whitereflection (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whitereflection) wrote2009-11-04 06:41 pm
whitereflection) wrote2009-11-04 06:41 pm
Entry tags:
comment ficcage
Title: Welcome Home
Author: Di (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
whitereflection)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~1278
Note: Done for The Sam and Dean Drabble-a-thon at http://littleone87.livejournal.com/71070.html fortaelynhawker's prompt of "Sam/Dean, Immortality". Written under the influence of Radical Face's "Welcome Home, Son"--title borrowed from the song's title.
Warnings: Wincest, schmoop, wingfic (I'm sorry, I've been craving it :x ), self-betaed/edited
Disclaimer: Show/characters property of the CW, EKripke, etc.
His boots scuff dust into puffs and plumes as he walks. High above the sun is brilliantly white-gold, and the air shimmers with summer heat; Dean feels another drop of sweat trickle from his scalp down the back of his neck. Shrugging as the skin of the nape of his neck prickles at the feeling of the droplet (it figures that he's starting to sunburn), he shifts the coat he has draped over one shoulder. It's just too warm for the leather.
He's not sure how long he's been walking. It's all sort of hazy, like the shimmer of asphalt at the horizon. Maybe it's been minutes, or maybe it's been years. Dean knows for sure his baby's okay--he distinctly recalls leaving her in good hands. Their oath to take care of her just like they would their flesh and blood still echoes in his head. But everything after that...?
At least his head's clear now and he's moving forward, and that's good enough. There's farmland, pastureland to either side of him, grass as high as his knees in shades of green, wheat yellow, and heat-faded brown, and hidden in it all, grasshoppers and cicaidas seem to be in some sort of competition to see which can buzz loudest. In the distance up ahead, Dean can see where the dirt and gravel road intersects with some podunk two-lane highway...
...and right next to him, there's the sound of another person's footsteps.
Dean's spinning to his left, reaching for a weapon that isn't there before his mind fully registers the sound, and there's Sam smirking at him smugly, just like he always does when he manages to sneak up on Dean. Which isn't often. Ever. This was the first time. Not that he'd succeeded just now--Dean'd heard him just fine, so it didn't count.
As if able to sense his thoughts (and who knew, maybe he could now), Sam's smirk grows into a full grin. "Took you long enough."
"I had loose ends to tie up, I told you that." Sam's hands are on him now, damned stupidly big sasquatch paws all but cradling his face, and he'd smack them away except his brother's tracing careful fingers where the lines and wrinkles aren't anymore, his touch gentle. And also he's too busy noticing Sam's wings. Wings, what the f--.... They're white, not glaringly so, but still white nonetheless. They don't even seem to be getting any of the road dust on them. "That's pretty damned cliche, Sammy."
"Huh?" Sam finally wakes up from memorizing him or whatever freaky girl thing he'd just been doing. "Oh, those. Yeah, but they're pretty awesome actually. Check it out." And his hands are still on Dean's chest, so he can feel how Sam flinches ever so slightly when he flexes, and the wings unfurl.
And unfurl and unfurl. "Jesus," Dean groans (And can he really say that here? They'd better let him, because he's gonna. That, and a lot of other things.) "Is everything huge on you?"
Dean is pretty sure he'd taught his little brother how to make that exact leering expression, and he rolls his eyes because it still makes Sam look like a doofus when he does it. The kid never could get it quite right. "I thought you knew that already," his voice is flirting-low, and he's drawing Dean close, warm-breath-on-skin close, his wings shadowing them both from the sun. "I mean, as often as you saw and touched my--"
Kissing Sam is still his favorite way of shutting his brother up, and maybe Dean is hot, sweaty, and dusty, but this is the best he's felt, ever. Sam moans into his mouth, a rumbling, almost purring sound, and Dean tangles his hands in all his girly, shaggy hair and considers that losing all their clothes right now, right there, might be worth all the extra sunburn.
But Sam's pulling back, taking one long, deep breath and then another, looking a bit sheepish. "Sorry. I told them I'd be bringing you. They've been waiting so long for you to get here. Everyone's really looking forward to seeing you again."
"Yeah?" Dean steps back reluctantly, picks up his jacket (he'd so be making Sam clean the dust off it later), straightens himself up. "Guess we can't disappoint them then." He gives his younger brother a pointed, heated look, "But you will make it up to me later."
"Hell yeah," Sam murmurs, and it's a dirty promise. (And Dean doesn't even wonder if someone can say that here anymore, because this is he and Sam, and damn, but they can do anything. They've proven it before and they'll prove it now.)
Dean starts to walk again, but Sam's hand on his shoulder stops him. "Wait. Stand still." Sam steps up behind Dean, flattening his hands against Dean's back, palms warm over his shoulder blades even through his t-shirt. His breath stirs the short hairs at the nape of Dean's neck as he brushes his lips silk-soft on the sun-flushed, sensitive skin there.
And then Sam grips something with his hands, and pulls.
It's like the best massage Dean's ever received. Every muscle goes liquid, and every single knot he's had in any muscle ever comes undone, loosens. He feels himself sag, nearly goes to his knees, because he's completely and utterly relaxed, from the tips of his toes to the top of his h--...to the tip of his wings.
Dean looks back over his shoulder, looks back and up because hell yeah, he can unfurl these puppies, too! "Well, goddamn," he says, impressed and perhaps a little too excited and eager with what he could do with these.
"Told you they were awesome." Sam's grinning at him like he's a kid, boyishly like Dean hasn't seen in way too long. And he's wrapped his freaky-long arms around Dean's waist, must have stepped in to support him when the wing thing had made him go all boneless. But Dean's gotta razz him because it's Sammy and that's just the way it is.
"So I thought people were waiting for us? Because otherwise," he looks downward, then back at Sam expectantly, "a few more inches down is generally what you wanna be goin' for, dude." He expects the eyeroll, yelps because he didn't expect the little (ha) fucker to raspberry the back of his neck (sunburn, hello!), then stumbles slightly as Sam gives him a playful shove.
"Fine, fine. Next time I let you land on your ass."
"Yeah, just because you wanna touch it while pretending to brush the dust off. Handsy bitch."
"You always liked my hands before, and where I put them." Dean waggles his eyebrows at that, and enjoys a brief daydream as he remembers his favorite Sam's hands moments while they stroll down the gravel road toward the highway. He stretches as they walk, the feeling of his wings reaching up up up into the warm sunlight nearly better than sex; and when he relaxes, Sam grasps his hand, holds it, and Dean lets him.
They're going to see people he hasn't seen in minutes, years, people he's been waiting a lifetime to see again. Then it's going to be just him and Sam, and they're going to do all the things they haven't done in way too damned long--and they're going to take forever to do it all, because they have all the time in the world. Dean realizes he's smiling, and he can't stop himself, doesn't want to stop himself.
He squeezes Sam's hand back, interlaces their fingers. They turn left onto the pavement of the highway, and Sam leads him into the light.
Author: Di (
whitereflection)Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Wordcount: ~1278
Note: Done for The Sam and Dean Drabble-a-thon at http://littleone87.livejournal.com/71070.html for
taelynhawker's prompt of "Sam/Dean, Immortality". Written under the influence of Radical Face's "Welcome Home, Son"--title borrowed from the song's title.Warnings: Wincest, schmoop, wingfic (I'm sorry, I've been craving it :x ), self-betaed/edited
Disclaimer: Show/characters property of the CW, EKripke, etc.
His boots scuff dust into puffs and plumes as he walks. High above the sun is brilliantly white-gold, and the air shimmers with summer heat; Dean feels another drop of sweat trickle from his scalp down the back of his neck. Shrugging as the skin of the nape of his neck prickles at the feeling of the droplet (it figures that he's starting to sunburn), he shifts the coat he has draped over one shoulder. It's just too warm for the leather.
He's not sure how long he's been walking. It's all sort of hazy, like the shimmer of asphalt at the horizon. Maybe it's been minutes, or maybe it's been years. Dean knows for sure his baby's okay--he distinctly recalls leaving her in good hands. Their oath to take care of her just like they would their flesh and blood still echoes in his head. But everything after that...?
At least his head's clear now and he's moving forward, and that's good enough. There's farmland, pastureland to either side of him, grass as high as his knees in shades of green, wheat yellow, and heat-faded brown, and hidden in it all, grasshoppers and cicaidas seem to be in some sort of competition to see which can buzz loudest. In the distance up ahead, Dean can see where the dirt and gravel road intersects with some podunk two-lane highway...
...and right next to him, there's the sound of another person's footsteps.
Dean's spinning to his left, reaching for a weapon that isn't there before his mind fully registers the sound, and there's Sam smirking at him smugly, just like he always does when he manages to sneak up on Dean. Which isn't often. Ever. This was the first time. Not that he'd succeeded just now--Dean'd heard him just fine, so it didn't count.
As if able to sense his thoughts (and who knew, maybe he could now), Sam's smirk grows into a full grin. "Took you long enough."
"I had loose ends to tie up, I told you that." Sam's hands are on him now, damned stupidly big sasquatch paws all but cradling his face, and he'd smack them away except his brother's tracing careful fingers where the lines and wrinkles aren't anymore, his touch gentle. And also he's too busy noticing Sam's wings. Wings, what the f--.... They're white, not glaringly so, but still white nonetheless. They don't even seem to be getting any of the road dust on them. "That's pretty damned cliche, Sammy."
"Huh?" Sam finally wakes up from memorizing him or whatever freaky girl thing he'd just been doing. "Oh, those. Yeah, but they're pretty awesome actually. Check it out." And his hands are still on Dean's chest, so he can feel how Sam flinches ever so slightly when he flexes, and the wings unfurl.
And unfurl and unfurl. "Jesus," Dean groans (And can he really say that here? They'd better let him, because he's gonna. That, and a lot of other things.) "Is everything huge on you?"
Dean is pretty sure he'd taught his little brother how to make that exact leering expression, and he rolls his eyes because it still makes Sam look like a doofus when he does it. The kid never could get it quite right. "I thought you knew that already," his voice is flirting-low, and he's drawing Dean close, warm-breath-on-skin close, his wings shadowing them both from the sun. "I mean, as often as you saw and touched my--"
Kissing Sam is still his favorite way of shutting his brother up, and maybe Dean is hot, sweaty, and dusty, but this is the best he's felt, ever. Sam moans into his mouth, a rumbling, almost purring sound, and Dean tangles his hands in all his girly, shaggy hair and considers that losing all their clothes right now, right there, might be worth all the extra sunburn.
But Sam's pulling back, taking one long, deep breath and then another, looking a bit sheepish. "Sorry. I told them I'd be bringing you. They've been waiting so long for you to get here. Everyone's really looking forward to seeing you again."
"Yeah?" Dean steps back reluctantly, picks up his jacket (he'd so be making Sam clean the dust off it later), straightens himself up. "Guess we can't disappoint them then." He gives his younger brother a pointed, heated look, "But you will make it up to me later."
"Hell yeah," Sam murmurs, and it's a dirty promise. (And Dean doesn't even wonder if someone can say that here anymore, because this is he and Sam, and damn, but they can do anything. They've proven it before and they'll prove it now.)
Dean starts to walk again, but Sam's hand on his shoulder stops him. "Wait. Stand still." Sam steps up behind Dean, flattening his hands against Dean's back, palms warm over his shoulder blades even through his t-shirt. His breath stirs the short hairs at the nape of Dean's neck as he brushes his lips silk-soft on the sun-flushed, sensitive skin there.
And then Sam grips something with his hands, and pulls.
It's like the best massage Dean's ever received. Every muscle goes liquid, and every single knot he's had in any muscle ever comes undone, loosens. He feels himself sag, nearly goes to his knees, because he's completely and utterly relaxed, from the tips of his toes to the top of his h--...to the tip of his wings.
Dean looks back over his shoulder, looks back and up because hell yeah, he can unfurl these puppies, too! "Well, goddamn," he says, impressed and perhaps a little too excited and eager with what he could do with these.
"Told you they were awesome." Sam's grinning at him like he's a kid, boyishly like Dean hasn't seen in way too long. And he's wrapped his freaky-long arms around Dean's waist, must have stepped in to support him when the wing thing had made him go all boneless. But Dean's gotta razz him because it's Sammy and that's just the way it is.
"So I thought people were waiting for us? Because otherwise," he looks downward, then back at Sam expectantly, "a few more inches down is generally what you wanna be goin' for, dude." He expects the eyeroll, yelps because he didn't expect the little (ha) fucker to raspberry the back of his neck (sunburn, hello!), then stumbles slightly as Sam gives him a playful shove.
"Fine, fine. Next time I let you land on your ass."
"Yeah, just because you wanna touch it while pretending to brush the dust off. Handsy bitch."
"You always liked my hands before, and where I put them." Dean waggles his eyebrows at that, and enjoys a brief daydream as he remembers his favorite Sam's hands moments while they stroll down the gravel road toward the highway. He stretches as they walk, the feeling of his wings reaching up up up into the warm sunlight nearly better than sex; and when he relaxes, Sam grasps his hand, holds it, and Dean lets him.
They're going to see people he hasn't seen in minutes, years, people he's been waiting a lifetime to see again. Then it's going to be just him and Sam, and they're going to do all the things they haven't done in way too damned long--and they're going to take forever to do it all, because they have all the time in the world. Dean realizes he's smiling, and he can't stop himself, doesn't want to stop himself.
He squeezes Sam's hand back, interlaces their fingers. They turn left onto the pavement of the highway, and Sam leads him into the light.