Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.

With Or Without Wings

Dean dreamed of Hell.

He dreamed of fire and ash, of pain and blood, of screams and death. He couldn't escape, no matter how hard he tried.

Days upon days, weeks upon weeks, years upon years - time had no hold on him. Everything blurred and meshed into an endless stretch of eternity, where there were only two choices given to past the time: torture or be tortured.

It took him some time before he finally choked and conceded. Everyday, Dean was given the choices and he would always spat in the face of the demon who came to deliver the message. He would curse, yell and rage at them, biting down on his own tongue to refuse the offer. His stubborn resolve impressed the demons. And they only worked harder to break this notable man.

But in the end, he broke. It was too much for his soul to handle. Too much pain. Too much anguish. Too much everything. It overwhelmed him, tore him apart, mutilated him, shattered him to pieces, too cracked and damaged to put back together again.

" Dean Winchester."

He couldn't help but let out a shaky sob. The voice that spoke, it was a sweet sound, a heavenly sound compared to what he has heard in a long time. It was so overwhelming to hear his name, other than in the broken screams of the condemned or in the oily whispers of the demon tormentors.

" Come. Be free."

Tears prickled the corners of his eyes as he staggered forward, blindly reaching and grasping. He had waited a long time to hear those words. To be free of this place. To be free of the heat and the torture. To be free of his guilt and shame.

He nearly fell, the demons behind hissing and unwilling to let go. He could feel their filthy, blood stained hands grabbing him, pulling him back. Suddenly, a light shone throughout the place, blinding the demons, who shrieked and immediately recoiled, their hands ripped away from him.

A hand, a white-hot hand, clasped itself onto his forearm. He screamed and fought to escape the heat, from everything. But the voice was gentle, reassuring even.

" Do not be afraid."

Then, he was lifted, gravity no longer embracing him and the air whooshing past his face and hair. Laughing out loud, he relished in the cool air and the salvation from the fiery Pit.

Squirming and twisting to see who was it that saved him, he wanted say something to him or her, to thank the one who now carried him past the fire and darkness. He opened his mouth to try but as soon as he gazed up into the face of his savior, he stopped, stunned and amazed.

It was too bright to see, but Dean could have definitely sworn that he saw an outline of feathers high above him.

Then, he woke up.

The first time Sam witnessed the wings (they had to be wings;what else could they be?) was in a small, little cafe outside of Nashville, Illinois.

Castiel was calm and unruffled as usual, watching them as they ate. Of course, Dean wasn't perturbed by this at all. He was all too familiar with the angel's presence by now. He even offered a French fry to him, where Castiel merely stared at him with an inscrutable look, until Dean finally sighed, giving up, and popped the French fry into his own mouth, muttering about clueless angels.

He learned by now that Castiel showed his emotions by doing little things, very subtle implications that appeared for only a split second before disappearing the next. The angel had been leaning slightly forward, resting lightly upon his fingers, gazing steadily at them unblinkingly. It was a sign that Castiel was interested, perhaps even amused by Dean's tactics. He waited patiently as Dean babbled on about their latest hunt, about a witch, a crazy cat and the nosy neighbor next door. Maybe even angels liked to listen to gossip and day-to-day chatter.

Then, while absently sipping his coffee, Sam abruptly noticed the darker shades of light behind Castiel, shifting the cherry-orange vermilion of the seat to a brown-coral maroon. Which was definitely strange. There was nothing blocking the sunlight from reaching the seat and the light was directly hitting the seat with the angle where it was.

It could have been a trick of the morning sun or that he had wasted a whole night fruitlessly hunting demons down with Ruby and had no sleep whatsoever. Still, Sam couldn't help feeling that the couch where Castiel sat was more shadowed than it was meant to be.

As if something large and feather-like blocked the incoming sunlight.

The demons leered viciously at him, teeth baring, tongue lolling, eyes hungering. They reached for him, their clawed hands grasping and tugging. Tearing and biting. He tried to fight, to break free, but they were too strong. He wildly called for Sam. But Sam either couldn't or didn't answer him.

One particular demon separated from the mass of demons and snaked her hand around his neck, choking him. The woman's once pretty features were drawn into an ugly, frightful mask. She could have been a mother or a kindly housewife. She should have been at home cooking and cleaning. Anywhere but here. " Scream for me," she whispered exquisitely in his ear, stretching a maniacal grin across the face of her vessel. " Beg for your life, human!"

Even if he could, Dean could not draw breath. His lungs desperately gulped for air, only to find none. They spiraled into a panic, pumping and fighting for something, anything, to stop the painfully burning sensation deep in his chest and spreading throughout his body.

His vision began to dim, fading at the corners and soon, eating away the rest to gray specks and dulled dots. There was nothing left to wheeze, no strength left to fight against this choke hold.

Weakly, Dean turned his last thoughts to his brother. Was Sam all right? Where was he? Did the demons get him too? All he could do was pray that they didn't and that Sam escaped to safety.

Suddenly, there was a bright light exploding from the dark. Screams were heard and he could have sworn that someone called his name.

He was dropped, crumbling to the ground in a heap. His world was still spinning and was nothing but a haze of blotchy colors and shapes. He might have seen a whisk of a trench coat or a glimpse of brilliant, sapphire eyes but he isn't too sure. His head was too whirling and dizzy for him to even know his own name at the moment.

When he is shaken awake by Sam's urgent calls, the first thing he does is raise his head.

A white feather, unnoticed and unmarked, bore testimony to what had happened.

" There is no such thing."

" This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

Before the words even finished leaving his mouth, Dean saw them.

A flash of lightning illuminated a shadow of unfurling wings, huge, majestic and great. They extended over the barn, stretching from wall to wall. It was something magnificent, too unearthly and unreal for Dean's human mind to comprehend. All he could do was gasp and gaze in wonder at the ominous shadows as they loomed silently and mightily over the two figures below.

Then, the light was gone and it was as if they had never appeared.

And the angel remained, surveying Dean with an omniscient look.

Castiel pressed a slender finger to his lips. Sam, who was opening his mouth to argue, immediately clamped it shut at the angel's wordless bidding.

The door suddenly was knocked down by a howl of wind and a shriek of an inhuman thing. They ducked in alarm, instinctively reaching for their guns, while Castiel watched stoically the approaching demons.

" Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Alastair examined their little group with interest. " A resurrected torturer. The Boy King. And a petty angel. What an unlikely congregation for us to come across."

Dean flinched and Sam stiffened at their given names. Castiel on the other hand, gave no indication that he heard Alastair at all.

" I hope you don't mind if we crash this little party, do you?" the demon smoothly asked, as several more demons appeared behind him. " We wouldn't miss this for the world."

They were outnumbered and outgunned. Dean licked his lips, searching for any possible exits. Unfortunately, there was only one and the demons were standing before it.

Completely unconcerned, Castiel stepped forward in front of the brothers. The message of stay behind me was clear and they quickly hurried to comply.

The angel stood tall and impassive as he gazed at Alastair and his minions without a hint of fear or even emotion in his eyes. Dean never noticed it until now, that Castiel's back often tensed during battle. Like he was doing now. Shoulders drawn back. Spine straightened and tight. Arms held absolute at his sides.

He felt something brush across his cheeks, something warm and glossy.

Almost like feathers.

It didn't alarm him that something unnatural touched him. In fact, he felt rather comforted by it. Knowing that, Dean gripped his gun with a little more confidence.

They did have an angel of the Lord on their side after all.

Any minute now, the vine he held would tear and he would fall to a fast and quick death.

His left arm screamed as it was the only thing that connected Sam and the vine and thus, to the cliff. His other arm was reserved for an unconscious Dean.

The pissed off ghoul made sure that it would bring one more soul with it. With its last strength, it shoved Dean off the cliff before fading to who knows where. And Sam had dived in to grab his brother, only to realize that his whole body went over the cliff as well.

Now, struggling to pull themselves up, blinking his sweaty bangs away, Sam grunted and gasped in pain. The vine wouldn't hold. He could see it already fraying and severing. But he would rather have that vine break and plummet both of them to their deaths than to have Dean die alone.

And his wish came true.

Snap!

His hands suddenly grasped nothing and Sam could feel the bottom of his stomach falling turbulently as there was nothing left to hold him or Dean up.

Before he had time to open his mouth in a scream or silently apologize to Dean or even get a chance to absorb the fact that they were both going to die, Sam felt something grab him from behind and halting their descent completely to a stop.

Then, the next thing he knew, they were flying. The wind skimmed delicately across the back of his neck, cool and refreshing. He could hear the sounds of wings beating and flapping in the air, pulling them up, raising them skywards.

This feeling, this indescribable emotion that was so uplifting and liberating, Sam could feel his heart fluttering in excitement and awe. His eyes drank in everything, the tiny speck that was the cliff, the green blurs of trees, even the gray lines that were roads, greedily ingesting it all in before it was over, carefully building the memory, locking it safe and secure in the corner of his mind.

His only regret was that Dean wasn't able to share this experience with him.

By the time he and Dean were gently dropped back down to solid ground, Sam quickly looked up in hopes to see their aerial friend.

Only to see but a tiny glance of a winged silhouette soaring away into the distance.

Dean had planned to charge directly into the barn and deal with any demon that came his way, without slowing, without failing. But the sight of Castiel chained to the ground with a demon leering over him, the long, sharp rod in its hands stabbing into the angel, had stopped Dean in his tracks.

Something quivered from the depths of his memory, reminding him of a bird broken and dying by the roadside of a highway he had seen once before. Its wings were horribly snapped to a side, crushed by the tires of a careless car, as the bird struggled to fly, only to flop helplessly on the ground, barely lifting its crippled body. It was the closest thing he could compare Castiel's wings to.

They were just like the bird's, crooked and bent. They appeared to droop and hang listlessly against Castiel's back, bound and tethered, too fragile to lift up themselves, blood oozing from the underneath the ashen feathers. And with the long, sharp shaft digging right into one of them, twisting, mangling, mauling.

A rage filled Dean, only second to that of anyone or anything threatening his baby brother, whether it was in his presence or not. " You bastard!" he yelled, bringing his shotgun up and firing at the demon.

It ducked and laughed. " Oh? Coming to rescue your angel?" it asked, mirth crinkling into its eyes.

Since when did Castiel become his angel? Nevertheless, the words snapped something in Dean and before the demon knew it, it was down on the ground, being repeatedly pounded by mindless punches and several bullets piercing into its body.

After Sam hastened to chant the exorcism spell, Dean dropped next to Castiel, shooting at the chains, yanking off the shackles as soon as they were loose.

" Cas! Cas, you all right?"

The wings shifted slightly, a few crimson feathers falling at the motion. Whether that was a good thing or not, Dean didn't ask. " I am fine." Castiel spoke as if he was discussing the weather over a nice cup of coffee. Forget that his wings were clipped and nearly ripped out of his back. Forget that he had just been tortured in the hands of a sadistic demon.

But his face told another story. Lines of torment were drawn over Castiel's face, his lips taut and thin, jaw unimaginably rigid. His eyes seemed glossier than usual, perhaps brimming with an untold pain. Every movement he made was stiff and slow, his usual gracefulness and fluidity lost.

It still stunned him to see a fraction of the physical manifestation of the angel's true form. Before, he only had glimpses of the wings. And the experience was enthralling and breathtaking. It was something of the supernatural that he didn't condemn or disapprove of, which at first, seemed a little weird of Dean to admit, judging from his understanding and experiences of monsters and freaks.

But Castiel was no monster. And he certainly wasn't a freak.

" Is there anything we can do?" Dean asked, before realizing how silly his question was. What could a human like him do for an angel? Especially when the said angel's wings were like that? Could mortal hands even help such a celestial being?

Just then, Castiel lifted his head, pausing as if listening. " My brothers," he simply said.

There was no warning, other than Castiel's word, before three angels appeared, standing inexpressibly over Castiel. They soundlessly hoisted their brother with great care, minding the wings. Only a flash of fury in their luminous eyes betrayed their thoughts before all four vanished without a trace.

With but a rustle of wings.

He knew this was a dream. Mostly because as soon as his head hit the pillow, he was here. Only dreams could do that to him.

The scenery wasn't recognizable. It was a forest of some sort. Shafts of light entered through slits of leaves and branches. The air was fresh and clean, free of car exhaust, greasy hamburgers and rancid toilets. The grass and trees were an emerald green, so lush and alive, they seemed almost surreal and taken from a Hallmark card.

It was a nice place. Dean inhaled deeply, feeling a gentle breeze playing across his face and tussling his hair lightly. Here, there were no worries about demons, the seals, Lilith, Sammy going darkside, the burden of saving the world from the Apocalypse, people dying, his crimes in Hell or injured angels with torn wings ...

The image of Castiel's grisly broken wings suddenly awoken him from his peaceful state. He had to find Castiel!

He found himself stumbling past trees and bushes, running, calling, looking. If Castiel had orchestrated this dream, then he had to be around somewhere, right?

Just as Dean crashed through the thickets of green and brown, he saw what he had been looking for.

" Cas?"

The angel turned slowly. His face was, as usual, blank and unreadable, movement serene and graceful. Which was a good thing, Dean noted. A sure sign that Castiel was back to his good, old self.

An even better sign was the sight of the wings themselves. They were like when Dean first laid eyes on them. Divine and impressive, the wings easily towered over the tiny figure that was Castiel himself. No chain or shackle could hope to contain and bridle them. They were exactly like how Dean had imagined them to be. They were flawless and unblemished, only of milky white and creamy ivory.

" So, it looks like your angel mojo did its thing and your wings are all better, huh?" he grinned.

Castiel nodded once. " I have fully recovered," he affirmed.

A sigh of relief escaped from Dean before he knew it. " Good."

Tilting his head, Castiel gazed at him with a hint of gratitude and acknowledgment in those vivid, cerulean eyes. " I must thank you, Dean," he said, dipping his head. " For saving me. I am in your debt."

" Nah, it was nothing," he quickly said, suddenly feeling embarrassed. It wasn't everyday he heard an angel thanking him of all people.

What appeared to be a ghost of a smile flitted over Castiel's usually emotionless features before suddenly, there was the radiating expansion of those ethereal wings, white, glossy feathers surrounding Castiel in a whirlwind. Dean could feel them kissing against his skin, tickling him, lighter and softer than anything he has ever known. The wings fanned out and stretched in unspeakable heights and width, wrapping around the trees, shadowing over the grass. He felt the wind being serenely stirred by even a dainty flutter of the wings, brushing across his face and giving him a sense of peace and contentment that he has not felt in a long time.

It couldn't have been a better gift to him from Castiel, to allow him to truly see the wings in all their glory and might.

Even if it was only a dream.