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runedgirlTitle: Every Me and Every You
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Beta: Big thanks to my other half
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 15,300 complete
A/N Title from the Placebo classic
PDF here, thanks to the awesomea_non_reader. THANK YOU!
Every Me and Every You PDF
Summary: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_xmas as a gift for locknkey, who wanted Sam/Dean tail or wing fic, bonus points for both. I tried to hit as many of your ‘likes’ as I could too, since I heartily approved of all of them. That would explain why this was rapidly heading toward big bang length….. Hope you like, sweetie!
It happens instantly. Not an early morning gradually dawning awareness of ohfuck something’s wrong or is this just a dream or anything of the sort. One second they’re standing there with shotguns raised and the next the post-apocalypse souped up version witch is snapping her fingers and there’s so much pain shooting up Dean Winchester’s spine that he drops to his knees and gags with it, gun clattering to the floor. He’s fairly sure he’s dying, stabbed in the back with some phantom witch’s blade, until he hears Sam’s agonized sobs behind him, and that snaps him out of it long enough to realize he’s still breathing.
“Sammy!” he rasps as he scrambles backwards to reach his brother. “What is it, where’d it get you?”
Sam’s too out of it to answer, doubled over in pain and one hand wrapped around behind himself, holding his lower back. It’s way too close to the place Jake’s knife went in so many years ago, the place Dean’s hand closed over and came away bloody as Sam’s life leaked through his fingers.
“No, no, no,” is all he can manage as Dean pulls at Sam’s shirts, trying to see how bad it is this time, and fuck, there’s blood all right, a lot of blood. Sam grabs for Dean’s shoulders, holding on, like this time surely Dean will save him. And then, with a horrible suddenness that makes Dean want to hurl again, he goes limp as a rag doll, collapsed against Dean’s chest.
“Oh fuck no, fuck, fuck….” There’s a moment that seems like eternity when Dean’s sure he’s lost Sam – again – and then he remembers to get two fingers pressed to Sam’s carotid, and there it is, the pump pump pump of blood, Sam alive underneath.
“You’re okay,” Dean tells him, “Still breathing, still with me, you’re okay, I’ve got you.” His other hand is still searching for the wound, sliding down Sam’s blood-slick lower back and slipping beneath his jeans, when Dean feels it. “What the –
He eases Sam forward, cranes his neck over his brother’s shoulder as he pushes Sam’s jeans down lower. And there it is, bleeding and still growing and looking like something out of Alien.
Sam has a tail.
* * *
Sam comes to a few hours later. He’s lying on his stomach, face mashed into a pillow damp with drool, and he’s got a backache that makes him feel like a ninety year old, but Sam can hear the tinny sound of the motel television and his brother’s low rumbling voice – Dean’s on the phone – so Sam doesn’t panic. Until he opens one eye and gets a look at his brother.
“Dean, you – you’ve got – Jesuschrist, you’ve got –
Startled, Dean drops the phone, and a whoosh of air bursts through the room as he instinctively unfurls his –
“You’ve got wings!”
Dean yelps in pain at the sudden spread of them, trying to clutch at his own shoulder blades where the wings made their torturous way out of his body. There are trails of red down his back and sides from their violent eruption, the white feathers tinged pink from the blood splattered throughout. Dean sways, his face as white as his feathers.
“Dean, are you okay? Here, let me help.”
Sam rolls over to get up, or he tries to, suddenly encumbered by something wrapped tightly around his legs.
Dean holds out a hand in a clear ‘stop’ signal.
“Don’t try to get up,” he warns, sitting down heavily on the other bed as he tries to catch his breath and rein in his wings. “You’ve got – uhh, something – too.”
Oh fuck.
Sam’s face pales to match his brother’s.
“Oh god, it’s – is it – is it a –
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, his wings finally pulling in closer to his body where they seem to cause less pain. “It’s a tail, Sam. Fucking witches.”
* * *
It takes three days for the metamorphosis to finally be complete. The Winchesters stay holed up in the motel, gobbling the painkillers Bobby brings and trying to keep down enough food to prevent their stomachs from rebelling. Bobby leaves antibiotic cream and fresh bandages and five spell books, but he doesn’t look very hopeful when he heads out the next morning, warning Sam and Dean to lay low. As if they needed the reminder.
“Lie on your stomach,” Dean orders when it’s time to sleep and they’ve just taken fresh doses of painkillers.
“Like I can lie any other way, asshole,” Sam grumbles back, but he lets Dean pull the loose sweats Bobby brought him down low enough to inspect the place where his tail has been growing, thickening. He doesn’t feel well enough to be embarrassed – Dean has tended to wounds on every square inch of Sam’s body, after all – but it’s still weird to be touched there. Dean’s fingers are tentative – he’s trying to be gentle – as he dabs the cream around the base of Sam’s tail where the flesh is still torn and broken, but it still hurts. Feels funny too, like the tail is just starting to wake up and be capable of sensation, a network of nerves spreading throughout. Sam shudders.
“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, “Almost done.” He pulls Sam’s sweats up after, careful not to jar the tail tucked down one leg, and pats Sam’s back. “Go to sleep, Sammy,” he says, like Sam’s eight. Miraculously, Sam does.
Dean lodges a much louder protest when Sam tries to return the favor the next day. He’s been shirtless since the wings sprouted, so Sam’s had a clear view of the damage they did to his back when they broke through. He finally corners his brother in the motel bathroom, antibiotic cream in one hand and the other on the back of Dean’s neck to hold him still.
“Sam,” Dean growls, trying to squirm away, but Sam holds tight, fingers sinking into the meat of Dean’s neck until he complains with an “oww.”
“Hold still then. You’re gonna get infected if I don’t get some of this cream on you.”
Dean’s shoulders hunch, and he grips the side of the sink in front of him with a resigned sigh.
“Good,” Sam says, dabbing the antibiotic on the reddened broken skin. Dean jerks forward at the touch, his wings quivering, expanding a little as Sam works. The feathers brush against Sam’s arm, so soft the touch is barely there, leaving goosebumps in their wake. By the time Sam is done, both wings are fully extended, and Dean’s shaking with the effort of keeping still.
“Did I hurt you?” Sam asks, as his eyes meet his brother’s in the mirror. Dean’s are wide, strikingly green in the harsh light.
“No,” he says, and his wings pull in tight to his body as he says it, still quivering. “It’s fine. Thanks.”
* * *
By the tenth day, their wounds are pretty much healed. They’re both feeling well enough to be stir crazy inside the motel and to bitch at each other every five minutes, almost as though things were the Winchester version of normal.
Sam’s tail tops out at thirty-seven inches, thickest at the base and tapering to a dull point that’s disturbingly finger-like. At least Dean says it is. The skin is more or less flesh colored, but silky smooth, almost reptilian, though Sam points out that it doesn’t have actual scales or anything, jesus Dean, give it a rest.
Dean’s wings have a five foot spread when they’re fully extended. Luckily (if luck is a word that can even be used in the same sentence as cursed) they’re light, hollow boned like the most flight-worthy bird, layered with thick white feathers. Sam privately thinks they’re sort of pretty, but of course he’d never tell Dean that.
“I can’t stay in this fucking motel for one more minute,” Dean announces when he comes out of the shower that morning. He’s always cranky after he showers now, instead of pink cheeked and grinning like he used to be. The water makes his feathers soggy, weighs his wings down until they ache. The first time he got them wet, Sam came rushing into the bathroom at the sound of Dean’s groans to find his brother standing forlornly, clutching his shoulder blades with both hands while his sodden wings hung so low they dragged along the tile floor when Sam eased him out of the tub.
“Hurts, Sammy,” Dean had moaned, and nothing Sam could do seemed to help until the feathers had a chance to dry out, puffing up to twice their volume and making Dean look small beneath their canopy as he held them aloft to dry.
By now, Dean’s able to shower without it sounding like he’s dying by holding his wings mostly outside the spray, the muscles anchoring them stronger every day and less painful. But he still grouses about the loss of one of his favorite activities, the ridiculously long effortlessly comfortable hot shower. It hasn’t hit him yet that some of his other favorite activities are also going to be a bit more challenging with wings. Or more like impossible.
Sam’s tail, on the other hand, is fine with showering or just about anything else he wants to do with it. It doesn’t hurt at all once it’s healed, and it seems to like being washed and showered and dried off and aired out and anything else that doesn’t involve being confined -- that it’s not so wild about. His biggest problem is the tail sometimes seems to have a mind of its own. Or maybe Sam’s imagining that part, but at the very least, it doesn’t always go where he wants it to. Or stay there.
“Oww,” Dean protests when Sam crosses the room after his shower and his tail whips itself out from under Sam’s towel to slap Dean on the thigh, right where his faded black boxers end and the bare skin begins. “What the fuck, Sam?”
“Uhh. Sorry?”
“Call off your attack tail, will ya?” Dean grumbles, rubbing his leg. There’s a red mark there in the shape of the tip of Sam’s tail. Sam stares at it for a moment, fascinated, his stomach flipping unexpectedly at the sight.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling on his baggy sweatpants and tucking the unruly appendage down one leg. He can feel it twitch unhappily there for a few seconds, then settle into place against his leg, the tip curled neatly around Sam’s lower calf. It still feels weird, but he’s getting used to it being there.
Dean has a lot more trouble trying to get a shirt on over his wings. They fold up to an impressively compact layer of feathers tucked against his back, but still leave Dean looking deformed. It’s September now, so he can hide some of his lumpiness under tee shirt, flannel and leather jacket, even though it’s uncomfortable -- but it’s clear that next spring is going to pose a big problem. Sam tries to be optimistic that the curse will be lifted by then, but so far Bobby’s had no luck finding any reason for optimism, and neither has Sam.
“I look like an idiot,” Dean says, twisting his body sideways to stare in the mirror.
“No you don’t, it’s not even – it’s hardly noticeable,” Sam insists.
“You’re a piss poor liar,” Dean shoots back, and Sam doesn’t bother to argue. Dean could always read him, even when he was a teenager trying desperately to rebel against the only parental figure he had. Dean always knew; sometimes he pretended he didn’t.
Driving turns out to be tough for both of them. Dean has to slide the seat way back to make room for his wings, then sit farther forward than usual. The comfortable sprawl he favored when driving, one hand on the wheel and his arm outstretched along the seat, knees splayed a bit as his foot urges her forward, is gone. Dean is stiff and tense and awkward, gripping the wheel with both hands. The Impala jerks and sputters, lodging a protest, missing the smoothness of her master’s touch. It’s surprisingly depressing to see. Another loss. Little things maybe – long hot showers, long easy drives – but they’re taking a toll already, Sam can see it in the way Dean’s eyes squint, the way the corners of his mouth turn down.
Sam’s tail is annoying in the car too, since it won’t lay completely flat. Instead it feels like he’s got a tennis ball wedged between his lower back and the seat. What’s worse, the tail likes to trail right down the crack of Sam’s ass instead of going off to the side like he’d prefer, snaking beneath his balls and then down his left thigh. Every time Sam tries to push it to the side, it snaps right back like – well, like it’s got a mind of its own. Maybe it’s not as crazy as it sounds – hell, he has a tail, what’s crazier than that?
The first time they try to hunt, it doesn’t go well. It turns out that whenever Dean is startled, his wings unfurl instantly – in this case, ripping through two layers of shirts and sending his leather jacket flying backwards across the room. And Dean with it. Sam tries to pick up where his brother left off, but his tail wraps around his thigh so tightly – apparently an instinctive reaction to being threatened with imminent death – that it cuts off his circulation and throws off his balance enough to faceplant him right in front of a completely dumbfounded demon. The only reason they live to gripe about the whole incident is that the demon mistakes Dean’s wings for angelic and hightails it out the window while the Winchesters are still down for the count.
So. Showers, scratch. Driving, scratch. Hunting, not so much. What else do they have to give up, Sam wonders. Then wishes he hadn’t.
“We’ll never get laid again, Sammy,” Dean moans plaintively once they’re back at the motel. His tee shirt and flannel look like they belong to the Incredible Hulk post transformation, shredded and in tatters, his wings poking through. His big green eyes are pools of despondency.
Sam contemplates his brother for a minute. Dean’s the picture of despair, shoulders drooping, lips puffed into a perfect pout.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Dean. That look is irresistible.” Strangely, Sam thinks, it kinda is.
“Yeah right,” Dean snarks back, stripping out of his ruined clothes. “I’ll just tell her I have to keep my jacket on, and hope the sight of my wings ripping through my shirt when I get off doesn’t give her a friggen’ heart attack.”
“I don’t really think,” Sam starts, then skids to a stop mid sentence.
Dean quickly turns away, cheeks coloring. “Forget it, doesn’t matter, got a perfectly good right hand.”
“Wait, are your wings like, connected to your dick or something?”
“Leave it, Sam!”
Shit, Sam thinks, that really is gonna make having sex sort of impossible. Ohgod, this isn’t good. Sam’s not actually sure his brother can survive without sex. Dean will be miserable, at the very least. Even more miserable than usual. Ohgod. This is bad. For Sam.
* * *
If he can’t have sex, apparently Dean will throw himself into hunting. And eating. Luckily one activity seems to cancel out the other, because Dean is in better shape than ever. Sam knows this because Dean rarely wears a shirt when they’re safely inside their motel – too confining, he grumbles. So Sam gets to watch him compulsively tone the body he keeps lamenting that no one (except Sam, obviously) will ever see again. Crunches, push ups, lunges, jogs in circles around the room that make Sam dizzy, until Dean’s paler-than-ever freckled skin is sweat sheened and glistening on the bunched muscles of his impressive abs.
Obviously Sam isn’t exactly going to be able to go out and find a date either. If Dean’s wings might make some hapless woman think she’s died and gone to heaven, Sam’s tail just might convince anyone who discovered it that they’re dabbling with something downright dark and dirty. His tail is…. for lack of a better word, it’s kinda devilish. And sort of mildly pornographic.
Dean tries to stay uncovered; Sam resolutely keeps his tail under wraps, away from his brother’s scrutiny and certain derision. He gets dressed and undressed in the bathroom, not coming out until his tail is safely tucked in his sweats or down the new wider leg jeans he was finally able to find at the last town’s Walmart. When he winds it tightly around his leg from thigh to calf, the tail is barely visible, flattening itself until it just looks like one leg’s a bit more muscled than the other.
His ability to go outside and look more or less normal means Sam is always the one running for supplies and bringing back take out. Dean still can’t stand the odd looks strangers furtively slant his way sometimes. Or the lack of the other kind of looks he used to get on a regular basis. At least Dean insists he doesn’t get them anymore; Sam’s pretty sure his brother’s hotness is intact. He just doesn’t see it anymore, doesn’t feel it. Sometimes Sam wants to shake him – take him by the shoulders and say, see? That girl over there, she’s been staring at you for ten minutes. Or that guy at the pool table, trying to eyefuck you out of the booth and get you to come over there. I mean, really, they’d have to be blind not to see how hot his brother is.
Sam has a moment to ponder what an odd thought that is to have, then resolutely stops thinking about it.
* * *
“You think maybe you can fly, Dean?”
They’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, tossing back beers and enjoying a mild night for Montana in November, the sky a black star-sparkled canopy overhead far away from the lighted haze of civilization. Dean scoffs.
“Of course not,” he says, taking another swig of beer and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“How do you know if you haven’t tried?”
“’m not some kinda friggen’ angel, Sam.”
For some reason, that makes Sam grin. Or maybe it’s the beer. “No,” he agrees, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone accuse you of that.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, so slight maybe no one but Sam would notice. “Damn straight.”
Sam slides off the car abruptly, reaching out to drag Dean down with him, to his brother’s startled curses.
“C’mon, let’s find out,” Sam urges, tugging his reluctant brother over to an outcrop of boulders and climbing up to the ledge twelve or so feet up. He turns when he’s there and holds his hand out. “Whatsa matter, Dean? Chicken?”
Dean’s scrambling up the rocks in seconds. So predictable.
“You’re an ass, you know that?” he grumbles, but Sam just laughs and yanks on the sleeves of his brother’s leather jacket, pulling it off and tossing it down to the ground below.
Dean bats at his hands. “Stop grabbin’ at me,” he orders, then starts slapping back when Sam doesn’t let go, trying to unbutton his flannel and push it back over his shoulders.
“Quit it, you pervert,” Dean says, but he’s laughing now too, the two of them battling over Dean’s shirts and swaying drunkenly on the outcrop.
Dean doesn’t plan to do it. One minute they’re wrestling on the ledge, the next Sam’s falling backwards. Or at least he starts falling backwards. The next second Dean’s got both arms around his drunken brother and both wings outstretched, flapping furiously to slow their descent. Sam lands on his back in the grass, so softly it doesn’t even take his breath away.
The fact that he’s in Dean’s arms, however, does.
“Jesuschrist,” Sam says, awestruck. Dean’s pressed up against him chest to chest, belly to belly, strong arms wrapped all the way around Sam’s back and now trapped underneath them, One of Dean’s legs is tangled with Sam’s, snug up against Sam’s tail, which is throbbing like a sonofabitch. It feels….kinda good.
Dean gasps, raising his head enough to stare wide-eyed at Sam beneath him. His wings flutter to a standstill, a few feathers floating slowly to the ground beside Sam’s head.
“Oh,” he says.
“Oh,” Sam echoes back, and it comes out a raspy whisper. “Dean, you –“ He reaches up and lays a hand on Dean’s wing where it’s still arched over them, feeling the strength underneath the downy feathers. Dean jerks away, a pained expression on his face.
“Sorry, I – sorry,” Sam says, as Dean hurriedly retracts his wings and gets up, brushing the gravel and grass off himself self-consciously. He turns his gaze back to Sam when he stays on the ground.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine – just sort of shocked, I guess.”
Dean sighs. “Sorry, it just happened.”
Sam finally manages to get to his feet, shuffling from side to side as he tries to get his tail to lay flat against his leg. Damn thing feels twice as fat as usual all of a sudden. “No, no – I mean, thanks. You totally broke my fall.”
Dean shrugs and heads back to the car, picking up his discarded shirts and jacket and slipping them back on. They’re almost back to the motel when Sam can’t hold the words or the smile in any longer.
“Dude, you can fly.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Guess so.”
Sam grins, his tail still throbbing strangely where it’s tucked between his legs. “My hero,” he says, and watches the tips of Dean’s ears go pink.
* * *
It turns out Dean doesn’t actually like to fly. (Probably the stupid witch knew that. Why couldn’t she have given Sam the wings? He totally would have made use of them.) Dean was terrified of flying even with comfy seats and airline hostesses hovering around him, so the idea of launching himself into the wild blue yonder with nothing under his feet isn’t appealing in the least. Not to mention what would happen if anyone god forbid saw him. He keeps his boots resolutely planted on the ground, no matter how many times Sam starts with the “But Dean, don’t you want to….”
The answer is always no. Sometimes followed by a nasty “Why don’t you see what your tail can do, Sam – maybe hang yourself with it, huh?”
The second time Dean flies, it’s Sam’s fault. Again.
Really this time it’s more the black dogs’ fault. Dean hates the things, too much like hellhounds, so he’s in full-out chop ‘em to bits mode even before the dogs manage to herd the Winchesters to the top of a cliff in Colorado. Sam realizes too late that this was part of the plan, as he’s backed up and sliding on the loose gravel next to the edge. He hears Dean’s shout, sees the flash of white toothed snarls coming at him fast, and then all Sam can see is blue sky as he’s upended and catapulting toward the ground a half mile below. Next thing he feels is a rain of dirt and rocks from above as half the cliff face seems to come loose, black dogs howling and scrambling as they try not to follow Sam down. And then nothing.
“Sam! C’mon Sammy, say something!”
It’s Dean’s voice, but he sounds far away. Sam’s ears are ringing, and there’s dirt in his mouth, down his throat, everywhere. He must not be dead though, or he wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.
“Dean, spphlutrrrhgh” he finally manages, spitting pebbles and clumps of dirt and trying to force his eyes open. He blinks at the bright blue sky, then at the dark shadow of his brother leaning over him.
“Thankgod,” Dean says, still sounding frantic. He’s as covered in dirt and grime as Sam is, bare chest streaked with dark brown rivulets of sweat and mud. It looks like half the cliff came down with Sam – and three very dead black dogs too.
Sam starts shaking as soon as he sits up, suddenly overcome with the near death experience and the knowledge that Dean saved him once again. Dean starts to pull him in for a hug, then stiffens and squirms away with a choked off yelp of pain. That’s when Sam sees.
“Dean, shit, you’re hurt. Your wings, fuck.”
Dean sits down hard, one wing still unfurled, the other held half up and half down at an awkward angle. The beautiful white feathers are brown with dirt and dust, and there are a few almost bare spots where the scrub trees and branches protruding from the cliffside must have caught them. Burrs and twigs are caught in the thick feathers, some of them sticking straight up instead of lying flat, uneven pattern like a cat petted the wrong way.
“Is it – is it broken?” Dean asks, his face pale.
“I don’t think so,” Sam reassures, but he lays Dean out on the back seat of the Impala anyway and takes the turns slowly.
At the motel, Sam takes a shower and Dean tries to shake his wings clean, wincing as he gets the sore left one working again and raising a small dust storm in the process. They look a little better, but as hard as Dean flaps them, the twigs and burrs and sticks stay stubbornly in place even as the dried dirt starts to fall away. Dean twists himself into a pretzel trying to reach behind himself to tug out the debris, cursing and nearly falling on his ass in the process. Exasperated, he finally gives up and strips out of his muddy jeans and boots to take his turn in the shower, scrubbing away the rest of the dirt on his body and letting the softest spray setting wash the last bits of dust from his feathers. Then he faceplants on the bed in only the clean pair of shorts Sam tossed into the bathroom, his dampened wings spread out to both sides and his expression a mix of exhausted and disgusted.
“Let me see, okay?”
Dean pulls his wings in a little when Sam moves to sit on the side of the bed. “m fine,” he insists, turning his face away from his brother in a clear ‘go away’ signal.
“I think you need, like,” Sam starts, searching for a word that won’t make Dean get up and try to fly away. “Your wings, I think the feathers need – you know, like, grooming.”
“Grooming?” Dean turns back to Sam, eyebrows lifted and eyes wide. “I’m not a poodle, Sam.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam grumbles back, trying to be patient. “More like a rooster. But feathers need – preening. You need preening, Dean.”
“Preening?” Dean squeaks, and his eyebrows practically disappear into his mussed hair.
“Otherwise you’re gonna start losing feathers,” Sam insists, “And that’s gonna be a problem. And painful.”
“You seriously want to preen me?”
“Well actually you can only preen yourself, that’s what the word means, but I can -- just let me get the twigs and burrs out, okay? I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
He is gentle, but Dean still jerks away when Sam’s fingers brush over the tips of his wings.
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam murmurs, but he doesn’t stop, climbing right on top of his brother and straddling his hips to get the right angle to work.
“Sam, jesus,” Dean says, squirming in protest, but Sam stays put easily, trapping Dean between his thighs.
“Be still, you ass.”
“Be still? You’re ON my ass.”
“And I’m staying here til your wings are clean, so suck it up and stop squirming.”
“Whatever. Jerk.”
The tense muscles of Dean’s shoulders relax a little – brother code for okay, I hate this, but I’m not gonna fight you on it. Or hold it against you. Sam waits until Dean’s wings settle on the bed, then gets to work untangling the bits of leaves and twig and burrs embedded in the downy feathers.
Dean sucks in a gasp at the first touch, his body going rigid again, wings fluttering rapidly.
“Easy,” Sam says, waiting for Dean to calm, then gently brushing his fingers through the feathers, tugging a bit of leaf free. Dean doesn’t move this time, but the line of his spine is bowed with tension, and Sam can feel the cheeks of his ass clench with even the gentlest of touches.
“Trying not to hurt you,” he reassures, “but there’s a lot of shit stuck in here, and it’s gotta come out.”
Already there are a few raw spots where the feathers have been pulled away, the membrane tender and angry pink beneath. Dean grunts an acknowledgement, but his body is rock hard with tension, shoulders bunched. His hands fist the sheets as Sam works, slowly and carefully pulling the debris away from the delicate feathers.
Dean shudders every time Sam’s long fingers smooth the feathers back into place after tugging a piece of debris free. It’s a lot like stitching Dean up, Sam thinks once he gets started. He finds a rhythm and goes with it – pull and ease and stroke and smooth – toss the twig to the side and repeat, and pull and ease and stroke again. Little by little, Dean’s feathers fall back into place, the last of the dust brushed off by Sam’s fingers until they’re white and fluffy, soft under Sam’s hands, rustling and alive.
Beautiful.
It’s a strange thing to think about his brother, but the word keeps rolling itself around in Sam’s brain, nearly tumbling out onto his tongue. Beautiful. Dean is beautiful. Eventually Sam can feel the tension in his brother’s taut body ease, muscles softening little by little, until Dean’s whole body shifts slightly with each of Sam’s pulls and tugs, pliant and warm between Sam’s thighs. Dean’s arms are outstretched beneath his wings, hands still fisted loosely in the sheets, tensing and flexing with each stroke and pull of Sam’s fingers. There are droplets of perspiration on the back of Dean’s neck, collected between his shoulder blades around the roots of his wings, pooling in the dip at the small of his back. Sam lets his eyes roam while he works, over his brother’s glistening freckled skin, enjoying the way Dean’s strong muscles bunch and shift. It’s not until Sam hears the quiet thump-thump-thump of the headboard against the wall that he realizes they’ve got a rhythm going – that Sam’s rocking back and forth just a little as he combs his fingers through Dean’s wings to make sure they’re clean, that Dean’s shifting beneath him, same rhythm, almost imperceptible push of his hips caught between Sam’s thighs. It’s – it feels like –
“Dean,” Sam whispers, and his brother stills and stiffens instantly, his outstretched wings abruptly pulling in and his muscles going rigid.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, leaning up to run both hands over the length of Dean’s wings, stroking through the silky feathers, his fingers digging into the thick down, pulling gently from base to tip. Dean shudders.
“Don’t,” he croaks, face pushed into the pillow, and Sam realizes with a jolt that he wants to.
Dean suddenly pushes up to his knees, tossing Sam off to the side as he clambers off the bed. He clutches the bedspread to his chest so it covers him chin to knees like some blushing virgin in an old movie, shuffling into the bathroom and nearly tripping over it when it tangles around his feet.
They don’t talk about it.
* * *
But Sam thinks about it. A lot. He finds himself looking forward to the times when they’re alone in a motel room, when Dean will throw off his shirts and free his wings. He always stretches and groans at first, slowly spreading the shimmering white wings to their full width, his eyes falling shut and an expression of near-ecstasy on his face. Sam guesses that Dean’s wings hate being confined all the time about as much as Sam’s tail does.
In addition to being indisputably beautiful, Dean’s wings are, Sam thinks rather dramatically, majestic. They make him look like something other than Sam’s brother -- a god, or an angel. Otherworldly. Maybe it’s that otherworldliness that’s causing the disconnect in Sam’s brain that lets him start wanting things he shouldn’t, things he’s never let himself think about before. Sure he knew Dean was attractive, Dean’s been making sure his little brother knew that for years. But Sam never felt it, not like this. Like a punch to the gut when Sam watches Dean go through his nightly ritual, standing at the window laying down the salt lines before he closes the curtains, moonlight painting the pale skin of his bare chest and outlining the muscles of his rounded biceps and taut stomach, shimmering silver-white on the rippling feathers of his wings.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize that Sam’s tail swells against his thigh every time he steals a glance at his half-naked brother, or to realize that his dick isn’t far behind. It probably doesn’t help that neither of them has touched or been touched in months, but Sam’s not good enough at rationalization to believe that’s most of the reason. It doesn’t explain why he can’t stop thinking of the way Dean pushed his hips against the mattress when Sam caressed his wings, the way it felt to straddle him and look down at the broad expanse of his brother’s muscled shoulders, the curved line of his spine and the swell of his ass.
Dean sucks in a gasp when Sam comes up behind him silently, letting his fingers brush against the outer feathers of one of Dean’s wings. Dean pulls it in quickly, but not before Sam sees his mouth fall open and his cheeks color.
* * *
“We should just put you on top of it,” Sam announces once they have the little evergreen propped up in the corner of the cabin they’re holed up in. It belongs to someone who knows someone who knows Bobby Singer, but whoever that someone is, they clearly haven’t been here in quite a while. Sam and Dean spent the first few hours of Christmas Eve sweeping the floors and stocking the cupboards and chopping wood for the fireplace, which is now roaring and slowly bringing the feeling back to Sam’s fingers. Neither of them had gloves, and Sam was the one who wanted to chop down the damn tree, after all.
Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Ha fucking ha.”
Sam’s about to come back with a witty retort, but then Dean starts stripping out of his flannels and tee shirt, and Sam doesn’t have all that much to say. Dean unfurls his wings in front of the fire, rolls his shoulders as the warmth sinks into the stiffness from keeping them confined all day.
Sam kicks off his snowy boots and pulls off his jeans and shirts too, damp with snow and sweat from chopping. As always, his tail makes a run for freedom from the inadequate impediment of his boxers, slipping out the back and whipping itself around in the warm air happily. Dean’s so mesmerized by the fire, he doesn’t even notice Sam coming to stand behind him. That is, until Sam’s tail sneaks forward and slides itself across the small of Dean’s back and down his jeans, dipping its slender tip right into the cleft of his ass.
Dean’s wings shoot out to the sides and he jumps a foot, whirling around to shove Sam backwards. Sam yelps in surprise, his tail still caught down the back of Dean’s jeans, and they both end up on the floor.
“Sam! Get your damn tail outta my pants!”
It’s such a preposterous thing to say, Sam can’t help but laugh. Dean doesn’t look amused at first, but eventually his expression softens to more exasperated fondness than actual annoyance. He gives Sam a shove to the chest, blushing all the way down to his pebbled nipples. “You think you’re so funny.”
Sam shakes his head, too-long hair in his eyes and a giddy bright bubble of ridiculously intense love for his grumpy bewinged and impossibly beautiful brother filling his chest to bursting and rendering him speechless with it.
“Stop smiling at me, you freak,” Dean grumbles, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
The fire crackles and sparks, and Dean huffs and sits on the floor with his wings lifted up over his shoulders and his freckles dark over pink cheeks and his green eyes sparkling in the firelight. Sam can’t think for how gorgeous Dean is or how much he loves him – has always loved him -- just gets up on his hands and knees and crawls the three feet to his brother, still grinning. Dean’s eyes are wide, lashes still in wet spikes from the snowflakes caught there. His mouth falls open when Sam gets so close they’re nearly cross-eyed trying to keep staring at each other, and Sam’s mouth matches it, drawing in a soft gasp as Dean’s breath puffs out against his lips.
“Dean,” he whispers, right before he kisses his brother.
There’s no bolt of lightning, no avalanche, no explosion. Just the soft press of Dean’s mouth against Sam’s, tentative, unsure like he never imagined Dean would be. It’s Sam who licks into Dean’s mouth just slightly, and Dean shudders and jerks before he touches Sam’s tongue with his own, slick hot slide as the kiss turns deep and hungry, pulling at something primal in Sam’s soul. Sensation narrows to only the feel of his brother’s mouth, the taste of his spit, the rough scrape of teeth and the soft wet give of the inside of him, and Sam wants him so badly, just like that, like it was always there and maybe Sam just didn’t know it. He wants -- wants to get so deep inside Dean that nothing can ever get between them again.
They’re both breathing too hard to keep their mouths locked so tightly, and Sam gets his brother’s plump lower lip between his teeth when they break apart, worries it rough enough to taste a hint of metal before sucking and licking and soothing, and Dean shudders hard, one of his hands clutching at Sam’s shoulder. Even his fingers are trembling. Sam slows them then, before Dean can pull away, kisses the corner of his brother’s swollen mouth, the slight stubble of his chin, his freckled nose, letting their pounding heartbeats come back to normal.
Sam rests his forehead against his brother’s, firelight crackling around them, shivering with the silky brush of Dean’s wings against his bare back where Dean has enclosed them.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” he whispers, ducking his head to stay within the circle of thick feathers, warm and drowsy and feeling safer than he can ever remember.
Dean pulls Sam in closer, his wings wrapped around them both.
It’s a long time before they spread out their separate bedrolls in front of the fire. Sam misses the warmth of Dean’s feathers around him, shivers as he wraps the blankets around him instead.
* * *
They don’t talk about it the next day, but Sam wakes up to the smell of coffee perking and the sight of Dean’s bare back bent over the stove, his wings carefully extended behind him to stay away from the burners as he flips the maple pancakes that are Sam’s favorite. He only flinches a little when Sam comes up behind him and touches the tip of one wing just barely before dropping his hand. The softness of Dean’s feathers raises goosebumps on Sam’s arm, stirs his tail and his cock.
Dean’s ears go pink, but he keeps his attention on breakfast. “Make yourself useful,” he orders, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Put some plates on the table and pour the coffee.”
Sam eats eight pancakes, after which he’s so full that even his tail just lays down quietly and behaves itself. Dean eats six, and leaves a puddle of real Vermont maple syrup on his plate and a few drops shining on his bottom lip. Sam wants very much to lean over and lick it off.
In the afternoon, they hike the trail halfway up the mountain, ambushing each other with snowballs and getting more snow down their jeans and stuffed into their boots than is left on the hillside. It’s a race to see who can strip off their clothes faster once they’re back at the cabin, skin pink and freezing as they crowd in close to the fireplace in just their underwear, rubbing over biceps to get the circulation flowing.
“Fucking freezing,” Dean grumbles, stretching his wings with a groan. The feathers flutter over Sam’s back and graze his shoulders, sending a rush of arousal through him instantly. His tail snakes around his own thigh, slithering up and down impatiently.
“Dean?”
“Hmm?” His brother’s staring at the fire, seemingly oblivious to the effect the brush of his wings is having on Sam.
“Your feathers could use some – some, uh. Grooming. Again.”
Dean pulls his wings in and raises an eyebrow at Sam. “Really?” He cranes his neck to try and look over his shoulder at them.
Sam can feel the blush creep over his face, run down his throat to color his bare chest. It’s true, there are a few leaves caught in the feathers from their snowball fight, but it’s more true that Sam just wants to do it. Wants to touch his brother again.
“Yeah, I just – I think it’s a good idea if we just – you know, make sure that there’s nothing caught in them, or whatever. Uh. From the hike and stuff.”
For a minute, Sam thinks he’s going to say no. But finally Dean shrugs and nods. “Where do you want me?”
Sam’s tail lashes furiously, thick and fat and throbbing from the unintended implications of Dean’s question.
“Uh. On the bedroll?”
Dean eyes Sam’s tail, eyebrow raised even further, then goes to his hands and knees before flopping onto his stomach. He stretches his wings out to the side and arches his spine, then settles himself on the bedroll with a few unintentionally obscene rolls of his hips.
He doesn’t move when Sam climbs over him this time, throwing one knee across to straddle Dean’s ass, but he twitches hard when Sam lays both hands on the base of his wings and begins to stroke through the feathers.
“Easy,” Sam says, like he’s soothing a wild horse, “Just let me.”
His fingers comb through the thick layers, easily brushing out the few leaves stuck there. Dean’s feathers are silky soft and white as the new snow swirling outside the cabin window, feel so good on his hands. Dean slowly relaxes beneath him, his wings lying flatter, spreading wider. The tips brush against Sam’s bare thighs and Sam can’t help a half-stifled gasp at the sensation, can’t help wanting more, more of Dean.
The fire crackles higher, warmth spreading down Sam’s bare chest in a hot flush, settling in his belly where his muscles jump as he leans in lower, closer to the freckled skin of Dean’s back. A thin sheen of sweat glistens there, and Sam presses a kiss between his brother’s shoulder blades, has to -- tastes the salt of Dean’s sweat there where he’s been admiring it. Dean’s fingers clutch the blankets, like he’s anchoring himself there so he doesn’t just fly off, fly away.
“Sam,” Dean groans, half smothered into the pillow. “We can’t.”
Sam’s tongue draws a hot trail down the line of Dean’s spine in response, while his fingers stroke Dean’s wings gently from base to tip. “It’s okay if it feels good.”
Dean tosses his head on the pillow and tries to retract his wings, but Sam holds them down, gentle but firm. “Not okay Sam, you don’t get it, it’s not just good, it’s – ohgod.”
He cuts himself off when Sam’s hands don’t pause, trying to squirm away but caught between Sam’s strong thighs.
“Like this? Is that where it feels best?” Sam’s fingers are relentless, combing through the thick layers, stroking the stiff feathers on top, then wriggling through to the downy softness beneath until Dean moans and bucks unintentionally, his ass pushing up against Sam’s spread legs before grinding back down against the bedroll insistently.
“So your feathers really are connected to your dick then,” Sam says, letting a little bit of smirk into his words. Because damn, that’s hot.
“Don’t fuck with me, Sam,” Dean growls, and when he turns his face to the side Sam can see how flushed his cheeks are, pink with shame.
“Not fucking with you.” And he means it, Sam’s not playing around, not trying to embarrass his brother. The knowledge that he wants this, wants to do this to Dean, hits intense and heady, and Sam can feel his dick tent his boxers, impatient.
“Let me do this for you,” Sam says, and when Dean doesn’t answer, he adds, “I want to.”
He gets a handful of feathers then, stroking along the curve of Dean’s wings all the way to the tips, and Dean’s breath hitches. Sam leans down again, fingers playing with the tiny feathers at the tips of Dean’s wings, and he can’t help himself from grinding his hips down against his Dean’s raised ass, letting his brother feel his arousal. Dean shivers hard, half swallowed little moans against the pillow as he pants for breath, and oh hell yes, Sam really really wants to.
He keeps at it for as long as he can stand to wait, manipulating the silky white feathers with gentle strokes and tugs until Dean’s going fucking crazy underneath him, squirming and humping the blankets and nearly sobbing with need. Sam’s just thinking about how he needs to let go of one wing for a reach around when there’s the loud sound of cotton ripping and Sam’s almost unseated by the sudden escape of his tail. The thing heads straight for Dean, worming its way beneath his belly and sliding into his shorts. It wraps itself around Dean’s straining erection so quickly Sam sees stars, all the blood in his body clearly being used to animate his swollen, insistent -- and happily incestuous -- tail.
The combination of Sam’s fingers caressing his wings and Sam’s tail jerking his cock wring an orgasm out of Dean in seconds. His wings shoot out to the sides to their full width, easily five feet of glorious white feathered beauty, and his whole body jerks and stiffens as he comes, his hands still fisted in the bedroll and a strangled scream torn from his throat. Sam can feel it acutely in every inch of his sensitive tail, the rhythmic pulses as Dean shoots, the swell and twitch of his dick where Sam’s tail is so tightly wrapped around it. It’s….damn, it’s fucking hot.
When Dean’s finally done coming, he half rolls to the side, breathless, trying to get Sam to let him go. It takes him a few seconds to realize that’s not Sam’s hand around his cock.
“Jesuschrist,” he swears, staring. “You just jerked me off with your tail.”
“Sorry,” Sam tries, though it feels like a lie, and god, he needs to move, he’s so close, right on the edge.
“This is a whole new level of messed up,” Dean mutters. “And, uh – you can let go now.”
“I – I’m not sure I can.” Fucking tail. Mind of its own. And Sam’s so horny he can’t think straight, let alone make his tail let go of what it’s clearly wanted to wrap itself around for a long time.
“Of course you can,” Dean insists, and then he gets a hand around the tip of Sam’s tail to pry it off.
“Fuck!” Sam shouts, bolts of pleasure shooting up his tail where Dean’s strong competent fingers are wrapped tightly around it, and just like that, he loses it, cock jerking hard untouched as he comes. It’s so intense he stops breathing for a while, vision whited out with the biting pleasure.
Dean’s still got Sam’s tail in his hand when Sam can breathe again. He tentatively moves a finger over the tip, and Sam shouts and shudders and slaps a hand down on Dean’s hip.
“That’s pretty kinky,” Dean says, still staring at Sam’s tail. He gives it an exploratory squeeze, and Sam yelps at the sensation overload.
“Unghh,” Sam says, still cognitively impaired from the most mindblowing orgasm of his life.
“Did you just jizz all over me?” Dean complains, and finally lets go of Sam’s tail. The damn thing whips itself back around, pausing to smack Dean’s ass on the way.
“Oww!” Dean says indignantly, and kicks Sam in the shin.
He’s snoring by the time Sam comes out of the bathroom with a warm washcloth, grumbling under his breath still mostly asleep when Sam wipes over the splatters of come – Sam’s come, ohgod -- on the small of his back. His tail creeps forward to help without warning, drawing languid trails through the wet places on Dean’s skin, and shit, that would make Sam hard all over again if he hadn’t just shot every ounce he had all over Dean. He pulls it back with effort and dries Dean off gently. There’s not much Sam can do about the fact that Dean’s passed out in the proverbial wet spot, but at least it’s his own mess.
Sam takes a minute to admire the way Dean’s wings look, the feathers ruffled and soft to the touch, so white they reflect slivers of red and orange firelight. He thinks about crowding in next to his brother, about how warm it would be under the umbrella of Dean’s wings, then pulls his own bedroll as close as he can and closes his eyes.
* * *
The next day is awkward; then again, awkward has been the perfect description of the last few months anyway.
Dean ducks his head whenever Sam looks at him, in some kind of perpetual state of blushing if the tips of his ears are any indication. Even though they don’t need to leave for hours, Dean pulls on a flannel shirt with his jeans.
Sam should have known his brother’s too-easy acceptance of their bout of sibling incest was a sex-deprived fluke, dammit.
“Don’t feel like you have to cover up on my account,” he says, adding his patented bitchface to make a finer point for his selectively oblivious brother.
“What? I can’t put a shirt on now without you thinking it has something to do with you? With this. This.” He gestures, like Sam might not know what he’s talking about.
“This what, Dean? This we-had-sex-this?”
“Not talking about it,” Dean insists, yanking his duffle up onto the bed and stuffing a few pieces of clothing in it.
Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Right, because that always works out so well for us.”
Dean just glares, successfully sticking to his not talking – and apparently not doing again -- rule.
With a sigh, Sam starts packing up his own duffle. Neither of them speak until they’re in the Impala, headed out of town and away from what Sam’s starting to think of as maybe the best Christmas ever.
“So,” Sam says between tracks on the ancient cassette tape, “Are you more upset about getting off with your brother or getting off on having your wings played with and my tail wrapped around your dick?”
Dean nearly runs them off the road.
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it!” he yells, cheeks going red again.
“Just a simple question,” Sam shrugs. He tries to hide the smirk by turning away to stare out the window, listening to Dean’s huffed curses and flustered denials.
(Link to part two below)
Part Two
Author:
runedgirlBeta: Big thanks to my other half
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 15,300 complete
A/N Title from the Placebo classic
PDF here, thanks to the awesome
a_non_reader. THANK YOU!Every Me and Every You PDF
Summary: Written for
spn_j2_xmas as a gift for locknkey, who wanted Sam/Dean tail or wing fic, bonus points for both. I tried to hit as many of your ‘likes’ as I could too, since I heartily approved of all of them. That would explain why this was rapidly heading toward big bang length….. Hope you like, sweetie!It happens instantly. Not an early morning gradually dawning awareness of ohfuck something’s wrong or is this just a dream or anything of the sort. One second they’re standing there with shotguns raised and the next the post-apocalypse souped up version witch is snapping her fingers and there’s so much pain shooting up Dean Winchester’s spine that he drops to his knees and gags with it, gun clattering to the floor. He’s fairly sure he’s dying, stabbed in the back with some phantom witch’s blade, until he hears Sam’s agonized sobs behind him, and that snaps him out of it long enough to realize he’s still breathing.
“Sammy!” he rasps as he scrambles backwards to reach his brother. “What is it, where’d it get you?”
Sam’s too out of it to answer, doubled over in pain and one hand wrapped around behind himself, holding his lower back. It’s way too close to the place Jake’s knife went in so many years ago, the place Dean’s hand closed over and came away bloody as Sam’s life leaked through his fingers.
“No, no, no,” is all he can manage as Dean pulls at Sam’s shirts, trying to see how bad it is this time, and fuck, there’s blood all right, a lot of blood. Sam grabs for Dean’s shoulders, holding on, like this time surely Dean will save him. And then, with a horrible suddenness that makes Dean want to hurl again, he goes limp as a rag doll, collapsed against Dean’s chest.
“Oh fuck no, fuck, fuck….” There’s a moment that seems like eternity when Dean’s sure he’s lost Sam – again – and then he remembers to get two fingers pressed to Sam’s carotid, and there it is, the pump pump pump of blood, Sam alive underneath.
“You’re okay,” Dean tells him, “Still breathing, still with me, you’re okay, I’ve got you.” His other hand is still searching for the wound, sliding down Sam’s blood-slick lower back and slipping beneath his jeans, when Dean feels it. “What the –
He eases Sam forward, cranes his neck over his brother’s shoulder as he pushes Sam’s jeans down lower. And there it is, bleeding and still growing and looking like something out of Alien.
Sam has a tail.
* * *
Sam comes to a few hours later. He’s lying on his stomach, face mashed into a pillow damp with drool, and he’s got a backache that makes him feel like a ninety year old, but Sam can hear the tinny sound of the motel television and his brother’s low rumbling voice – Dean’s on the phone – so Sam doesn’t panic. Until he opens one eye and gets a look at his brother.
“Dean, you – you’ve got – Jesuschrist, you’ve got –
Startled, Dean drops the phone, and a whoosh of air bursts through the room as he instinctively unfurls his –
“You’ve got wings!”
Dean yelps in pain at the sudden spread of them, trying to clutch at his own shoulder blades where the wings made their torturous way out of his body. There are trails of red down his back and sides from their violent eruption, the white feathers tinged pink from the blood splattered throughout. Dean sways, his face as white as his feathers.
“Dean, are you okay? Here, let me help.”
Sam rolls over to get up, or he tries to, suddenly encumbered by something wrapped tightly around his legs.
Dean holds out a hand in a clear ‘stop’ signal.
“Don’t try to get up,” he warns, sitting down heavily on the other bed as he tries to catch his breath and rein in his wings. “You’ve got – uhh, something – too.”
Oh fuck.
Sam’s face pales to match his brother’s.
“Oh god, it’s – is it – is it a –
“Yeah,” Dean sighs, his wings finally pulling in closer to his body where they seem to cause less pain. “It’s a tail, Sam. Fucking witches.”
* * *
It takes three days for the metamorphosis to finally be complete. The Winchesters stay holed up in the motel, gobbling the painkillers Bobby brings and trying to keep down enough food to prevent their stomachs from rebelling. Bobby leaves antibiotic cream and fresh bandages and five spell books, but he doesn’t look very hopeful when he heads out the next morning, warning Sam and Dean to lay low. As if they needed the reminder.
“Lie on your stomach,” Dean orders when it’s time to sleep and they’ve just taken fresh doses of painkillers.
“Like I can lie any other way, asshole,” Sam grumbles back, but he lets Dean pull the loose sweats Bobby brought him down low enough to inspect the place where his tail has been growing, thickening. He doesn’t feel well enough to be embarrassed – Dean has tended to wounds on every square inch of Sam’s body, after all – but it’s still weird to be touched there. Dean’s fingers are tentative – he’s trying to be gentle – as he dabs the cream around the base of Sam’s tail where the flesh is still torn and broken, but it still hurts. Feels funny too, like the tail is just starting to wake up and be capable of sensation, a network of nerves spreading throughout. Sam shudders.
“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, “Almost done.” He pulls Sam’s sweats up after, careful not to jar the tail tucked down one leg, and pats Sam’s back. “Go to sleep, Sammy,” he says, like Sam’s eight. Miraculously, Sam does.
Dean lodges a much louder protest when Sam tries to return the favor the next day. He’s been shirtless since the wings sprouted, so Sam’s had a clear view of the damage they did to his back when they broke through. He finally corners his brother in the motel bathroom, antibiotic cream in one hand and the other on the back of Dean’s neck to hold him still.
“Sam,” Dean growls, trying to squirm away, but Sam holds tight, fingers sinking into the meat of Dean’s neck until he complains with an “oww.”
“Hold still then. You’re gonna get infected if I don’t get some of this cream on you.”
Dean’s shoulders hunch, and he grips the side of the sink in front of him with a resigned sigh.
“Good,” Sam says, dabbing the antibiotic on the reddened broken skin. Dean jerks forward at the touch, his wings quivering, expanding a little as Sam works. The feathers brush against Sam’s arm, so soft the touch is barely there, leaving goosebumps in their wake. By the time Sam is done, both wings are fully extended, and Dean’s shaking with the effort of keeping still.
“Did I hurt you?” Sam asks, as his eyes meet his brother’s in the mirror. Dean’s are wide, strikingly green in the harsh light.
“No,” he says, and his wings pull in tight to his body as he says it, still quivering. “It’s fine. Thanks.”
* * *
By the tenth day, their wounds are pretty much healed. They’re both feeling well enough to be stir crazy inside the motel and to bitch at each other every five minutes, almost as though things were the Winchester version of normal.
Sam’s tail tops out at thirty-seven inches, thickest at the base and tapering to a dull point that’s disturbingly finger-like. At least Dean says it is. The skin is more or less flesh colored, but silky smooth, almost reptilian, though Sam points out that it doesn’t have actual scales or anything, jesus Dean, give it a rest.
Dean’s wings have a five foot spread when they’re fully extended. Luckily (if luck is a word that can even be used in the same sentence as cursed) they’re light, hollow boned like the most flight-worthy bird, layered with thick white feathers. Sam privately thinks they’re sort of pretty, but of course he’d never tell Dean that.
“I can’t stay in this fucking motel for one more minute,” Dean announces when he comes out of the shower that morning. He’s always cranky after he showers now, instead of pink cheeked and grinning like he used to be. The water makes his feathers soggy, weighs his wings down until they ache. The first time he got them wet, Sam came rushing into the bathroom at the sound of Dean’s groans to find his brother standing forlornly, clutching his shoulder blades with both hands while his sodden wings hung so low they dragged along the tile floor when Sam eased him out of the tub.
“Hurts, Sammy,” Dean had moaned, and nothing Sam could do seemed to help until the feathers had a chance to dry out, puffing up to twice their volume and making Dean look small beneath their canopy as he held them aloft to dry.
By now, Dean’s able to shower without it sounding like he’s dying by holding his wings mostly outside the spray, the muscles anchoring them stronger every day and less painful. But he still grouses about the loss of one of his favorite activities, the ridiculously long effortlessly comfortable hot shower. It hasn’t hit him yet that some of his other favorite activities are also going to be a bit more challenging with wings. Or more like impossible.
Sam’s tail, on the other hand, is fine with showering or just about anything else he wants to do with it. It doesn’t hurt at all once it’s healed, and it seems to like being washed and showered and dried off and aired out and anything else that doesn’t involve being confined -- that it’s not so wild about. His biggest problem is the tail sometimes seems to have a mind of its own. Or maybe Sam’s imagining that part, but at the very least, it doesn’t always go where he wants it to. Or stay there.
“Oww,” Dean protests when Sam crosses the room after his shower and his tail whips itself out from under Sam’s towel to slap Dean on the thigh, right where his faded black boxers end and the bare skin begins. “What the fuck, Sam?”
“Uhh. Sorry?”
“Call off your attack tail, will ya?” Dean grumbles, rubbing his leg. There’s a red mark there in the shape of the tip of Sam’s tail. Sam stares at it for a moment, fascinated, his stomach flipping unexpectedly at the sight.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling on his baggy sweatpants and tucking the unruly appendage down one leg. He can feel it twitch unhappily there for a few seconds, then settle into place against his leg, the tip curled neatly around Sam’s lower calf. It still feels weird, but he’s getting used to it being there.
Dean has a lot more trouble trying to get a shirt on over his wings. They fold up to an impressively compact layer of feathers tucked against his back, but still leave Dean looking deformed. It’s September now, so he can hide some of his lumpiness under tee shirt, flannel and leather jacket, even though it’s uncomfortable -- but it’s clear that next spring is going to pose a big problem. Sam tries to be optimistic that the curse will be lifted by then, but so far Bobby’s had no luck finding any reason for optimism, and neither has Sam.
“I look like an idiot,” Dean says, twisting his body sideways to stare in the mirror.
“No you don’t, it’s not even – it’s hardly noticeable,” Sam insists.
“You’re a piss poor liar,” Dean shoots back, and Sam doesn’t bother to argue. Dean could always read him, even when he was a teenager trying desperately to rebel against the only parental figure he had. Dean always knew; sometimes he pretended he didn’t.
Driving turns out to be tough for both of them. Dean has to slide the seat way back to make room for his wings, then sit farther forward than usual. The comfortable sprawl he favored when driving, one hand on the wheel and his arm outstretched along the seat, knees splayed a bit as his foot urges her forward, is gone. Dean is stiff and tense and awkward, gripping the wheel with both hands. The Impala jerks and sputters, lodging a protest, missing the smoothness of her master’s touch. It’s surprisingly depressing to see. Another loss. Little things maybe – long hot showers, long easy drives – but they’re taking a toll already, Sam can see it in the way Dean’s eyes squint, the way the corners of his mouth turn down.
Sam’s tail is annoying in the car too, since it won’t lay completely flat. Instead it feels like he’s got a tennis ball wedged between his lower back and the seat. What’s worse, the tail likes to trail right down the crack of Sam’s ass instead of going off to the side like he’d prefer, snaking beneath his balls and then down his left thigh. Every time Sam tries to push it to the side, it snaps right back like – well, like it’s got a mind of its own. Maybe it’s not as crazy as it sounds – hell, he has a tail, what’s crazier than that?
The first time they try to hunt, it doesn’t go well. It turns out that whenever Dean is startled, his wings unfurl instantly – in this case, ripping through two layers of shirts and sending his leather jacket flying backwards across the room. And Dean with it. Sam tries to pick up where his brother left off, but his tail wraps around his thigh so tightly – apparently an instinctive reaction to being threatened with imminent death – that it cuts off his circulation and throws off his balance enough to faceplant him right in front of a completely dumbfounded demon. The only reason they live to gripe about the whole incident is that the demon mistakes Dean’s wings for angelic and hightails it out the window while the Winchesters are still down for the count.
So. Showers, scratch. Driving, scratch. Hunting, not so much. What else do they have to give up, Sam wonders. Then wishes he hadn’t.
“We’ll never get laid again, Sammy,” Dean moans plaintively once they’re back at the motel. His tee shirt and flannel look like they belong to the Incredible Hulk post transformation, shredded and in tatters, his wings poking through. His big green eyes are pools of despondency.
Sam contemplates his brother for a minute. Dean’s the picture of despair, shoulders drooping, lips puffed into a perfect pout.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Dean. That look is irresistible.” Strangely, Sam thinks, it kinda is.
“Yeah right,” Dean snarks back, stripping out of his ruined clothes. “I’ll just tell her I have to keep my jacket on, and hope the sight of my wings ripping through my shirt when I get off doesn’t give her a friggen’ heart attack.”
“I don’t really think,” Sam starts, then skids to a stop mid sentence.
Dean quickly turns away, cheeks coloring. “Forget it, doesn’t matter, got a perfectly good right hand.”
“Wait, are your wings like, connected to your dick or something?”
“Leave it, Sam!”
Shit, Sam thinks, that really is gonna make having sex sort of impossible. Ohgod, this isn’t good. Sam’s not actually sure his brother can survive without sex. Dean will be miserable, at the very least. Even more miserable than usual. Ohgod. This is bad. For Sam.
* * *
If he can’t have sex, apparently Dean will throw himself into hunting. And eating. Luckily one activity seems to cancel out the other, because Dean is in better shape than ever. Sam knows this because Dean rarely wears a shirt when they’re safely inside their motel – too confining, he grumbles. So Sam gets to watch him compulsively tone the body he keeps lamenting that no one (except Sam, obviously) will ever see again. Crunches, push ups, lunges, jogs in circles around the room that make Sam dizzy, until Dean’s paler-than-ever freckled skin is sweat sheened and glistening on the bunched muscles of his impressive abs.
Obviously Sam isn’t exactly going to be able to go out and find a date either. If Dean’s wings might make some hapless woman think she’s died and gone to heaven, Sam’s tail just might convince anyone who discovered it that they’re dabbling with something downright dark and dirty. His tail is…. for lack of a better word, it’s kinda devilish. And sort of mildly pornographic.
Dean tries to stay uncovered; Sam resolutely keeps his tail under wraps, away from his brother’s scrutiny and certain derision. He gets dressed and undressed in the bathroom, not coming out until his tail is safely tucked in his sweats or down the new wider leg jeans he was finally able to find at the last town’s Walmart. When he winds it tightly around his leg from thigh to calf, the tail is barely visible, flattening itself until it just looks like one leg’s a bit more muscled than the other.
His ability to go outside and look more or less normal means Sam is always the one running for supplies and bringing back take out. Dean still can’t stand the odd looks strangers furtively slant his way sometimes. Or the lack of the other kind of looks he used to get on a regular basis. At least Dean insists he doesn’t get them anymore; Sam’s pretty sure his brother’s hotness is intact. He just doesn’t see it anymore, doesn’t feel it. Sometimes Sam wants to shake him – take him by the shoulders and say, see? That girl over there, she’s been staring at you for ten minutes. Or that guy at the pool table, trying to eyefuck you out of the booth and get you to come over there. I mean, really, they’d have to be blind not to see how hot his brother is.
Sam has a moment to ponder what an odd thought that is to have, then resolutely stops thinking about it.
* * *
“You think maybe you can fly, Dean?”
They’re sitting on the hood of the Impala, tossing back beers and enjoying a mild night for Montana in November, the sky a black star-sparkled canopy overhead far away from the lighted haze of civilization. Dean scoffs.
“Of course not,” he says, taking another swig of beer and wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“How do you know if you haven’t tried?”
“’m not some kinda friggen’ angel, Sam.”
For some reason, that makes Sam grin. Or maybe it’s the beer. “No,” he agrees, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone accuse you of that.”
The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, so slight maybe no one but Sam would notice. “Damn straight.”
Sam slides off the car abruptly, reaching out to drag Dean down with him, to his brother’s startled curses.
“C’mon, let’s find out,” Sam urges, tugging his reluctant brother over to an outcrop of boulders and climbing up to the ledge twelve or so feet up. He turns when he’s there and holds his hand out. “Whatsa matter, Dean? Chicken?”
Dean’s scrambling up the rocks in seconds. So predictable.
“You’re an ass, you know that?” he grumbles, but Sam just laughs and yanks on the sleeves of his brother’s leather jacket, pulling it off and tossing it down to the ground below.
Dean bats at his hands. “Stop grabbin’ at me,” he orders, then starts slapping back when Sam doesn’t let go, trying to unbutton his flannel and push it back over his shoulders.
“Quit it, you pervert,” Dean says, but he’s laughing now too, the two of them battling over Dean’s shirts and swaying drunkenly on the outcrop.
Dean doesn’t plan to do it. One minute they’re wrestling on the ledge, the next Sam’s falling backwards. Or at least he starts falling backwards. The next second Dean’s got both arms around his drunken brother and both wings outstretched, flapping furiously to slow their descent. Sam lands on his back in the grass, so softly it doesn’t even take his breath away.
The fact that he’s in Dean’s arms, however, does.
“Jesuschrist,” Sam says, awestruck. Dean’s pressed up against him chest to chest, belly to belly, strong arms wrapped all the way around Sam’s back and now trapped underneath them, One of Dean’s legs is tangled with Sam’s, snug up against Sam’s tail, which is throbbing like a sonofabitch. It feels….kinda good.
Dean gasps, raising his head enough to stare wide-eyed at Sam beneath him. His wings flutter to a standstill, a few feathers floating slowly to the ground beside Sam’s head.
“Oh,” he says.
“Oh,” Sam echoes back, and it comes out a raspy whisper. “Dean, you –“ He reaches up and lays a hand on Dean’s wing where it’s still arched over them, feeling the strength underneath the downy feathers. Dean jerks away, a pained expression on his face.
“Sorry, I – sorry,” Sam says, as Dean hurriedly retracts his wings and gets up, brushing the gravel and grass off himself self-consciously. He turns his gaze back to Sam when he stays on the ground.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine – just sort of shocked, I guess.”
Dean sighs. “Sorry, it just happened.”
Sam finally manages to get to his feet, shuffling from side to side as he tries to get his tail to lay flat against his leg. Damn thing feels twice as fat as usual all of a sudden. “No, no – I mean, thanks. You totally broke my fall.”
Dean shrugs and heads back to the car, picking up his discarded shirts and jacket and slipping them back on. They’re almost back to the motel when Sam can’t hold the words or the smile in any longer.
“Dude, you can fly.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Guess so.”
Sam grins, his tail still throbbing strangely where it’s tucked between his legs. “My hero,” he says, and watches the tips of Dean’s ears go pink.
* * *
It turns out Dean doesn’t actually like to fly. (Probably the stupid witch knew that. Why couldn’t she have given Sam the wings? He totally would have made use of them.) Dean was terrified of flying even with comfy seats and airline hostesses hovering around him, so the idea of launching himself into the wild blue yonder with nothing under his feet isn’t appealing in the least. Not to mention what would happen if anyone god forbid saw him. He keeps his boots resolutely planted on the ground, no matter how many times Sam starts with the “But Dean, don’t you want to….”
The answer is always no. Sometimes followed by a nasty “Why don’t you see what your tail can do, Sam – maybe hang yourself with it, huh?”
The second time Dean flies, it’s Sam’s fault. Again.
Really this time it’s more the black dogs’ fault. Dean hates the things, too much like hellhounds, so he’s in full-out chop ‘em to bits mode even before the dogs manage to herd the Winchesters to the top of a cliff in Colorado. Sam realizes too late that this was part of the plan, as he’s backed up and sliding on the loose gravel next to the edge. He hears Dean’s shout, sees the flash of white toothed snarls coming at him fast, and then all Sam can see is blue sky as he’s upended and catapulting toward the ground a half mile below. Next thing he feels is a rain of dirt and rocks from above as half the cliff face seems to come loose, black dogs howling and scrambling as they try not to follow Sam down. And then nothing.
“Sam! C’mon Sammy, say something!”
It’s Dean’s voice, but he sounds far away. Sam’s ears are ringing, and there’s dirt in his mouth, down his throat, everywhere. He must not be dead though, or he wouldn’t be so uncomfortable.
“Dean, spphlutrrrhgh” he finally manages, spitting pebbles and clumps of dirt and trying to force his eyes open. He blinks at the bright blue sky, then at the dark shadow of his brother leaning over him.
“Thankgod,” Dean says, still sounding frantic. He’s as covered in dirt and grime as Sam is, bare chest streaked with dark brown rivulets of sweat and mud. It looks like half the cliff came down with Sam – and three very dead black dogs too.
Sam starts shaking as soon as he sits up, suddenly overcome with the near death experience and the knowledge that Dean saved him once again. Dean starts to pull him in for a hug, then stiffens and squirms away with a choked off yelp of pain. That’s when Sam sees.
“Dean, shit, you’re hurt. Your wings, fuck.”
Dean sits down hard, one wing still unfurled, the other held half up and half down at an awkward angle. The beautiful white feathers are brown with dirt and dust, and there are a few almost bare spots where the scrub trees and branches protruding from the cliffside must have caught them. Burrs and twigs are caught in the thick feathers, some of them sticking straight up instead of lying flat, uneven pattern like a cat petted the wrong way.
“Is it – is it broken?” Dean asks, his face pale.
“I don’t think so,” Sam reassures, but he lays Dean out on the back seat of the Impala anyway and takes the turns slowly.
At the motel, Sam takes a shower and Dean tries to shake his wings clean, wincing as he gets the sore left one working again and raising a small dust storm in the process. They look a little better, but as hard as Dean flaps them, the twigs and burrs and sticks stay stubbornly in place even as the dried dirt starts to fall away. Dean twists himself into a pretzel trying to reach behind himself to tug out the debris, cursing and nearly falling on his ass in the process. Exasperated, he finally gives up and strips out of his muddy jeans and boots to take his turn in the shower, scrubbing away the rest of the dirt on his body and letting the softest spray setting wash the last bits of dust from his feathers. Then he faceplants on the bed in only the clean pair of shorts Sam tossed into the bathroom, his dampened wings spread out to both sides and his expression a mix of exhausted and disgusted.
“Let me see, okay?”
Dean pulls his wings in a little when Sam moves to sit on the side of the bed. “m fine,” he insists, turning his face away from his brother in a clear ‘go away’ signal.
“I think you need, like,” Sam starts, searching for a word that won’t make Dean get up and try to fly away. “Your wings, I think the feathers need – you know, like, grooming.”
“Grooming?” Dean turns back to Sam, eyebrows lifted and eyes wide. “I’m not a poodle, Sam.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam grumbles back, trying to be patient. “More like a rooster. But feathers need – preening. You need preening, Dean.”
“Preening?” Dean squeaks, and his eyebrows practically disappear into his mussed hair.
“Otherwise you’re gonna start losing feathers,” Sam insists, “And that’s gonna be a problem. And painful.”
“You seriously want to preen me?”
“Well actually you can only preen yourself, that’s what the word means, but I can -- just let me get the twigs and burrs out, okay? I’ll be gentle, I promise.”
He is gentle, but Dean still jerks away when Sam’s fingers brush over the tips of his wings.
“Sorry, sorry,” Sam murmurs, but he doesn’t stop, climbing right on top of his brother and straddling his hips to get the right angle to work.
“Sam, jesus,” Dean says, squirming in protest, but Sam stays put easily, trapping Dean between his thighs.
“Be still, you ass.”
“Be still? You’re ON my ass.”
“And I’m staying here til your wings are clean, so suck it up and stop squirming.”
“Whatever. Jerk.”
The tense muscles of Dean’s shoulders relax a little – brother code for okay, I hate this, but I’m not gonna fight you on it. Or hold it against you. Sam waits until Dean’s wings settle on the bed, then gets to work untangling the bits of leaves and twig and burrs embedded in the downy feathers.
Dean sucks in a gasp at the first touch, his body going rigid again, wings fluttering rapidly.
“Easy,” Sam says, waiting for Dean to calm, then gently brushing his fingers through the feathers, tugging a bit of leaf free. Dean doesn’t move this time, but the line of his spine is bowed with tension, and Sam can feel the cheeks of his ass clench with even the gentlest of touches.
“Trying not to hurt you,” he reassures, “but there’s a lot of shit stuck in here, and it’s gotta come out.”
Already there are a few raw spots where the feathers have been pulled away, the membrane tender and angry pink beneath. Dean grunts an acknowledgement, but his body is rock hard with tension, shoulders bunched. His hands fist the sheets as Sam works, slowly and carefully pulling the debris away from the delicate feathers.
Dean shudders every time Sam’s long fingers smooth the feathers back into place after tugging a piece of debris free. It’s a lot like stitching Dean up, Sam thinks once he gets started. He finds a rhythm and goes with it – pull and ease and stroke and smooth – toss the twig to the side and repeat, and pull and ease and stroke again. Little by little, Dean’s feathers fall back into place, the last of the dust brushed off by Sam’s fingers until they’re white and fluffy, soft under Sam’s hands, rustling and alive.
Beautiful.
It’s a strange thing to think about his brother, but the word keeps rolling itself around in Sam’s brain, nearly tumbling out onto his tongue. Beautiful. Dean is beautiful. Eventually Sam can feel the tension in his brother’s taut body ease, muscles softening little by little, until Dean’s whole body shifts slightly with each of Sam’s pulls and tugs, pliant and warm between Sam’s thighs. Dean’s arms are outstretched beneath his wings, hands still fisted loosely in the sheets, tensing and flexing with each stroke and pull of Sam’s fingers. There are droplets of perspiration on the back of Dean’s neck, collected between his shoulder blades around the roots of his wings, pooling in the dip at the small of his back. Sam lets his eyes roam while he works, over his brother’s glistening freckled skin, enjoying the way Dean’s strong muscles bunch and shift. It’s not until Sam hears the quiet thump-thump-thump of the headboard against the wall that he realizes they’ve got a rhythm going – that Sam’s rocking back and forth just a little as he combs his fingers through Dean’s wings to make sure they’re clean, that Dean’s shifting beneath him, same rhythm, almost imperceptible push of his hips caught between Sam’s thighs. It’s – it feels like –
“Dean,” Sam whispers, and his brother stills and stiffens instantly, his outstretched wings abruptly pulling in and his muscles going rigid.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, leaning up to run both hands over the length of Dean’s wings, stroking through the silky feathers, his fingers digging into the thick down, pulling gently from base to tip. Dean shudders.
“Don’t,” he croaks, face pushed into the pillow, and Sam realizes with a jolt that he wants to.
Dean suddenly pushes up to his knees, tossing Sam off to the side as he clambers off the bed. He clutches the bedspread to his chest so it covers him chin to knees like some blushing virgin in an old movie, shuffling into the bathroom and nearly tripping over it when it tangles around his feet.
They don’t talk about it.
* * *
But Sam thinks about it. A lot. He finds himself looking forward to the times when they’re alone in a motel room, when Dean will throw off his shirts and free his wings. He always stretches and groans at first, slowly spreading the shimmering white wings to their full width, his eyes falling shut and an expression of near-ecstasy on his face. Sam guesses that Dean’s wings hate being confined all the time about as much as Sam’s tail does.
In addition to being indisputably beautiful, Dean’s wings are, Sam thinks rather dramatically, majestic. They make him look like something other than Sam’s brother -- a god, or an angel. Otherworldly. Maybe it’s that otherworldliness that’s causing the disconnect in Sam’s brain that lets him start wanting things he shouldn’t, things he’s never let himself think about before. Sure he knew Dean was attractive, Dean’s been making sure his little brother knew that for years. But Sam never felt it, not like this. Like a punch to the gut when Sam watches Dean go through his nightly ritual, standing at the window laying down the salt lines before he closes the curtains, moonlight painting the pale skin of his bare chest and outlining the muscles of his rounded biceps and taut stomach, shimmering silver-white on the rippling feathers of his wings.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize that Sam’s tail swells against his thigh every time he steals a glance at his half-naked brother, or to realize that his dick isn’t far behind. It probably doesn’t help that neither of them has touched or been touched in months, but Sam’s not good enough at rationalization to believe that’s most of the reason. It doesn’t explain why he can’t stop thinking of the way Dean pushed his hips against the mattress when Sam caressed his wings, the way it felt to straddle him and look down at the broad expanse of his brother’s muscled shoulders, the curved line of his spine and the swell of his ass.
Dean sucks in a gasp when Sam comes up behind him silently, letting his fingers brush against the outer feathers of one of Dean’s wings. Dean pulls it in quickly, but not before Sam sees his mouth fall open and his cheeks color.
* * *
“We should just put you on top of it,” Sam announces once they have the little evergreen propped up in the corner of the cabin they’re holed up in. It belongs to someone who knows someone who knows Bobby Singer, but whoever that someone is, they clearly haven’t been here in quite a while. Sam and Dean spent the first few hours of Christmas Eve sweeping the floors and stocking the cupboards and chopping wood for the fireplace, which is now roaring and slowly bringing the feeling back to Sam’s fingers. Neither of them had gloves, and Sam was the one who wanted to chop down the damn tree, after all.
Dean cocks an eyebrow. “Ha fucking ha.”
Sam’s about to come back with a witty retort, but then Dean starts stripping out of his flannels and tee shirt, and Sam doesn’t have all that much to say. Dean unfurls his wings in front of the fire, rolls his shoulders as the warmth sinks into the stiffness from keeping them confined all day.
Sam kicks off his snowy boots and pulls off his jeans and shirts too, damp with snow and sweat from chopping. As always, his tail makes a run for freedom from the inadequate impediment of his boxers, slipping out the back and whipping itself around in the warm air happily. Dean’s so mesmerized by the fire, he doesn’t even notice Sam coming to stand behind him. That is, until Sam’s tail sneaks forward and slides itself across the small of Dean’s back and down his jeans, dipping its slender tip right into the cleft of his ass.
Dean’s wings shoot out to the sides and he jumps a foot, whirling around to shove Sam backwards. Sam yelps in surprise, his tail still caught down the back of Dean’s jeans, and they both end up on the floor.
“Sam! Get your damn tail outta my pants!”
It’s such a preposterous thing to say, Sam can’t help but laugh. Dean doesn’t look amused at first, but eventually his expression softens to more exasperated fondness than actual annoyance. He gives Sam a shove to the chest, blushing all the way down to his pebbled nipples. “You think you’re so funny.”
Sam shakes his head, too-long hair in his eyes and a giddy bright bubble of ridiculously intense love for his grumpy bewinged and impossibly beautiful brother filling his chest to bursting and rendering him speechless with it.
“Stop smiling at me, you freak,” Dean grumbles, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
The fire crackles and sparks, and Dean huffs and sits on the floor with his wings lifted up over his shoulders and his freckles dark over pink cheeks and his green eyes sparkling in the firelight. Sam can’t think for how gorgeous Dean is or how much he loves him – has always loved him -- just gets up on his hands and knees and crawls the three feet to his brother, still grinning. Dean’s eyes are wide, lashes still in wet spikes from the snowflakes caught there. His mouth falls open when Sam gets so close they’re nearly cross-eyed trying to keep staring at each other, and Sam’s mouth matches it, drawing in a soft gasp as Dean’s breath puffs out against his lips.
“Dean,” he whispers, right before he kisses his brother.
There’s no bolt of lightning, no avalanche, no explosion. Just the soft press of Dean’s mouth against Sam’s, tentative, unsure like he never imagined Dean would be. It’s Sam who licks into Dean’s mouth just slightly, and Dean shudders and jerks before he touches Sam’s tongue with his own, slick hot slide as the kiss turns deep and hungry, pulling at something primal in Sam’s soul. Sensation narrows to only the feel of his brother’s mouth, the taste of his spit, the rough scrape of teeth and the soft wet give of the inside of him, and Sam wants him so badly, just like that, like it was always there and maybe Sam just didn’t know it. He wants -- wants to get so deep inside Dean that nothing can ever get between them again.
They’re both breathing too hard to keep their mouths locked so tightly, and Sam gets his brother’s plump lower lip between his teeth when they break apart, worries it rough enough to taste a hint of metal before sucking and licking and soothing, and Dean shudders hard, one of his hands clutching at Sam’s shoulder. Even his fingers are trembling. Sam slows them then, before Dean can pull away, kisses the corner of his brother’s swollen mouth, the slight stubble of his chin, his freckled nose, letting their pounding heartbeats come back to normal.
Sam rests his forehead against his brother’s, firelight crackling around them, shivering with the silky brush of Dean’s wings against his bare back where Dean has enclosed them.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” he whispers, ducking his head to stay within the circle of thick feathers, warm and drowsy and feeling safer than he can ever remember.
Dean pulls Sam in closer, his wings wrapped around them both.
It’s a long time before they spread out their separate bedrolls in front of the fire. Sam misses the warmth of Dean’s feathers around him, shivers as he wraps the blankets around him instead.
* * *
They don’t talk about it the next day, but Sam wakes up to the smell of coffee perking and the sight of Dean’s bare back bent over the stove, his wings carefully extended behind him to stay away from the burners as he flips the maple pancakes that are Sam’s favorite. He only flinches a little when Sam comes up behind him and touches the tip of one wing just barely before dropping his hand. The softness of Dean’s feathers raises goosebumps on Sam’s arm, stirs his tail and his cock.
Dean’s ears go pink, but he keeps his attention on breakfast. “Make yourself useful,” he orders, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Put some plates on the table and pour the coffee.”
Sam eats eight pancakes, after which he’s so full that even his tail just lays down quietly and behaves itself. Dean eats six, and leaves a puddle of real Vermont maple syrup on his plate and a few drops shining on his bottom lip. Sam wants very much to lean over and lick it off.
In the afternoon, they hike the trail halfway up the mountain, ambushing each other with snowballs and getting more snow down their jeans and stuffed into their boots than is left on the hillside. It’s a race to see who can strip off their clothes faster once they’re back at the cabin, skin pink and freezing as they crowd in close to the fireplace in just their underwear, rubbing over biceps to get the circulation flowing.
“Fucking freezing,” Dean grumbles, stretching his wings with a groan. The feathers flutter over Sam’s back and graze his shoulders, sending a rush of arousal through him instantly. His tail snakes around his own thigh, slithering up and down impatiently.
“Dean?”
“Hmm?” His brother’s staring at the fire, seemingly oblivious to the effect the brush of his wings is having on Sam.
“Your feathers could use some – some, uh. Grooming. Again.”
Dean pulls his wings in and raises an eyebrow at Sam. “Really?” He cranes his neck to try and look over his shoulder at them.
Sam can feel the blush creep over his face, run down his throat to color his bare chest. It’s true, there are a few leaves caught in the feathers from their snowball fight, but it’s more true that Sam just wants to do it. Wants to touch his brother again.
“Yeah, I just – I think it’s a good idea if we just – you know, make sure that there’s nothing caught in them, or whatever. Uh. From the hike and stuff.”
For a minute, Sam thinks he’s going to say no. But finally Dean shrugs and nods. “Where do you want me?”
Sam’s tail lashes furiously, thick and fat and throbbing from the unintended implications of Dean’s question.
“Uh. On the bedroll?”
Dean eyes Sam’s tail, eyebrow raised even further, then goes to his hands and knees before flopping onto his stomach. He stretches his wings out to the side and arches his spine, then settles himself on the bedroll with a few unintentionally obscene rolls of his hips.
He doesn’t move when Sam climbs over him this time, throwing one knee across to straddle Dean’s ass, but he twitches hard when Sam lays both hands on the base of his wings and begins to stroke through the feathers.
“Easy,” Sam says, like he’s soothing a wild horse, “Just let me.”
His fingers comb through the thick layers, easily brushing out the few leaves stuck there. Dean’s feathers are silky soft and white as the new snow swirling outside the cabin window, feel so good on his hands. Dean slowly relaxes beneath him, his wings lying flatter, spreading wider. The tips brush against Sam’s bare thighs and Sam can’t help a half-stifled gasp at the sensation, can’t help wanting more, more of Dean.
The fire crackles higher, warmth spreading down Sam’s bare chest in a hot flush, settling in his belly where his muscles jump as he leans in lower, closer to the freckled skin of Dean’s back. A thin sheen of sweat glistens there, and Sam presses a kiss between his brother’s shoulder blades, has to -- tastes the salt of Dean’s sweat there where he’s been admiring it. Dean’s fingers clutch the blankets, like he’s anchoring himself there so he doesn’t just fly off, fly away.
“Sam,” Dean groans, half smothered into the pillow. “We can’t.”
Sam’s tongue draws a hot trail down the line of Dean’s spine in response, while his fingers stroke Dean’s wings gently from base to tip. “It’s okay if it feels good.”
Dean tosses his head on the pillow and tries to retract his wings, but Sam holds them down, gentle but firm. “Not okay Sam, you don’t get it, it’s not just good, it’s – ohgod.”
He cuts himself off when Sam’s hands don’t pause, trying to squirm away but caught between Sam’s strong thighs.
“Like this? Is that where it feels best?” Sam’s fingers are relentless, combing through the thick layers, stroking the stiff feathers on top, then wriggling through to the downy softness beneath until Dean moans and bucks unintentionally, his ass pushing up against Sam’s spread legs before grinding back down against the bedroll insistently.
“So your feathers really are connected to your dick then,” Sam says, letting a little bit of smirk into his words. Because damn, that’s hot.
“Don’t fuck with me, Sam,” Dean growls, and when he turns his face to the side Sam can see how flushed his cheeks are, pink with shame.
“Not fucking with you.” And he means it, Sam’s not playing around, not trying to embarrass his brother. The knowledge that he wants this, wants to do this to Dean, hits intense and heady, and Sam can feel his dick tent his boxers, impatient.
“Let me do this for you,” Sam says, and when Dean doesn’t answer, he adds, “I want to.”
He gets a handful of feathers then, stroking along the curve of Dean’s wings all the way to the tips, and Dean’s breath hitches. Sam leans down again, fingers playing with the tiny feathers at the tips of Dean’s wings, and he can’t help himself from grinding his hips down against his Dean’s raised ass, letting his brother feel his arousal. Dean shivers hard, half swallowed little moans against the pillow as he pants for breath, and oh hell yes, Sam really really wants to.
He keeps at it for as long as he can stand to wait, manipulating the silky white feathers with gentle strokes and tugs until Dean’s going fucking crazy underneath him, squirming and humping the blankets and nearly sobbing with need. Sam’s just thinking about how he needs to let go of one wing for a reach around when there’s the loud sound of cotton ripping and Sam’s almost unseated by the sudden escape of his tail. The thing heads straight for Dean, worming its way beneath his belly and sliding into his shorts. It wraps itself around Dean’s straining erection so quickly Sam sees stars, all the blood in his body clearly being used to animate his swollen, insistent -- and happily incestuous -- tail.
The combination of Sam’s fingers caressing his wings and Sam’s tail jerking his cock wring an orgasm out of Dean in seconds. His wings shoot out to the sides to their full width, easily five feet of glorious white feathered beauty, and his whole body jerks and stiffens as he comes, his hands still fisted in the bedroll and a strangled scream torn from his throat. Sam can feel it acutely in every inch of his sensitive tail, the rhythmic pulses as Dean shoots, the swell and twitch of his dick where Sam’s tail is so tightly wrapped around it. It’s….damn, it’s fucking hot.
When Dean’s finally done coming, he half rolls to the side, breathless, trying to get Sam to let him go. It takes him a few seconds to realize that’s not Sam’s hand around his cock.
“Jesuschrist,” he swears, staring. “You just jerked me off with your tail.”
“Sorry,” Sam tries, though it feels like a lie, and god, he needs to move, he’s so close, right on the edge.
“This is a whole new level of messed up,” Dean mutters. “And, uh – you can let go now.”
“I – I’m not sure I can.” Fucking tail. Mind of its own. And Sam’s so horny he can’t think straight, let alone make his tail let go of what it’s clearly wanted to wrap itself around for a long time.
“Of course you can,” Dean insists, and then he gets a hand around the tip of Sam’s tail to pry it off.
“Fuck!” Sam shouts, bolts of pleasure shooting up his tail where Dean’s strong competent fingers are wrapped tightly around it, and just like that, he loses it, cock jerking hard untouched as he comes. It’s so intense he stops breathing for a while, vision whited out with the biting pleasure.
Dean’s still got Sam’s tail in his hand when Sam can breathe again. He tentatively moves a finger over the tip, and Sam shouts and shudders and slaps a hand down on Dean’s hip.
“That’s pretty kinky,” Dean says, still staring at Sam’s tail. He gives it an exploratory squeeze, and Sam yelps at the sensation overload.
“Unghh,” Sam says, still cognitively impaired from the most mindblowing orgasm of his life.
“Did you just jizz all over me?” Dean complains, and finally lets go of Sam’s tail. The damn thing whips itself back around, pausing to smack Dean’s ass on the way.
“Oww!” Dean says indignantly, and kicks Sam in the shin.
He’s snoring by the time Sam comes out of the bathroom with a warm washcloth, grumbling under his breath still mostly asleep when Sam wipes over the splatters of come – Sam’s come, ohgod -- on the small of his back. His tail creeps forward to help without warning, drawing languid trails through the wet places on Dean’s skin, and shit, that would make Sam hard all over again if he hadn’t just shot every ounce he had all over Dean. He pulls it back with effort and dries Dean off gently. There’s not much Sam can do about the fact that Dean’s passed out in the proverbial wet spot, but at least it’s his own mess.
Sam takes a minute to admire the way Dean’s wings look, the feathers ruffled and soft to the touch, so white they reflect slivers of red and orange firelight. He thinks about crowding in next to his brother, about how warm it would be under the umbrella of Dean’s wings, then pulls his own bedroll as close as he can and closes his eyes.
* * *
The next day is awkward; then again, awkward has been the perfect description of the last few months anyway.
Dean ducks his head whenever Sam looks at him, in some kind of perpetual state of blushing if the tips of his ears are any indication. Even though they don’t need to leave for hours, Dean pulls on a flannel shirt with his jeans.
Sam should have known his brother’s too-easy acceptance of their bout of sibling incest was a sex-deprived fluke, dammit.
“Don’t feel like you have to cover up on my account,” he says, adding his patented bitchface to make a finer point for his selectively oblivious brother.
“What? I can’t put a shirt on now without you thinking it has something to do with you? With this. This.” He gestures, like Sam might not know what he’s talking about.
“This what, Dean? This we-had-sex-this?”
“Not talking about it,” Dean insists, yanking his duffle up onto the bed and stuffing a few pieces of clothing in it.
Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Right, because that always works out so well for us.”
Dean just glares, successfully sticking to his not talking – and apparently not doing again -- rule.
With a sigh, Sam starts packing up his own duffle. Neither of them speak until they’re in the Impala, headed out of town and away from what Sam’s starting to think of as maybe the best Christmas ever.
“So,” Sam says between tracks on the ancient cassette tape, “Are you more upset about getting off with your brother or getting off on having your wings played with and my tail wrapped around your dick?”
Dean nearly runs them off the road.
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it!” he yells, cheeks going red again.
“Just a simple question,” Sam shrugs. He tries to hide the smirk by turning away to stare out the window, listening to Dean’s huffed curses and flustered denials.
(Link to part two below)
Part Two
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Date: 2010-12-28 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-29 03:31 pm (UTC)