A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night
Who: Castiel and Sam Winchester
When: New Year's Eve
Where: Sam's apartment
Summary: Multiple bad situations all collide into an even worse one
Warnings: PG-13 for blood and stupid destructive behavior
( The saints can't help me now. )
When: New Year's Eve
Where: Sam's apartment
Summary: Multiple bad situations all collide into an even worse one
Warnings: PG-13 for blood and stupid destructive behavior
( The saints can't help me now. )
But Castiel was briefly a little uncertain about what might happen this time. Castiel's grace was stronger, incredibly so, and he was still barely half the strength he was before he'd carved the banishing sigil into his chest in the attempt to rescue Adam. If the pattern held, he'd simply continue to become more so, and he wondered if that increase in strength would reflect in his blood.
"Healing will be of great use." He finally said, and he meant it. If Sam could heal himself? What had happened to Dean would probably not be a risk to him. It would make him so much safer in general, and that alone would be worth taking this risk.
He still intended though to try once again to get Sam's addiction under control, to try once again to step down dosages over a long time, more gradually. It would be easier to do so when they weren't relying on an outside factor like Crowley.
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Something in the back of his mind wondered if he would develop any other new abilities. It was exciting. The ambition that had been building up in him for months couldn't wait. How could he use them, what could he do, how would it feel. Looking back on all the opportunities he and Dean had come across, it had always been his brother piloting by the moral compass. Not that Sam was amoral, that isn't the point, but he was always more open to the possibilities. Things didn't have to be so black and white. He wasn't so scared to step off the path a little bit if it meant getting things done. Hell, they'd had the chance to be immortal once and they passed it up. Yeah, it was weird, and they would be the same as the things they hunted, but how many problems would it have solved. How many times had they gotten hurt or killed, and how many times could they have walked away if they had just taken that one little detour.
This wasn't as drastic, but it was just as exciting. Careful, practical Sam didn't have a choice in the matter. Dark, opportunistic, survivalist Sam had the wheel. And really, if you think about it, there were worse things than drinking the blood of an angel. In a city full of monsters it wasn't surprising that you had to become one to get by. Everyone here had an ability, right? Wasn't that just the same? There was no harm in helping his along, especially when the stakes were so high.
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This was distasteful, certainly not something that should be done long term. But at the moment it was the best option, it made the most sense, it had the most benefits with the least risk. That overrode any sense of whether it was wrong, which he was pretty sure it was, though there were many things far worse.
When the glass was half full, he pulled his arm away, reaching for the towel set aside on the table and pressing it to the cut. He'd need to get it bandaged--surely Sam could do that since bandaging one-handed would be clumsy--and then it could be hidden easily enough.
He didn't bother to offer the glass to Sam, instead looking away; he didn't particularly care to watch him drink it. "How long will it last?" How often will this need to be done? Every few days? He wasn't certain how long the demon blood's effects lasted, let alone how long his might.
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