Supernatural fic - "Saving Grace" (Part Seven)
See the masterpost for disclaimer, summary, and previous parts.
The next time Castiel paid Dean a visit, Dean felt the angel before he saw him.
Dean was staking out a house (where a wendigo that had come into a populated area might or might not have set up a modern lair) when suddenly his chest swelled and hummed. Like high-voltage electricity rumbling in his chest, making his breath catch and the hairs on his arms stand up.
Then there was the sound of wing beats and suddenly the empty passenger seat wasn’t empty anymore.
Dean looked over at Castiel and instant relief swept through him (manifesting in a luminous sensation within his ribcage). “Heya, Cas.”
In the next second, Dean looked closer at Castiel’s profile. It could just be the light, but the angel looked… darker. Fierce, like a feral beast backed into a corner. Then the look passed, or changed, and Castiel turned his head to look at Dean. He looked gaunt and haggard, but at least the glint in his blue eyes when he saw Dean was pretty much the same.
“Hello, Dean… where is Sam?”
“Oh… tracking a wendigo. Apparently they have a thing for the suburbs now. Monsters lately, I tell you.” Dean hesitated. “How are things going in Heaven?”
A scowl cut sharp lines into the shadows on Castiel’s face. “Right now, it seems grossly misnamed.”
Dean grimaced. “Shit… sorry. Are things looking any better for the good guys?”
A storm cloud seemed to settle over Castiel, returning that bestial semblance to the angel’s features. He looked down at his hands, half-curled in his lap, like he was thinking of someone he’d just been choking… or someone he wanted to. “I don’t know how good the good guys are anymore,” Castiel mumbled.
Fuck.
And it was something Dean understood all too well. He was always considered the good guy, but people would be surprised as how rarely he felt like it.
“I sometimes fear I am in danger of falling for what I’ve done… or being cast out,” Castiel confessed softly.
On impulse, Dean reached over and rested his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. The hard muscle went even harder at the touch, but he didn’t pull away.
“Look… as the guy who did some really fucked up shit down in Hell, believe me, I get it. But you are the good guy, Cas. Never forget that.”
Castiel slowly lifted his gaze to meet Dean’s, and there was something needy and searching in his look. He needed and wanted to believe Dean, maybe for the sake of his own salvation.
It startled Dean when Cas reached over, without warning, and laid a warm hand on his chest. Dean sucked in a breath but did not pull away. The grace in his chest seemed to burn brighter and stronger from physical contact with the angel who had the rest of it. That ‘everything happy’ feeling toyed with the periphery of Dean’s senses. It was better than drinking or drugs could ever make him feel.
A calm look claimed Castiel’s face.
“You can feel it?” Dean asked in a hesitant whisper.
“Yes… it’s clean. I’m not anymore.” It sounded like despair.
“You’re doing what you have to… it’s okay.”
And whether it was or it wasn’t, it just was. Castiel’s fingers curled against the material of Dean’s shirt.
Dean closed his eyes, basking in the feeling of content and comfort, just as strong at his side as it was in his body. He almost whimpered when Cas dropped his hand and the intensity of the feeling faded.
He opened his eyes and looked at Cas, waiting for the angel to tell him why he’d come. When he didn’t, Dean realized this was another snatch of respite for the angel at war.
Castiel settled more comfortably in the seat, slouching down until he could rest his head on the back of the seat. It was odd to see the usually so prim-and-proper angel sprawling like a moody teenager in homeroom.
“Has having my grace in you caused you any discomfort or difficulty?”
“No… actually, it’s been nice.”
Cas rolled his head along the seatback to look at him. “Nice?”
Dean slumped down to mirror Castiel’s body language. “Yeah… feels like home-baked apple pie.”
Castiel’s face screwed. “My grace is not a pastry.”
That made Dean laugh. “I know that. I just mean it makes me feel like really awesome pie does… or barreling down the highway in the Impala with the pedal to the metal. Or, you know, really fantastic sex.”
One of the angel’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know how to take that my grace reminds you of orgasm.”
“Be complimented,” Dean said with a slow smile. He shrugged and tugged his jacket tighter around himself (though whether because he was cold or to hold the grace, like a child hugging a teddy bear, he wasn’t sure). “If everything else wasn’t so fucked right now, I might say I feel good. Really good.”
“But everything else is fucked,” Castiel countered flatly.
Hearing an angel curse had to be high on Dean’s list of awesome.
For a while, the two sat in comfortable, companionable silence. One that Dean eventually broke. “It’s come in handy on hunts, too.”
That made Castiel perk up a little, intrigued despite himself. “How has it done that?”
“Well… it outs demons. Suckers hair out soon as I come near them.”
From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Castiel suddenly push back and sit up straight in the seat. “Demons can sense my grace in you?”
“I’d say so. Plus, I get these… feelings.”
“Describe them.”
“Not really sure how. I’ve always relied on my instincts as a hunter, but this feels like a new instinct. I don’t know how to describe it, but I just get these feelings.” Dean spared a look over at Castiel and frowned when he saw the angel look… preoccupied. Maybe even a little troubled. “Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know… perhaps the side-effects are nothing, but I can’t know for certain that these changes my grace has made in you are harmless. I thought it would most likely be inert inside you, but clearly that is not the case.” Castiel scowled into the darkness. “Perhaps I should remove it.”
That made Dean sit up. “Hold up… so far everything it’s done to me has been a good thing.” He wouldn’t admit unless he had to that he liked having a piece of Castiel’s grace in him. Not unless it was wrung out of him on pain of death.
“But they’re not normal.”
“News flash, I’ve never been normal. You still need a place for your grace as long as you’re at war upstairs, so leave it right where it is in the Safe Deposit Bank of Dean Winchester.”
Though Castiel looked uncertain, the raw necessity was obviously not lost on him. He reluctantly went back to sitting quietly in the passenger seat. It was sad how right Castiel felt there these days and how wrong Sam felt in the same place.
The two of them shared the front seat of the Impala all night. The wendigo never showed, but Dean didn’t consider it a wasted night.
When Castiel vanished, Dean drove back to the motel to crash… ignoring the slight ache in his chest at no longer having the angel beside him.
Part Eight
The next time Castiel paid Dean a visit, Dean felt the angel before he saw him.
Dean was staking out a house (where a wendigo that had come into a populated area might or might not have set up a modern lair) when suddenly his chest swelled and hummed. Like high-voltage electricity rumbling in his chest, making his breath catch and the hairs on his arms stand up.
Then there was the sound of wing beats and suddenly the empty passenger seat wasn’t empty anymore.
Dean looked over at Castiel and instant relief swept through him (manifesting in a luminous sensation within his ribcage). “Heya, Cas.”
In the next second, Dean looked closer at Castiel’s profile. It could just be the light, but the angel looked… darker. Fierce, like a feral beast backed into a corner. Then the look passed, or changed, and Castiel turned his head to look at Dean. He looked gaunt and haggard, but at least the glint in his blue eyes when he saw Dean was pretty much the same.
“Hello, Dean… where is Sam?”
“Oh… tracking a wendigo. Apparently they have a thing for the suburbs now. Monsters lately, I tell you.” Dean hesitated. “How are things going in Heaven?”
A scowl cut sharp lines into the shadows on Castiel’s face. “Right now, it seems grossly misnamed.”
Dean grimaced. “Shit… sorry. Are things looking any better for the good guys?”
A storm cloud seemed to settle over Castiel, returning that bestial semblance to the angel’s features. He looked down at his hands, half-curled in his lap, like he was thinking of someone he’d just been choking… or someone he wanted to. “I don’t know how good the good guys are anymore,” Castiel mumbled.
Fuck.
And it was something Dean understood all too well. He was always considered the good guy, but people would be surprised as how rarely he felt like it.
“I sometimes fear I am in danger of falling for what I’ve done… or being cast out,” Castiel confessed softly.
On impulse, Dean reached over and rested his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. The hard muscle went even harder at the touch, but he didn’t pull away.
“Look… as the guy who did some really fucked up shit down in Hell, believe me, I get it. But you are the good guy, Cas. Never forget that.”
Castiel slowly lifted his gaze to meet Dean’s, and there was something needy and searching in his look. He needed and wanted to believe Dean, maybe for the sake of his own salvation.
It startled Dean when Cas reached over, without warning, and laid a warm hand on his chest. Dean sucked in a breath but did not pull away. The grace in his chest seemed to burn brighter and stronger from physical contact with the angel who had the rest of it. That ‘everything happy’ feeling toyed with the periphery of Dean’s senses. It was better than drinking or drugs could ever make him feel.
A calm look claimed Castiel’s face.
“You can feel it?” Dean asked in a hesitant whisper.
“Yes… it’s clean. I’m not anymore.” It sounded like despair.
“You’re doing what you have to… it’s okay.”
And whether it was or it wasn’t, it just was. Castiel’s fingers curled against the material of Dean’s shirt.
Dean closed his eyes, basking in the feeling of content and comfort, just as strong at his side as it was in his body. He almost whimpered when Cas dropped his hand and the intensity of the feeling faded.
He opened his eyes and looked at Cas, waiting for the angel to tell him why he’d come. When he didn’t, Dean realized this was another snatch of respite for the angel at war.
Castiel settled more comfortably in the seat, slouching down until he could rest his head on the back of the seat. It was odd to see the usually so prim-and-proper angel sprawling like a moody teenager in homeroom.
“Has having my grace in you caused you any discomfort or difficulty?”
“No… actually, it’s been nice.”
Cas rolled his head along the seatback to look at him. “Nice?”
Dean slumped down to mirror Castiel’s body language. “Yeah… feels like home-baked apple pie.”
Castiel’s face screwed. “My grace is not a pastry.”
That made Dean laugh. “I know that. I just mean it makes me feel like really awesome pie does… or barreling down the highway in the Impala with the pedal to the metal. Or, you know, really fantastic sex.”
One of the angel’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know how to take that my grace reminds you of orgasm.”
“Be complimented,” Dean said with a slow smile. He shrugged and tugged his jacket tighter around himself (though whether because he was cold or to hold the grace, like a child hugging a teddy bear, he wasn’t sure). “If everything else wasn’t so fucked right now, I might say I feel good. Really good.”
“But everything else is fucked,” Castiel countered flatly.
Hearing an angel curse had to be high on Dean’s list of awesome.
For a while, the two sat in comfortable, companionable silence. One that Dean eventually broke. “It’s come in handy on hunts, too.”
That made Castiel perk up a little, intrigued despite himself. “How has it done that?”
“Well… it outs demons. Suckers hair out soon as I come near them.”
From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Castiel suddenly push back and sit up straight in the seat. “Demons can sense my grace in you?”
“I’d say so. Plus, I get these… feelings.”
“Describe them.”
“Not really sure how. I’ve always relied on my instincts as a hunter, but this feels like a new instinct. I don’t know how to describe it, but I just get these feelings.” Dean spared a look over at Castiel and frowned when he saw the angel look… preoccupied. Maybe even a little troubled. “Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know… perhaps the side-effects are nothing, but I can’t know for certain that these changes my grace has made in you are harmless. I thought it would most likely be inert inside you, but clearly that is not the case.” Castiel scowled into the darkness. “Perhaps I should remove it.”
That made Dean sit up. “Hold up… so far everything it’s done to me has been a good thing.” He wouldn’t admit unless he had to that he liked having a piece of Castiel’s grace in him. Not unless it was wrung out of him on pain of death.
“But they’re not normal.”
“News flash, I’ve never been normal. You still need a place for your grace as long as you’re at war upstairs, so leave it right where it is in the Safe Deposit Bank of Dean Winchester.”
Though Castiel looked uncertain, the raw necessity was obviously not lost on him. He reluctantly went back to sitting quietly in the passenger seat. It was sad how right Castiel felt there these days and how wrong Sam felt in the same place.
The two of them shared the front seat of the Impala all night. The wendigo never showed, but Dean didn’t consider it a wasted night.
When Castiel vanished, Dean drove back to the motel to crash… ignoring the slight ache in his chest at no longer having the angel beside him.
Part Eight