Supernatural fic - "Saving Grace" (Part Six)
See the masterpost for disclaimer, summary, and previous parts.
Sam was waiting for Dean when he got back to the motel, and he was not a happy camper.
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam demanded pretty much the second Dean walked through the door.
Dean felt his back go rigid… it always did when he had to argue with this mockery of his brother. “What?” he asked evenly while he closed the door and dropped his keys on the table.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Counting to one thousand wouldn’t help with this. “I might ask you that about last night, or the night before, or the night before that…”
“Geez, are we back to that?”
Dean glowered. “Don’t pretend like it’s nothing.”
“I told you, I go out.” Sam shifted ever so slightly, moved just enough precisely, and Dean suspected it was only to make him painfully aware of what a freakishly-muscled giant of a man Sam was. Dean glowered at not-Sam for trying to intimidate him with his size.
“I don’t see what you’re complaining about,” Sam snarled. “How much of your work have I done on every hunt we’ve been on since we started working together again?”
“Right, all that work I didn’t do because I needed sleep, like fucking humans do!”
Sam stood tensely in the middle of the room, fists clenched at his sides, feet braced apart… he looked like nothing brotherly and everything dark and dangerous.
“Okay, then why don’t you explain the blood on the bed?” Sam snarled. The stained sheets from patching up Castiel’s gaping wound.
“Cut myself shaving,” Dean snapped back tersely.
“Whatever, forget it,” Sam growled with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here arguing with you.”
Dean watched Sam stalk out. He couldn’t say why he didn’t tell Sam about having a piece of Castiel’s grace… except maybe the same reason Castiel hadn’t left his grace with one of his brothers. Dean didn’t trust Sam anymore than Castiel trusted his brothers.
****************
Dean could feel Castiel’s grace inside him, warm and soft and tickling and soothing all at once. It felt like never being hungry or thirsty… never wanting sex. It was satiation. It wasn’t an all the time feeling… most of the time, it was a sensation in the background (which was a damn good thing, or Dean might waste away from starvation just by forgetting he needed to eat, and for Dean Winchester to go out that way would be a cosmic joke of truly biblical proportions). But when Dean was still, when he concentrated on feeling for that ball of light inside him, he felt that angelic beauty spill through him, riding his blood like a water park ride until it filled his skin to bursting with content.
Sam had mentioned Dean being quieter and calmer recently, but Dean just grumbled something vaguely malcontent and insulting. It had been over a week since Dean got served a dose of grace, and he hadn’t spoken a word about it to Sam. Dean didn’t want to see that cold, calculating mind of robo-Sam start thinking of ways the information could be used.
Dean hadn’t seen Castiel since then, either, and that worried Dean. Sometimes, for no discernable reason whatsoever, he’d be overcome with a sense of dread for Cas… just out of nowhere. It felt like more than a bad feeling, but Dean tried not to entertain the thought that the grace he had inside him connected him to Castiel somehow… tried and failed.
Sleeping was a whole new experience. His dreams had taken a strange turn… sometimes, he could swear he was dreaming Cas dreams. Not to say that Castiel the holy tax accountant was in them, but he’d dream of shit like light and wind and recognize them as beings. Other angels. Cherubs. Archangels. How a swirl of color and light could be Michael the Archangel, Dean didn’t know, but that’s what it was in his dreams.
Hunting became a whole new ballgame, too.
The first demon they came across after Dean began to harbor Castiel’s grace had been an eye-opener. The demon was disguised as a librarian, an elderly woman with sparkling green eyes… but the second Dean came face to face with her, he recoiled. She smelled like rot to him, decay, death. And she must have sensed something in him, too, because her well-placed smile vanished and her eyes went jet black.
If libraries were finicky about people talking, they were really apoplectic about a brawl between two men in their prime going ape on some little old librarian with sudden Herculean strength. They hauled ass out of there after exorcising the demon, and Sam asked on the run, “Dude, what the fuck happened back there?”
Feigning ignorance, all Dean could offer was, “Not a clue, let’s go before the cops get here.” Two strapping men wailing on a little old lady wouldn’t sit well with the locals, even if they ought to be thanking the Winchesters.
As far as Dean’s day to day life went, having an angel’s grace lodged in his body didn’t change anything. Sometimes he got weird feelings, and demons had a new aversion to him, but otherwise it was still Dean’s crappy life. Still Dean trying to keep his head above water in a mess of monsters, missing souls, and risen-from-the-dead extended family. He was so dreading the holidays.
If anything, Dean had to wonder what the hell Cas was thinking giving his grace to Dean Winchester to keep safe. He’d be better off giving it to a Mexican drug cartel runner if he wanted it safe than to Dean. But then, if Cas considered Dean’s care safe, that said a fuck-load-lot about what the war upstairs was like.
Sometimes, when Dean was alone at night in the motel, he would rest a hand on his chest and totally not pray, but hope aloud that Cas was okay. He had to think that if Castiel actually got killed up there, the piece of him in Dean’s ribcage would know it and feel it. It was a comforting thought, at least, that Dean didn’t get any psychic vibes of death, so Castiel must still be fighting the good fight.
Part Seven
Sam was waiting for Dean when he got back to the motel, and he was not a happy camper.
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam demanded pretty much the second Dean walked through the door.
Dean felt his back go rigid… it always did when he had to argue with this mockery of his brother. “What?” he asked evenly while he closed the door and dropped his keys on the table.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Counting to one thousand wouldn’t help with this. “I might ask you that about last night, or the night before, or the night before that…”
“Geez, are we back to that?”
Dean glowered. “Don’t pretend like it’s nothing.”
“I told you, I go out.” Sam shifted ever so slightly, moved just enough precisely, and Dean suspected it was only to make him painfully aware of what a freakishly-muscled giant of a man Sam was. Dean glowered at not-Sam for trying to intimidate him with his size.
“I don’t see what you’re complaining about,” Sam snarled. “How much of your work have I done on every hunt we’ve been on since we started working together again?”
“Right, all that work I didn’t do because I needed sleep, like fucking humans do!”
Sam stood tensely in the middle of the room, fists clenched at his sides, feet braced apart… he looked like nothing brotherly and everything dark and dangerous.
“Okay, then why don’t you explain the blood on the bed?” Sam snarled. The stained sheets from patching up Castiel’s gaping wound.
“Cut myself shaving,” Dean snapped back tersely.
“Whatever, forget it,” Sam growled with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ve got better things to do than stand here arguing with you.”
Dean watched Sam stalk out. He couldn’t say why he didn’t tell Sam about having a piece of Castiel’s grace… except maybe the same reason Castiel hadn’t left his grace with one of his brothers. Dean didn’t trust Sam anymore than Castiel trusted his brothers.
****************
Dean could feel Castiel’s grace inside him, warm and soft and tickling and soothing all at once. It felt like never being hungry or thirsty… never wanting sex. It was satiation. It wasn’t an all the time feeling… most of the time, it was a sensation in the background (which was a damn good thing, or Dean might waste away from starvation just by forgetting he needed to eat, and for Dean Winchester to go out that way would be a cosmic joke of truly biblical proportions). But when Dean was still, when he concentrated on feeling for that ball of light inside him, he felt that angelic beauty spill through him, riding his blood like a water park ride until it filled his skin to bursting with content.
Sam had mentioned Dean being quieter and calmer recently, but Dean just grumbled something vaguely malcontent and insulting. It had been over a week since Dean got served a dose of grace, and he hadn’t spoken a word about it to Sam. Dean didn’t want to see that cold, calculating mind of robo-Sam start thinking of ways the information could be used.
Dean hadn’t seen Castiel since then, either, and that worried Dean. Sometimes, for no discernable reason whatsoever, he’d be overcome with a sense of dread for Cas… just out of nowhere. It felt like more than a bad feeling, but Dean tried not to entertain the thought that the grace he had inside him connected him to Castiel somehow… tried and failed.
Sleeping was a whole new experience. His dreams had taken a strange turn… sometimes, he could swear he was dreaming Cas dreams. Not to say that Castiel the holy tax accountant was in them, but he’d dream of shit like light and wind and recognize them as beings. Other angels. Cherubs. Archangels. How a swirl of color and light could be Michael the Archangel, Dean didn’t know, but that’s what it was in his dreams.
Hunting became a whole new ballgame, too.
The first demon they came across after Dean began to harbor Castiel’s grace had been an eye-opener. The demon was disguised as a librarian, an elderly woman with sparkling green eyes… but the second Dean came face to face with her, he recoiled. She smelled like rot to him, decay, death. And she must have sensed something in him, too, because her well-placed smile vanished and her eyes went jet black.
If libraries were finicky about people talking, they were really apoplectic about a brawl between two men in their prime going ape on some little old librarian with sudden Herculean strength. They hauled ass out of there after exorcising the demon, and Sam asked on the run, “Dude, what the fuck happened back there?”
Feigning ignorance, all Dean could offer was, “Not a clue, let’s go before the cops get here.” Two strapping men wailing on a little old lady wouldn’t sit well with the locals, even if they ought to be thanking the Winchesters.
As far as Dean’s day to day life went, having an angel’s grace lodged in his body didn’t change anything. Sometimes he got weird feelings, and demons had a new aversion to him, but otherwise it was still Dean’s crappy life. Still Dean trying to keep his head above water in a mess of monsters, missing souls, and risen-from-the-dead extended family. He was so dreading the holidays.
If anything, Dean had to wonder what the hell Cas was thinking giving his grace to Dean Winchester to keep safe. He’d be better off giving it to a Mexican drug cartel runner if he wanted it safe than to Dean. But then, if Cas considered Dean’s care safe, that said a fuck-load-lot about what the war upstairs was like.
Sometimes, when Dean was alone at night in the motel, he would rest a hand on his chest and totally not pray, but hope aloud that Cas was okay. He had to think that if Castiel actually got killed up there, the piece of him in Dean’s ribcage would know it and feel it. It was a comforting thought, at least, that Dean didn’t get any psychic vibes of death, so Castiel must still be fighting the good fight.
Part Seven