AN: Hello! One of the great things about having minor ADD is the constant plot bunnies. The not so nice thing about mild ADD are the plot bunnies that distract you from what you are trying to focus on writing. Exams also don't help. As such, this will be a oneshot until I am done with one of my two multi-chapter fics.

This is rated T for language.

This is set a week or so after "It's a Terrible Life" and assumes that Dean and Castiel bonded after "On the Head of a Pin." It also assumes that Dean figured out how to call Cas.

AN Part Two: I was passenging on a long road trip and decided to read my published stuff to try and get back into the swing of writing after exams and a long illness. As I read this particular fic, I realized it sounded like it was written at like 2AM, which it was. So I've gone back and edited this to make it a bit more coherent. The only major change is the size, shape, and patterning of Dean's wings.

6/28/14

The itching in his back had only been intermittent at first, like maybe bits of glass from the exploding convenience store on his first day topside had gotten lodged in his back and neck. It was irritating. The pain had gone from a mild itching on the surface of his skin to something a bit deeper, like prickly heat from sitting too long in his leather jacket in the Impala's leather seats. He had scrubbed, like with a loofah and soap, hoping it would 'kill the bacteria' or whatever smart-ass explanation Sam'd given him for the incessant itching (he knew what Sam was talking about but was too itchy to do more than insult him). He'd also taken to shedding the jacket when he drove. When that didn't stop the pain, he went out and bought hypoallergenic soap and shampoo, thinking it could have been the free stuff he'd liberated from that last motel with questionable stains on the sheets and mirrors on the ceiling.

Finally, about two months after the itching had become a regular thing, he'd gone to a drug store and picked up a bottle of calamine lotion, that pink, sweet-smelling stuff his Mom had used on him when he'd brought home chicken pox from preschool. When he got back to the motel, he'd had to ask (a disturbed and grudging) Sam to rub it into his back. It'd helped, calamine on his back in the morning and evening- though Sam had gone from disturbed to flippant little brother about the whole thing.

Eventually, though, it started to stop working, the itching coming back earlier and earlier in the day, until finally it had distracted him so badly during that whole Zachariah-Smith-and-Wesson-debacle that the ghost managed to throw him across the room and nearly paste him. By that time though, the itching had become a burning. It was so bad that he burned, burned, like he was in the Pit again, like his insides were on fire again, like hot coals had been shoved into every orifice and his body cavity was filled with the literal fires of Hell.

It was the middle of the night, they were at Bobby's, and he couldn't sleep. And if he couldn't get his four hours of sleep, someone was going to have Hell to pay. But it wasn't like he was keeping Sammy or Bobby awake with his scratching and grumbling. Both had been up all night, researching what might be wrong with him. Sam was on that damn every-thing-is-cancer website that had, so far, diagnosed him with three types of terminal cancer, Kawasaki's disease, and heat rash. Bobby's research had returned at least one type of ghost sickness or a monster-STD from a rare, possibly extinct, species of Himalayan he-monster.

They'd hauled ass to Bobby's the day before when he'd discovered two massive lumps running from his shoulders to hips. They burned worse than before, too, to the point where he was actually on the verge of tears, manly tears, but tears nonetheless.

He'd woken wrapped in the bloody sheets on the bed of the second floor spare bedroom.

"Sam? Bobby?" His voice was high pitches with terror and had his brother out of his chair, Ruby's knife in hand, in the blink of an eye. Bobby's heavy boot steps pounded into the room a second later.

"What the hell's wrong with my back?"

It'd had gotten stuck in the sheets, but not like it had stuck to his skin in the blood, but like it had been lifted by something.

Bobby hit the light and paled as Sam wretched. Dean's back was a mess of torn up flesh with two rows of chupacabra-style spines rising from the bloody mess.

"Dean," Sam gagged, "I have no idea what happened. It looks like you've been mauled by a giant porcupine. There are spines or something- quills? in your back."

"What the hell'd you do this time, boy?" Bobby snapped, "D'you get bitten by somethin' and forget to tell us?"

Dean gave both of them angry looks. They helped him to his feet and to the bathroom where he washed off the blood in the shower, then back to the bedroom where Bobby had splashed a glass of something 90 proof and alcoholic over the wounds. Then they bandaged around the quills since Dean had squealed with pain and recoiled when Sam tried to clip one. Bobby left and returned with a bottle of Jack that he told Dean to finish while they did more research.

Twenty hours later, Dean had discovered the end of a lot of things. His patience, the bottle of Jack, and finally his pain tolerance (which was something for someone who'd spent 40 years in Hell). His ability to behave and speak civilly had completely vanished.

"Fuck this," he snarled, standing, finally unable to handle the pain anymore.

"CAS!" he bellowed, "GET YOUR SORRY ANGEL ASS DOWN HERE!"

At the rush of wings and air, he spun, bearing down on the angel.

"What-"

Dean cut him off. "Fix. Me."

Castiel tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, trying to see what Dean meant. The few times Dean had seen that expression, it had made his insides feel oddly soft, in a way he didn't quite feel comfortable with. Not this time. He was pissed and in pain.

"Damnit Cas," he ground out, "Do a miracle, heal me."

He turned to show his bare, quilled back to Castiel, having taken the bandages off only minutes previously to pour a seventh bottle of hydrogen peroxide into the wounds. Which, although helpful, hurt almost worse than the quills themselves as the bubbles fizzed in the raw flesh.

"This is… strange," Castiel said, sounding puzzled, "This sort of thing should be caused by an infection of some kind- were you bitten by something?"

"No!"

"I cannot sense anything wrong with you or your soul."

Desperation edged into Dean's voice as he turned back, "Please, just fix it. Please."

Castiel placed his fingers on Dean's forehead and his eyes shot wide open. He stepped closer, staring inquisitively at Dean for a moment then disappeared.

For a moment, Dean did not move, then, in an explosion of movement, he swept an alarm clock off the nightstand, hurling it at the wall where it exploded.

Bobby shouted indignantly, something about the alarm clock and vintage, but Dean didn't hear him as threw his head back.

"FUCK YOU CAS!" he roared at the ceiling, "YOU BETTER STAY THE HELL AWAY FROM ME YOU BITCH ASS MOTHER! AND THE REST OF YOU DICKS! I'M DONE! I AM FUCKING DONE WITH YOU AND YOUR FUCKING APOCALYPSE. IF ANY OF YOU DARE TOUCH ME OR SAM EVER AGAIN, I'LL FUCKING KILL EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU!"

He collapsed on the edge of the bed, sobbing. He couldn't take the pain any more, it had only gotten worse after Castiel's laying on of hands. It felt like the quills were lengthening and the skin was splitting as something rose out from inside his body. He lay there trembling and crying, Sam hovering awkwardly behind him unable to do anything as Bobby ran down stairs to find morphine or somesuch.

Sometime later, about fifteen minutes, Sam estimated, since the clock was not as functional as it could have been, pieces sprayed across the floor as they were, Castiel reappeared. Bobby managed to sprint the last few paces into the room at the sound of wings.

"Dean," Castiel said, placing his hand on his shoulder. Dean flinched away. Castiel actually looked apologetic. "I am sorry. This is my fault."

"Go. Away." Dean growled into the mattress.

"I can't, you need help."

"Really?" Dean shot up and whipped around in his fury, spitting sarcasm at the angel in a fit of anger.

"You are fledging."

"Fledging?" Sam broke in. "Like growing feathers?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"No," corrected Castiel, "Wings." He turned back to Dean and said, "I need you to lay face down on the bed."

Dean flopped back down on the bed, not caring to question. Castiel dropped a long, silver, triangular sword into his hand and lifted it over Dean's back.

"No!" Sam lunged at Castiel, grabbing the angel's hand, stilling the blade.

"Let go, Sam. This needs to be done." Castiel said flatly.

"You can't kill Dean!"

Castiel turned on Sam, the full wrath of Heaven in his too-blue eyes. Had he been human, Sam might have said there was a good measure of indignation in his expression.

"I flew into the fires of Hell and withstood the demon hordes to raise your brother from Perdition. What reason would I have to kill him? I will not harm him."

"Sam, just let him do whatever it is he wants to do," Dean said, exhausted.

Sam let go apprehensively.

"Dean," Castiel said as close to gently as he was capable of, "This may hurt, but it will be no more than what you already feel."

"Great," snapped Dean, "Just do it."

Castiel lowered the blade until the tip pierced the skin. Dean winced. Swiftly, he ran it down the length of both tearing-open bulges and made the blade disappear. He placed his hand between the two cuts, and took away what pain he could. Dean sighed at the sensation.

"Again, this will hurt. If you wish to take a drink, it is advisable," Castiel offered.

Sam passed a second, mostly empty bottle of Jack to Dean, who took a long draught before handing it back.

Castiel pushed up his sleeves and reached into the first cut, pulling out a bundle of fleshy, wet appendages which he laid out near Dean's side before reaching across his body and pulling out another set on the opposite side. Dean grimaced and the wet things twitched, fanning out and lifting before folding tight along his back.

"You need to open these back up, Dean," Castiel instructed.

"How?"

"Just move them."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean grouched, "That's helpful."

"Just do it."

Dean huffed and thought about moving the things. It was like moving a leg that was pins-and-needles asleep, or trying to move while drugged, but they responded, slowly at first, then more quickly, lifting away from his back before flopping onto the sheets next to him. Castiel laid his hands on Dean's back and the cuts closed.

"This next part may hurt or it may not. I was not told the specifics."

"Fuck. What is it with you and pain today?" Dean growled.

The angel ignored him and said, "Close your eyes. I need to partially embrace my true form for this and I do not want to burn out your eyes."

A moment later, he allowed his hands to shift into their celestial phase, maintaining a human size, and began stroking along the fleshy appendages. He took the smallest right first, and as his hand passed down the length of it, it began to lengthen and grow feathers. Castiel repeated this with each of the next five limbs until there were six massive wings spreading out from Dean's back.

Once Castiel said they could open their eyes, Dean stood shakily, the added weight of the wings overbalancing him. He spread them open, out and to the sides to ease his balance and looked up at his wings, his wings, which practically filled the small room, and laughed nervously.

"Wings. Dude, I've got wings!"

He stretched them experimentally until the tips brushed the walls. The longest were barely extended and even the smallest set weren't completely open. They were beautiful, too, he thought, shaped like a hawk's and bright white except for a dark soot grey-black color at the ends of his flight feathers.

"Cas," Bobby asked, "Why does Dean have wings?"

Castiel bowed his head, seeming embarrassed.

"It is my doing," he said, "Dean's body was destroyed. Not only had it been ravaged by the hell hound, but it had rotted beyond recognition. His soul was cracked. I used a piece of my grace to reconstruct both his body and to reinforce his soul."

"And how does this leave me standing here looking like Icarus?" asked Dean.

"It's like what happens when you glue something back together," Sam ventured, "Except the glue is Cas' grace and the pieces are you. I would guess the first thing an angel's grace gives are wings?"

Castiel nodded.

"So I'm an angel," Dean said.

Castiel shook his head. "No. You just have wings. And the ability to hide them. Possibly also minor miracles if you can figure out how to channel it."

Dean snorted. "I kinda wanted to get a Neo coat. That would have been sick."

The angel turned, staring at him. "How would a new coat make you ill?"

"It's a movie- We gotta show this guy the Matrix. Bobby-"

Castiel cut him off, "Still, what reason would you have for a new coat?"

"I guess I could just borrow yours and look like Michael," he shrugged.

"My brother does not wear a trench coat. He currently has no earthly vessel."

"Not that Michael," corrected Dean, "John Travolta as Michael in a movie. He wore a trench coat." He paused as Castiel stared at him. "I could use a jacket to hide my wings."

"That would be impractical."

Bobby snorted and Castiel looked at him, confused.

"Hey," Dean started, catching Castiel's attention again, "What's with the black? Aren't angel wings white?"

Castiel nodded his head. "Typically? Yes, however, the color is a reflection of the angel's rank and the state of their grace."

Dean swallowed hard, eyes widening as he realized something. "The black- that isn't because of the Pit- ?"

"Of the Pit? Yes. But it is the burns on my grace delivered by hellfire that give your wings the black, not your soul. Your soul was cracked because it was horrified at what you were forced to do, but the darkness is only my grace showing through. Your soul is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It is why your wings are whiter than Raphael's."

"What's with the six wings?" Bobby asked. "I thought that was only seraphs?"

"Traditionally, yes, six wings are a mark of the Seraphim," replied Castiel. "How much about me have you researched?"

Bobby shook his head. "There's not much on you. I know you're an angel of Thursday and your name comes up in a spell to call down Heavenly protection."

"I am the Angel of Thursday, the first being created that day. And I am captain of the Garrison of Heaven. Because of this, I am more powerful than the other angels of my 'paygrade.' Wings are an extension of the amount of power an angel has, the more power, the more wings. Since it is my grace giving Dean his wings, he has six."

They were silent for a moment before Dean asked, "Can I fly?"

The other three turned to stare at him.

Ten minutes later, they were standing in the backyard, Dean swinging his arms to try and heat his shirtless body up in the freezing weather and knee-high snow. He wrapped his arms around his chest then realized his wings might be warmer. Folding the great feathered things around himself he smiled, enjoying the pocket of warmth. Bobby and Sam glowered at him, shivering. Castiel paused in folding his trench coat to look pointedly at a spot in front of the two by-standers and it burst into a bonfire.

The angel continued undressing which made Dean feel uncomfortably soft inside, and he rolled his shoulders. His feathers fluffed up and he started as goose bumps prickled down their lengths. He would have to figure out how they worked. Castiel was shirtless after another few moments and stood staring at Dean's fluffed up feathers.

"Where do I start?" Dean asked, clumsily throwing his wings open.

"Where you are is fine. And not like that, close your wings."

Frowning, Dean clamped his wings back to his body just as clumsily, feathers crossing up.

"Open them again and close them properly. I don't have the same definition of discomfort as you do and I know crossed feathers are uncomfortable."

Dean blinked, opened his wings and shook them to uncross the feathers, then folded them again.

"Again."

He complied, spreading the wings, then closing them carefully.

"Again."

Out, then in.

"Again."

Out, then in.

Dean tightened his wings to his body, feathers bristling slightly and snapped, "Jesus, Mr. Miyagi."

Castiel tilted his head. "Jesus was not Japanese."

"It's from a movie, Cas. Why are you just having me stand here and wave my wings around?"

"You have to get used to moving them. I don't want to have to haul you back from the dead again if you fall out of the sky because you forgot how to move your wings."

"Aw," Dean pouted, "You wouldn't try to catch me, Cassie?"

"I would."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

Dean spread his wings, crouched, and flapped, not in any specific direction, and particularly not down. He lost his balance and fell back, his feathers matting with snow. He stood and shook his wings pissily as Sam and Bobby laughed from the far side of the bonfire. Indignant, he turned his gaze on Castiel who had the same gently patient look on his face that he had the first night they met in the barn.

"Will you let me demonstrate? You have to flap down, not… like you just did. All you'll do is injure yourself. Again."

"Demonstrate with what?" Dean snapped, "Your shadow wings? You only had two of those."

Castiel shot an incredulous look at him from beneath his eyebrows. There was a rustling and three pairs of soot black wings spread from his back. He crouched and raised his wings, springing up with a powerful and simultaneous downward stroke that left deep furrows in the snow. He rose, fifteen or twenty feet above the ground, then maintained the height he had gained with strong figure-eight motions. Folding his wings, he fell to the ground in a crouch, landing on top of the snow.

"You might try just adding a flap to a jump. Fortunately the snow will prevent you from hurting yourself too badly if you don't manage to coordinate your movements."

Dean spread his wings and flapped, down this time, as he jumped straight up. He shot ten feet into the air and flapped again, gaining more height. He could have crowed at the sensation of his feathers grabbing at the air, but he continued up before tipping his body parallel with the ground and racing forward, wings pulling him ahead great bounds at a time until tears were streaming frozen from his eyes. He hooted then, excited, thrilled with his sudden, new freedom, and continued on until the lights of Sioux Falls were miles behind him.

There was a thundering of wings next to him and Dean glanced over to see Castiel pacing him, black-grey wings blending with the night-darkened clouds.

"Dean," Castiel said, "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Learn how to fly so quickly. How to speak so I can hear you while flying this fast."

The air rushing past his wings changed, becoming rough and tugging at the tips of his primaries. He spread the tips of wings, slotting the feathers and arching the thumb of his wings to cut the drag turbulence was causing.

"I don't know," Dean answered, "I just understand the air. It's like I've always done it. I feel the changes and I know how to respond."

Castiel smiled, then looked ahead and settled in just next to Dean, three or four feet between the tips of their largest wings. After about seven minutes, Dean lifted the wings closer to Castiel, rocking them back and pressing the ones on the other side forward, slipping into a wide banking turn that Castiel matched. They swept back toward Bobby's and Dean crowed at the falling sensation in his gut that came as he leveled out from the turn.

Grinning at Castiel, he pulled ahead, speeding up his wing strokes until the muscles in his back and his wings practically burned. Castiel was almost a quarter mile behind when he realized what had happened and jumped to catch up. Dean pulled harder at the air, gaining only a bit more speed. He laughed and lifted a shoulder, falling into a twisting barrel roll. He could feel Castiel's confused gaze on him as he kept laughing with the adrenaline pumping through his system.

"You can't tell me you've never tried it."

Castiel looked away.

"Seriously! Try it!" He pulled into another barrel roll, whooping with joy. The angel watched him for a half second and twisted into his own roll. He leveled and a slow smile crossed his face. Dean grinned in response and stooped into a dive, having spotted Bobby's junkyard down below. Two hundred, one hundred feet out, he fanned his wings, backpedalling until he was barely moving forward, he dropped to the ground, Castiel directly behind him as he trotted to a halt in the deep snow. He had to cant his wings to keep the ends of them out of the snow as he laughed so hard he folded double.

Spinning, he thumped the balls of his hands against Castiel's shoulders. The angel looked at him, affronted.

"Dude!" he shouted, "That was frickin' awesome! Holy crap!" Dean laughed again, spreading his wings unconsciously with his joy. "How fast were we going?"

"At your fastest?" asked Castiel, his face opening when he realized Dean meant no offense. "Three hundred forty two miles an hour."

Sam coughed. "Dean, that's half the speed of sound. You aren't even breathing hard."

"I know! Jeez, I feel like I could have gone all night!"

"Very likely you could have," Castiel said seriously, though somehow not managing to kill Dean's mood, "Your wings draw power from your soul and your soul is so brilliant it shone light into parts of Hell that had never seen light."

"Will they… use up… my soul?" Dean asked, suddenly worried.

"No." Castiel shook his head slightly. "I misspoke. They are extensions of your soul, but do not draw energy from them. And your soul is safe. I would avoid selling it again, but damaging your wings will not harm your soul."

Dean smiled and moved so he was in front of the fire before spreading his wings and basking in the heat, starting finally to feel the cold again.

"Hey."

He shifted his wings to allow the heat to reflect toward his body.

"Hey, idjit." He looked up at Bobby.

"What?"

"You should probably know how to hide those. You'll start a rapture wandering around with frickin' angel wings," Bobby pointed out.

"Bobby is entirely correct," Castiel agreed, "you will cause widespread religious panic, especially since the Apocalypse is starting. I also worry how my brothers will react. I can teach you how to hide them."

"Okay?"

"I'm not sure I can explain this to you." Castiel approached Dean and placed his fingers on his forehead. Dean blinked as the knowledge flooded into his head.

"Ugh. Thanks, but, jeez, thanks Spock."

Castiel nodded. "That was another movie reference wasn't it?"

Dean smiled.

The angel sighed. "Show me that you can hide your wings."

Looking into the knowledge Castiel had given him, Dean saw how to hide his wings. Castiel had been right, there was no way he could have explained or shown him how to do it. It was really more of a feeling. He let his wings flicker out of existence. Or at least- he could tell that they were gone. They didn't appear any different, but they didn't seem to be there. Sam and Bobby blinked, obviously not seeing them.

"I can still see them. Currently, they exist on a level that all angels can see. There an unlimited number of planes they can exist on. The one that only your soul exists on is probably the safest."

Dean thought for a moment and he felt them change again, become slightly different, though not visibly.

"Good. I also taught you how to make them insubstantial, so you can drive your car. You should practice that."

Grinning and letting his wings reappear, Dean walked off, jumping repeatedly above the snow, flapping each time and gaining ten to fifteen feet with each leap. Castiel moved to walk after him, but Bobby caught his shoulder.

"Hey, I realize you didn't do it on purpose, but thank you, Cas," Bobby said, "I haven't seen Dean this truly happy since he was twelve. Whatever it is you did, you've really helped him. You saved him."

Castiel nodded.

"Will you stop it Dean?!" came an angry shout.

They glanced over to where Dean was passing a perfectly visible, but insubstantial wing through Sam's chest. Dean cackled and shot straight up into the air, taking off in a blur of feathers and laughter.

"Idjit."