"CAS!"

When Castiel blinks into existence, the room belonging to that of a motel is what greets him. Not unusual.

But the scene before him is decidedly something that he doesn't know how to approach. Which is very unusual.

Dean is already speaking, spitting rapid-fire and breathless at Castiel, springing up from his spot beside Sam, but he is too focused on what's happening behind the man, craning to look over the older Winchester's shoulder.

Sam is kneeling next to your crumpled form, consoling you with low tones and soft touches.

Castiel can't claim to know you very well.

You're a hunter, and you infrequently join the Winchesters. Rarely enough that your presence isn't an expected one, but around enough to know what's going on in the lives of the two Winchester men.

They're fond of you, Castiel knows. The brothers actually care a great deal about your wellbeing in general, even though you're not a staple in their day-to-day lives. And from the few times he's engaged in a conversation with you, you care a great deal about the men, too.

But as he gazes upon your prostrate form, the breath is knocked from his lungs.

Your shirt is gone and blood slicks your naked back, and the sounds of distress you make rankles Castiel in some foreign way, pulling at some long-forgotten instincts.

It has his grace flaring and coiling tightly, desperate to reach out and pull you within it's folds.

But it's the wings—the wings—that leave him stunned and speechless.

They're massive, proportionately so. They're massive, blood-damp, feathered, and so very real.

You have wings.

You, a human, have wings.

Like an angel.

Fledgling, his traitorous mind chants. But no, you're not a fledgling. You're a human.

Or at least, you're supposed to be.