Another day... another story. That's right, it's time for the third installment of the (almost) popular series!
Title: On Angel's Wings 3
Summary: So, Dean got to keep his wings, and with them all of the powers of an angel. Unfortunately, he discovers, immortality comes with a price...
Warnings: None. Actually, there's less bloodshed than in the previous stories :)
Disclaimer: As always, nothing is mine. It belongs to that evil, cliffie-loving genius, Eric Kripke.
On Angel's Wings 3
The snowfall was relentless, blanketing the side of the mountain in a pristine white layer of powder that anyone but Sam Winchester would have found beautiful. Sammy probably would have noticed the majesty of the landscape, would have breathed a sigh of awe and muttered something schmaltzy about the wonders of nature, had his mind not been elsewhere. Instead of focusing on the scenery that lay just beyond the door to the small cabin he'd rented, the young psychic's thoughts were on his older brother.
Dean had ventured out into the Colorado blizzard almost three hours before, heading up the side of the mountain while wind and snow beat strong against his body. "You heard Ellen," he had argued as Sam had tried to follow him out the door, "no human could make it up there and back alive. Just leave this to the supernatural freak, all right?"
Sam had let himself be pushed back into the cabin. His brother had a point, no one could possibly make it up to the demon's mountain hide-away and back, especially in this blizzard. Still, he hated making Dean go up there alone, and was starting to hate Ellen for opening her big mouth.
The Winchester brothers had turned up at Harvelle's Roadhouse over a month ago looking for the location of the antique Colt revolver possessed of the ability to kill anything. Dean had gotten their first, beating the traffic and dodging a few airplanes along the way, and had really gotten into the search, helping Ash in any way possible.
It had taken three weeks for the computer wiz to finally track down a possible hiding place for the gun, in a long-forgotten cave on an unforgiving mountain near an old ghost town that a surprisingly large number of demons seemed to have been frequenting. The mountain was in Colorado, and, of course, whatever cosmic force liked messing with the Winchester family had sent a blizzard their way just as Sam had pulled into town.
So, here he was, pacing by the door of the cabin he'd rented, just waiting for his brother's safe return. "You boys aren't considering going up there, are you?" he said aloud in a mockingly feminine voice, still annoyed with the owner of the Roadhouse for suggesting, even unintentionally, that Dean go it alone this time, "because there's a reason the demon picked that mountain. No human could make it up there and back alive."
No human was trying. Dean was something more, but that didn't mean he should have to trudge- sorry, fly- up to that cave alone. What if it was a trap? What if there was something lying in wait for him? What if he never came back? What if-?
Sam was ripped from his thoughts as one of the cabinets in the near-by kitchen fell from the wall, every glass within shattering upon impact as the wood splintered and covered the floor. The young hunter sighed, throwing one last glace out the small window beside the door and scanning the sky for any sign of his brother. When he didn't see anything, he trudged into the kitchen and grabbed a broom.
The demon was gone, and whatever had messed with Sam's head after his initiation into the creature's cult of psychics had vanished, too, but a small inkling of the enhanced abilities he'd 'enjoyed' for a whole month were still there, coming out at the most inconvenient times.
Like when he was angry, and things flew across the room. Or when he got nervous. One time he'd been worried about Dean because the elder had been uncharacteristically quiet immediately following the events in the gorge, and had somehow picked up on the thoughts of everyone within a mile radius. That wouldn't have been bad, had they not been stopping in New York City for a quick hunt. Sam had been out cold for three days, and when he'd come to his mind had been reeling.
But these things hardly ever happened anymore. In fact, the disturbances, if you could call them that, had gotten smaller and weaker every day, like whatever was still going on with Sam's brain was finally starting to fade away and things were getting back to normal.
Well, as normal as they could be when you spent your life hunting evil and your brother had recently joined the ranks of the heavenly supernatural.
Yeah… normal.
He finished sweeping up the glass and wood just as the front door burst open and whirling snowflakes were blasted into the cabin. Sam dropped the broom and ran to the door just as his brother stumbled in, struggling to stave off the wind and snow that was swirling into their temporary home.
"Man," Sammy muttered, wrapping his arms around himself as Dean finally got the door closed, "what took you so long?"
Dean turned, a ridiculous grin plastered on his lips that widened as he saw the look on Sam's face. "I think I froze to death, like, five times."
Sam just stared at his brother in shock and took a shaky step backwards. Ice seemed to coat every inch of Dean's body except his wings in a thick layer, his skin was ghost-white and his lips had turned blue and chapped to the point that it looked like they'd split in several places.
Dean hadn't seemed to notice the condition his body was in, though, and crossed the room to the fireplace, where Sammy had kept a fire going in anticipation of his brother's return. The angel sat down in front of the flames and extended his hands toward the warmth they radiated. He paused for a brief moment and seemed thoroughly surprised at the color of his hands, but shrugged it off quickly and went back to trying to warm up.
"You all right?" Sam asked slowly, sitting in one of the small chairs that had been placed near the hearth.
"Not even cold," Dean reported, "I mean, I was at first, but not anymore. Weird, huh?"
The younger man sighed. "Yeah, weird. So, did you get the gun?"
Dean nodded, rubbing his hands vigorously over his arms in a futile attempt to melt some of the snow and ice that had collected there.
"Where is it?"
The angel reached around and pulled the antique revolver out of the waistband of his pants. He slid it across the floor to his brother's feet before standing up and heading for the kitchen.
Sam took the gun and inspected it. Definitely the Colt. "So," he began as the sound of Dean rifling through cabinets for something to eat echoed through the small cabin, "you gonna tell me why you were so gung-ho going after this thing?"
"Just don't want anything else to get it, Sammy," Dean answered. There was no reason to tell the truth, the older man figured. No reason to worry the kid. Because immortality came with a price, one that Dean hadn't even considered until it had been too late, until they'd left that nameless little Colorado town with the gorge far behind them. They'd been in New York, still waiting for Ash to get back to them with the location of the gun when it had hit him.
"Hey, Sam," he called out, noticing a blank space on the wall and a few slivers of wood and broken glass shoved into a corner, "where'd the cabinet go?"
55 Years Later
He adjusted his position, moved his hands so that they were directly over the old man's heart, and tried again. His hands radiated warmth and light and love, but what if it wasn't enough this time? The geezer's heart had crapped out on him, and Dean wasn't sure if he could make it start up again. Not this time. Maybe this time was it.
But he had to try. He couldn't let it end like this. Not here in the little bungalow the old man had bought all those years ago. He'd needed to settle down, he said, wanted to take it easy for a while. That had been about a year before arthritis had started to take him.
Arthritis, asthma, bronchitis, some minor heart problems, a broken hip, not to mention all of the old injuries from his younger days that flared up when the weather turned rotten. And the Alzheimer's. Man, that one had been scary. But Dean had been able to fix him all of those other times, had been able to save him from every problem, both major and minor.
Maybe now he'd met his match. Maybe it was finally the old coot's time to go. Maybe Dean would have to let go, to slide off the rapidly-cooling body, and give up. He would take the Colt, hold it up to his own head, and pull the trigger. The gun could kill anything, good or evil. At least, he hoped it could kill good.
He was just about to give up, too, to take his hands from the dead man's chest and go fish the gun out of the box where he kept it, when Sam's eyes snapped open.
Dean smiled wide as he slid off his brother's chest, giving Sam a chance to catch his breath, which was currently coming in short gasps. "Thought I'd lost you there, Gramps," he said quietly, letting his head hang as his heartbeat resumed its normal rate.
"Dean," Sam panted, rolling over onto his stomach and pushing stray strands of gray hair out of his eyes, "you gotta stop this, man. You can't keep doing that."
"Doing what?" Dean asked as he helped his brother up.
"Saving me," the old man sighed as his brother helped him to a chair, "you can't keep it up forever. You can't just stay here and hover and make sure I don't die. You're gonna have to let me go sooner or later, man."
"Hey, don't talk like that," the angel said, averting his eyes as he caught their reflection in a near-by mirror. He felt guilty, getting to stay 27 forever while his little brother, his responsibility, wasted away into old age. It just didn't seem fair.
"Give it up," Sam pleaded, easing himself into the chair, "I'm tired, Dean. I can't do this anymore."
"What are you talking about?"
Sam closed his eyes and leaned back. "You know."
"Hey. I am not just gonna stand back and let you die if there's something I can do to help. You can't ask me to just step back-"
"Then leave. You won't have to watch."
"You don't mean that. You're not gonna send me off on my own. You still want to make sure I'm safe. Man, it's coming off you in waves, Sammy. I can feel it. So stop bitching and just let me help you."
"I don't want your help, Dean. I want to die. I want to see mom and dad and Jess. You should know that by now. It should be coming off me in waves."
Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. "You're pretty stubborn, you know that?"
"You used to think that was an endearing quality, if I remember right."
The angel smirked, shaking his head. "Times change. I'm not letting you give up that easy, Sammy."
"It isn't giving up," Sam argued, "it's letting nature take its course."
"Well, if nature intended you to die in this little hut of yours, it wouldn't have put me here with you. As long as I'm here, nobody's dying. Including you."
The old man sighed, rubbing an aged hand slowly over his face, letting it hover long enough to mentally count the number of lines time had etched there. "Give up, Dean," he muttered, rising slowly to his feet and shuffling out of the bedroom, "it's over."
Dean watched his brother leave, heart sinking a little more with each labored step Sam took, before following him. He didn't head into the kitchen for lunch, though, which was what he supposed the old man was doing. He headed out the back door. There was business to attend to elsewhere, and that little voice in the back of his head wouldn't shut up until he'd dealt with it.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'll only update if you review :)