It’s a sunday when Cas gives up his grace. He and Dean are sleeping in and the angel is tickling his husband’s naked back, drawing Enochian symbols in his skin with a lazy finger. Cas does this sometimes. Writes poems no one will ever hear, etched into Dean’s skin. Sometimes Dean will ask what Cas writes. Sometimes Cas will tell him.
But then, there are other times when
Cas sends words of adoration to his hunter that don’t translate.
Language that only an angel could understand.
But always, there is one symbol Cas
ends with. It’s curved with soft unbroken lines, and it reminds Cas
of an ocean wave, beautiful and strong. Like Dean.
“Tell me,” Dean whispers.
Cas smiles. He scoots closer, but still
leaves room between their bodies for him to work and slots a bare
foot between Dean’s calves.
“Today, I’m writing about your eyes.
Your skin,” then, Cas’s hand runs up the back of Dean’s neck as he
thumbs the bristles of hair. He kisses the spot softly, pulling back
as he feels Dean shiver.
“Your hair,” Cas says softly.
He can’t see Dean smiling, but he knows
he is when Dean scoots back into Cas’s arms, letting the angel wrap
around him until they are back to chest, breaths unified.
And, this close, Cas sees it in the
morning light, the soft, gray hair peeking out behind the hunter’s
ear. He touches it, lovingly, the little symbol of time and growth
and the fleeting moments he has with the man he loves. So small
compared to the length of his existence, but more than anything has
ever meant to him before.
He and Dean haven’t talked about it—the
point when immortality and mortality will become important for them.
But, they both know. Cas thinks of it as he traces the beautiful wave
on Dean’s back. The symbol of the fallen angel.
He’s been carving himself into Dean’s
back this whole time they’ve been together. Creating permanence below
the hard cut of the hunter’s shoulder blades.
It’s just a Sunday. Not a special day
with any kind of significance. But Dean is here, and the sun is
shining through the windows like a blanket, and he suddenly knows
that today is the day.
So, with a steady hand, he takes a
breath. And, he calls his grace to the tips of his fingers.
“I love you, Dean,” he whispers.
Then, he’s placing his palm along the
place on Dean’s back that holds their poems and stories. Slotting it
in the space where he traced the story of the fallen angel who loved
his hunter so much that he would give him anything in the whole
world. Even part of himself. Slowly, he lets his grace float from him
into the hunter, pouring from the angelic vessel that could hold it,
into the human he loves where the grace will finally dwindle,
diminish and die without its host.
It’s a death of its own as he watches
the stories of his millions of years as an angel slowly disappear
with the dying of his timelessness.
It’s painful, raw and beautiful. And,
when the final bits of his grace descend into Dean, Cas is shaking,
crying silently with the wonder of it all.
He’s staring at Dean’s back, watching
as his shoulders raise and lower with every breath, the hunter
sighing contentedly unaware of the sacred space the two of them just
Cas smiles, pulling the hunter to him
and kissing his back with reverence, letting his tears fall silently
on the pillow.
It’s just an ordinary Sunday. But in
this moment, Cas knows that it’s the happiest day of his life.