Cas’ grace was electrifying. It lit Dean up from the inside out, zinged down his spine, curled behind his ribcage, pooled lower, liquid hot. He was hungry for it, tongue out, eyes dazed, flushed and glistening in the low light as fluid grace dripped from fingers. His soul flared, golden sunfire, as more blue-white grace fell, landing heavy on his lower lip. He licked, savoring, hips rocking as Cas’ grace worked through him, making him writhe in ecstasy. Though trueform hands caressed all over, Cas’ physical hands remained poised above, dripping grace. It wasn’t enough. “Cas,” Dean begged, finally. “More.”
attempting a true drabble - exactly 100 words for the Destiel Pride prompt: falling from grace















