Supernatural fic - "Saving Grace" (Part Fifteen)
See the masterpost for disclaimer, summary, and previous parts.
Bobby took in the wayward Winchester that appeared at his place out of thin air with commendable aplomb, offering Dean breakfast without missing a beat. While Dean picked at his food, he told Bobby the important information (pertinent to the angel civil war) from what Castiel had told him the night before. The more Bobby heard, the meaner his scowl looked.
Dean skipped most of the details about his time alone with Cas (Bobby already entertained the notion that man and angel were getting Biblical - no need to fan that flame), when Bobby interrupted with, “What’s the matter, Dean?”
“Huh?” Dean looked up at the older hunter, dazed and distracted.
“You keep rubbing your chest. You in pain?”
Dean looked down to find his hand massaging his chest. He hadn’t even realized he was doing that. But once it was pointed out, it made him think about the feeling underneath his ribs. It was pain, of a sort. Like the pain in his heart when he’d been running full-out too long but couldn’t spare the time to stop. It was the adrenaline dump of life-or-death struggling, and it was all too fitting a parallel, considering what Castiel was doing at that very moment.
Dean didn’t want to think about it.
“I’m fine.”
Bobby looked doubtful.
The pain remained through the morning and toward noon, and Dean stopped trying to pretend like it wasn’t bothering him. More often than not he was rubbing or pressing on his chest, face screwed and brow knit. He broke out in a cold sweat. Moving around became a strain.
Bobby was watching him like a hawk, and Dean just knew he was trying to think of every exorcism ritual he knew that might get the grace out of Dean.
Finally, after a far-too-shrewd look from Bobby when Dean went to the kitchen for a drink, Dean snapped. “Stop looking at me like you’re waiting to go after me with a pair of pliers!” he barked.
“I’m just considering our options! You look like shit, Dean, and if this doesn’t stop…”
Dean leveled Bobby with a furious glare, made less threatening by the fact that Dean was hunched over as he stood with one hand on Bobby’s kitchen counter and the other on his chest. “Don’t you do a damn thing to take it out of me, hear me? Promise, Bobby!”
Bobby fumed and said nothing.
Dean clenched his teeth. “I mean it. If you’re going to try ripping it out the first time my back’s turned, I’ll leave right now.”
“And how far you think you’re going to get?” Bobby asked sourly.
Probably not far, if Dean was being honest, but he turned and angled for the door all the same.
“Get back here, Dean!”
“Not until you promise me!” Dean countered fiercely.
“You’re a Winchester all right, you stubborn ass! You look like you’re having a damn heart attack, and you want me to do nothing?!”
“YES!” His chest was pounding, the light inside him that was once warm and cozy suddenly bladed and lancing him.
“Fine! But you die and I’m summoning your fucking ghost just to say I told you so!”
“Works for me,” Dean joked weakly.
Then he screamed when it suddenly felt like a grenade went off in his chest. He dropped to his knees.
“DEAN!” Bobby rushed to his side, grabbing at Dean to keep him from going face-first into the floor. Not that Dean even noticed.
Dean was consumed by the feeling of pain. The grace… it felt like it had cracked wide open. Broken shards spilled through him, slicing as they went, burning him inside.
His vision swam. The floor shifted sickeningly.
He would swear his insides were being ground up, reduced to a bloody pulp of pureed tissue. It felt like it was filling up his throat, climbing up.
With a sudden heave, he vomited on the kitchen floor.
“Shit! Dean, Dean?!” Bobby’s voice was far away… in another world, apart from the pain that was Dean’s existence. The older hunter sounded like the tiny voice on the other end of a phone.
Dean was too busy being completely pulverized from the inside to take his call.
Then he lost consciousness.
Part Sixteen
Bobby took in the wayward Winchester that appeared at his place out of thin air with commendable aplomb, offering Dean breakfast without missing a beat. While Dean picked at his food, he told Bobby the important information (pertinent to the angel civil war) from what Castiel had told him the night before. The more Bobby heard, the meaner his scowl looked.
Dean skipped most of the details about his time alone with Cas (Bobby already entertained the notion that man and angel were getting Biblical - no need to fan that flame), when Bobby interrupted with, “What’s the matter, Dean?”
“Huh?” Dean looked up at the older hunter, dazed and distracted.
“You keep rubbing your chest. You in pain?”
Dean looked down to find his hand massaging his chest. He hadn’t even realized he was doing that. But once it was pointed out, it made him think about the feeling underneath his ribs. It was pain, of a sort. Like the pain in his heart when he’d been running full-out too long but couldn’t spare the time to stop. It was the adrenaline dump of life-or-death struggling, and it was all too fitting a parallel, considering what Castiel was doing at that very moment.
Dean didn’t want to think about it.
“I’m fine.”
Bobby looked doubtful.
The pain remained through the morning and toward noon, and Dean stopped trying to pretend like it wasn’t bothering him. More often than not he was rubbing or pressing on his chest, face screwed and brow knit. He broke out in a cold sweat. Moving around became a strain.
Bobby was watching him like a hawk, and Dean just knew he was trying to think of every exorcism ritual he knew that might get the grace out of Dean.
Finally, after a far-too-shrewd look from Bobby when Dean went to the kitchen for a drink, Dean snapped. “Stop looking at me like you’re waiting to go after me with a pair of pliers!” he barked.
“I’m just considering our options! You look like shit, Dean, and if this doesn’t stop…”
Dean leveled Bobby with a furious glare, made less threatening by the fact that Dean was hunched over as he stood with one hand on Bobby’s kitchen counter and the other on his chest. “Don’t you do a damn thing to take it out of me, hear me? Promise, Bobby!”
Bobby fumed and said nothing.
Dean clenched his teeth. “I mean it. If you’re going to try ripping it out the first time my back’s turned, I’ll leave right now.”
“And how far you think you’re going to get?” Bobby asked sourly.
Probably not far, if Dean was being honest, but he turned and angled for the door all the same.
“Get back here, Dean!”
“Not until you promise me!” Dean countered fiercely.
“You’re a Winchester all right, you stubborn ass! You look like you’re having a damn heart attack, and you want me to do nothing?!”
“YES!” His chest was pounding, the light inside him that was once warm and cozy suddenly bladed and lancing him.
“Fine! But you die and I’m summoning your fucking ghost just to say I told you so!”
“Works for me,” Dean joked weakly.
Then he screamed when it suddenly felt like a grenade went off in his chest. He dropped to his knees.
“DEAN!” Bobby rushed to his side, grabbing at Dean to keep him from going face-first into the floor. Not that Dean even noticed.
Dean was consumed by the feeling of pain. The grace… it felt like it had cracked wide open. Broken shards spilled through him, slicing as they went, burning him inside.
His vision swam. The floor shifted sickeningly.
He would swear his insides were being ground up, reduced to a bloody pulp of pureed tissue. It felt like it was filling up his throat, climbing up.
With a sudden heave, he vomited on the kitchen floor.
“Shit! Dean, Dean?!” Bobby’s voice was far away… in another world, apart from the pain that was Dean’s existence. The older hunter sounded like the tiny voice on the other end of a phone.
Dean was too busy being completely pulverized from the inside to take his call.
Then he lost consciousness.
Part Sixteen