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"Tiny Bones"
You get two installments of wing!fic in one day because I was feeling moochy... This is set about 12-13 years after the current arc.
Tiny Bones
Sam holds vigil on Mickey's tenth birthday.
725 words.
--
On the eve of Mickey’s tenth birthday, Dean comes into the living room at about three in the morning and finds Sam on the floor with his back resting against the couch, Mickey bracketed by his legs. Mickey is curved slightly over, head resting on Sam’s knee where he sits and every now and then there is the sound of a soft, snuffley snore. Dean can see Sam walking his fingers over the sharp spurs of Mickey’s shoulder blades and something in his heart clenches.
“It’s not going to happen to him,” Dean says, voice pitched low but not at a whisper. The quickest way to pry Mickey out of a dead-to-the-world slumber is to whisper around the kid.
“How do you know that?” Sam asks, same volume. He hasn’t looked up, instead his eyes fixed to the small curl of his son’s spine.
The truth is, Dean doesn’t know that. There’s no way he could. He hadn’t even known it had happened to Sam until he’d found him in a bathroom, surrounded by feathers and blood. The wings now are fanned flat behind Sam, pushed awkwardly down and to the side so he can sit.
“There was a very specific reason you made like Big Bird,” Dean points out. He crosses the room and slides down onto the floor opposite. Mickey is nothing but a scruff of dark hair and shadows. One hand is curled loosely around Sam’s ankle and the other tucked up into his chest, probably under his chin. He’s getting to the age where he’s starting to roll his eyes when Sam wants to hug him but he’s also a scarily clever kid, seeming to sense when Sam needs to be grounded by touch more than he needs his own pre-teen pride.
He looks tiny when tucked into Sam and Dean remembers a time that doesn’t seem too long ago that he could fit the entirety of Mickey into two cupped palms. He was born premature, purple and squalling but tough for all that, surviving when all the doctors had done was shake their heads and tell them they had to prepare for the inevitable. Now he was showing beanstalk tendencies just like his dad, already nearly fitting into Dean’s shoes.
Sam’s hands still move restlessly, as if searching for the first signs of tiny jutting bones, delicate but determined. Dean remembers what the fledgling bones felt like in his hands, what they felt like to cut through with big, black-handled dressmaker scissors. Dean tucks his own hands up into his armpits and pretends the shudder that courses through him is because of the cold.
“I want him to be able to be…” Sam trails off, his hands pausing his restless rubbing long enough to flail in a helpless gesture. Normal, is what he doesn’t say. Dean grimaces and drags his legs up against his chest because it is cold. The position’s going to make him hurt in the morning but the morning seems too far away at the moment.
“Was it right on your birthday?” Dean asks, realising that while Sam had shown him, he never knew when it actually started. Unfortunately, Sam’s face goes a little blank and then he half-shrugs. Dean winces and he wants to smack himself upside the head. Most of Sam’s memories about the wings are cobbled together from stories Dean has told him since he had his mind stripped.
Dean forgets sometimes that Sam can’t remember.
“You told me I was ten,” Sam says. “Other than that, I’m not sure.”
“Well, maybe…” Dean bites his lip because he’s opening them up to a whole year of worry rather than just a night. Sam will recognise any back-pedalling he attempts now so Dean just lets his legs drop to the floor again, hating the way the joints pop and doesn’t say anything else.
“Anyway, so what?” Dean adds. “We do okay and if he does… you know. We’ll deal with it.”
Sam looks up and there’s a mix of resignation and affection on his face. “You make it sound easy.”
“Hell, Sammy. I’m not saying it will be, just… we’ve been through worse.” Dean gets up, taking a moment to stretch a little and then smiles. “But I get to throw Mickey off the barn roof his first time.”
“It’s Michael,” Mickey grumbles from his place on the floor.
Tiny Bones
Sam holds vigil on Mickey's tenth birthday.
725 words.
--
On the eve of Mickey’s tenth birthday, Dean comes into the living room at about three in the morning and finds Sam on the floor with his back resting against the couch, Mickey bracketed by his legs. Mickey is curved slightly over, head resting on Sam’s knee where he sits and every now and then there is the sound of a soft, snuffley snore. Dean can see Sam walking his fingers over the sharp spurs of Mickey’s shoulder blades and something in his heart clenches.
“It’s not going to happen to him,” Dean says, voice pitched low but not at a whisper. The quickest way to pry Mickey out of a dead-to-the-world slumber is to whisper around the kid.
“How do you know that?” Sam asks, same volume. He hasn’t looked up, instead his eyes fixed to the small curl of his son’s spine.
The truth is, Dean doesn’t know that. There’s no way he could. He hadn’t even known it had happened to Sam until he’d found him in a bathroom, surrounded by feathers and blood. The wings now are fanned flat behind Sam, pushed awkwardly down and to the side so he can sit.
“There was a very specific reason you made like Big Bird,” Dean points out. He crosses the room and slides down onto the floor opposite. Mickey is nothing but a scruff of dark hair and shadows. One hand is curled loosely around Sam’s ankle and the other tucked up into his chest, probably under his chin. He’s getting to the age where he’s starting to roll his eyes when Sam wants to hug him but he’s also a scarily clever kid, seeming to sense when Sam needs to be grounded by touch more than he needs his own pre-teen pride.
He looks tiny when tucked into Sam and Dean remembers a time that doesn’t seem too long ago that he could fit the entirety of Mickey into two cupped palms. He was born premature, purple and squalling but tough for all that, surviving when all the doctors had done was shake their heads and tell them they had to prepare for the inevitable. Now he was showing beanstalk tendencies just like his dad, already nearly fitting into Dean’s shoes.
Sam’s hands still move restlessly, as if searching for the first signs of tiny jutting bones, delicate but determined. Dean remembers what the fledgling bones felt like in his hands, what they felt like to cut through with big, black-handled dressmaker scissors. Dean tucks his own hands up into his armpits and pretends the shudder that courses through him is because of the cold.
“I want him to be able to be…” Sam trails off, his hands pausing his restless rubbing long enough to flail in a helpless gesture. Normal, is what he doesn’t say. Dean grimaces and drags his legs up against his chest because it is cold. The position’s going to make him hurt in the morning but the morning seems too far away at the moment.
“Was it right on your birthday?” Dean asks, realising that while Sam had shown him, he never knew when it actually started. Unfortunately, Sam’s face goes a little blank and then he half-shrugs. Dean winces and he wants to smack himself upside the head. Most of Sam’s memories about the wings are cobbled together from stories Dean has told him since he had his mind stripped.
Dean forgets sometimes that Sam can’t remember.
“You told me I was ten,” Sam says. “Other than that, I’m not sure.”
“Well, maybe…” Dean bites his lip because he’s opening them up to a whole year of worry rather than just a night. Sam will recognise any back-pedalling he attempts now so Dean just lets his legs drop to the floor again, hating the way the joints pop and doesn’t say anything else.
“Anyway, so what?” Dean adds. “We do okay and if he does… you know. We’ll deal with it.”
Sam looks up and there’s a mix of resignation and affection on his face. “You make it sound easy.”
“Hell, Sammy. I’m not saying it will be, just… we’ve been through worse.” Dean gets up, taking a moment to stretch a little and then smiles. “But I get to throw Mickey off the barn roof his first time.”
“It’s Michael,” Mickey grumbles from his place on the floor.