Fic: bright like yellow, taste like apples
Title: bright like yellow, taste like apples
Author: lilchibibunny
Rating: PG-13? (IDK SEE THE WARNINGS.)
Word Count: 4,600.
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam is in there too!
Disclaimer: Characters to Kripke and the CW.
Spoilers: This fic is placed firmly in S5, so there shouldn't be any spoilers.
Warnings: Cursing, mention of boners but no actual boner touching! (i am very proud of this.)
Summary: Dean's blind due to a curse, and Castiel offers a different point of view.
Author's Note: Another bribe (and a feel-better-bb present) for morganoconner. This is actually a very personal fic to me. I'm sure not many of you know about synesthesia, so educate yourselves right here! It's basically when things such as words and letters trigger different senses, such as smells, tastes, and colors. It's not like a make-sense thing, it's just an automatic reaction that happens. Lots of these descriptions are taken from my own experiences; remember, it's not meant to make sense, it just so happens the letter S is orange for me and so when I think 'Sam' I think orange?
So, Dean's stuck here.
It's not strange, or different, not really. Just stuck in the motel room again with Sam again. Only this time he can't see a goddamn thing.
"Nothing?" Sam asks, and Dean gives an exasperated sigh.
"Nothing. Not even the weird light thing, y'know? When you shut your eyes and you can still see the light?" Dean shakes his head. "Not a thing, Sam. I'm blind, okay? My eyes are open, and I got nothin'."
He can hear Sam sigh, and he must be sitting in one of the chairs that Sam mentioned was in the room because it gives a little creaking noise as his brother shuffles. "I don't know, Dean. I mean, she got you pretty good in-between the eyes."
Yeah, it was the last thing he saw before the curse hit was nothing, before he felt his legs buckle and his knees hit the pavement--fuck, were they standing on pavement? he didn't even notice before then--and Sam was yelling his name and, well, Dean was pretty sure that this whole blind thing would be done when he woke up. And then he opened his eyes and--just kidding, still blind. "Sam," and his voice sounds way too loud for his head right now, "you know the Latin she was speaking, right? You can ask Bobby about it?"
There's a slight rustle of clothing and Dean frowns. "I can't see you shrugging, dumbass, so don't do it." Not even a pause after that, Dean adds, "I see your fucking bitchface from here and I'm blind so quit it, Sam."
"Look, Dean, I can't help the fact that I'm human, okay?" Dean hears the boots on the carpet, and they make that scuffing noise because Sam is too lazy to pick his feet up. "Listen, I remember the Latin. I'll ask Bobby about it."
When there's suddenly a hand on Dean's shoulder, he jumps. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy!"
"Sorry!" Sam yelps, and Dean's breathing hard. Fucking shit. "Sorry," and it's a more soothing tone, more apologetic. "Dean, I'm sorry."
"Dude, it's cool," Dean says. He thinks that maybe he should feel more calm about this. Y'know, more trained and shit. But to be honest, he's never really been in a situation where his eyes were malfunctioning. Sure, he's been blindfolded and had a burlap sack over his face, but he could take that off. This? He can't just rip this off his face. He can't just blink and see some semblance of light or something. This is the possibility of never seeing anything again and that right there is a fucking spine-chilling fact that Dean really doesn't want to touch right now. "Just…try not to take me off guard, okay? Can't see you."
Sam's hand returns to his shoulder, and Dean jerks a little bit less this time. Sam's thumb rubs a gentle circle into the skin, and Dean starts to unclench. Although Sam's hold is a little unsure and light, it's still a touch, and Dean's grateful for that. "Can I look at your eyes, Dean?"
And that kind of surprises Dean into motion, because he didn't realize his gaze has been down the whole time. He looks up to where he thinks Sam is, and his brother gently guides him a couple inches to the left. Sam lets his finger trail up Dean's cheek and beneath his eye, carefully stretching Dean's eyelids apart. And for a few seconds, Dean holds his breath. "Sammy? How do they look?"
He hears Sam take a gentle exhale. "Milky. I mean, you can still see your iris and stuff, it's not like you have Lilith eyes or anything"--and thank fucking God for that--"but it's really filmed over. Hard to see anything."
Dean's glad he doesn't have completely white eyes or whatever, and the fact that his iris is kind of still visible is a good sign. "Think it's permanent?"
He can practically feel the air shrug. "Call Cas, maybe he would know?" And then Sam's hands are gone and Dean is painfully alone again. He knows Sam's still there, still standing around, but that doesn't help Dean. Still feels like a one-man island of darkness. "Dean, I'm going to go see if I can't dig anything up in some old texts. Will you be okay here?" Dean can tell he would be ready to stay. Or even bring Dean along, if Dean wanted to go.
"Yeah, Sam, I'll just sit back and listen to the clock radio or somethin'." No. Say you'll stay. But Dean has perfected acting nonchalant. Besides, he doesn't need a babysitter. Fuck that. He'll be fine, won't he?
"I'll be back soon." And it isn't until Dean hears the slam of the car door and the roar of the engine and then he feels scared as shit. It really shouldn't be a problem. Never really been a problem before, being alone as a hostage somewhere. But this time, his hands aren't tied and there's nothing to escape from so he can see. God, he would rather be somewhere bruised and beaten, cutting the rope from his hands with the knife he has stitched into his coat sleeve, ready to take the blindfold off. Anything but scared to leave the goddamn bed in fear he's going to hit something, forgot to ask where the remote was so Dean doesn't even know where to start looking. (Sam got the room while Dean sat in the car, hands balled up into fists on his knees, wanting to punch something but he would never hurt his baby.)
Dean edges out until he feels the edge of the bed, and then swings his legs over. At least he can feel like a normal human being with his feet on the floor. He flips open the cell phone, dials the number. It rings and rings and just as Dean expects a voicemail, "Hello? Dean?"
"Cas, hey." It's fucking weird to hear his voice all tiny next to his ear and not see it come out of a cell phone, but it's better than being alone in silence. "Can you come here?"
"Where is here?"
Dean gives him the coordinates, and then feels it pretty important to add, "Hey, Cas, don't--"
"Don't what?" and the voice is right fucking next to him and Dean can't help but yelp and jump probably five goddamn feet into the air.
The only reason he doesn't topple onto the ground is because Cas grabs his arm and pulls, setting Dean straight. "Christ, Cas, warn a guy!"
Of course, Castiel doesn't ask what's wrong because Dean glanced in his direction when he said it, and the angel's attention is all on him, which means instead of asking what's wrong, like a normal being, Cas just grabs his chin and forces it in what Dean assumes is the direction of where Cas is standing. "Your eyes. You were cursed?"
"Yeah," Dean mutters, swatting the hands away. "Some stupid changeling, we caught it stealing a kid, and it had some kind of weird fucking curse knowledge and slapped me in the face with one." It's silent, and usually Dean doesn't mind Cas staring at him but when he can't see him staring, it's a little fucking unnerving. "I'm blind, Cas."
"Let me see." And, of course, he doesn't warn Dean at all, just sticks his hands in his face and lifts his eyelids and Dean can feel Cas' breath wash over his cheeks. "It is only temporary. A strong curse, but a short time span." He can almost hear Castiel thinking. "Like how you described fireworks. Very intense but they do not last long. Changelings are good at learning but are bad at applying that knowledge, which is a reason they will take human children," he adds even though Dean doesn't give a fuck about changelings right now.
Before Dean can slap his hands away, Cas moves and Dean's alone in darkness again. "Yeah, well, fucking blows in the meanwhile," he grumbles. He's angry but at the same time, again, being blind is scary shit.
"I could try and assist you, Dean."
Dean looks at Cas. At least, he would be looking at Cas if he could fucking see. "Yeah?"
Castiel nods. "I have enough power to help a little."
"Make me see again?"
"No. Not exactly."
"I don't…then what the fuck is the help here, Cas?" Dean frowns. He wants to see again, thanks. He doesn't need some trippy angel mojo-sight, he just wants his own back. Can't he, like, deflect the fucking curse? Isn't that possible? Castiel is a angel who can't do jack shit about cursed blindness? Obviously he knows a little, but apparently not enough to get rid of it.
"It will wear off eventually, Dean," Cas answers out of the blue, which kind of startles Dean because, remember, he can't even see. Yeah, can't pick up on any of that non-verbal shit. "It's not meant to be permanent."
"Stop reading my mind, Cas." It comes out more like a snarl.
"It is hard to when you are thinking so desperately," Castiel answers conversationally. "When you are nervous, Dean, you tend to project."
"Well then, turn your head away or something, dammit," Dean says, pushing off the bed to move back, move away from where he thinks Cas is. He sits in the middle of the mattress, legs lazily sprawled out in front of him as if to make sure his whole body is on the bed. Since Cas isn't sitting right next to him, well, he really can't be sure exactly where the angel is. The voice gives him a nice idea where he is standing, but he can't really tell where Cas is.
And Dean would never admit it aloud, but that's really fucking frightening to him.
"Calm down, Dean," and Dean realizes he's breathing these awful, reedy short breaths.
He barks out a laugh. "I don't think you understand, Cas," he mutters, "but seeing all your life and then not being able to, kinda a tough thing to deal with."
"Then let me help," Cas says. Dean immediately jerks because Cas' breath roams over his face then--he wasn't that close before, not close enough for Dean to feel his goddamn breath--and it's right at that moment that he feels Cas' fingers to his forehead and then--
oh god the colors, the colors are swirling and moving and suddenly it's grey, so grey and so stormy and windy and moving around and it tastes like ozone in his mouth--he has to lick his lips but the taste won't go away and he can fucking smell it, like he usually smells on Cas a little only it's different and so strong and--
"Dean. Dean." Cas' fingers clutch his shoulders. "Dean." His voice is like an anchor, and suddenly a warm yellow appears in the cloudy grey that seems to surround him, down him. Like seeing lightening in storm clouds. Such a warm yellow and he can smell it, smell the fresh air and it tastes so good it tastes--
"Like the apples Mom used to make," Dean murmurs, holding his hand out, reaching, groping, finding Castiel's trenchcoat and pulling tight. He feels Cas sitting in front of him, the bed dimpling under his weight.
"What are you seeing, Dean?"
"Grey," Dean says, "and yellow, your voice is yellow--" but it has tastes, he can taste it too, and it's not even really his voice, it's just him being there and--
"This is how I see," Cas explains, voice a low, pleasing rumble that shoots a white flash through the yellow and grey.
"See?" Dean says, and the grey is slipping away as he focuses less on how confused he is, a gentle pink swirling in with the pastel yellow, tasting like cotton candy and it's so weird but he can't get enough.
"It used to be just colors," Cas continues, and Dean can't help but clutch tighter to the trenchcoat because it's damn comforting to have Cas right beside him, so warm and it's orange now, orange mixing in with the yellow and the pink blending in and it's like a sunrise, "but ever since I have had human experiences, it is now smells and tastes, as I imagine what is now happening to you after your admission about apples." Dean nods, but he's just focused on this now, Cas' words rippling like water on all the colors. He's been in the dark for what seems like forever, and now he's overwhelmed and it might be too much.
"Cas," Dean murmurs, pulling on the coat, trying to bring the angel closer, "how…how can you see like this? I mean, you got eyes, right? It's not like you need all this color and shit."
"You are just seeing colors because you have no vision," and when fingers sweep down his cheek, Dean can't help himself just jerking from the movement. Not wanting to discourage Cas (he wants to be touched, wants that solid confirmation that someone is there) he leans into it--the contact is so sure and definite and it's not like Sam's light, feather movements from before, like he didn't want to catch whatever Dean had (like the curse could transfer)--and there's a deep indigo blue, smells like cider and smoke in the fall. "Normally for me it is the occasional taste and smell, mostly with colors in people's voices. I'm sure you have a more extensive library than I do of both taste and smell, therefore you have more to draw from."
"What…what am I like Cas?" When did he start saying things in an almost whisper? It wasn't like anyone else was here, pfffft. "What am I like to you?"
There's a silence, and when Dean doesn't get an answer, he feels a little bad. Everything turns dark and dusky, and it tastes like licorice, hah, he fucking hates licorice, fuckin' figures--
Then there's warmth pressing on him and a pair of lips on his cheek when he hears, "Green. Always green. Changes color, depending on how I feel about you, but always green."
Dean's breathing is shaky and that comforting, smoky smell washes over him again. "Tell me more." They are so close, and after hours (that feel like days) of being unsure where everything is and not being able to go out, the relief of having someone close and there, it's amazing. The breath slowly fanning across his face, the lips against his skin, and Dean can feel the warmth pool in his gut, arousal soft like velvet, spreading through him.
"I say your name so much because it tastes nice," Cas says, and Dean is so turned on right now it isn't fuckin' funny. "Tastes like the coffee Sam once let me try. Rich and dark. Strong. Dean."
"Jesus, Cas," and Dean's voice is thick, heavy. He hopes Cas doesn't notice his jeans are getting tight; not like Dean cares, he can't see it (or Cas' expression).
"Is it too much? Should I remove it?" Cas is tense under his grip, like he suddenly realizes he might have done something wrong.
Dean turns his head and he can't help the fact his breath is shallow. "It's a lot but it's fine. Better than nothing."
"I hope I provide agreeable stimulus for it," and the hesitant tone in his voice is a jagged, red line.
"Yeah, you do," Dean says, and the release of tension in Cas' shoulders brings the warm yellow spreading into the black of Dean's vision. "You being here…tastes like apples. Cinnamon. This thing my mom used to bake," Dean explains, and when Cas tries to lean back Dean pulls him closer.
"Is it a good thing?"
"Mm," Dean answers, nodding. He feels up Castiel's jacket, letting his fingers run in the creases and wrinkles in the fabric, inching his way to skin and oh, it feels smooth and warm and Dean sighs with relief as a deep forest green washes over his sight, and it tastes like cream on his tongue, heavy and thick and sweet. "It's a good thing."
"Dean," Cas says, and Dean feels fingers on his chest, crumpling the t-shirt he has on.
"C'mere, Cas." And he tries to pull the angel forward, a sick yellow-green veining through the wonderful forest color when Cas doesn't give.
"I need to return to my duties."
Dean frowns, tasting earthy anger in his mouth, gritty and tough. "Stop it." His hand moves up Cas' neck, thumb lightly tracing the muscles underneath the skin, ghosting over his adam's apple, feeling it when Cas swallows hard. He can't stop the smile that comes to his face, a sneaky magenta in his mind. His own feelings--this want, this need to have Cas closer, to have that familiar-but-brand-new feeling of lips pressed against his own--tingle on his tongue like a cherry dipped in a whiskey sour. "Stay here."
"I came to make sure you were ok--please stop," Cas says when Dean's fingers travel up to his jaw. "You are not in your correct mind," and his voice is a husky whisper that tastes like pumpkin pie. "You are just looking for an easy form of comfort, and I…" Cas sighs. "I did not mean to overwhelm you and--" His words stop when Dean finally finds his lips--dry but not chapped like he thought they would be--and runs his fingers over, feeling Cas' breath.
"You aren't taking advantage of me," Dean sums up for him. "It's just--" He cuts himself off, tasting the words, testing them out as he finds the right ones. "I want more." Since Cas won't come to him, Dean lets his hand leave Cas' face, moves close, gently opening up his legs and placing them to either side of Cas, hugging himself to the angel. "You know what your name is like to me, Cas?"
"Dean," and he can feel Cas' breath getting more and more shallow, holding himself back.
Dean has to move one hand up, feel Cas' cheekbone before moving his head so he's cheek to cheek with Cas, arm falling back into place to keep himself tight to the angel's body. "Castiel," he whispers, and the moan that falls from Cas' mouth is sky blue, jolting bright blue like his eyes. "Like a hard caramel," Dean tests out. "You hold it in your mouth long enough and it gives away to that sweet, creamy taste that runs down your throat. Have to savor it, have to let it sit in your mouth and work it around and it's so damn good," and Cas' grip on his arms is tightening, almost painful, sharp beats of crimson in velvet feeling, "and your nickname," Dean chuckles, "is like just biting the candy 'cause you can't help yourself, just biting it and chewing it. That's why I'm saying it slowly, Cas," letting the worlds tumble from his mouth.
He lets his nose trail over Cas' skin as he moves his face so he can be sure of his movements, brushes his lips with Castiel's and makes them both shiver. "Yeah, I want some fucking comfort because I'm blind and scared that maybe I won't see again, but fuck, every time I touch your skin it tastes like cream and I want more of that, I want to see what colors flash when I kiss you, when I undress you and feel you shiver," Dean says, and jesus he really wants this, he wants to feel it all, "wanna know what it tastes like when I make you whimper and what color it is when I make you come--"
He can't see the signs that Castiel makes, the body language letting him know what's going on. So he gets a sudden press of lips to his--wet with spit, Cas must have run his tongue over his lips before and Dean would have given anything to see that--and Dean moves a little in surprise, but it's easy to twine his fingers into Cas' hair, the taste of heavy cream dissolving into nougat as he moves a little more sure, now that he knows what's happening.
The first kiss is dark brown, like bear's fur which flashes burnt orange when Castiel moans, opening his mouth for Dean, giving him access. When he slips his tongue over Cas' lips, soft, gentle licks into his mouth, the small little gasps Cas makes smell like toffee, and Dean presses harder, like he can taste it in Castiel's mouth. He's vaguely aware of his hips picking up an easy rhythm, just a small, barely-there thing. 'Cause he's not focused on that, he's focused on Cas, the easy way their lips slip and slide together, the way Cas sucks on his bottom lip and it pulses purple and deep, dark blues and Dean is moaning because he feels so much and it doesn't happen in waves, it happens in flashes and he has to stop, has to pull back.
"Tell me what you're feeling, Cas," he pants, letting his lips trace Castiel's jaw, the stubble running over his lips. He's trying to clear his head so he can just focus on it, but he can't help the silver that ripples over his vision as he feels it prickling against his skin. "God, please, tell me what you're feeling, I want to know," and he's babbling, he knows he is but he can't help it.
"Powdery," Cas says, and for a second he's gone, Dean can't feel his jawline anymore and where did he go--then there's fingers tilting his head up and a mouth nipping at his neck (bright shots of red and blue, like fireworks across the darkness), "I went to a baker's shop once, a while ago. When I was starting to feel. I needed a distraction, I felt that need to escape," and Dean feels a dull, iron pang at the strange tone in Cas' voice. "I saw a girl kneading dough, asked her--" and he's interrupted as Dean's hands finally slip under his dress shirt, moans (the sound and the feel blend together as nutmeg in Dean's mind), "asked her if I could try it." Dean feels the pressure on his shirt, feels and hears it rip at the collar. "You feel like that, warm and smooth like the flour."
Suddenly, Cas' mouth is hard and rough at his collarbone, gold sparks spreading into red in Dean's mind as the angel makes a mark on him. Gasping under his touch, "Fuck, Cas, do it again." He gets that smell, the slighty vanilla smell of cigarette smoke--loved that smell, didn't like smoking but he loved that smell--and his hips snap, once, twice, three times against Cas' leg but (amazingly) he's only focusing on Cas' mouth. Hard, sharp suction, tongue soothing the skin underneath. Gold red fading into a sweet blue. Dean doesn't realize the whimpering sounds are coming from him, tearing out of his throat and echoing loudly in the room.
"Dean, Dean," Cas says, his tone a worried purple. Dean feels his hands on either side of his head, and there are gentle, honey-warm kisses on his face. "Too much, it's too much. I'm sorry."
"Castiel," Dean says because he wants that caramel taste to linger in his mouth, wants it to melt. Cas gives him small kisses, not giving Dean a chance to deepen them. "Please. Please." He just wants to feel, wants Cas to just take his shirt off and run those fingers down his skin because he wonders what it's going to smell like, if it'll taste like something when he feels the denim slide off his skin, what color he'll see when he's just about there.
Cas backs away, puts space between them, and suddenly Dean wishes he was back to normal. He wants to see Cas, wants to see those lips red and wet from their kisses. Wants to see his eyes wanting it just as much as Dean needs it, want to drive him nuts and tease him and watch his muscles tense when he runs a finger down his side. Dean wants to be in control instead of being so unsure in the dark, having to fumble around. Grey storm clouds in his life, ugly ozone on his tongue.
And then thumbs on his temples, rubbing a comforting reddish pink into his life. When Cas speaks, it all fades to pastel yellow with reddish edges. "When you are better, perhaps. When you are back to normal." A small, final kiss. (Tastes like raspberries, tangy disappointment under the sweet.) "Then maybe, if you would like."
"Not going to change my mind," Dean mutters, and then there is the sound of feathers, the bed suddenly groaning from the loss of weight, and Dean is left with nothing. "Goddammit, Cas!" Everything is bitter lemon, a sick bruise yellow.
Key in the lock. Dean looks to the sound. Click of the lock turning, and then the slide of the doorknob and, "Dean?"
"Sammy?"
"Dean, what the hell happened?" Sam's orange, he can feel it. Right now, red-orange in his words. And then Dean realizes a couple things; his shirt is ripped, lips are probably a rude red, he's got at least two hickeys and a mad boner going. "The hell is going on, man?" Bright orange, embarrassment.
"Sorry," Dean says, body curling in unconsciously. "I…can't really see, Sam, so I mean." He shrugs helplessly, like I can't see shit, how do you expect me to care what I look like? Dean starts a few sentences, but how can you say, 'hey, got mojo-ed by my angel so now i see all different and i may have tried to have sex with him, sorry about my hard-on?'
A firm hand on his shoulder. Comforting. Nice apple green turning amber (the orange from Sam). "Talked to Bobby. Trying to work out the curse." He doesn't ask if Cas showed up, thank God for smart brothers.
"Thanks." He reaches up and gives a small squeeze to Sam's hand. It's mostly for him, to confirm Sam's there, Sam's alright, because Dean is sure that Sam can see what he's feeling--hard to keep emotionless when your sight has been snatched from you. Well, hard to keep emotionless now that he's tasting and smelling all his feelings and that.
"I can go out, get a cheeseburger." Sam's voice is soft, coaxing. Warm tea.
"I'm going to come with you," Dean says, reaching out to feel for the broad shoulders of his brother, hoisting himself up. "I want to get out of this fucking room, at least."
Sam gently pushes him back down. "Maybe when you calm down, okay?" Oh. Right. Boner. Forgot about that.
"Thanks for not being a dick about it," Dean says, and Sam's hands leave him; he walks away.
Shuffling of the papers, smells like lavender. Sam chuckles. "Yeah, well, I'll bring it up when you're being a bitch."
"How fucking sweet of you," Dean says, and Sam just laughs.
"Yeah, well, if you need to beat it out in the bathroom, do it, but I'm fucking hungry here, dude, and I'm not having the awkward moment of your boner for a car ride."
Dean just grins and holds out his hand. "Then lead me to the bathroom, princess. I'll try to be as loud as possible to make up for the fact that I can't see."
Sam mutters a curse and Dean feels Sam's fingers finally close around his, gently pulling to the direction of the bathroom. "Jesus, I should win an award having to deal with your weird shit."
Dean wonders if Sam would see him in green.
Author: lilchibibunny
Rating: PG-13? (IDK SEE THE WARNINGS.)
Word Count: 4,600.
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel, Sam is in there too!
Disclaimer: Characters to Kripke and the CW.
Spoilers: This fic is placed firmly in S5, so there shouldn't be any spoilers.
Warnings: Cursing, mention of boners but no actual boner touching! (i am very proud of this.)
Summary: Dean's blind due to a curse, and Castiel offers a different point of view.
Author's Note: Another bribe (and a feel-better-bb present) for morganoconner. This is actually a very personal fic to me. I'm sure not many of you know about synesthesia, so educate yourselves right here! It's basically when things such as words and letters trigger different senses, such as smells, tastes, and colors. It's not like a make-sense thing, it's just an automatic reaction that happens. Lots of these descriptions are taken from my own experiences; remember, it's not meant to make sense, it just so happens the letter S is orange for me and so when I think 'Sam' I think orange?
So, Dean's stuck here.
It's not strange, or different, not really. Just stuck in the motel room again with Sam again. Only this time he can't see a goddamn thing.
"Nothing?" Sam asks, and Dean gives an exasperated sigh.
"Nothing. Not even the weird light thing, y'know? When you shut your eyes and you can still see the light?" Dean shakes his head. "Not a thing, Sam. I'm blind, okay? My eyes are open, and I got nothin'."
He can hear Sam sigh, and he must be sitting in one of the chairs that Sam mentioned was in the room because it gives a little creaking noise as his brother shuffles. "I don't know, Dean. I mean, she got you pretty good in-between the eyes."
Yeah, it was the last thing he saw before the curse hit was nothing, before he felt his legs buckle and his knees hit the pavement--fuck, were they standing on pavement? he didn't even notice before then--and Sam was yelling his name and, well, Dean was pretty sure that this whole blind thing would be done when he woke up. And then he opened his eyes and--just kidding, still blind. "Sam," and his voice sounds way too loud for his head right now, "you know the Latin she was speaking, right? You can ask Bobby about it?"
There's a slight rustle of clothing and Dean frowns. "I can't see you shrugging, dumbass, so don't do it." Not even a pause after that, Dean adds, "I see your fucking bitchface from here and I'm blind so quit it, Sam."
"Look, Dean, I can't help the fact that I'm human, okay?" Dean hears the boots on the carpet, and they make that scuffing noise because Sam is too lazy to pick his feet up. "Listen, I remember the Latin. I'll ask Bobby about it."
When there's suddenly a hand on Dean's shoulder, he jumps. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy!"
"Sorry!" Sam yelps, and Dean's breathing hard. Fucking shit. "Sorry," and it's a more soothing tone, more apologetic. "Dean, I'm sorry."
"Dude, it's cool," Dean says. He thinks that maybe he should feel more calm about this. Y'know, more trained and shit. But to be honest, he's never really been in a situation where his eyes were malfunctioning. Sure, he's been blindfolded and had a burlap sack over his face, but he could take that off. This? He can't just rip this off his face. He can't just blink and see some semblance of light or something. This is the possibility of never seeing anything again and that right there is a fucking spine-chilling fact that Dean really doesn't want to touch right now. "Just…try not to take me off guard, okay? Can't see you."
Sam's hand returns to his shoulder, and Dean jerks a little bit less this time. Sam's thumb rubs a gentle circle into the skin, and Dean starts to unclench. Although Sam's hold is a little unsure and light, it's still a touch, and Dean's grateful for that. "Can I look at your eyes, Dean?"
And that kind of surprises Dean into motion, because he didn't realize his gaze has been down the whole time. He looks up to where he thinks Sam is, and his brother gently guides him a couple inches to the left. Sam lets his finger trail up Dean's cheek and beneath his eye, carefully stretching Dean's eyelids apart. And for a few seconds, Dean holds his breath. "Sammy? How do they look?"
He hears Sam take a gentle exhale. "Milky. I mean, you can still see your iris and stuff, it's not like you have Lilith eyes or anything"--and thank fucking God for that--"but it's really filmed over. Hard to see anything."
Dean's glad he doesn't have completely white eyes or whatever, and the fact that his iris is kind of still visible is a good sign. "Think it's permanent?"
He can practically feel the air shrug. "Call Cas, maybe he would know?" And then Sam's hands are gone and Dean is painfully alone again. He knows Sam's still there, still standing around, but that doesn't help Dean. Still feels like a one-man island of darkness. "Dean, I'm going to go see if I can't dig anything up in some old texts. Will you be okay here?" Dean can tell he would be ready to stay. Or even bring Dean along, if Dean wanted to go.
"Yeah, Sam, I'll just sit back and listen to the clock radio or somethin'." No. Say you'll stay. But Dean has perfected acting nonchalant. Besides, he doesn't need a babysitter. Fuck that. He'll be fine, won't he?
"I'll be back soon." And it isn't until Dean hears the slam of the car door and the roar of the engine and then he feels scared as shit. It really shouldn't be a problem. Never really been a problem before, being alone as a hostage somewhere. But this time, his hands aren't tied and there's nothing to escape from so he can see. God, he would rather be somewhere bruised and beaten, cutting the rope from his hands with the knife he has stitched into his coat sleeve, ready to take the blindfold off. Anything but scared to leave the goddamn bed in fear he's going to hit something, forgot to ask where the remote was so Dean doesn't even know where to start looking. (Sam got the room while Dean sat in the car, hands balled up into fists on his knees, wanting to punch something but he would never hurt his baby.)
Dean edges out until he feels the edge of the bed, and then swings his legs over. At least he can feel like a normal human being with his feet on the floor. He flips open the cell phone, dials the number. It rings and rings and just as Dean expects a voicemail, "Hello? Dean?"
"Cas, hey." It's fucking weird to hear his voice all tiny next to his ear and not see it come out of a cell phone, but it's better than being alone in silence. "Can you come here?"
"Where is here?"
Dean gives him the coordinates, and then feels it pretty important to add, "Hey, Cas, don't--"
"Don't what?" and the voice is right fucking next to him and Dean can't help but yelp and jump probably five goddamn feet into the air.
The only reason he doesn't topple onto the ground is because Cas grabs his arm and pulls, setting Dean straight. "Christ, Cas, warn a guy!"
Of course, Castiel doesn't ask what's wrong because Dean glanced in his direction when he said it, and the angel's attention is all on him, which means instead of asking what's wrong, like a normal being, Cas just grabs his chin and forces it in what Dean assumes is the direction of where Cas is standing. "Your eyes. You were cursed?"
"Yeah," Dean mutters, swatting the hands away. "Some stupid changeling, we caught it stealing a kid, and it had some kind of weird fucking curse knowledge and slapped me in the face with one." It's silent, and usually Dean doesn't mind Cas staring at him but when he can't see him staring, it's a little fucking unnerving. "I'm blind, Cas."
"Let me see." And, of course, he doesn't warn Dean at all, just sticks his hands in his face and lifts his eyelids and Dean can feel Cas' breath wash over his cheeks. "It is only temporary. A strong curse, but a short time span." He can almost hear Castiel thinking. "Like how you described fireworks. Very intense but they do not last long. Changelings are good at learning but are bad at applying that knowledge, which is a reason they will take human children," he adds even though Dean doesn't give a fuck about changelings right now.
Before Dean can slap his hands away, Cas moves and Dean's alone in darkness again. "Yeah, well, fucking blows in the meanwhile," he grumbles. He's angry but at the same time, again, being blind is scary shit.
"I could try and assist you, Dean."
Dean looks at Cas. At least, he would be looking at Cas if he could fucking see. "Yeah?"
Castiel nods. "I have enough power to help a little."
"Make me see again?"
"No. Not exactly."
"I don't…then what the fuck is the help here, Cas?" Dean frowns. He wants to see again, thanks. He doesn't need some trippy angel mojo-sight, he just wants his own back. Can't he, like, deflect the fucking curse? Isn't that possible? Castiel is a angel who can't do jack shit about cursed blindness? Obviously he knows a little, but apparently not enough to get rid of it.
"It will wear off eventually, Dean," Cas answers out of the blue, which kind of startles Dean because, remember, he can't even see. Yeah, can't pick up on any of that non-verbal shit. "It's not meant to be permanent."
"Stop reading my mind, Cas." It comes out more like a snarl.
"It is hard to when you are thinking so desperately," Castiel answers conversationally. "When you are nervous, Dean, you tend to project."
"Well then, turn your head away or something, dammit," Dean says, pushing off the bed to move back, move away from where he thinks Cas is. He sits in the middle of the mattress, legs lazily sprawled out in front of him as if to make sure his whole body is on the bed. Since Cas isn't sitting right next to him, well, he really can't be sure exactly where the angel is. The voice gives him a nice idea where he is standing, but he can't really tell where Cas is.
And Dean would never admit it aloud, but that's really fucking frightening to him.
"Calm down, Dean," and Dean realizes he's breathing these awful, reedy short breaths.
He barks out a laugh. "I don't think you understand, Cas," he mutters, "but seeing all your life and then not being able to, kinda a tough thing to deal with."
"Then let me help," Cas says. Dean immediately jerks because Cas' breath roams over his face then--he wasn't that close before, not close enough for Dean to feel his goddamn breath--and it's right at that moment that he feels Cas' fingers to his forehead and then--
oh god the colors, the colors are swirling and moving and suddenly it's grey, so grey and so stormy and windy and moving around and it tastes like ozone in his mouth--he has to lick his lips but the taste won't go away and he can fucking smell it, like he usually smells on Cas a little only it's different and so strong and--
"Dean. Dean." Cas' fingers clutch his shoulders. "Dean." His voice is like an anchor, and suddenly a warm yellow appears in the cloudy grey that seems to surround him, down him. Like seeing lightening in storm clouds. Such a warm yellow and he can smell it, smell the fresh air and it tastes so good it tastes--
"Like the apples Mom used to make," Dean murmurs, holding his hand out, reaching, groping, finding Castiel's trenchcoat and pulling tight. He feels Cas sitting in front of him, the bed dimpling under his weight.
"What are you seeing, Dean?"
"Grey," Dean says, "and yellow, your voice is yellow--" but it has tastes, he can taste it too, and it's not even really his voice, it's just him being there and--
"This is how I see," Cas explains, voice a low, pleasing rumble that shoots a white flash through the yellow and grey.
"See?" Dean says, and the grey is slipping away as he focuses less on how confused he is, a gentle pink swirling in with the pastel yellow, tasting like cotton candy and it's so weird but he can't get enough.
"It used to be just colors," Cas continues, and Dean can't help but clutch tighter to the trenchcoat because it's damn comforting to have Cas right beside him, so warm and it's orange now, orange mixing in with the yellow and the pink blending in and it's like a sunrise, "but ever since I have had human experiences, it is now smells and tastes, as I imagine what is now happening to you after your admission about apples." Dean nods, but he's just focused on this now, Cas' words rippling like water on all the colors. He's been in the dark for what seems like forever, and now he's overwhelmed and it might be too much.
"Cas," Dean murmurs, pulling on the coat, trying to bring the angel closer, "how…how can you see like this? I mean, you got eyes, right? It's not like you need all this color and shit."
"You are just seeing colors because you have no vision," and when fingers sweep down his cheek, Dean can't help himself just jerking from the movement. Not wanting to discourage Cas (he wants to be touched, wants that solid confirmation that someone is there) he leans into it--the contact is so sure and definite and it's not like Sam's light, feather movements from before, like he didn't want to catch whatever Dean had (like the curse could transfer)--and there's a deep indigo blue, smells like cider and smoke in the fall. "Normally for me it is the occasional taste and smell, mostly with colors in people's voices. I'm sure you have a more extensive library than I do of both taste and smell, therefore you have more to draw from."
"What…what am I like Cas?" When did he start saying things in an almost whisper? It wasn't like anyone else was here, pfffft. "What am I like to you?"
There's a silence, and when Dean doesn't get an answer, he feels a little bad. Everything turns dark and dusky, and it tastes like licorice, hah, he fucking hates licorice, fuckin' figures--
Then there's warmth pressing on him and a pair of lips on his cheek when he hears, "Green. Always green. Changes color, depending on how I feel about you, but always green."
Dean's breathing is shaky and that comforting, smoky smell washes over him again. "Tell me more." They are so close, and after hours (that feel like days) of being unsure where everything is and not being able to go out, the relief of having someone close and there, it's amazing. The breath slowly fanning across his face, the lips against his skin, and Dean can feel the warmth pool in his gut, arousal soft like velvet, spreading through him.
"I say your name so much because it tastes nice," Cas says, and Dean is so turned on right now it isn't fuckin' funny. "Tastes like the coffee Sam once let me try. Rich and dark. Strong. Dean."
"Jesus, Cas," and Dean's voice is thick, heavy. He hopes Cas doesn't notice his jeans are getting tight; not like Dean cares, he can't see it (or Cas' expression).
"Is it too much? Should I remove it?" Cas is tense under his grip, like he suddenly realizes he might have done something wrong.
Dean turns his head and he can't help the fact his breath is shallow. "It's a lot but it's fine. Better than nothing."
"I hope I provide agreeable stimulus for it," and the hesitant tone in his voice is a jagged, red line.
"Yeah, you do," Dean says, and the release of tension in Cas' shoulders brings the warm yellow spreading into the black of Dean's vision. "You being here…tastes like apples. Cinnamon. This thing my mom used to bake," Dean explains, and when Cas tries to lean back Dean pulls him closer.
"Is it a good thing?"
"Mm," Dean answers, nodding. He feels up Castiel's jacket, letting his fingers run in the creases and wrinkles in the fabric, inching his way to skin and oh, it feels smooth and warm and Dean sighs with relief as a deep forest green washes over his sight, and it tastes like cream on his tongue, heavy and thick and sweet. "It's a good thing."
"Dean," Cas says, and Dean feels fingers on his chest, crumpling the t-shirt he has on.
"C'mere, Cas." And he tries to pull the angel forward, a sick yellow-green veining through the wonderful forest color when Cas doesn't give.
"I need to return to my duties."
Dean frowns, tasting earthy anger in his mouth, gritty and tough. "Stop it." His hand moves up Cas' neck, thumb lightly tracing the muscles underneath the skin, ghosting over his adam's apple, feeling it when Cas swallows hard. He can't stop the smile that comes to his face, a sneaky magenta in his mind. His own feelings--this want, this need to have Cas closer, to have that familiar-but-brand-new feeling of lips pressed against his own--tingle on his tongue like a cherry dipped in a whiskey sour. "Stay here."
"I came to make sure you were ok--please stop," Cas says when Dean's fingers travel up to his jaw. "You are not in your correct mind," and his voice is a husky whisper that tastes like pumpkin pie. "You are just looking for an easy form of comfort, and I…" Cas sighs. "I did not mean to overwhelm you and--" His words stop when Dean finally finds his lips--dry but not chapped like he thought they would be--and runs his fingers over, feeling Cas' breath.
"You aren't taking advantage of me," Dean sums up for him. "It's just--" He cuts himself off, tasting the words, testing them out as he finds the right ones. "I want more." Since Cas won't come to him, Dean lets his hand leave Cas' face, moves close, gently opening up his legs and placing them to either side of Cas, hugging himself to the angel. "You know what your name is like to me, Cas?"
"Dean," and he can feel Cas' breath getting more and more shallow, holding himself back.
Dean has to move one hand up, feel Cas' cheekbone before moving his head so he's cheek to cheek with Cas, arm falling back into place to keep himself tight to the angel's body. "Castiel," he whispers, and the moan that falls from Cas' mouth is sky blue, jolting bright blue like his eyes. "Like a hard caramel," Dean tests out. "You hold it in your mouth long enough and it gives away to that sweet, creamy taste that runs down your throat. Have to savor it, have to let it sit in your mouth and work it around and it's so damn good," and Cas' grip on his arms is tightening, almost painful, sharp beats of crimson in velvet feeling, "and your nickname," Dean chuckles, "is like just biting the candy 'cause you can't help yourself, just biting it and chewing it. That's why I'm saying it slowly, Cas," letting the worlds tumble from his mouth.
He lets his nose trail over Cas' skin as he moves his face so he can be sure of his movements, brushes his lips with Castiel's and makes them both shiver. "Yeah, I want some fucking comfort because I'm blind and scared that maybe I won't see again, but fuck, every time I touch your skin it tastes like cream and I want more of that, I want to see what colors flash when I kiss you, when I undress you and feel you shiver," Dean says, and jesus he really wants this, he wants to feel it all, "wanna know what it tastes like when I make you whimper and what color it is when I make you come--"
He can't see the signs that Castiel makes, the body language letting him know what's going on. So he gets a sudden press of lips to his--wet with spit, Cas must have run his tongue over his lips before and Dean would have given anything to see that--and Dean moves a little in surprise, but it's easy to twine his fingers into Cas' hair, the taste of heavy cream dissolving into nougat as he moves a little more sure, now that he knows what's happening.
The first kiss is dark brown, like bear's fur which flashes burnt orange when Castiel moans, opening his mouth for Dean, giving him access. When he slips his tongue over Cas' lips, soft, gentle licks into his mouth, the small little gasps Cas makes smell like toffee, and Dean presses harder, like he can taste it in Castiel's mouth. He's vaguely aware of his hips picking up an easy rhythm, just a small, barely-there thing. 'Cause he's not focused on that, he's focused on Cas, the easy way their lips slip and slide together, the way Cas sucks on his bottom lip and it pulses purple and deep, dark blues and Dean is moaning because he feels so much and it doesn't happen in waves, it happens in flashes and he has to stop, has to pull back.
"Tell me what you're feeling, Cas," he pants, letting his lips trace Castiel's jaw, the stubble running over his lips. He's trying to clear his head so he can just focus on it, but he can't help the silver that ripples over his vision as he feels it prickling against his skin. "God, please, tell me what you're feeling, I want to know," and he's babbling, he knows he is but he can't help it.
"Powdery," Cas says, and for a second he's gone, Dean can't feel his jawline anymore and where did he go--then there's fingers tilting his head up and a mouth nipping at his neck (bright shots of red and blue, like fireworks across the darkness), "I went to a baker's shop once, a while ago. When I was starting to feel. I needed a distraction, I felt that need to escape," and Dean feels a dull, iron pang at the strange tone in Cas' voice. "I saw a girl kneading dough, asked her--" and he's interrupted as Dean's hands finally slip under his dress shirt, moans (the sound and the feel blend together as nutmeg in Dean's mind), "asked her if I could try it." Dean feels the pressure on his shirt, feels and hears it rip at the collar. "You feel like that, warm and smooth like the flour."
Suddenly, Cas' mouth is hard and rough at his collarbone, gold sparks spreading into red in Dean's mind as the angel makes a mark on him. Gasping under his touch, "Fuck, Cas, do it again." He gets that smell, the slighty vanilla smell of cigarette smoke--loved that smell, didn't like smoking but he loved that smell--and his hips snap, once, twice, three times against Cas' leg but (amazingly) he's only focusing on Cas' mouth. Hard, sharp suction, tongue soothing the skin underneath. Gold red fading into a sweet blue. Dean doesn't realize the whimpering sounds are coming from him, tearing out of his throat and echoing loudly in the room.
"Dean, Dean," Cas says, his tone a worried purple. Dean feels his hands on either side of his head, and there are gentle, honey-warm kisses on his face. "Too much, it's too much. I'm sorry."
"Castiel," Dean says because he wants that caramel taste to linger in his mouth, wants it to melt. Cas gives him small kisses, not giving Dean a chance to deepen them. "Please. Please." He just wants to feel, wants Cas to just take his shirt off and run those fingers down his skin because he wonders what it's going to smell like, if it'll taste like something when he feels the denim slide off his skin, what color he'll see when he's just about there.
Cas backs away, puts space between them, and suddenly Dean wishes he was back to normal. He wants to see Cas, wants to see those lips red and wet from their kisses. Wants to see his eyes wanting it just as much as Dean needs it, want to drive him nuts and tease him and watch his muscles tense when he runs a finger down his side. Dean wants to be in control instead of being so unsure in the dark, having to fumble around. Grey storm clouds in his life, ugly ozone on his tongue.
And then thumbs on his temples, rubbing a comforting reddish pink into his life. When Cas speaks, it all fades to pastel yellow with reddish edges. "When you are better, perhaps. When you are back to normal." A small, final kiss. (Tastes like raspberries, tangy disappointment under the sweet.) "Then maybe, if you would like."
"Not going to change my mind," Dean mutters, and then there is the sound of feathers, the bed suddenly groaning from the loss of weight, and Dean is left with nothing. "Goddammit, Cas!" Everything is bitter lemon, a sick bruise yellow.
Key in the lock. Dean looks to the sound. Click of the lock turning, and then the slide of the doorknob and, "Dean?"
"Sammy?"
"Dean, what the hell happened?" Sam's orange, he can feel it. Right now, red-orange in his words. And then Dean realizes a couple things; his shirt is ripped, lips are probably a rude red, he's got at least two hickeys and a mad boner going. "The hell is going on, man?" Bright orange, embarrassment.
"Sorry," Dean says, body curling in unconsciously. "I…can't really see, Sam, so I mean." He shrugs helplessly, like I can't see shit, how do you expect me to care what I look like? Dean starts a few sentences, but how can you say, 'hey, got mojo-ed by my angel so now i see all different and i may have tried to have sex with him, sorry about my hard-on?'
A firm hand on his shoulder. Comforting. Nice apple green turning amber (the orange from Sam). "Talked to Bobby. Trying to work out the curse." He doesn't ask if Cas showed up, thank God for smart brothers.
"Thanks." He reaches up and gives a small squeeze to Sam's hand. It's mostly for him, to confirm Sam's there, Sam's alright, because Dean is sure that Sam can see what he's feeling--hard to keep emotionless when your sight has been snatched from you. Well, hard to keep emotionless now that he's tasting and smelling all his feelings and that.
"I can go out, get a cheeseburger." Sam's voice is soft, coaxing. Warm tea.
"I'm going to come with you," Dean says, reaching out to feel for the broad shoulders of his brother, hoisting himself up. "I want to get out of this fucking room, at least."
Sam gently pushes him back down. "Maybe when you calm down, okay?" Oh. Right. Boner. Forgot about that.
"Thanks for not being a dick about it," Dean says, and Sam's hands leave him; he walks away.
Shuffling of the papers, smells like lavender. Sam chuckles. "Yeah, well, I'll bring it up when you're being a bitch."
"How fucking sweet of you," Dean says, and Sam just laughs.
"Yeah, well, if you need to beat it out in the bathroom, do it, but I'm fucking hungry here, dude, and I'm not having the awkward moment of your boner for a car ride."
Dean just grins and holds out his hand. "Then lead me to the bathroom, princess. I'll try to be as loud as possible to make up for the fact that I can't see."
Sam mutters a curse and Dean feels Sam's fingers finally close around his, gently pulling to the direction of the bathroom. "Jesus, I should win an award having to deal with your weird shit."
Dean wonders if Sam would see him in green.