He is flying.
The kites are in the sky too and he passes them, flapping in the air to match the beat of his wings, red orange yellow green.
He feels the rush in the pit of his stomach as he never did before, that build of pressure that has his hands clenching, muscles straining to reach for more, always more but never enough.
The wings beat on, a deep thrum to silence the wind to a whisper, and here in the air the Heavens bow to him.
The glide is smooth, sunlight glinting in his eyes to blur his vision around the edge, but he reaches higher, he needs to go higher. Until there is nowhere left to go.
The plunge down is smooth too, a quick shot of the most refined precision, so neat and clean that it is almost comical with how easily he seems to fall.
There is a ripping, always that distinct shredding at his back, along with that damned incessant beating, air rippling past to catch on phantom feather and muscle and bone, sweeping right by as the weight of his body carries him down.
The shredding might be a tangle of sheets twisted by thrashing, that burn at his back a hand running across juts of tender bone, the air whistling past him a warm breath at his ear; "Hey, shh, hey Cas…"
He wakes.
If sleeping is flying then waking is drowning.
The pressure is back, this time formed in his chest where it settles as a weight, pushing him under the surface slowly. Dean is there, drawing him back up with soft hushing noises and an exchange of oxygen between their lips.
He is struggling to keep his head above the surface, only treading water from where he plummeted from his place in the sky.
"You're okay Cas, you're okay."
He's not sure he is, but Dean seems so sure that he finds it hard not to have faith that he will reach the shore.