( They'd been headed somewhere — a bar, probably, judging by the absent path Rowena had been leading him. That goal is momentarily forgotten, standing there in a relatively quiet avenue in a town of eternal nightfall, the two of them displaced from their world and their time period and their lives.
He's had nightmares of this. Of showing off all the ways he's been changed, being forced to confess them. Not to Rowena, but to his father, who would determine him not human, who would call him a monster, who would label him something worth hunting.
He's had some... time, to come to terms with that. To work it out, with some support from Cas, from Sam, from Geralt, but it still sits there in his sternum, low and uncomfortable, self-conscious, at odds with the closed-minded man he'd once been in his much younger years. )
There's a lot.
( He admits grimly, reaching out to press a hand to her chest — safely, just beneath the neck, by the collarbone. The white, impossible glow of grace illuminates him, sparking and brilliant from within, and flows from him into her.
It's not so much a healing as it is a restoration, and while it won't stop her haunting, it does come with a flood of soothing warmth, of comfort, an energizing refresh of pure and brilliant energy.
The glow of grace fades, and he drops his hand again. )
To tell you the truth, I don't even know if I know about all of it, but... I know I can hear 'em. Angel radio, I mean. And I know I can- blast things, and-
( And with the flick of his wrist, his empty hand manifests an angel blade that was not there before. He gives it a little wave, and then stuffs it irreverently into an empty sheath at his hip meant for a far larger sword. )
You get the picture. There's been a theme with most of mine. I get the feeling the longer I'm here, the less of a difference there's gonna be between me and... them.
no subject
He's had nightmares of this. Of showing off all the ways he's been changed, being forced to confess them. Not to Rowena, but to his father, who would determine him not human, who would call him a monster, who would label him something worth hunting.
He's had some... time, to come to terms with that. To work it out, with some support from Cas, from Sam, from Geralt, but it still sits there in his sternum, low and uncomfortable, self-conscious, at odds with the closed-minded man he'd once been in his much younger years. )
There's a lot.
( He admits grimly, reaching out to press a hand to her chest — safely, just beneath the neck, by the collarbone. The white, impossible glow of grace illuminates him, sparking and brilliant from within, and flows from him into her.
It's not so much a healing as it is a restoration, and while it won't stop her haunting, it does come with a flood of soothing warmth, of comfort, an energizing refresh of pure and brilliant energy.
The glow of grace fades, and he drops his hand again. )
To tell you the truth, I don't even know if I know about all of it, but... I know I can hear 'em. Angel radio, I mean. And I know I can- blast things, and-
( And with the flick of his wrist, his empty hand manifests an angel blade that was not there before. He gives it a little wave, and then stuffs it irreverently into an empty sheath at his hip meant for a far larger sword. )
You get the picture. There's been a theme with most of mine. I get the feeling the longer I'm here, the less of a difference there's gonna be between me and... them.