Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If Dean’s being honest with himself—which he rarely is—he has to admit that the hunt was an absolute shitshow. They’d gotten a tip about strange activity in an abandoned summer resort a state over and gone to check it out, expecting a salt-and-burn-and-home-again-for-dinner type of hunt. What they’d found instead was a sizeable coven of witches who very much did not want to be salted, burned, or otherwise gotten rid of. They’d had to call Cas for backup, but even with an angel on their side curses had flown before they’d managed to put the last of the spell-slingers out of their misery.

Back in the driver’s seat and cruising 20 over the speed limit, Dean lets himself think about the hunt. Sam is slumped in a pile of long limbs across the backseat, sleeping the experience off despite getting healed up before they hit the road. Cas is perched rigidly in the passenger seat, his trench coat blood-splattered and filthy, his unblinking gaze fixed firmly on the dark fields rippling along the roadside. The headlights of an oncoming F-150 briefly illuminate the angel’s squarish profile, the dark stubble along his jawline shadowing the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Dean drags his treacherous eyes back to the yellow line, tucks the image of the angel’s throat deep down in the repression bank along with the myriad other moments he doesn’t plan to withdraw until he’s back in the bowels of Hell. Dean has bigger issues at the moment anyway.

Like the curse.

The damned thing had hit him hard and burning between his shoulder blades some time between walking into the supposedly-haunted resort and staggering back out again. He’s been waiting for some unpleasant effects to manifest themselves, but so far nothing has happened. It could have ended when he fridged the witch that slung it at him. It should have. And if it didn't, it was definitely healed out of him with angel mojo when Cas zapped away his other injuries. At least, that's what Dean tells himself until the itching begins.

It’s a little tickle at first, barely there but growing fast. It spreads along his spine, worms its way into the muscles of his back, crawls up the nape of his neck, and burrows into the marrow of his bones. Dean fidgets, reaching over his shoulders and under his shirt with the hand that isn’t gripping the wheel. He scrubs his shoulder blades against the bench seat like a bear against a tree trunk. Nothing he does seems to help. Cas turns to watch with a creased brow as Dean leans over to riffle around in the glovebox.

“I’m fine,” Dean snaps before Cas can say anything. He fishes out a plastic fork and wedges it between his back and the seat, dragging the tines against his skin. “Just itchy, s’nothing.”

Cas' crinkled eyes linger for a few moments too long, as they often do, before turning back to the road in silence. Dean’s glad of it; he’s not sure what he’d do if Cas offered to help him. The idea of the angel’s blunt nails raking down his spine makes Dean feel carbonated.

The night around Baby blackens with each passing minute. The sliver of moon that had been hanging in Dean’s peripheral slides behind a cloud and never reappears. The itch builds into an aching pressure, which in turn becomes a sharp pain, like something trapped inside Dean’s back is trying desperately to push its way out. Having seen Alien far too many times for his own good, Dean thinks he might have an idea of where things are going, a realization that makes his nerves skitter around in the tips of his fingers. A few miles back into Kansas, something definitely moves behind Dean’s ribcage and his knuckles whiten on the wheel. He feels more than hears himself humming the melody of Fade To Black, the only thing keeping his breathing somewhat steady. He pulls over at the next gas station he spots through the darkness, heart hammering.

“Dean-” Cas starts, but he cuts the angel off with a wave of his hand as he pulls Baby into a parking spot beside the building.

“Just need to piss. Back in a minute,” Dean’s voice is tight with the effort of concealing pain and panic. He doesn’t really know why he’s lying to Cas. The angel might be able to help him heal the curse, or at least lessen the pain. He should say something now, before whatever is inside him isn't inside anymore.

Instead, Dean steps out of the car. The neon-washed pumps are deserted. He sucks in a few deep breaths, the scent of petrol a comforting burn in his sinuses. The pimply teen behind the counter inside gives Dean a weird look as she hands him the restroom key, eyes stuck to the red stains on the hem of his Henley. Dean wonders intrusively if the kid’s ever seen a dead body before, and the mental image of her finding his torn apart corpse splayed on the washroom floor makes him vaguely nauseous. He should really tell Cas. He should wake Sam up and tell him, too.

Yellow fluorescents buzz to life as Dean steps into the restroom. The steel door slams shut behind him with the sort of metallic clang that sounds when a movie character is thrown in prison. Dean clutches the scum-ringed sink, too disassociated to be disgusted, and splashes a palm of water against his sweaty forehead. The dull lights are too damn bright. The generator hum outside is too damn loud. The thing between Dean’s shoulder blades keeps shifting around, pushing painfully up against his skin from the inside. The nerves in his forearms are shorting out. He can’t feel his bloodless knuckles anymore.

A voice in his head that sounds a lot like Sam’s tells him he’s having a panic attack. As much as Dean hates to admit it, that voice is usually right. He focuses on the blackened rot around the edges of the mirror and wills himself to breathe.

In.

And out.

In.

And out.

In—

The thing straddling Dean’s spine shoves particularly hard and he chokes back a yell as his flesh finally tears open in a spray of blood. A fresh sheen of sweat breaks across his brow. He claws off his jacket, flannel, and ruined shirt, the fabric stretched and soaked in crimson. His wet fingers fumble the buckle of his belt as he slides it out of his jeans and folds the leather between his teeth. The thing inside him writhes up against the wound it just made and a primal, abject sort of horror fully consumes Dean as he realizes that whatever is inside him, there’s two of them.

He’s helpless to stop the scream that escapes around the belt as a second hole rips open next to the first. He’s too hot and he’s too cold and his entire body is quaking. The impossibly massive things between his shoulders start to slide out, tearing his skin open inch by agonizing inch. The contents of Dean’s stomach surges up the back of his throat, bile washing bitter across his tongue as he swallows vomit. Thick saliva oozes down his chin around the belt. He drops to his knees as the grimy tile around him starts to tilt and spin at the edges of his vision. Everything goes blurry. Hot tears get stuck in his stubble.

The process Dean could only describe as a sort of birthing lasts for what could be seconds or hours, an impossible amount of something unfurling from a space that shouldn’t have been able to hold even a fraction of it. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping Dean conscious, and through a haze of pain he’s reminded of Hell. If the demons had managed to pull off whatever torture is happening to him now, he fears he may have climbed down off The Rack a little sooner.

With a sick, wet noise, the things fully burst free of Dean’s back. Stale air washes his massive, stinging wounds, the relief of it drawing a groan from Dean’s acid-burnt throat. For a minute he just lets himself melt into the floor, trying to ignore how sticky the tile is and the weight against his spine. Whatever just removed itself from his body apparently has no motivation to do any further damage. Yet.

When the tremors subside, Dean picks himself gingerly up off the floor and stands to his full height in front of the mirror.

“Holy shit,” Dean says to the reflection of what he fears must be himself. “What the fuck?”

Looming behind him, coated in a thin layer of bloody slime like a newborn baby, is a massive pair of feathered wings. Truly huge, the joint at the tallest point—the wrist, he supposes—hulks a good couple feet above his head while the primaries trail on the floor. Tentatively, he reaches a hand over his shoulder, hoping that his fingers will pass right through them and that this whole ordeal has just been some sick hallucination. To Dean’s dismay, the wing is firm and warm under his touch, the feathers slick beneath the pads of his fingers. A strand of slime clings to his index as he pulls away, shimmering for a second under the fluorescents before breaking.

Dean really wishes the witch who cursed him was still alive so he could kill her again. He’d make it a lot more painful this time.

Slowly, he rolls his shoulders, stretching the aching muscles in his back, and ever so painstakingly, he flexes the wings. It’s sort of like bending his arms, or taking a step, though indescribably different. They arc up and outward easily. Dean pulls them back into his body and stretches them out again a few times, trying to get used to the feeling of having another set of limbs. The sheer size of them alone is enough to put Dean on edge. Even with both wingtips pressed against the grubby concrete walls on either side of him, they feel like they’re barely halfway extended, but there’s no way of knowing the full wingspan without testing it.

The chilly night air is a balm for his sweaty, aching body as Dean stumbles out of the restroom. He immediately spreads his wings to their full extent, the pull of new muscles a glorious stretch. They’re truly huge—much bigger than he would have estimated—each wing easily a dozen feet from his shoulders to the furthest wingtip. Dean flaps them once, then again. The wounds along his spine where they’ve broken through burn, but the wings themselves are painless, their movements fluid. He shakes them out hard, flinging splatters of bloody scum across the asphalt. The feathers seem to be a tawny brown similar to Dean’s hair, although its hard to tell under the dull blue light of the half-burnt-out gas station sign.

As Dean staggers further into the light he notices for the first time a figure standing in the shadow of the building, not far from where Baby is parked.

“Cas?”

The angel doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His glass shard stare—unwavering and unblinking—reflects cobalt neon the way a deer’s eyes reflect car headlights from a dark ditch. While Cas’s inhuman gaze is enough to leave Dean awkward (and sometimes other things) at the best of times, the way he’s looking at Dean right now is beyond that, beyond the concept of intensity itself. The longer he looks at the angel the brighter Cas’s illuminated gaze seems to become, the reflected light refracting as if Dean is quickly developing an astigmatism, the mirage of a million more eyes muddying the darkness. Some ancient animal in Dean's brain writhes under the Light, urging him to bow down, repent, submit himself, body and soul, as Sword and Shield to this Manifestation of pure Divinity slowly picking its way through his frayed mortal seams.

“Dean!” A voice, a familiar, human voice, reaches Dean at the end of a long, wobbly tunnel.

He blinks. Sam. Sam is awake and calling for him and Dean is standing here in the middle of a parking lot flexing a pair of fuck-off huge wings in plain sight of anyone who might happen to be looking. Fuck. He can’t let Sammy see—

“Dean?” Sam rounds the corner with a plastic shopping bag on his arm and screeches to a stop.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean hopes he doesn’t sound as overwhelmed as he feels.

“Dean? What’s going on—Oh my God…are those…”

“Wings? Nothing gets past you, huh.”

Sam’s gun is drawn and cocked before the bag of snack food hits the pavement. Dean puts his hands up almost unconsciously.

“Get out.” Sam’s voice is ice.

“What?”

“You heard me. Get the hell out of my brother.”

“Woah, dude, I’m not—”

“He’s not possessed, Sam.” Cas’s voice sounds more like stones scraping against each other than words.

“What the fuck is he, then?” Sam demands, the barrel of his gun still aimed squarely between Dean’s eyes.

“Your brother,” Cas says loudly, then adds, somewhat quieter, “Among other things.” Ignoring the gun, the angel walks right up to Dean, who crosses his arms defensively against his bare chest, suddenly acutely aware that he’s halfway to naked. Cas stops so close that the toes of his boots almost bump against Dean’s. The angel takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out, then draws another.

“Hey man, are you sniffing me?” Dean finally manages to meet Cas’s gaze, and he has Jimmy Novak’s crinkly blue eyes again. Or still. Dean isn’t exactly sure if what just happened between them actually happened at all or if the curse coursing through his system is causing him to finally break from reality.

“Yes.” Cas replies, deadpan.

“Can you stop?” The angel seems to understand that it’s not really a question and steps back. He turns to Sam, who’s finally lowered his gun.

“It’s magic,” the angel says. “Some sort of spell.”

“A spell?” Sam casts a raised-eyebrow gaze from Cas to Dean. “But, you would have felt it, right?”

“I, uh,” Dean stops, shrugs.

“Oh, c’mon man. Why didn’t you tell us? We could have—”

“Coulda what, Sam? Killed the witch that cast it? I dunno if you noticed, but we fridged every goddamn Nancy Downs in that coven. How was I supposed to know I’d gotten shot by the one sonova bitch who doesn’t play by the rules?”

Sam sighs. “We have to get back to the bunker. There’s gotta be something in the lore that can help us. And we should call Rowena, see if she—”

“We are not calling Rowena,” Dean snaps, already heading back toward Baby. He can practically hear her cackling at him already, making some sarcastic comment about how he’s not even able to wear shirts anymore. Fuck, he’s not even able to wear shirts anymore.

Or drive, as it turns out. After Dean’s third attempt to squeeze both wings behind the wheel almost takes out the rearview mirror, Sam all but wrestles the keys out of his hand.

“Just...lay down in the back,” Sam waves a hand over his shoulder as he drops into the driver’s seat. Dean tries not to feel helpless as he climbs into the backseat of his own car, listening to Sam rifling through his box of tapes.

“Cas, you comin’?” Dean calls out as he manages to get the last of his limbs inside the vehicle. There’s no response. “Cas?”

Dean sticks his head out the door, casting around the shadowy parking lot, but it’s empty. The angel is gone.

Chapter Text

The bunker seems darker than usual when they get back. Emptier. The adrenaline of sprouting feathers is still coursing through Dean like a party drug. He should probably head down to the library to get a head start on researching his curse while Sam sleeps, but his nerves are fried. Just the thought of sitting there sifting through piles of dusty old codices for hours on end makes him want to pull the machete down from his wall and hack the wings off right then and there. It’s a tempting idea, but based on his past experiences with witchcraft, the damned things would probably just grow right back. Even if they didn’t, he doesn't know his own anatomy anymore. If they’re anything like other limbs, there will be major arteries in the wings and cutting them off without knowing what he’s doing runs Dean the risk of bleeding out.

He can’t lay on his back anymore, and the weight of the wings on his spine and relatively fresh wounds when he tries to stretch out on his stomach is too much. He manages to find a position on his side at the edge of the bed, the wings spread across the mattress behind him. Even loosely folded his feathers still reach the floor.

Dean really wishes he could just get his four hours, but after hours in bed, eyes wandering around the ceiling, he gives up. There’s a cardboard box full of Scooby Doo on VHS that he found in an antiques store on a hunt months ago that has been calling to him like the Green Goblin mask, and now seems like as good a time as any to crack into them. It’s a comfortable nostalgia. The CRT television quality, muted and grainy; the whirring tape a soothing white noise. Dean lets himself melt into his recliner, cozy in pajama pants, slippers, and the wings wrapped around his bare arms like a blanket. They’re warm with body heat, all the way down to the tips of the primaries. Curled up in front of his flatscreen, Dean feels more like a little kid than he did as a child, and he lets himself bathe in it. The episodes float into each other, like one long movie, until with great dismay he reaches into the box for the next tape and hits dusty cardboard.

With a sigh, Dean gets up to check his phone and blinks at the time and date on the lock screen display. Rubs his eyes, looks again. It’s been a day and a half since they got back from the hunt. That can’t be right. He can’t remember getting up to eat, or piss, and he’s sure he didn’t fall asleep. Dean casts around for snack wrappers, dirty bowls, some piece of evidence that he must have forgotten. The floors are empty. The idea that the wings may not be the only thing wrong with him had started creeping up the back of Dean’s mind some time ago, but the possibility starts to feel a lot more likely. He has to hit the lore. But first, despite a troubling lack of hunger, he really should try to eat something. Dean’s at the stove when Sam finds him.

“Mornin’ Sammy,” Dean says, although it’s nearly noon, not bothering to look up from the slices of bacon he’s sliding onto a paper towel lined plate.

“We’ve figured out the curse,” Sam says by way of greeting. Dean turns to stare at his brother. There’s dark smudges under Sam's eyes, his stubble overgrown, his mop of hair hanging limp in greasy ropes. He's wearing the clothes they hunted the resort in. Dean may not have slept or eaten, but he doesn’t feel half as shitty as Sam looks. Come to think of it, he still isn’t tired at all. How long is adrenaline supposed to last anyway?

“‘We?’” Dean realizes immediately after saying it that it might not be the most pressing question, but Sam’s sheepish expression affirms him anyways.

“Uh, yeah. Rowena—”

“Dammit, I told you not to call her!”

Sam folds his arms. “If anyone can help us deal with witchcraft it’s someone with actual experience.” Sam trusts that fucking witch far too much in Dean’s opinion, and he’s about to say so when Sam continues. “Anyways, Rowena and I found this old hex that keeps affecting the victim even after the witch who casts it dies, and I wouldn’t even have considered it but…” Sam sighs. “It checks out, and frankly it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

Sam hesitates. Not promising.

“It’s a love spell.”

“A…love spell?” Dean parrots.

“See, the magic makes you take on the form of the person you’re in love with. It’s usually pretty harmless, like a witch’s version of a prank, but the incantation is almost the same as this other spell that…well, basically turns you inside out. We figure the witch must’ve been in such a rush to kill you that she got her words mixed up and—”

Dean holds up a hand. “Hold on, I’m not turning into anybody, Sammy. I’ve got wings. Whatever spell you’re talking about, that ain’t it."

“Actually, I think it is. The spell doesn’t turn you into the person you love exactly, just something like them. Like changing your gender, or your…uh, species, I guess.”

“You think I’m in love with fuckin’ Tweety Bird?”

Sam looks at Dean for a few heavy seconds, then down at the plate between them on the counter. “Are you gonna eat that?”

Despite the smoky pork scent hanging thick in the air, Dean still doesn’t feel hungry. He suspects Sam knows this, knows that if Dean was hungry he'd have put half the plate away by this point. Gripped by a childish need to prove that he’s fine, that he’s still himself, Dean grabs a slice and folds the whole thing into his mouth at once. The sensory overwhelm is immediate, a million flavours and textures coating the inside of his mouth. It reminds him of his first cigarette, cloying and chemical and carcinogenic. Dean forces himself to chew despite the awful grit of gristle and congealed fat sliding between his molars. Sam is studying him like a scientist watching a mutating experiment. After a few long seconds of dragging a million bacon particles around his mouth, Dean swallows thickly. The flavour stuck between his taste buds is as strong as if he hadn’t.

“You look like shit,” Dean manages to say, an attempt to break the tension that falls flat as soon as he follows it up with “Have you even slept since we got back?”

“Not for long and not well, but yeah. You haven’t though, have you?”

“I got my four—”

“I heard your TV.”

Fuck. Dean gives up, shrugs.

“Look,” Sam sighs. “I know you don’t wanna talk about what’s going on between you and Cas—”

“‘Cause there’s nothing to fuckin’ talk about,” Dean snaps. The kitchen lights flicker above them. Sam’s eyebrows make a valiant bid for his hairline. Of course Sam thinks he knows about Dean’s…feelings, but they are not going to have that conversation. Not here, not now, and not ever if Dean can help it.

“Listen, if you want those wings gone, you’re going to have to talk to him about this.”

“Oh, you’re going to have to do a lot more than just talk.” The brothers spin around to see Rowena leaning against the door frame, flashing her classic crimson grin.

“Didn’t your brother tell you how to break the spell?” Rowena inspects her pristine painted nails as if they’re far more interesting than the situation she’s inserted herself into. Dean wants to answer her with something particularly scathing but his tongue has suddenly become much too big for his mouth.

After a beat, she answers herself with just about the worst thing she could say: “Why, true love’s kiss, of course, dearie.”

The room spins. Sam and Rowena go blurry. There’s a strong smell, like the ozone warning of a thunderstorm, and the hollow pop of light bulbs shattering as the kitchen goes dark in a shower of sparks.

“There—” Dean clears his throat into the shadows. “There’s gotta be something else."

“There might’ve been,” Sam’s voice. “But we killed the witch who cursed you and this was all we could find.”

“Well keep looking, ‘cause I ain’t kissin’ anybody!” Some small part of Dean knows that Cas would probably let him to help break the curse, but that would mean explaining what the curse is. It would mean a confession that Dean is not prepared to make, a confession that could cost him their friendship. Dean pushes down thoughts of unrequited middle school crushes, of men he’d barely flirted with dead at the hands of demons. The fact that he has a best friend at all is more than he could ask for, more than he deserves. He’ll die with these wings before he lets himself fuck that up.

Dean doesn’t remember leaving the kitchen, but when the world stops spinning he’s standing in his room. His palms are sweaty, his breathing unsteady. He needs fresh air. He needs a drink. Dean pulls on a pair of jeans and boots, slides his gun into his waistband. None of his coats are wide or long enough to cover the wings. In the end Dean pulls the blanket off his bed and wraps it around himself like a cloak, feeling like some caped crusader reject. As he’s adjusting it over the wrists of his wings he notices that the wounds in his back are completely, miraculously, healed. There should be a garden of black bruises blooming down his spine, ragged red chunks of skin peeled back where the wings tore him open. Instead, there’s nothing. Just pale freckled skin, not even a scar. It’s weird enough when Cas heals him, but this skeeves Dean out. He tightens the blanket around his shoulders and sweeps out his room.

It’s sunny and temperate outside, birds and squirrels chittering in the trees overhead. A warm breeze swirls around Dean as soon as he steps out into the sunlight, enough to ward off the early afternoon heat but not strong enough to blow back his blanket. Dean sets off towards town, his steps feeling lighter with each one he takes away from that damned bunker. It’s a pleasant walk, and he takes the long way around the edge of the city towards one of his favourite bars, a dingy dive with cheap shots and local music.

Walking up the parking lot feels like trudging through syrup, and by the time he makes it to the door he stops fully, anxiety writhing around in his ribcage. The lumps beneath the blanket are totally visible. It’s clear he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. It would only take one person brushing past him to expose the wings. Realistically, he wouldn’t be able to explain it. He can’t even sit in a normal chair.

A couple tubes in the neon sign above the door blink out with an electric buzz. Fuck. He’s causing that. He has to calm down.

Deep breath in. And out.

Dean opens the door.

The dive is dead, empty save for a table of elderly locals at the back of the room. The bartender looks up from polishing glassware and gives him a warm smile. It’s his favourite of the three that rotate shifts here, a burly, butch woman easily a decade his senior.

“Afternoon,” he says, sliding onto a stool at the bar.

“Afternoon yourself,” the bartender says in her raspy smoker’s voice. “What’s with the blanket?”

Fuck.

“I’m, uh…undercover.” Shit.

“You sure are under the covers,” she grins at him, as if they’re both in on a joke. Dean goes with it and smiles back, although how genuine it looks he can’t begin to guess.

“The usual?” the bartender asks, turning for the beer fridge.

“The other usual,” Dean says.

“Uh huh,” she pivots for a glass while Dean fishes in his wallet for cash. She slides a generous two fingers of whisky, no ice, in front of him with one of her pencil-thin eyebrows cocked. She accepts his payment and tip without looking. “So, what’s the occasion?”

“Huh?”

“It’s not five o’clock in Kansas yet, Toto,” She points a calloused brown finger at the alcohol sitting in front of Dean. Beer may not be day drinking in Dean’s books, but he'll admit that whisky ain’t exactly lemonade.

“It’s…complicated.”

“Try me.”

Dean huffs a laugh to fill the time while he tries to figure out where to begin, how to word it. “Well I’m in this situation. I…" I what? Got a curse from a witch that can only be broken by true love's kiss? As if the blanket cape isn't embarrassing enough. They'll be signing him in for an extended stay at the rubber room resort by the end of the hour.

“She got a name?”

“Uhh…” Of course the bartender's onto him. Well, halfway onto him, but it’s enough. Dean forces himself to say “Cas.”

“Nice name,” she hums, waiting for him to say more. He wonders how many sorry cases like him she talks to in a week. Fuck, he feels like he’s in therapy. Dean scrubs his hands down his face, takes a swig of his drink. Big mistake. It’s impossibly strong. He can taste the years in it. The flavours of the grains, the yeast, the barrel wood. The liquor sears the back of his throat like antiseptic in a wound as he swallows, making tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Dean takes a second to compose himself before trying to speak, his voice still a little strained when he does.

“We’re best friends. I can’t–” He can’t even say it out loud, for fuck’s sake. He doesn’t really need to, though: the bartender’s smile has already slid back into place.

“I betcha your Cas is gonna take it better than you’re thinking. Everybody deserves a little grace, Dean, even guys who drink whisky for lunch. And—" She holds up her hand before Dean can open his mouth to respond. “If she’s heard you say her name like that, she probably already knows.”

Dean’s laugh is real this time. “Cas ain’t so good with stuff like that.”

“Made for each other then, huh.” It’s not a question, not up for debate.

The bell above the door jingles as another patron walks in. The bartender slides down the bar to greet them, leaving Dean alone with his drink. He studies the beer logo washed amber on the coaster under his whisky before downing the rest of it. It’s no less overwhelming than before, no less painful. He needs this goddamned curse gone. Wings are one thing, but no bacon or alcohol? He might as well be back in the Pit.

“You need another one of those?” Dean looks up at the bartender and shakes his head, probably too emphatically.

“Nah, I got a call to make. Sober.”

“Good man!” She claps a hand down on the bar, snatching away his glass as if he might be about to change his mind. “I hate to stiff myself more of your money, but I wish ya luck.”

“Thanks. Really.”

“Just doing my job.” Dean’s pretty sure she’s going way beyond her job description, but it’s not like he would know. Sometimes, when he’s feeling naively hopeful, he thinks he could see himself behind the bar. Slinging drinks and hearing everyone’s stories of real, ordinary life. One day he should really try something like that, part-time, something to keep him busy between hunts. Something new. But not right now. Right now, he has to drop these goddamned wings.

Dean stands up, adjusting his blanket.

“See ya around,” he says.

“You too.”

He’s almost at the door when the bartender calls out, “Hey, you better bring your Cas round here for a drink when you get things sorted out, you hear?”

Dean cracks a smile. “Sure thing.”

The walk back to the bunker is heavier than the walk to the bar, something more purposeful landing with each footfall. Dean practises how he’s going to word his explanation the whole time, every phrase feeling like both too much and not enough all at once. He keeps reminding himself that this isn’t some chick-flick kissing-Ryan-Gosling-in-the-rain moment. He’s just gonna say what’s gotta be said. Curse. Cure. No flowers.

When he reaches the bunker door Dean pauses. The idea of doing this down there, where Sam or god forbid Rowena could be standing right around the corner listening makes him vaguely nauseous. Not to mention the fact that his sizzling nerves keep shorting out lights, a side effect of his budding angel mojo that he’s pretty sure could black out the whole bunker at this point.

Pacing away from the door, Dean drops the blanket and spreads his wings to their full width. The stretch and the breeze brushing cool fingers through his sweaty feathers is nothing short of glorious. For a moment he lets himself imagine keeping the wings. What would be left of his life without hunting? Without Baby? With even less of a semblance of normal life? Would being an angel make him the property of heaven, of Chuck, even more so than he already was? Dean knows it’s time. He has to get human again.

Eyes floating shut, he launches into a familiar prayer. “Cas, wherever you are, get your feathery ass down here. We gotta talk." A few second of silence pass, broken only by the rustling of leaves and birdsong. Dean clears his throat. "Cas. I need you.”