Title: Cast Some Light
Rating: M for some language & graphic-ish scenes.
Disclaimer: Supernatural does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.
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Crosses all over, heavy on your shoulders
The sirens inside you waiting to step forward
Disturbing silence darkens you sight
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright
We'll cast some light and you'll be alright, for now
- Zero Seven, "Crosses"
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There's the inevitable meeting with Castiel, of course. It has to wait for three weeks though, while Dean's skin heals; there are two jagged, raw rips trailing down to the small of his back (wet, bloody feathers and bone bursting out of his skin), and it's a while, even with Bobby's stitches (groaning, biting hard on Sam's belt as the needle threads through his body), before he can sit up and twist enough to feel the smooth feathers. He tells Sam the full story, doesn't really have a choice, because two weeks of near-bed confinement became something akin to an interrogation room in Guantanamo. At the end of it, Sam frowns, leaves the room, and returns with a large stack of books. Dean already knows they won't help.
.
Eighteen days later, Dean tries to walk across the room without help and stumbles, falls hard. Lands on his back and blacks out, hearing someone screaming, not knowing it's himself. A week after that, he tries again, and manages it. His balance is off, but he can adjust, and does. His body feels lighter, more centered, faster, despite the added weight.
.
Three days after that, he makes it out to the junkyard and sees Castiel sitting in the bed of an '84 Ford pickup. He gingerly sits next to him.
"Get rid of them."
"They're a gift."
"I don't fucking want them."
"Beggars can't be choosers, Dean."
"I don't beg."
"You asked me why God doesn't help people. You asked, and he answered. You get the answer to the question you asked; you can't pick how you want it to end."
"Your God just turned me into a freaking angel of the lord." Castiel laughs.
"Oh, you're not an angel. Just... a little closer to Heaven than you were before." Hah.
"I. Don't. Want. Them."
"Too bad." The angel's voice is deeper, harder, older. Archaic. "They are yours now. Go help people, Dean." There's enough finality in that voice to kill a horse, and it stops Dean in his tracks, stops him from saying that if he's not already helped people, then what the fuck has he been doing since he was four? Instead, he takes a breath and asks:
"... so can I fly?"
He can.
.
The wings can be hidden, if he concentrates, and Sam claims that besides a slight flickering in the air, there's no sign of them until he concentrates again and they slam back into existence. It's not as bad as it could be.
The light is back in Sam's eyes more often, and sometimes, that extra sense he's associated with the wings makes his muscles tense when he looks at him. It's not until a month later, when they're stopped at a gas station and Sam has fallen into conversation with a pretty, dark-haired girl, that he realizes why.
Below her skin, his eyes find a roiling mass of black clouds.
He lets it go, because, as Castiel said, he's not an angel, and if it takes light and dark to make things right, well, they're not going to give up now.