Dean always looks so troubled. Perhaps not on the outside, but there is a blight on his soul, a darkness that oppresses. He wishes he could take it away.
Sometimes he wishes Dean could fly with him, thinks perhaps that could take it away. Not flying as he did when transporting them, though. No, the flying he did when he was able. His brothers and sisters thought him irresponsible for the long flights he took, but he was an Angel of the Lord, and his Lord gave him wings, therefore he would use them, blackened as they were. He would stretch them and soar, invisible to human eye. The sunlight would warm the delicate feathers and the wind would caress him, lift him and carry him through the air. Despite abandoning them, his Father had blessed them greatly with wings.
He wonders what Dean's wings would look like, should he have any. Red, such as the blood of the slain that stained his flesh? No, that is too harsh, he thinks. Red at the tips, the very outer feathers, but no more. There can be no white, as he is not an innocent. Grey, then. Great grey wings with red edges, spread out to protect those he held in his heart. Angel of Death and Angel of Mercy; Angel of Darkness and Angel of Light. An enigma, a mystery. He would be beautiful.
He is aware of Dean's fear of flying, but knows it isn't flying he fears; merely falling. If they flew together, however, he wouldn't allow Dean to fall. Then again, he allowed himself to fall, so perhaps he was wrong.
He is called, needed. He stores the thoughts away to be revisited later. Later, he thinks, he will decide how to take away the pain and perhaps give Dean wings, if only for a while. Then, they will soar.