((Supernatural)) Complications

[winnywriter]

I don't own Supernatural.

Title: Complications
Rating: PG-13 for language
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings: Light Destiel, but more platonic than romantic
Warnings: Nope
Spoilers: Castiel exists
Summary: They came to this town to hunt demons, not to care for a sick angel. Slight Destiel. Wingfic. Oneshot.



"Dude, you called him forever ago. Where is he?" Sam asked impatiently.

"I don't know, okay? Maybe the server's busy or something."

"How busy could it be? How many people do you think are out there praying to Castiel?"

"I said I don't know! Why do we even need his help anyway? It's a demon. We've dealt with demons plenty of times before."

"Except this isn't just a demon, Dean. It killed four people in a day and a half and it's left almost no clues behind. Whatever it is, it's powerful. We need all the help we can get."

"Yeah, well I just think you're getting lazy."

With a rush of air and the sound of rustling feathers, the angel finally appeared.

"'Bout time you got your feathery ass down here," Dean growled, "Cas. I called like ten minutes ago-" The minute Dean turned, arms crossed over his chest in irritation, he stopped short, and Sam straightened up in surprise behind him. Castiel slumped by the bed, face pale, legs bowing beneath him. The bags under his eyes made him look exhausted, like he was in desperate need of sleep, despite the fact that both brothers knew the angel didn't require it.

"Cas?"

"I got...your call..." Castiel slurred. He tried to take a step forward, but his knees buckled, and he would have collapsed on the cheap shag carpeting had Dean not rushed over and caught him.

"Whoa, whoa, what's gotten into you?" Dean asked.

"How can I be of assistance?" Castiel asked, sounding delirious. Dean scoffed.

"You're not gonna help anyone if you can't even stand up...Sam, help me." The angel was radiating heat much stronger than usual, so intense that Dean had to fight the urge to lean away from him to maintain his grip.

"Got it." With Castiel's arms draped over the two brothers' shoulders - man, angels were freaking heavy for their size - they sat him down on the bed. "Are you...sick or something?" Sam asked. His brow furrowed in worry, and Dean stifled a roll of his eyes as his brother put on that puppy-dog face that he favored whenever someone was suffering within a five-mile radius.

"It's nothing," Castiel said with a wave of his arm, fighting off a shiver.

"You can't even stand up," Dean pointed out. "The hell's going on? One of your angel buddies try to steal your lunch money on your way here?"

"I don't understand what you're referencing," Castiel snapped, pressing his forehead against his palms. "I came as quickly as I could, but I..." He let out a sigh, tinged with a pained groan. "I seem to have...come down with something."

"What, you mean like a bug?" Sam asked.

"No, it has nothing to do with insects," said Castiel.

"Wait, so you really are sick?" Dean scoffed. "Well that's just great. We've got no leads, no help, and on top of everything, we have to take care of a sick angel! How can you even get sick, anyway? I thought you guys were all...heavenly energy and rainbows." As he spoke, Castiel took the liberty of lying down on the bed, resting his head on the pillows and curling into a loose ball. He looked so small and fragile in this state that his trench coat seemed to swallow him up, but he didn't bother taking it off. Dude probably felt naked without it.

"Does this...thing have a name?" Sam asked hesitantly, as if it would help.

"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it," said Castiel. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Try me," he said.

Castiel mumbled something it what Dean presumed to be Enochian or whatever that angel language was that he liked to babble in when he was performing rituals. And he was right; he couldn't even come close to saying it.

"What is that, Enochian?" he asked. "What does it mean?"

"It has no translation," said Castiel, closing his eyes as if the fading sunlight streaming through the motel window pained him. Sam noticed it and shut the blinds, which seemed to ease the angel's suffering, if only moderately.

"Make one up, then," said Dean, only half joking. Was it even possible for this guy not to be so damn cryptic all the time? He doubted it.

"I suppose the closest thing to a correct English translation would be..." He sighed and pursed his lips. "Angelic Flu."

Dean let out a laugh that he didn't mean to be half as loud as it was. "Angelic Flu?" he scoffed. "Are you shitting me right now?"

"It does not matter," Castiel said. "I'm afraid I will not be of much use to you in this state, but I will do what I can." He tried to haul himself up, but failed.

"Dude, just lie down a minute," Sam instructed. Castiel did, and he seemed endlessly relieved by the fact that he didn't have to get up. "It's not...dangerous, is it?"

"If you mean contagious, then your fears are unwarranted," said the feverish angel. "It is a sickness that affects only heavenly beings...specifically angels that have walked the earth for extended periods of time. It wears on us...makes us...vulnerable to such things." He clutched his chest in discomfort and let out a loud, hollow cough that caused his pale frame to shake and quiver. "I will...recover...but I used up what little power I had coming to you and the trip only exacerbated the illness...I am afraid I cannot move from here until I am well again."

"Well, great," Dean said with a roll of his eyes. "And how long is that gonna take, huh?"

"With any luck, I should regain enough of my strength to be of some help by tomorrow."

"Oh, that's just peachy," said Dean. "Well sorry, Cas, but I'm not just gonna sit here and let this demon get away. We'll have better luck tracking him on our own."

"Hang on a minute, Dean," interjected Sam. "Whatever this demon is, it's powerful. I mean, we called Cas for a reason and he's here anyway. We might as well get his help, don't you think?"

"Exactly what I was thinking, but have you seen the guy? He can't even stand up. How do you think he's gonna do against a fully juiced demon like this? The thing could blow on him and he'd just tip over!"

"Even in my weakened state, I believe it would take more than some exhaled air to cause me to lose my balance," Castiel pointed out.

"He said he'd be better by tomorrow anyway," Sam said, sounding more and more tired of the whole conversation and the situation in general with every passing minute. He didn't seem overly fond of the scenario either, and it was beginning to show on his face and in his tone. "We'll have better luck taking this thing on with a healthy angel on our side than we would alone."

After a moment's stare-down between the two brothers, Dean sighed.

"Fine," he grunted irately. "But if this plan goes bad, it's on you. Both of you." He pointed at both Sam and Castiel in turn and headed for the door. "I'm gonna go get some stuff out of the car. You stay here and make sure he doesn't keel over or anything." Sam nodded tersely and sat back down at his research as Dean left.

The silence in the room became somewhat awkward, broken only by Castiel's ragged breathing and uncomfortable shifting on the stiff motel bed.

"I am sorry," Castiel finally said, "for the inconvenience."

"Don't be," Sam replied, though he still sounded slightly annoyed, despite his efforts to hide it. After all, it wasn't the angel's fault for getting sick; he couldn't help it, and they had been the ones to call him here in the first place anyway.

Well, technically Dean had. Apparently Sam couldn't pray as loudly as his brother most of the time. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that, but he chose not to dwell on it.

"It's fine," he finally said, his tone less harsh than before. "There are two beds...and we're more than used to sleeping on the floor if it comes to that, so just...relax, I guess."

The angel sounded anything but relaxed, judging by his body language. He was sweating profusely, biting back pained groans almost endlessly, it seemed, and it looked as if he just couldn't get comfortable. He kept shifting positions, curling into a ball on his side and then stretching out again. Sam had to admit he did sort of wish there was something he could do to help, to make him feel any better, but he doubted there was and he was sure that if he asked, Castiel just give him a terse, grunted response to get him to stop talking.

"Is there...anything I can..." he started to ask.

"No," Castiel grumbled. Well, he'd been right after all. Couldn't blame a guy for trying. Sam sighed and turned back to his laptop, searching for any clues in the recent news articles centered around the town that might point them in the right direction.

Castiel groaned a bit, and a soft rustling sound filled the room, much like the sound that accompanied Cas when he appeared or disappeared. For a moment, Sam thought that maybe the angel had left without warning, but when he looked up, he realized with wide eyes and stifled gasp that it was not the case.

Never taking his eyes off of Castiel, Sam reached for his cell phone and hit speed dial one.

Dean was just closing the trunk of the Impala when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Eyebrows furrowing, he reached in and pulled it out, looking at it curiously. It was Sam. Why he was calling him from the hotel room was beyond him, unless something had happened. His muscles tensed as he answered, getting him ready to sprint for the motel room, shotgun in hand if necessary.

"What's going on, Sammy?" he asked.

"It's, ah...well, it's Cas," Sam replied, sounding...not scared, but just plain freaked out over something, like he just didn't know what the hell to make of whatever was going on.

"What, did he sprout a second head or something?" Absently, he wondered just how absurd that notion truly was. He didn't know all that much about angels and their weird illnesses after all.

"No...not exactly. Just...just hurry back, okay?"

"Sam, seriously, what is it?"

"Just...come see." Dean rolled his eyes.

"Fine...I'm on my way. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

When he opened the door to the motel room, he didn't know what to expect. He prepared for the worst, for Cas to have exploded all over the walls or for him to be running around the room in a feverish craze or something. He steeled himself for whatever was waiting for him on the other side of the door, but there were no sounds of chaos, no clue that something awful was happening or had happened.

"Okay, if Cas barfed all over the rug or something, I'm telling you now, I'm not cleaning that shit up-"

He stopped dead in the arch of the doorway when he saw him.

Sam was still sitting at the old stained desk, wearing an expression that seemed to say "I have no idea what's going on and it's freaking me the fuck out." And Dean could see why.

Because Cas was still curled up on the far bed as he had been when he'd left, but now, extending from his quivering body was a pair of glistening, feathery wings. They stretched across the room, even taking up the other empty bed, and even so, they did not seem to be fully extended.

Somewhere deep down, Dean had known that Cas had wings. After all, he was an angel, and he'd seen glimpses of them before, in shadows thrown up against a wall by flashes of lightning, but he didn't really know what to expect from the real deal. He hadn't given it much thought, didn't stay up late at night wondering what Castiel's wings looked like to the naked eye. Still, they caught him off guard. They were lithe and muscular, twitching and flexing seemingly all on their own, the feathers rustling and brushing against the scratchy comforter on the bed with every movement. But their color was what surprised Dean the most. He'd never pictured Castiel with white wings; if anything, he'd always thought they'd be black, like smoke or the night sky.

The sleek, angelic appendages were not black, not white, not even gray, but silver. They shimmered in the low light, from the down-covered joints almost all the way to the ends of the feathers, which were a rich midnight black at the tips like someone had dipped them in ink and it had never washed off.

Dean whistled.

"You uh...you got a little something on your back, there, Cas," he said.

"I am...sorry..." the angel replied, sounding embarrassed - no, mortified was a better word - by his current state. Like the wings were something to be ashamed of, something that he kept hidden because showing them was considered unsightly. Dean couldn't imagine why.

Castiel shifted to look at them, and one of his far-reaching wings knocked the lamp off on of the bedside tables with a loud crash.

Maybe that was why. Those things were an accident waiting to happen in such a confined space.

"How...I mean...you have...wings...honest to God...wings..." Even in Castiel's weakened state, he managed to shoot Sam a disapproving glance for his taking of the Lord's name in vain, but Sam seemed to ignore it. "What the hell happened?"

"I am an angel," Castiel reminded them.

"Yeah, but last time I checked you didn't go walking around with these huge things sticking out of your back," said Dean, reaching for one of the nearest feathers to brush a hand against it, to see if it was actually real or just a weird illusion. Castiel jerked the wing away before he could make contact, shooting him a warning glance. Apparently, the wings were off-limits. No touchy.

"These are not my true wings," Castiel said. "They are a...manifestation. Much like my true form, my real wings are hidden from you for your own protection."

"Any reason you've gone all Maximum Ride on us now?" Dean asked.

"Once again, I don't understand that reference."

"I don't even understand that reference," Sam said.

"Seriously?" Dean asked in surprise. "Remind me to lend it to you sometime. Really, though, what's with the feathers?"

"It's this illness," Castiel said, turning from them again, still seeming embarrassed that his wings had decided to make an appearance unexpectedly. Dean wondered if maybe seeing an angel's wings was some sort of intimate rite, like Cas felt uncomfortably exposed with them out in the open like this. Weird train of thought.

"Your Angel Flu is making your wings...manifest?" Sam asked.

"Normally, it's under my control, but this illness...it is causing...complications."

"Well can't you just...I don't know, pull them back in or something?" Dean asked awkwardly.

"I have tried," Castiel replied. His wings quivered momentarily as he concentrated, apparently giving it one last go. It did nothing; the wings were just as visible as before. "It would seem they are..." The angel let out a long, exhausted sigh. "...stuck."

"Stuck?" Dean scoffed.

"Yes."

Dean stood there in silence for a few moments and contemplated the fact that this might have been one of the weirdest things that had happened to him in a while. And that was saying something.

"Well now we're definitely not going anywhere," he said, letting his arms fall to his sides with an audible thump. "If the cleaning lady came in here and saw freaking birdman over here sprawled out on the bed, we'd have a whole new set of problems on our hands."

Castiel curled further away from them, his wings twitching self-consciously.

"Dean, I think he's really kind of...I don't know...embarrassed about this," Sam said in a hushed tone. Dean didn't know why he bothered keeping his voice down; he was sure Cas could hear them anyway. "Maybe it's like the angel equivalent of having your fly down or something."

Well it was obvious that Castiel wasn't exactly comfortable with the whole situation. Between the fever, the physical pain and the mortification he apparently felt, he couldn't be a happy camper, Dean thought. But if there was nothing they could do about it but wait things out until whatever this bug was had worked its way out of Castiel's system, then maybe the best way to handle it was to avoid making a big deal out of things.

Well, there was a freaking angel in the room with his shining angelic wings sprawled over both beds, and that was kind of a big deal in and of itself, but the Winchesters had certainly experienced stranger.

Slowly, Dean approached the bed where the angel's wings were taking up most of the available space. He didn't touch them, but barked out Castiel's name to get his attention. When the angel looked up at him over his shoulder - and over his feathers, which made the visual slightly comical from Dean's point of view, Cas' eyes peeking out from behind the ruffled, silver down - Dean gestured to the feathery appendages.

"Do you think you could...I don't know...put them somewhere else? Preferably without knocking over any more lamps, thanks."

"I can..." Castiel trailed off, rounding his back, and slowly, the muscles beneath the feathers and skin of his wings flexed and stretched, and he folded them inward, toward his body, so they were hanging off of the edge of the bed he occupied. It did, however, free up space on the other bed for someone to sleep.

"What do you say, Sammy?" Dean offered. "Rock, paper, scissors for the bed?"

The floor was anything but comfortable, but then again, Dean hadn't really expected it to be. They didn't manufacture motel floors to be comfortable. Hell, they barely manufactured the beds for that reason. He'd slept on worse, of course, but the unrelenting hard surface beneath his back wasn't the only thing keeping him from sleeping.

His mind raced with the thoughts of the demon that was still at large and of all the time they were wasting when they could be out hunting it. How many people had already died? Four? And what if someone else was falling victim right now and they didn't even know? What if it was on their trail instead? Vaguely, he wondered if the door and windows needed re-salting.

But that wasn't all. Between the uncomfortable sleeping arrangement and his own racing mind, he was having enough trouble drifting off as it was, but to add to all that, Castiel was not exactly being quiet. Oh, he was trying to be, yes, but the angel didn't sleep, which meant he was lying awake in what Dean only assumed had to be agony because that was the only thing that could make Cas so much as bat an eyelash, let alone shift and squirm the way he was now, the occasional stifled groan of discomfort finding its way out between his lips every so often. Add on top of that the rustling of feathers with every movement, and Castiel was, despite his effort, making himself very difficult to tune out.

Finally, Dean grunted in annoyance and hauled himself up off the floor, going over to where the angel was curled on the bed, his wings still hanging off the edge of the mattress, and knelt down to his eye level.

"Hey," he quietly barked. Castiel's eyes snapped open.

"Am I...irritating you?" he asked in a pained whisper.

"Are you in a lot of pain, Cas?" The sincerity of the question took even Dean himself off guard, and Dean could see in Castiel's eyes that the angel was just as surprised at his tone.

"It is manageable. And it will pass. I was hoping not to wake you."

"I was never asleep. Someone's gotta stay up and keep watch anyway."

"I believe I would be most suited to that job, Dean, considering that I don't require sleep."

"Yeah, but you're too busy lying curled up in the fetal position to do anything useful, so I'll stay up." Castiel glanced down at a stain on the shag carpet.

"I am...being a burden."

"That's what friends are for, Cas," Dean said, straightening up and stretching. He glanced over at the clock. 3:54. It was going to be a long night. He was going to need one hell of a strong cup of coffee in the morning.

"I am glad you consider me as such," Castiel said. Dean shrugged it off, feeling like the two of them were dangerously close to having a "moment."

"Sure, Cas. Look, is there...is there anything I can do? You know, to...to make you feel better?" That had sounded less ridiculous in his head.

"No," Cas relented. "There is nothing to do but..." He paused, shifting his wings thoughtfully. It was actually kind of adorable, though Dean would never admit that to anyone. "There is nothing..." Dean couldn't fight off the feeling that there was something Cas wasn't telling him. Though he was used to that feeling.

"Come on, anything. A glass of water, a hot towel, something?" If he couldn't coax it out of Castiel at least semi-easily - which he was almost sure would be the case - he wasn't going to dwell on it. If there was something that could lessen his suffering, and Cas chose out of stubbornness or pride or whatever the hell else to just keep on enduring whatever pain he was going through, then so be it. Damn, were angels ever proud. Annoyingly so.

"I told you, I can endure it on my own..." He sighed, and Dean was about to turn away, but then he spoke again: "I am...more worried about Jimmy."

"What, your vessel?" Dean asked. "He still floating around in there?"

"He is still here, yes," said Castiel, a hint of...something in his voice. Not quite love. More admiration, maybe. Respect. Fondness. It was the kind of tone reserved for talking about someone who is not really a friend, but just there. Someone who is there in the dark when one is otherwise alone. Maybe, Dean thought, that was a more important bond than he realized. Castiel didn't just wear Jimmy like a meat suit like so many other angels seemed to use their vessels; Cas connected with Jimmy, knew his name, knew his family, his aspirations, his life, and he respected his sacrifice and treated it with reverence.

"This is a sickness that affects angels, Dean, not human souls," Cas continued. "Jimmy is safe from it...to a degree. But he is still here, and he still feels its effects...He is...boiling in here." Dean's eyebrows shot up. Castiel was giving off heat like a furnace; it didn't surprise him that Jimmy wouldn't exactly be enjoying himself anyway.

"Is he...is he gonna be okay?"

"In the end, he will be fine, just as I will be...but it is anything but pleasant for him." He let out another groan, the sound dissolving into a tired sigh. "I feel...regret for putting him through this."

"It's not like you had a choice," Dean reminded him. But Castiel still seemed somewhat morose about the whole thing, so Dean awkwardly reached out to put a hand on the angel's shoulder. In the dark, however, he found that the surface on which he rested his palm was not the tough material of Castiel's coat, but soft and downy and warm, like the surface of an old fur jacket. He had inadvertently rested his hand against the base of Castiel's wing, and the angel gasped lightly at the contact. Dean thought he would pull away like he had before, and he thought that he should move his hand, but neither of those things happened. Slowly, letting out a breath, Castiel relaxed beneath his touch, even leaning into it. The muscles beneath Dean's fingers stretched and then went slack, the feathers rustling as they shifted.

Dean looked down at Castiel's face and found that the pain etched into his features seemed to have lessened, even if it was just slightly. Experimentally, he moved his hand across the soft surface of Castiel's wing, letting his fingers run though the small surface feathers. Castiel let out a sigh, but it was a different kind of sigh, not exhausted or pained, but...bordering on content.

Was that really all it took? Was that what Castiel had been neglecting to tell him? To ask him? To...stroke his wings?

Okay, so it was definitely not your run-of-the-mill request, but Dean had heard stranger. Had complied with stranger, even.

"Is this like...sacrilege or something?" Dean asked. Castiel opened his eyes and looked up at him questioningly. "Should I be bursting into flames right now?"

"Why would you do that?" he asked. Dean shrugged.

"Just seems like it would be...I don't know...forbidden or something."

"They're just wings, Dean."

"Yeah, but they're angel wings."

"They are not my true wings. They are merely a physical manifestation of something which your human senses are too dull to perceive."

"Trying not to be offended," Dean said.

"It was not meant as an insult." Dean shrugged it off, his hand having stilled on the surface of Castiel's wing a few moments ago. The appendage bumped up against his hand, as if prompting him to continue.

Again, it was adorable, like a puppy jumping up to meet the hand of an affectionate visitor, but he would never ever admit that either.

"Alright, fine," Dean said, agreeing to a request that had never been spoken aloud. He sat on the edge of the bed, beside Castiel, his hand still on his wing. "You owe me, Cas."

"In what manner am I supposed to repay you?" Castiel asked, and Dean honestly couldn't tell if Cas was being sincere or trying to be snarky.

"Not in massages, that's for sure," Dean replied. "This doesn't, like...make us...married or anything, right?"

"How could that ever be the case, Dean?" Castiel asked, sounding somewhat irked by the apparent stupidity of the question.

"Hey, I don't know how you angels work, okay? For all I know this could be part of some big 'Touching of the Wings' ceremony and I could be pledging myself to you or something."

"I can assure you, Dean, we are not married."

"Okay, then. Fine." Slowly, gently, he ran his hand down the length of Castiel's wing, as far as he could reach without falling off the bed, and then back again to the base. He smoothed out the feathers that were out of place and felt the lithe muscles contracting underneath his touch. It was...weird, but amazing all at once. These things seemed to have a mind of their own, eagerly rising up to meet him after they'd relaxed under his hand, after they'd familiarized themselves with the feeling of him stroking them. He sounded crazy, thinking that way, like the wings were separate entities from Castiel, but that was how it seemed to him. When he lifted his hand off of them, they sought out his palm again.

"God I hope Sam doesn't wake up," he said, not even realizing he'd spoken the words aloud until Castiel looked up at him.

"Why?"

"I mean, look at me. If he woke up and saw me giving you a...a...a freaking wing massage, he could get the wrong idea or something."

"What idea would that be?" Cas asked. Dean wondered that to himself.

"I don't know. Just the wrong one." Castiel gave a soft, thoughtful hum and then went silent. Dean continued to run his hand along Castiel's wing, fingers running from the soft down covering near the top to the sleek, smooth feathers that fanned outward from it. They quivered beneath his touch, and Cas sighed.

"Is this...helping?" Dean asked awkwardly.

"It is...quite pleasant," Cas replied.

"I guess that works as a 'yes'..." Hell, he'd take it.

He continued to run his hands along Castiel's wing until the angel slipped into silence, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. It was not sleep, Dean knew, but at least some sort of deep meditation or something. At the very least it meant the angel was in a better state of mind than he had been before. He took his hands from Castiel's wings, and as they had before, they rose up to seek out his hand again. Castiel opened his eyes a crack when the contact didn't return.

"I need to get some sleep, Cas," Dean said with a sigh, hoisting himself up off of the bed.

"Alright," Castiel relented, though there was a slight edge of disappointment in his voice. "Thank you...Dean..."

"Yeah, no problem." He sat down on the floor again. It was still uncomfortable as ever, but as he rested his head on the flat pillow and closed his eyes, sleep came easy. Well, as easy as it could on a crappy shag carpet on a hard floor, anyway.

He woke up to someone kicking him.

"Ow...shit...what..."

"C'mon, Dean," Sam coaxed. "Get up, man. We've got a demon to hunt."

"It is best if we don't waste time," agreed Castiel. When Dean sat up and looked at him, he was surprised by what he saw. Cas looked better than ever, besides his clothes being wrinkled and his hair more ruffled than usual. And the wings were gone.

"No more Maximum Ride, huh?" Dean asked as he stood.

"I still don't understand that reference."

"Didn't think so." He turned to Sam. "So what's the latest on the demon? You got anything else?"

"Might have a lead in town. I made a few phone calls. The last body was autopsied this morning. Might be worth a look."

"Damn, been busy," Dean said with a grin.

"I will search the town for anything that might provide a clue as to the demon's whereabouts," Castiel added.

"You seem all better, don't you?"

"I told you, my recovery would be swift. I'll be in touch." With a rustle of feathers, Cas was gone and Dean turned to Sam.

"I can tell you one thing, Sammy. I hope he never gets sick again."

"Wonder what happens if he gets a cold," Sam mused.

"He'd probably grow a halo or something." Dean looked down by the bed and something glinted in the light, catching his eye. He grinned. "Dude, look," he said, bending over to pick up a large, silver feather.

"Oh my god," Sam laughed. "Is that...?" He reached out and took it, studying it intently.

"One-hundred percent genuine angel feather, huh? Wonder how much that would go for on ebay."

"Why would you wanna get rid of this thing? You could make yourself a Castiel headdress." With a wicked grin, he reached forward and tried to shove the feather behind Dean's ear, but Dean swatted his hand away.

"Dude, get it off me! I don't know where that thing's been!"

"Dean, he's an angel. His wings exist on another dimensional plane or something. It can only be so dirty."

An instant later, the two brothers cried out in surprise and jumped back, dropping the feather as it burst into flames, soon nothing but a pile of incinerated remains on the carpet. The two of them looked up and saw...Castiel, standing behind them, his gaze drenched in heavenly disapproval.

"Nobody," he said in his familiar low growl of a voice, "is selling my feathers on ebay."

Whatever an ebay was.