Supernatural fic - "Saving Grace" (Part Eighteen)
See the masterpost for disclaimer, summary, and previous parts.
When Castiel turned up, it was completely without fanfare. One moment he wasn’t there, then the next moment he was.
Dean was sleeping, or trying to. The last couple of days had been a long wait for word with no one to call for updates. Bobby tried a few spells he found in some old religious texts he had, some tantamount to summoning rituals and some just designed to get a peek at the divine, but either they didn’t work or they weren’t powerful enough to pierce whatever was going on with the angels. It was worse than any time Dean had ever spent in a hospital waiting room, because at least in a hospital there were nurses to hound. Fuck, at least there you knew where the person in trouble was… actually in the building. Castiel could be anywhere… if he was even anywhere at all. Harbor of grace or not, Dean still couldn’t claim understanding of how Castiel’s existence worked.
It put Dean in a spectacularly sour mood. Bobby had the decency not to call it moping (at least not to Dean’s face), but it was agonizing all the same. The only thing that kept Dean sane was the grace he carried. He felt the severity of the ache inside him lessen gradually, and taking its place were the traces of warmth and peace he’d come to expect from the chunk of angel in him.
That had to be a good sign. He told himself it couldn’t be anything but.
But days without word from Castiel, and Dean was getting antsy. After all, Castiel could be alive and recovering and still be in enemy hands.
Dean lay on his side on the bed, trying to run down that elusive sleep and failing spectacularly. He’d taken a hot shower a little earlier (ridiculously hoping it would ease the aching of his body, even though it wasn’t a physical ache that plagued him). When that didn’t work, he slipped into a pair of boxer briefs then flopped down on top of the bed to try and will himself to sleep. Because Dean Winchester was that kind of idiot.
Then the mattress beside him dipped - to the accompaniment of the sound of wings - and he rolled over to find none other than Castiel lying face-down on the bed next to him.
Naked.
He’d get to that later.
“Cas!” Dean reached toward the angel frantically. The second his hand landed on hot skin, the grace in Dean’s chest exploded with light and heat and fucking elation. Finally, yes!
“… Dean,” the angel greeted without lifting his head from the pillow. He looked dead tired, and that was so much better than dead.
“Fuck, Cas, where have you been? I’ve been pulling my hair out down here,” Dean scolded.
Without lifting his head, Castiel frowned and opened one eye to peer up curiously at Dean… looking first at his full head of hair, then in his eyes. “You have not removed your hair.”
“It’s just an expression,” Dean explained with an eye roll. Which he used to mask sidling a little closer on the bed to Castiel. Without his bulky clothes to give him mass, the angel was all scrawny limbs and pale skin.
“Cas… the war. What happened?”
His face pressed firmly to the pillow, Castiel slowly began to smile, and it was just as much heartache as it was happiness. Dean knew that combination all too well. “Raphael has been defeated,” the angel answered gravely. Castiel’s brother had been defeated. And because he was Castiel’s brother - because all the enemies had been Castiel’s brothers and sisters - the victory would never be jubilantly celebrated. It was never joyous to kill one’s own siblings.
Dean’s eyes widened. “So it’s over?”
“Yes.”
Dean let out a huge sigh of relief. In a wonderfully human gesture, Castiel mirrored him with one of his own.
Then Dean took a moment to really consider the angel lying next to him. His hand still rested on the expanse of Castiel’s back, and he might not have a lot of intimate know-how of the workings of the angel’s body, but he couldn’t recall Castiel ever being so warm to the touch before. That and he looked like he had used every ounce of strength he had to reach Dean, all but falling face-first into the mattress when he finally found him. But there were no gashes or bloody wounds, no missing limbs or joints akimbo at unnatural angles.
“Are you okay?” Dean asked gently.
“Tired… very tired.”
“I’ll bet.” A pause. “Where are your clothes?”
Castiel’s eyebrows lifted and he drew up from the bed just enough to glance down at himself. Clearly he only really noticed his state of undress when Dean pointed it out. How an all-powerful angel of the Lord could be so scarily omniscient and also so adorably oblivious was beyond Dean.
“I was incinerated,” Castiel explained passively of his nudity.
“What?”
“Burned.”
“I know what it means! What I meant was what the hell…?”
Castiel sighed. “It was only my physical manifestation that was set on fire… since my corporeal form is oddly bound to my true one, Raphael attacked it to strike a blow at my power.”
“Shit!”
“I was not incapacitated as Raphael had hoped,” Castiel brushed off being burned alive like it was nothing more devastating than a fender bender, “but it took a great deal of effort to recreate this body so I could come here. In my haste to get to you, I guess I didn’t notice I wasn’t strong enough yet to manifest the clothing.” He seemed momentarily perturbed by human sensibilities that dictate he have made clothing a priority. Then he just resigned himself to the cold, hard fact that his appearance was deemed inappropriate. Castiel started to struggle against gravity in a move to leave the bed. “If my state of undress makes you uncomfortable…”
Dean pushed down on Castiel’s back, surprised by how little work it took to subdue the angel. “Don’t be stupid, Cas. I don’t care if you’re in your birthday suit. You can borrow something of mine to wear. It’s just a good thing I wasn’t out in public somewhere when you finally managed to find me.” Dean’s smirk disappeared into a stern expression. “But you make one move to disappear on me, and I’ll kick your angelic ass.”
“Oh, good.” Castiel sank back down on the bed, muscles going lax in an instant. “I wasn’t sure I could go anywhere, anyway.”
Affection and relief warred in Dean for supremacy. Without thinking, he moved his hand up and ruffled Castiel’s dark hair.
At the unusual gesture, Castiel looked up at Dean again, questioning and searching.
Dean blushed. “I was worried about you.”
“Thank you.”
Typical off-center Castiel response. Dean shook his head and looked intently at Cas. “Are you here… why are you here?” If this was the prelude to another crisis, Dean might just throw himself a good old-fashioned temper tantrum. No fucking more.
“To rest and to recover… now that the fighting is over, I must regain my strength. I am weak, Dean,” the confession came out of Castiel small and shamed. As if Dean would forget that Castiel got that way risking his fucking existence to save the miserable planet Dean called home.
“It’s going to be okay, Cas… I’m right here.” And how that had anything to do with Castiel recuperating Dean didn’t know, the words just came out of him, but they must have been right. Castiel looked relieved.
Dean lay down on his back on his side of the bed, grinning to himself for many reasons. Castiel was alive. The Apocalypse was still handily off the rails, hopefully this time for good. Cas was back. And the grace in his chest was alive again with everything good Dean had come to associate with it.
Within the confines of Bobby’s guest room, life fucking rocked.
Just as Dean was drifting off, Castiel moved. The mattress creaked and shifted as the angel dragged himself hesitantly across the distance between them. Dean lay still and let Castiel sidle up next to him. Dean could feel the heat of Castiel’s overly-warm body like a fevered aura. Tentatively, Cas reached up and let his hand come to rest on Dean’s chest, palm flat and fingers spread in a possessive gesture (just of his grace hidden in Dean, though, Dean was fairly sure of that… like sixty-nine percent sure). When the hunter didn’t protest the touch of his hand on Dean’s bare torso, Castiel braved much more. He pushed up onto his elbow and leaned toward Dean. Then, with a controlled collapse, he fell on to Dean’s chest, his head pillowed just above his grace.
The grace in Dean was tearing the seams with happiness.
The angel let out a broken, sad cry and hugged Dean’s body tight.
Castiel might have just been holding on to the grace Dean was carrying, but he hugged Cas back anyway.
Part Nineteen
When Castiel turned up, it was completely without fanfare. One moment he wasn’t there, then the next moment he was.
Dean was sleeping, or trying to. The last couple of days had been a long wait for word with no one to call for updates. Bobby tried a few spells he found in some old religious texts he had, some tantamount to summoning rituals and some just designed to get a peek at the divine, but either they didn’t work or they weren’t powerful enough to pierce whatever was going on with the angels. It was worse than any time Dean had ever spent in a hospital waiting room, because at least in a hospital there were nurses to hound. Fuck, at least there you knew where the person in trouble was… actually in the building. Castiel could be anywhere… if he was even anywhere at all. Harbor of grace or not, Dean still couldn’t claim understanding of how Castiel’s existence worked.
It put Dean in a spectacularly sour mood. Bobby had the decency not to call it moping (at least not to Dean’s face), but it was agonizing all the same. The only thing that kept Dean sane was the grace he carried. He felt the severity of the ache inside him lessen gradually, and taking its place were the traces of warmth and peace he’d come to expect from the chunk of angel in him.
That had to be a good sign. He told himself it couldn’t be anything but.
But days without word from Castiel, and Dean was getting antsy. After all, Castiel could be alive and recovering and still be in enemy hands.
Dean lay on his side on the bed, trying to run down that elusive sleep and failing spectacularly. He’d taken a hot shower a little earlier (ridiculously hoping it would ease the aching of his body, even though it wasn’t a physical ache that plagued him). When that didn’t work, he slipped into a pair of boxer briefs then flopped down on top of the bed to try and will himself to sleep. Because Dean Winchester was that kind of idiot.
Then the mattress beside him dipped - to the accompaniment of the sound of wings - and he rolled over to find none other than Castiel lying face-down on the bed next to him.
Naked.
He’d get to that later.
“Cas!” Dean reached toward the angel frantically. The second his hand landed on hot skin, the grace in Dean’s chest exploded with light and heat and fucking elation. Finally, yes!
“… Dean,” the angel greeted without lifting his head from the pillow. He looked dead tired, and that was so much better than dead.
“Fuck, Cas, where have you been? I’ve been pulling my hair out down here,” Dean scolded.
Without lifting his head, Castiel frowned and opened one eye to peer up curiously at Dean… looking first at his full head of hair, then in his eyes. “You have not removed your hair.”
“It’s just an expression,” Dean explained with an eye roll. Which he used to mask sidling a little closer on the bed to Castiel. Without his bulky clothes to give him mass, the angel was all scrawny limbs and pale skin.
“Cas… the war. What happened?”
His face pressed firmly to the pillow, Castiel slowly began to smile, and it was just as much heartache as it was happiness. Dean knew that combination all too well. “Raphael has been defeated,” the angel answered gravely. Castiel’s brother had been defeated. And because he was Castiel’s brother - because all the enemies had been Castiel’s brothers and sisters - the victory would never be jubilantly celebrated. It was never joyous to kill one’s own siblings.
Dean’s eyes widened. “So it’s over?”
“Yes.”
Dean let out a huge sigh of relief. In a wonderfully human gesture, Castiel mirrored him with one of his own.
Then Dean took a moment to really consider the angel lying next to him. His hand still rested on the expanse of Castiel’s back, and he might not have a lot of intimate know-how of the workings of the angel’s body, but he couldn’t recall Castiel ever being so warm to the touch before. That and he looked like he had used every ounce of strength he had to reach Dean, all but falling face-first into the mattress when he finally found him. But there were no gashes or bloody wounds, no missing limbs or joints akimbo at unnatural angles.
“Are you okay?” Dean asked gently.
“Tired… very tired.”
“I’ll bet.” A pause. “Where are your clothes?”
Castiel’s eyebrows lifted and he drew up from the bed just enough to glance down at himself. Clearly he only really noticed his state of undress when Dean pointed it out. How an all-powerful angel of the Lord could be so scarily omniscient and also so adorably oblivious was beyond Dean.
“I was incinerated,” Castiel explained passively of his nudity.
“What?”
“Burned.”
“I know what it means! What I meant was what the hell…?”
Castiel sighed. “It was only my physical manifestation that was set on fire… since my corporeal form is oddly bound to my true one, Raphael attacked it to strike a blow at my power.”
“Shit!”
“I was not incapacitated as Raphael had hoped,” Castiel brushed off being burned alive like it was nothing more devastating than a fender bender, “but it took a great deal of effort to recreate this body so I could come here. In my haste to get to you, I guess I didn’t notice I wasn’t strong enough yet to manifest the clothing.” He seemed momentarily perturbed by human sensibilities that dictate he have made clothing a priority. Then he just resigned himself to the cold, hard fact that his appearance was deemed inappropriate. Castiel started to struggle against gravity in a move to leave the bed. “If my state of undress makes you uncomfortable…”
Dean pushed down on Castiel’s back, surprised by how little work it took to subdue the angel. “Don’t be stupid, Cas. I don’t care if you’re in your birthday suit. You can borrow something of mine to wear. It’s just a good thing I wasn’t out in public somewhere when you finally managed to find me.” Dean’s smirk disappeared into a stern expression. “But you make one move to disappear on me, and I’ll kick your angelic ass.”
“Oh, good.” Castiel sank back down on the bed, muscles going lax in an instant. “I wasn’t sure I could go anywhere, anyway.”
Affection and relief warred in Dean for supremacy. Without thinking, he moved his hand up and ruffled Castiel’s dark hair.
At the unusual gesture, Castiel looked up at Dean again, questioning and searching.
Dean blushed. “I was worried about you.”
“Thank you.”
Typical off-center Castiel response. Dean shook his head and looked intently at Cas. “Are you here… why are you here?” If this was the prelude to another crisis, Dean might just throw himself a good old-fashioned temper tantrum. No fucking more.
“To rest and to recover… now that the fighting is over, I must regain my strength. I am weak, Dean,” the confession came out of Castiel small and shamed. As if Dean would forget that Castiel got that way risking his fucking existence to save the miserable planet Dean called home.
“It’s going to be okay, Cas… I’m right here.” And how that had anything to do with Castiel recuperating Dean didn’t know, the words just came out of him, but they must have been right. Castiel looked relieved.
Dean lay down on his back on his side of the bed, grinning to himself for many reasons. Castiel was alive. The Apocalypse was still handily off the rails, hopefully this time for good. Cas was back. And the grace in his chest was alive again with everything good Dean had come to associate with it.
Within the confines of Bobby’s guest room, life fucking rocked.
Just as Dean was drifting off, Castiel moved. The mattress creaked and shifted as the angel dragged himself hesitantly across the distance between them. Dean lay still and let Castiel sidle up next to him. Dean could feel the heat of Castiel’s overly-warm body like a fevered aura. Tentatively, Cas reached up and let his hand come to rest on Dean’s chest, palm flat and fingers spread in a possessive gesture (just of his grace hidden in Dean, though, Dean was fairly sure of that… like sixty-nine percent sure). When the hunter didn’t protest the touch of his hand on Dean’s bare torso, Castiel braved much more. He pushed up onto his elbow and leaned toward Dean. Then, with a controlled collapse, he fell on to Dean’s chest, his head pillowed just above his grace.
The grace in Dean was tearing the seams with happiness.
The angel let out a broken, sad cry and hugged Dean’s body tight.
Castiel might have just been holding on to the grace Dean was carrying, but he hugged Cas back anyway.
Part Nineteen