Fic:: "I Swear", SPN, Sam/Dean, NC-17
Yes, I actually wrote and am posting fic. Don't die from shock, please.
Title:: I Swear
Author:: callie_828
Rating:: NC-17
Pairing:: Sam/Dean
Spoilers:: through 4x22
Warnings:: Some talk of self-harm. May be triggering.
Word Count:: 3,453
Author's Note:: This was written in response to a prompt at The Supernatural Kink Meme. The prompt was "Dean is becoming an angel. He's ashamed of his new body (wings). Sam takes care of him and shows him that there's nothing to be ashamed of." I hope this is something like what the OP was looking for. Also, the first draft was beta'd by the awesome straykim who offered amazing insight and suggestions, some of which I took and some of which I didn't (I tried, but I just could not write in Zacariah's voice!). This second draft has not been beta'd.
ETA:: I don't write often, so I very much welcome concrit.
I swear.
Dean had never regretted two little words so much in his life. Not even the time that blackjack dealer in Vegas asked him if it was good for him and he had replied “I guess” could trump this. Why had he agreed to obey the angels? It was just a moment of desperation. He thought it would save Sam. He would’ve said anything. And even though he didn’t really trust the angels at the time, he didn’t suspect they wanted the Apocalypse. As much as he had hated them, he was willing to obey them when he thought they were on the same side. Now he didn’t want to help them with a damn thing. Not that it mattered much.
Apparently, Dean had discovered in not so pleasant terms, “I swear” constituted one hell of a binding contract. Suddenly free will didn’t seem to mean anything. Zacariah, despite Dean’s violent objections, was going to use Dean however he could to accomplish his end. And while Dean was entirely onboard with stopping Lucifer, he sure as hell wasn’t doing it to help the angels out. He hated them. Hated them.
Hated himself.
Sam came through the motel room door from a burger run to find Dean lying on his bed watching tv, a cold beer gripped tightly in a bloody hand. He dropped the bag of food on the table near the door and strode to the side of Dean’s bed, glancing into the bathroom as he crossed the room. Broken glass was strewn about the bathroom floor, some resting in small pools of fresh blood.
“Dammit, Dean,” Sam muttered, no hint of anger in his voice.
“I’ll clean it up,” Dean said casually, not taking his eyes from the tv.
“You gotta stop doing this, man,” Sam said, grabbing the duffle off his bed and rummaging through it for the first aid kit. He pulled it out and sat on the edge of Dean’s bed, opening it and dabbing rubbing alcohol on a large bandage. He reached for Dean’s hand, but Dean recoiled.
“Dude, I’m fine,” he said bitterly. Sam ignored him and grabbed his hand, removing the beer and slamming it down on the bedside table. Dean responded by yanking his hand away and grabbing the bandage out of Sam’s. “I’ll do it,” he spat. Sam closed his eyes and sighed heavily as Dean dabbed at the cuts on his knuckles. When he was done, Sam took Dean’s hand and wordlessly wrapped tape around it while Dean resumed his blank stare at the tv screen.
“Ok, let’s see them,” Sam said when he was finished wrapping Dean’s shredded hand.
“Nothin’ to see,” Dean answered quickly. Sam stared at his brother who refused to meet his eyes in turn.
“Dude, come on,” Sam pressed.
“Back off, Sam,” Dean warned. Sam stood to his full height and hovered over Dean.
“Christ, Dean, just let me see them!” His voice was raised, but he wasn’t really angry. Just desperate. And Dean knew it. A flash of guilt blazed in Dean’s eyes, but quickly vanished under a cold, expressionless mask Dean had been wearing all too often lately. Not that Sam blamed him for it. Sam had hidden behind a similar mask ever since the hellhounds had claimed Dean. He knew what it was like to want to pretend that your insides weren’t burning and your heart wasn’t rotting and that there wasn’t far too much pain making life not so worth living. But Sam took that mask off the night he killed Lilith. It had pushed him away from Dean and towards Ruby. And everything would always be worse because of it. He wouldn’t let the same thing happen again. He’d get through to Dean no matter what it took.
Dean removed his leather jacket slowly, biting his tongue to keep from wincing at the pain that shot up and down his entire back. But when he tried to remove his t-shirt, a small gasp betrayed him and Sam grabbed his arm.
“Don’t. I’ll cut it off,” he said gently, reaching back into the bag for scissors. Dean didn’t have the energy to object. Sam cut the bloodstained t-shirt off Dean and fought back tears as his eyes fell on his brother’s latest attempt at self-surgery.
It had been three weeks since Sam had killed Lilith and Lucifer had risen. It had been two weeks and six days since a pair of wings had forced themselves through the skin of Dean’s back. They hadn’t been too impressive at first, but they only continued to grow each day. Five days after their appearance, Zacariah had finally showed his face to an irate Dean and told him in no uncertain terms that he would be graced with whatever heavenly attributes the angels thought would help him defeat Lucifer and that his “contract” would be honored, whether Dean liked it or not. It was the same night that Dean made his first attempt to hack the wings off his back. It hadn’t been the last, despite being entirely unsuccessful.
This was the worst Sam had seen, though. He carefully cut away the tape that Dean had wrapped tightly around his chest and back to restrain his newest appendages and found the skin beneath it raw and bruised from the pressure. The wings were bigger than ever now, their span reaching a fair few inches beyond his arm span, and not only had Dean once again tried to cut them out at the base, but it appeared he had also pulled and twisted and torn at them any way he could because feathers were missing all over and the ones that remained were crushed, disheveled, matted with blood. The left wing sat at such an awkward angle that it looked like it might even be broken. Sam reached a hand out to touch them, but pulled it back, not knowing where to start.
“Dean,” he whispered, not bothering to try to hide the concern in his voice. He was forever done with pretense. He gently pushed the right wing upwards to get a look at Dean’s back, which was covered in scrapes and gashes. Precision was difficult, Sam guessed, when slicing at your own back with broken glass. Sam grabbed the bandages and went to work on his brother.
“Dean, you keep this up, you’re gonna end up killing yourself.”
“So?” Dean said blandly.
“Dean…”
“They’ll just bring me back, Sammy.” It was true. Dean had already sliced too deep into the back of his neck six days earlier. He had bled out all over the bathroom floor by the time Sam found him. It was all of ten seconds before Zacariah showed up and brought him back, but it was a horrible ten seconds. Zacariah lectured Sam about taking care of his brother, about how the weight of the world rested on Dean’s shoulders and it was Sam’s responsibility to keep Dean safe because, after all, the whole thing was Sam’s fault. Sam knew it was true. He killed Lilith and freed Lucifer. And now the angels were using Dean to try to fix the mess and there was nothing Sam could do about it. It was a strange feeling - the sudden role reversal. It was always Dean who took care of him, even if Sam had never been willing or able to admit it up to now. He’d discovered much too late that he couldn’t even take care of himself. He didn’t have the first clue how to reach Dean, how to get Dean to let him help. And Sam was having a difficult time coping with the failure. He wasn’t taking very good care of his brother. He wasn’t used to it and he didn’t know how. Not that it would stop him trying.
“And what if one of these days they decide not to bring you back?” Sam chided as he blotted at one of the cuts on Dean’s back and gingerly bandaged it.
“I’d be better off,” Dean muttered. It unnerved Sam, not just because of what the words meant, but because Dean had never been one for self-pity. Or if he was, he never let Sam see it before. An almost palpable hopelessness dripped from every word Dean uttered and it only made Sam more desperate. Each attempt to suppress the constant panic in his chest proved more and more difficult.
“Well I wouldn’t,” Sam grunted back. “If that matters.”
“Sam…”
“No, Dean, listen,” Sam started, dropping the supplies back into the first aid kit and standing up from the bed. He balled his hands into fists in an effort to conceal the fact that they were trembling. “I know you’re upset and believe me, no one understands how you feel right now better than I do. But this isn’t the answer.”
“Then what is?” Dean said, some emotion finally flaring in his eyes. It was anger, but it was something and Sam would take it. “You tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do. Look at me!” Dean shouted, twisting his back around to show his wings to his brother. Sam clenched his jaw and breathed deeply through his nose.
“Dean, I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything you can do. You just have to - “
“Deal with it?” Dean spat, spinning back around to face Sam, his expression wild. “Get used to it? What, adjust!?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Have you lost your freakin’ mind?” Dean demanded. Sam’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Sam, I’m a goddamn freak! This doesn’t bother you?”
“Well, I’m not really one to judge, am I?” Sam asked, looking back into his brother’s face. Dean’s anger fell away and he sat down on the edge of his bed staring at the bandaged hand in his lap.
“This doesn’t scare you?” he asked. Sam sat down next to him and for a moment, neither one spoke. Finally Sam cleared his throat.
“It scares me that the angels have this hold on you and that we can’t trust them. It really scares me that you’re supposed to face Lucifer. And the way you’ve been acting lately… fuck, Dean. That terrifies me. But this?” Sam ran a hand gently down one of Dean’s wings. “No, this doesn’t scare me. And it wouldn’t matter if it did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there isn’t anything that could happen to you that would make me stop caring about you, Dean. You’re my brother and whether it’s a pair of wings or a halo or a damn pair of cloven hooves, that won’t change.” Sam rubbed one of the feathers delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t think any less of you for this. No matter what, I’m not going to. And you shouldn’t either.” Sam’s words hung in the musty air of the room, thick and heavy. Silence fell between them again and Sam wondered if Dean would shut off now, like always. He was never comfortable communicating and after everything that had happened in the past year, Sam wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to really talk to each other. Trust each other. Since the revelation that Sam had been drinking demon blood, Dean’s urge to throw up walls had only intensified. But Sam stayed where he was and let his words sink in, hoping.
“I’m sorry,” Dean finally muttered, his gaze still fixed downward. Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, his finger brushing the edge of the right wing. He felt Dean shudder but kept his hand in place.
“It’s not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Sam moved his hand down and placed it on Dean’s leg, offering comforting strokes along his brother’s thigh. Dean put a hand over Sam’s.
“No, Sammy, I mean - “ he hesitated and Sam could feel him trembling next to him. “I’m sorry for… the way I always made you feel. About the demon blood thing.” Sam froze, his mind racing.
“Dean, what are you talking - “
“Oh come on, Sam. We both know I was no better than dad was about making you feel like you didn’t belong. You said it yourself once. The way I always looked at you, the way I talked about your psychic stuff. All that crap I said a few weeks ago about you…”
“No,” Sam said, his eyes watering at the memory of a night not more than a few weeks ago but that felt like a different lifetime. Up until the impending end of the world, Sam had thought he’d have given anything to hear Dean tell him he wasn’t a freak. That he was a victim to a burden no one should have to bear. Even that Dean would bear it with him if he could. He had always thought that if Dean could’ve been more accepting of Sam’s blood curse, they would’ve been closer. Maybe close enough that he wouldn’t have sought out the tolerance and understanding he thought he found in Ruby. Maybe none of this would’ve happened. But like everything else, that changed the night Lucifer returned. It wasn’t the blood that had made Sam what he was. It was his choices. He had always resisted the call of Azazel’s blood before - had been willing to die, even, to keep from becoming less than what he knew he was. But when Dean had been dragged to hell, he was too desperate and vengeful and weak to fight it anymore. He could’ve, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t care. He had nothing left to lose. Even when Dean had returned, it was easier to blame him for not understanding, blame him for the growing chasm between them, blame him for all the lies and the deception. It was so much easier when Sam could blame Dean for leaving him no other choice. And now the world was going to burn because of it. Dean was going to have to face Lucifer because of it. Dean was right, had always been right. And now his apology was like a punch to the gut. Sam knew he didn’t deserve an apology. And to know Dean felt guilty along with everything else he was feeling, all compliments of Sam, made Sam’s heart ache.
“You don’t need to apologize, Dean,” Sam said, cursing the hot tears that stung his eyes. “You were right about that.”
“The hell I was,” Dean said, and when his eyes met Sam’s, they were glistening too. “You were just trying to do what you could, Sammy. I never understood it, but I never tried to. I guess I got what I deserved, huh?” He laughed, but it was humorless. Sam moved to the floor in front of Dean, kneeling between Dean’s legs, his hands gripping Dean’s thighs.
“This is not a punishment,” Sam said firmly. “Jesus, Dean. Stop punishing yourself all the time.” His voice cracked and his hands roamed up Dean’s chest and along his arms, aimless and desperate, trying to find the spot where all the answers lay. Trying to graze the place where Dean would understand and the pain would melt away. “You deserve good things.”
“Sammy…”
“No, you do. And I want to give them to you, Dean.” Before Dean could protest, Sam cupped his face and kissed him fiercely, pressing his body as close to Dean’s as he could. He could feel the tears on Dean’s cheeks, taste the salt on his lips. Sam separated his mouth from Dean’s only long enough to pull his shirt up over his head. Dean took the opportunity to try to pull himself away from Sam, pushing further back on the bed, but Sam put one hand on Dean’s hip and the other on the back of Dean’s neck.
“Sam,” Dean said, his protest weak and not at all in earnest.
“Let me,” Sam whispered before taking Dean’s mouth again with his own and exploring it with his tongue urgently, as though he could save them both if he could just kiss Dean long and hard enough. He felt Dean finally relax beneath his touch and suddenly his brother’s hands were in his hair, on his back, thumbing the waistband of his jeans. Sam stood and removed the last layers of clothing separating him from everything he wanted. He kneeled back down in front of his brother, unzipping Dean’s pants and pulling them off, then doing the same to his boxers. Dean leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, a throaty, needy sigh escaping his swollen lips. The sound made Sam’s chest ache with pity and love and want. He grasped Dean’s half-hard cock in his hand and stroked it to firmness, reveling in the soft, low noises Dean was making. Sam smiled inwardly. He was sure that this wasn’t what Zacariah had in mind when he told Sam to take care of Dean. But this was what Dean needed. What they both needed.
“Sam.” It was barely a whisper, but it was all Sam needed to hear. He took all of Dean’s length in his mouth, licking and sucking and letting his tongue say everything Dean needed to hear. He was here. He wasn’t going anywhere. And he loved Dean exactly as he was. It wasn’t long before Dean’s breathing quickened and he was grasping fistfuls of bedspread.
“Sam… almost… ah…” Sam wrapped his lips around Dean’s cock, flicking his tongue over the tip until Dean came with a strangled cry. Sam looked up into his brother’s face and reveled in the momentary relief he had allowed him from the pain, the fear, the guilt, the self-loathing. Dean’s expression was pure ecstasy and it was Sam that made him feel it. It was beautiful and Sam found himself wanting to make Dean look like that forever. He had found a way to help his brother, even if only for the night.
As Sam watched Dean slowly come down from the bliss of orgasm, he became acutely aware of his own needy ache. His cock twitched and he looked up at his brother with pleading eyes.
“Dean,” he croaked. Dean met his eyes and nodded.
“I got you, Sammy.” Dean lifted Sam from his knees and pushed him down onto the bed, climbing on top of him and grinding his hips against Sam’s. The friction nearly pushed Sam over the edge immediately, but Sam reached down and grabbed Dean’s hips, holding him still. Dean looked down at Sam, lust in his eyes and confusion on his face.
“I want to see them,” Sam said, his voice husky but sincere. Dean furrowed his brow for a brief moment before realization set in. His body tensed and he closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly.
“Sam, no.”
“Please?” Sam begged, dragging his fingers up the sides of Dean’s chest and resting them just behind Dean’s shoulders, under his wings. “Please, Dean. I want to see them. Please?” Dean pressed his eyes together tightly, battling his shame. Sam could see Dean’s cheek twitch and his lower lip tremble and he wanted to pull him close and tell him he loved him just like this, wings and all. But he couldn’t. Not with words. This was how he needed to tell him. To show him.
“Dean, please,” Sam pleaded. Dean sighed. He turned his head away from Sam as he unfurled the wings, spreading them wide until they stretched to full length. They appeared to be healing themselves quickly, though there were still pink patches where Dean’s blood had soaked into the feathers. The sight of them, however, was no less glorious. Sam was struck with awe and a soft, involuntary moan pushed past his lips. Dean kept his head turned away and his eyes closed.
“Beautiful,” Sam whispered and his brother trembled with the effort of swallowing a sob.
“God dammit,” Dean choked, a tear spilling out onto his cheek. Sam took Dean’s chin in his hand and turned his head to look at him.
“No, Dean. They’re beautiful.” He lifted his head and kissed him hard, once again moving his hips to grind against Dean’s. Dean sighed into Sam and returned the movements, working with him to bring him to orgasm, his wings hovering wide open above them both. Sam came with a shudder, shouting Dean’s name, still bucking his hips slowly in the aftermath of his release.
Dean sat up straddling Sam, unable to lay down with his wings open. Sam stared up at Dean with absolute reverence. His brother. His lover. An angel.
That night while Dean slept peacefully for the first time in weeks, Sam went into the bathroom and picked up the pieces of shattered glass.
Title:: I Swear
Author:: callie_828
Rating:: NC-17
Pairing:: Sam/Dean
Spoilers:: through 4x22
Warnings:: Some talk of self-harm. May be triggering.
Word Count:: 3,453
Author's Note:: This was written in response to a prompt at The Supernatural Kink Meme. The prompt was "Dean is becoming an angel. He's ashamed of his new body (wings). Sam takes care of him and shows him that there's nothing to be ashamed of." I hope this is something like what the OP was looking for. Also, the first draft was beta'd by the awesome straykim who offered amazing insight and suggestions, some of which I took and some of which I didn't (I tried, but I just could not write in Zacariah's voice!). This second draft has not been beta'd.
ETA:: I don't write often, so I very much welcome concrit.
I swear.
Dean had never regretted two little words so much in his life. Not even the time that blackjack dealer in Vegas asked him if it was good for him and he had replied “I guess” could trump this. Why had he agreed to obey the angels? It was just a moment of desperation. He thought it would save Sam. He would’ve said anything. And even though he didn’t really trust the angels at the time, he didn’t suspect they wanted the Apocalypse. As much as he had hated them, he was willing to obey them when he thought they were on the same side. Now he didn’t want to help them with a damn thing. Not that it mattered much.
Apparently, Dean had discovered in not so pleasant terms, “I swear” constituted one hell of a binding contract. Suddenly free will didn’t seem to mean anything. Zacariah, despite Dean’s violent objections, was going to use Dean however he could to accomplish his end. And while Dean was entirely onboard with stopping Lucifer, he sure as hell wasn’t doing it to help the angels out. He hated them. Hated them.
Hated himself.
Sam came through the motel room door from a burger run to find Dean lying on his bed watching tv, a cold beer gripped tightly in a bloody hand. He dropped the bag of food on the table near the door and strode to the side of Dean’s bed, glancing into the bathroom as he crossed the room. Broken glass was strewn about the bathroom floor, some resting in small pools of fresh blood.
“Dammit, Dean,” Sam muttered, no hint of anger in his voice.
“I’ll clean it up,” Dean said casually, not taking his eyes from the tv.
“You gotta stop doing this, man,” Sam said, grabbing the duffle off his bed and rummaging through it for the first aid kit. He pulled it out and sat on the edge of Dean’s bed, opening it and dabbing rubbing alcohol on a large bandage. He reached for Dean’s hand, but Dean recoiled.
“Dude, I’m fine,” he said bitterly. Sam ignored him and grabbed his hand, removing the beer and slamming it down on the bedside table. Dean responded by yanking his hand away and grabbing the bandage out of Sam’s. “I’ll do it,” he spat. Sam closed his eyes and sighed heavily as Dean dabbed at the cuts on his knuckles. When he was done, Sam took Dean’s hand and wordlessly wrapped tape around it while Dean resumed his blank stare at the tv screen.
“Ok, let’s see them,” Sam said when he was finished wrapping Dean’s shredded hand.
“Nothin’ to see,” Dean answered quickly. Sam stared at his brother who refused to meet his eyes in turn.
“Dude, come on,” Sam pressed.
“Back off, Sam,” Dean warned. Sam stood to his full height and hovered over Dean.
“Christ, Dean, just let me see them!” His voice was raised, but he wasn’t really angry. Just desperate. And Dean knew it. A flash of guilt blazed in Dean’s eyes, but quickly vanished under a cold, expressionless mask Dean had been wearing all too often lately. Not that Sam blamed him for it. Sam had hidden behind a similar mask ever since the hellhounds had claimed Dean. He knew what it was like to want to pretend that your insides weren’t burning and your heart wasn’t rotting and that there wasn’t far too much pain making life not so worth living. But Sam took that mask off the night he killed Lilith. It had pushed him away from Dean and towards Ruby. And everything would always be worse because of it. He wouldn’t let the same thing happen again. He’d get through to Dean no matter what it took.
Dean removed his leather jacket slowly, biting his tongue to keep from wincing at the pain that shot up and down his entire back. But when he tried to remove his t-shirt, a small gasp betrayed him and Sam grabbed his arm.
“Don’t. I’ll cut it off,” he said gently, reaching back into the bag for scissors. Dean didn’t have the energy to object. Sam cut the bloodstained t-shirt off Dean and fought back tears as his eyes fell on his brother’s latest attempt at self-surgery.
It had been three weeks since Sam had killed Lilith and Lucifer had risen. It had been two weeks and six days since a pair of wings had forced themselves through the skin of Dean’s back. They hadn’t been too impressive at first, but they only continued to grow each day. Five days after their appearance, Zacariah had finally showed his face to an irate Dean and told him in no uncertain terms that he would be graced with whatever heavenly attributes the angels thought would help him defeat Lucifer and that his “contract” would be honored, whether Dean liked it or not. It was the same night that Dean made his first attempt to hack the wings off his back. It hadn’t been the last, despite being entirely unsuccessful.
This was the worst Sam had seen, though. He carefully cut away the tape that Dean had wrapped tightly around his chest and back to restrain his newest appendages and found the skin beneath it raw and bruised from the pressure. The wings were bigger than ever now, their span reaching a fair few inches beyond his arm span, and not only had Dean once again tried to cut them out at the base, but it appeared he had also pulled and twisted and torn at them any way he could because feathers were missing all over and the ones that remained were crushed, disheveled, matted with blood. The left wing sat at such an awkward angle that it looked like it might even be broken. Sam reached a hand out to touch them, but pulled it back, not knowing where to start.
“Dean,” he whispered, not bothering to try to hide the concern in his voice. He was forever done with pretense. He gently pushed the right wing upwards to get a look at Dean’s back, which was covered in scrapes and gashes. Precision was difficult, Sam guessed, when slicing at your own back with broken glass. Sam grabbed the bandages and went to work on his brother.
“Dean, you keep this up, you’re gonna end up killing yourself.”
“So?” Dean said blandly.
“Dean…”
“They’ll just bring me back, Sammy.” It was true. Dean had already sliced too deep into the back of his neck six days earlier. He had bled out all over the bathroom floor by the time Sam found him. It was all of ten seconds before Zacariah showed up and brought him back, but it was a horrible ten seconds. Zacariah lectured Sam about taking care of his brother, about how the weight of the world rested on Dean’s shoulders and it was Sam’s responsibility to keep Dean safe because, after all, the whole thing was Sam’s fault. Sam knew it was true. He killed Lilith and freed Lucifer. And now the angels were using Dean to try to fix the mess and there was nothing Sam could do about it. It was a strange feeling - the sudden role reversal. It was always Dean who took care of him, even if Sam had never been willing or able to admit it up to now. He’d discovered much too late that he couldn’t even take care of himself. He didn’t have the first clue how to reach Dean, how to get Dean to let him help. And Sam was having a difficult time coping with the failure. He wasn’t taking very good care of his brother. He wasn’t used to it and he didn’t know how. Not that it would stop him trying.
“And what if one of these days they decide not to bring you back?” Sam chided as he blotted at one of the cuts on Dean’s back and gingerly bandaged it.
“I’d be better off,” Dean muttered. It unnerved Sam, not just because of what the words meant, but because Dean had never been one for self-pity. Or if he was, he never let Sam see it before. An almost palpable hopelessness dripped from every word Dean uttered and it only made Sam more desperate. Each attempt to suppress the constant panic in his chest proved more and more difficult.
“Well I wouldn’t,” Sam grunted back. “If that matters.”
“Sam…”
“No, Dean, listen,” Sam started, dropping the supplies back into the first aid kit and standing up from the bed. He balled his hands into fists in an effort to conceal the fact that they were trembling. “I know you’re upset and believe me, no one understands how you feel right now better than I do. But this isn’t the answer.”
“Then what is?” Dean said, some emotion finally flaring in his eyes. It was anger, but it was something and Sam would take it. “You tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do. Look at me!” Dean shouted, twisting his back around to show his wings to his brother. Sam clenched his jaw and breathed deeply through his nose.
“Dean, I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything you can do. You just have to - “
“Deal with it?” Dean spat, spinning back around to face Sam, his expression wild. “Get used to it? What, adjust!?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Have you lost your freakin’ mind?” Dean demanded. Sam’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Sam, I’m a goddamn freak! This doesn’t bother you?”
“Well, I’m not really one to judge, am I?” Sam asked, looking back into his brother’s face. Dean’s anger fell away and he sat down on the edge of his bed staring at the bandaged hand in his lap.
“This doesn’t scare you?” he asked. Sam sat down next to him and for a moment, neither one spoke. Finally Sam cleared his throat.
“It scares me that the angels have this hold on you and that we can’t trust them. It really scares me that you’re supposed to face Lucifer. And the way you’ve been acting lately… fuck, Dean. That terrifies me. But this?” Sam ran a hand gently down one of Dean’s wings. “No, this doesn’t scare me. And it wouldn’t matter if it did.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there isn’t anything that could happen to you that would make me stop caring about you, Dean. You’re my brother and whether it’s a pair of wings or a halo or a damn pair of cloven hooves, that won’t change.” Sam rubbed one of the feathers delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t think any less of you for this. No matter what, I’m not going to. And you shouldn’t either.” Sam’s words hung in the musty air of the room, thick and heavy. Silence fell between them again and Sam wondered if Dean would shut off now, like always. He was never comfortable communicating and after everything that had happened in the past year, Sam wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to really talk to each other. Trust each other. Since the revelation that Sam had been drinking demon blood, Dean’s urge to throw up walls had only intensified. But Sam stayed where he was and let his words sink in, hoping.
“I’m sorry,” Dean finally muttered, his gaze still fixed downward. Sam put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, his finger brushing the edge of the right wing. He felt Dean shudder but kept his hand in place.
“It’s not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for.” Sam moved his hand down and placed it on Dean’s leg, offering comforting strokes along his brother’s thigh. Dean put a hand over Sam’s.
“No, Sammy, I mean - “ he hesitated and Sam could feel him trembling next to him. “I’m sorry for… the way I always made you feel. About the demon blood thing.” Sam froze, his mind racing.
“Dean, what are you talking - “
“Oh come on, Sam. We both know I was no better than dad was about making you feel like you didn’t belong. You said it yourself once. The way I always looked at you, the way I talked about your psychic stuff. All that crap I said a few weeks ago about you…”
“No,” Sam said, his eyes watering at the memory of a night not more than a few weeks ago but that felt like a different lifetime. Up until the impending end of the world, Sam had thought he’d have given anything to hear Dean tell him he wasn’t a freak. That he was a victim to a burden no one should have to bear. Even that Dean would bear it with him if he could. He had always thought that if Dean could’ve been more accepting of Sam’s blood curse, they would’ve been closer. Maybe close enough that he wouldn’t have sought out the tolerance and understanding he thought he found in Ruby. Maybe none of this would’ve happened. But like everything else, that changed the night Lucifer returned. It wasn’t the blood that had made Sam what he was. It was his choices. He had always resisted the call of Azazel’s blood before - had been willing to die, even, to keep from becoming less than what he knew he was. But when Dean had been dragged to hell, he was too desperate and vengeful and weak to fight it anymore. He could’ve, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t care. He had nothing left to lose. Even when Dean had returned, it was easier to blame him for not understanding, blame him for the growing chasm between them, blame him for all the lies and the deception. It was so much easier when Sam could blame Dean for leaving him no other choice. And now the world was going to burn because of it. Dean was going to have to face Lucifer because of it. Dean was right, had always been right. And now his apology was like a punch to the gut. Sam knew he didn’t deserve an apology. And to know Dean felt guilty along with everything else he was feeling, all compliments of Sam, made Sam’s heart ache.
“You don’t need to apologize, Dean,” Sam said, cursing the hot tears that stung his eyes. “You were right about that.”
“The hell I was,” Dean said, and when his eyes met Sam’s, they were glistening too. “You were just trying to do what you could, Sammy. I never understood it, but I never tried to. I guess I got what I deserved, huh?” He laughed, but it was humorless. Sam moved to the floor in front of Dean, kneeling between Dean’s legs, his hands gripping Dean’s thighs.
“This is not a punishment,” Sam said firmly. “Jesus, Dean. Stop punishing yourself all the time.” His voice cracked and his hands roamed up Dean’s chest and along his arms, aimless and desperate, trying to find the spot where all the answers lay. Trying to graze the place where Dean would understand and the pain would melt away. “You deserve good things.”
“Sammy…”
“No, you do. And I want to give them to you, Dean.” Before Dean could protest, Sam cupped his face and kissed him fiercely, pressing his body as close to Dean’s as he could. He could feel the tears on Dean’s cheeks, taste the salt on his lips. Sam separated his mouth from Dean’s only long enough to pull his shirt up over his head. Dean took the opportunity to try to pull himself away from Sam, pushing further back on the bed, but Sam put one hand on Dean’s hip and the other on the back of Dean’s neck.
“Sam,” Dean said, his protest weak and not at all in earnest.
“Let me,” Sam whispered before taking Dean’s mouth again with his own and exploring it with his tongue urgently, as though he could save them both if he could just kiss Dean long and hard enough. He felt Dean finally relax beneath his touch and suddenly his brother’s hands were in his hair, on his back, thumbing the waistband of his jeans. Sam stood and removed the last layers of clothing separating him from everything he wanted. He kneeled back down in front of his brother, unzipping Dean’s pants and pulling them off, then doing the same to his boxers. Dean leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, a throaty, needy sigh escaping his swollen lips. The sound made Sam’s chest ache with pity and love and want. He grasped Dean’s half-hard cock in his hand and stroked it to firmness, reveling in the soft, low noises Dean was making. Sam smiled inwardly. He was sure that this wasn’t what Zacariah had in mind when he told Sam to take care of Dean. But this was what Dean needed. What they both needed.
“Sam.” It was barely a whisper, but it was all Sam needed to hear. He took all of Dean’s length in his mouth, licking and sucking and letting his tongue say everything Dean needed to hear. He was here. He wasn’t going anywhere. And he loved Dean exactly as he was. It wasn’t long before Dean’s breathing quickened and he was grasping fistfuls of bedspread.
“Sam… almost… ah…” Sam wrapped his lips around Dean’s cock, flicking his tongue over the tip until Dean came with a strangled cry. Sam looked up into his brother’s face and reveled in the momentary relief he had allowed him from the pain, the fear, the guilt, the self-loathing. Dean’s expression was pure ecstasy and it was Sam that made him feel it. It was beautiful and Sam found himself wanting to make Dean look like that forever. He had found a way to help his brother, even if only for the night.
As Sam watched Dean slowly come down from the bliss of orgasm, he became acutely aware of his own needy ache. His cock twitched and he looked up at his brother with pleading eyes.
“Dean,” he croaked. Dean met his eyes and nodded.
“I got you, Sammy.” Dean lifted Sam from his knees and pushed him down onto the bed, climbing on top of him and grinding his hips against Sam’s. The friction nearly pushed Sam over the edge immediately, but Sam reached down and grabbed Dean’s hips, holding him still. Dean looked down at Sam, lust in his eyes and confusion on his face.
“I want to see them,” Sam said, his voice husky but sincere. Dean furrowed his brow for a brief moment before realization set in. His body tensed and he closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly.
“Sam, no.”
“Please?” Sam begged, dragging his fingers up the sides of Dean’s chest and resting them just behind Dean’s shoulders, under his wings. “Please, Dean. I want to see them. Please?” Dean pressed his eyes together tightly, battling his shame. Sam could see Dean’s cheek twitch and his lower lip tremble and he wanted to pull him close and tell him he loved him just like this, wings and all. But he couldn’t. Not with words. This was how he needed to tell him. To show him.
“Dean, please,” Sam pleaded. Dean sighed. He turned his head away from Sam as he unfurled the wings, spreading them wide until they stretched to full length. They appeared to be healing themselves quickly, though there were still pink patches where Dean’s blood had soaked into the feathers. The sight of them, however, was no less glorious. Sam was struck with awe and a soft, involuntary moan pushed past his lips. Dean kept his head turned away and his eyes closed.
“Beautiful,” Sam whispered and his brother trembled with the effort of swallowing a sob.
“God dammit,” Dean choked, a tear spilling out onto his cheek. Sam took Dean’s chin in his hand and turned his head to look at him.
“No, Dean. They’re beautiful.” He lifted his head and kissed him hard, once again moving his hips to grind against Dean’s. Dean sighed into Sam and returned the movements, working with him to bring him to orgasm, his wings hovering wide open above them both. Sam came with a shudder, shouting Dean’s name, still bucking his hips slowly in the aftermath of his release.
Dean sat up straddling Sam, unable to lay down with his wings open. Sam stared up at Dean with absolute reverence. His brother. His lover. An angel.
That night while Dean slept peacefully for the first time in weeks, Sam went into the bathroom and picked up the pieces of shattered glass.