Fic: Seven Stars (Sam/Dean PG-13)
Title: Seven Stars
Author: aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1500
Spoilers: ***Yes, for 4.01***
Notes: Written for oxoniensis, for the Fall Fandom Free For All. I don’t know how closely I stuck with the prompt-it took on a life of its own. :)
Prompt: Fic: Supernatural, Dean/Sam, first time wingfic, a bit of schmoop, a bit of snark.
And he had in his right hand seven stars: and out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword: and his countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength. And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. - Revelation, 1.14 (I’m addicted to Revelation lately, what can I say?)
Seven Stars
When Dean wakes up, he’s facedown on the motel carpet.
Not good. The only time he ends up on a floor this grimy is when he’s getting his ass kicked.
There’s a tentative brush across his shoulder. “You’re awake.”
“Sam?” He groans. “Why the hell d’you leave me down here?”
“I didn’t want to.” Sam crouches beside him and leans down until Dean can see his face. “But I wasn’t sure…”
Dean pushes himself up on his hands. He can’t remember getting wasted, but something obviously happened to him. “Wasn’t sure about what?”
Sam frowns, his eyebrows coming together. “You don’t know.” It’s half question, half statement.
Dean finally gets his knees under him, and that’s when he realizes. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. There’s a weight on his back, heavy and solid, pulling and pushing him back to the floor.
He wavers, and Sam’s there, grabbing his arms and hauling him to his feet. “I thought it might hurt if I tried to drag you onto the bed.”
Dean doesn’t even have time to think about what’s gone wrong before he sees himself in the mirror. He staggers backward at the sight, but Sam goes with him, hands still gripping Dean’s arms.
“You have wings,” Sam says, looking at their reflection.
“Yeah.” Dean can’t meet Sam’s eyes. “I think that’s an understatement.”
“They’ve been there since I woke up. So I started researching, looking online for curses, and we can call-”
Sam’s businesslike, competent, ready to fix this, and Dean feels like shit for not coming clean with his brother. Sam stops when he sees Dean shaking his head. “Don’t waste your time.”
“What? Why not?”
“I-” He closes his eyes. How does he tell his brother, the one who watched him dragged into hell, that an angel came for him? He starts with the name, the one Sam already knows. “He did this. Castiel.”
Sam recoils, horror in his eyes. “Castiel? The demon that blinded Pamela?”
“He’s not a demon.”
“Then what is he? And how do you suddenly know all of this? Come on Dean, this isn’t funny.”
Dean rolls his sleeve up. “This is his.” The red flesh shines even in the dull motel light. “He pulled me out of hell.”
Sam’s eyes go wide, and his throat moves as he swallows. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Dean can see his tongue. “You still haven’t told me what he is.”
“He’s an angel.” The longer he stands, the lighter the wings feel. “I summoned him last night.” Dean stares into the mirror. “I guess the wings were an afterthought.”
“You’re telling the truth.” Sam gapes for what seems like an hour. “Dean. What the fuck. You saw what he did to Pamela. And you just go off and summon him? Alone?” Sam grabs Dean by the shoulders again, but this time he’s not trying to help. “You just got out of hell, and now you’re-”
Dean straightens his shoulders. He barely feels the wings now. They’re more like the angel’s were, a dark shadow, a suggestion of power. “I’m not going to do this with you right now.”
Sam is oozing attitude. “Do what?”
“Look, just leave it alone.”
“I’m not going to leave it alone.” Sam frowns with his whole body. “You wouldn’t leave it alone if it were me.”
“That’s different.”
Sam’s face is getting increasingly flushed. “It’s not different.”
“I said we’re not doing this. I need help figuring out how to get rid of these goddamned things.”
Sam’s face goes from red to white in two seconds. He blinks, over and over. “They’re gone.”
“Gone?” Dean whips his head around so fast his neck aches. He twists his arms backwards, touches his back. Sam’s right. They’re gone. Dean doesn’t think he can stand up much longer. He backs away from the mirror, sits on the bed.
Sam paces. “Maybe you can control them.” Sam stops and faces him. “See if you can bring them back.”
“Are you crazy? No way.”
Sam makes a face like he’s going to argue, but instead he sits down next to Dean. He edges Dean’s sleeve up, exposes the handprint. “Why would he do that to you?”
“Just couldn’t keep his hands off me.” He picks at a string trailing off the edge of the ratty comforter. “Guess I should be glad it wasn’t my eyes, huh?”
Sam’s face darkens. “Do you think he’s really an angel?”
Dean shrugs. “Ruby’s knife didn’t work.”
Sam looks surprised at that. “You stabbed an angel.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not exactly Mr. Rogers.”
He starts tracing the scar with his finger. “Does it hurt?”
Dean wants to tug his sleeve down and cover it up, but Sam’s close to him, and well, Dean doesn’t want that to stop. He takes a breath and lets Sam touch. “It feels-” Dean really has to concentrate on not jerking away when Sam presses his palm over the mark. “Weird.” He forces out a laugh. “Thanks for not making any Kid Icarus jokes.”
Sam smiles ruefully. “I don’t really feel like making any jokes at all.”
Sam’s hand is warm on his skin, still covering the print, and Dean feels himself wanting to lean into Sam, wishing he could get closer. They sit that way for a few seconds, tension raw between them until Sam drops his hand. “You wanna go out?”
Dean doesn’t try to hide his relief. He’s never been so aware of Sam touching him before, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. “I never thought you’d ask.” They walk several blocks to a run-down place doing its best imitation of an Irish pub.
Once they’re settled into a booth with two beers, Sam’s all business again. “So what else did this Castiel say?”
“Sam…”
“What’s so bad that you don’t want to tell me?”
“Nothing.”
“I think I have a right to know.”
“Oh, okay. Fine then.” Dean puts his beer down as calmly as he can, still gripping the bottle so he doesn’t slam it into the wooden table. “You give me a daily accounting for what you did while I was gone, and then we’ll talk.”
Dean watches Sam’s jaw tighten. “You have no idea-”
“No, Sam, I do have an idea, I have a good fucking idea. That’s why we’re in this mess to begin with.” Dean runs out of steam. He doesn’t have it in him to be angry at his brother, not anymore. “At least part of it. The other part… I think we’re just cursed.” He slouches forward and rests his elbows on the table. “Now we’ve got heaven and hell on our asses.”
They sit in silence, until the look on Sam’s face starts making Dean nervous. “What?”
“Dean, what if it’s- You know. What if they want you to kill me?”
Dean’s up and over to the other side of the booth in two seconds. “Don’t you say that, Sammy.” He grabs Sam by the part of his shirt that he can reach, wadding the fabric in his hand. “It’s not gonna happen.”
“But-”
“I mean it. I don’t wanna hear that.” He lets go of Sam’s shirt reluctantly.
Sam’s lips flatten out and turn down just like they did when he was little, and Dean can’t take it. He stands up, leaves some money on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sam’s still sitting there forlornly, so Dean grabs his arm and tugs him out of the booth, through the bar and out the front door.
When they get outside, Sam’s looking at the ground, and his voice is low and deep. “It was so hard, Dean. I can’t do it again. I can’t.”
Dean wants Sam quiet, wants him to quit freaking out and saying shit like that, so he puts his hand over Sam’s mouth. It’s a childish thing to do, reminds him of being a teenager and telling Sam, shut up, shut your mouth, but it works-Sam stops talking.
They stare at each other in the parking lot. Sam’s eyes are shifting from side to side, and Dean’s hand is still over Sam’s mouth. He drops it, instantly missing the contact.
But Sam must miss it too, because he grabs Dean’s hand again, the same one that was just on his face, and holds on.
Dean looks down. He feels warm all over, grateful. “You do realize you’re holding my hand.”
Sam tightens his fingers. “I’m not letting you go, wings or not.”
Dean whacks him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Why you gotta bring that up again?”
Sam gives him a tiny smile. “You want to go back to the room?” he asks, and Dean’s pretty sure he can see heat in Sam’s eyes.
“Yeah, I do.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Sam’s hand, and starts walking.
-end-
Author: aynslee
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1500
Spoilers: ***Yes, for 4.01***
Notes: Written for oxoniensis, for the Fall Fandom Free For All. I don’t know how closely I stuck with the prompt-it took on a life of its own. :)
Prompt: Fic: Supernatural, Dean/Sam, first time wingfic, a bit of schmoop, a bit of snark.
And he had in his right hand seven stars: and out of his mouth went a sharp two-edged sword: and his countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength. And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead. - Revelation, 1.14 (I’m addicted to Revelation lately, what can I say?)
Seven Stars
When Dean wakes up, he’s facedown on the motel carpet.
Not good. The only time he ends up on a floor this grimy is when he’s getting his ass kicked.
There’s a tentative brush across his shoulder. “You’re awake.”
“Sam?” He groans. “Why the hell d’you leave me down here?”
“I didn’t want to.” Sam crouches beside him and leans down until Dean can see his face. “But I wasn’t sure…”
Dean pushes himself up on his hands. He can’t remember getting wasted, but something obviously happened to him. “Wasn’t sure about what?”
Sam frowns, his eyebrows coming together. “You don’t know.” It’s half question, half statement.
Dean finally gets his knees under him, and that’s when he realizes. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. There’s a weight on his back, heavy and solid, pulling and pushing him back to the floor.
He wavers, and Sam’s there, grabbing his arms and hauling him to his feet. “I thought it might hurt if I tried to drag you onto the bed.”
Dean doesn’t even have time to think about what’s gone wrong before he sees himself in the mirror. He staggers backward at the sight, but Sam goes with him, hands still gripping Dean’s arms.
“You have wings,” Sam says, looking at their reflection.
“Yeah.” Dean can’t meet Sam’s eyes. “I think that’s an understatement.”
“They’ve been there since I woke up. So I started researching, looking online for curses, and we can call-”
Sam’s businesslike, competent, ready to fix this, and Dean feels like shit for not coming clean with his brother. Sam stops when he sees Dean shaking his head. “Don’t waste your time.”
“What? Why not?”
“I-” He closes his eyes. How does he tell his brother, the one who watched him dragged into hell, that an angel came for him? He starts with the name, the one Sam already knows. “He did this. Castiel.”
Sam recoils, horror in his eyes. “Castiel? The demon that blinded Pamela?”
“He’s not a demon.”
“Then what is he? And how do you suddenly know all of this? Come on Dean, this isn’t funny.”
Dean rolls his sleeve up. “This is his.” The red flesh shines even in the dull motel light. “He pulled me out of hell.”
Sam’s eyes go wide, and his throat moves as he swallows. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Dean can see his tongue. “You still haven’t told me what he is.”
“He’s an angel.” The longer he stands, the lighter the wings feel. “I summoned him last night.” Dean stares into the mirror. “I guess the wings were an afterthought.”
“You’re telling the truth.” Sam gapes for what seems like an hour. “Dean. What the fuck. You saw what he did to Pamela. And you just go off and summon him? Alone?” Sam grabs Dean by the shoulders again, but this time he’s not trying to help. “You just got out of hell, and now you’re-”
Dean straightens his shoulders. He barely feels the wings now. They’re more like the angel’s were, a dark shadow, a suggestion of power. “I’m not going to do this with you right now.”
Sam is oozing attitude. “Do what?”
“Look, just leave it alone.”
“I’m not going to leave it alone.” Sam frowns with his whole body. “You wouldn’t leave it alone if it were me.”
“That’s different.”
Sam’s face is getting increasingly flushed. “It’s not different.”
“I said we’re not doing this. I need help figuring out how to get rid of these goddamned things.”
Sam’s face goes from red to white in two seconds. He blinks, over and over. “They’re gone.”
“Gone?” Dean whips his head around so fast his neck aches. He twists his arms backwards, touches his back. Sam’s right. They’re gone. Dean doesn’t think he can stand up much longer. He backs away from the mirror, sits on the bed.
Sam paces. “Maybe you can control them.” Sam stops and faces him. “See if you can bring them back.”
“Are you crazy? No way.”
Sam makes a face like he’s going to argue, but instead he sits down next to Dean. He edges Dean’s sleeve up, exposes the handprint. “Why would he do that to you?”
“Just couldn’t keep his hands off me.” He picks at a string trailing off the edge of the ratty comforter. “Guess I should be glad it wasn’t my eyes, huh?”
Sam’s face darkens. “Do you think he’s really an angel?”
Dean shrugs. “Ruby’s knife didn’t work.”
Sam looks surprised at that. “You stabbed an angel.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not exactly Mr. Rogers.”
He starts tracing the scar with his finger. “Does it hurt?”
Dean wants to tug his sleeve down and cover it up, but Sam’s close to him, and well, Dean doesn’t want that to stop. He takes a breath and lets Sam touch. “It feels-” Dean really has to concentrate on not jerking away when Sam presses his palm over the mark. “Weird.” He forces out a laugh. “Thanks for not making any Kid Icarus jokes.”
Sam smiles ruefully. “I don’t really feel like making any jokes at all.”
Sam’s hand is warm on his skin, still covering the print, and Dean feels himself wanting to lean into Sam, wishing he could get closer. They sit that way for a few seconds, tension raw between them until Sam drops his hand. “You wanna go out?”
Dean doesn’t try to hide his relief. He’s never been so aware of Sam touching him before, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. “I never thought you’d ask.” They walk several blocks to a run-down place doing its best imitation of an Irish pub.
Once they’re settled into a booth with two beers, Sam’s all business again. “So what else did this Castiel say?”
“Sam…”
“What’s so bad that you don’t want to tell me?”
“Nothing.”
“I think I have a right to know.”
“Oh, okay. Fine then.” Dean puts his beer down as calmly as he can, still gripping the bottle so he doesn’t slam it into the wooden table. “You give me a daily accounting for what you did while I was gone, and then we’ll talk.”
Dean watches Sam’s jaw tighten. “You have no idea-”
“No, Sam, I do have an idea, I have a good fucking idea. That’s why we’re in this mess to begin with.” Dean runs out of steam. He doesn’t have it in him to be angry at his brother, not anymore. “At least part of it. The other part… I think we’re just cursed.” He slouches forward and rests his elbows on the table. “Now we’ve got heaven and hell on our asses.”
They sit in silence, until the look on Sam’s face starts making Dean nervous. “What?”
“Dean, what if it’s- You know. What if they want you to kill me?”
Dean’s up and over to the other side of the booth in two seconds. “Don’t you say that, Sammy.” He grabs Sam by the part of his shirt that he can reach, wadding the fabric in his hand. “It’s not gonna happen.”
“But-”
“I mean it. I don’t wanna hear that.” He lets go of Sam’s shirt reluctantly.
Sam’s lips flatten out and turn down just like they did when he was little, and Dean can’t take it. He stands up, leaves some money on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sam’s still sitting there forlornly, so Dean grabs his arm and tugs him out of the booth, through the bar and out the front door.
When they get outside, Sam’s looking at the ground, and his voice is low and deep. “It was so hard, Dean. I can’t do it again. I can’t.”
Dean wants Sam quiet, wants him to quit freaking out and saying shit like that, so he puts his hand over Sam’s mouth. It’s a childish thing to do, reminds him of being a teenager and telling Sam, shut up, shut your mouth, but it works-Sam stops talking.
They stare at each other in the parking lot. Sam’s eyes are shifting from side to side, and Dean’s hand is still over Sam’s mouth. He drops it, instantly missing the contact.
But Sam must miss it too, because he grabs Dean’s hand again, the same one that was just on his face, and holds on.
Dean looks down. He feels warm all over, grateful. “You do realize you’re holding my hand.”
Sam tightens his fingers. “I’m not letting you go, wings or not.”
Dean whacks him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Why you gotta bring that up again?”
Sam gives him a tiny smile. “You want to go back to the room?” he asks, and Dean’s pretty sure he can see heat in Sam’s eyes.
“Yeah, I do.” He rubs his thumb over the back of Sam’s hand, and starts walking.
-end-