Supernatural fic - "Saving Grace" (Part Three)
See the masterpost for disclaimer, summary, and previous parts.
Dean didn’t see Castiel again for several days, and even with all the other shit going sideways in his life, Dean found himself worrying about the angel. Cas had looked like crap the last time he came by, and the longer Dean went without hearing from the guy, the more he fretted that something had happened to him. How would Dean ever know if Castiel died up there in Heaven’s civil war? It wasn’t like Castiel had a contact directory of next of kin to notify with Dean’s phone number listed.
The nights alone in the motels were harder and harder to take. The situation with Sam wasn’t getting any better, the Campbells were a headache and a half (and that’s when Dean didn’t have to speak to them), and monsters were out of their freaking minds even more than usual.
When Dean found himself absently touching the handprint scar on his shoulder, he gave in and called out to Castiel.
When the angel appeared a moment later in Dean’s motel room, Dean literally let out a breath of relief.
“Cas!” he greeted. Dean got up off the bed and walked over to the angel. He ended up hurrying his step so he could reach out and steady the swaying figure. “Whoa! Hey… you okay? What’s wrong, Cas?”
Castiel fought to get his feet under him, but he seemed destined to need Dean’s help to stay upright. He looked awful. Dean could hardly believe his eyes, but Castiel looked like he’d lost weight. And the guy didn’t have a lot of extra padding to begin with.
“Dean… are you in danger?” Cas rasped thinly. God love the nerdy little guy, he looked like Rocky after a bad round of boxing but he still answered Dean’s call when he thought it might be because Dean needed saving.
“Huh? No, I… I just called ‘cause you haven’t been in touch lately. I was worried about you. Clearly for good reason.” Dean stepped into Castiel’s side and reached around him to better help him stand. When Dean’s arm came in contact with Castiel’s back, the angel let out a hoarse cry and arched away from the touch.
“Shit! What?” Dean pulled his arm back hastily and saw sticky red blood on his sleeve.
“You’re bleeding, Cas.”
“I am,” he said in droll monotone.
“What happened?” Dean asked as he began to lead/drag Castiel toward the room’s single bed. The Winchesters stopped getting doubles at motel rooms… that was how far gone things were with Sam of late.
Castiel grunted and hissed through his teeth with every breath. “One of Raphael’s followers… tried to cut off my wings.”
For a heartbeat, Dean froze. “Tried, right? He didn’t?”
A humorless, dry sound escaped Castiel’s chapped lips. “I didn’t make it easy… I fought him off, but I was damaged.” Castiel looked briefly toward Dean. “I wasn’t sure I would make it to you when I heard you call.”
At the side of the bed, Dean drew away from Castiel and examined him like a medic performing triage. “Clothes off.”
“What?”
Dean looked sternly at Cas. “You’re bleeding. That means you have a cut, and a cut I can stitch.”
“That isn’t necessary… after I’ve had some time to recover, my powers will allow me to heal.”
“And in the meantime, you’ll bleed out. I don’t know how you’ll function in a body that hasn’t got a drop of blood left in it.”
Castiel sighed in annoyance, “You exaggerate,” but he was carefully tugging off the trench coat just the same. It was unbearable to watch Cas struggle, so Dean stepped in and helped the angel out of his clothes. The trench coat was stained with blood. So was the suit coat, but the dark color masked the extent of the injury. When the suit coat was off, Dean got a better idea of what he was dealing with when he got a look at the back of Castiel’s white shirt. A wide red stain began up near Castiel’s right shoulder blade and continued all the way down to his beltline. “Fuck, Cas… are you sure that asshole didn’t actually tear your wing off?”
“I would not have gotten here if he had,” Castiel replied tersely, dropping his bloody jacket on the floor.
With both of them at it, Cas was stripped down to his waist with minimal signs of excruciating pain, but it was not pleasant for either man. Castiel was pale and actually sweating by the time he was standing before Dean shirtless, and Dean wanted to throw up. Cas wasn’t supposed to be breakable like this.
Even before Dean got Cas turned around to inspect his back, he was staring at his front. If Dean had a mind to, he imagined he could count every one of Castiel’s ribs. How could a freaking angel of the Lord look so damn frail?
“You’re staring,” Cas accused feebly.
“Yeah, well, you look like hell,” Dean countered.
“I’ve seen you look worse,” Cas grumbled, and Dean barked out a laugh.
“Right… come on, lay down on the bed. No, on your stomach, doofus. I need to get at your back.”
Painstakingly, gingerly, Castiel climbed on the bed and settled down on his stomach. Once he was down, he just seemed to deflate, sinking into the pillow and mattress with a groan.
Dean’s eyes were locked on the gash on Castiel’s back. Because it wasn’t a cut, it was a gash. It looked like he’d been grazed with a meat cleaver.
“Jesus,” Dean muttered.
“Had nothing to do with it,” Cas said into the pillow.
Dean fetched the first aide kit and perched himself carefully on the edge of the bed next to Cas. “Will giving you morphine do any good?” he asked before he got started.
“No… the worst pain is tied to my true form.”
“Fuck… sorry, Cas… this is going to hurt.”
“I know… thank you.”
Trying to be as gentle as possible, Dean cleaned and stitched the wound. It took an hour. The whole time Castiel was rigid under Dean’s hand, his own hands fisted in the sheets as he bit down on a scream.
“You know,” Dean said gently, “sometimes yelling makes you feel better.” Dean could remember many times cussing a blue streak through his own home stitch jobs… times when they hadn’t had drugs or booze to deaden the agony.
Cas gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut. “If I scream, it will be in my true voice… I don’t wish to render you deaf.”
“Oh… well, I appreciate that.”
When Dean was finished stitching up the angel, he felt just as sweat-soaked and sickened as Castiel looked. Cas was shaking and panting on the bed, the crooked line of stitches on his back standing out black against too-pale skin.
Not sure what else to do, Dean taped a trail of bandages over the wound, then flipped the covers from the other side of the bed over the angel’s body, effectively wrapping Castiel up like he was the meat in a taco. Castiel seemed to appreciate the warmth, though he still looked like refried shit.
Dean washed his hands and went back to sit on the edge of the bed next to Cas. He scrubbed his face with one hand and frowned. “I don’t know what else I can do.”
“You’ve done enough,” Cas answered, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh. Cas opened one eye and looked up in confusion at him.
“Just… depending on how you say that… never mind,” Dean sagged in exhaustion.
Cas noticed. He frowned and began to shift, intent on getting up. “I’m in your bed and you need sleep.”
Immediately, Dean’s hand shot out to still Cas. Afraid of touching Castiel’s back where he was hurt, his hand ended up on Cas’s ass, which was awkward and a half, but Cas didn’t seem to notice. Probably too focused on other parts of his body to really care where Dean’s hand fell. Or too angel to consider a touch on his butt any different from a touch on the shoulder.
“No, you stay. I didn’t have some jackhole trying to rip my wing off.”
“Dean… you don’t have wings.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, and what a shame, because that would be kind of awesome… you know, if I wasn’t freaked to hell by flying. Don’t sweat it… there’s room, I’ll take the other side of the bed.”
Castiel eyed him. “Are you certain you would not be uncomfortable with that?”
“Nah… it’s fine. I’ve shared a bed no telling how many times with Sam, and you’re half his size. I probably won’t even notice you’re there.”
Maybe if Castiel hadn’t been so wiped he would have argued further… as it was, Cas sank back into the bed with a look of exhausted relief that he hadn’t had to find the strength to move.
Dean changed clothes, swapping jeans and bloodied t-shirt for sweats and a clean shirt. He snagged his jacket to drape over him for a blanket… no way was he stealing any of Castiel’s covers. The guy looked like a malnourished kitten enough already.
As Dean was drifting off, he asked groggily, “Cas?”
“Yes, Dean?”
“Will you sleep?”
“… maybe.”
That was so disturbing that Dean couldn’t think of anything to say. He resolved himself to sleep, fighting to bury himself beyond everything… soulless Sam and wounded Castiel, all of it.
Part Four
Dean didn’t see Castiel again for several days, and even with all the other shit going sideways in his life, Dean found himself worrying about the angel. Cas had looked like crap the last time he came by, and the longer Dean went without hearing from the guy, the more he fretted that something had happened to him. How would Dean ever know if Castiel died up there in Heaven’s civil war? It wasn’t like Castiel had a contact directory of next of kin to notify with Dean’s phone number listed.
The nights alone in the motels were harder and harder to take. The situation with Sam wasn’t getting any better, the Campbells were a headache and a half (and that’s when Dean didn’t have to speak to them), and monsters were out of their freaking minds even more than usual.
When Dean found himself absently touching the handprint scar on his shoulder, he gave in and called out to Castiel.
When the angel appeared a moment later in Dean’s motel room, Dean literally let out a breath of relief.
“Cas!” he greeted. Dean got up off the bed and walked over to the angel. He ended up hurrying his step so he could reach out and steady the swaying figure. “Whoa! Hey… you okay? What’s wrong, Cas?”
Castiel fought to get his feet under him, but he seemed destined to need Dean’s help to stay upright. He looked awful. Dean could hardly believe his eyes, but Castiel looked like he’d lost weight. And the guy didn’t have a lot of extra padding to begin with.
“Dean… are you in danger?” Cas rasped thinly. God love the nerdy little guy, he looked like Rocky after a bad round of boxing but he still answered Dean’s call when he thought it might be because Dean needed saving.
“Huh? No, I… I just called ‘cause you haven’t been in touch lately. I was worried about you. Clearly for good reason.” Dean stepped into Castiel’s side and reached around him to better help him stand. When Dean’s arm came in contact with Castiel’s back, the angel let out a hoarse cry and arched away from the touch.
“Shit! What?” Dean pulled his arm back hastily and saw sticky red blood on his sleeve.
“You’re bleeding, Cas.”
“I am,” he said in droll monotone.
“What happened?” Dean asked as he began to lead/drag Castiel toward the room’s single bed. The Winchesters stopped getting doubles at motel rooms… that was how far gone things were with Sam of late.
Castiel grunted and hissed through his teeth with every breath. “One of Raphael’s followers… tried to cut off my wings.”
For a heartbeat, Dean froze. “Tried, right? He didn’t?”
A humorless, dry sound escaped Castiel’s chapped lips. “I didn’t make it easy… I fought him off, but I was damaged.” Castiel looked briefly toward Dean. “I wasn’t sure I would make it to you when I heard you call.”
At the side of the bed, Dean drew away from Castiel and examined him like a medic performing triage. “Clothes off.”
“What?”
Dean looked sternly at Cas. “You’re bleeding. That means you have a cut, and a cut I can stitch.”
“That isn’t necessary… after I’ve had some time to recover, my powers will allow me to heal.”
“And in the meantime, you’ll bleed out. I don’t know how you’ll function in a body that hasn’t got a drop of blood left in it.”
Castiel sighed in annoyance, “You exaggerate,” but he was carefully tugging off the trench coat just the same. It was unbearable to watch Cas struggle, so Dean stepped in and helped the angel out of his clothes. The trench coat was stained with blood. So was the suit coat, but the dark color masked the extent of the injury. When the suit coat was off, Dean got a better idea of what he was dealing with when he got a look at the back of Castiel’s white shirt. A wide red stain began up near Castiel’s right shoulder blade and continued all the way down to his beltline. “Fuck, Cas… are you sure that asshole didn’t actually tear your wing off?”
“I would not have gotten here if he had,” Castiel replied tersely, dropping his bloody jacket on the floor.
With both of them at it, Cas was stripped down to his waist with minimal signs of excruciating pain, but it was not pleasant for either man. Castiel was pale and actually sweating by the time he was standing before Dean shirtless, and Dean wanted to throw up. Cas wasn’t supposed to be breakable like this.
Even before Dean got Cas turned around to inspect his back, he was staring at his front. If Dean had a mind to, he imagined he could count every one of Castiel’s ribs. How could a freaking angel of the Lord look so damn frail?
“You’re staring,” Cas accused feebly.
“Yeah, well, you look like hell,” Dean countered.
“I’ve seen you look worse,” Cas grumbled, and Dean barked out a laugh.
“Right… come on, lay down on the bed. No, on your stomach, doofus. I need to get at your back.”
Painstakingly, gingerly, Castiel climbed on the bed and settled down on his stomach. Once he was down, he just seemed to deflate, sinking into the pillow and mattress with a groan.
Dean’s eyes were locked on the gash on Castiel’s back. Because it wasn’t a cut, it was a gash. It looked like he’d been grazed with a meat cleaver.
“Jesus,” Dean muttered.
“Had nothing to do with it,” Cas said into the pillow.
Dean fetched the first aide kit and perched himself carefully on the edge of the bed next to Cas. “Will giving you morphine do any good?” he asked before he got started.
“No… the worst pain is tied to my true form.”
“Fuck… sorry, Cas… this is going to hurt.”
“I know… thank you.”
Trying to be as gentle as possible, Dean cleaned and stitched the wound. It took an hour. The whole time Castiel was rigid under Dean’s hand, his own hands fisted in the sheets as he bit down on a scream.
“You know,” Dean said gently, “sometimes yelling makes you feel better.” Dean could remember many times cussing a blue streak through his own home stitch jobs… times when they hadn’t had drugs or booze to deaden the agony.
Cas gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut. “If I scream, it will be in my true voice… I don’t wish to render you deaf.”
“Oh… well, I appreciate that.”
When Dean was finished stitching up the angel, he felt just as sweat-soaked and sickened as Castiel looked. Cas was shaking and panting on the bed, the crooked line of stitches on his back standing out black against too-pale skin.
Not sure what else to do, Dean taped a trail of bandages over the wound, then flipped the covers from the other side of the bed over the angel’s body, effectively wrapping Castiel up like he was the meat in a taco. Castiel seemed to appreciate the warmth, though he still looked like refried shit.
Dean washed his hands and went back to sit on the edge of the bed next to Cas. He scrubbed his face with one hand and frowned. “I don’t know what else I can do.”
“You’ve done enough,” Cas answered, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh. Cas opened one eye and looked up in confusion at him.
“Just… depending on how you say that… never mind,” Dean sagged in exhaustion.
Cas noticed. He frowned and began to shift, intent on getting up. “I’m in your bed and you need sleep.”
Immediately, Dean’s hand shot out to still Cas. Afraid of touching Castiel’s back where he was hurt, his hand ended up on Cas’s ass, which was awkward and a half, but Cas didn’t seem to notice. Probably too focused on other parts of his body to really care where Dean’s hand fell. Or too angel to consider a touch on his butt any different from a touch on the shoulder.
“No, you stay. I didn’t have some jackhole trying to rip my wing off.”
“Dean… you don’t have wings.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, and what a shame, because that would be kind of awesome… you know, if I wasn’t freaked to hell by flying. Don’t sweat it… there’s room, I’ll take the other side of the bed.”
Castiel eyed him. “Are you certain you would not be uncomfortable with that?”
“Nah… it’s fine. I’ve shared a bed no telling how many times with Sam, and you’re half his size. I probably won’t even notice you’re there.”
Maybe if Castiel hadn’t been so wiped he would have argued further… as it was, Cas sank back into the bed with a look of exhausted relief that he hadn’t had to find the strength to move.
Dean changed clothes, swapping jeans and bloodied t-shirt for sweats and a clean shirt. He snagged his jacket to drape over him for a blanket… no way was he stealing any of Castiel’s covers. The guy looked like a malnourished kitten enough already.
As Dean was drifting off, he asked groggily, “Cas?”
“Yes, Dean?”
“Will you sleep?”
“… maybe.”
That was so disturbing that Dean couldn’t think of anything to say. He resolved himself to sleep, fighting to bury himself beyond everything… soulless Sam and wounded Castiel, all of it.
Part Four