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spn_summergen2017-08-16 12:39 pm
summergen_mod) wrote in spn_summergen2017-08-16 12:39 pm
Entry tags:
Real Skilled At People for thruterryseyes
Title: Real Skilled At People
Recipient:thruterryseyes
Rating: R
Word count: 1,500
Warnings: implied addiction, references to / descriptions of body modification and surgical procedures
Summary: In an alternate future reality there's a black market doctor named Robert and a man who yearns for wings.
Author’s notes: inspired by a request for “Dean wing!fic”.
Dean stares at the door.
It's a metal mickey beast of a thing, a fraction too large for the space it fills. A junkyard reject from the end of the world that's settled down against the wall in a disconsolate crouch, biding its time. Embedded in the oxidised ruin sits a comatose flex-screen monitor. Dean moves closer and considers it for a long moment, before waving a hand over a violet aether light hovering above one corner of the frame.
Nothing happens.
Which is, whatever. Fine. A temporary complication, that’s all, nothing he can’t deal with. It’s A-OK fine.
His fingers twitch and start tapping out a nervous rhythm; curl into a fist and press tight together, each one to the other, bruised friends forever.
It’s not fine.
Because what Dean desires most, the obsessive haunt of his dreams, occupies Schrödinger's limbo on the other side and he wants in. Wants with the kind of milk-curdled desperation reminiscent of a childhood he'd rather forget. Standing alone before the door, Dean Winchester is thirty-one and he's four and three quarters, superposition shrink-wrapped in flesh and a battered leather jacket that once belonged to his dad.
Screaming, he thinks, low-key wild and starting to spiral, would probably feel kind of good. Fantastic, actually. And maybe he’d do it, just start with an entry level yell and keep right on going, only -
There’s a soft - zzzzz-click-zzzzz - and the screen fills with dazzle.
He tracks sparks of dark colour as they flock and soar. Formless birds birthed from the System’s data pyre, set free to fly inside the confines of a plasma cage.
Dean blinks as the pixels land and slowly settle into the image of a magnified eye. It blinks back at him in a series of syncopated stutters, mascaraed seduction dialed way up past eleven. The screen's an aspartame-sweet piece of tech, has resolution to die for, and Dean swears he can see his own reflection burn a feedback loop down through the optic nerve and back again, all prowling electricity.
His feet shuffle slightly of their own accord, from fear or excitement or something else entirely, lungs wrapped choke collar tight around a breath.
Sticky eyelashes flick up in a final c-c-c-can-can kick, and then the screen goes black.
The door remains closed.
Dean startles as warm air prickles across the damp skin of his neck. He risks a glance, certain he'll find someone standing behind him, lips pinched in an aborted kiss, but the dank corridor stretches out empty. The walls are slick with condensation, clusters of swollen fungal blooms pushing up from beneath peeling paint and warped, plaster skirting boards like diseased votive candles.
"Get it together, Winchester,” Dean mutters. He feels grimy with sweat. The friction of his t-shirt triggers a familiar, insect-skitter itch along the empty curve of each shoulder blade. Dean forces himself to breathe steady and bangs a fist against the door, setting loose a storm of flaking rust.
"Password," demands a muffled voice.
The corridor stumbles crazy to the left and folds around him, confusion nestled tight inside a quantum-origami maze of relief, before lurching upright again. Password? Dean’s mouth is dry, blood pumping too warm inside the walls of his chest. Frank must have taken a big ol’ hit of amnesia, because he didn’t mention a password, not even a little. Motherfucker. But yeah, Dean tells himself, okay. It’s okay. Not the best-case scenario, but then somehow it never is and look at him now, he’s doing so good. Mom would be proud.
The voice gives Dean something he can work with, is the thing. Once upon a time he was real skilled at people.
He inches forward and calls up the muscle memory of an ultra relaxed, too-cool-for-school special. Lets the moment drift for a few seconds. Contemplates the ledge that’s calling his name and steps off.
“The credits transferred yesterday. Got the verification code and everything,” Dean says, gesturing to his empty back pocket. “I can -“
"Password."
Six seconds of free fall, arms stretched wide in willing crucifixion, and his velocity closes in on a hundred miles an hour.
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be like that about it.” Dean tries for a smile that mostly gets there, all crooked charm with bloodied edges. His gaze slides along the length of the door and shifts sideways. “Nice set up you’ve got here. I mean, paint could do with a touch up, maybe.” He raps a knuckle against the wall.
“Password.”
“But hey, no judgment. I get it. Stuff comes up, right? Opportunities. Chance for a bit of fun. And sweetheart -“
Arms pull in, crossed suffocation tight around his torso, head facing the ground. A terminal one-thirty and counting, committed to a state of acceleration in a way he’s never quite managed with anything else. Not even his little brother, back before Azazel and the liminal white suit, back when Sam was still Sam was still Sam.
“- you really want to stop with this password crap, because I’m the best damn time your boss is gonna have the right side of a Reaper. See, I’ve asked around some and your guy? He’s got a reputation for meat tweaking that gives folk fifth level nightmares. Makes you wonder if the M.O.L. got it right when they burnt his license.”
Cold, dark earth is waiting patient for him beneath an iridescent sea of smog. If he’s going to escape the call home then it needs to be now.
Dean leans in and narrows his eyes, sight fixed serial killer fierce on his target. “So here’s a free piece of advice, ‘cause I’m generous like that: when the flesh volunteers and shows up to play, you open the fucking door.”
His words hang there, kicking back and forth in the silence.
No, it’s not silent, but quiet. It's so very quiet.
Dean keeps his face carefully blank even as adrenaline shakes him apart on the inside. He stares at the door until its outline softens and blurs. Tries to conjure the sensation of a rough hand pressing against the curve of his skull and ruffling his hair, the smell of cheap whiskey.
Finally a second voice says, “Yes, well. I think Mr Winchester may have a point. Stop teasing the man, Eva.”
The door swings open.
Shoulders strain and flex. Wet, carbon wings burst through scarred skin and unfurl in spiny black ridges across his back. They scrape against the sky and start to drag, reinforced sternum shrieking in protest, threatening to pull free. And then he’s flying.
"Doctor Robert will see you now," announces Eva from the doorway, hand propped against one hip. The man standing next to her is older than Dean expected, faded blue eyes set in a face showing signs of wear.
“I’d apologise for Eva, but as you so rightly point out fun must be taken where it can.” Doctor Robert gives Dean a sly half-smile. “Now, I believe you’re here for a consultation about wings. Been a good long while since we’ve had a Featherhead. Isn’t that right, Eva?”
"Good long while," Eva agrees, sounding bored.
"It's all neural patches these days," Doctor Robert continues. "Data burrowing and scurrying its way to the singularity. Bits and bytes. Disposable media darlings conceived in the binary, poor little things." He pauses and squints at Dean over the top of his glasses. "Wetware, though. Hmmm. That's genuine authentic. A real commitment."
Eva smirks. "Yeah, real commitment."
Dean shrugs, an involuntary spasm that trails off mid-motion. “Uh, right. Listen Doc, this whole routine you’ve got going is great and all, but how ‘bout we skip the part where you talk me to death and head inside.”
“Of course,” Doctor Robert says. “Right this way.”
He extends a hand covered in a white latex glove and ushers Dean forward. Eva has already disappeared into the shadows. Dean’s heart thumps up a racket as Doctor Robert reaches out and rests a hand against his back. Fingertips pet at warm leather, trace the path of imagined incisions with precise, spider-soft touches.
“Oh yes, this will work,” Doctor Robert whispers to himself. “What a pretty scapula, almost a shame I’ll have to break it. Very nice flesh indeed.” Turning away he calls out, “Prepare the number twenty-two scalpel, Eva! And maybe a nineteen!”
Dean swallows, frozen in place.
“Is something wrong?” asks Doctor Robert, tombstone teeth gleaming.
“No,” Dean says, avoiding his eyes. “I’m good.”
Everything’s fairytale fine. This is what he wants and it won’t hurt that bad and he doesn’t miss Sam and he isn’t frightened or scared. Dean squeezes past Doctor Robert and steps inside. The door closes behind him with a satisfied click and settles back against the wall.
Recipient:
thruterryseyesRating: R
Word count: 1,500
Warnings: implied addiction, references to / descriptions of body modification and surgical procedures
Summary: In an alternate future reality there's a black market doctor named Robert and a man who yearns for wings.
Author’s notes: inspired by a request for “Dean wing!fic”.
Dean stares at the door.
It's a metal mickey beast of a thing, a fraction too large for the space it fills. A junkyard reject from the end of the world that's settled down against the wall in a disconsolate crouch, biding its time. Embedded in the oxidised ruin sits a comatose flex-screen monitor. Dean moves closer and considers it for a long moment, before waving a hand over a violet aether light hovering above one corner of the frame.
Nothing happens.
Which is, whatever. Fine. A temporary complication, that’s all, nothing he can’t deal with. It’s A-OK fine.
His fingers twitch and start tapping out a nervous rhythm; curl into a fist and press tight together, each one to the other, bruised friends forever.
It’s not fine.
Because what Dean desires most, the obsessive haunt of his dreams, occupies Schrödinger's limbo on the other side and he wants in. Wants with the kind of milk-curdled desperation reminiscent of a childhood he'd rather forget. Standing alone before the door, Dean Winchester is thirty-one and he's four and three quarters, superposition shrink-wrapped in flesh and a battered leather jacket that once belonged to his dad.
Screaming, he thinks, low-key wild and starting to spiral, would probably feel kind of good. Fantastic, actually. And maybe he’d do it, just start with an entry level yell and keep right on going, only -
There’s a soft - zzzzz-click-zzzzz - and the screen fills with dazzle.
He tracks sparks of dark colour as they flock and soar. Formless birds birthed from the System’s data pyre, set free to fly inside the confines of a plasma cage.
Dean blinks as the pixels land and slowly settle into the image of a magnified eye. It blinks back at him in a series of syncopated stutters, mascaraed seduction dialed way up past eleven. The screen's an aspartame-sweet piece of tech, has resolution to die for, and Dean swears he can see his own reflection burn a feedback loop down through the optic nerve and back again, all prowling electricity.
His feet shuffle slightly of their own accord, from fear or excitement or something else entirely, lungs wrapped choke collar tight around a breath.
Sticky eyelashes flick up in a final c-c-c-can-can kick, and then the screen goes black.
The door remains closed.
Dean startles as warm air prickles across the damp skin of his neck. He risks a glance, certain he'll find someone standing behind him, lips pinched in an aborted kiss, but the dank corridor stretches out empty. The walls are slick with condensation, clusters of swollen fungal blooms pushing up from beneath peeling paint and warped, plaster skirting boards like diseased votive candles.
"Get it together, Winchester,” Dean mutters. He feels grimy with sweat. The friction of his t-shirt triggers a familiar, insect-skitter itch along the empty curve of each shoulder blade. Dean forces himself to breathe steady and bangs a fist against the door, setting loose a storm of flaking rust.
"Password," demands a muffled voice.
The corridor stumbles crazy to the left and folds around him, confusion nestled tight inside a quantum-origami maze of relief, before lurching upright again. Password? Dean’s mouth is dry, blood pumping too warm inside the walls of his chest. Frank must have taken a big ol’ hit of amnesia, because he didn’t mention a password, not even a little. Motherfucker. But yeah, Dean tells himself, okay. It’s okay. Not the best-case scenario, but then somehow it never is and look at him now, he’s doing so good. Mom would be proud.
The voice gives Dean something he can work with, is the thing. Once upon a time he was real skilled at people.
He inches forward and calls up the muscle memory of an ultra relaxed, too-cool-for-school special. Lets the moment drift for a few seconds. Contemplates the ledge that’s calling his name and steps off.
“The credits transferred yesterday. Got the verification code and everything,” Dean says, gesturing to his empty back pocket. “I can -“
"Password."
Six seconds of free fall, arms stretched wide in willing crucifixion, and his velocity closes in on a hundred miles an hour.
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be like that about it.” Dean tries for a smile that mostly gets there, all crooked charm with bloodied edges. His gaze slides along the length of the door and shifts sideways. “Nice set up you’ve got here. I mean, paint could do with a touch up, maybe.” He raps a knuckle against the wall.
“Password.”
“But hey, no judgment. I get it. Stuff comes up, right? Opportunities. Chance for a bit of fun. And sweetheart -“
Arms pull in, crossed suffocation tight around his torso, head facing the ground. A terminal one-thirty and counting, committed to a state of acceleration in a way he’s never quite managed with anything else. Not even his little brother, back before Azazel and the liminal white suit, back when Sam was still Sam was still Sam.
“- you really want to stop with this password crap, because I’m the best damn time your boss is gonna have the right side of a Reaper. See, I’ve asked around some and your guy? He’s got a reputation for meat tweaking that gives folk fifth level nightmares. Makes you wonder if the M.O.L. got it right when they burnt his license.”
Cold, dark earth is waiting patient for him beneath an iridescent sea of smog. If he’s going to escape the call home then it needs to be now.
Dean leans in and narrows his eyes, sight fixed serial killer fierce on his target. “So here’s a free piece of advice, ‘cause I’m generous like that: when the flesh volunteers and shows up to play, you open the fucking door.”
His words hang there, kicking back and forth in the silence.
No, it’s not silent, but quiet. It's so very quiet.
Dean keeps his face carefully blank even as adrenaline shakes him apart on the inside. He stares at the door until its outline softens and blurs. Tries to conjure the sensation of a rough hand pressing against the curve of his skull and ruffling his hair, the smell of cheap whiskey.
Finally a second voice says, “Yes, well. I think Mr Winchester may have a point. Stop teasing the man, Eva.”
The door swings open.
Shoulders strain and flex. Wet, carbon wings burst through scarred skin and unfurl in spiny black ridges across his back. They scrape against the sky and start to drag, reinforced sternum shrieking in protest, threatening to pull free. And then he’s flying.
"Doctor Robert will see you now," announces Eva from the doorway, hand propped against one hip. The man standing next to her is older than Dean expected, faded blue eyes set in a face showing signs of wear.
“I’d apologise for Eva, but as you so rightly point out fun must be taken where it can.” Doctor Robert gives Dean a sly half-smile. “Now, I believe you’re here for a consultation about wings. Been a good long while since we’ve had a Featherhead. Isn’t that right, Eva?”
"Good long while," Eva agrees, sounding bored.
"It's all neural patches these days," Doctor Robert continues. "Data burrowing and scurrying its way to the singularity. Bits and bytes. Disposable media darlings conceived in the binary, poor little things." He pauses and squints at Dean over the top of his glasses. "Wetware, though. Hmmm. That's genuine authentic. A real commitment."
Eva smirks. "Yeah, real commitment."
Dean shrugs, an involuntary spasm that trails off mid-motion. “Uh, right. Listen Doc, this whole routine you’ve got going is great and all, but how ‘bout we skip the part where you talk me to death and head inside.”
“Of course,” Doctor Robert says. “Right this way.”
He extends a hand covered in a white latex glove and ushers Dean forward. Eva has already disappeared into the shadows. Dean’s heart thumps up a racket as Doctor Robert reaches out and rests a hand against his back. Fingertips pet at warm leather, trace the path of imagined incisions with precise, spider-soft touches.
“Oh yes, this will work,” Doctor Robert whispers to himself. “What a pretty scapula, almost a shame I’ll have to break it. Very nice flesh indeed.” Turning away he calls out, “Prepare the number twenty-two scalpel, Eva! And maybe a nineteen!”
Dean swallows, frozen in place.
“Is something wrong?” asks Doctor Robert, tombstone teeth gleaming.
“No,” Dean says, avoiding his eyes. “I’m good.”
Everything’s fairytale fine. This is what he wants and it won’t hurt that bad and he doesn’t miss Sam and he isn’t frightened or scared. Dean squeezes past Doctor Robert and steps inside. The door closes behind him with a satisfied click and settles back against the wall.
no subject
Love it, anon. Love it!