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Summary
He might have been losing his wings, but he’d definitely kept his grace.
The way he moved was sleek, unhurried, measured; strong. He fought like a dancer or an athlete, slick and professional, though Dean knew full well that no one ever taught him. Most of the time he looked uncomfortable in his borrowed skin, wore it like a coat that was too small even under his real, too-big one. But when he was fighting; when he had a sword in his hand, when it was between him and blood and another body, he was a creature altogether different.
Thing is, though, when it comes to untangling Christmas lights, all that grace and strength becomes pretty fucking irrelevant.
(a present for Amber, the Cas to my Dean)
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