Son of the Archangel
Title: Son of the Archangel
Author: savorvrymoment
Pairing: Sam/Sleipnir
Rating: R
Wordcount: ~2100
Spoilers: 6x13
Summary: ~And for a second, Sam sees the ugly, terrifying face of the real monster. The horse looks back at him with flared red nostrils and wild eyes, teeth bared, too many legs and too much muscle.~
A/N: This is fake... Written for the "magical creatures" square on my fan bingo card. Warning for violence & questionable consent--angry sex.
Sam doesn’t remember him.
He’s working a case with Dean in Southern Utah when the man-the creature, Sam can feel the otherworldliness flowing off of him in spades-catches him in a diner. Dean’s gotten up to use the restroom, and Sam’s left to himself as the thing leers at him from the other side of the booth.
“Hey, Sam,” he says, his accent one Sam can’t place.
“Hey,” Sam says back, not sure how to play this. He reaches for his pocketknife, just to keep something in his hand, but the thing’s eyes drop with the motion. Sam swallows.
“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he continues, eyes drifting back up. “Been busy, I guess?”
“Yeah, yeah. Keeping busy,” Sam says.
“I figured,” he says, then leans back against the booth, one arm spread out against the back, head cocked to the side. And it all comes to Sam in a flash: the blue eyes, the fringy hair, the blasé attitude…
Sleipnir
~*~
“I have information for you,” are the first words he speaks to Sam. Sam looks up at the stranger standing next to their table and bites back the instinct to fire his weapon.
“And who are you?” Samuel asks from the other side of the table. The stranger spares the old man a glance, nostrils flared in annoyance, before tossing a ragged, frayed book down on the table.
“There you go,” he says, gesturing towards the book. “This might help you. With something, at least.”
Sam has to wipe the dust off the top of the book to read the title. And once he has, he realizes the title is in Enochian symbols. His blood runs a little hotter, messier. “Who are you?” he demands.
“An invested third party,” he says, then motions to the book. “He was supposed to get it to you somehow. It’s the Book of Gabriel.”
It takes Sam a moment, but he finally realizes, “So, you’re either Fenrir or Jormungand…”
And Sleipnir pulls a sideways grin, and says, “Try the one you missed.”
~*~
“Where’s Grandpa?” Sleipnir asks idly, glancing around. Sam’s vaguely aware that this is going to blow up once Dean gets back. It’s hard trying to deal with repressed memories and solve the problems at hand. Both at the same time.
“He doesn’t, well…” Sam says, frowning.
“Kicked him out of the picture? Nice,” Sleipnir says with a coughed out laugh. It sounds almost like a whinny.
“There’s more to it than that…”
“There always is.” He leans forward over the table then, and in a hushed voice, says, “Where are you both staying?”
“We’re squatting,” Sam answers.
“Okay, I’ll smell you guys out then if I need to…”
~*~
Most of the book turns out to be incomprehensible, written completely in Enochian symbols, but there are pages where long pieces of English translation are written in the margins. The handwriting varies. Sam assumes that at least some of it has been translated by Gabriel himself, though who else, he’s not sure.
Maybe some has been done by Sleipnir as well.
One of the translated passages talks about the town of giants and a leader by the name of Gregory. It sounds like an Alpha to Sam, and he’s researching at the community library when Sleipnir sits down next to him.
“Don’t do it,” Sleipnir warns.
“What?” Sam says.
“It’s not what you think,” he says. “They aren’t ‘giants’. They’re lesser angels. Half-angel. If you hunt one of them down, you’ll bring down a wrath on yourself unlike any you’ve ever known.”
That makes Sam laugh. “Really? You do know who you’re talking to, right?”
Sleipnir sighs, nostrils flaring. “I understand. You think you’re invincible,” he says. “But you’ll have so many different factions after you if you touch one of those things. That, that’s something you don’t understand.”
Sam frowns. “Why should I believe you?”
“Why should I continue to let you live?”
“Because I’m apparently too important to die,” Sam snaps back.
And for a second, Sam sees the ugly, terrifying face of the real monster. The horse looks back at him with flared red nostrils and wild eyes, teeth bared, too many legs and too much muscle. Sam jerks back on instinctive reflex, jumping to his feet, his chair toppling over in the process.
The few people reading nearby glance up at him, startled and confused; and Sleipnir, the man once again, simply smirks up at him, calm as ever. When he finally stands up, he reaches to close the Book of Gabriel spread out across the desk, and tells Sam…
“I’d watch myself if I were you.”
~*~
When Dean comes back, he comes back with overenthusiastic smiles and handshakes. He’s had to save Sam before from awkward re-acquaintances, and he obviously thinks this is more of the same.
Sleipnir watches him with the look of a creature whose impression of the human race has long turned sour.
“Uh, Dean,” Sam finally manages. “This is Sleipnir. Sleipnir, this is my brother, Dean…”
“Ah, the infamous other Winchester,” Sleipnir remarks, eyeing him from the booth. Dean’s fake smile drops instantly from his face.
“I’m-uh,” Dean fumbles over his words. “I’m gonna assume that’s not a common name.”
Sleipnir gives him an idle nod, then tells Sam, “I like him better than that old man already.”
~*~
Sleipnir agrees to translate more of the Book-for a price, of course, meaning full run of Grandpa’s facilities. It doesn’t bother Sam; Sam wants more of the translation. He’s sure it will help them. There’s something meaningful there, big, but there are too many holes in the literature.
Of course, Samuel’s infuriated with the setup. Sleipnir’s a distraction to everyone, prowling around and leering at everything with two legs. Things begin to disappear from their storeroom, and Samuel catches the demi-god going through his personal documents on several occasions.
Sleipnir’s after something, that much Sam can figure out. He may be playing like he’s helping them all out of the goodness of his dear heart, but Sam’s not that naïve. Not after what he’s seen.
And then, quite suddenly, Sleipnir disappears.
He’s gone for weeks. Sam asks Grandpa about him, because he wants more of the Book translated, but Samuel says he doesn’t know. So Sam shrugs it off, trying to figure out some other way of getting the Book translated. Castiel’s not around anymore, and it’s not like Sam knows any other angels willing to just pop in. He’s coming up with a blank.
And then, just as suddenly, Sleipnir reappears.
It’s late at night when he returns-the sort of late where Sam would have been asleep, if he still did that. Sam’s alone in the motel room, searching out a prospective case on his own, and he startles from the desk in the corner when he hears the window smashed in. He picks his gun up off the table and fires instinctively, and the growl from across the room is part equine and part monstrosity.
Sleipnir’s bruised, bloody, and broken-and not just from the bullet Sam’s managed to put in his shoulder. He looks like he’s been through a war zone, and Sam takes a moment to catalogue the entirety of the situation while Sleipnir digs the bullet out of his shoulder.
“What happened to you?” Sam asks. Sleipnir snorts, unamused, and throws the bloody bullet at Sam’s head. It hits hard enough to bruise, and leaves a stripe of blood across his forehead. “Oww,” Sam comments.
“I need the Book,” Sleipnir demands.
“Why?” Sam asks, and realizes this was the wrong thing to say as Sleipnir’s eyes widen and nostrils flare. Then, “You gave it to me. I want more of it translated.”
Sleipnir snaps out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right? I let you borrow the Book,” he says. “It belongs to me. And now I want it back. I suggest you give it to me.”
“Doesn’t it belong to Gabriel?” Sam asks.
Sleipnir advances, eyes narrowed and lips set. Sam would be worried if his blood wasn’t already boiling at the confrontation. As it is, all he can feel is his own aggression. “Gabriel’s dead, you damned idiot,” Sleipnir hisses. “And so the book falls to me. His first born. So tell me where you…”
“His first born?” Sam interrupts, laughing. “Aren’t you his bastard bestiality accident?”
Sleipnir’s on him before he has time to process. He fights back, but the creature has him pinned to the wall, blocked in on either side with a set of arms and legs, with another arm forced up against his windpipe and another leg kneed up against his groin.
“Cute trick,” Sam wheezes.
“You dare insult me? Demon child?” Sleipnir snarls, then slams up against his windpipe. Sam chokes, and Sleipnir grins. “You smell like sulfur and ash and emptiness. And it disgusts me.”
Sam waits quietly until Sleipnir releases him, before surging forward and biting the horse-god’s mouth. He’s struck between surprised and pleased when Sleipnir shoves him back against the wall and bites back with teeth that are straight, block, and blunt.
“Disgusts you?” Sam sneers once Sleipnir’s shoved him away. Sleipnir snarls at him, bleeding from a split lip.
“I’ve fucked worse,” is Sleipnir’s only response.
~*~
“I just wanted to return this.”
Sleipnir slides the Book across the booth toward Sam. Sam blinks at it, then glances up at the demi-god. He’s not sure whether this is some sort of trick, or a someway to get himself killed. They hadn’t exactly parted over the best of terms.
“What is it?” Dean asks, peering down at it.
“Something of interest. Sam can tell you more,” Sleipnir says. Then, to Sam, “I’ve translated a lot more of it. Some of the more important parts, I felt. Though if you need anything else translated, I’ve been hanging out around Salt Lake…”
“Enochian?” Dean asks, trying to read the etchings on the Book.
“So, find me. I’ll be able to smell you out once you’re in the area. S’how I found you here,” Sleipnir finishes.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says vaguely. He reaches out and drags the Book across the table, towards himself. The leather bindings feel familiar.
There’s a beat of silence before Sleipnir slides out of the booth. “I really should be going,” he says. “Been busy.”
“Wait, what?” Dean says suddenly. “You just swung by to drop a book off? Really?”
Sam swallows, hard, while Sleipnir gives Dean the once over. “Yes, yes exactly,” Sleipnir finally says.
Then, an afterthought, “And a ‘thank you’ would be nice, by the way…”
~*~
He fucks like an animal, and Sam thinks this is maybe inevitable. Because as much as he’s half-angel, he’s also half-equine.
It’s such a disgustingly filthy thought. Sam wonders what’s going on in the horse-god’s head. Some sort of breeding imperative? An instinctive drive to overpower and mate? Except his human-or angelic?-sentience has long been proven, so Sam has a hard time coming up with a reason for the madness.
But Sleipnir has Sam pushed face first into the creaky motel bed, all of his limbs still out and functioning. Two arms to hold himself up, and two more to shove Sam to the mattress. Two legs to leverage himself, and two more to maneuver Sam. It’s overwhelming, and makes Sam fight back, yelling and cursing and moaning.
“Shut up, demon whore,” Sleipnir tells him, and yanks on his hair.
“Bastard,” Sam snarls.
“Soulless demon child,” Sleipnir hisses, and whickers in his ear.
In the morning, Sleipnir’s gone and taken the Book with him. Sam’s angry and sore, but sort of thinks the sex was worth it.
~*~
“You need more of it translated already?” Sleipnir says with a roll of his eyes. “I just gave you the Book two days ago.”
“No,” Sam says, creeping around the side of the warehouse. It’d taken a while to track Sleipnir down, but he’d finally followed him here to an abandoned building in a bad section of town. “Should you be staying here?” he can’t help but ask. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
Sleipnir gives him a disbelieving look.
“Ah, true,” Sam says. Then, “I just wanted to talk…”
“Look, Sam, I don’t ‘talk’,” Sleipnir says, abruptly cutting him off. “Either you need something, or you get out.”
“I just… I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’m not an asshole by nature. I don’t think.”
“Your soul’s talking to you.” Sleipnir says, sitting down on the dirty, concrete floor. “If that Book is right, you’ve got a long road ahead of you.”
Sam swallows. “What happened to you, back then? When you came to me?”
“When I asked for the Book?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, frowning when Sleipnir shakes his head. Then, “Did Crowley get you?”
Sleipnir snorts out a laugh, says, “As if…”
“Then what?”
“I’m the child of an archangel,” Sleipnir says. “And that’s all you need to know.”
Author: savorvrymoment
Pairing: Sam/Sleipnir
Rating: R
Wordcount: ~2100
Spoilers: 6x13
Summary: ~And for a second, Sam sees the ugly, terrifying face of the real monster. The horse looks back at him with flared red nostrils and wild eyes, teeth bared, too many legs and too much muscle.~
A/N: This is fake... Written for the "magical creatures" square on my fan bingo card. Warning for violence & questionable consent--angry sex.
Sam doesn’t remember him.
He’s working a case with Dean in Southern Utah when the man-the creature, Sam can feel the otherworldliness flowing off of him in spades-catches him in a diner. Dean’s gotten up to use the restroom, and Sam’s left to himself as the thing leers at him from the other side of the booth.
“Hey, Sam,” he says, his accent one Sam can’t place.
“Hey,” Sam says back, not sure how to play this. He reaches for his pocketknife, just to keep something in his hand, but the thing’s eyes drop with the motion. Sam swallows.
“Haven’t seen you in ages,” he continues, eyes drifting back up. “Been busy, I guess?”
“Yeah, yeah. Keeping busy,” Sam says.
“I figured,” he says, then leans back against the booth, one arm spread out against the back, head cocked to the side. And it all comes to Sam in a flash: the blue eyes, the fringy hair, the blasé attitude…
Sleipnir
~*~
“I have information for you,” are the first words he speaks to Sam. Sam looks up at the stranger standing next to their table and bites back the instinct to fire his weapon.
“And who are you?” Samuel asks from the other side of the table. The stranger spares the old man a glance, nostrils flared in annoyance, before tossing a ragged, frayed book down on the table.
“There you go,” he says, gesturing towards the book. “This might help you. With something, at least.”
Sam has to wipe the dust off the top of the book to read the title. And once he has, he realizes the title is in Enochian symbols. His blood runs a little hotter, messier. “Who are you?” he demands.
“An invested third party,” he says, then motions to the book. “He was supposed to get it to you somehow. It’s the Book of Gabriel.”
It takes Sam a moment, but he finally realizes, “So, you’re either Fenrir or Jormungand…”
And Sleipnir pulls a sideways grin, and says, “Try the one you missed.”
~*~
“Where’s Grandpa?” Sleipnir asks idly, glancing around. Sam’s vaguely aware that this is going to blow up once Dean gets back. It’s hard trying to deal with repressed memories and solve the problems at hand. Both at the same time.
“He doesn’t, well…” Sam says, frowning.
“Kicked him out of the picture? Nice,” Sleipnir says with a coughed out laugh. It sounds almost like a whinny.
“There’s more to it than that…”
“There always is.” He leans forward over the table then, and in a hushed voice, says, “Where are you both staying?”
“We’re squatting,” Sam answers.
“Okay, I’ll smell you guys out then if I need to…”
~*~
Most of the book turns out to be incomprehensible, written completely in Enochian symbols, but there are pages where long pieces of English translation are written in the margins. The handwriting varies. Sam assumes that at least some of it has been translated by Gabriel himself, though who else, he’s not sure.
Maybe some has been done by Sleipnir as well.
One of the translated passages talks about the town of giants and a leader by the name of Gregory. It sounds like an Alpha to Sam, and he’s researching at the community library when Sleipnir sits down next to him.
“Don’t do it,” Sleipnir warns.
“What?” Sam says.
“It’s not what you think,” he says. “They aren’t ‘giants’. They’re lesser angels. Half-angel. If you hunt one of them down, you’ll bring down a wrath on yourself unlike any you’ve ever known.”
That makes Sam laugh. “Really? You do know who you’re talking to, right?”
Sleipnir sighs, nostrils flaring. “I understand. You think you’re invincible,” he says. “But you’ll have so many different factions after you if you touch one of those things. That, that’s something you don’t understand.”
Sam frowns. “Why should I believe you?”
“Why should I continue to let you live?”
“Because I’m apparently too important to die,” Sam snaps back.
And for a second, Sam sees the ugly, terrifying face of the real monster. The horse looks back at him with flared red nostrils and wild eyes, teeth bared, too many legs and too much muscle. Sam jerks back on instinctive reflex, jumping to his feet, his chair toppling over in the process.
The few people reading nearby glance up at him, startled and confused; and Sleipnir, the man once again, simply smirks up at him, calm as ever. When he finally stands up, he reaches to close the Book of Gabriel spread out across the desk, and tells Sam…
“I’d watch myself if I were you.”
~*~
When Dean comes back, he comes back with overenthusiastic smiles and handshakes. He’s had to save Sam before from awkward re-acquaintances, and he obviously thinks this is more of the same.
Sleipnir watches him with the look of a creature whose impression of the human race has long turned sour.
“Uh, Dean,” Sam finally manages. “This is Sleipnir. Sleipnir, this is my brother, Dean…”
“Ah, the infamous other Winchester,” Sleipnir remarks, eyeing him from the booth. Dean’s fake smile drops instantly from his face.
“I’m-uh,” Dean fumbles over his words. “I’m gonna assume that’s not a common name.”
Sleipnir gives him an idle nod, then tells Sam, “I like him better than that old man already.”
~*~
Sleipnir agrees to translate more of the Book-for a price, of course, meaning full run of Grandpa’s facilities. It doesn’t bother Sam; Sam wants more of the translation. He’s sure it will help them. There’s something meaningful there, big, but there are too many holes in the literature.
Of course, Samuel’s infuriated with the setup. Sleipnir’s a distraction to everyone, prowling around and leering at everything with two legs. Things begin to disappear from their storeroom, and Samuel catches the demi-god going through his personal documents on several occasions.
Sleipnir’s after something, that much Sam can figure out. He may be playing like he’s helping them all out of the goodness of his dear heart, but Sam’s not that naïve. Not after what he’s seen.
And then, quite suddenly, Sleipnir disappears.
He’s gone for weeks. Sam asks Grandpa about him, because he wants more of the Book translated, but Samuel says he doesn’t know. So Sam shrugs it off, trying to figure out some other way of getting the Book translated. Castiel’s not around anymore, and it’s not like Sam knows any other angels willing to just pop in. He’s coming up with a blank.
And then, just as suddenly, Sleipnir reappears.
It’s late at night when he returns-the sort of late where Sam would have been asleep, if he still did that. Sam’s alone in the motel room, searching out a prospective case on his own, and he startles from the desk in the corner when he hears the window smashed in. He picks his gun up off the table and fires instinctively, and the growl from across the room is part equine and part monstrosity.
Sleipnir’s bruised, bloody, and broken-and not just from the bullet Sam’s managed to put in his shoulder. He looks like he’s been through a war zone, and Sam takes a moment to catalogue the entirety of the situation while Sleipnir digs the bullet out of his shoulder.
“What happened to you?” Sam asks. Sleipnir snorts, unamused, and throws the bloody bullet at Sam’s head. It hits hard enough to bruise, and leaves a stripe of blood across his forehead. “Oww,” Sam comments.
“I need the Book,” Sleipnir demands.
“Why?” Sam asks, and realizes this was the wrong thing to say as Sleipnir’s eyes widen and nostrils flare. Then, “You gave it to me. I want more of it translated.”
Sleipnir snaps out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right? I let you borrow the Book,” he says. “It belongs to me. And now I want it back. I suggest you give it to me.”
“Doesn’t it belong to Gabriel?” Sam asks.
Sleipnir advances, eyes narrowed and lips set. Sam would be worried if his blood wasn’t already boiling at the confrontation. As it is, all he can feel is his own aggression. “Gabriel’s dead, you damned idiot,” Sleipnir hisses. “And so the book falls to me. His first born. So tell me where you…”
“His first born?” Sam interrupts, laughing. “Aren’t you his bastard bestiality accident?”
Sleipnir’s on him before he has time to process. He fights back, but the creature has him pinned to the wall, blocked in on either side with a set of arms and legs, with another arm forced up against his windpipe and another leg kneed up against his groin.
“Cute trick,” Sam wheezes.
“You dare insult me? Demon child?” Sleipnir snarls, then slams up against his windpipe. Sam chokes, and Sleipnir grins. “You smell like sulfur and ash and emptiness. And it disgusts me.”
Sam waits quietly until Sleipnir releases him, before surging forward and biting the horse-god’s mouth. He’s struck between surprised and pleased when Sleipnir shoves him back against the wall and bites back with teeth that are straight, block, and blunt.
“Disgusts you?” Sam sneers once Sleipnir’s shoved him away. Sleipnir snarls at him, bleeding from a split lip.
“I’ve fucked worse,” is Sleipnir’s only response.
~*~
“I just wanted to return this.”
Sleipnir slides the Book across the booth toward Sam. Sam blinks at it, then glances up at the demi-god. He’s not sure whether this is some sort of trick, or a someway to get himself killed. They hadn’t exactly parted over the best of terms.
“What is it?” Dean asks, peering down at it.
“Something of interest. Sam can tell you more,” Sleipnir says. Then, to Sam, “I’ve translated a lot more of it. Some of the more important parts, I felt. Though if you need anything else translated, I’ve been hanging out around Salt Lake…”
“Enochian?” Dean asks, trying to read the etchings on the Book.
“So, find me. I’ll be able to smell you out once you’re in the area. S’how I found you here,” Sleipnir finishes.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says vaguely. He reaches out and drags the Book across the table, towards himself. The leather bindings feel familiar.
There’s a beat of silence before Sleipnir slides out of the booth. “I really should be going,” he says. “Been busy.”
“Wait, what?” Dean says suddenly. “You just swung by to drop a book off? Really?”
Sam swallows, hard, while Sleipnir gives Dean the once over. “Yes, yes exactly,” Sleipnir finally says.
Then, an afterthought, “And a ‘thank you’ would be nice, by the way…”
~*~
He fucks like an animal, and Sam thinks this is maybe inevitable. Because as much as he’s half-angel, he’s also half-equine.
It’s such a disgustingly filthy thought. Sam wonders what’s going on in the horse-god’s head. Some sort of breeding imperative? An instinctive drive to overpower and mate? Except his human-or angelic?-sentience has long been proven, so Sam has a hard time coming up with a reason for the madness.
But Sleipnir has Sam pushed face first into the creaky motel bed, all of his limbs still out and functioning. Two arms to hold himself up, and two more to shove Sam to the mattress. Two legs to leverage himself, and two more to maneuver Sam. It’s overwhelming, and makes Sam fight back, yelling and cursing and moaning.
“Shut up, demon whore,” Sleipnir tells him, and yanks on his hair.
“Bastard,” Sam snarls.
“Soulless demon child,” Sleipnir hisses, and whickers in his ear.
In the morning, Sleipnir’s gone and taken the Book with him. Sam’s angry and sore, but sort of thinks the sex was worth it.
~*~
“You need more of it translated already?” Sleipnir says with a roll of his eyes. “I just gave you the Book two days ago.”
“No,” Sam says, creeping around the side of the warehouse. It’d taken a while to track Sleipnir down, but he’d finally followed him here to an abandoned building in a bad section of town. “Should you be staying here?” he can’t help but ask. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
Sleipnir gives him a disbelieving look.
“Ah, true,” Sam says. Then, “I just wanted to talk…”
“Look, Sam, I don’t ‘talk’,” Sleipnir says, abruptly cutting him off. “Either you need something, or you get out.”
“I just… I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’m not an asshole by nature. I don’t think.”
“Your soul’s talking to you.” Sleipnir says, sitting down on the dirty, concrete floor. “If that Book is right, you’ve got a long road ahead of you.”
Sam swallows. “What happened to you, back then? When you came to me?”
“When I asked for the Book?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, frowning when Sleipnir shakes his head. Then, “Did Crowley get you?”
Sleipnir snorts out a laugh, says, “As if…”
“Then what?”
“I’m the child of an archangel,” Sleipnir says. “And that’s all you need to know.”