it would go on roaring
Mature | Destiel | Cas POV | 8k
Warnings: Addiction, Self-Harm, Bloodplay(?).
Castiel discovers what his grace does to Dean and has some realizations about himself.
Heavily inspired by the grace-addict Dean headcanon that @fromcenotaphy has for HBO SPN. It really caught my attention, and I ended up knocking this out in two days, hahaha. I enjoyed myself! Don’t think I’ve ever written from Cas’s POV before, so here’s an attempt!
AO3
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Preview:
“Think I sprained something,” Dean muttered as he held his right wrist in his left hand. He stumbled down the porch and hissed when his left foot met the ground, and Castiel could see the limp that he was trying to hide.
“Would you like me to—”
“Yes,” Dean said quickly, already turned toward Castiel.
Castiel moved closer and manifested his angel blade. He raised it above his wrist, ready to split his skin open to feed his grace to Dean, but something made him pause. Castiel scrutinized Dean’s soul through angelic eyes and nearly gasped at the dark strands of greed that were woven into it, reaching towards Castiel with a thrum of desperation that frightened him.
“Perhaps I should heal Sam first,” Castiel said, eyes fixed on Dean’s face to catch his reaction. “I believe he may have broken something.” He paused, and although he disliked the idea, he forced himself to add, “A sprain can heal fine on its own.”
“N-No!” Dean said, and then he latched onto Castiel’s sleeve with his left hand. He did not meet Castiel’s gaze when he said, “Can’t you just heal me up right now, Cas? I mean, it’ll make things easier, won’t it?” He chuckled, though there was an edge of hysteria to it, and Castiel thought it matched the way his soul twisted and warped, the greed only growing.
It worried him further. Dean wanting to be healed before Sam could only mean the end of times. “Dean,” he said and gently pried Dean’s fingers off of his sleeve. “You don’t need me to heal everything for you.”
Dean looked stricken. “Cas,” he rasped and actually sank to his knees. He stared up at Castiel with wide eyes, uncaring of the mud that would surely stain his jeans. “Please,” he said, and reached up with his injured wrist. “Please heal me.” His voice broke near the end, but he didn’t seem to care. “I need it.”
