Grace (And Artificial Coloring)
“All he does is sleep,” you said, staring at the prostrate figure of Lucifer.
“Sounds like you,” Dean said, flipping the page of the magazine he was looking at.
“Hey, I do not sleep all day,” you said, nudging Dean’s leg with your foot. “I’ll have you know that I haven’t slept past ten in the past year.”
“I meant the snoring.”
At that moment, Lucifer let out a snort, turning over slightly.
“How much longer do you think he can stay like this? Graceless?”
Dean shrugged. “Cas said it wouldn’t kill him… he’s still got some of his grace, y’know.”
“Yeah, but not enough to make him a full-fledged angel. He’s surviving, but just barely.”
“Why do you care so much? It’s Lucifer, for crying out loud. The devil himself.”
“The devil was an angel before he fell,” you noted, watching as Lucifer’s face scrunched up in sleep. You wondered what he was dreaming about. “He can be a good person.”
“And I can dress up in a tutu and call myself the tooth fairy,” Dean said, pushing himself from his chair.
“No one’s stopping you from doing that!” you called after him.
Lucifer stirred at the sound of your voice, his eyes cracking open. “What are you yelling about?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Lucifer pulled himself into a sitting position, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes.
“Can I get you anything? Food? Drink?”
Lucifer shook his head. “I don’t need to eat, Y/N. I’ve told you–”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just… don’t know what to do.”
He gave you the side-eye. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“Well, I certainly can’t sit around here with my thumb up my ass. There’s already three people in this bunker doing that.”
You thanked the salesman for the ingredients and quickly exited the sketchy shop. Pulling your jacket around you (more for a sense of comfort than to protect against chill), you made your way to your car. On the drive home, you kept wondering if this plan… this crazy-as-shit plan… would actually work.
Back at the bunker, you began to combine the ingredients, watching as they bubbled on the stove, a strong stench filling the kitchen. You were incredibly thankful that the Winchesters had stepped out for a few days.
“What the hell is that?” Lucifer said, stepping into the kitchen, hand over nose.
Lucifer stepped over to the stove, peering into the pot. “Please tell me that’s not supper.”
“It’s not like you eat anyway. But no.”
“So what is it?”
Lucifer stared at you. “Is that the name of the dog you’re attempting to turn into–”
“I’m not gonna eat it!” You pulled the ladle from the pot, holding it out to Lucifer. “But you are.”
“It’s grace. Artificial, but it’s supposed to work just like regular grace… I think.”
Lucifer pushed the spoon away. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”
“Don’t you want to try and get better?”
Lucifer paused. “What are the consequences if this doesn’t work?”
“I, uh… didn’t… didn’t find any sort of consequence…”
“Okay, so there’s a slight chance of death if it goes wrong. But it’s very slight. I got all the ingredients and followed the directions… well, at least those I could read.”
Lucifer sighed. “Well, anything to get out of this hellhole.”
“It’s not that bad,” you said as Lucifer grabbed the spoon and slipped it into his mouth. You watched his face screw up in disgust, heard him trying to control his gag reflex. Seconds passed, minutes.
“Don’t go into the culinary arts,” Lucifer finally said, his voice hoarse.
“Is your grace restored?”
Lucifer reached over and grabbed a knife, dragging it across his palm. The skin opened for a moment before healing. “Huh.”
“Told you it would work.”