Not Meant For This Earth
Title: Not Meant For This Earth
Rating: G
Word Count: 808
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Dean has been hunting something he didn't believe existed. He's been proven wrong before.
Author's Note: This was started earlier today for a challenge at spnland with the prompt "Rebirth", but the deadline passed a couple hours ago while I was freaking out over the coming Snowpacolypse. Oh! And this is also my first attempt at SPN fic :)
Another feather.
It rested, almost trembling, in the center of the wood-paneled floor. A door at the end of the hallway stood open, leaving a path for a window in the west-facing wall of the room behind it to refract a bushel of light and send it across the aged wooden floor in strips. The light's fingers reached all the way to the feather, almost stirring it from its resting place.
The light also brushed the faded toes of a pair of incredibly worn leather shoes, scuffed and creased with use. The shoes stood just a few feet from the feather. Their owner crouched down with reverence and carefully lifted the feather from the ground.
It was long and thin, and possibly the deepest shade of red that he had ever seen. The color itself seemed to throb and pulse with life, interlaced with slivers of deep gold and orange. He turned it between his fingers so the light could play off of its strands.
Dean looked around the hallway, his head craning back and forth. No other feathers in sight. This was the end of the trail.
He put the feather back on the floor. He wasn't sure why. And then he braced his palms on his knees and stood slowly, lifting his arms and arching his neck into a stretch. His fingers brushed something. A string hung from the ceiling. A string hung from the ceiling where a square had been cut. An entrance to an attic directly above where the feather rested.
Without hesitation, Dean's calloused fingers chased the string and gripped it tight. He pulled with no small amount of strength, baring his teeth with the strain as the wood in the ceiling croaked and dust fell around him. Motes clouded the beams of light in the hallway, making them move and sigh.
After a moment of exertion, Dean had the attic ladder down and braced against the floor, his worn shoes pressing into the aged and warping steps as he ascended.
The attic was almost completely bare. Like an eerie, empty room. Surprisingly, there was enough room for Dean to stand to his full height. He turned in a slow circle, not needing his flash light to observe his new surroundings. A large round window was set into the west wall, likely directly above the window from the room below, and through it enough gold setting-sunlight was coming through to illuminate most of the room.
But it wasn't the window that held Dean's attention. It was what sat beside and almost in front of it.
A small table. A vase stand, almost. And atop of it there sat a tall, sturdy branch that rose from a pedestal-like base to curve outward and up, then directly horizontal, as though it were meant to hang something from. Or perch something on top of.
The stand itself was incredibly dusty.
Dean moved toward the window, eyes squinting at the dust on the table. One hand moved forward, almost of its own volition, two fingers extended. They pushed into the thick dust, coming away with a chalky texture. Dean's brows were creased, his lips pulled back slightly in confusion and curiosity as he rubbed his fingers together. Not dust.
And then, just as the setting sun's light shifted into the red end of the spectrum and bled across what were clearly ashes, a small lump near the side began to stir, close to the base of the branch stand. The ashes over it pulsed and shifted. Dean's lips were parted so slightly, his mouth could have still appeared closed, but the muted expression was there. The expression of one who had seen so much that he had honestly failed to believe there was anything left to be seen - yet who knew he was about to discover otherwise.
Disbelief. And wonder. And joy. And uncertainty.
Because Dean knew exactly what this was.
The tiny figure pushed up from the ashes, shaking its head and coughing - its voice was a wheeze of a hiccup - and then it looked up at Dean. It blinked impossibly large, amber eyes at him. It wheezed happily.
...
Shit.
"Thank you for finding him, Dean."
Dean nearly thrust his head into the ceiling, so low it was and so thoroughly had Cas startled him. The angel came up behind Dean with a serene expression on his face.
"They're not meant for this earth," Castiel said quietly, extending a hand toward the creature. It immediately pressed itself into the angel's palm, beginning to glow with bliss.
"I shall return it now."
"Cas?"
The angel looked at Dean intently, about to leave. Dean glanced at the creature again warily.
"Um. Do Phoenixes bond on sight?"
Cas smiled a slow smile, cradled the baby Phoenix to his chest, and disappeared with a kiss of air.
Rating: G
Word Count: 808
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Dean has been hunting something he didn't believe existed. He's been proven wrong before.
Author's Note: This was started earlier today for a challenge at spnland with the prompt "Rebirth", but the deadline passed a couple hours ago while I was freaking out over the coming Snowpacolypse. Oh! And this is also my first attempt at SPN fic :)
Another feather.
It rested, almost trembling, in the center of the wood-paneled floor. A door at the end of the hallway stood open, leaving a path for a window in the west-facing wall of the room behind it to refract a bushel of light and send it across the aged wooden floor in strips. The light's fingers reached all the way to the feather, almost stirring it from its resting place.
The light also brushed the faded toes of a pair of incredibly worn leather shoes, scuffed and creased with use. The shoes stood just a few feet from the feather. Their owner crouched down with reverence and carefully lifted the feather from the ground.
It was long and thin, and possibly the deepest shade of red that he had ever seen. The color itself seemed to throb and pulse with life, interlaced with slivers of deep gold and orange. He turned it between his fingers so the light could play off of its strands.
Dean looked around the hallway, his head craning back and forth. No other feathers in sight. This was the end of the trail.
He put the feather back on the floor. He wasn't sure why. And then he braced his palms on his knees and stood slowly, lifting his arms and arching his neck into a stretch. His fingers brushed something. A string hung from the ceiling. A string hung from the ceiling where a square had been cut. An entrance to an attic directly above where the feather rested.
Without hesitation, Dean's calloused fingers chased the string and gripped it tight. He pulled with no small amount of strength, baring his teeth with the strain as the wood in the ceiling croaked and dust fell around him. Motes clouded the beams of light in the hallway, making them move and sigh.
After a moment of exertion, Dean had the attic ladder down and braced against the floor, his worn shoes pressing into the aged and warping steps as he ascended.
The attic was almost completely bare. Like an eerie, empty room. Surprisingly, there was enough room for Dean to stand to his full height. He turned in a slow circle, not needing his flash light to observe his new surroundings. A large round window was set into the west wall, likely directly above the window from the room below, and through it enough gold setting-sunlight was coming through to illuminate most of the room.
But it wasn't the window that held Dean's attention. It was what sat beside and almost in front of it.
A small table. A vase stand, almost. And atop of it there sat a tall, sturdy branch that rose from a pedestal-like base to curve outward and up, then directly horizontal, as though it were meant to hang something from. Or perch something on top of.
The stand itself was incredibly dusty.
Dean moved toward the window, eyes squinting at the dust on the table. One hand moved forward, almost of its own volition, two fingers extended. They pushed into the thick dust, coming away with a chalky texture. Dean's brows were creased, his lips pulled back slightly in confusion and curiosity as he rubbed his fingers together. Not dust.
And then, just as the setting sun's light shifted into the red end of the spectrum and bled across what were clearly ashes, a small lump near the side began to stir, close to the base of the branch stand. The ashes over it pulsed and shifted. Dean's lips were parted so slightly, his mouth could have still appeared closed, but the muted expression was there. The expression of one who had seen so much that he had honestly failed to believe there was anything left to be seen - yet who knew he was about to discover otherwise.
Disbelief. And wonder. And joy. And uncertainty.
Because Dean knew exactly what this was.
The tiny figure pushed up from the ashes, shaking its head and coughing - its voice was a wheeze of a hiccup - and then it looked up at Dean. It blinked impossibly large, amber eyes at him. It wheezed happily.
...
Shit.
"Thank you for finding him, Dean."
Dean nearly thrust his head into the ceiling, so low it was and so thoroughly had Cas startled him. The angel came up behind Dean with a serene expression on his face.
"They're not meant for this earth," Castiel said quietly, extending a hand toward the creature. It immediately pressed itself into the angel's palm, beginning to glow with bliss.
"I shall return it now."
"Cas?"
The angel looked at Dean intently, about to leave. Dean glanced at the creature again warily.
"Um. Do Phoenixes bond on sight?"
Cas smiled a slow smile, cradled the baby Phoenix to his chest, and disappeared with a kiss of air.