Rating: R for incest
Warnings: incest, wing!fic
Summary: Sometimes a curse can turn out to have unexpected benefits.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
A/N: Written for slashfest IV: timbean requested 'Dean/Sam vampire wingfic with a 69 twist. Go wild! Bat wings if you want! Mallard wings! Tiny parakeet wings! Snark between these two is probably my favorite thing on this *planet*, so some bitchy!Sam vs sarcastic!Dean would totally make me full of glee. I didn't manage to include the vampire, but I hope you like it anyway.
In a Flap
The first time it happened, it took them three days to notice. Well, it took Sam three days to notice, mainly because he was being a whiny little bitch, refusing to shower with Dean, let alone have sex, until Dean apologised for something he'd apparently said or done or… Hell, he didn't have a clue what he'd done, but Sam, the pissy little princess, was making him suffer for it.
At the end of those three days, when the muscles across the back of his neck and around his shoulders still pulled and ached and throbbed like a sonofabitch, Dean gave in. He gave a grudging, fifteen word apology - Don't know what the fuck I did to set you off but I'm sorry, okay? - and then demanded a backrub.
That's when Sam discovered the weird bumps on his shoulder blades, red and swollen and hot to the touch - not that Dean let him touch them for more than the time it took to scream and buck and fall onto the floor on hands and knees.
Yeah, not his finest hour, but damn, those suckers hurt!
"What the fuck was that?"
Sam leaned over the edge of the bed and frowned down at Dean from behind his tangled fringe, eyes flicking back and forth between Dean's whatthefuck expression and the knobbly protrusions on his back.
"Dean, there's something growing out of your back."
Now, logic dictates that a person can't check out his own rear view and is never going to see his shoulder blades without that certain bone-grinding Exorcist twist, but it didn't stop Dean trying.
The pull and the throb and the needle-sharp pain did that.
So he stood up instead and made a dignified dash to the bathroom where, if he twisted just so and craned his neck and squinted hard out of the corner of his eye, he could see the angry red lump at the tip of his right scapula.
Sam leaned in the doorway, hips canted, arms folded, and watched his brother contort himself and try not to show pain.
When Dean gave up on getting any kind of detailed look and unwound himself from his self-imposed Gordian knot, Sam held out a beer and led the way back to the bed.
"So, not a pulled muscle then."
Dean kicked him, popped the cap and took a long, slow drink.
On day five, after forty-eight hours of 'What part of 'I'm not talking about it,' did you not understand, Sammy?' Dean flatly refused to consider seeing a doctor, not even after Sam located two free clinics in towns they'd never been before.
On day seven, the skin that was stretched paper thin and bone white across the - 'If you call them that one more time I'll knock your teeth so far down your throat you'll have to shit 'em out, Sam!' - 'unexplained growths' split with a stomach-churning sound, and two bloody, crumpled wings slid out almost in slow motion before toppling limply to one side.
"Oh, yeah, that hurt!"
Sam had to wait until Dean passed out from whisky, beer and pain pills, topped off with pure exhaustion, before he managed to get within touching distance of Dean's new wings.
Dean woke to Sam sitting straddling his waist, knees clamped tight to pin his arms in place beside his ribs. The heady smell of Betadine hung heavy in the air.
Dean bucked and yelled, "Get the hell off me, you jackass!" but Sam had apparently spent time with a mechanical bull. He hung on tight for the ride, and might have whispered 'Yeehah!', and he definitely slapped Dean's ass.
That stopped Dean cold.
"Dude, I'm warning you. Get the fuck off me right now or you're in trouble. I'll kick your skinny ass back to Stanford. I'm not kidding!"
But of course, instead of grovelling apologies and obedience, Sam settled that skinny ass back down on Dean's lower spine.
The brush of warm dry lips across the nape of his neck stopped Dean from kicking up a fuss, for now at least. He reserved the right to start the fight back up once Sam was finished trailing kisses down his spine. Hell, if he got a fuck out of it, he might even be magnanimous and forgive the lanky shit for sneaking up on him while he was asleep.
Fingers trailed across the skin between his shoulder blades and out to touch on brand new flesh and bone and, yes, dammit, feathers. Freshly activated nerves sent new sensations racing, neurons fired in puzzling new patterns as they realigned, redrew the known quarters of his body.
Shudders wracked Dean's frame as Sam continued stroking, every feather brushed drew out a whimper.
"Cool! I guess they're really sensitive, huh?"
Among the wildfire sparks stimulated by every careful touch, Dean made a mental note to somehow pay his little brother back for sounding so damn gleeful.
For now, he demands satisfaction in the form of Sammy riding the erection he has caused by taking liberties. The way Sam strips and climbs aboard in under seven seconds leaves Dean wondering just how many other kinks his brother has.
On day twenty, Dean tosses a pair of bolt cutters to the floor at Sam's feet and pulls his shirt off.
"Nothing else has worked, Sam, not the spells or the shamans or the Voodoo priest. We've gone back over old ground till they're sick of seeing our faces, and we still don't have a single fucking clue who might have cursed me."
Sam screams and rages, tries quiet pleas and finally pulls out sexual favors of the 'Dean's dirtiest fantasies' kind, but Dean stands firm.
They make him itch, they make him twitch; he's embarrassed and uncomfortable. They make his leather jacket pull under the arms and they've stretched out several of his favorite ancient tee shirts. They have to go.
On day twenty-eight, Sam gives in.
The dumpster behind the Gas 'n' Go down the street from their motel ends up half full of feathers, bloody rags and sheets, and a shiny pair of brand new bolt cutters, barely used.
On day thirty-five, they finish growing back.
On day four hundred and seventeen, Dean wakes up, wears out his morning wood in Sam's obliging ass, and then takes a five minute shower. When he comes out, damp towel around his shoulders, droplets still glistening on his pecs, he stretches out his tiny wings with hardly a thought and let them flap themselves dry.
Sam catches the roll of medical tape tossed casually at his head, and waits for Dean to sit down between his spread legs.
The wings are still a pain if left unbound and free to express themselves. He's gotten better at control over time but he swears they like a pretty, tight ass as much as he does, and they try to wave hello way too often.
So, after combing out their slept-in look and patting off the last clinging drops of shower spray, Sam tapes them down every morning. He steals a kiss and maybe rubs a prickly cheek across the feathers, just to make Dean curse and give a full body shiver. That never gets old.
The tee shirts still get stretched but leather stretches too, and with a little bit of needlework from a seamstress friend of Bobby's, the jacket's soon back to hanging true.
They're only little wings, when all's said and done, and any minor inconvenience they cause is more than compensated for by the very regular hot and steamy sex.
Sammy really likes Dean's wings.