casthewise:

DeanCas Coda to 13x23

Mostly, Castiel thinks, being in love has been nothing like all the novels and films have made it out to be. It has been messy. And painful. And the very few moments of bliss he’s experienced have, every one, been outweighed by all-consuming disaster. For nine years, he and Dean have been caught in this game of holding hands on the edge of every apocalypse they encounter, and now… and now…

Castiel is not stupid. He isn’t green. He wasn’t “born yesterday”. 

He doesn’t have to be told what has become of Dean, doesn’t even have to feel the fundamental shift in the bond between soul and Grace to know for certain. He knew what would happen the moment the words left Dean’s lips. After all, Michael is known for many things, but keeping his promises isn’t one of them.

I’m your sword.

He’d listened to their conversation. Heard the desperation that has always led to their downfall, and in the scant few breaths between deal and yes, he’d acted.

“Wait.”

Rubber soles slid across the floor. A step. A muffled gasp. And, finally, after nine long years, a kiss. Nothing messy, or wet, or involved, just… a quick, intense, hopeless press of lips, and then: “I—”

“Don’t,” Dean had said, freckles drowned out by the red in his cheeks as surely as Castiel’s had been rosy with courage and embarrassment. “Tell me after.”

“Dean—”

“After.” He’d donned feigned confidence and control like a well-worn second skin. Cas had nodded, unable to stop the thrilled leap of his heart when Dean leaned in to kiss him more thoroughly, hands moving to bury themselves inside the coat and suit jacket and tug on his white shirt. He was gentle, and sweet, and Castiel had been mortified to hear himself whine when he’d pulled away. Blue eyes locked with green. Dean had licked his lips: “It’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Gotta stay positive, Cas.”

“Dean—”

The angel had been kissed quiet. “C’mon, now,” Dean had said. “This is who we are.”

Castiel’s gaze had not wavered. Not when Dean kissed him for the last time—chaste and sweet. Not when their foreheads pressed together and their fingers tangled. Not when Dean, staring just as surely at Cas, let yes tumble from the corner of his mouth. Castiel watched as green turned Grace-blue and shoulders straightened. He felt something within him unclench when, after a moment, it became clear that it was still Dean smiling at him. 

“Jesus Christ, well ain’t this a fuckin’ trip.”

“Be careful.”

“Yes, honey.” A smirk. “Wish me luck.”

He was gone before Castiel could open his mouth. 

In the present, Cas presses trembling fingertips to his lips and squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a moment to breathe, and then takes another, and another, and another. He wonders if loving Dean will ever get any easier.

Not likely.

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