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.”
gen | destiel | 1.9k | cas pov | grace healing and soul peeking
AO3
SUMMARY: Castiel starts healing Dean through kisses after a spell messes with his grace. It turns out to be a good thing.
Somewhere along the way, on the path towards ending this case for good, Castiel gets hit with a strange spell. Physically, his vessel feels fine, but the natural pathways where his grace flows seems to be blocked. He can still access it just fine, but he can no longer channel it through his hands. A phenomenon that will surely disappear after a few days, possibly, but aggravating nonetheless.
It makes it difficult to watch over his reckless charge, too.
Dean’s struggling with a concussion, green eyes unfocused as he stares at Castiel. He’s spouting a bit of nonsense in that soft, pained voice of his, and Castiel sighs, wondering how he fell into a friendship with this human who can’t seem to stop getting hurt.
(And, also, why he fell in love with him.)
Something inside him softens when Dean reaches for him. He’s not asking for help, no, because this is Dean Winchester, a man who would rather walk around on a blown-out knee than consider asking Castiel to heal him.
This time, Dean’s soul shifts restlessly with embarrassment, and yet he still extends a hand, perhaps craving a simple comfort that only Castiel provides in these quiet moments. He visibly relaxes when Castiel steps closer, invading his personal space, and the barest brush of their fingers makes Dean shudder and release the rest of the tension that was thrumming through him.
“Dean,” Castiel murmurs. His voice is quiet, but it echoes across the small room, echoes through his limited grace. It’s a name he’ll always know, a name that’s carved into his very being, in a spot between his cracked rib cage and his ethereal wings—Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean. “Let me heal you, Dean.”
“Don’t hafta,” Dean replies, but he’s leaning toward Castiel, blinking sluggishly. Perhaps instinct is leading him. “Should save your power.”
“I have enough for you,” Castiel tells him. “I always do.” Then, he pauses and sweeps his gaze over his friend. “But I’ll have to heal you in a rather unconventional way,” he adds cautiously, watching for Dean’s reaction. “Will that be okay?”
Dean just shrugs. “Don’t mind,” he says, eyes slipping shut. “Just wanna get rid of this pounding in my head. Way worse than an archangel, I’ll tell ya.”
Judging by the smallest quirk to his lips, Castiel guesses this is an exaggeration.
With that acceptance, Castiel releases Dean’s hand. He reaches up and wraps it around the back of Dean’s neck, taking a moment to observe the way his eyes flutter open, the way his face twitches with confusion. Castiel says nothing as he leans forward and presses his lips to Dean’s forehead, feeling the warmth of his grace eagerly jump forward, sweeping through Dean’s body and healing the concussion, the slight strain to his ankle, and even the cracked rib from two weeks ago.
(What a reckless human that he loves.)
He pulls back and catches sight of Dean’s parted lips. Surprise makes his bright soul twist and shudder, and Castiel hums quietly, pleased. “You should take better care of yourself,” he says, the words carrying no heat. Castiel knows that Dean could try and try, but he’d rather put himself at risk to save the people he’s protecting from monsters, and especially to save his brother.
And, of course, Dean offers a wry smile, leaning back against the headboard. “That’s what I got you for,” he quips, but there’s an undertone of softness to his words, vulnerability, like it’s something he wants to believe, but doesn’t know if it’s true.
“Of course you do,” Castiel assures, and he’s delighted by the pleasure that Dean’s soul radiates. It twists toward him, as if trying to mold with his grace despite being in a separate body, and Castiel feels his grace attempting to do the same, both desperate to meet each other in the middle.
“Will you stick around?” Dean asks while he toys with the frayed edges of his jacket. He’s not looking at Castiel now, but Castiel could hear the longing from him across countries.
For you, yes, Castiel thinks. Instead of voicing this thought, Castiel shifts until he’s sitting beside Dean, leaning back against the headboard. Dean pulls his laptop closer and boots up a show on Netflix, and they watch on in a comfortable silence.
❦ ❦ ❦
Dean stands before him with his knuckles bloodied and bruised, a couple of fingers broken, and a cut running down his face. He sways with exhaustion, but all he does is offer a strained smile, his other hand wrapped around his middle, probably holding together his broken ribs or his bleeding intestines.
“Heya, Cas,” Dean says.
This is where I have laid my affections, Castiel thinks with no regrets.
“Hello, Dean,” he says aloud and moves closer. He grasps Dean’s injured hand and brings it up, gently thumbing over the broken skin. “What have you done this time?” Castiel wonders, slightly chiding.
“Oh, you know,” Dean replies with a half-hearted shrug that makes him hiss. “This and that. The usual.”
“Hmm.” Castiel dips his head and brushes his lips over Dean’s ruined knuckles, feeling the skin knit back together, feeling the bones line up perfectly, feeling the breaks lock into place, all beneath his mouth.
He lifts his head and witnesses the same surprise, the same pleasure, in Dean’s soul, and he watches as Dean relaxes once the pain is gone. “Thanks, angel,” Dean drawls, and there’s a smile on his face, in his eyes, in his very soul. “Dunno what I’d do without you.”
Something very strange, very human, flutters in Castiel’s chest, but he doesn’t speak of this feeling. Instead, he smiles back at Dean, and walks beside him as they make their way toward his car, the noises of the night cocooning them.
And if their hands fall to their sides, brushing against each other with every swing, there’s no one else around to comment on it.
❦ ❦ ❦
Castiel’s grace is finally starting to center itself. It’s a bit wobbly (as Dean would say) at the edges, still fluctuating at times, but it feels better than before. So, when he pulls up to the place the Winchesters chose to squat in for the night, the cut on Dean’s lip makes him freeze momentarily.
Also, Dean’s rather beat up, and he’s holding himself in a way that indicates he’s in extreme pain, but he still flashes a smile at Castiel. “Hey, Cas,” he says quietly, and happiness makes his soul pulsate.
Castiel could watch Dean’s soul for hours, really. Such brightness and strength, making it shine as bright as the creation of stars. The horrors of his life and trauma haven’t tarnished it, in spite of what Dean may think, and it still tempts Castiel with its gleaming perfection, beckoning him to enter Dean’s orbit.
“You’re hurt,” Castiel observes and follows this call by moving closer to his human. Dean meets him by stumbling forward, and he nearly slumps against Castiel when they meet. “Badly.”
“Yeah, but we finished the hunt,” Dean replies with a faint smirk. “Sammy’s out getting me a burger to celebrate, but I think he just feels bad for me.”
“You should have called me right away,” Castiel says, a little exasperated. It’s an emotion he tends to feel strongly when he’s around this family. “I would like to help prevent your injuries rather than heal them.”
“I knew you’d be here eventually,” Dean murmurs, and his soul shrinks just so, this time with shyness. “And I wasn’t sure if you were doing anything important, so I didn’t wanna bother you.”
“You’re never a bother,” Castiel says. He stares at Dean’s face and catalogs the minor bruises and then lets out a breath. His eyes fall onto the cut on Dean’s lips, and Castiel instinctively wets his own. “Dean,” he breathes and reaches up to cup the uninjured side of Dean’s face.
“Cas?” Dean’s voice trembles. Perhaps he, too, feels this thing between them, or perhaps he’s expecting something, judging by the way he tilts his head and leans into Castiel.
And Castiel does exactly that, pressing their lips together and extending his grace so he can heal the various injuries that Dean Winchester carries. Dean shudders against him, and one of his hands comes up to grip the lapel of his trench coat, while the warmth of his body lines up with Castiel’s, and Castiel hears himself make a noise. He gives in to his body’s urge, angling his head to turn this into a proper kiss.
It’s everything that he wanted, and more—the languid drag of tongue, and the way Dean opens up for him, his hands twisted in Castiel’s coat. Castiel allows himself to open his eyes just slightly to observe Dean’s soul, the way it writhes and arches, close enough for Castiel to feel its glorious heat. He makes another sound and presses closer, somehow, wishing that he could meld his grace with Dean’s soul, wishing they could somehow become one.
Eventually, they part, and Dean’s breathing a little too raggedly, eyes wild and hazy. Castiel wonders if he looks the same way because he certainly feels crazed, the memory of Dean’s lips echoing in his mind.
He licks them and tastes remnants of Dean’s blood, and something inside him shakes apart. It’s divine, plain and simple, and Castiel could see himself being fine with the idea of kissing Dean’s wounds just for that small taste. A strange thought, yes, but one that Castiel holds close, nonetheless.
Dean Winchester is on the path to ruining Castiel, and he doesn’t even know.
His thumb brushes over Dean’s bottom lip, and Castiel swallows when Dean’s lips part automatically, pink tongue darting over the tip of it. He meets Dean’s gaze, and the heat in them threatens to drown him.
“I think,” Dean says, releasing a shaky breath. “I think you missed a spot, Cas.”
Castiel furrows his brows. “How could I have—” he starts, only to cut himself off when he catches the look on Dean’s face. “Ah,” he says instead, nodding seriously. “Of course. I should do it again to ensure that I have healed you properly.”
“That’s my angel,” Dean says with a grin, and then there’s no talking for a while.
(“You don’t heal Sammy this way, do you?” Dean wonders, later on, his lips red and shiny, and his hair mussed. His soul gleams with joy, and Castiel thinks he’s beautiful.
Castiel chuckles and presses his lips to the spot where Dean’s pulse beats rapidly. “No,” he answers. “Only you.”)
❦ ❦ ❦
Dean’s lying on his side, soul soft and drifting with his dreams. He mumbles something unintelligible and burrows further into his pillow, releasing a quiet sigh as he falls deeper. Castiel observes it all through lazy eyes before shuffling closer, pressing his lips to the back of Dean’s neck. Already, his grace jumps out, eager to help his charge, and Castiel hums, allowing it to wash over Dean’s body and soul.
He finds no nightmares (Dean’s dreaming of a glittering ocean, and the two of them sitting on the sand), but Castiel finds a few bruises and sprains, stuff that would have healed naturally, without any problems. Still, he heals all of those things, especially the ache that’s starting to bloom in Dean’s lower back.
Then, Castiel wraps an arm around Dean’s middle and plasters himself against Dean’s back. He doesn’t need to sleep, no, but the warmth of Dean’s body and the gentle call of his soul easily lulls Dean into something akin to sleep, where his grace reaches out to touch Dean’s soul, both of them intertwining into completion.
