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When Dean wakes up he's back in the bunker in his own bed, all memories of the night before gone. He sits up slowly, his muscles screaming in protest, a warm sensation thrumming beneath his skin, a steady tattoo along his bones. He feels full; as if his skin is stretched taut over a barely contained force that could be unleashed with just the smallest of movements. A sneeze or a hiccup, maybe. There's a teeming inside his head like a thousand voices humming endless different melodies that somehow twine together and produce something beautiful. It's annoying.
Dean rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand and looks down at the bed. That's when he sees them. Feathers. They're white like a dove's but have brown flecks spattered throughout and where a dove's are smooth and slender, these are more... fluffy.
"The hell?" Dean mutters reaching down. When he runs a hand through them, a strange sensation runs up along his arms and across his back. Dean tugs and realizes the feathers are attached to something. Experimentally he tugs harder and there's a pull between his shoulder blades when he does so. Dean turns to look behind him and finds two gigantic wings folded at awkward angles against the frame of the bed.
Dean leaps from the bed and the wings go with him, splaying out on either side of him, stretching wide across the room, knocking a lamp over as they go. The bulb shatters when it hits the ground and glass goes everywhere but Dean's not worried about that. He's too busy trying to glance behind him to get a better look at the wings. His wings, apparently.
A quiet knock sounds on the door then, "you okay in there, Dean?" Sam asks his voice muffled from the thick wood of the door.
"I'm fine Sammy, just uh-" Dean looks around frantically for somewhere to hide in case Sam decides to barge in, "just knocked my lamp over. You know me, clumsy grunt."
"Okay." It's a few seconds more before Sam retreats down the hall but when he does, Dean goes rushing into the bathroom, bumping against things with his wings as he goes.
In the bathroom Dean gapes at himself in the mirror. He looks the same. Mostly. His anti-possession tattoo is gone as is the handprint Cas left on his shoulder so many years ago and he has hulking wings sprouting from his back but other than that, he's the same Dean Winchester. Green eyes, full lips, freckles on the bridge of his nose.
He remembers then, the night before, the witch, Sam dying while he watched helplessly from the sidelines.
"Friggin' witches," he mutters, drawing a hand behind him again to finger the feathers that are peeking above his shoulders. He feels the touch, but only vaguely. It's a strange sensation, really. Like the wings are attached to him but not in the same way his arms or legs are attached to him. It feels as if they're puppeteered from behind him, pressing just so at his back but not controlled by him. He tries to stretch the new appendages like he would his arms and they ruffle slightly but otherwise remain stagnant.
Dean looks at his hand, flexes his fingers and thankfully, they seem to be working just fine. As Dean studies his fingers that look the same but feel different somehow, an idea flickers at the corners of his brain. If I'm an angel, he thinks, I must have kick ass mojo like Cas!
Dean glances at the knobs on either side of the faucet and then back to his hand. Slowly reaching out, he turns his hand in a manner he's seen Castiel do in an attempt to turn the water on without actually touching the knobs. Dean feels a tingling in his fingers, a strain against his skin and...
Nothing happens.
His shoulders slump and he drops his hand to his side. "I'm a defective angel with freaking poofy wings," he grumbles to himself and then leaves the bathroom.