Dean Winchester spent the night drunk and delirious doing terrible things. He woke the next morning with a hangover the size of Vancouver and the distinct feeling of his shoulder blades dislodging and ripping their way through his back. He was so sick – bleary eyed and feeble – he chose to ignore it in favor of attempting sleep. Hung over or not, he was having no luck. He groped his way out of bed before stumbling into the bathroom to relieve himself; every movement he made and he couldn't stop thinking it felt like something was grating on his muscles from underneath. Trying to shake off the thought once more, he zipped himself back in before turning to the sole mirror of his apartment.

'I probably just fell over or something on my way back.' He groggily rationalized, looking over the bruised skin beneath his eyes and the stubble threatening to take over his chin. Turning around to assess the damage he found two steadily growing lumps on his back, the skin badly stretched and slightly discolored in a way that suggested something lay beneath.

"What the-"

Dean had a strong constitution, but when one of them shifted without him initiating it he had to admit it was the freakiest thing he had ever seen. What he would never admit to anyone, however, was how he screamed. Like a girl.

Calming after his episode, Dean reached around from behind and gingerly ran his index finger along the one on his left shoulder, finding the inflamed flesh sensitive, sore in a way that was vaguely reminiscent of a pimple growing under the skin and yet somehow so much worse. His first thought was that somehow he was to blame for this development. Sometime close to the witching hour, long after the curfew and most others had laid down their head to rest; he had gone to the place where Lisa Braeden had been killed. People had left tokens of her life at the base of a dying willow tree, its gnarled roots half ripped from the ground while it held desperately to the ground beneath.

There were photographs of her, of course, dead flowers and hallmark cards full of half hearted condolences. Someone – more than likely Lisa's mother – left a rosary wrapped around the neck of ceramic cherub that smiled sweetly at the world, its cheerful demeanor almost satirical and insulting to the ground it laid upon. It was the smile that drove him over the edge, the cherub perched upon the ground where she bled out. It was like giving someone on their deathbed tickets to Disneyland, a poor excuse for a joke. It ate away at him, the thought that someone wanted to bring Angels into the picture now – when it didn't mean anything. Lisa was dead and the Angels were two years too late to do anything about it.

He'd kicked the figure into the tree, stomping on any pieces that were vaguely recognizable. Realizing that he had to take a leak, he pulled himself out and did so over the cards and flowers. Perhaps that had been enough to warrant his current condition. That idea seemed wrong somehow – like there was something he was missing and yet it was just beyond his reach. He'd had a lot to drink, not drunk enough to forget and yet drunk enough to lose all inhibitions.

Looking himself over again, trying to get the best view and getting only a sore neck for his efforts. Maybe something was wrong with him – a brain tumor or some kind of freak snake bite that caused a reaction. Or maybe he was suffering from dementia or some shit like that, a brain eating disease. Maybe it was just all in his head and his body was trying to tell him that he was dying.
The idea of dying was a relief in and of itself – the feeling of waking up from a nightmare only to find that it was all just a dream. He'd suffered delusions and nightmares for the first half of his life – his mother dying in a house fire when he was barely 4. The feeling was familiar and not in the slightest bit different.

"I'm dying."

Some part of him had hoped that the acknowledgement would suddenly make it all go away, like some kind of magic words or 'open sesame'. No dice, the freakish knots remained and yet they seemed to grow larger with each passing second. He vaguely considered going to a doctor then, but dismissed the thought. If it really was cancer, some kind of brain thing or a simple poisonous bite, he didn't want them telling him that it was curable. He didn't want better – not now. He didn't feel he deserved treatment.

He walked back into the bedroom on mutinous legs threatening to collapse underneath him at any moment. It was as it had always been – a room with nothing more in it than a double wide bed and the faint smells of decay from age old take out boxes strewn across the room with careless abandon. Maybe this was from sleeping in a room with mold, he'd been hearing about things like this all the time from his brother the health freak. The silence lying over the apartment was almost stifling, the noiselessness amplifying his thoughts until they were screaming at him from all angles. Somehow he couldn't stop thinking about his family – the feeling of relief already gone and dread slowly settling in. He was less than enthusiastic about the idea of IV drips, tests that left him humiliated and catheters.

It was too early for this, too early for him to try and think his way through all of the crap that was currently being served to him. He tossed on a shirt and then thought to add a couple more layers in the instance that they things grew bigger and he needed to hide them. He didn't want to try and explain something he had no idea about to strangers. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know what he was doing, but he had the sudden need to get out, get away; it was the kind of need he couldn't deny.
Walking aimlessly as the pain worsened, Dean somehow found himself on a street he did not recognize, both sides lined with possibly the shadiest places he had ever seen. Stuffing his hands down into the pockets of his father's old leather jacket, he kept his head down while he walked quickly. The church in the middle of it all threw him off, yet he couldn't help the feeling that maybe it was a subconscious need that brought him there.

His mother had taken him and his baby brother to church when they were young, her smile always brightest when he said his prayers and sang the hymns, Sammy too young to remember it or do anything more than coo along. She'd always said that Angels were looking out for them, watching them and helping them along through life. Sure, it was utter bullshit but right now that's what Dean needed – just somewhere he could forget his problems and the looming threat of hospitals and death on the horizon.

The term 'church' was loosely used, the pews nothing more than carefully placed chairs of all kinds in front of an alter made from what used to be a bar counter. The confessional clearly used to be a closet and if Dean looked carefully enough he could see where gunshot holes were plastered over on the walls. Standing at the front, just behind the alter facing in the opposite direction, Dean saw a man he figured was the priest looking up to the crucifix that hung on the wall. Not sure if he was intruding despite the destitute state of the room, Dean almost turned back out. Suddenly enough to make him jump, the man did not bother to turn around as he addressed him.

"What brings you here, my child?"

Dean had always hated that – he wasn't anyone but John Winchester's child. No priest or parish had the right to call him that and even now it hit a raw nerve. Another painful throb from his back reminded him exactly why he had come to begin with.

"I'm…uh, I'm not really from around here…"

The man turned then, electric blue eyes falling on him as a gentle smile graced his features. If it wasn't for the collar, Dean would have thought the man a model rather than a priest – he was strangely beautiful and yet still masculine. The stubble on his chin was out of place for a priest, matching his face better than most. Dean had been too busy looking him over, from his raven colored hair to his solid hips and finally his fairly sized feet before he realized that he had not only been staring, he'd completely ignored what the man had said.

"Uh…sorry, what?"

"I was just welcoming you. My name is Father Christopher, I am the priest under the Pastor of this church. What brings you in, my-"

"Dean. My name is Dean."

An apologetic smile then, almost as if he realized how much it grated at him to be called that. The priest corrected himself.

"How can I help you, Dean?"

"I…don't know. I was just…I needed to get out, do something and then…well, here I am."

"God seems to have brought you here for a reason. If you'd like I can-"

The pain was suddenly unbearable as he felt something push hard at the muscles over his shoulder blades, slowly ripping their way through. Crying out, he fell to his knees while he tried to clutch at his back. Whatever it was continued, relentless and moving of its own accord. Dropping his hands to hold himself up, he tried to even his breathing and failed. He heard a voice he knew was the priest's, deep and lulling like the ocean, calling his name and then there was a tugging at his arm. Accepting the smaller man's aid, he leaned on the priest as he carried him to the alter only to swipe everything from it and have him lay down. If Dean hadn't been so overcome with pain he probably would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation, how carelessly everything was now strewn across the floor. Had Dean been a woman it would almost seem like the beginning of one of those pornos that he watched on lonely nights spent on his couch.

He could feel his muscles rip further as whatever they were make their way to the surface of his skin, the movement on his back becoming more violent, almost desperate. He vaguely wondered what the priest was thinking, seeing this alien movement on the back of a man he'd only just met. All thoughts came to a halting stop as the pain intensified.

Father Castiel Christopher had been praying for a sign when Dean had entered, anything to tell him that God had not abandoned his children. The beasts of the world, the supernatural creatures he had spent so many years of his life fighting were getting stronger, smarter and far worse. Their numbers were growing and they had become restless of late, as if in anticipation of something. Whatever was to come terrified him and he was having trouble keeping faith in something when the supply of evil seemed to far outweigh that of good.

When the man before him fell to the ground his automatic thought had been that maybe this was his sign – something God had sent for him to do, a mission for his devout son. Upon seeing the writhing masses underneath the man's clothing he tried hard not to think the worst. Working the struggling man out of his leather jacket before giving up when he reached the shirts and cutting them with scissors from a nearby first aid kit, he was greeted with two things breaking the skin of his back as blood poured forth.

Suddenly, Dean arched his back and cried out as the two large masses completely ripped through the tissue until exposed to the open air. Castiel couldn't rip his eyes away, didn't dare to breathe as he saw exactly what had emerged from the man's back. He had asked for a sign, anything to tell him that God had not abandoned him and what he was given was a man sprouting wings. The feather's were slick with blood and continued to grow in size until they were brushing across the ceiling while arching down towards the floor.

He stood mesmerized, his brain completely blank until a whimper escaped Dean. The medical skills he had acquired over the years kicked in as he moved swiftly to his side. The wounds were still inflamed, the skin surrounding the new feathers angry red and seeping blood at a slower pace than before. Grabbing a towel he used for baptisms, he mopped it away as best he could, out of his comfort zone and lost on what he could possibly do. He tried to ignore the droplets falling from the twitching wings above him, trying to ignore exactly what it will look like when it is time to clean up.

The gentle rise and fall of him suggested that Dean had fallen into an unconscious state – more than likely from the shock his body had just experienced. No man was built to sustain a sudden gain of appendages. The towel was saturated until it was pointless to continue trying to mop away the blood; Dean's back smeared to the point of looking painted. The blood had stopped by now, for which Castiel was grateful, as he looked over the horrific scene before him. Tossing aside the towel, the priest thought for a moment before grabbing a bucket from the back and filling it to the brim with Holy Water; somehow the idea of washing off this winged man with tap water seemed wrong, like he was exposing an Angel to something undesirable. Looking over the wings once more, he realized exactly how daunting this task was turning. It was going to be a long night.