abraxaslogs | Hᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀᴡᴀʏ ( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ )

[ It's much later in the evening when Sam arrives at his brother's door. Knuckles close to knocking, he leans in to listen for a second and in doing so, finds himself another reminder of why he's here at all. Foot nudging a fledgling feather sitting tucked near the door frame, he raps quietly and announces himself. ]

It's Sam. Got a minute?

[ Concern has works its way up his throat and he nudges the feather few inches more — out of sight — before clearing the obstruction threatening his voice and waiting for the door to open. ]

( He's reclined on his bed as he's wont to do, legs crossed, a book settled lazily on his chest which he allows to droop forward so he can see over the top of it. )

Yeah, come in.

( Look, he's comfortable and lazy. He's not getting up. Sam's hands work, he can open the thing himself. )

[ Well practiced in these sorts of moments, Sam doesn't hesitate to let himself in and make himself at home. He grabs a chair (or anything that resembles and works as a chair if none is available at the moment) and takes a seat.

He considers the next step. What comes to mind goes something like this: "So, either you've got a massive cockatoo or—" but Sam decides there's nothing here worth joking much about. Clearing his throat, he hunches over his knees and clasps his hands together. ]

You're molting.

( Yeah, it's probably a good thing Sam avoids saying anything involving the term massive cockatoo to his brother. It would never, ever end the way he wanted it to.

There's a hefty number of things he'd expect Sam to walk in and (rightfully) call him out on. Of course Sam elects the one thing that doesn't come to mind.

Molting.

Crap.

He pulls a face, and rather than try to deny it, his knee-jerk reaction is a defensive: )

Why does everyone keep saying that?!

( By everyone he means... literally one other person, but still. He's deflecting. Sort of. Half-deflecting. )

[ Sam's somehow not surprised and he purses his lips, nodding and crossing his arms. That's how it's going to be, he thinks (because that's always how it is) and strengthens his armor. ]

Because that's the technical term. And because you have feathers to lose. And because you have wings. And—

[ He throws up his hands and then moves to sit on Dean's bed. ]

I don't know, take your pick, man.

( ...Yeah, okay, okay, fine, fair. It's weird, he probably should have dropped that bomb sooner, you got him. He sighs and holds up his hands in a mild little surrender.

Slowly, with painstaking deliberateness, he sits up properly. Drops one foot and then the other onto the floor. Plops his book back onto the mattress behind him. Rolls his shoulders out, and-

Wills them into visibility. All fifteen feet of their wingspan tucked up neat and tight, pure white feathers behind his shoulder blades, wing tips spilling over the edge of the mattress and brushing the floor.

He shrugs with his hands, then gently claps them together. )

Christmas present. From the singularity.

( Go ahead, freak out, or ask questions, or whatever it is you're gonna do. Floor's yours. )

[ Sam eyes the whole spectacle, leaned and only briefly startled by the enormity of Dean's wings. It isn't as if he hasn't seen anything like it before, but this is his big (little) brother and something about the whole of it — especially given their histories — doesn't fully sit right.

Nevermind the obvious. ]

Okay, yeah, weird gift. If I grow horns and a tail this Christmas, we might be in real trouble.

[ Huffing, Sam turns back to face ahead, fingers steepled in front of his mouth and elbows on his knees. ]

Is the blade a gift, too? Conceptually.

[ He's interested in Dean's impression, whether one is considered as troublesome as the other. Near as he can figure, those wings aren't known to drive a person to extremes, but Dean doesn't exactly appear to be embracing this change. ]

( That horns and a tail comment earns a snort. His sense of humor's plenty dark enough for it to be funny, but there isn't quite as much humor in the sound as there probably should be.

None of this is particularly ha ha funny, is it?

Especially not that second part. He graces Sam with an unusually serious frown, forgoing the sarcasm or the throw-away bullshit line he might give anybody else. )

No. I don't think so. There's no upside, there's nothing here I need it for to kill, the only thing it's bringing to the table is trouble.

( A pause, and then a slight sway of a shrug — his feathers ruffle along the blanket. )

Unless this thing can kill an archangel. That might be a nice silver lining.

[ Sam isn't so sure he'd agree there's nothing the Blade isn't needed for here, but he keeps the thought to himself; if Dean's come to accept that he needs to play nice within the confines of general consensus, he can accept that, too. Probably. Besides, better not to feed the damn thing. ]

It seems significant that you were given wings and now this. It hits close to home. Is it a message? A suggestion?

[ Sam gestures and when his hand comes back down it makes a slap on his thigh. He sighs, concern causing him to gnaw at this nail briefly. ]

A gift and then a curse. And what else is going to follow us here?

( Those first two questions earn a shrug so emphatic it might as well be audible — is audible, in fact, when he drops his hands back down and they thump gently on the bedspread. How the hell should he know? What is he, the voice of the singularity or something? )

Solid question. I got a curse, we got Lucifer, Cas got a kid. Who knows, maybe you'll get a dog.

( Since they're manifesting the most random shit in the universe, might as well pull through Sam's random historical canines while they're at it. )

[ Sam huffs. Well, it could happen. Although he'd be much more likely to end up with an angry bird or a desert lizard at this point. ]

What did Cas have to say about it? I'm guessing he knows by now.

[ Seems most everyone knows. Maybe Sam's the last to know. Wouldn't that be some bitter icing for this already lackluster cake? Briefly, he wonders if Dean's leaned on Geralt more instead, whether his brother had found his own support structure before everyone started showing up and that had remained. It would make sense and it would make Sam feel better (if only in part) to know Dean cares enough about himself to reach out for help. ]

( After less than a second of real debate, he elects to leave out the part where Cas also pointed out his feathers were shedding. Also, the part where he briefly let Cas possess him in order to teach him how to use the god damn things in the first place, because it's weird, he knows it was weird, it was a weird thing to do and he does not want to be judged for it now or ever, thank you very much.

Instead, he says: )

He gave me some pointers. Showed me how to get off the damn ground. Not that I'm planning on opening up Aerial Uber any time in the next century, but... who knows. Maybe it'll come in handy.

( In some unlikely alternate dimension future where he stops being pants-shittingly terrified of flying, that is. )

You mentioned there's no upside to the Mark. What's the upside of the wings?

[ Because Dean had picked those words for a reason, not by happenstance. And it's not flying. So what else comes with those feathers? Not hollow bones, at least not proverbially. ]

You know that thing where... demons or wizards or whatever will like... flick their hand and fling us up against a wall all the god damn time?

( You know. The thing. That thing. It happens like twice a week, super annoying, very painful?

He shrugs a shoulder. )

They make a good airbag.

We do get tossed around a lot.

[ So at least there's that. Although this also gives Sam a pretty good idea of how Dean is thinking of those wings. If he's going to treat them less like a part of himself than the rest, then who's to say there isn't some kind of psychosomatic reaction driving the molting? There are too many variables, and having just picked up the trail on this one, Sam suspects he'll need a little time to think it all over.

He rubs at his forehead, scrubbing at the concern he feels gathering on his brow. Dean doesn't need to see that, and Sam's not entirely sure it's necessary or helpful to allow himself to worry like that at the moment. ]

Hey, look at it this way: Now you never have to worry about telling a tasteless joke about angels. You could shit on someone's head like a bird if that was something you wanted to do. You're definitely saving money on horse rental. And now I can legitimately call you Big Bird...

[ Sam will absolutely continue on with this list of pros if allowed, just you watch. ]

( Sam's got him in the first half. There's a little raise of one eyebrow, a little conceding tip of his head at shit on someone's head like a bird, a fantastically appealing mental image frankly. That horse rental part is where things start to waver, and then they go absolutely out the goddamn window at last.

He points at Sam with utmost sincerity, and solemnly declares: )

I will kill you.

[ He can't help himself, a fraction of a smile finding its way into his expression. A couple years ago he could see them wrestling around noogies and kicking each other in the back of the knees over something like this, but more and more Sam thinks they're either too old or too jaded or maybe they've just been through it all a million times before.

(When aren't they navigating the strange and the uncomfortable? When aren't they questioning who they are now and who they might one day become?)

Sam pushes his hands through his hair, an act meant to reset his compass in this moment. ]

I... know it's hard to be on the receiving end of everyone's concern, but we're here to help. If you'll let us.

[ His hands go up, expecting the need to quell Dean's probable protest. ]

When you're ready.

Hᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜsᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪʟᴇs ᴀᴡᴀʏ ( ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ )

ᴘᴏsᴛ-ᴘᴏsᴛ-ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ

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