And a Cloak of Purple(With a Pair of Wings) - SN fic - PG

[tigriswolf]

Title: And a Cloak of Purple(With a Pair of Wings)
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: the boys aren’t mine
Warnings: none, really
Pairings: nada
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1913
Point of view: third
Notes: wing!fic. Have you seen this? That(and my mental instability) explains the following.

 

She’s always been a mischievous sprite. As the youngest grandchild of the Firelord, she’s wanted for nothing. Her family gives her everything she requests, and more besides.

Soon, of course, like all spoiled young things, she grows bored. She’s only a few centuries old, still a baby, and the Palace of Flame has grown stifling for such an inquisitive child. She’s explored every nook and cranny, been to each floor, sussed out the secrets—and, like all Heirs of the Inferno, she can travel between the realms with ease.

The Firelord has ruled for longer than any of the Fairefolk can count, unchallenged. He made peace with the other three elementals—the Windlady, the King of Earth, and the Sea-Son. His favorite daughter even married the Earth, cementing that alliance: no way the Firelord would threaten his daughter.

And as a Child of Flame and Dirt, the Firelord’s youngest, most beloved grandchild, only her brother is her equal. She is a twice-powered elemental, daughter of Earth and Fire, and when she slips between the realms, it takes her family a long while to unravel where she’s gone because her passing left the threads in such a tangle.

And by then, the mischief has been done.

-

 At first, Yvena just wanders, a few sparkling lights, purple and orange and blue and gold—the color of fire. This realm is interesting, the people large and loud, nowhere near as gifted as the ones at home.

When she decides she wants to interact with these large folk, Yvena shifts form. She looks around, trying to decide on what skin to wear. She settles on a woman of medium height with dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair—completely the opposite of her original shape. She wanders awkwardly on two legs for a bit before growing used to it; she misses her wings, but not enough to ruin the game by wearing them.

Yvena tries some human food; it tastes wild and full, like honey and paprika, like Flame itself—jambalaya, the server calls it, and Yvena eats three helpings. She asks Mandy for the recipe, wondering if it can be made at home, eyes wide and sweet, and Mandy melts like everyone else Yvena has ever known.

She walks out of the ‘diner’ fuller than she’s ever been—on jambalaya and cheesecake—with the directions to make both tucked away in the air. Yvena wanders up and down the streets, unafraid; she doesn’t realize that her petite body draws both gazes and impure thoughts, that she created the form of a woman no more than twenty, who looks young and helpless, who can’t fight her way out of a paper bag.

Not that Yvena knows what a paper bag is.

Appearances are deceiving, of course, but Yvena doesn’t think to use her gifts because she’s never been threatened before.

So when three human men surround her a little way from the main street, at first she feels no fear. Back home, the entire populace watches out for her, takes care of her, enjoys making her happy. Grandpapa, the Firelord, and Papa, the King of Earth, have ensured since her conception in the Wheel of Flame that she would be safe and beloved. Yvena, because of her experiences back home, does not know what the men want—elementals do not have relations as humans do.

The largest—nearly twice as tall as Yvena’s woman-shape---enters her space and touches her shoulder, calling her, “Pretty-pretty.” Yvena just looks at him, curious as always, eager to learn.

The smallest, still a head taller than her, grips her arm, pulling at her shirt.

Then the third one grabs her face and shoves his lips onto hers.

Revulsion sweeps through her: Fairefolk do not kiss. They dance and mingle their threads, but their lips never touch.

Yvena pushes at the human, stretching for her fire, but before she can lash out, the man is pulled away and tossed into a wall. Then the other two join him and Yvena looks at the humans who helped her.

All of her power is brought to bear on them, her mind wide open; they do not want to hurt her, so she calms, she breathes deeply, and says quietly, “Thank you.”

The larger brother—Sam, she saw his name is—asks if there’s anyone he can call, anyone who could take her home.

She shakes her head, can’t take her eyes off the three who wanted—she shudders, repulsed and wounded. Fairefolk have no concept of rape.

“I want to go home,” she says bleakly. “I don’t like it here anymore.”

The brothers share a look. “There’s no one we can call?” Dean asks again, hesitantly stepping forward.

Yvena throws herself at him and he catches her. She nestles against his chest, seeking comfort—she’s only four centuries old, a toddler by elemental standards. And Dean’s forest-eyes remind her of Yethva, her brother.

Yvena sags into him, losing control of her form for a second; he reacts, quick as a Fairefolk, and swings her up into his arms, cradles her.

“Did they hurt you?” he demands, voice rough with concern. “Should we take you to the hospital?”

She shakes her head, weary, and tamps down on her power; beneath the concrete, she can heard the Earth singing, wanting to punish those humans who dared frighten her.

Yvena is a child by her people’s reckoning. Before today, she had never feared anything.

Dean, still holding her, strides away, towards the south, Sam at his side.

Once we’ve gone, she whispers to the lingering spirits, deal with them as you please.

Listening to Dean’s heartbeat, Yvena tightens her hold on her human-shape and slips into the realm of human-sleep.

-

She wakes on something soft to the sound of Dean and Sam having a hushed conversation.

“We should take her to a doctor!” Sam.

“She doesn’t seem harmed, Sammy. If she doesn’t want a doctor, it’s her choice.”

“Dean!”

“Sam, it’s her choice.”

Yvena reaches out, seeking the Earth spirit from before. It’s done, the spirit tells her with satisfaction. She calms some more; those humans will touch no one ever again.

She’s on her back on a human bed, still wearing her human skin and human clothes. She feels Grandpapa and Papa searching for her; they’ve crossed over, angry and frightened. And Yethva is closer still, his fury and fear bright, slapping at her.

She’ll need to thank Dean and Sam, then meet her family before Grandpapa declares war on humanity.

So Yvena sits up and looks at them, staring first into Sam’s jade eyes, then Dean’s forest ones. “Thank you,” she says quietly, sincerely. She’d never needed to be saved before, but these two men did without question, without hesitation. She wants to gift them, to show them just how much she appreciates their actions.

She stands and steps over, first to Sam. Fairefolk don’t kiss, but humans do, so she reaches up to lightly grip Sam’s face. He moves down to help—he’s bigger even than the man who called her “Pretty-pretty”—and she softly presses her lips to his cheek. He smiles gently at her and she turns to Dean, does the same. Again, she says, “Thank you.”

Then she sheds her human-form and returns to her natural shape, calls out to her family, and slides between the realms.

-

 The human world and the Fairefolk world have many things in common, most notably the four Elements and the People of nature. Yvena’s favorite of the furred, winged, and finned siblings has always been the painted, gentle ones: humans call them butterflies. Yvena calls them her younger siblings and sometimes she wears their form, dances with them through the sky.

Yethva, Papa, and Grandpapa don’t let her leave the Palace of Flame for a very long time. But they can’t keep her from looking in on her humans, those brothers.

To Sam, she gifted black wings with fire swirls of purple, gold, orange, and blue. They’re large, of course, and she imbued them with strength enough to fly.

And Dean—his wings are the color of the rainbow, painted with glee. They are a masterpiece without equal in her world or his.

She looks in on them often, sometimes calling in Yethva to show him. He laughs the first time and says, “They’re lovely, Ven. But you should remove them now. Humans don’t have wings.”

She pouts at him, but he tells her that every time they see each other for a human week.

But she can’t take away the wings without visiting them again. And Papa will go apoplectic if she leaves the elemental realm.

Watching her humans, though, she can see her gifts have given them nothing but trouble, which was not her intention at all. Flying with her little brothers and sisters is one of the greatest feelings she’s ever known; she only wanted to give Dean and Sam that sensation.

She waits until the palace is resting, until Grandpapa is in the Fairefolk version of sleep, and she slides between the realms again, appearing in Dean and Sam’s room. Dean’s stretched out on his bed, asleep on his stomach; Sam’s sitting in the middle of the floor, flipping through a book. She can see, as he raises his head, that it’s an encyclopedia of butterflies.

She isn’t visible, not to human eyes, but she knows he can see her.

“Who’s there?” he demands softly, trying not to wake Dean up. His wings flap, causing a gentle breeze.

Yvena summons back her woman-shape and slips in. He relaxes almost unnoticeably, but she can read the air.

“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble,” she says, sinking down beside him, holding back tears.

Fairefolk do not cry.

She touches one of his black, fire-swirled wings; it’s soft, like her siblings back home, and tickles her human-skin. Sam trembles and she pulls her hand away.

“We know,” Sam assures her. “You were trying to thank us.”

She smiles tremulously and surges up, kisses his forehead. She settles down again and watches the wings fade. Sam arches his back, rolls his shoulders, and smiles at her, a bright grin that lights up the room.

“I scoured every known butterfly breed,” he says. “I couldn’t find the kind you gave us.”

She shrugs. “Back home, some of my brothers look like that.”

“Sounds like a beautiful place.” His voice is almost wistful.

She studies him for a moment and opens her mind, slowly reaches out to nudge him. His eyes widen as the images trickle in—the Palace and the fields, the oceans and forests and mountains, all the creatures that are slightly different from what he knows.

He laughs in delight as she strengthens the memories, filling in the sky—“Dragons?” He gapes at her and she giggles.

“I need to fix Dean,” she says with regret and rises to her feet, staggers over to the bed.

Dean’s head is turned to the side; the wings flutter slightly. She’s never seen anything so beautiful, even back home.

If she were slightly older, though she doesn’t know it, she’d consider keeping him. Instead she leans down and kisses his forehead, trails her fingers along the closest wing.

She doesn’t wait for him to stir, just sheds the skin and goes home.

-

 Yvena, nestled deeply in the Fairefolk version of sleep, dreams of Dean—and Sam, because Dean isn’t complete without Sam—soaring across the sky, with glorious wings.

Comments

[ultraviolet9a.livejournal.com]

So I just pulled a Sammy on you? :)

Seriously though, you should give it a go. It has the potential to cover lots of genres depending on the writing style, hell, it could even be a fairy tale for younger ages if you wanted to swing it that way.