Beyond the Sight of Angels (Supernatural, wingfic, PG-13) 1/1
Title: Beyond the Sight of Angels
Author: Spinny Roses
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wingfic
Spoilers: "Everybody Loves a Clown," sequel to Under Sounds of Feathers
Notes: Part of Angels Without Wings series
Disclaimer: Don't own
Summary: Finally, the fire peters out, leaving only salted ash of a legend behind.
Beyond the Sight of Angels
Spinny Roses
His heart beats quieter now.
It doesn't worry him. His father is burning to nothing but ash before him, his brother is desperately attempting to pick up the shattered pieces of himself, and his eyes are stinging from smoke and repressed tears. A slow, quiet heartbeat isn't as important as what's before him.
His back itches, though it means nothing. Just a memory of wings, ripping suddenly for the first time when his father tried to reverse a curse on him and ended up taking out all magical blocks. They don't come in a regular cycle, nor do they stick around the same time. Sometimes it takes one month, sometimes half a year. He remembers when they burst out every week, leaving him useless until they stopped a month later.
They should be almost fully grown by now. The wings hadn't appeared since the coma, since he almost died. They had never taken this long before, and he wonders when they'll finally break free. They tend to wait when his brother is around, maturing fully instead of randomly busting out, sometimes dying before the skin is broken. The amount of times his father had to cut his back open to pull dead flesh and feathers were too many.
He wonders if this has something to do with what his father told him. They both have great potential, which yeah, makes sense for his brother. His brother, who could be easily swayed and he shouldn't hesitate if that happens. He won't - he can't - harm his own and only brother and how dare his father say that.
The beats continue, regular and soft, even as the lie spills from his lips. The itching gets worse, and he fights the urge to contort his upper body in attempt to scratch right over the thinned skin and slight bumps of newly growing wings. He rolls his shoulders in lieu of scratching, and notices his brother sneaking glances at his back.
He never meant for his brother to see them. Not when he couldn't keep them around. He hadn't earned them, hadn't figured how to balance himself enough to keep something so inhuman attached to the flight muscles he had been born with. His brother had, though, and now he keeps trying to stop him from manhandling his wings the rare times they appear.
A hesitant hand touches his back, rolling over the thin skin that barely holds back immature wings, and he shudders. The touch is too much, almost as painful as serious sucking after orgasm. His brother doesn't take away his hand but rather keeps touching him as if he wants that brief loss of control to continue. His hand rubs, trying to be comforting in a way, and his back itches worse. His wings flutter under the skin and his brother takes a deep, needy breath.
Finally, the fire peters out, leaving only salted ash of a legend behind. The hand slides off reluctantly to help scoop the remains up and he follows, quietly.
He doesn't hear his heart beat once until he stops moving.
Author: Spinny Roses
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wingfic
Spoilers: "Everybody Loves a Clown," sequel to Under Sounds of Feathers
Notes: Part of Angels Without Wings series
Disclaimer: Don't own
Summary: Finally, the fire peters out, leaving only salted ash of a legend behind.
Beyond the Sight of Angels
Spinny Roses
His heart beats quieter now.
It doesn't worry him. His father is burning to nothing but ash before him, his brother is desperately attempting to pick up the shattered pieces of himself, and his eyes are stinging from smoke and repressed tears. A slow, quiet heartbeat isn't as important as what's before him.
His back itches, though it means nothing. Just a memory of wings, ripping suddenly for the first time when his father tried to reverse a curse on him and ended up taking out all magical blocks. They don't come in a regular cycle, nor do they stick around the same time. Sometimes it takes one month, sometimes half a year. He remembers when they burst out every week, leaving him useless until they stopped a month later.
They should be almost fully grown by now. The wings hadn't appeared since the coma, since he almost died. They had never taken this long before, and he wonders when they'll finally break free. They tend to wait when his brother is around, maturing fully instead of randomly busting out, sometimes dying before the skin is broken. The amount of times his father had to cut his back open to pull dead flesh and feathers were too many.
He wonders if this has something to do with what his father told him. They both have great potential, which yeah, makes sense for his brother. His brother, who could be easily swayed and he shouldn't hesitate if that happens. He won't - he can't - harm his own and only brother and how dare his father say that.
The beats continue, regular and soft, even as the lie spills from his lips. The itching gets worse, and he fights the urge to contort his upper body in attempt to scratch right over the thinned skin and slight bumps of newly growing wings. He rolls his shoulders in lieu of scratching, and notices his brother sneaking glances at his back.
He never meant for his brother to see them. Not when he couldn't keep them around. He hadn't earned them, hadn't figured how to balance himself enough to keep something so inhuman attached to the flight muscles he had been born with. His brother had, though, and now he keeps trying to stop him from manhandling his wings the rare times they appear.
A hesitant hand touches his back, rolling over the thin skin that barely holds back immature wings, and he shudders. The touch is too much, almost as painful as serious sucking after orgasm. His brother doesn't take away his hand but rather keeps touching him as if he wants that brief loss of control to continue. His hand rubs, trying to be comforting in a way, and his back itches worse. His wings flutter under the skin and his brother takes a deep, needy breath.
Finally, the fire peters out, leaving only salted ash of a legend behind. The hand slides off reluctantly to help scoop the remains up and he follows, quietly.
He doesn't hear his heart beat once until he stops moving.