That's how Dean found himself shirtless, face down and being straddled by a priest. It wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for how good the wing massage was – eliciting borderline pornographic moans from the winged man. He never thought he'd be so grateful for Castiel's naivety, already bright red and hoping the priest didn't get a perverted epiphany.

For an awkward man, Castiel had strong and deft hands. He methodically rubbed and soothed each wing, with a gentle care only seen in an artist or someone who truly loved what they did. Dean felt himself being lulled to sleep by the feeling of the oddly calloused hands of the priest and the smell of him on the pillow.

For the second time in five days, Dean woke up in a foreign bed with another man. He couldn't remember exactly when he fell asleep, but as he stretched his wings leisurely he noted the relaxed nature of each muscle. He really needed to find a way to thank Castiel – for putting up with his sorry ass and for helping him out. Even when Dean confessed he stayed, something that he had never thought possible.

He silently allowed his eyes to wander over the sleeping form beside him. As he had initially observed, Castiel was an attractive man. His mess of almost black brown hair on top of his head that could only be described as 'sex hair', his pale skin that was not sickly in pallor rather an ivory or porcelain. The only thing that marred his features was the deep bruises under his eyes, likely from sleep deprivation.

Dean watched him a moment before he noticed the frowning in his brow, the slight shake of his head and the gentle shivers running through his shoulders. When Dean reached out to the sleeping man, wondering what he was dreaming and hoping to distill the unpleasant manner of it he gasped before taking a plunge into the dream.

Castiel dreamed of Heaven. He couldn't explain how he knew the Technicolor field he shared with a man flying a kite on the summer breeze was Heaven, but he knew it without a shadow of a doubt. This was someone's Heaven, his favorite among all others. He felt his dream self shift, finding himself a passenger in his own body.

"Brother, please listen to reason!"

He recognized the British accent of his brother's vessel. Balthazar. The name came to him with relative ease.

"Balthazar, I do not plan such important decisions on a whim. You know my reasons are sound."

"Yes, but-"

"Brother, please."

He turned then, facing his brother for the first time since the dream began and feeling a surge of sorrow at the sight of him. His usual calm buoyancy was discarded, his appearance disheveled with mild desperation painted clearly across his face. He knew that Castiel did not want to do this – whatever this was – but he was perhaps the only one who knew why he must.

"Father has abandoned us and the Apocalypse looms on the horizon. If Raphael has his way there will be nothing left."

"Michael –"

"-is missing. You know this as surely as you know Gabriel will not help."

"Then why you?"

He felt a surge of pride and affection, something that he did not understand out of context.

"Because Father gave me the task of saving the Righteous Man, so save him I shall."

He watched as Balthazar's fight died, a lone tear making its way down his cheek.

"You always did follow Father's orders so well."

"I will continue to do so, Brother."

"I will miss you, my little Thursday."

"As will I you, Balthazar."

It was then, as Castiel reached for his chest that he caught sight of Dean – standing inconspicuously off in the background yet as violently out of place as a neon sign advertising iniquities in front of a church. He was not supposed to be here, this facsimile of a memory mixed with a dream as the realization sent the world around them into turmoil. The colors became distorted and distant as everything warped and began to run together.

"Cass!"

Dean's voice rang out as - despite his constant eye contact - he was suddenly there beside him, grasping his left forearm where it met his shoulder. There was a flash of light, an all encompassing warmth and suddenly Castiel's eyes flew open and he found himself lying on his back in the borrowed bed. The change was jarring, but nothing in comparison to when he turned to face his companion.

"Dean?"

The Angelic man flinched, somehow seeming afraid of the priest for a reason he could not comprehend. As he pushed himself to a seated position he noticed a tightness in the skin where Dean had touched him in the dream. Upon further inspection, he finally understood. Where his white t-shirt had once covered his shoulder was now partially missing and singed, fully revealing the handprint of a scar where Dean's hand had been. He didn't dare think, didn't dare breath as he attempted to register what it could possibly mean.

"I-I didn't – I just…"

He allowed his eyes to stray from the newly acquired mark for a moment, looking into the terrified green eyes of the winged man.

"I was – you were –"

"Dean."

"Cass, I…I'm so fucking sorry. I don't know what-"

"Dean, please calm yourself – it is fine."

Horror spilled into the moss green pools.

"Dude, I burned you! How can that be fine!?"

"It does not hurt."

"It'll scar and whether or not it hurts is beside the point!"

"It is fine."

He could tell Dean was just waiting for Castiel to berate him with harsh words but the words never came.

"Dean, what happened?"

Again the winged man flinched. Cautiously, he continued.

"I was dreaming and then you were there. What happened, Dean?"

"I-I don't know. You looked like you were having a bad dream-"

"You were watching me sleep?"

Castiel wasn't sure why he found this vaguely amusing, but as he watched Dean squirm he thought the teasing was worth it.

"S-shut up! I was – you were – look, you were twitching and I wondered what you were dreaming. I go to wake you up, touch you and all of the sudden I'm watching you and some British cat –"

"His name was-is Balthazar and I assure you-"

"Figure of speech. Anyways, you were arguing and it looked like you won but…"

"But?"

"Then you reached your hand into your own chest and started screaming."

He frowned then; he had no recollection of that, but perhaps that explained Dean's sudden location change.

"Next thing I know, I'm grabbing you and wake up here with your arm all finger painted with a burn."

Experimentally, Castiel ran a finger along the edge only to have his breath hitch as a bone deep buzz coursed through him. Quickly removing his hand, he looked anywhere but Dean only to have his eyes land on the clock on the far wall. Sighing, he ran a hand down his face before addressing Dean once more.

"Dean, it is 3:15AM. I think that, for now, the best course of action is to sleep."

"I guess, but-"

"Separately, in our own respective rooms - we can discuss everything in the morning."

"Yeah, but –"

"Please, Dean. I'm tired and just as confused as you are, but we need rest and plenty of it before our hunt tomorrow."

The reluctance in Dean's nod was obvious, a dejected droop in his wings clear as he exited the room leaving Castiel alone with only the warm impression of wings in his bed and the smell of the larger man's after shave on his pillow.

As Dean slipped into his room he remembered to lock the handle before sliding in between the cold covers. He couldn't get the burn out of his mind, the mark he left on the only person he had right now. Castiel seemed genuinely unfazed, even as he stared in wonder at it for the first time. As he stared at the ceiling he couldn't stop thinking how lucky he had been for once.

What he had found that night five nights ago was possibly the first real friend he'd ever had. Sure, Ash was cool and Bobby was like the father he never had, but he never could have trusted them with something like this, not like Cass. He took everything in stride, one thing at a time. As he stretched his wings luxuriously, he silently sent thanks to Castiel for everything before closing his eyes. Once more he was claimed by sleep.