Dean: It's the end of the world, okay? And it's a damn biblical apocalypse. And if I don't stop it, and save everyone, then no one will, and we all die.

Dr. Cartwright: That's horrible. I mean, apocalypse or no apocalypse... monsters or no monsters – that's a crushing weight to have on your shoulders. To feel like six billion lives depend on you? God. How do you get up in the morning?

Dean: (suddenly pensive) That's a good question...

"Sam, Interrupted" Season Five, Episode Eleven

Dean dreamed of wings. They'd started entering his dreams after the Apocalypse began. He'd be dreaming of Hell or monsters or any of the other horrors that regularly haunted his mind and then suddenly he'd see feathers or feel the brush of wings against his arms. Sometimes they felt like Anna's wings. He remembered her gentle touch as she'd wrapped them around him in the backseat of the Impala. Her wings had felt like velvet and he bet that if he could have seen them they would bear the strong stripes of a red tailed hawk.

Then, as events began to spiral ever more out of control, the wings became black like a raven and they beat against him harshly. They were fierce, implacable, a warrior's wings. He would wake up from those dreams panting like he'd been running a marathon and drenched in sweat, unable to sleep for the rest of the night.

Those dreams soon faded though and the shiny black wings were replaced by a pair that was the dignified grey of a great blue heron. But the new wings were messy and dusty, the feathers out of alignment and the color muted, as if their owner wasn't caring for them properly. Dean's fingers ached to straighten and soothe them, to run his fingers long their length and bring order to the chaos, to show their owner that he cared. Because he did care. The grey wings were comforting and made him feel the way he hadn't felt since he was a little boy, safe and loved in his mother's arms.

He wanted to know who the wings belonged to, but he was never able to see their owner clearly. Sometimes he would get close, so very close, and then the gentle warmth of the wings would lull him into deep, dreamless sleep. And no matter how bad the day before had been, the next morning he would wake up with just enough strength to get out of bed, to get dressed, and to face the new day. It wasn't enough to make him happy again, but it was enough to get by, if just barely.

Sam thought he was dreaming. He had been asleep and then he was awake, his eyes open and looking over at the next bed. Dean was moaning softly, trapped in a nightmare. But before Sam could to anything more than blink, there was a quiet breeze and the sound of wings flapping. Castiel was standing beside Dean's bed, staring down at him. The angel gently reached out and placed his hand on Dean's shoulder, right over the spot where he had marked Dean as he lifted him from Hell. At the touch, the hunter's moans stopped and his breathing smoothed out. The nightmare was over.

Sam said nothing, waiting for Cas to either wake them with a mission or to leave as suddenly as he'd come. But instead, Cas sat down on the bed beside Dean and leaned over, resting his head on Dean's marred shoulder. His eyes closed and he sighed deeply, rubbing his cheek slightly against the muscled arm. Sam didn't dare breathe or move for fear of disturbing the moment. He just watched, transfixed.

Suddenly the breeze blew up again and Sam blinked, expected Cas to be gone when he opened his eyes. The angel was still there, though, head still pillowed on Dean's arm. Cas' arms were wrapped around Dean now, but they seemed hazy and indistinct. As the light from a passing car strafed the room, Sam realized why. The light threw wing-shaped shadows across the bed where the hunter and the angel were resting. Cas had unfurled his wings and wrapped them around Dean, holding him gently in a feathered embrace.

And then Sam understood how his brother kept going day after horrible day. He wondered how many nights Cas had held Dean, sharing his strength and his love with the unaware hunter. He wondered if Dean really knew, deep down, how Cas felt. Probably not. Sam hadn't known, not until this moment. He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep, giving Cas back his privacy. It wasn't his place to tell or to intrude.

Cas was trapped in a nightmare. After he'd left the Winchester brothers in the motel room, he hadn't picked a destination. He'd simply popped into being at random and wandered until he'd found a liquor store. Cas remembered watching Dean drink glasses of alcohol, pouring it down his throat like water, which is what it tasted like to Cas. Then Ellen had taught Cas a drinking game and he had begun to understand how alcohol could dampen the fire inside, keep it from burning you up, fill the screaming void. In the liquor store, as he drank bottle after bottle, flinging the empties against the floor and listening to their satisfying shatter, Cas wondered how much he would have to drink before that void was full and the fire was put out. He reached for another bottle.

And now Cas didn't know where he was or what he was supposed to do. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He was leaning against a rough brick wall of a putrid alley across from the now-empty liquor store. His feet stumbled in puddles of mud and muck as the world whirled around him. But what state was he in, which town? He'd left Dean behind and he didn't know how to get back to him. He needed Dean. Dean would help him, Dean would make things better, Dean would know what to do.

Cas' phone buzzed in his pocket and he fumbled for it, his heart lifting. Dean was calling him and he would go to Dean and everything would be alright. He flipped the phone open just as the call went to voicemail. "Sam Winchester" the caller id said. Sam. Not Dean. He was alone and Dean was not calling and God was gone and Castiel had rebelled for nothing. The angel heard a high pitched keening noise and realized it was coming from him. He crumbled back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground, his wings drooping into the mud.

And Cas wept.