There are few things in the world Dean hates more than the feeling of falling. The empty air rushing by his ears, the terminal velocity of gravity, the sheer animal terror that comes with knowing the ground is below you and there's no way to stop it, nothing to fight, nothing to solve, not a single good god damn thing he can do aside from hit the earth.

The wings pop out on instinct. He hasn't the first god damn clue how to use them, but by god they're out, catching air, sending him spiraling hard left as he tumbles and drops, flapping uselessly-

-into a tangle of branches, scratching at his cheeks and arms, leaves ripped from their stems and caught in feathers. He hits the first solid limb with a grunt, then falls off of it onto the second with a hnngh, then finally drops the last ten feet — wing-first directly on top of Geralt.

He sucks in lungful of air, and wheezes a pained and reedy, "Son of a bitch."