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Oh, wing!fic. I don't even have a good excuse, it just kind of happened.
This is for astolat, largely because her Dean-with-wings story was basically responsible for my poking my head into fandom and SPN as a whole, and it's turned out to be a goddamned fantastic place. (Also, you know, she encouraged me to write this, and how was I supposed to resist that? I wasn't.)
Every single bad-naughty-wrong and oh so good thing in this fic is the direct responsibility of winterlive, who is basically to blame for all things hot and Sam-related in the world at large. Kudos to lots of betas: smangosbubbles, fahye, aynslee, and rejeneration.
Uh. Sam gets cursed, Sam and Dean have a lack of knowledge of basic avian anatomy, and there's one pissed off demon and some hot makeup sex. Spoilers through AHBL, but this isn't really compliant with S3. OK, it's not compliant with S3 at all, aside from Dean liking cheeseburgers.
Landslide, Sam/Dean, R, 7300 words.
Landslide
It all starts with a headache.
Sam starts to blink on the way back to the hotel, like he's seeing something in the corners of his vision, and half way there, on the side of a road cutting along the bayou, he pulls over.
"I can't drive anymore," he says. "I'm getting an aura."
Dean would really like to pretend Sam means that he's started seeing touchy-feely psychic colors around people, but the alternative is a hell of a lot more likely, considering Sam's headaches have been happening more often, coming closer together since the demon died. Dean's less than thrilled about driving, considering that the goddamned run-of-the-mill voodoo practitioner they just blasted managed to slam him into a wall on her way out without revealing any secrets about demonic summoning, but he sure as hell isn't going to let Sam stay behind the wheel if he can't see. It's his car.
"Tylenol's in the glove compartment," he says, grudgingly, and they switch, even if it means Dean has to drive back one-handed since his left wrist is too swollen to turn.
Sam downs four or five pills with a swallow of leftover coffee, but by the time they get back to the motel, he's starting to go pale and shaky, and Dean has to pull him across the parking lot. The whole thing's generally undignified and overall, not an experience he's willing to repeat again. He shuts the blinds and manages a shower, not even bothering with shampoo, because seriously, being clean doesn't seem all that great in comparison to sleep. By the time he climbs into the second bed, Sam's got the blankets pulled up over his head. He's asleep - Dean can tell by the slow rise and fall of the bedspread, even and soft, and yeah, it's not his idea of a great time, having Sam this messed up, but he's too tired to worry about it. Dean throws a towel over the alarm clock and is under as soon as his head hits the pillow, exhausted.
He wakes up to the sound of Sam puking, over and over again, which is seriously disgusting and makes him sort of want to hurl too, except the bathroom is already occupied. Ordinarily, Dean's not too thrilled about playing nurse - Sam tops all whining records when he's not feeling well, because he's a goddamned girl - but migraines are a class of pain that Dean wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole and a semiautomatic, so he runs a washcloth under some cold water and goes to sit with Sam. It's definitely a major sacrifice, especially since Sam's still throwing up when he gets in there.
"It's worse than usual," Sam manages, curled up tight against the side of the bathtub, eyes closed, and worry almost wins out over disgust, except Sam's not tense and distant the way he is when he's getting visions, the way all the other headaches have been, so it's probably normal, or at least as normal as puking up the last ten meals or so can be.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, finally, and gets him back in bed.
Sam's still out when he comes home from getting dinner - a turkey sandwich for himself, which he eats in the car because Sam can't take the smell of anything food related, and a bottle of Excedrin and some Gatorade for Sam. Sam manages a couple sips of the Gatorade, but drugs don't do much for the headaches. It's not like they last long, either, though, so when it hits midnight and Sam's still curled up in the middle of the bed, Dean's not exactly what you'd call thrilled. Nine hours is too long.
When he gets up at four to find a glass of water, Sam's not sleeping anymore, just wrapped in on himself, breathing so shallow and intent that Dean can tell he's counting breaths, trying to cope with pain.
"Hey," Dean says, nice and soft, because the tension in Sam's body is worse than a lot of the things he's fought and killed, and Sam blinks a couple times, like he can't quite focus.
"Hey," he manages, quiet, sounding worse than Dean's heard him in a long time.
Dean slides in behind him, careful, and wraps a hand around the back of Sam's neck, nudging his thumb across his shoulder. It's embarrassing, but every muscle is tense, hard enough that there's no give against Dean's fingers, and it takes him twenty minutes to work any of it out, so he figures Sam isn't likely to give him shit over it in the morning.
"Thanks," Sam manages, face against Dean's shoulder, definitely making him the bigger girl here, and he falls asleep a couple minutes later.
Sam's usually okay with driving when he's sick, so Dean decides it's fine to hit the road, but when he starts packing their stuff the next morning, Sam goes green.
"I can't do the car," he says, on his way back to the bathroom, which is about when Dean decides the whole thing has seriously gone too far.
The free clinic in the French Quarter isn’t exactly the sort of place Sam would choose on his own, but they don't ask for insurance and no one looks twice at Sam, wrapped up in two blankets in the waiting room. Dean goes to get coffee for both of them - he fucking hates hospitals - and by the time he comes back, Sam's in an actual bed, watching a doctor draw up a syringe.
"We'll try the Imitrex," he says, and Dean has to leave again when he slides the needle into Sam's arm, but when he comes back a couple minutes later, Sam's already starting to relax.
It takes half an hour, but by the end of it, Sam's so loose-limbed with relief that Dean nearly has to carry him to the car. Again.
"I'm starving," Sam mumbles, drowsy, and promptly passes out in the back seat beneath Dean's jacket. He sleeps the whole way back to the motel.
Sam's fine for a couple days, if more inclined than usual to eat everything put in front of him - which Dean seriously resents when Sam steals his goddamned cherry pie - but in a library outside of Birmingham, he gets the chills.
"I'm fine," Sam says, "probably just the flu," but Dean has to dig a couple blankets out of the trunk, he's shaking so hard, and Tylenol doesn't do much for the fever.
It's not anything awful - just a fever and achy joints - but Sam's flushed enough that Dean decides not to push through, and they spend the next day in bed watching reruns. Dean definitely triumphs in the fight for the remote, which saves him from six hours of PBS.
"I'm the one who's sick here," Sam points out, sulking because they're watching Law and Order. Mariska Hargitay is totally smoking, and it's a fucking improvement over Penguins, Penguins, and Some More Motherfucking Penguins.
"I know," Dean says, cheerfully. "Maybe you have Ebola."
Sam tackles him onto the second bed just to prove that he's probably not dying, after all.
Unfortunately, it turns out not to be the flu.
Dean comes back from a bar just after midnight, still warm from the afterglow, because goddamn, women are fantastic, which is why he doesn't notice the fact that anything's wrong until after he gets out of the shower.
There's dim light coming from beneath Sam's blankets. Dean assumes - probably - that Sam's just pulling the flashlight-under-the-covers thing, time honored trick of obnoxious nerd kids everywhere, but then he realizes that Sam's a little too old to be reading past bedtime, and there's a perfectly good light switch two feet away.
"Hey," he says, and peels back the blankets, at which point Dean decides that all the other times he's called Sam a freak mean absolutely nothing, because he's glowing. Sam's skin is covered in tiny, indecipherable symbols - Dean's best guess is runes, but fuck if he knows - and every single one is full of soft, subtle light, the kind Dean would probably miss in full sun.
"Sam," he says, urgently, "Sammy," but when Sam blinks awake, the light fades, until it's just his brother, glaring at him.
"I'm sleeping," Sam says, pointedly, and rolls over again.
Dean checks just to be sure, but it's not there anymore, even when he rubs a hand over Sam's arm.
"Jesus, Dean, leave me alone," Sam mutters, pulling the blankets back up, and Dean watches him drift off. A couple minutes later, it starts again, faint but unmistakable.
Dean gets the flask of holy water, tentative, but when he brushes a wet thumb across Sam's skin, it doesn't burn; the glow just increases, a small, brilliant smudge across the inside of Sam's wrist.
He seriously isn't drunk enough for this.
Ignoring the fact that Sam is turning into a human firefly seems like a pretty good plan to Dean, all things considered, especially since Sam's normal in the morning, if cranky at being woken up for no good reason.
The next night, though, the glow is worse, and by the end of the week, it's bright enough to read a book by, and Dean can't convince himself that he's imagining the whole thing. Dean wakes Sam up at two in the morning, the room plunged into sudden darkness.
"You glow when you sleep," he says, flatly. "We're going to see Bobby."
Sam keeps insisting that Dean's fucking with him until they pull up to Bobby's house.
"Huh," Bobby says, thoughtfully, and forces Sam's hand into a saucepan full of holy water, turning off all the kitchen lights. It comes out dripping wet, outlined in the dark by faint, shimmering light.
"Well," Bobby says.
"Goddamn it," says Sam, and wipes the water off, leaving one glowing hand and a vaguely luminescent dishtowel.
Bobby works on it for a week while Dean tunes up the Impala and a beat up Ford pickup, Sam reading his way through half the library, but by the end of it, they're not any closer than where they started, and Sam's short a few pints of faintly glowing blood.
"Best guess is that it's a spell," Bobby says, finally.
Dean starts sleeping with a pillow over his head.
A month and a half later, Sam wakes him up in the middle of the night.
"Something's wrong," he says, sounding almost frightened, but there isn't anything - Sam's not even glowing more than usual.
Dean gives him a couple of shots of whiskey and lets Sam sleep in his bed, close against his back, because even if Sam's ridiculous sometimes, his gut feelings usually aren't wrong. By the time Sam falls asleep, though, he's substantially calmer - and substantially more drunk - so Dean leaves the shotgun on the bedside table and lets it go.
When Dean wakes up, his first impression is that the duvet has exploded.
It takes him a minute or two to realize that, one, it's been awhile since he's slept in a motel that had anything remotely resembling a featherbed, and two, he can't see much of Sam, who's covered in a tangle of small grey feathers and blankets. He shifts, moving in closer against Dean's side, which is when Dean notices that most of the feathers on Sam's side of the bed aren't exactly haphazard. When Sam moves, the feathers move with him, and when Dean reaches out - carefully - to touch, Sam sighs in his sleep, the feathers extending and resettling beneath Dean's hand.
He pulls the blankets up and goes back to sleep. It's the only logical option.
Unfortunately, Sam's substantially less calm about it, so when he wakes up half an hour later, Dean actually has to roll beneath the bed to keep from getting hit over the head by Sam's… feathers.
"Dean," Sam says, sounding distinctly hysterical, "I have wings."
Dean's pretty sure that no matter how many bowls of cheerios he fed Sam as a kid, he's not obligated to put up with Sam when he's shrieking, but even he's got to admit that suddenly turning into a bird is a pretty great argument for freaking out. He's planning on staying under the bed, except for the part where he can hear Sam hyperventilating. There's a crash, and one of the lamps rolls in beneath the bed, split in half.
"Sam," Dean says, and comes out even though all the lights are flickering and the bed has moved a foot to the left.
Dean - all Sam's furniture moving and fucked up visions aside - has never been afraid of his brother, not even when he wasn't exactly Sam, but there's a minute where he's not completely sure, considering the fact that Sam's got a twelve foot wing span and is actually off the ground, his feet a few inches from the threadbare carpet. Dean can't tell if it's the usual or if he's flying, but either way, it's fucking creepy, and the light bulb that explodes above the bathroom sink isn't helping anything.
"Sam," Dean says, more pointedly, stepping forward to put a hand on Sam's shoulder in spite of the fact that it'd probably feel better to reach for the Beretta, and everything in the room slams back into place when Sam curls into Dean, suddenly, hands tight in his shirt.
"Jesus," Sam says, voice almost broken, "how am I going to fix this now," and Dean pulls him in closer, a hand against the small of Sam's back, the whole of him a lot warmer than usual. He feels different underneath Dean's hands.
"We'll just -" Dean manages, swallowing hard, because there isn't room for both of them to start feeling this, "call Bobby. He'll know what to do."
Bobby doesn't have the faintest idea, but he and Dean agree that keeping Sam shut up in a motel room without anyone seeing is going to be next to impossible. Sam's more than a little pissed off when Dean agrees to use one of Bobby's cabins without even asking him, but Dean's pretty goddamned sure that whatever the hell this is, they're not going to find it in any local library. Sam doesn't even fit in the EconoLodge bathroom, so the fact that he sulks for five and a half hours worth of driving - between midnight and six, when there's next to no one on the road and Dean can get away with shoving him in the backseat and covering his wings with a blanket - doesn't actually register too much, because it's not like there's another option.
Dean realizes somewhere near Alpena, getting into heavy northern Michigan forest, that part of the reason Sam's been whining nonstop for the past two hours is because he can't sleep in the car anymore. The blanket probably isn't cutting it, either, considering that Sam's wearing an old t-shirt with part of the back cut out, so Dean turns up the heat and hits the radio dial with his elbow - completely by accident, of course - until he finds some easy listening.
The sun's still down when Dean takes the exit off of Route 23, but it's coming up by the time he pulls into the driveway, almost half a mile long through white pines and aspens. Dean's about ready to deck Sam out when they get inside - Sam makes him carry all four bags because seriously, it's not like Dean's been driving all night or anything - but when he comes back from parking the car and finds Sam standing on the porch rubbing a hand over his face, he decides maybe he ought to cut him some slack. The look there is pretty much identical to the one Sam used to get when he was four and John kept him up all night, and Dean really knows better than to try to get anything out of him now.
"Hey," Sam says, expression a little lost, the blanket still draped over his back, and Dean gives up on being pissed off and makes a pot of coffee.
The shower is big enough for Sam - barely - and it's probably a good idea, considering how stiff Sam's liable to be when he wakes up, otherwise. It's especially worth it considering how stupid Sam looks when he's wet, but the debate over whether Sam can use shampoo on feathers takes most of the energy Dean's got left, and figuring out a way to get Sam dry uses the rest of it. It takes five or six towels, and Dean ends up covered in enough down to fill a pillow, which just fucking figures.
Dean's exhausted enough by the time they realize that there's just one bed to not even feel like going through the motions of looking for a couch, and if the way Sam's staring longingly at the blankets is any indication, he's just as tired.
"I could," Sam starts, but Dean just kicks off his boots and pulls him down.
He ends up with a hand between Sam's shoulder blades, thumb pressed up against the junction of feathers and skin, and Sam's wing draped across his back, still damp from the shower.
"Night," Sam says, sighing a little, and Dean's out before he can even think about how they don't fit.
The lack of space is more pressing that afternoon, when Dean wakes up with a mouthful of feathers and Sam like a furnace against his back, but the truth is that he feels better than he's felt in awhile, and since - for once - there isn't actually a reason to get out of bed, he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. A couple of hours later, Sam nudges a hand to his shoulder and Dean drags himself awake, because something smells fucking fantastic. Sam looks drowsy and self-satisfied, more comfortable in his own skin, and when he leans in with a grin, Dean's breath catches, mostly - definitely - because Sam's suddenly a hell of a lot bigger than he used to be.
"I made some chili," Sam says, then pauses, hesitant like he's not sure if he wants to keep going.
"Yeah?" Dean says, not entirely awake, and reaches out to touch the very tip of one of Sam's feathers - a primary, according to a book he found at the bottom of Sam's duffle. Sam shivers, laughing, like it tickles or something, then holds out a hand, his palm open across the blanket. There's a cut across his skin, diagonal near the lifeline, and it looks a couple days old at least, but Dean doesn't remember it.
"I cut myself opening a can," Sam says, reaching to rub his free hand against the back of his neck. "I'm healing faster than normal."
Dean doesn't want to think about how he'd be okay with Sam keeping that particular new trick, especially after -
"Awesome," he says, instead. "Now where's the food?"
Sam spends the next three weeks researching demons. Dean spends the next three weeks researching Sam. It's not that Sam's not human anymore, because he is - just as obnoxious as ever - but things are off a little. The best Dean can tell, which, okay, is the best he can figure without Sam's research abilities, Sam's not anything. He's not a cherubim or a tengu, a ba or a keres, and there's definitely nothing angelic about him, so as far as Dean's concerned, Sam's just his goddamned brother. With wings. It's probably a curse, but Dean's not sure, and the only thing he really knows is that he's not finding a way to break it.
Some things, though, are different. His body temperature's running high, three or four degrees above normal, and even if Dean doesn't want to admit it, Sam could probably take him in a fight. He's faster, more balanced, and Dean's watched him move things across the room - tables and chairs and their entire goddamned bed, with his mind.
It would freak him out - okay, it does freak him out - but the thing is, it's still Sam, who falls asleep on top of books and can't manage to keep the blankets on at night and won't stop trying to save him.
Dean's pretty sure that Sam's still capable of running himself into the ground with research, but Sam won't stop - the only difference is whether he does it behind Dean's back or next to him on the couch. There are limits, though. Okay, it's not like Dean even wants to look at books for the entire day, but Sam won't even quit to eat if Dean doesn't pay attention, so Dean works out some rules.
One, Sam stops at six every day, even if he's ten minutes away from a major breakthrough - and Sam always is. Two, Dean gets a nap every afternoon, because if he's only got eight months left, he has to get something. It's not like there are any double cheeseburgers or hot chicks in the middle of the goddamned forest. Sam has to nap too, mostly because fall in Michigan is cold and Dean sleeps a hell of a lot better with Sam sprawled over him, even if he usually brings some seven hundred page ancient book and drops it somewhere on Dean when he falls asleep reading. Three, Sam isn't allowed to just ignore himself in favor of research, which definitely includes his freaking wings.
Dean's used to Sam doing stupid things, especially when it comes to taking care of himself - Dean may be asking for a heart attack, but Sam forgets to eat. When he wakes up one morning and Sam almost bites his head off when he asks for a cup of coffee, though, Dean spends five minutes being seriously worried before he realizes that the way Sam's holding his wings differently, like they hurt.
"Sam," he says, warning, and Sam rubs a hand over the grain of the table, not meeting his eyes.
"It's fine," he says. "They just sort of hurt."
There's a fireplace in the living room with a rug in front of it, and it's the only place in the entire cabin that Sam's full wingspan fits, so Dean drags him into the living room and pushes him down. Sam's fingers go tight against the rug, and his face looks like it did when they had to set his hand after the goddamned zombie attack. He's definitely in pain, and it doesn't take Dean too long to figure out why. Sam's feathers are dull, not lying right, and there's blood around the base of some of them. When Dean nudges his fingers in, careful, Sam actually flinches, but he doesn't move fast enough to keep Dean from noticing that the down underneath is darker than it should be. It's probably more blood.
"What the hell?" Dean says, and Sam flushes, looking guilty.
"I don't know," he says, shifting to draw his wings in again, "I thought they'd take care of themselves, it hasn't been so bad."
Dean seriously considers hitting him, but knocking Sam out would probably be counterproductive, so he starts a fire instead and drags the duvet in from their bedroom.
"You can't keep doing this, Sammy," Dean says, finally, which turns out to be the wrong thing to say, considering Sam's in a bad mood already.
"I'm not just going to let you die," Sam says, climbing to his feet, and Dean feels abruptly guilty at the look on Sam's face, stubborn and terrified all at once.
"Sam," he murmurs, careful, because Sam looks like he's going to take a swing, tense and furious.
"I'm not," Sam says, "I can't," and Dean recognizes the stubborn set of his face - it's more than a little familiar.
"I'm not letting you burn out," Dean says, finally, and Sam doesn't say anything, just curls his fingers in toward his palm, like he's too tired to pay attention.
It's next to impossible to get Sam to do much of anything when he's afraid or in pain, and the combination isn't helping things any, so he steps forward.
"Here," he says, "I'm right here," and Sam closes a hand in his shirt and buries his face against Dean's neck for a second before he pulls away again.
Dean's never been that great at touch, but Sam breathing against his skin isn't anything he's ever going to complain about, now, so he doesn't push him away, just guides him toward the shower.
It takes almost an hour to get Sam's feathers as clean as they ought to be, and the water runs pink for a hell of a lot longer than Dean likes, but Sam's relaxed by the end of it, leaning against the wall of the shower, drowsy.
"S'warm," he murmurs, flushed from the water, and Dean would find it hilarious if he weren't soaking wet and aching from reaching the tops of Sam's wings.
By the time Dean gets dressed in dry clothes, Sam's sprawled out in front of the fire, mostly asleep. Thanks to Google, Dean knows a major part of the problem is that Sam's wings are too dry - birds preen but Sam can't, and Dean's pretty sure lotion isn't going to cut it. He finds a vial of oil in one of Bobby's spell kits and a bowl to heat it in underneath the kitchen sink.
Kneeling next to Sam on the blanket, Dean realizes he's never actually bothered to look at Sam's wings, for all the time he's spent keeping Sam from fucking them up or sleeping underneath one of them. They're grey, but it's not solid - the color's darker around the edges, and some of the feathers are barred, striped along the edges with thicker lines of black. Dean's never really touched them without some sort of purpose behind it, and when he reaches to brush the backs of his fingers along the curve of one wing, it's softer than he expects. Even damp, Sam's warm and pliant beneath his touch, and he stirs at the press of Dean's fingers.
"Hey," Sam says, still sleepy, and Dean figures he doesn't exactly need to wake up for this, so he just runs a palm across one of Sam's wings, full touch and reassuring.
"Go back to sleep," he says, but Sam flushes, suddenly, muscles going tense beneath Dean's hand.
Maybe his wings are starting to hurt again. Dean dips his fingers into the oil, careful, and starts with the primaries, working it into feathers and skin. It's probably not exactly the right type of oil, but by the time he finishes the first row, Sam's skin doesn't look so bad and the feathers aren't dull anymore, which has to be a good sign. Sam's tense, though, his breathing uneven, and Dean really doesn't like hurting him.
"Hey," Dean says, reaching his dry hand over to rub the back of Sam's neck, and Sam shivers everywhere, blinking up at him.
"Sorry," Dean murmurs. "I have to - do you want something for the pain?" He's thinking whiskey, but Sam goes bright red, suddenly.
"I'm not," he manages, not entirely looking at Dean anymore. "It doesn't hurt. It's just - intense."
Dean's not entirely sure what Sam means, so he just reaches a hand out, experimental, and buries it in feathers, just above Sam's shoulder.
"Oh," Sam manages, voice a hell of a lot higher than normal, and his eyes close as he nearly falls down into the blankets, his whole body relaxing.
Dean gets it pretty fast.
The fact that he's turning Sam on probably should be weirder than it is, and Dean really wants to back off, honestly, but the thing is, it's been a long time since he's seen Sam like this, relaxed and at ease. It's not like Sam's managing to hit this some other way. Dean can't remember the last time Sam got laid - probably Madison, but two or three women in three years is fucking ridiculous, and this - Sam needs something more than what he has right now, and Dean knows how to give it to him.
Besides, it's not like there's anyone else to patch Sam's wings up - again, it's not like there are any hot chicks walking around outside their cabin - and that's not something that Dean's going to let get out of hand again.
And it's not that Sam's getting off on it - it's just endorphins, Dean's pretty sure, like a really good backrub. So it's definitely all right.
"Just relax," Dean says, and sits down with Sam's wing in his lap, tracing over the bone with his fingers, down against the skin, where he can rub in more oil. Sam's still sprawled out in the blankets, hardly moving, but Dean can feel him breathing. The rise and fall of his chest nudges Dean's leg back, where it's stretched out next to him, and by the time Dean finishes with the first wing, they're almost breathing in time - too fast, maybe, but it's just because it's too warm in front of the fire.
Sam shivers, hard, when Dean switches sides, starting to squirm already, and by the end, he's flushed and unsteady and breathing hard, fingers opening and closing against the blanket.
"You should go wash off," Dean says, finally, just to do something about the way Sam's squirming, but Sam doesn't actually move until Dean gets up and goes into the kitchen to wash his hands. Dean has to lean hard against the counter for a couple minutes, just to catch his breath, but it's not anything, just too much exercise, probably.
Sam wanders back in half an hour later, wearing a pair of jeans and one of his sweatshirts, the one Dean cut and resewed so there would be room for Sam's wings.
"Nap," Sam says, vaguely, and physically pulls Dean away from the dishes and down into the blankets on the living room floor, where Dean ends up with a hand in the pocket of Sam's hoodie and Sam nuzzling against his shoulder.
"Sam," he says, definitely patiently considering what Sam's doing to his neck, but Sam just spreads a wing out over him and goes to sleep, leaving Dean effectively stuck.
He ends up not being able to wake Sam for dinner, which Dean feels definitely smug over, at least until he realizes that he has to cook.
Weirdness aside, Dean's pretty glad that he's got a surefire way to knock Sam out, considering he wakes up at two in the morning three nights running to find Sam bent over a book, which is definitely against the rules. At least, though, it's a book that's got something to do with Sam - Dean sees wings on the cover - so he lets it slide, especially once he realizes that running a hand over Sam's wings while they're working together is usually enough to get him to give up research and sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
Dean knows routines are dangerous - routines get you killed - but being shut up in a cabin with Sam isn't anywhere near as bad as he thought it would be. The only downside to his week is the half an hour he has to drive to get groceries, and the rest of it, well - Sam's happier than Dean's seen him in awhile, not pushing quite so hard at things, and if Dean really has less than a year left, he's surprised to find that he'd rather have this than the road. Sam's safe, if stranger than usual, and they're together, and that's enough, which is probably why Dean misses the tell-tale signs that Sam's about to do something stupid.
When he wakes up one morning, Sam isn't there.
There's a half-assed note in the kitchen, the kind that Dean doesn't find remotely reassuring, and it might not mean anything, but when Dean flips through Sam's journal, it's pretty fucking obvious exactly where he is. Dean's going to kill him.
The nearest crossroads is four miles east, just off of an old fishing road, and Dean pulls up just in time to watch Sam slam the demon back into a Devil's Trap drawn in the dusty gravel. He knows better than to get out of the goddamned car, because even if Sam doesn't seem to have a grasp of the fucking rules, Dean does, but he manages to roll the window down. The demon's on her knees in the gravel, barely moving, and Sam's not even reading from the book he's holding. In fact, he's not saying anything, which Dean finds more than a little fucked up, especially considering the demon is arching like she's being exorcised, slammed up against the boundary of the trap.
"I want him back," Sam says, just that, voice rough and nothing like his brother's, and Dean misses the moment when things change because he can't get the sound of her screaming out of his head, still waiting for Sam to fall down, on his knees, an instant replay of the worst moment of Dean's life.
It doesn't happen, though, and he feels different when things tip over into silence and Sam kneels down to blur the edges of the symbols, then walks back to the car, looking exhausted. The demon's long gone.
"Well," Sam says, leaning against the car door, fingers curled in the open window. "I guess Ava was right."
"Get your own goddamned ride back," Dean says, and doesn't check the rearview mirror when he pulls out.
Having more than a year left to live, in Dean's opinion, means exactly one thing: he doesn't have to feel guilty about being furious with Sam. Dean knows a hell of a lot better than to trust anything that seems too good to be true - from goddamned pyramid schemes to an ability to control demons - and Sam should too, which is why he can't bring himself to feel grateful or relieved or any of the other things Ellen says he should feel, when he calls to tell Bobby, matter of fact.
"He's forgiven you for worse, son," Bobby says, just before he hangs up, and Dean knows, but the difference is Sam's life, not his own, and it's not the same goddamned thing.
Sam's quiet, uneasy, and he sleeps on the floor, letting Dean have the bed. Dean writes it off as exhaustion, too much pressure all at once, but when Sam's still uncertain the third or fourth day, Dean realizes it's probably him, which feels like a punch to the gut, even if it's not enough to get him to start speaking again.
He just gets worse, though, until Dean can't take it, because even if he's stubborn and infuriating, he's still Sam, who shouldn't be walking around with dull feathers and not eating.
"Seriously," he bites out, when Sam's skipped dinner for the fourth day in a row, "knock it off, Sammy."
Dean realizes it's not the best move when Sam's whole back goes tense, his wings slowly spreading. "Knock it off?" Sam says, turning around, and Dean's backing up against the counter before he can think about it. Sam's following, almost pushing, with slow, easy steps, and it's only because Dean knows him so well that he can tell that he's fucked.
"Knock it off," Sam says, again, when he's got Dean backed up against the counter, his wings wrapped around both of them, pinning Dean in close, until he's almost trapped, too close to get away.
"Goddamn it, Sam," Dean says, and Sam leans, hands on either side of Dean's waist on the counter, spread out and even.
"I will not," Sam says, low and dangerous, "fucking knock it off, Dean."
"I told you not to," Dean says, sounding hollow, even to him. "You could have -"
"Died?" Sam says, cold. "I already did, and you fucking brought me back, so this one's on you."
Sam's in so close that Dean can't breathe, and he's sure as hell not having this conversation, not now, so he slides his hands up to push Sam away. Dean ends up with a handful of feathers, skin warm underneath his palms, and he suddenly can't pull back, because Sam's staring. Dean watches him flush, cheeks going red, and Sam's close enough that Dean can feel it when he starts breathing hard, in and out like he's just been running. Neither of them can look away.
Dean knows exactly where Sam's hands are, right against the counter, so when he feels his shirt lift, touch spreading beneath it, it startles him.
"Sam?" Dean says, because Sam's just looking at him, not breaking eye contact. "What are you -"
"I'm not doing anything," Sam murmurs, but it's familiar touch, running up his back, over his shoulder blades, hovering over his hips. Dean's shirt isn't even tucked in anymore, without either of them touching it, and he can feel Sam's hands against his stomach, possessive and warm, even though he knows they're on the counter.
"I think that's you," Dean says, sliding his hands deeper into Sam's feathers, and Sam's blush spreads, all the way down beneath his collar.
"Okay," Sam says, voice unsteady, "yeah, maybe," but the touch doesn't stop, easing him forward with a hand against the small of his back, until his hips are locked in against Sam's.
"Yeah," Sam says again, gentle, and Dean pulls him down and kisses him until the hands settled on his waist are real.
Sam's got him backed up so close against the counter that there's barely enough space to move, but when Dean nudges for more room, Sam turns them both around and pushes, walking Dean back down the hall without even breaking the kiss. The door opens without being touched, and Dean's back down against the bed before he can stop to think about how he got there, Sam's mouth warm over his.
Dean doesn't want to pull away to breathe, doesn't want to think about it, but when he finally has to, Sam follows, almost panting into Dean's mouth, spread out above him.
"Hey," Sam says, quiet, a little desperate, and frames Dean's face with his hands, leaning down to kiss him.
They're so close Dean can feel Sam's pulse racing in all the places they're pressed together, loud enough that he can almost hear it, and Sam won't stop kissing him, licking into his mouth, hands buried in Dean's hair. Dean manages to get Sam's t-shirt off while Sam's pulling his shirt open, and then Sam's skin is up against his, hot and flushed under Dean's fingertips.
It's a hell of a lot faster than Dean was expecting. He's pretty sure he should want to slow it down, but Sam's safe and close, and it's enough to make things okay.
"Can I -" Sam manages, against his jaw, biting down on the curve of Dean's shoulder, and Dean decides that it's probably better to just go with it.
"Yeah," he murmurs, and lets Sam push him back.
They kiss for so long Dean starts to lose track of what's Sam and what's him, and he barely notices when Sam gets his jeans off. He should be more freaked out by this - Sam, nudging a thumb against his shoulder and closing his teeth against Dean's lower lip, rubbing his erection up against Dean's thigh - but it feels good, mostly, and Sam's weight is reassuring. He should want to roll them both over, take control, but he doesn't, not exactly, and with the way Sam's acting, Dean figures that it's probably a good thing that he's okay with where they're at. He's not entirely sure Sam would let him.
Sam fits their hips in together, all heat and close, soft pressure, one hand spreading out against the small of Dean's back to keep him right there, and Dean can't breathe when Sam slides his other hand between them, wrapping it around his erection, because oh, jesus.
"Just," Sam manages, so close Dean can feel the words against his skin, and Dean slides his hands up Sam's spine, just feeling. Sam's hips jerk when Dean reaches his wings, tracing the dividing line between muscle and bone, Sam's skin and feathers, what he knows and what he doesn't. Sam's wings open under Dean's hands, spread out across the whole length of the bed, around them. Dean watches Sam's whole body flush when he runs his fingers up underneath, between Sam's shoulder blades and his wings, intimate, like touching the inside of his thigh or the hollow of his throat.
"Oh god," Sam manages, head thrown back, breathing hard, and his hips stutter against Dean's before he comes all over both of them, Sam going resolutely still.
It takes a minute, but Sam shifts just enough so that he can move, licking along Dean's collarbone as he rubs his thumb beneath the head of Dean's cock, and Dean shudders and comes just like that, embarrassingly fast for a handjob, but he can't even bring himself to care, with Sam curled up around him, still nudging his nose against Dean's neck.
"I wasn't going to let anything happen to you," Sam says, quietly, when they're both breathing again, and Dean gives up and lets him win that particular argument, because maybe Sam's got a point, after all.
Dean suspects it's going to be some big thing, them, together, but Sam just kisses him on the corner of the mouth the next morning between cups of coffee, in closer than usual, and that's almost the end of it. Sam doesn't want to talk and Dean's always been better at saying with his hands anyway. The thing is, it's not like they haven't been talking about it for years anyway, every goddamned fight over the radio station and every time he's pulled Sam out of a burning building. It's good. It's easy, and maybe it shouldn't be, but sometimes, Dean gets sick of things being hard.
Fall slides into winter, simple, and half way through November, Sam throws out the calendar. It's not like they need to bother keeping track. They're both still doing research - boxes of books from Bobby, day trips to the library - but Dean knows they're running out of sources, and the only person who probably knows the answer - Lilah S. Deveaux, formerly of 1117 Claiborne Avenue, a side note in Dean's section of John's notebook - sure as hell isn't around to ask.
Dean misses hunting, misses the click and slide of a well-oiled gun, misses the loud adrenaline rush of just barely making it, but he's learning to let go of things after he puts them together. The local post office starts giving him a discount on overnighting files to the new Roadhouse, and Sam gets good at ordering newspaper subscriptions in between reading books and painting the ceiling. There's nothing hanging over either of their heads except weeding out the old back garden and making sure the pipes don't freeze. When Sam closes one of the last books from Bobby, leaning back against their kitchen table in the afternoon sunlight, Dean's maybe okay with the finality of it.
"I think," Sam says, softly, "this might be for good," and Dean just leans in, close against one of Sam's wings, and smiles, the first snow starting to fall outside the picture window.
This is for astolat, largely because her Dean-with-wings story was basically responsible for my poking my head into fandom and SPN as a whole, and it's turned out to be a goddamned fantastic place. (Also, you know, she encouraged me to write this, and how was I supposed to resist that? I wasn't.)
Every single bad-naughty-wrong and oh so good thing in this fic is the direct responsibility of winterlive, who is basically to blame for all things hot and Sam-related in the world at large. Kudos to lots of betas: smangosbubbles, fahye, aynslee, and rejeneration.
Uh. Sam gets cursed, Sam and Dean have a lack of knowledge of basic avian anatomy, and there's one pissed off demon and some hot makeup sex. Spoilers through AHBL, but this isn't really compliant with S3. OK, it's not compliant with S3 at all, aside from Dean liking cheeseburgers.
Landslide, Sam/Dean, R, 7300 words.
Landslide
It all starts with a headache.
Sam starts to blink on the way back to the hotel, like he's seeing something in the corners of his vision, and half way there, on the side of a road cutting along the bayou, he pulls over.
"I can't drive anymore," he says. "I'm getting an aura."
Dean would really like to pretend Sam means that he's started seeing touchy-feely psychic colors around people, but the alternative is a hell of a lot more likely, considering Sam's headaches have been happening more often, coming closer together since the demon died. Dean's less than thrilled about driving, considering that the goddamned run-of-the-mill voodoo practitioner they just blasted managed to slam him into a wall on her way out without revealing any secrets about demonic summoning, but he sure as hell isn't going to let Sam stay behind the wheel if he can't see. It's his car.
"Tylenol's in the glove compartment," he says, grudgingly, and they switch, even if it means Dean has to drive back one-handed since his left wrist is too swollen to turn.
Sam downs four or five pills with a swallow of leftover coffee, but by the time they get back to the motel, he's starting to go pale and shaky, and Dean has to pull him across the parking lot. The whole thing's generally undignified and overall, not an experience he's willing to repeat again. He shuts the blinds and manages a shower, not even bothering with shampoo, because seriously, being clean doesn't seem all that great in comparison to sleep. By the time he climbs into the second bed, Sam's got the blankets pulled up over his head. He's asleep - Dean can tell by the slow rise and fall of the bedspread, even and soft, and yeah, it's not his idea of a great time, having Sam this messed up, but he's too tired to worry about it. Dean throws a towel over the alarm clock and is under as soon as his head hits the pillow, exhausted.
He wakes up to the sound of Sam puking, over and over again, which is seriously disgusting and makes him sort of want to hurl too, except the bathroom is already occupied. Ordinarily, Dean's not too thrilled about playing nurse - Sam tops all whining records when he's not feeling well, because he's a goddamned girl - but migraines are a class of pain that Dean wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole and a semiautomatic, so he runs a washcloth under some cold water and goes to sit with Sam. It's definitely a major sacrifice, especially since Sam's still throwing up when he gets in there.
"It's worse than usual," Sam manages, curled up tight against the side of the bathtub, eyes closed, and worry almost wins out over disgust, except Sam's not tense and distant the way he is when he's getting visions, the way all the other headaches have been, so it's probably normal, or at least as normal as puking up the last ten meals or so can be.
"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, finally, and gets him back in bed.
Sam's still out when he comes home from getting dinner - a turkey sandwich for himself, which he eats in the car because Sam can't take the smell of anything food related, and a bottle of Excedrin and some Gatorade for Sam. Sam manages a couple sips of the Gatorade, but drugs don't do much for the headaches. It's not like they last long, either, though, so when it hits midnight and Sam's still curled up in the middle of the bed, Dean's not exactly what you'd call thrilled. Nine hours is too long.
When he gets up at four to find a glass of water, Sam's not sleeping anymore, just wrapped in on himself, breathing so shallow and intent that Dean can tell he's counting breaths, trying to cope with pain.
"Hey," Dean says, nice and soft, because the tension in Sam's body is worse than a lot of the things he's fought and killed, and Sam blinks a couple times, like he can't quite focus.
"Hey," he manages, quiet, sounding worse than Dean's heard him in a long time.
Dean slides in behind him, careful, and wraps a hand around the back of Sam's neck, nudging his thumb across his shoulder. It's embarrassing, but every muscle is tense, hard enough that there's no give against Dean's fingers, and it takes him twenty minutes to work any of it out, so he figures Sam isn't likely to give him shit over it in the morning.
"Thanks," Sam manages, face against Dean's shoulder, definitely making him the bigger girl here, and he falls asleep a couple minutes later.
Sam's usually okay with driving when he's sick, so Dean decides it's fine to hit the road, but when he starts packing their stuff the next morning, Sam goes green.
"I can't do the car," he says, on his way back to the bathroom, which is about when Dean decides the whole thing has seriously gone too far.
The free clinic in the French Quarter isn’t exactly the sort of place Sam would choose on his own, but they don't ask for insurance and no one looks twice at Sam, wrapped up in two blankets in the waiting room. Dean goes to get coffee for both of them - he fucking hates hospitals - and by the time he comes back, Sam's in an actual bed, watching a doctor draw up a syringe.
"We'll try the Imitrex," he says, and Dean has to leave again when he slides the needle into Sam's arm, but when he comes back a couple minutes later, Sam's already starting to relax.
It takes half an hour, but by the end of it, Sam's so loose-limbed with relief that Dean nearly has to carry him to the car. Again.
"I'm starving," Sam mumbles, drowsy, and promptly passes out in the back seat beneath Dean's jacket. He sleeps the whole way back to the motel.
Sam's fine for a couple days, if more inclined than usual to eat everything put in front of him - which Dean seriously resents when Sam steals his goddamned cherry pie - but in a library outside of Birmingham, he gets the chills.
"I'm fine," Sam says, "probably just the flu," but Dean has to dig a couple blankets out of the trunk, he's shaking so hard, and Tylenol doesn't do much for the fever.
It's not anything awful - just a fever and achy joints - but Sam's flushed enough that Dean decides not to push through, and they spend the next day in bed watching reruns. Dean definitely triumphs in the fight for the remote, which saves him from six hours of PBS.
"I'm the one who's sick here," Sam points out, sulking because they're watching Law and Order. Mariska Hargitay is totally smoking, and it's a fucking improvement over Penguins, Penguins, and Some More Motherfucking Penguins.
"I know," Dean says, cheerfully. "Maybe you have Ebola."
Sam tackles him onto the second bed just to prove that he's probably not dying, after all.
Unfortunately, it turns out not to be the flu.
Dean comes back from a bar just after midnight, still warm from the afterglow, because goddamn, women are fantastic, which is why he doesn't notice the fact that anything's wrong until after he gets out of the shower.
There's dim light coming from beneath Sam's blankets. Dean assumes - probably - that Sam's just pulling the flashlight-under-the-covers thing, time honored trick of obnoxious nerd kids everywhere, but then he realizes that Sam's a little too old to be reading past bedtime, and there's a perfectly good light switch two feet away.
"Hey," he says, and peels back the blankets, at which point Dean decides that all the other times he's called Sam a freak mean absolutely nothing, because he's glowing. Sam's skin is covered in tiny, indecipherable symbols - Dean's best guess is runes, but fuck if he knows - and every single one is full of soft, subtle light, the kind Dean would probably miss in full sun.
"Sam," he says, urgently, "Sammy," but when Sam blinks awake, the light fades, until it's just his brother, glaring at him.
"I'm sleeping," Sam says, pointedly, and rolls over again.
Dean checks just to be sure, but it's not there anymore, even when he rubs a hand over Sam's arm.
"Jesus, Dean, leave me alone," Sam mutters, pulling the blankets back up, and Dean watches him drift off. A couple minutes later, it starts again, faint but unmistakable.
Dean gets the flask of holy water, tentative, but when he brushes a wet thumb across Sam's skin, it doesn't burn; the glow just increases, a small, brilliant smudge across the inside of Sam's wrist.
He seriously isn't drunk enough for this.
Ignoring the fact that Sam is turning into a human firefly seems like a pretty good plan to Dean, all things considered, especially since Sam's normal in the morning, if cranky at being woken up for no good reason.
The next night, though, the glow is worse, and by the end of the week, it's bright enough to read a book by, and Dean can't convince himself that he's imagining the whole thing. Dean wakes Sam up at two in the morning, the room plunged into sudden darkness.
"You glow when you sleep," he says, flatly. "We're going to see Bobby."
Sam keeps insisting that Dean's fucking with him until they pull up to Bobby's house.
"Huh," Bobby says, thoughtfully, and forces Sam's hand into a saucepan full of holy water, turning off all the kitchen lights. It comes out dripping wet, outlined in the dark by faint, shimmering light.
"Well," Bobby says.
"Goddamn it," says Sam, and wipes the water off, leaving one glowing hand and a vaguely luminescent dishtowel.
Bobby works on it for a week while Dean tunes up the Impala and a beat up Ford pickup, Sam reading his way through half the library, but by the end of it, they're not any closer than where they started, and Sam's short a few pints of faintly glowing blood.
"Best guess is that it's a spell," Bobby says, finally.
Dean starts sleeping with a pillow over his head.
A month and a half later, Sam wakes him up in the middle of the night.
"Something's wrong," he says, sounding almost frightened, but there isn't anything - Sam's not even glowing more than usual.
Dean gives him a couple of shots of whiskey and lets Sam sleep in his bed, close against his back, because even if Sam's ridiculous sometimes, his gut feelings usually aren't wrong. By the time Sam falls asleep, though, he's substantially calmer - and substantially more drunk - so Dean leaves the shotgun on the bedside table and lets it go.
When Dean wakes up, his first impression is that the duvet has exploded.
It takes him a minute or two to realize that, one, it's been awhile since he's slept in a motel that had anything remotely resembling a featherbed, and two, he can't see much of Sam, who's covered in a tangle of small grey feathers and blankets. He shifts, moving in closer against Dean's side, which is when Dean notices that most of the feathers on Sam's side of the bed aren't exactly haphazard. When Sam moves, the feathers move with him, and when Dean reaches out - carefully - to touch, Sam sighs in his sleep, the feathers extending and resettling beneath Dean's hand.
He pulls the blankets up and goes back to sleep. It's the only logical option.
Unfortunately, Sam's substantially less calm about it, so when he wakes up half an hour later, Dean actually has to roll beneath the bed to keep from getting hit over the head by Sam's… feathers.
"Dean," Sam says, sounding distinctly hysterical, "I have wings."
Dean's pretty sure that no matter how many bowls of cheerios he fed Sam as a kid, he's not obligated to put up with Sam when he's shrieking, but even he's got to admit that suddenly turning into a bird is a pretty great argument for freaking out. He's planning on staying under the bed, except for the part where he can hear Sam hyperventilating. There's a crash, and one of the lamps rolls in beneath the bed, split in half.
"Sam," Dean says, and comes out even though all the lights are flickering and the bed has moved a foot to the left.
Dean - all Sam's furniture moving and fucked up visions aside - has never been afraid of his brother, not even when he wasn't exactly Sam, but there's a minute where he's not completely sure, considering the fact that Sam's got a twelve foot wing span and is actually off the ground, his feet a few inches from the threadbare carpet. Dean can't tell if it's the usual or if he's flying, but either way, it's fucking creepy, and the light bulb that explodes above the bathroom sink isn't helping anything.
"Sam," Dean says, more pointedly, stepping forward to put a hand on Sam's shoulder in spite of the fact that it'd probably feel better to reach for the Beretta, and everything in the room slams back into place when Sam curls into Dean, suddenly, hands tight in his shirt.
"Jesus," Sam says, voice almost broken, "how am I going to fix this now," and Dean pulls him in closer, a hand against the small of Sam's back, the whole of him a lot warmer than usual. He feels different underneath Dean's hands.
"We'll just -" Dean manages, swallowing hard, because there isn't room for both of them to start feeling this, "call Bobby. He'll know what to do."
Bobby doesn't have the faintest idea, but he and Dean agree that keeping Sam shut up in a motel room without anyone seeing is going to be next to impossible. Sam's more than a little pissed off when Dean agrees to use one of Bobby's cabins without even asking him, but Dean's pretty goddamned sure that whatever the hell this is, they're not going to find it in any local library. Sam doesn't even fit in the EconoLodge bathroom, so the fact that he sulks for five and a half hours worth of driving - between midnight and six, when there's next to no one on the road and Dean can get away with shoving him in the backseat and covering his wings with a blanket - doesn't actually register too much, because it's not like there's another option.
Dean realizes somewhere near Alpena, getting into heavy northern Michigan forest, that part of the reason Sam's been whining nonstop for the past two hours is because he can't sleep in the car anymore. The blanket probably isn't cutting it, either, considering that Sam's wearing an old t-shirt with part of the back cut out, so Dean turns up the heat and hits the radio dial with his elbow - completely by accident, of course - until he finds some easy listening.
The sun's still down when Dean takes the exit off of Route 23, but it's coming up by the time he pulls into the driveway, almost half a mile long through white pines and aspens. Dean's about ready to deck Sam out when they get inside - Sam makes him carry all four bags because seriously, it's not like Dean's been driving all night or anything - but when he comes back from parking the car and finds Sam standing on the porch rubbing a hand over his face, he decides maybe he ought to cut him some slack. The look there is pretty much identical to the one Sam used to get when he was four and John kept him up all night, and Dean really knows better than to try to get anything out of him now.
"Hey," Sam says, expression a little lost, the blanket still draped over his back, and Dean gives up on being pissed off and makes a pot of coffee.
The shower is big enough for Sam - barely - and it's probably a good idea, considering how stiff Sam's liable to be when he wakes up, otherwise. It's especially worth it considering how stupid Sam looks when he's wet, but the debate over whether Sam can use shampoo on feathers takes most of the energy Dean's got left, and figuring out a way to get Sam dry uses the rest of it. It takes five or six towels, and Dean ends up covered in enough down to fill a pillow, which just fucking figures.
Dean's exhausted enough by the time they realize that there's just one bed to not even feel like going through the motions of looking for a couch, and if the way Sam's staring longingly at the blankets is any indication, he's just as tired.
"I could," Sam starts, but Dean just kicks off his boots and pulls him down.
He ends up with a hand between Sam's shoulder blades, thumb pressed up against the junction of feathers and skin, and Sam's wing draped across his back, still damp from the shower.
"Night," Sam says, sighing a little, and Dean's out before he can even think about how they don't fit.
The lack of space is more pressing that afternoon, when Dean wakes up with a mouthful of feathers and Sam like a furnace against his back, but the truth is that he feels better than he's felt in awhile, and since - for once - there isn't actually a reason to get out of bed, he just rolls over and goes back to sleep. A couple of hours later, Sam nudges a hand to his shoulder and Dean drags himself awake, because something smells fucking fantastic. Sam looks drowsy and self-satisfied, more comfortable in his own skin, and when he leans in with a grin, Dean's breath catches, mostly - definitely - because Sam's suddenly a hell of a lot bigger than he used to be.
"I made some chili," Sam says, then pauses, hesitant like he's not sure if he wants to keep going.
"Yeah?" Dean says, not entirely awake, and reaches out to touch the very tip of one of Sam's feathers - a primary, according to a book he found at the bottom of Sam's duffle. Sam shivers, laughing, like it tickles or something, then holds out a hand, his palm open across the blanket. There's a cut across his skin, diagonal near the lifeline, and it looks a couple days old at least, but Dean doesn't remember it.
"I cut myself opening a can," Sam says, reaching to rub his free hand against the back of his neck. "I'm healing faster than normal."
Dean doesn't want to think about how he'd be okay with Sam keeping that particular new trick, especially after -
"Awesome," he says, instead. "Now where's the food?"
Sam spends the next three weeks researching demons. Dean spends the next three weeks researching Sam. It's not that Sam's not human anymore, because he is - just as obnoxious as ever - but things are off a little. The best Dean can tell, which, okay, is the best he can figure without Sam's research abilities, Sam's not anything. He's not a cherubim or a tengu, a ba or a keres, and there's definitely nothing angelic about him, so as far as Dean's concerned, Sam's just his goddamned brother. With wings. It's probably a curse, but Dean's not sure, and the only thing he really knows is that he's not finding a way to break it.
Some things, though, are different. His body temperature's running high, three or four degrees above normal, and even if Dean doesn't want to admit it, Sam could probably take him in a fight. He's faster, more balanced, and Dean's watched him move things across the room - tables and chairs and their entire goddamned bed, with his mind.
It would freak him out - okay, it does freak him out - but the thing is, it's still Sam, who falls asleep on top of books and can't manage to keep the blankets on at night and won't stop trying to save him.
Dean's pretty sure that Sam's still capable of running himself into the ground with research, but Sam won't stop - the only difference is whether he does it behind Dean's back or next to him on the couch. There are limits, though. Okay, it's not like Dean even wants to look at books for the entire day, but Sam won't even quit to eat if Dean doesn't pay attention, so Dean works out some rules.
One, Sam stops at six every day, even if he's ten minutes away from a major breakthrough - and Sam always is. Two, Dean gets a nap every afternoon, because if he's only got eight months left, he has to get something. It's not like there are any double cheeseburgers or hot chicks in the middle of the goddamned forest. Sam has to nap too, mostly because fall in Michigan is cold and Dean sleeps a hell of a lot better with Sam sprawled over him, even if he usually brings some seven hundred page ancient book and drops it somewhere on Dean when he falls asleep reading. Three, Sam isn't allowed to just ignore himself in favor of research, which definitely includes his freaking wings.
Dean's used to Sam doing stupid things, especially when it comes to taking care of himself - Dean may be asking for a heart attack, but Sam forgets to eat. When he wakes up one morning and Sam almost bites his head off when he asks for a cup of coffee, though, Dean spends five minutes being seriously worried before he realizes that the way Sam's holding his wings differently, like they hurt.
"Sam," he says, warning, and Sam rubs a hand over the grain of the table, not meeting his eyes.
"It's fine," he says. "They just sort of hurt."
There's a fireplace in the living room with a rug in front of it, and it's the only place in the entire cabin that Sam's full wingspan fits, so Dean drags him into the living room and pushes him down. Sam's fingers go tight against the rug, and his face looks like it did when they had to set his hand after the goddamned zombie attack. He's definitely in pain, and it doesn't take Dean too long to figure out why. Sam's feathers are dull, not lying right, and there's blood around the base of some of them. When Dean nudges his fingers in, careful, Sam actually flinches, but he doesn't move fast enough to keep Dean from noticing that the down underneath is darker than it should be. It's probably more blood.
"What the hell?" Dean says, and Sam flushes, looking guilty.
"I don't know," he says, shifting to draw his wings in again, "I thought they'd take care of themselves, it hasn't been so bad."
Dean seriously considers hitting him, but knocking Sam out would probably be counterproductive, so he starts a fire instead and drags the duvet in from their bedroom.
"You can't keep doing this, Sammy," Dean says, finally, which turns out to be the wrong thing to say, considering Sam's in a bad mood already.
"I'm not just going to let you die," Sam says, climbing to his feet, and Dean feels abruptly guilty at the look on Sam's face, stubborn and terrified all at once.
"Sam," he murmurs, careful, because Sam looks like he's going to take a swing, tense and furious.
"I'm not," Sam says, "I can't," and Dean recognizes the stubborn set of his face - it's more than a little familiar.
"I'm not letting you burn out," Dean says, finally, and Sam doesn't say anything, just curls his fingers in toward his palm, like he's too tired to pay attention.
It's next to impossible to get Sam to do much of anything when he's afraid or in pain, and the combination isn't helping things any, so he steps forward.
"Here," he says, "I'm right here," and Sam closes a hand in his shirt and buries his face against Dean's neck for a second before he pulls away again.
Dean's never been that great at touch, but Sam breathing against his skin isn't anything he's ever going to complain about, now, so he doesn't push him away, just guides him toward the shower.
It takes almost an hour to get Sam's feathers as clean as they ought to be, and the water runs pink for a hell of a lot longer than Dean likes, but Sam's relaxed by the end of it, leaning against the wall of the shower, drowsy.
"S'warm," he murmurs, flushed from the water, and Dean would find it hilarious if he weren't soaking wet and aching from reaching the tops of Sam's wings.
By the time Dean gets dressed in dry clothes, Sam's sprawled out in front of the fire, mostly asleep. Thanks to Google, Dean knows a major part of the problem is that Sam's wings are too dry - birds preen but Sam can't, and Dean's pretty sure lotion isn't going to cut it. He finds a vial of oil in one of Bobby's spell kits and a bowl to heat it in underneath the kitchen sink.
Kneeling next to Sam on the blanket, Dean realizes he's never actually bothered to look at Sam's wings, for all the time he's spent keeping Sam from fucking them up or sleeping underneath one of them. They're grey, but it's not solid - the color's darker around the edges, and some of the feathers are barred, striped along the edges with thicker lines of black. Dean's never really touched them without some sort of purpose behind it, and when he reaches to brush the backs of his fingers along the curve of one wing, it's softer than he expects. Even damp, Sam's warm and pliant beneath his touch, and he stirs at the press of Dean's fingers.
"Hey," Sam says, still sleepy, and Dean figures he doesn't exactly need to wake up for this, so he just runs a palm across one of Sam's wings, full touch and reassuring.
"Go back to sleep," he says, but Sam flushes, suddenly, muscles going tense beneath Dean's hand.
Maybe his wings are starting to hurt again. Dean dips his fingers into the oil, careful, and starts with the primaries, working it into feathers and skin. It's probably not exactly the right type of oil, but by the time he finishes the first row, Sam's skin doesn't look so bad and the feathers aren't dull anymore, which has to be a good sign. Sam's tense, though, his breathing uneven, and Dean really doesn't like hurting him.
"Hey," Dean says, reaching his dry hand over to rub the back of Sam's neck, and Sam shivers everywhere, blinking up at him.
"Sorry," Dean murmurs. "I have to - do you want something for the pain?" He's thinking whiskey, but Sam goes bright red, suddenly.
"I'm not," he manages, not entirely looking at Dean anymore. "It doesn't hurt. It's just - intense."
Dean's not entirely sure what Sam means, so he just reaches a hand out, experimental, and buries it in feathers, just above Sam's shoulder.
"Oh," Sam manages, voice a hell of a lot higher than normal, and his eyes close as he nearly falls down into the blankets, his whole body relaxing.
Dean gets it pretty fast.
The fact that he's turning Sam on probably should be weirder than it is, and Dean really wants to back off, honestly, but the thing is, it's been a long time since he's seen Sam like this, relaxed and at ease. It's not like Sam's managing to hit this some other way. Dean can't remember the last time Sam got laid - probably Madison, but two or three women in three years is fucking ridiculous, and this - Sam needs something more than what he has right now, and Dean knows how to give it to him.
Besides, it's not like there's anyone else to patch Sam's wings up - again, it's not like there are any hot chicks walking around outside their cabin - and that's not something that Dean's going to let get out of hand again.
And it's not that Sam's getting off on it - it's just endorphins, Dean's pretty sure, like a really good backrub. So it's definitely all right.
"Just relax," Dean says, and sits down with Sam's wing in his lap, tracing over the bone with his fingers, down against the skin, where he can rub in more oil. Sam's still sprawled out in the blankets, hardly moving, but Dean can feel him breathing. The rise and fall of his chest nudges Dean's leg back, where it's stretched out next to him, and by the time Dean finishes with the first wing, they're almost breathing in time - too fast, maybe, but it's just because it's too warm in front of the fire.
Sam shivers, hard, when Dean switches sides, starting to squirm already, and by the end, he's flushed and unsteady and breathing hard, fingers opening and closing against the blanket.
"You should go wash off," Dean says, finally, just to do something about the way Sam's squirming, but Sam doesn't actually move until Dean gets up and goes into the kitchen to wash his hands. Dean has to lean hard against the counter for a couple minutes, just to catch his breath, but it's not anything, just too much exercise, probably.
Sam wanders back in half an hour later, wearing a pair of jeans and one of his sweatshirts, the one Dean cut and resewed so there would be room for Sam's wings.
"Nap," Sam says, vaguely, and physically pulls Dean away from the dishes and down into the blankets on the living room floor, where Dean ends up with a hand in the pocket of Sam's hoodie and Sam nuzzling against his shoulder.
"Sam," he says, definitely patiently considering what Sam's doing to his neck, but Sam just spreads a wing out over him and goes to sleep, leaving Dean effectively stuck.
He ends up not being able to wake Sam for dinner, which Dean feels definitely smug over, at least until he realizes that he has to cook.
Weirdness aside, Dean's pretty glad that he's got a surefire way to knock Sam out, considering he wakes up at two in the morning three nights running to find Sam bent over a book, which is definitely against the rules. At least, though, it's a book that's got something to do with Sam - Dean sees wings on the cover - so he lets it slide, especially once he realizes that running a hand over Sam's wings while they're working together is usually enough to get him to give up research and sleep for the rest of the afternoon.
Dean knows routines are dangerous - routines get you killed - but being shut up in a cabin with Sam isn't anywhere near as bad as he thought it would be. The only downside to his week is the half an hour he has to drive to get groceries, and the rest of it, well - Sam's happier than Dean's seen him in awhile, not pushing quite so hard at things, and if Dean really has less than a year left, he's surprised to find that he'd rather have this than the road. Sam's safe, if stranger than usual, and they're together, and that's enough, which is probably why Dean misses the tell-tale signs that Sam's about to do something stupid.
When he wakes up one morning, Sam isn't there.
There's a half-assed note in the kitchen, the kind that Dean doesn't find remotely reassuring, and it might not mean anything, but when Dean flips through Sam's journal, it's pretty fucking obvious exactly where he is. Dean's going to kill him.
The nearest crossroads is four miles east, just off of an old fishing road, and Dean pulls up just in time to watch Sam slam the demon back into a Devil's Trap drawn in the dusty gravel. He knows better than to get out of the goddamned car, because even if Sam doesn't seem to have a grasp of the fucking rules, Dean does, but he manages to roll the window down. The demon's on her knees in the gravel, barely moving, and Sam's not even reading from the book he's holding. In fact, he's not saying anything, which Dean finds more than a little fucked up, especially considering the demon is arching like she's being exorcised, slammed up against the boundary of the trap.
"I want him back," Sam says, just that, voice rough and nothing like his brother's, and Dean misses the moment when things change because he can't get the sound of her screaming out of his head, still waiting for Sam to fall down, on his knees, an instant replay of the worst moment of Dean's life.
It doesn't happen, though, and he feels different when things tip over into silence and Sam kneels down to blur the edges of the symbols, then walks back to the car, looking exhausted. The demon's long gone.
"Well," Sam says, leaning against the car door, fingers curled in the open window. "I guess Ava was right."
"Get your own goddamned ride back," Dean says, and doesn't check the rearview mirror when he pulls out.
Having more than a year left to live, in Dean's opinion, means exactly one thing: he doesn't have to feel guilty about being furious with Sam. Dean knows a hell of a lot better than to trust anything that seems too good to be true - from goddamned pyramid schemes to an ability to control demons - and Sam should too, which is why he can't bring himself to feel grateful or relieved or any of the other things Ellen says he should feel, when he calls to tell Bobby, matter of fact.
"He's forgiven you for worse, son," Bobby says, just before he hangs up, and Dean knows, but the difference is Sam's life, not his own, and it's not the same goddamned thing.
Sam's quiet, uneasy, and he sleeps on the floor, letting Dean have the bed. Dean writes it off as exhaustion, too much pressure all at once, but when Sam's still uncertain the third or fourth day, Dean realizes it's probably him, which feels like a punch to the gut, even if it's not enough to get him to start speaking again.
He just gets worse, though, until Dean can't take it, because even if he's stubborn and infuriating, he's still Sam, who shouldn't be walking around with dull feathers and not eating.
"Seriously," he bites out, when Sam's skipped dinner for the fourth day in a row, "knock it off, Sammy."
Dean realizes it's not the best move when Sam's whole back goes tense, his wings slowly spreading. "Knock it off?" Sam says, turning around, and Dean's backing up against the counter before he can think about it. Sam's following, almost pushing, with slow, easy steps, and it's only because Dean knows him so well that he can tell that he's fucked.
"Knock it off," Sam says, again, when he's got Dean backed up against the counter, his wings wrapped around both of them, pinning Dean in close, until he's almost trapped, too close to get away.
"Goddamn it, Sam," Dean says, and Sam leans, hands on either side of Dean's waist on the counter, spread out and even.
"I will not," Sam says, low and dangerous, "fucking knock it off, Dean."
"I told you not to," Dean says, sounding hollow, even to him. "You could have -"
"Died?" Sam says, cold. "I already did, and you fucking brought me back, so this one's on you."
Sam's in so close that Dean can't breathe, and he's sure as hell not having this conversation, not now, so he slides his hands up to push Sam away. Dean ends up with a handful of feathers, skin warm underneath his palms, and he suddenly can't pull back, because Sam's staring. Dean watches him flush, cheeks going red, and Sam's close enough that Dean can feel it when he starts breathing hard, in and out like he's just been running. Neither of them can look away.
Dean knows exactly where Sam's hands are, right against the counter, so when he feels his shirt lift, touch spreading beneath it, it startles him.
"Sam?" Dean says, because Sam's just looking at him, not breaking eye contact. "What are you -"
"I'm not doing anything," Sam murmurs, but it's familiar touch, running up his back, over his shoulder blades, hovering over his hips. Dean's shirt isn't even tucked in anymore, without either of them touching it, and he can feel Sam's hands against his stomach, possessive and warm, even though he knows they're on the counter.
"I think that's you," Dean says, sliding his hands deeper into Sam's feathers, and Sam's blush spreads, all the way down beneath his collar.
"Okay," Sam says, voice unsteady, "yeah, maybe," but the touch doesn't stop, easing him forward with a hand against the small of his back, until his hips are locked in against Sam's.
"Yeah," Sam says again, gentle, and Dean pulls him down and kisses him until the hands settled on his waist are real.
Sam's got him backed up so close against the counter that there's barely enough space to move, but when Dean nudges for more room, Sam turns them both around and pushes, walking Dean back down the hall without even breaking the kiss. The door opens without being touched, and Dean's back down against the bed before he can stop to think about how he got there, Sam's mouth warm over his.
Dean doesn't want to pull away to breathe, doesn't want to think about it, but when he finally has to, Sam follows, almost panting into Dean's mouth, spread out above him.
"Hey," Sam says, quiet, a little desperate, and frames Dean's face with his hands, leaning down to kiss him.
They're so close Dean can feel Sam's pulse racing in all the places they're pressed together, loud enough that he can almost hear it, and Sam won't stop kissing him, licking into his mouth, hands buried in Dean's hair. Dean manages to get Sam's t-shirt off while Sam's pulling his shirt open, and then Sam's skin is up against his, hot and flushed under Dean's fingertips.
It's a hell of a lot faster than Dean was expecting. He's pretty sure he should want to slow it down, but Sam's safe and close, and it's enough to make things okay.
"Can I -" Sam manages, against his jaw, biting down on the curve of Dean's shoulder, and Dean decides that it's probably better to just go with it.
"Yeah," he murmurs, and lets Sam push him back.
They kiss for so long Dean starts to lose track of what's Sam and what's him, and he barely notices when Sam gets his jeans off. He should be more freaked out by this - Sam, nudging a thumb against his shoulder and closing his teeth against Dean's lower lip, rubbing his erection up against Dean's thigh - but it feels good, mostly, and Sam's weight is reassuring. He should want to roll them both over, take control, but he doesn't, not exactly, and with the way Sam's acting, Dean figures that it's probably a good thing that he's okay with where they're at. He's not entirely sure Sam would let him.
Sam fits their hips in together, all heat and close, soft pressure, one hand spreading out against the small of Dean's back to keep him right there, and Dean can't breathe when Sam slides his other hand between them, wrapping it around his erection, because oh, jesus.
"Just," Sam manages, so close Dean can feel the words against his skin, and Dean slides his hands up Sam's spine, just feeling. Sam's hips jerk when Dean reaches his wings, tracing the dividing line between muscle and bone, Sam's skin and feathers, what he knows and what he doesn't. Sam's wings open under Dean's hands, spread out across the whole length of the bed, around them. Dean watches Sam's whole body flush when he runs his fingers up underneath, between Sam's shoulder blades and his wings, intimate, like touching the inside of his thigh or the hollow of his throat.
"Oh god," Sam manages, head thrown back, breathing hard, and his hips stutter against Dean's before he comes all over both of them, Sam going resolutely still.
It takes a minute, but Sam shifts just enough so that he can move, licking along Dean's collarbone as he rubs his thumb beneath the head of Dean's cock, and Dean shudders and comes just like that, embarrassingly fast for a handjob, but he can't even bring himself to care, with Sam curled up around him, still nudging his nose against Dean's neck.
"I wasn't going to let anything happen to you," Sam says, quietly, when they're both breathing again, and Dean gives up and lets him win that particular argument, because maybe Sam's got a point, after all.
Dean suspects it's going to be some big thing, them, together, but Sam just kisses him on the corner of the mouth the next morning between cups of coffee, in closer than usual, and that's almost the end of it. Sam doesn't want to talk and Dean's always been better at saying with his hands anyway. The thing is, it's not like they haven't been talking about it for years anyway, every goddamned fight over the radio station and every time he's pulled Sam out of a burning building. It's good. It's easy, and maybe it shouldn't be, but sometimes, Dean gets sick of things being hard.
Fall slides into winter, simple, and half way through November, Sam throws out the calendar. It's not like they need to bother keeping track. They're both still doing research - boxes of books from Bobby, day trips to the library - but Dean knows they're running out of sources, and the only person who probably knows the answer - Lilah S. Deveaux, formerly of 1117 Claiborne Avenue, a side note in Dean's section of John's notebook - sure as hell isn't around to ask.
Dean misses hunting, misses the click and slide of a well-oiled gun, misses the loud adrenaline rush of just barely making it, but he's learning to let go of things after he puts them together. The local post office starts giving him a discount on overnighting files to the new Roadhouse, and Sam gets good at ordering newspaper subscriptions in between reading books and painting the ceiling. There's nothing hanging over either of their heads except weeding out the old back garden and making sure the pipes don't freeze. When Sam closes one of the last books from Bobby, leaning back against their kitchen table in the afternoon sunlight, Dean's maybe okay with the finality of it.
"I think," Sam says, softly, "this might be for good," and Dean just leans in, close against one of Sam's wings, and smiles, the first snow starting to fall outside the picture window.