Ah, my profuse apologies, I missed two Fridays in a row! Life got simply impossible, one trip after another, one crisis after another, and I didn't even have access to my laptop all week till Sun night. But I've been determined to wrap this up before the 200th episode. Squeaking it in under the wire here but here it is. There will be epilogues, and my usual list of writer's notes, but this is the last official chapter. I hope you enjoy it!

Dean was trying to ease the VW into Roger's driveway as quietly as possible, when Roger's front door burst open and Mac came bounding out at a run, Roger close behind. Mac had the VW's side door open before the VW had even come to a full stop.

"YOU FLEW!" was Mac's first comment to Cas. "How were the tertials? Did they all stay on? Did they really help? Hey, you've got a bit of wing droop there— holy moley, SAM!" (Mac had already started climbing into the back of the van to look at Cas's wing before he'd even registered who was sitting in the other seats.) "Oh my god, Sam! You're back! Are you okay? Wow, you look terrible. What's wrong with your knee? Sarah, what's the story on the knee?"

"Tendon strain, I think," said Sarah. "Nothing broken but it's pretty sore, though he's pretending it isn't. Also his wrists are pretty badly bruised. And, hi, Mac."

"Hi," said Mac absently, already lost in inspection of Sam's knee. "Anything else I should know about?"

"Sam— bruised wrists, sore knee, lot of scratches," said Sarah, moving smoothly into an organized summary of the medical issues. "Dean— ran around on his sprained ankle, which was dumb."

"Hey," said Dean. "End of the world? You know? I had stuff to do?"

"Castiel—" went on Sarah, "—the wing droop, and also the wing's warm to the touch and sore, also some bruises where he hit a tree."

"I landed in a tree. I didn't hit it," objected Cas."Though perhaps I did go from the tree to the ground a little too rapidly."

Sarah concluded, "And some pretty bad sleep deprivation all around. But that's about it, I think."

"Definitely could have been worse!" said Mac cheerfully, still prodding at Sam's knee while Sam winced. "I expected a lot worse! Especially when Dean wasn't responding to my damn phone calls."

"We were a little busy," said Dean, as he opened up the back door to help Roger unload all the duffel bags.

"I can only imagine," said Mac. He took a quick glance at Sam's wrists too, and said, "Okay, it does look like at least there's no broken bones. You probably need a human doctor to take a look at this, and, you know, little details like an MRI or two would help, but let's get you inside first where I can get a better look. Can you walk?"

Here Roger spoke up to say, "Also, I got food inside."

"I can walk," said Sam immediately, staggering out of the van. Sam added, as Mac, Cas and Sarah all helped him down from the van, "And, I'm really not picky but, please tell me the food is something other than canned Spaghetti-Os."

Sarah said, "Apparently Calcariel had a rather limited view of human nutritional needs."

"Canned Spaghetti-O's every night," said Sam. "For two months."

"Oh my god," said Mac, helping him along the path toward the front door. "Sam, I'm so sorry."

"Could've been a lot worse, trust me," said Sam, "But I never want to see a Spaghetti-O again in my life."

"Well, I got burger fixings," said Roger, maneuvering ahead of them to open the door. "And I prepped some twice-baked potatoes with this broccoli-cheese topping that's pretty decent. An' a salad."

"Salad?" said Sam, his eyes going wide.

Roger nudged the door open with a duffel bag, craning his head over his shoulder to say to Sam, "Sometimes I do this salad thing with greens an' cut-up apple an' sunflower seeds an' cranberries an' little bits of oranges an' a dressing." He looked a little worried and added, "That okay? It's a good midnight snack at work so I make it a lot. I wasn't sure what you guys might want. Mac and me figured you'd all be tired and hungry, so I got sort of a variety of stuff. Also I got beds made up and there's two showers ready and waiting. You guys can all crash here for the night, okay? The food sound okay?"

Cas tugged urgently on Dean's sleeve and whispered, "Dean, is something wrong? Sam looks rather distressed. And also, won't you need pie instead of salad?"

"Sam's okay, Cas," Dean tried to explain. "There's such a thing as happy tears. And you know what... tonight I'd actually rather there be salad than pie. Believe it or not."

"Dean... are you... feeling okay?" Cas said, staring at him with such a concerned look that Dean had to laugh.

Cas frowned at his laughter and declared, "I'll ask Roger if I could make a pie. Just to be on the safe side."

Roger, it turned out, had actually been fretting over what to do for dessert, and was delighted when Cas volunteered to make a pie. "I got extra apples!" said Roger immediately, and off they went to the kitchen.

This also resulted in the unexpected side benefit that Roger and Cas finally got some time together. Dean poked his head in the kitchen a few minutes later to check on them, and found Cas frozen still in the middle of peeling an apple, gazing at Roger, while Roger was mumbling something, nearly in tears, pointing at Cas's wing and trying to hand a picture of his daughter to Cas. Cas had to fumble the apple peeler down and wipe his hands clean before he dared touch the precious little photo.

A moment later Cas had Roger wrapped in a wing-hug.

Dean made a hasty escape back to the living room, where Mac was doing a more thorough check of Sam's injuries under the bright exam-lights.

Mac had Sam set up on a big overstuffed recliner, Sam's leg propped up on the recliner footrest, while Sarah stood nearby, ready with ace-bandages and ice packs.

"This really does need a human doctor," Mac said, frowning at Sam's knee again. "Probably a pulled tendon if I had to guess. I think you avoided ligament damage. I don't think it's a meniscus tear. And I don't think it's the ACL. If I had to guess. But I hate to guess. Tendons and ligaments can take a long time to heal, so you do want to get this checked out, okay?"

Sam nodded.

"What would you do if he were a gorilla?" asked Dean, out of curiosity.

"Antiinflammatories dissolved in a fruit smoothie," said Mac, "And see if the gorilla will tolerate icing it daily, in exchange for a treat. Maybe keep the gorilla inside for a while to limit tree-climbing. Try to limit rough-and-tumble play. Tell the keepers to give him lots of treats and keep him still."

"I could do with lots of treats," said Sam, raising an eyebrow at Sarah and adding, "I can think of some treats in particular."

Sarah blushed almost instantly.

"I usually recommend brown paper towels," said Mac, looking over at Sarah with a snicker. "As a snack. Gorillas think they're yummy. Best thing since sliced bread."

"Um... maybe a different treat?" said Sam, grinning widely at Sarah now.

"Picky, picky!" said Mac, starting to wrap the ace-bandage around Sam's knee. "How about a grape?"

"Not to be pushy here," said Sarah, "But could he have two grapes?"

Dean said, "I'd say you've earned all the grapes you want, Sammy boy. We'll even peel them for you. Sarah here can toss them in your mouth one by one. And Cas can fan you with his wings. You get all the pampering you want. For at least, oh, two days, I'd estimate, before we all get crabby again."

Sam laughed. Just then Cas came walking into the room, brushing flour off his hands. "Fan Sam with my wings?" Cas said, frowning. "Certainly, I can do that. Is he feverish?"

Cas had actually lifted one wing and was starting to wave it in Sam's direction when Sam said, "No, no, Cas, I'm okay. Just a sore knee and bruised wrists. I'm okay."

Mac turned toward Cas and said "Eagle! Glad you're here. Your turn. Pie all set?"

Cas nodded. "It's in the oven. Roger's got everything under control. Roger, he's..." His eyes drifted toward the kitchen and a thoughtful look came over his face. He glanced down at his left wing and said, "Roger's okay, I think. I just told him... I told him I could never have done that flight without his help. And I told him what would have happened otherwise. With the elemental." He cleared his throat and said, "Anyway, while talking with Roger, I, um, well, I was thinking about tears. Dean has some angel-tears, some tears that I cried while I was trapped in the ether," (Sam and Mac both looked puzzled at this, but Cas didn't explain further.) "It reminded me of something. Angel-tears might be useful in healing your injuries! Your knee, and Dean's ankle too." Cas looked at Dean and said, "You remember what the girl at the fair said, don't you? She was perfectly correct. Angel-tears that have crystallized, like those did, have healing properties for humans. You can make a tea out of them and drink them and they will heal many things. Not everything, but they can help."

"Whoa," said Dean. "I forgot all about those." A lot had happened in the last week, of course, and the angel-tears had totally slipped his mind. Dean went over to his duffel, and with a bit of rummaging he succeeded at digging out the little ziploc bag at the bottom, the one he'd put both of Cas's most recent tears into. One he'd sold, of course, but the other was still there.

Dean waved the ziploc bag at everybody else. "One tear left," he said. "A thousand dollars a pop, just by the way. And I've got a bunch more back at the bunker."

Sam looked worried at this, and Mac said, "That implies an unhappy angel," glancing over at Cas with some concern.

Cas just nodded.

"It was a long couple of months," said Dean briefly. "Long story. But anyway, Sam, so, we have a bunch of these angel-tears now, and apparently they've got some healing powers."

"Okay, okay, magical healing powers noted," said Mac. "Let's get a look at Cas's injuries too and then we can decide who's the most injured and who deserves the magical tear."

Mac spent quite a few minutes examining Cas's wing, feeling it for heat, and moving it around. Partway through the exam Roger came in to report that burgers were underway. He also had beers for everybody. (He also looked a little red-eyed, but actually seemed pretty relaxed.)

"The tertials really did stay in place, didn't they," said Roger, leaning close to look.

"They did indeed," said Mac. "And I gotta say, that was a damned impressive flight, Eagle. But, you know, if you'd asked, we could have guided you about setting up for some glide practice in safer settings that wouldn't have strained your wing. Instead of you starting off with an eight-hundred-foot drop into a flipping plesiosaur's mouth."

"Marine elemental," said Cas, wincing a little as Mac began to examine his shoulder. "It was a marine elemental. A bit large, but not a plesiosaur."

Mac rolled his eyes, "Marine elemental, right. You know, my first thought, when I saw that thing tearing down the Golden Gate Bridge, with all the panicky people all around me — I'd run over to Education, we had a donor event that night so I was at the zoo, and Education has a tv and we all went running over— my first thought was that it was "a bit large." All of us, really, we were all standing around watching that thing whip up a mile-wide whirlpool and rip a ten-thousand-foot-long bridge apart like tissue paper, and we were all saying to each other, 'My my, that marine elemental looks just a bit large'."

"Well, it's a little older than the norm," said Cas. "Several hundred million years. But, one consequence of its age is, it's actually not very fast. That's the only reason I was able to dodge it, really."

"But of course," said Mac, finishing up his palpation of the wing. "That's the other thing we were all saying, when we all saw you do that side-slip right out of the thing's mouth, we all said, 'oh, the angel there, because of course that's an angel, obviously; the angel will be fine because that just-a-bit-large marine elemental is not very fast.' I wasn't at all jumping up and down screaming my head off with everybody looking at me."

Cas seemed to finally realize that Mac was being sarcastic— he twisted his head around to look up at Mac with a puzzled frown on his face. Mac rolled his eyes again and said, "I about had a flipping heart attack, okay? Me and Roger both actually."

"When you finally sailed off into the trees and seemed to actually get away from it, he had to sit down," added Roger. "Pretty shaky myself."

"People were starting to ask me if I was okay," said Mac. "Then Roger had to clap a hand over my mouth and drag me out of there to keep me from worrying out loud about your wings."

"He was saying, 'I really fucking hope the tertials stayed on'. I told everyone he'd drunk too much," said Roger.

"I hadn't drunk anything," said Mac. Roger excused himself to go check on the burgers, and Mac added, "Castiel... To tell the truth that was absolutely terrifying. I am so glad you're okay. And Sam!" He cast an apologetic look at Sam. "I didn't even see you, Sam, actually. Were you under him?" Sam nodded, and held up both hands, saying, "Hanging on by shackles. That's why my wrists got so bruised."

"Ah," said Mac, nodding in understanding, "I could only see Cas's wings. Anyway, I'm so glad you're all okay."

"Also the world didn't end," put in Sarah.

"That... too," said Mac, starting to look a little wobbly. "So... was that... a possibility?"

"Yeah, pretty much," said Sam quietly.

Mac looked at him for a moment.

"I need to start drinking more," said Mac, grabbing one of the beers and slugging down a few swallows.

Sam said, "Mac, actually, what exactly did everybody see? What's the news saying? What do we need to watch out for? I mean, could they see his face, or mine, or could they tell he's an angel?"

Mac shook his head, setting down the beer. "Looked like a bird, actaully. The footage was from pretty far away." He dragged his laptop over, pulled up a browser window and looked up the CNN home page. "Take a look," he said, angling the laptop so that Sam could see it from his recliner. Dean, Cas and Sarah clustered around as well.

A dramatic colorful banner across the top of the webpage read, in a gigantic bold font, "DINOSAUR DESTROYS GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE." Below it was a big bright photo of the elemental ripping down the first tower.

Every other news story on the entire website was also about the elemental. Mac scrolled down the page and Dean read the headlines, one after another:

World watches in shock and horror as Golden Gate Bridge destroyed

San Francisco under martial law

President declares northern California disaster zone

Tsunami alert continues, but seas calm: "Is it over?"

Mayor: "We will rebuild! We'll do it all ourself!" - requests federal funds

Monster identified as possible plesiosaur, thought extinct 65 million years

Brave eyewitness fought plesiosaur: "All I had was a hammer" - SEE VIDEO HERE

Could plesiosaurs attack your town? - SEE MAP HERE

NOAA oceanographers: More research funding needed for ocean exploration

"World's luckiest seagull" escapes jaws of death - SEE VIDEO HERE

Conspiracy theorists: "Seagull" was actually secret US Air Force robotic drone

Talk radio host: terrorists might have trained plesiosaurs to attack US cities

BREAKING: Golden Gate "Hammer Hero" signs TV deal

Mac scrolled briskly past all these distractions and paused on the "World's luckiest seagull" story. He clicked on that one, which took them to another page labeled "SEE: Lucky bird escapes plesiosaur! - Ornithologists baffled - Conspiracy theorists: was it secret US Air Force drone?"

"So, Eagle," said Mac, glancing up at Cas. "Your current wing pattern's actually pretty similar to a type of Arctic gull, just by the way, and I think that's gonna save you. Since it's hard to get a sense of scale from the video, most birders who've watched it are actually assuming you are a lost Arctic gull that somehow turned up in San Francisco Bay at exactly the wrong moment. But there's hot debate about it and I wouldn't doubt that people are going to be analyzing the video pretty closely. The second and third theories are that you are a robotic flapping military drone, or, that you're a US paratrooper who was deployed to throw a bomb in the elemental's mouth, using a highly classified, flapping-capable, backpack-mounted, collapsible hangglider. Then, this is my favorite theory, there's some very drunk-looking surfers from Santa Cruz who are swearing up and down that they met you a few days ago and you said you were going to kill the "wave monster" and that you're a fellow surfer and that you were actually trying to surf down the thing's back somehow. They were too drunk, or stoned maybe, to make much sense but you'll be happy to know they were cheering like crazy for you. Anyway, take a look at the video."

Mac clicked on the video and they all watched in silence. The footage was pretty grainy, since it had been filmed at sunset in dim light and the helicopter had been far back. The camera was focused at first on the elemental; Dean and Sarah weren't visible at all (they'd been hidden by the tower), and the VW van was briefly visible only as a black blob, not even clearly a VW. But then a tiny triangle of white and black popped into view by the bridge— Cas's wings, snapping open as he soared over toward Sam.

His tumble with Sam was barely visible (The cameraman had not noticed him yet and seemed to still be trying to focus on the elemental's head). But then the camera jerked over to follow Cas's progress. Cas looked absolutely tiny; the vast background of whirlpool-and-elemental gave little sense of scale, and Cas could indeed have been just a tiny flapping seagull.

Dean found himself sickened all over again to see how close the elemental had come to snatching up Cas and Sam. Everybody in the room cringed, even now, Sarah giving a little squeak and putting her hands over her mouth, when the great head reached up and its huge jaws opened. Sarah reached out to Sam and grabbed his hand. Dean was standing just behind Cas, next to the recliner, and felt compelled to put both hands on Cas's wings and put his nose down into the feathers for a moment, just to reassure himself that Cas had actually escaped those mighty jaws. Cas reached up and squeezed Dean's hand.

When the video ended Dean raised his head with a sigh.

He glanced down at Sam to find Sam looking up at him.

Sam had been watching Dean bury his nose in Cas's feathers.

But Sam just gave Dean a smile.

"Well, that's it for the footage," said Mac, interrupting Dean's thoughts. The video had gone on to a chattering newscaster, and Mac said, "Gives me the chills even just seeing that again."

Cas had seemed unfazed by the whole thing. "It had horrible breath," he remarked. "I don't think it brushes its teeth."

"Fishy smell," Sam said, nodding. "Definitely no brushing. Or flossing."

"Wait," said Cas, suddenly snapping to alertness. He pointed at the screen, saying, "What's that?" Dean glanced back at the screen to see that Cas was pointing to the scrolling news feed that was running across the bottom of the video. It read:

NASA: New comet might crash into sun

"Oh, some NASA space stuff," said Mac.

"Is there more about it? Wait, where's it going?" said Cas, his finger following the NASA news item as it scrolled off the screen. "Where'd it go? Mac, where'd it go? Is there a video for that one?"

"But it's just about a comet—" said Mac.

"Find it!" said Cas, peering closely at the laptop now, looking all around the screen. "I need more information." Mac frowned at him, puzzled.

"Find it, Mac," said Dean. "Don't ask why."

Mac gave Dean a sharp look, but he didn't ask further questions. Soon he was clicking his way around the CNN website. CNN seemed to have no more info anywhere, but Mac soon googled his way to the New York Times' science section, which at least had a little news item of a brief two paragraphs. It had been posted only a few minutes before, and it read:

NASA scientists reported the discovery this morning of a previously unknown comet that appears headed almost directly toward the sun. "It's unclear yet whether this little comet will actually impact the sun directly, or whether it might squeak by intact like Comet Lovejoy did in 2011," said NASA astronomer Carl Kepler. The new comet, temporarily dubbed SA-23E until it receives a formal name, is approaching the sun from an unusual angle. Kepler says it might have grazed Earth quite closely a day or two ago, just about the time as the meteor sighting in the skies over San Francisco during the collapse of the Golden Gate Bridge. However, any connection between the two events is "just idle speculation," according to Dr. Kepler. He added, "New comets are discovered every year. We just happened to discover this one the same week as the dramatic events in San Francisco, but it's surely just a coincidence."

The little comet's fate will be decided within a week, when it will either pass by the Sun intact, or will be destroyed in the sun's "corona", the aura of superhot plasma that surrounds the sun. The corona's temperature is believed to be several million degrees, approximately two hundred times hotter than the surface of the sun.

Cas turned away from the laptop and paced his way over to the far corner of the room, his head down. Mac, Sarah and Dean reread the news item. Roger came in with another round of beers, and seemed puzzled to find everybody so quiet; Sarah filled him in, and Mac too, with some quiet whispers.

"It's not your fault, Cas," Dean said, walking over to him. "He chose this."

"I know," said Cas. He was silent a moment, and then added, "It's just that... I know what it's like to be lost out there. And I also know what it's like to lose the use of your wings. Even before Ziphius... after Hell, when I was waiting to see if my feathers would regrow or not..." He stopped with a heavy sigh, and turned to look at Dean. "I know what it's like."

Nobody knew what to say for a moment.

"Eagle," said Mac quietly. "I don't know all the details here about this bad guy and where he is right now. But, if it helps, about your wing, your wing's actually in pretty good shape. From what I can tell, you pulled a muscle, but it'll heal. And the tertials are in great shape. You'll fly again. And... isn't it possible you could still molt? You just need to get, what is it, enough power, or enough ether or something?"

Cas nodded, turning slowly toward Mac. There was a bleak look on Cas's face, though. "That may not be possible," Cas said.

"I did pick up these," said Sarah, drawing a brown paper bag out of her bag. "Could they help?" She opened it up and shook it out on Roger's workbench.

Calcariel's severed tertials drifted out onto the table.

Roger and Mac both gasped. "Oh my god," said Mac. "Tertials? Seriously? But— who are these from?"

"The bad guy," said Dean.

Roger picked one up. "Tertials from another angel? Could we put them on you, Mr. Castiel?" He looked up at Cas. "Maybe they could replace the ones that were too damaged to put back on?"

Roger reached up and turned one of the exam lights to point it at the feathers, and then everybody looked at Calcariel's feathers for a long moment. There was something rather pathetic about them, as they lay there quietly in a little heap. Yet they were also surprisingly lovely, in a way; a pretty, soft white with elegant brown barring, like a hawk's feathers. A few feathers here and there had tinges of a deep blue on the tips.

Mac said finally, "We could splice them in those places where you don't have any feathers. But..." He picked one up to inspect it, "It's a little short. It look it was severed in a rush, maybe? I don't know if it'd be that much better. We could give it a try, though. Would that help?"

Cas was already shaking his head.

"But, Cas," said Dean, "Couldn't it help you put your wings in the etheric plane, at least? If you had a full set of tertials, couldn't you at least get the wings into the etheric plane? And then soak up some power there."

Cas was still shaking his head, still walking, very slowly, toward the tertials. When he reached the workbench he reached out one hand, to stroke one finger down the white part of one tertial.

Everyone watched as his finger paused when he reached the brown barring.

He drew his hand back very carefully. Without touching the brown barring. Or the blue.

Dean was trying to remember what those extra colors meant. Blue and brown... what had blue and brown meant?

Blue meant the angel had rarely left Heaven, didn't it?

"Blue means... Calcariel didn't get out much?" Dean said.

"Right," said Cas, folding both arms tightly over his chest. "Which perhaps explains his distaste for the mortal world. He never spent much time down here. He was used to Heaven." He sighed. "He never really had a chance to see what this planet has to offer. He never really gave it a chance, but... it might not have been all his fault."

Dean still couldn't remember what brown meant. He finally had to ask, "What's the brown barring?"

Cas looked at him. "Do you remember, years ago, when I came to your dream, and handed you a note, and asked you to meet me?"

Dean remembered that very well.

That was when Cas had been caught by the other angels. Whisked out of his vessel (leaving a very confused Jimmy Novak behind) and taken back to Heaven.

When Cas had reappeared later, he'd been icy cold to Dean. No longer was he on the humans' side. "I serve Heaven," he'd said. He'd snapped out of it later, but Dean had become convinced that Heaven's superiors very likely used torture to keep misbehaving angels in line.

Dean said, "Brown barring means... that angel's been... Um."

"Administering correction," said Cas.

Sam winced. "Correction?" said Mac. Dean gave him a tiny shake of the head.

"Correcting other angels," said Cas readily enough, though his face was impassive. "Angels who have strayed from their mission." He looked back at the feathers. "Such a job alters that angel's innermost self. The nature of his being is changed forever. Calcariel was ordered to do that; I never was, and I count myself lucky for that. Mac... I could use these feathers. And, Dean, you may be right; perhaps with a few more tertials I could get my wings into the etheric plane relatively smoothly— I mean, without falling right off the planet in the process. But I won't risk it. Feathers retain something of an angel's character, you see. The alula-feathers most of all, but the flight feathers too, to a lesser degree, and... you see..."

"Say no more," said Sarah. She jumped up from the arm-rest of the recliner, where she'd been perchng, and began picking up the feathers again and stuffing them back in the paper bag. "What you're saying is that these might taint you with some of Calcariel's delightful personality traits. And if that's the case, no way am I letting you near them. Sorry, Cas... I grabbed them hoping these could be useful, but if they're not, let's get rid of them."

"Sarah, it's very good you retrieved them." Cas said. "Angel-feathers can be quite useful in spells, and it's definitely best not to let Crowley, or any demon, get hold of them. But, I think they should just be locked up and kept safe. I'd rather find another way to power up, if I can."

The somber mood lightened during dinner. Roger's burgers were fantastic, Cas's pie came out great, and they spent a while just congratulating Cas on his flight, and shooting down his constant suggestions that he'd made a less-than-perfect landing. After dinner the discussion turned again to the angel-tears, and Cas got Dean's single remaining angel-tear out to look at it.

"The only question," Cas said, holding the tear up to the light, "is whether Dean's ankle or Sam's knee and wrists should be healed first. Sam, you have more injuries and you're limping worse, so perhaps it should be you."

"That is NOT the only question," said Sam. "I really don't think you should waste a tear on me at all. First off, if we've got a magic healing whatsit, we should save it for something really important. Like, you know, cancer or something. Second, the thing's worth a thousand bucks!"

Cas gave him a sidelong glance. "Dean has quite a few others back at the bunker. And several of these tears were shed because of you, Sam. So it's only appropriate that you should benefit from one now. Also, the kind of knee injury that you have now can last a year or more. Don't pretend it's not serious; poor mobility will really put you at risk during hunts; you know that's true. And as they are my tears, I'm the one who gets to decide. You will get this one."

That seemed to shut Sam up.

"I'll go heat some water," said Roger, heading back into the kitchen. Mac and Sarah started cleaning up the dinner dishes. Sam was still looking a little unhappy about having to use up a whole angel-tear just for his knee. Dean took the opportunity to walk over to Cas, who was still inspecting his own angel-tear under the exam lights.

"I appreciate what you're doing for Sam. And for me. But you really don't have to do this, you know," Dean said to him softly.

"I want to," said Cas.

Dean nodded; it was what he'd expected Cas to say. "Okay then," he said, patting Cas's wing. "Just wanted to check." Dean glanced over at Cas's wings, too, to check Cas's mood (it had long become second nature to check the wings when Dean was wondering about how Cas was feeling). The wings were tucked up, but not too tightly, the tips not crossed at the back. The feathers were sleek, but not pressed down too tightly either. Meaning: Cas was alert and focused, but not worried. "Okay," Dean repeated, as his eyes took in, once again, Cas's lovely wing colors: the grey soft feathers at the base of the feathers, the shining white of the tertials and secondaries, the dramatic gleaming black of the long primaries.

His thoughts drifted to the feather-color conversation they'd had earlier. No brown barring on Cas's wings. None at all.

And no blue. Not at hint of blue anywhere. Dean smiled to himself. Apparently Cas had been down on Earth quite a lot, over the years. No wonder he'd gotten so fond of his "ducks" and his "mice"... and all the other mortal creatures of Earth.

And... no shining tips. Wait a second.

Hadn't Cas once had shining tips on his feathers? On the feathers of his back? Because now he had only the grey, white and black. Beautiful, of course; but— hadn't he had shining tips on his feathers once? Silver or something? Especially, on the feathers of his back? Thinking back, Dean realized the shining tips seemed to have faded over time. And now they were gone entirely.

That didn't seem good.

"Hey Cas," said Dean, "Didn't some of your feather tips used to be shiny? Kind of metallic colored? On the tips?"

"It wore off," said Cas briefly, glancing over at him. He looked a little saddened.

"What?"

Cas didn't answer. He was staring down at the floor now.

But Roger had overheard; he was walking in now with the mug of hot water, carrying it over and setting it on the table by Sam. "Feathers wear," Roger informed Dean.

Dean looked up at him. "What do you mean?"

Mac and Sarah had finished clearing the dishes, and Mac explained, "Feather tips wear off over time. Often the tips of a freshly grown feather are another color than the rest of the feather. But the colored tips wear off over the months. Feathers fade, and fray, over time, just like hair does on mammals. You see that on starlings, for example; right after molt the bird looks speckled because every black feather has a sparkly bright tip. But a few months later the starling looks plain black, because the sparkly tips have worn off. It happens with all birds." He looked at Dean curiously, and added, "That's why birds molt at all, you know. Didn't you know that? The whole point of molt is to repair the damage to the feathers that inevitably occurs over the course of the year."

There was a little pause, and Cas finally said, "The wear has accelerated since my wings became mortal. I suppose it'll keep going. They've faded, too... see, the black isn't as glossy, Dean, haven't you noticed?" He spread his wings a little. The black still looked fine to Dean; beautiful, even; but Cas seemed to think it was sadly faded. Cas said, "They've never been this frayed before."

There was a touch of worry in his eyes that Dean had never seen before.

All of which meant... if Cas could never molt, would his feathers just wear away entirely?

Would he end up like Calcariel someday? With just little worn-out stubs where his beautiful feathers had once been?

The thought was chilling.

Cas picked up the angel-tear now, and carried it over to Sam's mug of hot water. He said, "Sam, hold the mug steady, and the very second I drop the tear in, drink it all down. You'll need to drink it immediately, or else the healing powers will evaporate. Are you ready?" Sam nodded, sitting up a little, and Cas held the tear over the mug.

"WAIT!" said Dean, lunging forward and slapping his hand over the mouth of the mug before Cas could drop the tear into it. "Wait, Cas, don't! Stop!"

Cas and Sam both looked at him, puzzled.

"You have to drink it yourself, Cas!" said Dean, grabbing the mug away from Sam. "Sorry, Sam, but your knee will heal on its own. Cas's wings won't."

"Not a problem," said Sam, "But what are you going on about?"

"My wing's mostly healed, Dean," said Cas. "You heard Mac. Just a muscle strain, but that's nothing."

"Molting! I mean molting! Cas, molting is HEALING!" said Dean, his heart pounding. It had come to him all at once. Thinking about Cas's mortal wings, his slowly fraying feathers, his bright feather tips wearing away... Thinking about the color of angel feathers, and the color of the angel tears, it had all suddenly made sense. Molting was how wings repaired feather damage! Which meant: Molting was a type of healing!

And angel tears would help! Dean suddenly felt certain.

"Dean," said Cas, his eyes narrowed, "What are you talking about?"

Okay, maybe Dean's theory wasn't perfect. But he felt sure he was on to something. "Molting is how feathers heal!" he tried to explain. "I mean, it's how wings heal feather damage! Right? Am I right?" Cas was squinting in puzzlement now. Dean went on, "And, think about it, Cas, there's more to it than just that. Think about, why do angel-tears heal things at all?"

"I don't know," said Cas. "They just do."

"If you cried right here, right now," said Dean, talking fast, almost tripping over his words, his voice tense, "would those tears have healing powers?"

"No," said Cas, shaking his head. "They wouldn't. They have to pass through the ether. They have to form a solid little object. Like this one." He held up the shining, silvery-white angel-tear.

Dean gestured at the tear in Cas's hand. "Exactly. Because, Schmidt-Nielsen said angel-tears are really not just the tear but also crystallized ether that sticks to the tear. Isn't that right? And look, Cas, look how silvery-white they are, look at that COLOR! Look at the color! You pay so much attention to feather color, and you never noticed what color an angel-tear is?"

It had just come to Dean all in a flash. And it seemed so obvious now: angel-tears were shining silvery-white.

Dean took the tear out of Cas's hand and held it up to Cas's eyes, saying urgently, "That's the color of angel grace. I swear it is. Isn't it? Isn't it? Look at it! Shining silver-white!" He saw Cas's eyes widen as he studied the tear, and Dean said, "So - couldn't it be they've got Heavenly power bound right into them? Heavenly power from the ether! Don't they? Cas, isn't that the color of Heavenly power? Isn't that what an angel-tear is? It's really a bit of Heavenly power, bound into the ether, bound into solid form! Don't you think? Cas, couldn't this help you molt?"

Cas blinked, and stared at the angel-tear. Everybody was silent.

"Please tell me I'm right," Dean said, nearly begging.

Cas gave a little sigh, and shook his head, and Dean felt all the hope drain out of him. It had made such sense... but... maybe it was wrong.

Cas said softly, "Angel tears can't heal angel wings. We've always known that. It's been tried many times in the past. It doesn't work." He looked up at Dean with a warped smile. "Angel tears can't heal angels. It's ironic, I know, but, the tears can only heal mortal b—"

Cas stopped in midword, and then slowly finished... "...mortal bodies." He looked up at Dean, wide-eyed, and Dean grabbed his left wing in one hand. The warm, solid, physical, mortal, wing.

"Eagle," Mac said gently, "In my professional opinion, your wings are about as mortal as wings can be. At least, right now they are. If this pearl thing can heal mortal bodies, and if molt counts as a type of healing, which, really, it should... then you really ought to try it on your wings."

Cas just stared at him.

There was a long silence.

Roger stood up from his little chair in the corner, took the mug from Sam's hand and said, "I'll reheat the water. Gimme a sec."

"It may not work," Cas kept saying, as Roger brought the steaming mug of water back into the room. "It may not work. It might not work. It might just waste it. I've never heard of this working." His wings were very tense now, folded very tightly. "It might not work. And Dean— Dean, I'm a little worried that— Dean—" He was perched now on a stool by Roger's worktable, and he looked up at Dean, anxiety and worry clear in his face.

"Settle down, champ," said Mac. "Let's just give this a try." But Dean knew what Cas was talking about.

"Cas," said Dean, putting a hand on Cas's wing. He moved around in front of Cas for a moment, not caring at all that everyone was watching. Looking Cas right in the eyes, Dean said, "It'll work out. You'll still feel everything you feel now. I really think so. Because the things you feel are part of you now. I know they are."

Cas gazed at him hopefully, his eyes huge.

"We won't really know till after molt," Cas said. "I won't really know till then—"

"Cas," said Dean. "Good things do happen. Have faith."

Cas looked at him a long moment, and nodded.

"All right, buddy," said Dean, squeezing his wing. He nodded toward the mug by Cas's side. "Drop that puppy in there and let's get this show on the road."

"It's not a puppy," murmured Cas, "Or a show," and he lifted his hand and dropped the angel-tear into the hot water. They all leaned close to look— Dean, Roger, Mac, Sam (who'd hoisted himself to his feet for this) and Sarah, all clustered over Cas's head— and watched with him, looking down in the mug. The little angel-tear settled to the bottom of the hot water and then abruptly blew apart into a shining swirl of silver-white color.

The swirl spread, and spread, until the whole mug of water was glowing silvery-white.

Exactly the color of angel grace.

The color of Heavenly power.

Cas took a breath, and looked up at Dean. He raised the cup to his lips, and began to swallow the glowing silver water, still looking at Dean.

I love you, Dean thought, tightening his hand on Cas's wing. And you are an angel and you need to fly.

Cas held Dean's eyes the whole time, while he gulped it all down.

"OW," he said a moment later, lowering the mug. "HOT."

"You said it had to be hot," said Roger, looking worried. "Did I make it too hot?"

"No, you did right," said Cas. "It does have to be hot. And actually... it doesn't hurt." He closed his eyes for a long moment.

He took a slow breath in, and shuddered. Dean felt the wing tremble, and for a moment he thought he felt something thrum under his hand. As if something were shooting through the wing. A wave of power, perhaps; a rush of grace, moving through all the feathers.

All the feathers pricked up for a moment, and then settled back down.

Cas opened his eyes.

And looked instantly at Dean.

And smiled.

"I still feel everything," said Cas softly. "Everything."

Dean grinned at him, a knot of tension loosening in his stomach. He'd had faith in Cas, yes... but it was tremendously reassuring, nonetheless, to see Cas smiling at him like that. With that bright light of love so unmistakable in his eyes.

"It is power, Dean, you were right," Cas went on, closing his eyes again for a moment. "But— only a little bit. I can feel it, but it's quite little. Not nearly enough for molt. But if I use the other tears, too... it might be enough. Just enough."

"Then don't use your power for anything, Cas," said Dean. "Between now and then. No healing, no magic, no nothing. Actually. Come to think of it I'm not even going to give you the other angel-tears till right before molt-time."

"Maybe I can top it up with a couple prayers," said Sam. Everybody turned to look at him, and he colored. "Just a thought," he said. "Probably just my imagination."

Cas looked at him and smiled.

"It might help, Sam. I'd appreciate it."

Home at last, Dean thought. Home at last. After a heartfelt round of goodbyes, and yet another long day's drive, they were at last back in the bunker.

Dean was a little surprised at how different the bunker felt, as they hauled their stuff in from the garage, Sarah and Cas bustling back and forth carrying their duffel bags in, both of them refusing to let Dean or Sam help with anything. Soon Sarah and Cas were involved in some in-depth discussion about the proper ratio of salad and pie that would be required for their first complete dinner at home, while Dean wandered around looking at the bunker.

Home at last. The bunker truly did feel like home now. There had been a time when it hadn't. When Dean and Sam had first found the place, its strange, dusty halls had seemed nice enough— quite helpful, really— but just a borrowed shelter. Someone else's place. Another foxhole in the battlefield; another port in the storm... just one in an endless series of temporary ports, in an endless series of storms.

Worst of all, of course, had been the last couple months, when Dean had spent those grim two months here alone. He could still see the traces of that time now, all around; the books he'd been studying were still spread out on the table (Sam gave Dean a rather searching look as he realized what books Dean had been working his way through; books about retrieving lost people, and summoning lost family members, and finding lost angels.) The whiskey glasses scattered in the library and the kitchen and the tv room (and now Sam gave Dean a series of increasingly worried looks as Sam found glass after glass on every possible surface, and then bottle after empty bottle stacked up in the trash). The pathetic assortment of food in the fridge, which sent Sarah running out instantly on a grocery trip. The pile of laundry he hadn't gotten around to doing. Even Dean's room had somehow ended up much messier than he'd realized. The side table by his bed was especially pathetic, still totally covered with big jugs of sleeping pills and hangover-headache pills and painkillers... and another bottle of booze, and another couple of glasses. And that horrible alarm clock, the one he'd looked at every morning when he'd awoken at four in the morning.

Now the bunker seemed full of life and light. Dean hobbled through it in some amazement, cleaning up the whiskey glasses and seeing, now, the marks of the people he loved, everywhere he looked. There was Cas's incredible world-map ... there were the tall, "wing-ready" barstools scattered throughout the bunker... there the movie-chair that Sam had made for Cas, ready to be carried back to the tv room for the night. There were the duffels all spread out, half unpacked. There was Sam actually IN his room, that room that had been so terribly empty for so long, flopping out on his bed with a sigh, and there was Sarah bustling in with the groceries, and there was Cas setting out food and water for Meg, who was running all around the bunker with her tail held high, as if she were delighted to be back somewhere that she recognized.

It was almost overwhelming.

Dean took particular pleasure in plunking the movie-chair right next to the sofa where Dean had recently been in the habit of watching Homeward Bound all alone.

"Three lost animals," Dean muttered to himself, glancing down at the Homeward Bound dvd cover, which was still sitting out on the table. Three lost animals. Coming home.

"Five, now," said Cas, coming in behind him with Meg in his arms. "With Sarah and Meg."

"Five." Dean said, smiling at him. Meg jumped from Cas's arms down to the sofa, and Dean reached down to pet her on the head.

"Do you think Sarah will stay?" said Castiel, looking at him seriously. "I would like her to. I think Sam would, too. But they seemed confused about what bedroom she should use and now it sounds like Sam's telling her that she should go back to Wyoming."

"Oh, jeez," Dean said, rolling his eyes. He straightened up from petting Meg. "Where are they?"

"Standing in front of the linen closet pushing stacks of sheets at each other," said Castiel, nodding toward the long hallway where the bedrooms— and the linen closet— were. "I wanted to tell them dinner would be ready in twenty minutes but they looked so confused that I decided not to bother them. You know, it's actually rather reassuring to discover that I'm not the only one who gets that confused by human relationships."

"Sam could definitely give you a run for your money," said Dean. "Well, I could too, actually. Anyway, I'll see what I can do."

Dean made his way through the halls to the bunker's rather substantial linen closet, which was just by one of the bathrooms. As promised, Sam and Sarah were standing right in front of the linen closet, still in the middle of what looked like a very befuddled conversation. Even as Dean drew closer he could hear Sarah saying uncertainly, "Sure... okay... I thought you might need some space, in fact, since, you know, after two months in Calcariel's dungeon...You might want your own space?"

And Sam was countering awkwardly with, "Well, it's more like, I thought you probably need space... This is all such a big change for you, and I know you probably don't want to, like, commit or anything, and you don't have to, you know, you totally don't have to uproot your whole life. So, maybe you should take a breather..."

"So I figured Sarah's staying in your room, right, Sam?" said Dean, wading between them to grab the sheets out of both their hands and plunk them right back in the linen closet. "I already made up the bed for you, Sam, while you were gone. It's got fresh sheets already. And towels. Here, Sarah, you'll want your own stack of towels, take these. Sarah, why don't you also take the room opposite Sam's— that one's already got fresh sheets too, I did that months ago— and then you can have a nice spot to yourself, like if he snores too bad or needs room to pile a million ice packs around his knee or something, or if you just need to decompress, you'll have your own little spot right across the hall. But other than that I'm assuming you'll stay with Sam? And I hope you stay, by the way, Sarah, cause, you know, you fit in so well with us. You're welcome to stay forever if you want. Cas wants you to stay too. And Sam desperately wants you to stay, but he's too much of an idiot to say so. Dinner in twenty minutes, okay?"

Dean walked away.

From behind him he heard Sam say, "Uh. What Dean said."

A grin crept over Dean's face, and he slowed down just enough to hear Sarah respond, "Yeah, um. Yeah. That sounds good. That sounds really good. Actually... what I was REALLY thinking was..."

There was the sound of a kiss.

Dean managed to catch Sam a little later, just before dinner, while Cas and Sarah were ladling a pile of roasted chicken and vegetables onto plates.

"Take her to a movie," whispered Dean, while they were still out in the hall just outside the kitchen.

Sam looked at him. "What?"

"Take her out on a date. Take her to a movie. Dinner and a movie. She mentioned once that she'd like that."

Sam just looked at him for a second. Then he grinned, and nodded. "Got it. Yeah. And... thanks."

"No problem."

Dean started to walk in to the kitchen, but Sam stopped him with a hand on Dean's arm.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"So, you and Cas..." said Sam, an awkwardly twisted look on his face that Dean knew meant Trying to act casual, and failing. Sam went on gamely, "So... you ever thought of taking Cas out to a movie? Or, um, something?"

Dean snorted. "He'd probably spend the whole time complaining about the logical inaccuracies in the plot. But..." Dean realized it was probably time to come clean. Sam had to find out sooner or later. "Uh, Sam... he told me what you said. About me, I mean. In your prayers, I mean."

Sam gave a little laugh. "So... did he punch you?"

He's still got that same look on his face, Dean thought. Trying to act casual, and failing. I probably look exactly the same.

"Um," said Dean. "Uh. He didn't have to."

Sam's eyes widened. "My god. Really?" Dean nodded, and to his complete embarrassment he felt a goddamn smile actually creep over his face. He looked down at the floor and rubbed his nose to try to hide it. But when he finally managed to look up, all Sam was doing was grinning right back at him.

Sam finally said, "It's almost like you've grown up or something."

Dean shrugged, still intensely embarrassed, but rather relieved. "I was on my own here for a few months," he tried to explain, "It... I... didn't know if either of you made it. Didn't think either of you had, to be honest. It sort of... it put things in perspective, I guess."

Sam said, a thoughtful look coming over his face, "So what you're saying is... it takes a near-death experience and two months of me being kidnapped and imprisoned, and two months of Cas trapped in a friggin' other dimension and actually crying over you, and you downing at least fifty bottles of whiskey daily from the looks of it, and then the world nearly ending, for you to get your stupid feelings sorted out? That's what you're saying?"

All Dean could manage was a shrug and a weak smile. "Basically... yeah? Sorry."

Sam shook his head, "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but, maybe we owe Calcariel a bit of thanks here. Just for kicking you around enough to get your butt in gear."

Dean snorted. "I wouldn't go that far. But... " He sighed. "It has been a hell of a strange year, I'll grant you that. Can't say I've exactly enjoyed anything Calcariel did, but..." He glanced up at Sam. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but, think what would have happened if Calcariel hadn't been such a world-ending homicidal maniac. Cas would still be lost. We'd still have forgotten him. We'd have never found him. Even now."

"Jeez. You're right. And... I'd have never met Sarah," said Sam, thinking.

Sarah's voice came calling to them through the hallway. "You guys coming? Dinner!"

"C'mon," Sam said, nodding toward the kitchen. "Let's go eat."

"With your girl," Dean said, grinning.

"And your angel," said Sam, grinning right back.

"Yours too," pointed out Dean. For it was obvious that Sam and Cas had only grown closer than ever over Sam's months of isolation. Dean had already found them deep in quiet conversation a couple of times just in the last couple days. For all that Sam seemed to be acting fine, it was clear he was still adjusting to his sudden freedom, and apparently he hadn't broken the habit of wanting to talk to Cas every now and then, and wanting to tell Cas about his day.

And Dean found he didn't really want Sam to break that habit. Not at all.

Sam said, "Well, how about, I'll share my nurse if you'll share your angel."

There were a lot of tacky jokes Dean could have made about that. But he knew exactly what Sam meant. And it didn't seem like a joking matter right now, for, actually, they all really did need each other. All of them.

Dean just said, "Deal."

Sarah did one last health-check after dinner, before she deemed Dean and Cas fit to go off on their own. Soon they were all tottering off to bed, with their assorted injuries. There was some bustling around of finding towels and figuring out who was using which shower (they all wanted to rinse off the travel dust).

Dean was the first to shower and soon was back in his room, which he straightened up hurriedly. He changed into his usual t-shirt-and-sweats for sleeping, and flipped back the covers of the big bed, somewhat amazed to realize that tonight, for the first time ever in the bunker, he would actually have a companion to share the huge empty bed.

Once again he spotted the bottle of booze on the side table, and the big jugs of sleeping pills and painkillers that he'd been chugging every night for months. And the terrible clock.

Such a bleak and empty and cold room it had seemed, for those awful months here alone. Such a huge cold bed.

Such a warm and wonderful place it seemed now. Sam and Sarah just down the hall. Meg padding around somewhere. And Castiel would soon be here. Dean unplugged the clock and stuck it in the bottom of a drawer; he moved the booze and bottles, and put all the jugs of pills in a closet. He cleared off the whole side-table for Cas, and then he sat on the bed to wait.

But Cas didn't show.

Dean sat several more minutes waiting for him, and slowly it occurred to him that maybe Cas wasn't coming.

Maybe Cas had gone to his own room.

On purpose? Or just out of habit?

It hadn't even occurred to Dean that maybe Cas might not come.

Had Cas's... feelings... changed?

Because of the power? Had Cas been right about that? Maybe it had taken a day or two to really have an effect.

A trickle of fear ran down Dean's spine.

My angel, he thought to himself. A completely inane quote from some idiotic inspirational poster ran through his mind: "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was."

Dean shook his head, annoyed at himself for falling into thinking about sappy sentimental Hallmark-card quotes. But there was a ring of truth to it, wasn't there?

He needs his wings, thought Dean. He needs to fly. He needs to be an angel.

Even if it means I have to let him go.

Dean waited a few more minutes, and Castiel still didn't show. Dean had to make himself stand to go to the door. He paused there at the door for a long moment.

Time to go find Cas. To join him...

Or wish him goodbye. Whatever Cas needed.

Dean took a breath and opened his door.

Only to find Castiel standing just outside, with one hand raised; he'd apparently been just about to knock on Dean's door. From the way his wings were sagging, Dean had the impression that he'd been standing there for a while.

"Oh," said Castiel. He lowered his hand slowly, his wings tightening up. "Hello, Dean. Um. I wasn't sure if... " He stopped in mid-sentence, and drew a breath to start over. "I wasn't sure," he began again, spreading his hands as if he were starting a big speech, "If I should... You see, you never asked me to stay in this room, exactly, and... Dean, you see, I didn't wish to presume anything. Your life is back to normal now. Sam and Sarah are back. You can go hunting with Sam again. You have your life back. I understand that before, earlier this week I mean... well, you were lonely. I didn't wish to... pressure you... and... I understand that you might want some space now."

Dean had opened his mouth to say, "If you want some space, that's cool, Cas," when Meg came strolling down the hall, her tail high in the air. She rubbed her cheek affectionately on Cas's leg, walked right between the two of them, rubbed her cheek on Dean's leg too, strolled into Dean's room, and hopped up on Dean's bed.

Dean almost laughed out loud when he realized that he and Cas were exactly repeating the routine Sam and Sarah had gotten stuck in, earlier that evening. And that Meg had taken the Dean role. Sam and Sarah, earlier, had been trying so hard to give each other "space", trying to navigate this slightly-awkward transition from end-of-world chaos back to regular daily life, that they'd both forgotten to say what they each actually wanted. And Dean (and now, Meg) had had to walk right between them and point out the obvious before they snapped out of it.

Dean checked Cas's wings. Yup, folded tight.

"You see," said Cas, "I've been thinking. I know my vessel isn't right for you. I've known that all along, of course; I know you usually prefer female vessels, and, I know you've made an exception for me this week, but I know it isn't your usual pattern, so—"

"Guess my pattern changed," said Dean. He knew what Cas was talking about, of course, yet that little detail hardly seemed important anymore. Sure, he'd wanted girls in the past. But Cas was who he wanted now. Simple as that.

Yet Cas was still talking. "So if you would rather that things return to the way they were, that's entirely okay—" Dean reached out and took hold of the edge of his left wing, and tugged gently. Cas followed his pull, walking slowly into the room, letting Dean draw him in slowly by the wing, still talking:

"—you could take some time to yourself if you wish. I can simply go sleep in my room again. I wanted to let you know that that would be fine."

Dean closed the door with one hand. "Is that what you want, Cas?" he said. He let go Cas's wing just in order to shuck off his own sweatpants. Just getting ready for bed. Down to a t-shirt and boxers.

"Ah...no..." said Cas, eyes drifting down to Dean's boxers. Cas's wings flared out a little. "Actually... no," said Cas. "No. But the point is—" he dragged his eyes back up to Dean's — "that you have options."

Dean said, "Is one of my options for you to stay?" He took a step closer and ran one hand slowly over the top of Cas's left wing. The silky little feathers were still pressed down, sleeked down along the edge of the wing.

The beautiful, wonderful, miraculous left wing. The wing that had saved Sam; the wing that Sam had saved. Dean ran his hand along it a second time, more slowly, exploring every little feather. He clarified, "It one of my options for you to stay here with me, I mean? Tonight, in my bed? Is that an option?"

"Um... yes..." said Cas, eyes drifting closed momentarily as Dean ran his hand over the wing yet again. "... that is... an option..."

"Then I want you to stay," said Dean, leaning closer still to kiss Cas's soft black alula feathers. The alulas seemed to lift up on their own, stroking Dean's cheek. gently. Dean began kissing his way along the left wing, up toward Cas's shoulder. Cas said, his voice, getting throaty, "But... you're sure? You were alone so long, and... also... molt might be a... whole different complication for you, Dean, I don't want to... uh... I don't even know what will happen or if I'll molt, or... you might want time alone, or... ah..."

Cas seemed to be losing his train of thought as Dean moved around behind him, kissing his way through the soft gray feathers between the wings, kissing his way up to Cas's neck. "I don't want... to..." Cas said, struggling a little to get a coherent sentence out, "Take... advantage of you."

Dean took him by the wing again and pulled him over to the bed. Dean sat on the bed and looked up at him. Cas still looked worried. A piece of advice from Sam, from months ago, ran through Dean's mind: Tell him with words.

Dean said, looking up at him, "Cas, I wasn't sleeping with you just because I'd been lonely. It wasn't just because I was on the road, or because I was hurt. It was because I want you. I want you to stay. I want you. I love you and I want you to stay. Got it?"

Dean let go of Cas's wings one more time, this time to pull off his t-shirt. And then wriggle out of his underwear, too. He felt a little shy doing this, but grinned to see Cas's wings flare a little more, and saw Cas's eyes drift down, and, at last, saw the feathers begin to fluff. Dean tugged at the edge of Cas's sweats, glancing up at Cas with a little smile. Dean hadn't meant it as a command, just a friendly suggestion, but Cas stripped down instantly, as if he'd just been waiting for the signal.

Dean put a hand on each wing and pulled him gently into bed. By the wings.

So much for "Heavenly power is incompatible with love" theory, thought Dean a moment later, as Cas fairly scrambled into bed after Dean, crawling all over him, covering him with kisses.

If it comes back to you, it's yours.

My angel. My angel.

"So... you want to stay?" said Dean. Cas pulled back for a moment to look at him.

Cas didn't get around to answering the question for a while. Instead Dean received one of those long silent stares. One of those "That was a dumb question, Dean," stares.

And, ah, those eyes; those clear blue eyes, so bright with love. That warm gaze, drifting so hungrily now over Dean's body. Those strong hands, all over Dean now; those warm kisses; Cas's hot breath; his intoxicating wild scent.

It was all overwhelming, every part of it; but, most of all, those wings.

Those wings. The wings, of course, were truly Cas; not just part of the vessel, but part of Castiel himself. Those amazing wings wrapped around Dean now, all the feathers fluffed now. Those fluffy, fluffy wings, folding around Dean now like velvet; so soft and warm and strong, protecting him, shielding him, stroking him all over. Carrying him away.

"This is where I want to be," whispered Cas at last, in Dean's ear. "This is where I always wanted to be."

"Then this is where you'll stay," whispered Dean back. He felt the wings fluff even more under his hands, and Dean smiled.

THE END

A/N -

I tried many endings. But this was what worked best: The exact same dialogue that ended Forgotten! But this time Cas adds one more critical detail: This was where he REALLY wanted to be, all along. And this time Cas "smiles" simply by way of his feathers fluffing, and it's Dean's smile that ends the story.

Yes, there will be epilogues. Perhaps there will be a cookout, and perhaps we'll finally see what happens with Cas's slow regaining of power, and with molt. I almost included those as part of the main story, but they're separated by so many months from the Golden Gate Bridge finale that it worked better to have them be epilogues.

No, I don't know how soon the epilogues will be written... you've seen a glimpse, this last two weeks, of how terrible my work schedule has become. A looming grant deadline and 3 science conferences (that I'm speaking at) have blown my life apart. I apologize profusely for the delay (it's why I was trying so hard to finish the fic by the end of October) and I really, really hope you liked this last chapter despite the delays!

I dearly hope you have enjoyed my story! Please let me know if there is something in particular that you liked in this last chapter! Your reviews and comments are the only reason I wrote this fic and I love hearing what you liked. Thank you!