Under Sounds of Feathers (Supernatural, hints of Wincest, PG-13) 1/1
Title: Under Sounds of Feathers
Author: Spinny Roses
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wingfic, hints of incest (Dean/Sam)
Spoilers: Pilot
Disclaimer: Don't own
Notes: Part of Angels Without Wings series
Summary: Slowly, Dean's wings lower from their hyperextended state, hunkered in around him as if he could make them disappear by forcing them back into his body.
Under Sounds of Feathers
Spinny Roses
I believe I have seen you...
In this white wave
You are silent
You are breathing
In this white wave...
I am free
-"Silence," Delerium featuring Sarah Mclachlan
Dean is screaming, blood pouring from his back in alarming amounts, and all Sam could do is watch as two lovely, if bloodstained, wings unfurl. Even with his chest almost touching the floor, the wings start to brush the ceiling and even they they aren't done. When they finally come completely out, they mash up against the rain-stained ceiling. Sam's hand is illuminated in the room as lightning cracks across the sky, the thunder shaking the entire room before the light fades. Dean is breathing loudly, labored, and Sam has to wonder if he should get the transfusion kit, hopefully dry as the storm beats down.
Slowly, Dean's wings lower from their hyperextended state, hunkered in around him as if he could make them disappear by forcing them back into his body. Sam's hand touches the white feather closest to him, the next brilliant flash revealing the minute shaking the touch causes. Sam nearly yanks his hand away, but the feathers are so soft. So beautiful, even streaked with dark splatters of blood and flesh. He strokes lower and Dean keens low in his throat, painfully. "Dude, that hurts," he whispers, nearly inaudible under the sound of the rain.
Regretfully, Sam pulls his hand back. Dean starts to stand and ends up falling onto a wing. The scream of pain is torn from his throat, raw, as the lightning/thunder amplifies the cry. Sam reaches out to steady him, trying so hard to ignore how the flesh under his hands flinch away from his touch. He helps his brother into a sitting position, trying to make sure where Dean sits is away from the spreading pool of blood.
Dean's pulse flitters alarmingly when Sam presses two fingers to his chilly skin. He is about to brave the storm when Dean swallows and cracks a weak smile. "Think maybe I can fly, dude?" he says, starting to lean a little into his brother. Sam looks over the wings, unclean mass of the purest white and strokes alone the new bone structure.
"I don't know. Maybe," Sam whispers, pulling his hand away from the tempting curve of feathers.
Dean just smirks, leaning fully into him as another floor-shaking boom hit them.
The storm calms a bit as they just sit there. Dean starts to doze, and Sam has to force himself to wake his brother up. The question lies on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't want to know the truth. But when Dean shifts his wings, as if fluffing them as a bird would do, the memories of feeling inhuman muscles moving under the skin rise to the fore. The first back massage after returning to hunting, the familiar, half-realized muscles had fully defined from four years ago.
"How long." The whisper is forced from his throat, too soft, not able to hide his voice under the rain any longer as the storm drifts on.
Dean doesn't answer, just flinching in pain when Sam's hand strokes one wing absently. He turns his head away, looking down at his soaking jeans and the rain starting to drizzle down. The room is still dark - power had been lost at the first hint of lightning, just as Dean's back had started to bleed. "Not long," he finally rasps out. "Haven't really earned them yet. Don't worry about it, Sam."
The wings curve beautifully, the still-white parts near glowing. They're gorgeous, perfect, Dean. Sam pulls one loose feather free, fingers sticking to the blood that coated it. Dean doesn't say anything, nothing as Sam brushes more loose feathers onto the floor. A sickening wet plop catches his attention, the amount of molted feathers alarmingly numerous. Dean grunts as Sam manhandles one wing, noting the flesh and bone dropping to the floor in dead clumps. "Doesn't it hurt?"
"Nah. Your groping hurts more than losing them."
Sam doesn't take his hands away, a weak flash of lightning illuminating as the skin slid off weakened bone. It's too fast, and in twenty minutes the wings would be gone. Dean stands, still unsteady, and shakes off the the clinging necrotized skin. Sam makes a low sound, hoping it was hidden behind the anemic rumble of thunder. The amused look Dean shoots him says that the needy noise came through loud and clear. "I didn't know you had a wing fetish, Sammy," he says, his normal sexual drawl starting to peek back through. Sam doesn't blush, but as Dean starts to brush the last evidence of the wings from his back, bile rises to his mouth.
Dean doesn't watch as Sam comes behind up him to feel the skin close over his birthright. He simply shrugs, flexing his defined flight muscles, face becoming illuminated as the power switches back on. They both say nothing.
The soft rain falls, reflecting white under the harsh street lights.
Author: Spinny Roses
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Wingfic, hints of incest (Dean/Sam)
Spoilers: Pilot
Disclaimer: Don't own
Notes: Part of Angels Without Wings series
Summary: Slowly, Dean's wings lower from their hyperextended state, hunkered in around him as if he could make them disappear by forcing them back into his body.
Under Sounds of Feathers
Spinny Roses
I believe I have seen you...
In this white wave
You are silent
You are breathing
In this white wave...
I am free
-"Silence," Delerium featuring Sarah Mclachlan
Dean is screaming, blood pouring from his back in alarming amounts, and all Sam could do is watch as two lovely, if bloodstained, wings unfurl. Even with his chest almost touching the floor, the wings start to brush the ceiling and even they they aren't done. When they finally come completely out, they mash up against the rain-stained ceiling. Sam's hand is illuminated in the room as lightning cracks across the sky, the thunder shaking the entire room before the light fades. Dean is breathing loudly, labored, and Sam has to wonder if he should get the transfusion kit, hopefully dry as the storm beats down.
Slowly, Dean's wings lower from their hyperextended state, hunkered in around him as if he could make them disappear by forcing them back into his body. Sam's hand touches the white feather closest to him, the next brilliant flash revealing the minute shaking the touch causes. Sam nearly yanks his hand away, but the feathers are so soft. So beautiful, even streaked with dark splatters of blood and flesh. He strokes lower and Dean keens low in his throat, painfully. "Dude, that hurts," he whispers, nearly inaudible under the sound of the rain.
Regretfully, Sam pulls his hand back. Dean starts to stand and ends up falling onto a wing. The scream of pain is torn from his throat, raw, as the lightning/thunder amplifies the cry. Sam reaches out to steady him, trying so hard to ignore how the flesh under his hands flinch away from his touch. He helps his brother into a sitting position, trying to make sure where Dean sits is away from the spreading pool of blood.
Dean's pulse flitters alarmingly when Sam presses two fingers to his chilly skin. He is about to brave the storm when Dean swallows and cracks a weak smile. "Think maybe I can fly, dude?" he says, starting to lean a little into his brother. Sam looks over the wings, unclean mass of the purest white and strokes alone the new bone structure.
"I don't know. Maybe," Sam whispers, pulling his hand away from the tempting curve of feathers.
Dean just smirks, leaning fully into him as another floor-shaking boom hit them.
The storm calms a bit as they just sit there. Dean starts to doze, and Sam has to force himself to wake his brother up. The question lies on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't want to know the truth. But when Dean shifts his wings, as if fluffing them as a bird would do, the memories of feeling inhuman muscles moving under the skin rise to the fore. The first back massage after returning to hunting, the familiar, half-realized muscles had fully defined from four years ago.
"How long." The whisper is forced from his throat, too soft, not able to hide his voice under the rain any longer as the storm drifts on.
Dean doesn't answer, just flinching in pain when Sam's hand strokes one wing absently. He turns his head away, looking down at his soaking jeans and the rain starting to drizzle down. The room is still dark - power had been lost at the first hint of lightning, just as Dean's back had started to bleed. "Not long," he finally rasps out. "Haven't really earned them yet. Don't worry about it, Sam."
The wings curve beautifully, the still-white parts near glowing. They're gorgeous, perfect, Dean. Sam pulls one loose feather free, fingers sticking to the blood that coated it. Dean doesn't say anything, nothing as Sam brushes more loose feathers onto the floor. A sickening wet plop catches his attention, the amount of molted feathers alarmingly numerous. Dean grunts as Sam manhandles one wing, noting the flesh and bone dropping to the floor in dead clumps. "Doesn't it hurt?"
"Nah. Your groping hurts more than losing them."
Sam doesn't take his hands away, a weak flash of lightning illuminating as the skin slid off weakened bone. It's too fast, and in twenty minutes the wings would be gone. Dean stands, still unsteady, and shakes off the the clinging necrotized skin. Sam makes a low sound, hoping it was hidden behind the anemic rumble of thunder. The amused look Dean shoots him says that the needy noise came through loud and clear. "I didn't know you had a wing fetish, Sammy," he says, his normal sexual drawl starting to peek back through. Sam doesn't blush, but as Dean starts to brush the last evidence of the wings from his back, bile rises to his mouth.
Dean doesn't watch as Sam comes behind up him to feel the skin close over his birthright. He simply shrugs, flexing his defined flight muscles, face becoming illuminated as the power switches back on. They both say nothing.
The soft rain falls, reflecting white under the harsh street lights.