Castiel had never been interested in animal grooming, suddenly finding himself regretting that lack as he eyed over Dean's wings. He knew he couldn't leave the blood to dry and set, he couldn't risk letting the wings become stained and sullied by his own neglect. Thinking over all of the numbers in the parish only one name stood out to him – the local drug smuggling pet shop owner, Gabriel. He was hesitant to leave Dean's side, moving into his office while keeping an ear open in the instance he woke while he was otherwise engaged. It took two rings before he was greeted with a cheerful disposition laced heavily with sarcasm.

"Tail Feather, what can I shake loose for you today?"

"Gabriel? Hello, this is Father Christopher –"

"Oh! Uhh, Hi Father. What can I do you for?"

"I…had a question pertaining to the grooming of a bird's wings."

"Don't tell me you're taking in stray animals now too! Don't you think that place has become enough of a shelter without you pulling a full-fledged Snow White?"

"I do not understand that reference, but this is a delicate matter that was unavoidable. Any assistance you could provide would be much appreciated."

The line was silent for a moment, leaving Castiel wondering if he should have just gone to the shop instead. He quickly dismissed the thought – he could never have left Dean alone.

"Well, the shop closes in an hour, if you want I can come over and –"

"No!"

It was only after her exclamation that he realized what that would sound like to a man like Gabriel. Attempting to cover himself and yet feeling like he was only making it worse, he continued.

"I-I couldn't trouble you with such a trivial matter. Your advice would be more than sufficient."

"Alright, if you're sure…"

"Yes, quite. Thank you, my child."

Castiel took precise notes on a legal pad he kept in his top left desk drawer at all times. Thanking Gabriel once more before hanging up, he set out finding the right kind of brush to use. After much searching he settled on a horse brush that had been given to him as a joke many years before – something about taming the messy mane of hair. The details were faded, the brush unused and thankfully kept. Moving back into the room of worship, he checked to be certain that Dean remained unconscious. Confirmed, he pulled a pew next to the altar and wet the brush. He began with the flight feathers as Gabriel had instructed, working the brush down to the tips before moving a little higher. It took hours for him to finish the first wing, the pristine white blonde shade of the feathers almost strawberry in their dampened state.

Silently he thanked God for this, both for the deliverance of this man and the lack of staining from the slowly drying blood. Moving onto the second wing he worked carefully but with determination; Dean needed him, of that he was sure. He would not fail him now.

Dean woke to the sun filtering through a window adjacent to where he laid face down, a barrage of pain from all sides of his body and the faintly comforting feeling of someone brushing his hair. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to the verity that the sensation was coming from somewhere over his right shoulder. Sitting up with a start and stretching muscles he knew he had not previously possessed he felt sensitive skin connect hard with something as he moved himself as close to the edge of whatever he had been laying on without falling off.

Whipping his head around he was greeted with huge, breathtaking wings spread wide behind him and the priest from the night before sprawled out on the floor – a bucket of red, murky water upturned on his lap and a large brush in his right hand. The plumage of the wings – his wings – begged for his attention, their pristine appearance seeming out of place in the dilapidated church. Somehow even seeing them now he couldn't believe it that he had wings, that he was had somehow grown something so magnificent despite all that he had done. Trying to reach around and feel where the wings connected to his back he did so with difficulty. He eventually managed and found himself greeted with a down so fine it almost felt like air brushing his finger tips.

The wrongness of it struck him hard as his fingers curled around those feathers roughly and began to pull, his body suddenly fighting him as the already existing pain intensified.

"Don't!"

Strong, steady hands grasped and removed his own, a warm and semi wet body sliding into the place between the wings to hold his arms farther still from the new appendages. Dean struggled with the priest, his wings involuntarily twitching and jerking about as he fought to get his hands back.

"Lemme go!"

"No! I cannot allow you to harm yourself!"

"I'm a freak show! It's not natural to just –"

"It is God's will, Dean."

"Yeah? Well fuck 'im! I didn't ask for this!"

"You were chosen and there is nothing you can do to change that!"

"Like Hell I –"

"Harming them will not change anything!"

The air was punched from his chest as Dean mistook the meaning behind the priest's words, thinking of Lisa instead of his current predicament. Realizing that he couldn't know, that the police hadn't even connected him to the escort did not revive the fight he no longer possessed. He sobered up as he allowed his arms to go heavy and limp in the other man's. Hesitantly, the priest let him go before extricating himself from his back, placing distance between them.

"Why didn't you just throw me on my ass?"

Dean vaguely wondered who had spoken until he noticed the air rushing in and out of his chest, the movement of his own lips. Suddenly he couldn't face the man behind him, his wings trembling slightly as if to give him away, something he tried not to think of. He knew what the priest would say, some spiel about God and his mysterious ways.

"You needed me, so I was there."

Dean shifted then, clumsily moving his wings out of his field of vision. The priest – Father Chris or something – met his gaze, stern but gentle. That's when he remembered what time he had departed from his apartment, the haggard appearance on the smaller man's face now making more sense.

"How long have I been out?"

Seemingly startled by the question, he looked around until he saw the clock on the far wall. Dean could almost see his mind calculating, the furrow of his brow and the concentration in his eyes. Suddenly they returned to his, just as intense as before and somehow looking more blue than they already had.

"Twelve hours roughly."

"…The fuck? You mean to tell me you've been sitting here, washing me up for twelve hours? You don't even know me!"

"Does that matter?"

Those fucking eyes – they peered at him as though they were looking through Dean, watching his inner mechanisms at work. He couldn't take the scrutiny; he had to go somewhere – anywhere. He needed to escape, and here he thought this was the escape.

"I gotta go."

"You cannot-"

"I think we've established I can do whatever the Hell I want."

"It is not prudent to venture outside with the sun still high, you have no means to cover yourself. Your wings will cause a ruckus."

"Yeah, and? Wouldn't you like that – show the world proof God exists?"

"I would not."

"Why? Why aren't you calling every news crew and talk show host to show them a living, breathing Angel?"

"There are some things this world is better without knowing."

The words sounded surprisingly bitter for a man of God, bitter and knowing. Thinking for the first time before opening his mouth, he noticed something else that was off about the man.

"Why didn't you freak out when I up and sprouted wings? That's not exactly normal."

"Define normal."

Castiel had hoped that he would have more time to prepare Dean before having him question his actions. Yes, he had been surprised to find a man spontaneously growing Angel wings, but he had already known they existed; how could they not when Demons ran amok on this forsaken planet? Father Christopher was more than just a man of Faith, a man of the cloth. Ever since he was abandoned as a child he had been raised a Hunter, a warrior and a soldier for the side of Good. Even now he hunted, choosing the towns he did missionary work in based off of the level of supernatural activity they experienced. He continued to save people from monsters the world could never fathom and yet no one was the wiser. He wasn't certain he was ready to let this winged man know that just yet. Dean pushed harder still.

"Look, you can tell me what the fuck you know about all of this – about me –"

Castiel was appalled by the accusation that lied within the statement.

"I swear I know nothing of-"

"Or I can walk right out that door and leave you to it. You choose."

It took less than a second for Castiel to decide.

"It will sound…ridiculous to you."

"Like growing wings overnight?"

Dean spread his wings in emphasis, finding it only slightly disturbing that it was coming quite easily to him. Eyeing him wearily, Castiel continued.

"Worse – at least with those you have proof."

"Try me."

Castiel took a deep breath before plunging in, like a drowning man surfacing only to go back down for more.

"The monsters that you watch on television, the creatures you had nightmares about growing up…they're all real, Dean – Demons are real, Dean. Very real, very dangerous and I hunt them for a living."