Working for the Mandroid (moonshayde) wrote,
Working for the Mandroid

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SPN Fic: The Genesis Variant [7/13]

Title: The Genesis Variant
Author: moonshayde
Season: Four
Category: Gen, Drama, Humor, Angst, AU, wing!fic
Spoilers: Through It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester
Series: Playing the Angel - While Sam and Dean continue fighting to prevent the Apocalypse, Dean inexplicably manifests a pair of wings. The brothers must work together to figure out what is happening and reverse the act before the changes overtake Dean completely.
Summary: Dean manifests wings for the first time, which complicates the case the brothers are investigating.
Word Count: 32,244 (Total)
Rating: PG-13

A/N: This series is obviously AU, but will follow show canon as closely as possible. Each story can be read as stand alones, but it might make more sense together. I may occasionally post out of order.

Disclaimer: See previous posts.

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] [Chapter 6]

Chapter 7

When Dean awoke, the entire room was shrouded in darkness. He blinked a few times, suddenly freaked he might have gone blind, but he breathed out as the sleep peeled back and his senses returned.

He knew one thing: the wings seriously had to go. He couldn't keep second-guessing every damn thing.

Dean pulled himself to his feet and arched his back to let the tension out of his muscles. Behind him, the wings lengthened and, after a jerky shake, folded themselves neatly against his back.

He hated to admit it, but man, it felt good to stretch like that.

Deciding he didn't want to think about that at all, Dean rubbed his nose, and satisfied that it was still normal, he reached over to switch on the light. When the glow burned his eyes, he blinked a few times until his vision adjusted to the change, and then scanned the room. It didn't take long to figure out he was the only one there.

"Dammit," he muttered.

Sam had taken off. Dean pulled back the curtain an inch to check, and sure enough, the Impala was gone.

"Fantastic." The last thing he wanted was for Sam to be alone with witches and Satanists and God knew whatever else with his freaky powers.

Dean exhaled and rubbed his face. He wasn't feeling as tired or as sore, though he had some pain lingering in his back. At this point, he was glad for the relief and didn't care if it meant his body was getting used to the wings or not. The pain reminded him too much of…other things he'd rather forget.

He tapped his fingers on the table and thought about what to do. Screw it. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Resolute, Dean went to his bed and stripped off the top sheet. He threw the sheet over his back and his wings, and draped it over his chest and shoulders for extra warmth. The wings flapped to protest, but he told them to shut up, and for once they actually listened.

His duffle was already packed from earlier. Dean snatched it from the side of the bed and paused by the table. He grabbed a slice of pizza, held it between his teeth, and headed out the door.

* * *

Walking across town to get to the forest sucked. The town was small, and most people seemed to be inside their warm homes for the night. Dean couldn't thank the powers that be enough that he and Sam had ended up in the town time forgot and not in a big city where it took thirty minutes just to get through main street with tons of prying eyes from unwelcome night owls, gangs, and hookers.

Maybe not the hookers. He wouldn't mind their appreciative eyes.

But the wing thing would have been five times as bad in a city, since some yahoo would get that he wasn't just a belated Halloween freak. Then again, small towns had even worse yahoos, ones that were far more superstitious, so he didn't know really which was worse at this point.

A raw wind nipped at his skin and he shivered, bringing the mustard yellow sheet closer to his chest. He really wished that when the wings had exploded out of his back, he'd been wearing a shirt. The shirt would have been ripped to shreds, but he'd still have something. Winter was coming soon and…

Dean stopped. No way was he going to start thinking like that. The damn wings would be gone well before the first flake of snow hit the Impala's windshield. And if not, then they were doing nothing but taking jobs in the South until this mess got fixed.

He tried not to think too much about the future as he walked down the solitary path to the forest's edge. Dean didn't see any cars parked along the outskirts, but then again, Sam knew better than to keep the Impala visible. She'd have been hidden good to keep her out of sight.

When he reached the fringe of the forest, he stopped again, this time double-checking his duffle. He had everything he needed for Bobby's glamour spell and some spare weapons in case things got hairy when he found Sam.

Satanists were crafty bastards, and witches were just plain gross, so he knew he'd have to be on top form as he started weaving through the woods. The trees made perfect cover. Plus, he figured the cops would be out in full force, both keeping watch on the crime scene and for any other nasty bloodbaths.

Dean breathed out and stepped into the woods.

The ground was moist and dark, like the foliage around him. With the forest in eastern Oklahoma as dense as it was, Dean felt like he was a sardine rammed into the world's smallest can. He wasn't able to thread through the compacted trees as easily as he normally could. The stupid sheet kept getting tangled in the branches or on thorns low to the ground, or one of the wings would ram into the side of a tree and it would hurt like hell.

He wasn't sure how long he traveled; the trees and bushes blurred into blobs of muted greens and browns under the half-moon. He knew he'd hiked quite a distance once the sheet--and disgustingly, some of the feathers from the wings--started to stick to his skin, while he felt the droplets of sweat running down his back.

Ahead, he found some relief. He saw a small, yet invasive stream, running its course through the forest. It was wide enough that he couldn't just hop it, but it wasn't shallow enough that he could easily splash through it. But damn, he knew that water would be cold, even if it only went to his calves.

This had to be Devil's Creek. If it was, that meant he'd have to be more careful. Witches and the like could be fussing around, running their black mojo like nobody's business. Sam could be nearby, too. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to both him and Sam.

Dean hesitated. The sheet was going to be a massive pain wet, and he'd need it to get back to the motel. Not really wanting to give up his less than stellar shield, Dean unwrapped the sheet from his shoulders and shoved it into his duffle.

The air was like ice on his wet skin and he shivered. He went over some of the lyrics to his fave tunes to avoid thinking about the flutter the wings were making from their newfound freedom, but it wasn't really helping. The things were loud. He wished he could mute them in the worst way.

"Quiet," he hissed.

It only took a minute for his body to grudgingly adjust to the cold air. The wings stilled, for the most part, and once he had made sure the sheet was secure, double-checked his gun which was snug along the small of his back, and tucked the duffle under his arm, he was good to go.

The cold water was nasty, but he found some polished stones along the stream to follow which made him slightly less waterlogged. He swore the next job they took was going to be someplace warm and dry, like a resort. Why did they never hunt haunted resorts? Or at least a haunted brothel?

Dean hopped over the last part of the stream and onto the somewhat dry land. After he shook his legs out, he started up a small incline, away from the stream and into a new patch of forest.

He paused along the way at the sight of a river birch. He was positive that was birch if his memory served him right. It wasn't like he could forget. Dean swore that Sam's tree fetish from when he was eleven was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

He snapped off a twig and smiled before heading up the hill.

Once Dean hit the top of the incline, he stopped and frowned. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he suddenly felt different than before, lighter and freer, almost as if his chest had opened up and a sack of bricks had been removed from on top of his shoulders.

His pulse quickened. Sam had mentioned hex bags near here somewhere. Then another thought occurred to him. He looked to the large expansive sky and felt his stomach bottom out.

"Oh God," he mumbled. "Don't let me fly away."

But he didn't. The wings stayed folded behind his back, barely moving aside from an occasional rustle from the wind. He lingered for only a minute, still unnerved at the sensation, but decided he'd have to deal with it later.

Dean trudged through the forest until he found a clearing small enough to hold his stuff. He stopped and cringed, concerned how every little move seemed to thunder through the quiet forest, but ripped open the duffle anyway, quickly finding the ghetto materials for the glamour spell. He rolled out the bathmat, the gunk from the bathroom, the twig, and the beaten up paper bowl. After he filled the bowl, he brought out the candles and matches, along with the spell Bobby gave him, and started to chant.

As the waters started to blacken, he finished the chant and sucked in a deep breath. It was now or nothing.

Dean focused on how he wanted to appear and stared into the bowl.

[Chapter 8]
Tags: fic: spn gen, wing!fic

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