," Sam warned.
The leader looked Dean intently in the eye before nodding and raising his hands to the ceiling. Dean leaned on the table, a shit-eating grin of utter superiority and cockiness etched on his face. The leader began his chant, speaking in what seemed perfect Latin, the words rolling off his lips like he had been speaking it all his life – Dean didn’t seem to notice in the moment of upgrading his ego.
Sam listened to the incantation, racking his brain for the familiarity of it. Suddenly, his lips were mouthing the words along with the leader and he remembered reading the summoning charm somewhere in his past. His eyes grew wider as the leader’s voice grew louder and closer to the end of the chant and he saw the look of panic on Dean’s face.
"Dean! Run!" Sam shouted as something solid contacted with his head and the world went black.
- - -
Sam woke up with the intense fear of choking on his tongue and threw himself into a sitting position. The blood rushed back to his head and he felt the sharp throbs at the back of his neck and groaned. Something dark and fuzzy tickled his nose and he brushed it off, more worried about his head being split open.
"Dean? Where are you?" Sam called out into the empty warehouse. Another dark and fuzzy something blew past his ear and he angrily swatted it away.
"By the table." Dean’s voice sounded broken and hoarse. "Hell, Sammy, what was that?"
Sam crawled onto his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it, but it only made the throbbing worse. "A real demonic summoning. Or a damn good attempt at one."
"You’re kidding me right?" Dean asked. "Shit, kids these days. What happened to swimming in the creek and spending nights on the hoods of cars?"
"Dean, we never did that," Sam pointed out, his breathing shaky and uneven. His arms barely held up his weight and he was too timid to check if there was a puddle of blood where his head used to lay.
Dean paused before answering. "Yeah, but we’re different."
"Dean, where the hell are you?" Sam bit out hotly.
"By the table!" Dean shouted back just as hotly.
Sam blew another dark fuzzy from his face as he used photographic memory to feel his way around the floors. His knee bumped into the leg of the table, his hand grazed shards of the now shattered skull and his right leg was soaked with someone else’s blood.
"Did you have to break everything on your way down?" Sam asked as he felt something warm and moving beneath his fingers. He ran his hands along the shaking body, hoping it was his brother’s and not one of the Satanic summoners. "Dean?"
"Dude, your hand’s a little close to the unmentionables," Dean whispered after a moment of silence.
Sam quickly drew his hand away, feeling a hot blush burn his cheeks. "Sorry."
There was much grunting in front of him and as Sam’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw the outline of Dean and… something sticking off his back. Something that wasn’t there before. Sam reached out tentatively, clawing blindly in the dark until his hands were met with hard bone and a smooth surface. He squeezed, unsure, and felt the foreign object ripple beneath his fingers.
"Hey!" Dean gasped. "What are you doing?"
Sam fell back his hands, mouth hitting his chest as he stared at the moving silhouette of his brother. "It can’t be…"
"What?" Dean demanded, spinning to face Sam. His eyes shone brighter in the dark then normal. Sam choked on his own breath. "What is it?"
"Wings," Sam whispered as he grabbed at a stark black feather floating by his face. "You have wings."
- - -
They managed to get to the hotel without anyone seeing them, which was a good thing, considering Dean had sprouted a pair of black angel wings. They weren’t large and fairly easy to conceal, but Sam was still worried. He had every right to be.
"Wings," Dean said for the umpteenth time since they had gotten back. "I have wings."
Sam moaned into his pillow, shaking his head. He was still amazed and slightly peeved at the fact that Dean was only worried for two minutes before finding out that his wings twitched every time he walked and became completely absorbed in trying to make them move at his will.
Dean twisted his body, admiring his bare back and small black wings in the full length mirror. "Think I can fly?"
"I don’t know," Sam groaned. "I’m more concerned on getting rid of them."
"Get rid of them?" Dean repeated, spinning around to face Sam. "Now wait a minute! Let’s give these babies a chance." Dean fingered one of his wings, smiling broadly. "Who knows? They might not be so bad."
"Dean, you have wings," Sam hissed. "Wings belong on birds, not on humans. It’s not normal."
Dean sighed, looking back into the mirror, a look of desperate longing in his eyes which were no longer the bright, exuberant hazel-green Sam had become so accustomed to, but a vivid blue that had the darkness of an ocean and the lightness of a clear spring sky. Sam was unnerved looking into them; the seemed to hold more depth than the others – like they hid more secrets, taunting Sam to find them out.
"I know, it’s just that…"
"Just what?" Sam prompted.
"They’re so cool!" Dean whined. "Imagine how awesome I’d look in leather. Like a post-Apocalypse James Dean –"
"Dean, no. You can’t keep them! You won’t be able to do anything if you keep them and I don’t know if they’ll grow or not."
Dean glared at Sam, his wings rustling behind him. A few feathers came loose and fluttered to the floor and Sam bit his lip.
"Oh, sweet!" Dean exclaimed, instantly forgetting his anger and the logical look on the situation that Sam was trying to make him see. He looked back in the mirror, rolled his shoulders causing the wings flap slightly. "Sam! Check this out!" Dean did it again and Sam buried his face back in the pillow.
- - -
A few days later, Sam left the room for fifteen minutes to grab some Chinese take-out and get away from Dean’s constant ogling and he came back to Dean writhing, stomach to the floor and his face contorted in a mixture of agony, pain and other emotions Sam couldn’t seem to place.
Dean was screaming, nails digging into the carpet as his legs thrashed against the bed, the floor, the table. Sam dropped the food on the floor, sauce and noodles exploding onto the carpet, and fell to his knees by Dean, hands hovering over his body helplessly.
"Dean, I –"
"Please Sam, please make it stop!"
Sam didn’t know how to react to the wetness that rimmed the edge of his brother’s glimmering eyes; in a vain attempt to be helpful, he pushed his hand in the middle of Dean’s back, between the shoulder blades. Dean screamed louder, curling his hands into fists and Sam fell back on his heels as though he had burned Dean with his touch.
"I don’t know how to make it go away!" Sam didn’t even know what it was.
Dean groaned coarsely, cheeks stained with hot tears and his stomach arched off the floor. Sam watched as trickles of blood seeped from the root of the onyx wings and ruffled feathers poked through the skin and it was painful just to watch. The already formed feathers quivered as they went from the middle of Dean’s back to the edge of his jeans, grazing across freckled skin. Sam let out shaky breaths as Dean relaxed back into the floor, his eyes hooded and dark. His fingers unclasped the carpet, his legs sprawled out and the wings rested lazily against his back.
"Dean?" Sam whispered, his hand reaching out to Dean’s shoulder.
"M’okay," Dean mumbled, smiling weakly at Sam. "M’okay now."
Sam nodded, swallowing the large lump that had formed in his throat. His hand wiped at the trickle of blood – Dean’s blood, Dean’s own blood – running from the root of the wings. The feathers shook and smoothed themselves out into perfect formation and Sam watched with sick amazement as they stretched out, fanning a good five feet into the air before falling back to lay against Dean’s sweat-soaked flesh.
- - -
"Do they still hurt?"
Dean shook his head, taking a sip of coffee from the cup Sam had handed to him. "A little uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t handle."
Sam looked at his open hands. "It scared me Dean, the wings growing."
"Why?" Dean asked, eyebrows furrowed.
Sam looked at his brother, but was quickly distracted by his wings spreading in and out, in sync with Dean’s breathing.
"It looked painful," Sam admitted. "I didn’t know what was happening to you."
Dean rolled his shoulders, his wings instantly falling still. "I don’t think it’ll happen again."
"We have to find out what’s going on with you Dean," Sam suggested through dry lips. He looked away, back to his hands, unable to meet Dean’s unfamiliar gaze. "It could happen again."
Dean shrugged, taking another sip from his coffee. "If it happens again."
- - -
They left Texas for Arizona before Dean’s wings could hand out anything else unexpected and they got to big to fit into the Impala. Sam didn’t bother looking for another lead – he just wanted a place where he had enough time to think and give Dean enough room.
"I need to spread my wings," Dean said with a casual smirk, "no pun intended."
"Right, no pun," Sam replied with a nauseating dread of reality as he started the Impala and pulled out of the hotel parking lot, glad for the black interior of the car that could cover most of Dean’s abnormality.
"Besides the excruciating pain I feel when they grow – which will not happen again – they’re actually kind of fun." Dean picked off a feather and blew it in Sam’s face.
Sam waved his wand, pushing the feather away and scratched irritably at his nose. "Stop it."
Dean laughed, staring out the window and settling back into the passenger’s seat with a rustle of his wings.
"You’ve become adjusted to them fast," Sam pointed out after awhile.
Dean shrugged. "It’s like it was programmed into my brain – like breathing. Second nature almost."
Sam nodded, not sure he really understood. "Do you know if you can fly?"
"Not sure. It’d be cool though." Dean smiled broadly, blue eyes flashing with jubilance; it was taking Sam longer to get used to blue eyes instead of hazel-green ones staring back at him then the growth of black and fuzzy feathers sprouting from Dean’s back. It was harder to read Dean with different eyes – Sam felt like he was loosing bits and pieces of Dean slowly.
"Yeah." Sam ran his hands along the wheel of the Impala, concentrating on the road ahead.
"Don’t worry," Dean cooed, patting Sam’s shoulder. "I’ll take you for a ride."
"Whatever," Sam said with a chuckle. "Freak."
Sharp bone and a flutter of feathers clipped Sam around the back of his head and he really wasn’t expecting Dean to have that much control over his wings just yet.
Dean let out a triumph cry of idyllic laughter at the look of shock on Sam’s face.
- - -
"Phone Dad," Dean suggested.
"What for? There’s nothing in his journal and everything he knows is in his journal," Sam pointed out, slamming the journal to the table and causing Dean’s bottom feathers to ruffle out of place in the breeze.
Dean frowned. "He hasn’t been able to write in it for awhile Sam, maybe he learned something. Maybe it was something he didn’t think should be written in the journal."
Sam sighed, his shoulders heaving in defeat. "I dunno. He may not answer."
"Dude, I want to fly," Dean pressed. "Find out what the fuck is wrong with me so I can take you for a ride."
Sam stared at his brother for a moment, smooth and cocky in his position on the bed, wings spread out beside him. He was wearing nothing but a pair of black silk boxers and Sam had to roll his eyes at how his brother coordinated his clothing – even his damn underwear – to his wings. Like they were an accessory, not a burden or a threat.
"Fine," Sam mumbled, giving in. "I’ll call him. And if I do get him, what do I tell him?"
Dean thought for a moment, rocking his hips from side to side. Sam licked his lips with a sudden hunger that unsettled him.
"That I got in the line of fire of a really bad Latin incantation and grew myself a pair of wings."
Sam shrugged. "Good enough," he mumbled, flipping open his cell phone and running down the list of contacts until he found his dad’s. "Here goes nothing. I’m dialing."
"Do you really have to commentate on everything you do?" Dean muttered, scratching obscenely close to his groin, silk fabric catching higher on his leg, and Sam felt something white-hot coil in his stomach. "Are you going to tell me when you take a piss or when you’re walking somewhere?"
Sam didn’t answer, but let the phone ring. He didn’t expect his dad to pick up, so when a husky voice said "Hello" into the phone, Sam waited for the rest of the answering machine message to play out.
"Hello?" John asked.
Sam swallowed his surprise. "Dad? You’re actually answering?"
Dean sat up in the bed, his wings gracefully fanning out behind him – all show. Sam hoped Dean would go to hell for the torture he unknowingly put on Sam day in and day out. Sam shifted in his seat to avoid Dean’s penetrating stares.
John let out a huff of indignation and Sam mumbled a hasty apology before John went on. "What’s it that you need?"
"Uh." It was difficult to find the words. "We kind of stumbled across a demon summoning and we didn’t really take in any precautions because it was just a bunch of kids and Dean egged the leader on and then… well, now he can fly."
Sam heard something clatter and a string of curses in the distance – John had evidently dropped the phone.
"He what?" John yelled into the phone after he had picked it back up.
"He can fly. We think. We haven’t tried it yet."
"You’re planning on trying?"
"Dean is!" Sam corrected, defending himself.
"Jesus! Going into a summoning without being prepared is just stupid," John hissed.
"That’s what I said," Sam muttered darkly, giving Dean a quick glare over his shoulder. "But he has the wings and we need to get rid of them."
"Obviously," John replied. "What are they like?"
"Black and smooth," Sam explained before he realized he was still watching Dean over his shoulder. He cleared his throat. "Uh, they, um – they used to be two or three feet long, but they grew yesterday and now they’re close to four or five feet."
John inhaled sharply between his teeth. "They grew? Christ."
"Yeah. It’s… pretty painful for him," Sam muttered in a quiet voice. "We don’t know if it’ll happen again."
"It probably will," John assured.
"What?" Sam blurted. "Dad, what’s going to happen to him?"
There was silence. "I don’t know Sammy. They usually grow to their full size and fall out."
"How’d you know this?"
"Word of mouth, but that doesn’t matter. Sam, do you remember if the summoner said anything unusual? Anything important to the summoning?"
Sam rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands. A TV family sitcom blared behind him and he resisted looking back at Dean, black and white in a blue haze, because it would only tempt the hungry beast inside him, which was clawing desperately at his stomach to be released. "Yeah, he said something about dark archangels."
"Don’t know much about those," John admitted. "I suggest looking for someone who does know about it and ask what’ll happen. Do you remember the incantation?"
"A little, yeah. I’ve heard it before and I knew it wasn’t going to be good, though I didn’t know what it really did," Sam explained, closing his legs when he felt Dean’s wings brush against his shoulders and Dean’s warm skin press close to his arm.
"Okay, remember it and write it down – this person, if you find them, will probably need it," John ordered sternly.
"Can I talk to him?" Dean whispered in Sam’s ear, warm breath snaking across his cheek. Sam shuddered involuntarily and he felt his brother smile, like he knew what he was doing to Sam and enjoyed it.
"Okay. Uh, Dean wants to talk to you," Sam murmured, pushing Dean away roughly with one hand.
"Alright," John said with an exasperated sigh and Sam gladly handed over the phone to Dean before rushing to the bathroom.
"Jesus Christ," Sam moaned, fingernails gouging the wall behind him. A lone feather rested on the sink, depicting Sam’s immoral hunger and need for it’s owner.
- - -
Dean stood over Sam late in the afternoon while he was sleeping, running the tips of his wings across Sam’s naked stomach. Sam rolled away, pushing his hips into the mattress so Dean wouldn’t have to witness his unworldly sin of imagining his brother naked, black wings spread around in a way that made Sam grind deeper into the blankets.
Sam definitely wasn’t going to admit that he had gotten hard off of it too.
"Let’s go out," Dean suggested brightly, still running his feathers across Sam’s back.
"Where?" Sam moaned into the blankets, kicking Dean’s wings away. "Why?"
"I wanna scare some people," Dean admitted sheepishly. Sam heard his footsteps retreat and he lifted his head from the blankets, still half-asleep and fully hard. He just needed to get to the bathroom, because he wasn’t going to jerk off in front of his brother, no matter how close they had become over the last few months.
"Dean, I’m not taking you outside," Sam grumbled.
"Oh com’n! It’d be funny to see all the people walking by… imagine what the looks on their faces would be," Dean called from the bathroom and Sam knew he was clear out of luck in finding a place to privately and fully get rid of the angry beast writhing in his stomach. "I could pretend I was Death or something."
"That’s not funny," Sam answered blandly.
"Fine. I’ll be your evil minion and whisper Latin their ears."
"That’s weird."
"Predict the end of the world –"
"No."
"– send messages to doomed souls from Satan or God –"
"No."
"– sacrifice your first born child to live!" Dean finished with a mocking voice.
"That’s morbid!" Sam laughed sleepily rolling over onto his back, bringing the blankets around his waist for extra protection.
"Pay you money?" Dean offered leaning out the door and wiggling his eyebrows.
Sam contemplated the idea. "It’d be nice, but no."
Dean glowered. "Dude, you suck."
"Mhmm." Sam leaned back into the bed comfortably when he heard the bathroom door close and the water pipes creak from lack of use as they turned on. He heard Dean’s belt buckle hit the linoleum and he gasped, hips bucking unwillingly at the imagery of naked Dean, wings brushing up against tanned skin.
"Oh God," Sam breathed out, his hand sneaking under his boxers and wrapping around his cock. He was jerking and thrusting into his hand before he could stop himself, thumb flicking over the head and pre-come spilling over his fingers. He began moving quicker, pulling and tugging harder, and he was panting, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his hips thrust into his hand with each jerk. His wrist was aching from the way he was positioned, but he didn’t stop as he felt the edge of an orgasm creeping up on him. His heels dug into the mattress as his free hand gathered damp sheets between his fingers and he bit back a scream.
"Fuck," Sam muttered over slick lips as he rubbed his thumb over the head and fisted himself three more times before coming all over his hand and boxers. He let his head drop onto the pillow and felt his tense legs loosen while he tenderly moved his hand from underneath his boxers.
Sam only felt slightly better, slightly more relieved. But when he saw Dean walk out of the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his hips and the wings shaking away droplets of water… something about Dean’s wings left Sam feeling violently sick.
- - -
The battery in the laptop had died forcing Sam to use the stone-age Apple computers at the local library. He felt uneasy leaving Dean alone in the motel room – "What if the maid comes by?" "I’ll tell her she only has five days to live." – but after Dean had fully convinced him he wouldn’t starve to death, Sam took the Impala to the library to find someone more experienced in the area.
Taking his dad’s advice, Sam searched professors of demonology online when the computer finally loaded. He didn’t want to trust the names he found and the addresses he wrote down – what if they thought he was playing a joke? What if they got scared and ignored him? Would he ever be able to get rid of Dean’s wings?
After hours of searching – Sam vowed to never let his battery die in the laptop again – Sam came away with four reliable names and left the library as dusk settled in across the town.
When he got back to the room, Dean was standing in front of the mirror again, admiring himself. Sam rolled his eyes, setting the list of names on the table and pulled off his jacket.
"Can’t get enough of yourself, Dean?" Sam asked with a hint of humor in his voice.
Dean shook his head, turning around. His fingers were spread out across his bare stomach and Sam stiffened. "Look at me," Dean whispered. He ran his hands across his chest, fingers tracing invisible outlines of jagged circles. "Look at me."
"What?" Sam stepped closer, pulling away Dean’s hands. He squinted in the dim light, trying to find what Dean was worried about.
"My skin, look at my skin," Dean murmured, his voice frantic and high.
Sam ran his fingers lightly over Dean’s bare chest; his fingers shook when they contacted with Dean’s skin. "I can’t –" Then Sam saw it – a thin flap of skin peeling away from Dean’s body, hanging loose and carefree. Sam pulled at it and the strip of flesh widened further down his brother’s body, revealing snowy white skin below.
Sam stood up, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. All over Dean – his face, his arms, his legs – skin was falling off his body. Beautiful freckles torn in two, tanned skin fading and crumbling to reveal the skin below.
"I’m changing," Dean mumbled as tears spilled down his face. "Sammy, why am I changing?"
- - -
That night, Sam wrote to the four professors, hoping they could do something. He didn’t sleep all night, having to tend to Dean’s changing body since his transformation became more uncomfortable as the night went on and his skin fell off more rapidly, sometimes bleeding at the seams of the tears. Every time Sam would touch a new patch of skin it would instantly bruise red, causing Dean to hiss between clenched teeth and push his hand away.
Sam e-mailed the letters, hoping they wouldn’t find it a practical joke or be frightened by the situation. He rubbed his face roughly when the last letter was sent and looked at Dean lying on the bed, wet clothes stolen from the maid’s basket covering his body. It seemed to help a little with the discomfort, but his arm was glowing red from the Sam’s fingers. Dean stared blankly at the roof, his hands clamped to his sides and his wings ruffled and dull.
"Dean," Sam said, pushing himself from the chair, kneeling on the bed.
"Don’t," Dean snapped, his eyes never leaving the ceiling.
Sam was apprehensive to the prospect of having to take care of the brother who always looked after him. He couldn’t seem to comprehend Dean being vulnerable and weak and it made Sam want to fall to his knees and cry. The world was quickly turning on him and he wasn’t ready for it.
- - -
Dean’s skin was a semi-translucent white the next morning. His freckled skin lay in clumps beside him and Sam silently picked up the last pieces of Dean that actually held who he was to the naked eye and threw them into the garbage.
- - -
The first two replies to his e-mails told him that it was funny joke, ha ha, but never contact them again or they would get the authorities involved. Sam knew they were definitely over-reacting – though it wasn’t entirely inhuman – and probably had ten-foot I-have-a-Harvard-degree pole shoved up their ass. Sam may have over-reacted too, but he wasn’t one to admit it.
The third reply to his e-mail told him he was crazy and to find some psychiatric help immediately, but praised him on the research and his excellent skill in Photoshop, as Sam had sent along a photo of Dean with his wings. Sam considered replying, but thought it would only be wasting his time.
The fourth reply requested they meet somewhere in private – the professor would drive down to wherever they were – and take a good look at the situation in person. Sam immediately replied back, thanking the man and giving him directions to the town and motel.
Dean asked Sam after what was happening to him and Sam replied with a half-confident smile, "We’ll know soon."
- - -
Professor Call-Me-Scott Westley was an odd looking professional, even if it was in demonology. Dean expected a fifty-something crackpot with mad scientist hair and coke-bottle glasses while Sam was looking for a middle-aged man with neatly slicked back hair, a traveling case and stern look on things. What they got was a freshly graduated Ivy Leaguer dressed in khaki shorts, a polo t-shirt and a worn duffel bag flung over his shoulder. He smiled warmly, all straight white teeth, and introduced himself as Sam let him in.
"So, this is him?" Scott asked, pointing to Dean who stood in the corner, poking at his new skin in the mirror.
Dean looked over his shoulder, eyes now a darkened blue. His wings rustled nervously as Scott set down his bag. His skin showed signs of obvious bruising – from where Sam had clutched onto his arms too tight – and new circles formed from where Sam had ran his fingers across Dean’s body.
But where Dean touched, nothing appeared.
"That’s Dean," Sam affirmed.
"Interesting," Scott mumbled, taking in an eyeful of Dean. Sam felt slightly jealous, but he told his inner beast to shut the hell up and pay attention. "You mentioned in your reply that you remember the curse said?"
"Most of it, yeah."
Scott nodded slowly. "And who was it that said the incantation?"
Dean and Sam looked at each other. "Well, we really don’t know," Sam explained.
"He was just a kid," Dean muttered, as though it made it worse that he was peeling skin because of a teenager.
"Most have been some pretty dark stuff if it could do this," Scott said, walking to Dean. He barely stood at Dean’s shoulders but looked up with hard confidence and reached out to the closest wing. "May I?"
"Go right ahead," Dean replied, looking at Sam with raised eyebrows.
"You’ve said they have grown?" Scott asked after running a hand down the length of the wing span. "And that his skin was peeling?" Scott looked back to Dean, eyebrows raised in speculation. "Bruising on the new skin also? Just from human touch?"
Sam nodded. "His eyes changed color too."
Dean gave Sam a confused stare and Sam looked away, embarrassed.
"Repeat the curse to me," Scott ordered, still staring at Dean’s wings as they fanned out and rustled at his touch.
Sam repeated what he could remember in English – just in case he said the whole thing and gave someone the same fate as Dean – without choking on his own saliva and having to watch Dean’s eyes dart between Scott and Sam. Scott was at first complacent, then shocked and finally his eyes grew heavy and dark, shaking his head.
"It was a summoning?" Scott asked, cutting Sam off.
"I – yeah, it was," Sam mumbled.
"A summoning of dark archangels, by any chance?"
Sam shuffled his feet, not liking the look on Scott’s young face. "Yeah."
"Dean," Scott said heavily, making Dean jump restlessly, "you have been touched by something very dark. The incantation that was said to you was only meant for the most malevolent of human beings and was a punishment back in the fourteen and fifteen hundreds for the sinners of the Church. The… the sinner would go through an unbearable transformation –"
"Already knew that much," Dean muttered hotly, wincing as his fingers brushed across the black and blue imprint of Sam’s fingers.
"– over a few weeks and at the end of the transformation, the person would be…" Scott paused – for a dramatic effect or because he was actually feeling sorry for Dean’s destiny, Sam didn’t know, but it did its job.
"Would be what?" Dean demanded.
Sam was lost for words, because he knew it wouldn’t be good.
"The person would be destined to serve as one of Satan’s archangels in Hell," Scott finished, looking down at his feet.
A heavy silence filled the room and then Dean broke it with deep, roaring laughter. "That’s bullshit!"
"You call this bullshit?" Scott inquired, tugging at Dean’s wings. "You will not get out of this unless you die before the transformation is complete."
Dean’s mouth opened and closed, his eyes dancing with laughter. He looked from the professor to Sam, searching for the reason to this practical joke. Scott stared at him, eyes doing all the convincing. Sam couldn’t look directly at Dean, so he feigned it and stared at the wall instead.
Dean stammered, eyes growing wide. "I – what will happen to me?" Dean asked in quiet voice.
Scott shrugged. "No one really knows. You’re just taken away."
"He’s going to die?" Sam’s voice pitched in the middle.
"No, he’ll never die," Scott said, looking at Dean with lidded eyes. "When it’s over, he’ll be immortal. By the looks of things, he’s already getting close to being that way."
"I’m never going to die?" Dean whispered.
- - -
Sam knew Dean was afraid of never dying – it was odd, since most people were afraid to die, but in the case of the middle Winchester, Sam knew his brother was the kind of person who just wanted his life to end. Dean knew his life was complete and not much else could be done or said to make him want to stay longer; there’s no point in his eyes. But it’s the fear of watching others grow old around and die that made Dean afraid of the never-ending. Sam was more afraid of what the never-ending offered, because he was still dubious as to what lay beyond.
Dean made it clear that he didn’t want to go, because he wasn’t going to see his end. When he said it, though, Sam could see something else in his eyes that said there was something more to the reason he never wanted to die.
- - -
The skin tore, blood gushed from his shoulder bones as more crimson-soaked feathers grew from Dean’s back. He didn’t scream of thrash, but sat perfectly still, his fingernails digging into his thighs as Sam cut off the broken skin with a pair of tiny scissors.
Sam couldn’t keep up with the blood spilling from Dean’s shoulders, so he let it fall, staining his legs and the bed. The wings shook as they stretched over the bed, growing to an amazing ten feet in length. The newest feathers were covered in sticky hot blood that wasn’t there the first time and Sam didn’t know if he could watch this happen to Dean all over again.
"Are you okay?" Sam whispered, closing his eyes as he snipped away the last flap of thick skin.
Dean bit his bottom lip and shook his head.
Sam pressed his face into Dean’s back, breathing deep and slow, the blood and sweat sticking to his cheek. Dean didn’t move as Sam twisted his head to kiss a trail from his neck to the middle of his back. Sam let his body wrap around Dean’s, pressing close as he rested his lips on the dip where Dean’s head and shoulder connected.
"I don’t want you to go," Sam mumbled into Dean, feeling the tears prick at his eyes. "Not now."
"I know Sammy," Dean whispered breathlessly. "You know – you know that I won’t leave you."
Sam nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing deeply.
Somehow, Dean turned around and had Sam pinned against the headboard in a second and their mouths were connected, tongues darting in and out with a flurry of elongated hunger and need. Sam ran his hands down Dean’s chest and up his back, hands slick with blood. Sam forgot to breathe, caught up in Dean’s mouth and Dean’s body and Dean’s hips pressing roughly into his. Sam nipped and licked at Dean’s lips, searching for his brother beneath the unfamiliar white skin and blue eyes. He knew Dean was there and when Dean’s palms pressed down roughly on his hips, Sam knew he had never left. But he had to make sure they never left each other again. He pressed his hips up into Dean’s, inviting him to do whatever he wanted.
"Don’t leave me," Sam muttered into Dean’s lips as he pulled away, letting the tears fall from his eyes. "Please don’t."
- - -
Dean was gentle the first time. He didn’t move too fast and or do anything unexpected. He moved with a certain grace and ease, though his face told a much different story. He tried not to give too much away as he held Sam in his arms and whispered nonsense in his ear to distract from the sharp stab of pain in each thrust.
Sam clutched onto Dean and never wanted to let go, fingers still bruising the pale skin. He didn’t look at Dean, because he couldn’t bear to see his brother like that. It was sickening and Sam felt feathers float across his face and it only made him want Dean more.
They both came at the same time in a mixture of sweat and heat – they both choked out each other’s names at the same time. Sam’s arms instantly wrapped around Dean’s neck, pulling him flush to his chest and breathing in salt and sweat.
It’s quick and gentle the first time. It would’ve been longer if they knew it was the last time.
"Still wanna take me for that ride?" Sam mumbled into Dean’s ear, plucking a feather from the wing and holding it like it was priceless and fragile in his open hand.
Dean paused, looking at Sam, running his hand down Sam’s side. "Sure."
- - -
"I’m going for a fly," Dean announced, rolling out of bed the next day. His wings were askew and dull, and his pale skin glistened with dampness.
Sam looked up from the tangle of bed sheets. "Where?" he asked groggily.
"Grand Canyon. People always talk about how great it is." Dean flashed a smile. "I bet its better from hundreds of feet above."
"How do you know you can even fly?" Sam groaned, swinging his legs over the bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"That’s why I have to try!" Dean called, slamming the motel room door behind him.
- - -
Dean looked down at the enormous dip in the earth, hands on his hips. "Well, it’s definitely grand."
"It’s a freaking hole in the ground. We could see those on highways, Dean," Sam bit out. There were no tourists, no visitors, not even staff – Sam looked at the broken gate and sighed. The sun was barely rising over the jagged rocks of the Grand Canyon.
Dean shook his finger at Sam, laughing. "Ah, but no! This is the Grand Canyon!"
"Right," Sam grumbled.
"Com’n," Dean said, grabbing Sam’s wrist and pulling him close. "I’m taking you for a ride."
"What?" Sam screamed out as Dean pushed him closer to the edge of the gaping crater. "Have you lost it? What if you can’t fly?"
"Then we die together," Dean said matter-of-factly. "Hold on!"
Sam barely had his arms wrapped around Dean’s waist, his face pushed close to Dean’s thumping chest, when he was pushed off the edge of the cliff and felt himself falling; his life flashed before his eyes and Sam knew for sure he was going to die. Then there was a whoosh of air filling his ears and he stalled in the air, his body jolting to the force of gravity.
"Open your eyes Sammy!" Dean called into his ear.
Sam slowly opened his eyes, staring down at sparse rocks and tiny streams below. A strong sense of vertigo hit him like a tidal wave and he tried to scramble up Dean’s body. "Holy shit!"
"I’m flying, Sam! I’m flying!" Dean looked up at his wings, which spanned across the open sky, an omen against the mixture of orange and reds. His skin glowed with the morning sunrise, flashing different colors off the bruises and red spots – it was hauntingly beautiful, but Sam still couldn’t help but miss the Dean he once knew. "Can you believe it?"
Sam wrapped his arms tighter around Dean, burying his face into his shoulder as Dean took off across the canyon, fingers clasped tightly to Sam, silently promising to never let him go. Promising to never leave.
- - -
When most people promise something, they don’t ever really get around to keeping it. They let it slip and fall between their grasp, like soft sand in a child’s loosely cupped hand. And when you try to get the same pieces back again, it will never be the way it was the first time.
Sam could’ve been angry at Dean for not keeping his promise. It was Dean – Dean Winchester, the man who Sam had come to known as the only person to keep all his promises – even if they seemed entirely impossible to keep. But he couldn’t bring up enough hate to make his blood boil as Dean was dragged out of bed, kicking and screaming for Sam to save him.
"I don’t want to go! Don’t let them take me!" he pleaded as two hooded demons clasped tight onto his arms. "Sam! Help me!"
Sam tried to move from the bed, but he was pinned down, an invisible force holding him back. He thrashed his legs and arms, but they only moved inches off the bed. His body arched at the pressure and he cried out in agony as the demons turned Dean to face them and drew their ragged capes around him.
Red eyes gleamed in the dark and one smiled toothlessly in Sam’s direction.
"NO!" Sam screamed as Dean made one final attempt to free himself and disappeared into a haze of blue smoke. "DEAN!"
One black feather landed on Sam’s arm as he threw himself out of bed in a mess of blankets and bed sheets, screaming for his brother to never leave.
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1shotjunkie) wrote,
cranky
