casthewise:

DeanCas Coda to 11×11: Into the Mystic

It hits Dean like a ton of bricks; his thoughts have tumbled like a Jenga tower, pieces crashing onto the floor in a way that makes his head ring. Words like vulnerable and pining and something off swim before his eyes as he sits up, the heels of his palms pressing into his eyes.

“Fuck.” The curse is breathed, like Dean is too tired and weak to do more then resign himself to the truth that has been causing his body to physically ache. “Fuck.”

He barely gets to the bathroom in time to vomit.

Clutching to the porcelain of the toilet, Dean digs his fingers into the hard surface, his fingers turning white as he coughs and gags. Exhausted, the hunter rests his head on the ceramic and heaves a deep breath.

The first thing, and arguably the most important, is that Cas isn’t Cas. Whatever happened in the cage—whatever stupid, self-sacrificial decision Castiel thought he’d make for the good of the world has probably landed himself a backseat in his body, with Satan driving the buggy. Just the thought makes Dean’s stomach roil.

The second is that he is in love.

He, Dean Winchester, King of the One-Night Stand, has fallen so deeply and blindly that he has no idea how to dig himself out. This love isn’t like the heart-racing, giddy thing he had with Cassie; or the steady, comfortable thing he had with Lisa; and it’s worlds removed from the nervous, uncomfortable, trance-like thing he has with Amara. 

…This love is so profound it’s written in the marrow of his bones. It makes his heart race and his mouth go dry and his palms sweat and it’s so deeply comfortable that Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s watching sunsets and taking cases close to home and retiring with arthritic hands and creaking knees. Wiping his mouth, Dean forces himself up with a grunt and goes to re-brush his teeth.

What is he supposed to do?

He’s got the Devil in his best friend, God’s psycho sister out have him in the most disturbing way possible, and his brother is riding the guilt train straight towards Dumb Decision-ville.

Sighing, Dean lets himself collapse on his bed once more, scooting over to one of the edges and looking at the negative space he’s left. He then bites his lip and turns away. “Cas?” he breathes into the darkness. “I know you’re riding shotgun, but maybe you can hear me anyway?”

Though Dean doesn’t expect an indication he’d been heard, he’s still disappointed when nothing happens. Exhaling a big, shaky breath, the hunter squeezes his eyes shut in his upset, refusing to cry. “I-I miss you.”

Nothing.

“…I love you.”

Silence.

And that’s when he remembers.

Pulling back the covers, Dean pads out of the room and down into the basement, feeling through the dark until he reaches the correct storage room. The coat is exactly where Lucifer had left it, and Dean grasps it tightly in his hands before walking briskly back to his bed.

Dean feels ridiculous, but he’s more distraught than concerned with how he must look, and so slips the garment on over his pjs, breathing in at the shoulder. It smells like Cas. “’M sorry,” he breathes into the fabric, fingers running along its edges. Even as soft as it is, his voice cracks. “Sorry that you felt like you had to do this, or wanted to do it, or… or whatever. Sorry, Cas.” Dean swallows thickly and wraps himself in both the coat and his covers as he makes himself comfortable, eyes once again drawn to empty space he instinctually leaves. “I’ll save you,” he vows quietly to the other side of his bed, reaching a hand out to touch the nothingness that rests there. “I promise, Cas.”

Letting his eyes slip shut, he buries himself further into the coat.

Promise.