"Untitled Ficlets"
Some wing!fic ficlets by request - set pre, during and post the current wing!fic arc.
Title: Untitled Ficlets
Rating/Warning: Mature (language)
Wordcount: 1,574
Spoilers: None
Fandom: SPN
By: kellifer_fic
Category: Gen
Notes: Part of my gen wing!fic verse. Thanks to *superfox* for the superfast beta. Further author's notes at the bottom.
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
I’ll Be Yours
“It’s a possibility,” John says, slugging back the whiskey he’s been offered. Bobby drums fingers on a pile of books.
“There’s ways we can know for sure,” he offers, face drawn and John looks towards the living room, the sounds of his kids knocking about. Sammy is growing like a weed and the wings are an extra thing he can knock Dean around with, much to Dean’s consternation.
John sets his glass aside. There’s no way he’s ever going to think of them other than as his sons.
“Nah,” John says, shaking his head. “I’m not going to believe anything that tries to tell me that boy ain’t mine, so there’s no point.”
Bobby nods and grins. “Was hoping you’d say that.”
Breathe (2am)
One thing Dean really likes about Sanctuary, nothing looks sterile.
Even the hospital looks like someone’s home, all done in muted greens and burnt oranges. The waiting room is crowded with couches donated by the locals and an ancient television set in the corner. Sam sits opposite the door on the very edge of the only armchair, wings pushed back. There’s one of the hospital’s wheeled cribs by his knee and he’s holding a small, wrapped form in his arms.
It’s completely quiet which is a little unsettling. Sam was a screamer for the first two months of his life, only ever settling when he had something in his mouth, be it a dummy, a bottle or his brother’s pinkie. As Dean watches, tiny hands appear at the edges of the blanket, flailing, maybe reaching.
“Ten fingers, ten toes?” Dean asks from the doorway and Sam looks up, his face cracking into a relieved grin.
“You made it,” he says. His eyes are a little shell-shocked.
“Well, I missed the main performance but got here in time for the encore I guess,” Dean says, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. He moves forward, watching Sam rise to meet him, large hands cradling the tiny form. Sam was always surprisingly gentle for his size, delicate even. Dean thinks it might have something to do with being treated like the little brother, no matter how big he gets.
“Yes, ten fingers, ten toes,” Sam confirms as an afterthought.
“How about…?” Dean hooks his thumbs together and flaps the fingers of his hands like you would do to make a shadow puppet butterfly.
“Nothing,” Sam says and there’s no hesitation when he hands his baby over, just a smile and one wing coming up to gently nudge Dean’s shoulder as he accepts. “Yet,” Sam says, so low Dean’s not sure he was supposed to hear it.
“Hey Mickey,” Dean greets, tugging the blanket aside enough to get a look at the little squidged-up face, eyes cracking to check out who he’s been handed off to. There’s a second where Mickey looks uncertain, like maybe he’s getting ready to scream but then he seems to take a big whiff, blinks a few more times and settles again, eyes sliding closed. “Man, I’m going to think of the song every time I say that,” Dean says with a snort.
“Well, maybe you can call him by his name then,” Sam says, mouth souring into a pissy little line which makes Dean clamp his lips on the honest to goodness giggle that’s threatening. “It’s Michael.”
Dean rolls his eyes, starting to rock gently when Mickey wriggles. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”
Good Morning
Sometimes he hates them.
Sam hasn’t been able to fit into a normal-sized shower stall since he was fifteen, basically washing whatever he could jam under the running water, bits at a time. The wings take forever to dry unless there is a hair dryer involved and if it is then there is no end to Dean’s jokes, most commonly casting aspersions on Sam’s manhood and that he wasn’t aware he had a sister.
He got growing pains in his legs and his wings, curled in misery through most of his sixteenth year, the only relief when he was able to lie under the sky at Jim’s farm, thoroughly sun warmed and wings extended to their utmost.
He didn’t think he’d ever meet a girl and fall in love. People either assumed he was divine or cursed and he thought one was almost as bad as the other. Dean would come stomping home smelling of perfume and neck bruised and Sam would wonder if he’d ever be allowed the same kind of teenage fumbling in the dark, knowing deep down that it wasn’t possible.
But sometimes…
Sam glides, thermals buoying him and the Impala racing below, Sam concentrating on keeping his shadow firmly centred on its roof. He banks and then shoots down, pulling up at the last second, thumping the Impala’s roof with a sneaker and imagining the curses Dean is raining down on him from inside the car because there were goddamn footprints on the finish, Sammy.
He heads straight into the dawn, the world warming as he does, and the countryside laid bare below.
Sometimes he loves them.
I Won’t Make You
Dean finds a solitary feather under Jim’s porch, right after. Sam is inside watching television, having given up asking Dean just what crawled up his butt and made him so cranky. Dean’s unable to yell or cry or even really mourn.
For the briefest of moments he really hates his dad for letting this happen.
He runs the feather between his fingers, one of the flight ones, bigger than any bird’s. It’s white under a smudge of dirt because they’d been playing tag right before Dean left for his hunt and they’d been wrestling in the dust.
“It’s what he wanted,” John says quietly from behind, same old justification. “If he wanted to leave, he would’ve found a way to do this with or without me.”
A hand lands on his shoulder and Dean shrugs it off.
“You just keep on telling yourself that.”
Wild Horses
“Edgar and Allen,” Dean says, shaking the reigns he has in hand.
Sam is looking at him, a little aghast. “You went to buy beer, Dean,” Sam says, looking at the two horse standing behind his brother. The horses look at each other and then back at Sam, like they’re both saying, Yeah, we couldn’t believe it either. Not to mention, Sam can’t see a horse trailer anywhere and he’s not going to even ask how Dean got them back to the property.
“We have a farm, Sam,” Dean says, his voice edging into a whine and Sam groans. “We gotta have some animals.”
“You couldn’t have started a little smaller?” Sam asks, flailing a hand in the direction of the horses again. The brown horse with a white stripe on his nose nudges Dean in the side and his brother stumbles sideways a few steps and then scowls. Okay, so that almost endears the thing to Sam. “Like, maybe a goat?”
“What do we need a goat for?”
“What do we need horses for?” Sam counters, smacking a hand to his face. “At least a goat will eat anything. I mean, apart from the milk production a goat is practically you.” This time, the dappled grey takes a nip at the back of Dean’s head, who dances forward with a very unmanly yelp of surprise.
So, maybe Sam’s a little in love.
“Their names are a tad… literary for you,” Sam says, resigned. He also knows he’s going to end up being the one mucking out stalls and basically wading in horse shit because his brother, who changed his diapers and will happily dig elbow deep into troll guts to wrench out the heart, is strangely fastidious when it comes to animal crap.
“What?” Dean looks genuinely blank on that one and Sam has to roll his eyes because of course.
“You named them after the brothers in The Lost Boys, didn’t you?” he asks and Dean grins and nods. Sam is a little reassured, because it means there isn’t a third horse lurking around, , waiting to be discovered, called Poe.
If You Want Blood
Winchester
Bobby and Jim pause long enough to look at each other. Demons will try anything, in turns threatening and pleading to escape being sent back to hell. Every now and again one will say something that will make your heart stop because the bastards know how to wield truth as wickedly as lies.
Jim’s just glad John didn’t join them like he was meant to.
“You’d do well not to speak that name like it’s your salvation,” Bobby growls, sounding like one of his junkyard dogs. Bobby’s already on edge. They’re not saving anyone today, the guy trapped inside his own body is going nowhere but to his eternal rest. The demon was just in for a joy ride, not particularly careful about using or abusing the body.
“He has a guardian but it won’t save him. It won’t save any of them,” the demon hisses, bloodied spittle flying from its lips. “My lord will have them all in the end, every tiny fragment.”
Jim finishes the exorcism as quickly as he can. It’s always a bad business when you stop to hear a demon out. It will sense your hesitation and start embellishing, twining truth with lies, and making more fantastic claims. Right before it expires, it hisses another name as the black belches from its throat.
Dashmael.
---
Wing!fic Soundtrack
Track Listing
Wild Horses
Good Morning
Hurt
Jim's Farm
Breathe(2am)
Out Of My Hands
Knockin' On Heaven's Door
If You Want Blood
I'll Be Yours
I Won't Make You
When Anger Shows
I Will Follow You Into The Dark
The Future
Plague Burial
Sour Girl
Title: Untitled Ficlets
Rating/Warning: Mature (language)
Wordcount: 1,574
Spoilers: None
Fandom: SPN
By: kellifer_fic
Category: Gen
Notes: Part of my gen wing!fic verse. Thanks to *superfox* for the superfast beta. Further author's notes at the bottom.
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
I’ll Be Yours
“It’s a possibility,” John says, slugging back the whiskey he’s been offered. Bobby drums fingers on a pile of books.
“There’s ways we can know for sure,” he offers, face drawn and John looks towards the living room, the sounds of his kids knocking about. Sammy is growing like a weed and the wings are an extra thing he can knock Dean around with, much to Dean’s consternation.
John sets his glass aside. There’s no way he’s ever going to think of them other than as his sons.
“Nah,” John says, shaking his head. “I’m not going to believe anything that tries to tell me that boy ain’t mine, so there’s no point.”
Bobby nods and grins. “Was hoping you’d say that.”
Breathe (2am)
One thing Dean really likes about Sanctuary, nothing looks sterile.
Even the hospital looks like someone’s home, all done in muted greens and burnt oranges. The waiting room is crowded with couches donated by the locals and an ancient television set in the corner. Sam sits opposite the door on the very edge of the only armchair, wings pushed back. There’s one of the hospital’s wheeled cribs by his knee and he’s holding a small, wrapped form in his arms.
It’s completely quiet which is a little unsettling. Sam was a screamer for the first two months of his life, only ever settling when he had something in his mouth, be it a dummy, a bottle or his brother’s pinkie. As Dean watches, tiny hands appear at the edges of the blanket, flailing, maybe reaching.
“Ten fingers, ten toes?” Dean asks from the doorway and Sam looks up, his face cracking into a relieved grin.
“You made it,” he says. His eyes are a little shell-shocked.
“Well, I missed the main performance but got here in time for the encore I guess,” Dean says, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. He moves forward, watching Sam rise to meet him, large hands cradling the tiny form. Sam was always surprisingly gentle for his size, delicate even. Dean thinks it might have something to do with being treated like the little brother, no matter how big he gets.
“Yes, ten fingers, ten toes,” Sam confirms as an afterthought.
“How about…?” Dean hooks his thumbs together and flaps the fingers of his hands like you would do to make a shadow puppet butterfly.
“Nothing,” Sam says and there’s no hesitation when he hands his baby over, just a smile and one wing coming up to gently nudge Dean’s shoulder as he accepts. “Yet,” Sam says, so low Dean’s not sure he was supposed to hear it.
“Hey Mickey,” Dean greets, tugging the blanket aside enough to get a look at the little squidged-up face, eyes cracking to check out who he’s been handed off to. There’s a second where Mickey looks uncertain, like maybe he’s getting ready to scream but then he seems to take a big whiff, blinks a few more times and settles again, eyes sliding closed. “Man, I’m going to think of the song every time I say that,” Dean says with a snort.
“Well, maybe you can call him by his name then,” Sam says, mouth souring into a pissy little line which makes Dean clamp his lips on the honest to goodness giggle that’s threatening. “It’s Michael.”
Dean rolls his eyes, starting to rock gently when Mickey wriggles. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”
Good Morning
Sometimes he hates them.
Sam hasn’t been able to fit into a normal-sized shower stall since he was fifteen, basically washing whatever he could jam under the running water, bits at a time. The wings take forever to dry unless there is a hair dryer involved and if it is then there is no end to Dean’s jokes, most commonly casting aspersions on Sam’s manhood and that he wasn’t aware he had a sister.
He got growing pains in his legs and his wings, curled in misery through most of his sixteenth year, the only relief when he was able to lie under the sky at Jim’s farm, thoroughly sun warmed and wings extended to their utmost.
He didn’t think he’d ever meet a girl and fall in love. People either assumed he was divine or cursed and he thought one was almost as bad as the other. Dean would come stomping home smelling of perfume and neck bruised and Sam would wonder if he’d ever be allowed the same kind of teenage fumbling in the dark, knowing deep down that it wasn’t possible.
But sometimes…
Sam glides, thermals buoying him and the Impala racing below, Sam concentrating on keeping his shadow firmly centred on its roof. He banks and then shoots down, pulling up at the last second, thumping the Impala’s roof with a sneaker and imagining the curses Dean is raining down on him from inside the car because there were goddamn footprints on the finish, Sammy.
He heads straight into the dawn, the world warming as he does, and the countryside laid bare below.
Sometimes he loves them.
I Won’t Make You
Dean finds a solitary feather under Jim’s porch, right after. Sam is inside watching television, having given up asking Dean just what crawled up his butt and made him so cranky. Dean’s unable to yell or cry or even really mourn.
For the briefest of moments he really hates his dad for letting this happen.
He runs the feather between his fingers, one of the flight ones, bigger than any bird’s. It’s white under a smudge of dirt because they’d been playing tag right before Dean left for his hunt and they’d been wrestling in the dust.
“It’s what he wanted,” John says quietly from behind, same old justification. “If he wanted to leave, he would’ve found a way to do this with or without me.”
A hand lands on his shoulder and Dean shrugs it off.
“You just keep on telling yourself that.”
Wild Horses
“Edgar and Allen,” Dean says, shaking the reigns he has in hand.
Sam is looking at him, a little aghast. “You went to buy beer, Dean,” Sam says, looking at the two horse standing behind his brother. The horses look at each other and then back at Sam, like they’re both saying, Yeah, we couldn’t believe it either. Not to mention, Sam can’t see a horse trailer anywhere and he’s not going to even ask how Dean got them back to the property.
“We have a farm, Sam,” Dean says, his voice edging into a whine and Sam groans. “We gotta have some animals.”
“You couldn’t have started a little smaller?” Sam asks, flailing a hand in the direction of the horses again. The brown horse with a white stripe on his nose nudges Dean in the side and his brother stumbles sideways a few steps and then scowls. Okay, so that almost endears the thing to Sam. “Like, maybe a goat?”
“What do we need a goat for?”
“What do we need horses for?” Sam counters, smacking a hand to his face. “At least a goat will eat anything. I mean, apart from the milk production a goat is practically you.” This time, the dappled grey takes a nip at the back of Dean’s head, who dances forward with a very unmanly yelp of surprise.
So, maybe Sam’s a little in love.
“Their names are a tad… literary for you,” Sam says, resigned. He also knows he’s going to end up being the one mucking out stalls and basically wading in horse shit because his brother, who changed his diapers and will happily dig elbow deep into troll guts to wrench out the heart, is strangely fastidious when it comes to animal crap.
“What?” Dean looks genuinely blank on that one and Sam has to roll his eyes because of course.
“You named them after the brothers in The Lost Boys, didn’t you?” he asks and Dean grins and nods. Sam is a little reassured, because it means there isn’t a third horse lurking around, , waiting to be discovered, called Poe.
If You Want Blood
Winchester
Bobby and Jim pause long enough to look at each other. Demons will try anything, in turns threatening and pleading to escape being sent back to hell. Every now and again one will say something that will make your heart stop because the bastards know how to wield truth as wickedly as lies.
Jim’s just glad John didn’t join them like he was meant to.
“You’d do well not to speak that name like it’s your salvation,” Bobby growls, sounding like one of his junkyard dogs. Bobby’s already on edge. They’re not saving anyone today, the guy trapped inside his own body is going nowhere but to his eternal rest. The demon was just in for a joy ride, not particularly careful about using or abusing the body.
“He has a guardian but it won’t save him. It won’t save any of them,” the demon hisses, bloodied spittle flying from its lips. “My lord will have them all in the end, every tiny fragment.”
Jim finishes the exorcism as quickly as he can. It’s always a bad business when you stop to hear a demon out. It will sense your hesitation and start embellishing, twining truth with lies, and making more fantastic claims. Right before it expires, it hisses another name as the black belches from its throat.
Dashmael.
---
Wing!fic Soundtrack
Track Listing
Wild Horses
Good Morning
Hurt
Jim's Farm
Breathe(2am)
Out Of My Hands
Knockin' On Heaven's Door
If You Want Blood
I'll Be Yours
I Won't Make You
When Anger Shows
I Will Follow You Into The Dark
The Future
Plague Burial
Sour Girl