Category/Rated: Slash, R
Year/Length: 2007/ ~8800 words
Spoilers: Through end of season two
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Wincest, language
Summary: It was his favorite shirt. Of course it was. Torn to shreds, along with his leather jacket, which groaned in protest before ripping apart at the seams. And suddenly, the street that had been so goddamn noisy, was utterly and completely silent.
Author's Notes: Written for the spn_boc fic community. And cause I'm just not right. Not in the head, anyway. The last section is in fact based completely off some artwork from marysue007
Beta: marysue007, who is pretty much utterly responsible for this fic in every single way.
Audio Version: read by dodificus [m4b]
Audio Version: read by dodificus [mp3]
Dean thinks he was six years old the first time it happened. He's not completely sure, because his memories are barely formed that far back, and he has trouble remembering things in linear form, anyway. But he knows that it wasn't long after John started hunting, and that Sam was already toddling around and talking, even if mostly all he said at that point was: Dean, no, vroom, and give. Maybe he was five.
He does remember pulling up in front of the huge, old stone church on a hot, clear skied morning. He remembers working his way through the words on the sign in the parking lot, naming this fortress of gray stone and stained glass the Holy Mother Mary Episcopal Reformed Church of Our Lord.
He remembers John looking at him, all tired eyes and a week old beard, saying, "I'm going to go check this guy out, see if he's the real deal. You wait here with your brother till I come back, okay?" Dean had nodded, unclipping Sam's baby harness, hoping that his brother would sleep a little longer. "What are you going to do, Dean?"
"Wait here for you," he remembers trying very hard not to roll his eyes because John had considered that backtalk and that wasn't acceptable. John had nodded then, actually smiled, ruffled his hair and locked the door behind him.
Dean remembers sprawling across the seat beside Sam, feeling the summer sun seeping into his skin till he felt like he was burning. He must have fallen asleep, lulled by the thick air inside the car, the hot sun, the fact that he doesn't remember ever sleeping the whole night through, because he remembers startling awake to Sammy tugging on his face urgently.
His baby brother had been about an inch from his face, eyes huge and moist, hair plastered against his forehead in tight, wet curls. He'd said, "Give, Dean." Dean doesn't even have to remember that, because that was about all Sam said until he was four. Give had been his request for food, water, attention, sleep, any and everything.
Dean remembers that it was hot in the car, the kind of hot that made you dizzy, that made all your clothes stick to your skin, and made everything look like it was shimmering. It hadn't been hard to figure out that Sam was thirsty, and Dean remembers swallowing around his own dry tongue, and thinking that he really, really shouldn't get out of the car.
He did anyway. Somehow John had never figured out that even if he had the doors all locked the rear passenger door would open if you tugged sharp on the handle three times and then wiggled it. Dean remembers sliding off of the sticky leather, and thinking that the air outside the car was a lot cooler than inside and not understanding why.
The doors to the church had been huge and heavy, old stained wood, and Dean had almost given up pushing them open when Sam had put his fat little hands against the door and shoved. It still took everything Dean had to force it open, but it was cool and dark and worth it inside.
Dean knows that the church itself was beautiful, dozens of additional visits through the years have reassured him of that, but he hadn't noticed that day. All that had mattered was the trickle of water he could hear in the expanse of marble, wood, and glass. Sammy's hand was wet and tiny in his, and Sam had been quiet and wide eyed as they made their way through the aisles.
It had been the first time either of them had ever been in a church, and so really, when Dean had seen the ornate fountain, fed by a giant stone woman in long robes and with a serene expression on her face, all he saw was the water. Sam had looked up at him, apparently for permission, and asked, "Give?"
"Yeah, Sammy, knock yourself out."
Sammy had gone for it, plunging his arms into the water up to his elbows and slurping down handfuls of it. His face had been dripping and sweet when he looked up, all big huge eyes and sun burnt skin, sucking the water off of his fingers while he spoke, "Dean. Give." Dean can remember his little brother shoving him towards the fountain, can remember feeling a tingle across his skin where Sammy's wet hands had pressed.
He hadn't thought about it, had leaned over the water and broke the surface with his hands, raised the sweet, cool liquid to his lips and drank it down. He remembers hearing someone yelling, an unfamiliar voice that sounded angry and indignant, but it had seemed far away, fuzzy and unimportant. He remembers stumbling, suddenly unbalanced, feeling something swell up inside him and explode outwards. Remembers Sam reaching for him, chubby little arms, "Dean?"
Things happened all at once, then, like a car accident or a tornado. His head had jerked back, spine straightening and jerking without any input from him. He remembers hearing fabric tearing, and pain so intense it was almost pleasure, all in one white hot instant before it faded.
Someone had seized him by one of his elbow, jerked him back, and then let him go with a surprised shout of, "Christ!" He remembers Sammy toppling onto his back, mouth open in a huge 'O' of shock and awe. Mostly, though, he remembers a weight across his shoulders.
He remembers the stretch and pull of new–old muscles across his shoulders and down his back. Remembers concentrating on the itch across his shoulders and thinking that he could probably fly. He hadn't had to look, had just known that there were wings sprouting out of his shoulder blades, because at that moment they had always been there. He snapped them out, feeling like they'd been kept caged too long, stretched them out, as far and high as they'd go.
The man that grabbed him earlier made a choking sound behind him, and Dean remembers spinning to face him, snarling and defensive. Remembers dropping a wing in front of Sammy, who had clutched at the feathers, pressed his entire body into the cotton–white wing. Dean had jerked because it had felt weird, electric and tingly and they had never been touched before.
The man was on his knees, one hand closed tight around a string of beads, the other crossing his chest, over and over and over again. It was the first time Dean ever saw Pastor Jim, and the man had gasped up at him, "Oh, God, oh God, what are you?"
And then John had been there, skidding to a stop behind Jim, wide eyed, jaw tight. And all Dean could think to say, standing there under their scrutiny, Sam peeking out from behind his wings, was, "I'm sorry for leaving the car, Dad. I was thirsty. It was my fault."
John had started laughing, almost choking, completely red faced. It had not been the response Dean had been expecting.
They had taken him down into the church's basement, after that, a huge room full of guns and knives and thick old books. They'd set him on a table covered in old texts, and he'd automatically relaxed the wings to rest on either side of his thighs, tips dipping almost down to the ground. Pastor Jim had just stared at him the entire time, like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing and kept expecting it to change.
They had read at him from the old books for hours, long unfamiliar words that made Dean tingle underneath his skin. Kept asking him if it hurt, if it made him uncomfortable, anything, and looked a mix between confused and relieved when he assured them that it didn't. Sammy had disappeared, and came toddling back into sight a few minutes later hauling a stool that he propped up beside the table and managed to pull himself up beside Dean.
Instinct had made Dean lift one wing so that Sammy could press himself up against his side, then curl it back across his baby brother. He remembers listening to the adults with half an ear, mostly concentrating on tickling Sam with the tips of his feathers. Heard his father, "–ever heard of anything like this?"
"Nothing even close. There's only so many things with wings, John. And they're all born with them."
"Some kind of allergy, maybe?"
"People aren't allergic to holy water."
Sam had giggled then, grasping at the longer feathers, burying his face in the downy underside of the wing, and Dean had stopped paying attention. They didn't have a clue, anyway.
For three days they kept him in the church, jumping whenever the doors opened, terrified of anyone seeing him. It had nearly driven him crazy, being kept within the walls, under the ceiling, when he wanted nothing but open air, empty sky below him. John made him swear not to go outside, and so he stayed in, anxious and increasingly frustrated.
He couldn't fly inside. He can remember trying, remember standing before a statue of the crucifixion wings extending, beating them up and down. He'd get a few feet off the ground, glide, drop. It was impossible without open air to gain height and speed, without updrafts to support him.
Sammy had followed him around, fascinated and wide–eyed, grabbing handfuls of the feathers whenever he got the opportunity. Pastor Jim had lurked around as well, but always from a distance, always fingering his rosary. There was always a sort of hunger, desperation in his eyes and Dean never forgets that, all the long years they've know the other man.
On the fourth day he wakes up and the wings are gone, like they never were, and he can barely remember what it was like to have them. John decides they need to make sure it was the holy water that caused it, and so they make him drink another handful, and he ends up with wings for another three days.
Afterwards he can remember his father sitting down in front of him, serious as the grave, telling him, "You don't ever touch holy water again, Dean, you understand? Don't drink it. Don't touch it. Okay?"
Dean had agreed, of course he did, he always agreed with whatever his father told him to do.
Dean was twelve the next time it happened. He knows he was twelve because they were in Mexico, one of the few times they strayed south of the border, and Sam had a broken arm, which he had gotten when he was eight by falling out of a tree.
Sam had been in one of his ill–tempered moods, which were increasingly frequent the older he got. Pissed off first of all because he'd just found out exactly where all those credit cards in their father's wallet came from. Exacerbated by the fact that Sammy had wanted to go to some science camp thing over the summer and been denied so that they could hunt a pack of goddamn werewolves.
They had been hunting a week when John decided that they needed to refill their supply of holy water. It was no big deal, really, Dean knew how to collect it without getting any on himself, had perfected it all those years ago when the wings first happened. John dropped them off at the adobe church with six empty gallon bottles, saying he was going to get ammo and be back in half an hour.
Sammy had started bitching almost immediately, about how hot it was, how humid, how much he hated spicy food, how stupid it was that all the people here tried to touch Dean's hair all he time just because the sun had freaking bleached it out. Dean had nodded and hummed at what seemed to be appropriate points in his baby brother's rant, and thought little about it. It was part of the natural order of things.
Fire burned, ice froze, Sam bitched.
Sam crossed himself in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary, gave Dean a dirty look when he walked by without batting an eyelash in her direction. Dean stopped believing in God when he was four years old, and so far everything he'd seen in his life had only strengthened his resolve that he had the right idea. If John and Sam wanted to believe, then that was their concern, not his.
The font of the holy water is tiled, a mosaic of Christ being raised from the Jordon by John the Baptist. Dean dunked the top of the bottle, listened to the water pop and gurgle its way in, careful to keep his fingers well away from even a hint of moisture.
Sam took a moment longer, finishing his hail Mary or whatever the hell by the statue. He'd slammed his own bottle in when he finally did step over, splashing the water and Dean had flinched back out of habit. Never again, John had told him, and Dean did what his father said. Always.
There had been silence, nothing but the burbling of the water, and then Sam's voice, "This is stupid. We don't even know if holy water works against werewolves."
"You want us to wait, and find out that it does, and then not have any, Sammy?" His brother scowled, on par for the course with him since he was six years old.
"It's still stupid. We should just shoot it. That's all we need to do. Caleb said so. Dad could have done it himself, he didn't even need to bring us." Dean hadn't understood why Sam didn't want to come, why he never wanted to come along on hunts anymore, but he was far to tired to argue about it. Sometimes he doesn't think that he's slept since their mother died. Then. Now.
"Whatever. Is it so bad for him to want backup?" He pulled out his full bottle, wiped the mouth with the hem of his shirt and capped it. Sam grunted, noncommittally, set down his own bottle and grabbed another. Dean's was a quarter full when Sam slammed his into the water as hard as he could, splashed it up over both their hands. Dean's skin had pulsed, throbbed, and he'd heard himself yell, "Goddamnit, Sam," as he stumbled backwards.
Sam hadn't turned, of course, had just hunched his shoulders and scowled, "It's just water, Dean. Get over it. And don't swear in church, you idiot." And then he must have heard Dean's shirt tear, because he'd jerked his head up and spun around.
Dean had watched his brother's eyes go huge as saucers, watched him take a quick step backwards and bump into the font, watched him start to fall back into the water. It was instinct to lunge forward, to catch Sam by the shoulders and pull him close.
Sammy had flung his arms around him, hands shoving up into the mass of soft feathers where the wings sprouted from Dean's shoulders. Sam had ended up pressing his face into the worn cotton of Dean's shirt, squeezing Dean's ribs so tightly they started to creak. Sam's voice had been muffled when he said, "I...Dean, this happened before, didn't it? I remember this, don't I?"
"Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. When you were little." He had wrapped a loose arm around his brother's shoulders, surprised by the sudden affection. Sam had decided he was too grown up to hug when he was seven and spent too much time around his little friend Rodney in St. Louis. He had nuzzled against Dean then, in any case, and Dean had held him and curled his wings forward around his brother's shoulders, happy and warm.
Sam had been bright, even back then, had mumbled into Dean's chest, "The holy water?"
Dean had nodded, breathed in the soap and dust smell of his baby brother, hugged his bird thin body. That was how John had found them, fifteen minutes later when he stormed into the church because they were late meeting him in the parking lot. Their father hadn't had to say anything, had just stared, eyebrow raised in query, and Dean had been speaking, "I slipped. Sorry."
John had sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and turned back to the exit, "Just get the water. I'll be waiting."
Sam had stared the entire time, kept brushing against the wings till Dean had relented and draped one across his brother's shoulders. When they got out to the car, idling right outside the front doors, Sam demanded that Dean sit in the backseat with him for the first time in months. John had shrugged and so Dean had crawled in, and let Sam burrow in against his side and make himself comfortable.
The wings turned out to be a good thing three days later when they had finally managed to waste the werewolf. John had plugged it twice in the chest as it was fleeing the town they were staying in and they'd been left with the dead body of a prominent local citizen, the smoking gun that had killed him, and a mob of angry town's people drawn by the shots.
There had been torches and pitchforks and Dean had been having flashbacks to that Beauty and the Beast movie that Sam had made him watch the other day, about mobs and lynching and what kind of kids story was that anyway?
He had moved without thinking, shoving Sam back and stepping in front of John, snapping his wings out to their full span. It was the first time he had really realized how big they were, over twice as long as he was tall, over twice as big as they were last time he touched holy water.
The locals had paused, stared in shock, and John had taken the opportunity to grab Sam and tuck him under his arm, grab a handful of Dean's wing and drag them all over to the Impala. Sam had crowed as soon as the wheels were spinning, "Did you see their faces? Did you? Did you?"
John had said, "Don't you ever pull that shit again, Dean." Dean had pretended that his father's voice wasn't shaking.
The next morning the wings had been gone. John had been relieved, Sam had been disappointed, and Dean had forgotten what they were like immediately after they were gone.
It didn't happen again for sixteen years. So long that Dean had almost forgotten why he didn't touch holy water, nothing but a vague memory of unfamiliar coiled strength and soft white. Really, he found the whole thing unbelievable, going sixteen years without sprouting wings from his shoulders and then a week after selling his soul to a devil having them pop out.
They had been tracking the demon horde that had escaped when the gates to hell had been pried open, had averaged two exorcisms a day over the last week, been worn and tired when it happened. It wasn't hard to find the demons, who left a wake of rotting bodies and the newly insane behind them. They tracked them, they cornered them, they sent them back to hell.
Compared to the shades of gray mess they'd been dealing with since their father's death, killing the demons was an almost painfully simple relief. They were the good guys, the demons were the bad guys, and Dean contented himself with that until the forth person they exorcised died while Dean was pinning her to the ground, Sam chanting Latin above them.
Dean had to watch the light go out of her eyes, green, slanted fox eyes. He had bent forward, pressed his forehead to the girl's, so Sam didn't have to see, and didn't feel any pain for it. He was already numb, it didn't really matter anymore.
They hunted fifteen demons in seven days, and killed six of the poor possessed bastards in the process, Dean holding them as they passed, because that was his part.
On the eighth day they were drinking coffee in the front seat of the Impala, listening to the police scanner with hunched shoulders and dark eyes. It didn't usually take long for them to pick up a call to follow. To hear the requisite call in of a murder or rape or a gun wielding sociopath laying down fire in a toy store.
They were worn out, pushed past exhausted, too much death in too little time, and so it really wasn't that much of a surprise when the demons found them instead of the other way around. Dean was breathing in the sweet smelling steam off his coffee, eyes closed against the headache pounding in his temples, when the bicycle cop that was peddling by them suddenly stopped, lifted his bike, and crashed it through the Impala's windshield.
Sam was reciting an exorcism by the time the largest portion of the glass stopped raining down on them, shouting to be heard above the surrounding street noise. The cop had reached a hand down into the car, fisting his fingers into Sam's shirt and trying to drag him out. Dean's coffee, scalding hot, thrown on his arm made the cop jerk backwards, made it hiss, "You little shit–"
Dean ignored it, leaned over in the seat across Sam and popped open the glove box, grabbed the Gatorade squeeze bottle filled with holy water inside.
The first squirt of water caught the possessed man full in the face, and he reeled backwards, desperate stumbling steps away from the car and then there was nothing for it but to go after him. Dean scrambled out through the windshield, shoving aside the bicycle, feeling glass dig into his palms and knees with Sam shouting at his retreating back, "Heard of a door?"
"More Latin, less bitching," the cop was already across the street, moving fast, and the terrier in the back of Dean's skull, the itch that made him a hunter, the need to chase anything that ran away, had him sliding down the hood and hitting the ground running.
It wasn't hard following the possessed man, he left a trail of destruction behind him, and wasn't a very fast runner, in any case. Dean pumped his legs, holy water in one hand, Beretta in the other, jumped over an overturned trash can, ran across the hood of a Lexus with a very irritated driver, redirected a wheelchair that was headed into the street into an open air market instead.
And then, like a miracle, like the Red Sea parting, there were no obstacles between him and the fleeing cop. He thought about shooting the possessed man, but somehow that didn't seem like a viable idea on a busy street in the middle of the day. Instead he gritted his teeth, forced his legs to pump faster, and tackled the man into an intersection.
It was ten times better than sacking the quarterback in the pocket could ever be.
The man clawed and kicked at him, and Dean could smell the copper–sharp scent of blood, smell acrid smoke where the holy water had burned at his face. He jammed his knee into the small of the man's back, shoved the Beretta back into his waistband and grabbed for the man's wrists, hands slipping on the other man's skin, bloody and torn from hitting the asphalt.
The Gatorade bottle was still in his hand, and he upended it, squeezed half the bottle over the possessed man's head and listened to him scream. Made his own voice rise above the din, wondering where the hell Sam was, "Ut quóties triúmphum divínae humnilitátis, quae supérbiam nostri hostis dejecit–"
The screech of tires interrupted him, and he whipped his head up, found his face inches away from the front driver's side wheel hub of the Impala. The engine roared by his ear, adding to the noise confusion and Sam leaned half out of the door, yelling, "Get him in here, quick, c'mon." And then, as Dean hauled the man to his feet and shoved him towards the car, "Where'd you leave off?"
"Nostri hostis dejecit."
Sam scowled, "I wasn't going to use that one. I don't like–"
"Use whichever one you want, for Christ–" And that was when the possessed man decided he still had some fight left in him. He slammed the back of his head into Dean's chin, and blood burst hot and salty in Dean's mouth, stars bursting behind his eyes even as he realized that the man's hair was soaking wet. That he'd just been doused with holy water. That–
It was his favorite shirt. Of course it was. Torn to shreds, along with his leather jacket, which groaned in protest before ripping apart at the seams. And suddenly, the street that had been so goddamn noisy, was utterly and completely silent. Dean stretched the wings because, god, it had been too long, forgot momentarily about the possessed man in front of him, about Sam in the Impala, about the dozens of onlookers.
"Get away from me!" the possessed cop was struggling to get away from him, head down, back bowed. He was yanking on his arm hard enough that Dean thought he might inadvertently break it. "Let me go! Get away from me!"
Dean stretched the wings forward, till the longer flight feathers were almost touching the possessed man, said, "Get out. Go back where you belong." The man jerked his head up, stared up into his face with huge black eyes, panicked and wild. "Go back."
He hadn't expected it to work, really. But the man fell flat on his face, mouth open, screaming a cloud of black out of his chest and gut. Dean hoped the man was alive, dropped to his knees beside him, a hand going to his neck, looking for a pulse, for breath. The man stirred at his touch, blinked up at him with unfocused blue eyes. "You okay man?"
The man made a choking noise in the back of his throat, blinked dazedly a few more times, and then covered his eyes with both hands and groaned, long and low and pained. "Oh, God, I'm dead. I'm dead and I never got to tell Hutch that I was gay. God. I don't fucking believe this."
"You're not dead, just in Wisconsin."
"Even worse." The man let his hands fall to his sides, blinked up at Dean and then squinted in disbelief. "There are no angels in Wisconsin. I'm pretty sure there's a Hellmouth around here somewhere." The man keeps staring over Dean's shoulder, then reaches up with one hesitant hand, "Can I, I mean, they're real, right? I can touch them?"
It's Sam that answers, suddenly out of the car and looming over Dean, "No. No you can't," his voice is low and very hard. And then he's got a hand wrapped around the back of Dean's neck, his shadow falling across the cop, who shrinks against the asphalt. Sam doesn't say another word, just rumbles low in his chest and slides his hand lower to wrap around Dean's arm.
When Sam hauls Dean to his feet the wings flare out automatically for balance, leaning out from his shoulders, two short flaps that take the balls of his feet off the ground.
It feels good to be airborne, to feel the warm air beneath his feathers, because goddamnit Dean never was afraid of flying, he was afraid of planes. There's a difference. Dean was fine on the hot air balloon ride they took when he was fifteen, fine when forced to hang glide at seventeen, it was just all the mechanical parts and cold sterility of the airplane that turned his stomach to ice and put his heart in his throat.
He flexes his shoulders, feels the wings extend up above his head and out and is preparing to slam them back down when Sam slides an arm around his chest and tugs him back against his body. Sam is warm, very warm, inches of his fingers and palm end up pressed against Dean's stomach through the shreds of his shirt and jacket. The wings flutter, twitch, catch between their bodies, flatten against Sam's broad chest.
Sam says, "I remember this. I was what...seven last time this happened?" His mouth is in Dean's hair, breath warm and moist and his fingers, against Dean's stomach flex.
"Eight." Dean blinks at the crowd gathering around them, wide eyed people with open mouths and extended hands. A soccer mom and her son are helping the police officer to his feet, keeping their eyes on Dean the entire time. "We should go."
He remembers Pastor Jim, suddenly, remembers the hunger in his eyes. Remembers the townspeople in Mexico all those years ago, all naked yearning and want. It's no different this time, two dozen people staring at him, reaching for him, their bodies oriented towards him. Need, want, hunger, so much that Dean thinks they might just tear him to pieces if they manage to touch him. He reiterates, "Really, really go."
Sam just rumbles, slides his chin down so that it hooks over Dean's collarbone. The sharp line of his jaw digs cuts into Dean's chest, and the rough scratch of his stubble over Dean's skin tingles, almost tickles. "I forgot. About this. I mean." Sam sort of laughs, short and breathless, presses himself closer along Dean's back. "Don't know how I managed that."
Dean shifts, watches the crowd draw a little bit closer, watches a man in a suit and tie crouch down, all narrow eyes and tensed shoulders. "Car, Sam. Right now, okay? Nostalgia later."
Sam is, apparently, not listening. He presses closer, warm and smelling like laundry detergent and spilt coffee. It's weird. Bizarre. Unexpected. But then, Sam's gotten oddly clingy every time the wings have happened. Which is fine, if highly unexpected, but the crowd is making Dean terribly nervous and they're just getting closer.
And then Sam slides his hand over Dean's stomach up, till his palm is pressed over Dean's heart, and makes a contented little sighing sound, all the tension in his frame just draining out. Dean scowls, because, yeah, it's great to have Sam finally relax, but this is neither the time nor the place.
One flap of the wings propels him three feet into the air, dragging Sam along for the first few seconds before gravity pulls him back down to the waiting ground. A second, aborted halfway through when one of the men in the crowd makes a grab for some of his longer flight feathers, has him over the Impala, the soles of his boots dragging across smooth metal.
And then it's poetry in motion, it's magic, it's instinct and something in his chest, completely out of his control. He flattens his feet on the top of the car, lets his knees dip as he flares and spreads the wings. Sam is reaching for him, eyes wide and jaw set, the crowd is surging forward and Dean smiles, and waves.
He pushes off with his legs, slams the wings down, hard and fast, once, twice, three times. Beating at the hot still air, a dozen feet above the ground, drifting out over the center of the street. And then an updraft slams into him, fills the wings and snaps them back, shoves him upwards like a giant invisible hand. He lets it take him, spirals up, and away, laughing all the while.
People don't look up. Dean knows this from countless horror movies watched during his youth. People look around, look down, look compulsively over their shoulders, but they don't look up. It's not exactly hard to go unnoticed above the heads of an entire city, looking for a roof to hide out on.
Sam starts calling his cell within minutes of his escape, not leaving messages, just calling over and over and over. After the fifth time Dean answers, afraid that if he doesn't Sam will try to track him down through the Lojak. Dean huddles between the air conditioning units on an office building, flips his phone up and presses it to his ear in time to hear Sam's very aggravated voice, "Where did you go?"
Dean shifts, stretches a wing over his head to keep out the glare of the sun, "Oh, Jesus, Sam, I don't know. Maybe away from the goddamn civilians?" Through the phone line he can hear a car door slam, hear the familiar sound of the Impala's engine turning over.
Sam shouts over the sudden blare of Black Sabbath on the radio, "Tell me where you are so I can come get you." The music cuts off just as someone lays on the horn, and Sam starts yelling for people to move, please, out of the way right now.
"Don't think so."
"You don't...What? No. No. I think so. Where are you?" Tires squeal, and Dean winces, because Sam knows better than to spin the Impala's wheels for anything other than a complete and utter emergency.
"Sammy, stop, man, listen to me. There's too many people here, someone will see me if I try to go with you. Go to a motel, get a room, I'll meet you when the sun goes down." Sam's only answer is a disgusted snort. "You hear me, man? Go get us a room."
"Fine. I'll call you." And just like that the line goes dead. Dean slides the phone closed, beats it against his forehead a few times for good measure, before sliding it back into his jeans pocket. Hunkers down to wait.
He is tempted, for half a second, to knock on the window instead of the door, but decides that might be just a little bit to Peter Pan for him. Besides, the sooner he can get in the room and out of the parking lot, the better.
Sam answers the door before he can rap his knuckles against the wood more than once, takes one look at him and grabs handfuls of his torn jacket to pull him into the room. Sam jerks his hands off of Dean's clothes like he might be burnt, marches stiff legged over to the nearest bed and sits on his hands.
The motel room is nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times before, old and just a step on the wrong side of dirty. Alex Tribeck is on the grainy television, giving the last two categories for the jeopardy round as Modern Kitchens and National Parks. Dean looks between the television, and his brother, wound so tight he's almost vibrating with it, and says, "How much you wanna bet Yosemite is the answer to the four–hundred dollar question?"
Sam laughs, but it's loud and too long and he smiles too big with it before clamping his mouth shut and blushing. "You been drinking?" Dean asks without believing for a second that Sam has been. Sam is an emotional, weepy drunk. Dean thinks it's not fair that out of his family he's the only one that gets happy and silly when inebriated. Bastards.
"No. No. Not me. No drinking." Dean would ask if he'd been smoking pot, but after Sam's first and only experimentation with marijuana went really, spectacularly, badly, he knows his little brother never tried it again. Instead he shakes his head, pokes around at the Chinese takeout sitting untouched on the dresser. He's just biting into an egg roll when Sam speaks again, "I'm sorry about earlier. I don't know what I was thinking."
It's a good egg roll, still hot and not soggy at all, and right at that moment it's enough to make Dean feel magnanimous. "No big." Decides to change the subject, because, really, he'll be happy as can be if they never speak of this whole thing again, "Did you get extra duck sauce?"
Sam nods, and his arm jerks like he wants to point, but he keeps sitting on his hands, "In the bottom of the bag, I got you–"
"Oh God, is this lo mien? It is!" Shrimp and chicken, no less. And he wonders, snagging the cartons and chop sticks and sprawling across the unoccupied bed, why the hell Sam got it for him. Sam had sworn years ago, after listening to Dean slurp and chomp down on the noodles, that he would never let Dean eat them in his presence again.
Dean pops a shrimp into his mouth while on the television a skinny little balding white guy named Steve, says, "National Parks for four hundred, Alex."
Sam's staring at him, he can feel it, an itch on the back of his neck, down between his shoulder blades. Figures what the hell, let him stare. Dean's pretty sure that he'd be staring too, if their positions were reversed. It's got to be pretty goddamn weird looking. On television, little bald Steve says, "What is Yosemite National Park?" and Dean punches a fist into the air, the wings flaring out automatically, bumping into the walls and almost brushing the ceiling.
Sam makes a choking sound, springs off the bed and grabs one of the food cartons.
It's an uneventful evening, and they end up crashing before midnight, the television still softly playing some advertisement for a natural male blahblahblah in the background. Dean wakes up not long after that, cursing the MSG in the Chinese food and trips over his shoes at the end of the bed on his way to the bathroom.
Two short quick flaps keep him from falling, which is nice. He squints, stares at the lumpy shape on the other mattress that is Sam, trying to see if he woke his brother up or not. Sam's sleeping, curled on his side, drooling a small ocean onto his pillow. Dean considers taking a picture, disregards the idea and makes his way past his brother's bed.
Ten minutes later he's stumbling back to his bed when he stops and stares at Sam. His brother has rolled completely over, and Dean stares hard at his loose, sleeping face. Sam doesn't move in his sleep. He just doesn't. He curls himself up on the side of the bed and he's out like a log until a nightmare or the alarm wakes him up.
Dean shrugs, walks around and flops back onto his stomach, wings stretching out automatically to either side, off the sides of the bed, so big that the tips drag across the carpet. He resettles them after a minute, their weight not distributed comfortably, and then lets himself relax.
On the other bed Sam stirs, turns in his sleep so that he's facing Dean once again. Dean thinks it's weird, briefly, before sleep takes him.
When Dean wakes up, blinking against the unwelcome brightness of the sun, Sam is sitting on the floor, about two inches away from his face. Staring. Dean startles, makes his fingers relax around the knife under his pillow, takes three deep breathes. Sam just keeps staring.
"You can touch them if you want, you know. You did the other times it happened."
Dean closes his eyes, buries his face in the pillow, figures Sam will grab handfuls of the feathers and mess around with them. Figures that he might be able to fall back asleep, rest a little bit more before he has to get up and pretend things are normal.
He's not expecting Sam's voice, low and rough and wet and right beside his ear, "My first wet dream was you with wings. I was ten. I woke up feeling so good, with my shorts all wet and sticky, and all I could think about was you. You and feathers."
Dean tries to move, really he does, but apparently he's frozen in place, face down on the mattress. His fingers clench again around the handle of the knife, some kind of defense mechanism even though he can't even comprehend hurting Sam with it. The wings fold up, lay flat and still over his body, cover him pretty much completely from head to toe.
Sam's still not touching him with anything but his breath when he goes on, "The first time I jerked off I was thinking about you, holding me, wrapped around me, with these big wings just–just all around me. I did that for eight years, Dean. Eight years. Do you know what that's even like? Do you?"
Dean's not breathing anymore, holding himself perfectly still. And then Sam inches closer, his lips brushing over Dean's ear, "That's why I can't just touch them, Dean. There is no just touching, not here, not in the street yesterday, okay? You understand?"
Sam slides backwards, and Dean sucks in a breath, twists, reaching for Sam without even thinking about it. He catches a handful of his brother's shirt, tugs on him, stretches a wing out, behind his brother, blocks him in. Sam locks eyes with him, and they're lust dark, Sam's whole body suddenly tense, strung unbearably tight.
And Dean's not sure why he's angry, really. Well, he knows, but it doesn't make a lot of sense. He's jerked off while thinking about weird things before. Thinking about Ellen, or poor dead Jess, and yeah, lots of times when his mind was in a place he doesn't like to consider, about Sam. But that was about Sam, not about Sam with a dog's tail, or fairy wings, or anything like that. Not cheapened.
Dean slides off the bed, snapping the other wing out, folding it around Sam, pulling him flush against his chest. Sam struggles for a second, and then Dean knocks his chin back with a soft blow from his fist, fits his mouth over that hot smooth skin behind Sam's ear and Sam stops fighting and starts grabbing.
Dean bites, sharp nips down Sam's throat that he doesn't bother to gentle, and Sam grabs handfuls of his feathers, tugs and smoothes and twists his head so that his face is buried against the side of one of the wings. Sam groans and Dean growls and shoves his hand between them, past the waistband of Sam's boxers, grabs his brother's erection without preamble or grace.
Sam's hands, still buried in his feathers, quiver and shake, and it only intensifies when Dean licks his way up his brother's neck, growls out, "And when you were fucking your palm what was it you were imagining me doing, little brother?"
Sam's got a hand flattened along his spine now, a big broad hand, rubbing up and down his back. His voice is very rough when he speaks, a hoarse whisper up to the ceiling, "Your mouth. Oh, God, your mouth, I could–"
Dean doesn't find out what Sam could do. Just jerks his wings back, shoves Sam hard onto his back. They're between the two beds and there's not enough room and Sam ends up at an angle with one shoulder and his head pressed up along the side of his bed and one leg braced against the opposite bed.
Dean sits between his legs, stares down at his brother's erection, caught against the elastic in his boxers, and wonders what the hell he's doing. And then he bows his head, flattens a hand on Sam's belly to hold him down, and tugs the boxers down far enough for him to work.
Sam arches up against his palm at the first hint of wet warmth, makes an unintelligible noise and tries to thrust all at the same time. And Dean, angry and upset and not even all the way awake yet, figures what the hell. Slides his restraining hand off of Sam, slides his mouth down over his brother's cock, and hollows his cheeks. Let Sammy fucking work for it, if he wants it so much.
There's stillness, for a moment, and Dean can feel his spit pooling around his lips, sliding out and down and this is going to get really damn messy. And then Sam rocks up into his mouth, just, just a tiny bit. Like he's testing, learning, whatever. His voice is the lowest Dean has ever heard it, a low growl of sound as he rocks up again, and again, "Chriiiiist."
And Dean lets him. Knows that this has got to be the worst blow job in the long and sordid history of blow jobs, and doesn't care. This is what Sam gets, thinking about his cock in Dean's mouth for eight goddamn years. Let it crush his expectations, let him regret ever imagining it.
Sam is rocking harder now, hips snapping up off the floor and slamming down again, one hand wrapped around the back of Dean's head, holding him in place. The other is gripping one of the wings, kneading at a joint, caressing and stroking and squeezing.
Sam is breathing rough and quick, hips pumping like they're spring loaded, alternately groaning and whimpering when he accidentally hits Dean's teeth. Dean's arms are quivering, because it's an awkward position, kneeling like this with his back pressed against on the beds, his wings heavy and stretched forward, his brother fucking up into his mouth.
In the end, Sam's fingers somehow find purchase in his hair, and his brother jerks his head up and off his cock when he comes. Dean watches his brother hump the air a few final times, watches his eyes roll back in his head and listens to the long dirty sound he makes.
And then he stands up, grabs his jeans discarded at the end of the bed, and walks out of the room. Sam is in no condition to chase him.
When he walks back in the door three days later Sam is waiting for him, and has him slammed against the nearest wall within seconds. Dean's tired, hasn't dared to sleep for the days that he was gone, and his feet hurt because he forgot his boots and had to walk three miles to get back to the motel after the wings went. Sam yells, but Dean's not listening, asleep on his feet.
He makes what he thinks are the appropriate noises, apology and remorse and whatever. Manages to twist out of Sam's grip after a minute and stumble his way over to his bed. The covers are warm and messy and smell like Sam, which makes no sense at all, and he burrows into them.
He rolls onto his back, finds Sam standing over him, fists clenched at his sides, glowering. Squints at him, and manages to tell Sam the important realization he came to during the three days he was gone, "We're not ever going to talk about it, okay? Not ever." And then he sleeps.
The next time it happens Dean really should have seen it coming. A month after the cock sucking incident, a month of catching Sam watching him out of the corners of his eyes, a month of uncomfortable silences and locking the bathroom door behind him for the first time in his life. He should have known something would happen, and yet he still walked into it blind.
They were hunting more demons, all the way out in Washington state, now, and he wondered how far the escaped hellspawn had fled. He'd went out for pizza, meat lovers with onions and peppers for him, ham with pineapples and onions for Sam, was soaking wet from the continuous rain and starving by the time he got back to their room.
He'd pushed through the door backwards, trying and failing to shield the pizza boxes from the rain, and ended up with a bucketful of water poured over his head.
The pizzas dropped when the wings tore their way free, the leather coat that Dean had just finished getting properly conditioned ripped to shreds. The shirt, at least, isn't his favorite this time. It's not even his at all, the purple beast with the greyhound on it that he's been trying to get Sam to toss for the last three years. All of his clothes had been dirty.
He has enough time to wonder who and what and why, and then there's a big body colliding with him, shoving him up against the wall. There's a broad chest pressed against his back, warm breath dancing across his neck, big hands on either side of his waist. He recognizes every single piece of it, cocks his head over his shoulder and glares at his brother.
"What the fuck are you doing, you asshole?"
"Oh, I'm the asshole now, Dean? Really?" Sam is way to close, pressed against him from his shoulders to his hips, legs on either side of Dean's, pinning him in. Sam shifts his weight from foot to foot, hips grinding against Dean. "Maybe I am. I mean, God, I only told you the most embarrassing thing in my life to warn you, and then got jumped by you, and left by you, and been ignored by you for the last month because of it. Oh. Yeah. I'm totally the asshole here."
"I seem to remember it was your cock in my mouth, baby brother." Sam flinches, his expression tense and pained. And Dean is just tired of being pinned to the wall like an idiot. He flaps the wings twice, beats them against the wall, and it propels them backwards, into a heap of limbs and feathers on the floor.
"You kissed me!" Sam is moving and lunging and squirming, indignant and angry. Dean scrambles for his feet and Sam wraps his arms around his waist and drags him back to the floor.
"Didn't!" and he doesn't mean to sound quite so giddy, so much like a ten year old, but he can't seem to stop himself. He can feel himself going backwards, and flaps the wings in a desperate attempt to stay upright, but Sam's to heavy and manages to wrestle him onto his back, legs on either side of his hips.
Sam stares down at him, hands on his shoulders holding him down, brows drawn together as he thinks. His voice is very soft and far away, "No, I guess you didn't." and then Sam leans down, and Dean watches him, goes cross eyed when he gets close and still can't seem to make himself shut his eyes.
When Sam kisses him it is soft where everything else has been rough. Wet lips just slightly chapped, warm against his and Sam's warm tongue, dragging along his bottom lip. Dean stares at Sam's face, relaxed and happy, blinks, and finally kisses Sam back. It's the only thing he can think to do.
Sam pulls back after a long moment, and Dean sucks on his lower lip, drags it out until the last possible moment. Sam's eyes are still closed, and he hums softly, lips turned up in the corners. Dean clears his throat, "Why are you doing this?"
"I messed things up, before, didn't I? I mean, you helped with fucking it up." Sam opens his eyes, sharp and piercing. "I think you misunderstood what I told you, you know, um–"
"The whole cock sucking thing?" Sam flushes, licks his lips and cuts his eyes away. "So you didn't jerk off while thinking about me sucking you off with feathers shoved up your ass?"
Sam kisses him again, just as soft as the first time, and Dean slides an arm across his shoulders, folds his wings over Sam's back. This time Sam keeps his eyes open as well, and Dean stares into them. He sticks his tongue into Sam's mouth, just because he can, and Sam sucks on it hard before pulling back.
"No, I did do that. But, Dean, I also jerked off thinking about you crawling into my bed at night and giving me a reach around. Or about you fucking me into the bed, or about me fucking you. I just," Sam ducks his head, lets his forehead rest against Dean's shoulder, "I think about you, Dean, okay? In general. I mean. And in certain specific circumstances, too. Um. And that's all. I'm done now."
Dean snorts, shifts under Sam and tightens the wings around his shoulders. "You had to splash me with holy water to say this?"
"Seemed like a good idea at the time."
Sam's warm and heavy, and Dean slides a hand around the back of Sam's neck, up into his hair. This isn't fixed, this is still weirder than hell, but then again, he's got wings growing out of his shoulders. He figures he might as well go with it. He just has one thing to say first. "Didn't I tell you not to ever talk about this?"
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