Dean dreams about feathers sometimes. Not white feathers. Dark, dirty feathers like pigeon feathers, the sort of thing that in real life would gross him the hell out. In the dream, though, even though they're gray to black, they seem to have light inside them. Like a home wrapped up in dark shingles, but there's a lamp on inside the upstairs window, so you still feel happy when you finally make it to the front door.

The only lamplight Dean knows these days is the car light that goes on when he opens up the driver's side door. Which is, in itself, home, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish for more. For an upstairs window, and the welcoming light that emanates from the heart of the darkest place.

Then he is gone to the darkness, and in that place he can no longer dream.

A lifetime later, he's brought forth from the pit, and he still doesn't dream, can't dream of anything but screams and blood and fire.

Until he sees the shadow of angel wings against the doors of a barn.

For the first time the wings make sense.

Still, it will be a long time before he's able to trust himself to knock on that front door, to ask entry to the warmth of dark wings. It will take courage and self-knowledge like Dean's never allowed himself to have, an acceptance of all that he is, and all that he's done. And an acceptance, finally, of the love that's been guiding him all this time. His mouth will seek out the benediction of another's, his arms will stretch forward toward warmth, and he'll draw himself up toward the light because finally, he can forgive himself. Finally, it's all right to be happy.

Then, wrapped up in a flood of darkness that feels so much like light, Dean will look into Castiel's eyes and know at last that he's home.