My Eyes Are An Ocean 2/2
Title: My Eyes Are An Ocean 2/2
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,300
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: It's amazing what you decide you can get away with when you can't see a damn thing.
AN: Part One.
Dean makes vague kicking movements until he finds the leg of the bed, then shuffles round and sits on it.
"You know it's harder to come find you when I can't actually see right?"
"I didn't know you were looking for me," Castiel says quietly. Which doesn't give Dean any indication of whether he'd let him find him if he was.
Dean lifts a hand, finds the solid curve of Castiel's shoulder through his coat. And Dean thinks that's maybe the one thing that he's grateful for that he's never admitted. That it's easier to touch him now, now Dean can't see, now he has a reason, or an excuse? He can just reach a hand out and touch him. Sometimes Cas reaches back. This time Castiel tilts slightly into the movement, faces him.
He'd always thought that Castiel just didn't want to talk about it. He's always so tense, so brittle every time Dean brings it up. Like he's waiting to be cracked into pieces. But Dean thinks maybe they do need to talk about it after all. That maybe they need to talk about a lot of things.
"I saw you," Dean says quietly, and he feels the way Castiel tenses under his hand, suddenly less human. More angel under the gentle press of his fingers. But this time he doesn't stop. "I don't remember much of it, mostly I remember the screaming because it felt like the whole damn world had exploded, but that second when you stopped being you and became you. I think I remember that."
Dean stops, because the memory aches a little if he thinks about it too hard. It's almost like seeing him left a hole inside. Or filled one up, one that he wasn't used to noticing.
"At least I remember as much of it as I can, some of it's whited out -" or maybe that was Castiel? That huge yawning white space that he can't quite grasp.
"I'm sorry," Castiel says quietly, and it's more than an apology, Dean can hear it under the words, it's something sharp, something that feels like pain. And Dean doesn't get it, he honestly doesn't get how Castiel can feel bad about something that wasn't his fault.
He shakes his head. "You don't have to be, seriously. I fully expected to end up dead at the end of this. Hell, I expected all of us to end up dead. I think we got off lightly. I think it's a freakin' miracle that this is all we get. Sure it sucks, clearly it sucks. But I don't blame you, I don't blame you for being the last thing I ever saw."
It's too quiet, and Dean wishes, again, that Castiel made those tiny noises that people did, he's always so damn quiet, always different. Dean stretches a hand out to make absolutely sure that Cas hasn't gone. He hasn't, though his hand is irritatingly still when Dean shifts his own over it, when he finds the warmth of Castiel's fingers and prods at them for some sort of reaction.
"You can't do anything about what you really look like. It's not your fault it's too much. Dude, you were between me and Armageddon, that's pretty epic. We should both have been fucking ash." The bed creaks, Dean doesn't feel Castiel move but he tightens his fingers anyway, like he can stop the angel from disappearing. He takes a breath, sighs it out and thinks about what else he needs to say. Even if he doesn't want to. "Sam thought I should let you know - that I should make sure you know that you can go, if you want to. That you don't have to stick around here with us. I'm thinking you probably have more important things to do."
"There are other things," Castiel admits. "But nothing more important."
Dean finds that briefly amusing, because maybe when it was his job to stop Armageddon, maybe, but now, not so much.
"Those upstairs, they do know I'm broken right?"
Castiel sighs, like Dean is impossible, like no matter how hard he tries he can't change that. He's quiet in his frustration and Dean kind of wants to poke it to see if it's there.
"Dean, you're as sharp and bright as you were at the beginning," Castiel's voice is calm. But Dean doesn't think that was the first thing he wanted to say. Wasn't what he meant to say either.
"But not exactly an important wheel in the scheme of things any more," Dean says, just to clarify. Castiel says nothing, so he assumes he's right, and Dean's really, really grateful for that. He's never been so happy to be completely unimportant in his whole damn life.
"I want to stay," Castiel says quietly.
Dean can't help how stupidly relieved he is to hear that. He exhales, roughly.
"If you want me to go-" Castiel starts.
"No," Dean says fiercely. "No, damn it Cas I want you to stay. But not if it's because you feel guilty, not if this is your penance or something, because if it is then I'd have to say, screw you."
Castiel flinches, just a little, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't draw back, like Dean has a right to be angry.
"I don't want you sticking around just to be my seeing eye dog, I have Sam for that. Even though he's useless at it, but I'll deal because he's my brother. You have to suffer for family."
Cas tries to draw his hand out of Dean's grip. Dean doesn't let him.
"Cas, tell me you didn't stay because you felt guilty?"
Castiel sighs, an edge of sound that Dean thinks maybe he makes just for him.
"I didn't entirely stay because I felt guilty," he admits. But that's ok, Dean wouldn't have believed him if he'd said anything else.
"Can I have another reason?"
There's a sound there, a very faint whisper of skin on cloth and Dean thinks maybe Castiel has turned his head to the side, looked away from him, and he doesn’t know why that bothers him but it does.
"You saved everyone and you deserve to not be abandoned." Castiel's voice is quiet but calm, like that's one of the reasons but probably not one of the important ones.
"I didn't do it for them," Dean's admission is just as quiet. But he thinks maybe that's too honest too quickly.
He shakes his head. "I miss looking at you you know," he says instead.
Castiel's still doing his 'too quiet to be real' act. Which really is incredibly bad for Dean's nerves, he has no idea how to get around the fact that he has no input, no shifts of movement, no sighs, no quiet noises at all. Dean's always relied on other people's reactions to know if he's saying or doing the right thing. This is hard, it's really fucking hard. But he figures that he's not going to know anything until he starts taking chances. It's amazing what you decide you can get away with when you can't see a damn thing. Dean lifts a hand again, finds the rough edge of Castiel's jaw, folds his fingers round it, knows exactly where he is in the darkness. Castiel doesn't move back out of the way, he doesn't push, doesn't resist at all when Dean shifts into his personal space, way into his personal space.
He finds his mouth easily enough. It's soft, rough at the edges and it gives under his own in a way Dean doesn't expect. He'd thought it would be impossible, but it's easy. Castiel slowly, hesitantly, lets him turn it into a proper kiss. It's strange, different and intimate, like it's important somehow, or maybe that's just what kissing is now, all sensation in the dark. Dean wouldn't know, he hasn't kissed anyone else since he went blind.
He pulls away, breathes loss the second he can't feel the warmth of Castiel's mouth. He feels strangely vulnerable with his face that close to his. He's never been so aware of someone looking at him before. He turns his head to the side the moment he thinks it, eyes sliding away even though he can't see anything.
"Dude, I can't tell what your face looks like," Dean tells him, frustrated and nowhere near ready to admit how honestly afraid he is. "Not that I can tell what you're thinking even when I can see your face, but at least I can try -" Apparently he's struck the angel completely dumb and Christ wouldn’t they make a fine pair then.
Dean shrugs, almost helplessly.
"I thought you should know, if you're going to stay, that there's that. That that's something I feel, something I want sometimes." All the time, all the damn time. The quiet is impossibly heavy, and if Castiel is going to reject him in that calm, polite angelic way he has then at least Dean doesn't have to see it. He never has to see it. "Cas?"
For a minute he doesn't think Castiel's going to answer. He's still here, Dean can still feel him.
"For your services to heaven you're allowed certain liberties," Castiel says eventually.
"Like what?" Dean says cautiously, because the mention of heaven generally never ends well for him. It's a gut reaction that he thinks Castiel is trying to change.
"Me," Castiel says simply. "If that's what you wish."
Dean's struck by the flat uncertain tone of his voice. But the words, the words are impossible to ignore.
"Do you mean that in the biblical sense?"
"I mean that in every sense," Castiel's voice is soft. Something lurches in Dean's chest, though he can't tell for the life of him whether it's a good sensation or a bad one. He takes a breath, lets it all flow out.
"Are you offering yourself to me Cas?"
Castiel inhales, slow and careful like he's deciding what to say.
"It's been a long time since I was simply following orders. The way I feel about you is both very simple and yet complicated...sometimes too much. I want to give you what you want." The honesty trails off, like Cas maybe doesn't quite understand it himself. But Dean doesn't think there's anything there like desire, nothing that wants. It's missing in a way that leaves him helpless to do anything else.
"I don't think you feel like this though do you?" Dean asks quietly, he shakes his head, pulls his hands slowly away from Castiel's space. "I won't do anything that isn't your choice."
"Dean, my choice is -"
Dean reaches out a hand again, finds Castiel's mouth and stops it from making words.
"Cas, don't, it's ok to say no, just go off and do angel things. Think about it, and if you want to come back later -" Dean can't think of a way to end the sentence, so he doesn't. "If not I'll see you tomorrow." He lets his hand fall.
The quiet lasts for a long time. When Dean stretches his hand forward he finds the bed empty.
~~~
Dean hears the car twenty minutes before Sam comes through the door. Though he doesn't say a word. He can tell Sam still feels shitty about it, about the fact that he now has the car by default, and Dean's not getting her back. Not ever getting her back.
"Where's Cas?" Sam asks straight away, like there's some obvious Castiel-shaped hole in the place and Dean's probably more annoyed than he should be about that. But he's blaming it on the fact that he thought he'd be the only one who noticed it.
"He left," Dean says simply.
Sam wanders across the floor, dumps his bag somewhere close. Then there's the scrape of a chair coming out and Sam's all the way into his space, smelling like cold wind and leather.
"Is everything ok?" Sam has apparently decided it's sharing and caring time and if Dean knew exactly where his face was right now he'd share his thoughts about that with an appropriate facial expression.
"It's fine," he says flatly instead.
Sam sighs, in that way he has when he thinks Dean's fucked something up. He knows the face that goes along with that too. That one he's not going to miss so much. But maybe he did, maybe he deserves that disappointed, chastising and unsurprised blur of sound from Sam.
"So where is he?"
"Dude, I don't know, gone to do angel things."
The silence from Sam is dubious and accusing.
"He'll be back tomorrow," Dean adds, in case Sam thinks he's driven him away for good. It takes him a second to realise that even his subconscious is expecting the worst. Yeah, screw you too subconscious. He works out where Sam's chair is with a foot before he goes to walk out of the kitchen and Sam doesn't try and move out of the way, since there's too much of him and he always seems to end up more in the way than before.
"Dean, if you want to talk about you and -"
Dean smacks him on the back of the head on the way past. Yeah, he had a one in ten chance of getting that right. He's awesome.
Sam doesn't follow him upstairs and he's grateful for that. Sam developed a little bit of a creepy stalker vibe for a while after Dean lost the ability to see anything at all. They never did have the conversation about not following him upstairs and listening outside his door. But they had that whole 'Dean throwing a boot at him' instead, that cleared it all up. But laying on his bed staring into the dark beats talking to Sam about his inappropriate attachment to angels by a mile. Though the whole 'having absolutely nothing to do,' gets old really quickly. He really doesn't get how anyone thinks those sensory deprivation tanks are a good idea. You could get books on tape now though right? Everything you'd ever wanted to not-read pumped straight into your ears. Maybe he could get Sam to get him some books on tape.
...
Then, after that, he'll buy himself a cardigan, take up pipe smoking and wait somewhere in an armchair to die. He laughs into the darkness and wonders exactly how Sam would react to that. He suspects Bobby would fling water in his face...again.
The bed creaks.
Dean blinks at the ceiling. Because he's fairly sure he closed the door, and there's only one person who makes a habit out of coming into rooms without opening the door. But he honestly never thought he'd come back and for a second Dean can't do anything but breathe in the dark. Because this changes everything. It changes everything.
He pulls himself to a sit, forces himself not to reach out and find out where Castiel is.
"Did you do angel things?" he asks carefully.
"I did," Castiel says quietly, about a foot to his left, and in that same calm voice that gives nothing away. Dean thinks maybe if he asked what kind of things Castiel would tell him. Maybe he'd ever understand some of them.
"I didn't expect you to come back," he says honestly. Because obviously when he'd thought he wasn't going to say anything he'd been wrong.
Castiel's quiet in a new way, the faintest sounds that Dean can pick out, it's almost like he's searching for something to say.
"They find my feelings for you strange and distasteful," Castiel eventually says quietly.
Dean can't help snorting laughter at that, and he hates the fact that he can't see Castiel's expression, can't see if he's offended him, or amused him.
"They said that you're human and you can't see past the flesh, that that's all you want from me."
That stings like a slap, though he's more angry on Castiel's behalf than from the assumption.
"Do you believe that?"
"No," Castiel says slowly, but he doesn't sound certain and it kind of hurts that he doesn't. But he continues before Dean can speak. "But I've never experienced pleasure in a human body, I feel unfit to judge you."
"You're wearing that weird half-confused little frown now aren't you."
There's a soft noise from not very far away at all.
"Yes," Castiel admits.
"I miss that," Dean says honestly.
He breathes the tension for a long second.
"Cas, do you want me to touch you?"
"Yes," Castiel says simply.
Dean slides a hand across the sheets, and Castiel meets him halfway. He finds the shape of him, past his hands, the bend of his neck, head tilted up before Dean has finished curving a hand round his jaw, they meet in the darkness and Dean kisses him like he doesn't quite believe Cas came back. Like he doesn't quite believe that he can have this. But Castiel pulls him closer, a strange uncertain movement, like he's not sure if he's allowed.
"Dean." Castiel's hand drifts over his face, warm fingers trailing the curve of his forehead, the sensitive edges of his eye sockets, and there's something raw in the gesture.
"I forgive you," Dean says quietly. "You must know that."
Castiel takes a breath like he never expected the words, hand falling, and Dean pulls gently at his wrist until it slides free, finds his face and pulls it close, misses his mouth on the first try but it's close enough that he can correct, push it open. Castiel kisses him, pulls him close and kisses him, mouth soft against his own, and then harder. It presses in like he thinks he'll be told to stop.
Dean doesn't tell him to stop, he buries a hand in his hair, finds it as warm and as soft as it's always looked and he kisses him until his mouth hurts, until he's pressed into Castiel's thigh, warm and hard, harder when Castiel lets Dean tip his head back, lets him mouth the rough skin of his jaw and the fragile delicate line of his neck. This, this is what he wants, and if he ever thought anything else it was too long ago to matter. He'd already accepted the fact that Castiel could make him feel like this, could make him want things he's never wanted before. He'd accepted it in a hundred motel rooms, fighting a hundred battles, the smell of blood so deep in his nostrils it followed him into sleep.
Castiel, soft, furious, determined Castiel became the one damn constant thing. Followed him into hell and back, more than once. And just like that Dean needs to know he's not the only one.
"Tell me you want this," he demands.
He can feel Castiel's breath, every flare of it over his own mouth. Instead of answering there's the quick rustle of fabric, the soft familiar sound of clothing being dropped.
"Wait -" Dean reaches out, finds Castiel's hands and stills them. "Tell me you're not just doing this because I want it."
Castiel catches his hand, pulls it close against his body, presses it down over where he's hard too, a shock of reaction that Dean can't stop fucking touching. He groans out a breath into Castiel's mouth.
"Oh Jesus, you have no idea -" the rest of the sentence is lost when Castiel kisses him again, and Deans hands are dragging open buttons, tugging Castiel's shirt away from his skin.
He goes obediently when Castiel eases him back and strips his t-shirt over his head, long clever hands going for the button and zipper on his jeans. Then Castiel's in his hands again a mess of warm skin and cotton and Dean separates the two, with a reverence he didn't know he had, before his fingers are distracted by the edge of his pants, the loose edge, so easy to open. He slides his hand inside, and Castiel sucks a breath and pushes into his fingers.
The fact that he can't see Castiel's face hurts, he doesn't know, can't know, if this makes his eyes go wide or fall shut, if his mouth is soft and open.
"God I wish I could see you," Dean murmurs against his mouth, and Castiel makes a sound he shouldn't have to make.
A sound Dean kisses quiet. "Not your fault," he tells him. "Not your fault." He throws Castiel's shirt to the left and it just ceases to exist. Dean's done this before, so many times, but it's different, it's completely different, a different shape under his hands, a different strength in every kiss and every dig of fingers. It's Cas, and he can't see a damn thing. It's like he remembers what it's like to be nervous and awkward again. Like there are different rules now.
Castiel's movement are almost impatient, skin shivering and pushing into him wherever Dean touches. Dean shoves at the waistband of his pants and shorts, fingers working them down his thighs until Castiel moves out of his hands, leaving them briefly empty, before he catches them and pulls them back and Dean's fingers find nothing but bare skin.
"Cas." He wants to dig his fingers in but Castiel's trying to get his own hands down the back of Dean's jeans, protesting wordlessly. Dean's a little less graceful getting out of his own jeans and boxer shorts. If there'd been any part of him that thought it would be weird it's long been strangled into submission because when Castiel presses into him again, one bare thigh sliding between his own, Dean catches his waist with his hands and just holds him there for a long second, resisting the urge to just rut against his skin.
He forces a breath out through his teeth.
"In the drawer," Dean's voice sounds too thick. "Get the oil I use for the guns."
Castiel takes a breath, skin slithering through Dean's hands, though not leaving them, never leaving. The scrape of wood is strangely loud in the quiet and then Castiel sways back and Dean drags his head close enough to kiss, just because he can.
He hears the click of plastic in the dark, tips his head to the side.
"Put it on your hand."
A breathy little noise shivers out of Castiel in a way that tells Dean he knows exactly where this is going, and Dean thinks, thousands of years and not once, not once did he ever -
The bottle falls into the sheets.
"Put your fingers inside me," Dean commands and Castiel shudders out a breath of shock and need.
Castiel pulls him close, impossibly close, fingers drifting over the curve of his ass, then lower. The first push is slow, cautious, and Dean pushes back into it. Castiel goes very still, like he's not prepared to have something inside him and Dean presses down on his arm, encourages him to move. Slow, steady pushes. Every one accompanied by a shuddering breath.
"Two," Dean says quietly.
Castiel pushes in another, awkward but insistent and Dean thinks he could get used to that uncomfortable stretch. He could get used to the way it makes Castiel gasp against his mouth.
"Yeah," Dean says, voice half broken and shameless; it doesn't sound like him at all but he doesn't fucking care. "Like that, just like that." Dean wrecks his mouth, ignoring the ache when two fingers becomes three, when Castiel's carefully reined in patience shreds at the edges, leaves every push quick and greedy.
Dean knows he can't leave it any longer, and though there's still a sliver of quiet, nervous disbelief that he's going to let Cas do this his body's not listening, his body doesn't care. He's pushing back, encouraging that shade of recklessness, and Dean thinks Castiel would look beautiful like this, wet and wrecked and needy. Because there's no question now, no question at all that Castiel wants to fuck him.
Dean's left knee finds the bottle of oil that he abandoned and picks it up. He empties it into his hand, then slides it down the jumping skin of Castiel's stomach, listens to the breath shiver out of him when he finds the hard jut of his cock and wraps his fingers around it, makes it slippery.
"I'm gonna turn around," Dean says breathlessly. "Get down on my hands and knees. You can push in slowly after that, just go slow, stop if I tell you to, I'm not exactly experienced at this either."
Castiel catches his face, and he's kissing him, quick, then again slower. And the sharp jangling hum of Dean's skin feels nervous and needy.
"You can be inside me if you want to," Castiel breathes into his mouth. "I won't be hurt by anything you want to do."
Dean's breath falls out in a groan and he kisses the corner of Castiel's mouth.
"That is so - Jesus - so very tempting, but right now -" he finds Castiel's waist, his thighs, the slippery length of him, leaves his breathing short, thoughts scattered. "- right now I really need you to fuck me." Castiel's fingers dig into his waist, then loosen a second later when Dean shifts round, spreads his knees and eases down onto his hands.
Castiel's fingers slide into him again, easy and soft but intent, and Dean shudders in the darkness, prepared but half dizzy under every nervous too-quick breath, and then Castiel draws them free, pushes against and then into him. One slow solid push, and Dean drops his head forward and groans because it's more than he thought it would be, ache sliding to pain and back again, strange and too intimate. His skin feels too tight, and Castiel's hands, sliding up his back and hips, feel like they're holding him together.
He's a breath away from telling Castiel to wait, to just wait a minute. Until Cas says his name on the end of a breath, stunned and reverent. Dean tilts his hips, just a little, and Castiel sinks in deeper, sinks in all the way. He expects it to hurt, but instead he just aches, too full and too tight, hands fisted in the sheets where Castiel's are carefully gripping his waist, and Dean doesn't know what that's costing him.
Castiel breaks the stillness, moves carefully and all the breath leaves Dean in one go, because that's different, so fucking different. Every push is slow, steady, and not entirely comfortable but Cas's low murmurs are slow and tangled up, voice like a shattered thing and the fact that Dean can do that to him- Jesus- can break him like that, leaves him breathing encouragement, sliding back into his hands with careful enthusiasm.
Until Castiel pushes into something that has Dean gasping and reflexively pushing back. The movement gets him a second, harder push, that leaves him breathless, curving into every single one that comes after. Castiel, not as careful now, is making noises like he's watching, like he's watching Dean shove himself back onto him, and he loses any sense he has left. He lets one hand take his weight, wraps the other round himself, fingers still faintly slick and the first glide leaves him shaking.
Then there's just the harsh, slightly obscene, sound of skin on skin in the dark and Dean's making hard encouraging noises that sound filthy, but makes every push after a little harder than the one before.
"Cas."
Castiel groans, deep and greedy under the sound of his name, his fingers dig in, brief but sharp, where Dean's skin moves through his hands. It's quick and desperate now, shivering just over the edge of pain, Dean bends his spine and takes it, every breath a burst of hot air, one hand fisted in the sheets the other working in quick slippery pulls on his cock, a ragged shaky rhythm that drags him closer and closer to the edge.
Everything is too close in the dark, skin damp under every slide of Castiel's hands.
"Cas, Cas, please."
"Dean, I can't -" there's a thready apology under the words and Dean groans encouragement.
"Take it," he tells him, and Castiel makes a noise like he’s broken, folds over Dean's back and presses in, quick, deep and almost helpless. Pushes that are going to leave bruises everywhere and a solid ache inside him.
Dean's lost then, gasping, shaking apart underneath him, coming over his own fingers. Castiel stops breathing and pushes in so damn hard. He makes a soft noise like it hurts and Dean feels it, feels every single second of it, and it's dirty and unbelievably hot.
Castiel sinks backwards, pulling Dean with him and he groans at the shift of protesting muscles until he's sprawled out in some indeterminate place on the bed.
Castiel pushes a shaking hand though his hair and breathes slurred words into his ear that Dean doesn't understand.
"You liked that huh?" Dean asks when his heart stops trying to slam out of his ribcage. Castiel's reply is a soft flare of sound, low and stunned like he never wants to let go. Dean makes a ragged noise that's something close to agreement.
The sheets are cool against his skin, air cooler where he's damp and still sensitive. He's completely relaxed for the first time in what feels like forever. Castiel's hand is still moving, fingers whisper-soft on his stomach. They seem fascinated by the way his skin feels. He shouldn't be so comfortable with the way Castiel seems reluctant to let go of him, and there's too much skin touching to call this anything other than exactly what it is. But Castiel is warm and still naked and Dean can't think of a single good reason for sliding away.
"I miss it," Dean says quietly, and it's the first time he's admitted it like that. Without anything else papered over the top. Quietly angry, broken, desperate. Castiel doesn't tense up this time. He just breathes into the side of Dean's face, fingers pressing just faintly into the indentations where his ribs are.
Dean sighs and continues.
"I miss my car, I miss being able to walk outside and not get lost after thirty seconds, I miss being able to make my own food, I miss Sam's stupid dorky face. I miss the sky. I miss you Cas. Because this- what we just did, without me seeing you, it feels, I don't know, unfair somehow." There's so damn much, so much he misses, too much.
Castiel's hand stops, lays flat on his chest.
"Dean, do you trust me?" Castiel asks in his ear, low and intense, and Dean's aware that somehow, close and in the dark, it's a very important question.
"Yes," he says simply, because it's that easy. "Why do you -"
But he's tired, he's so damn tired.
~~~
Dean wakes up half suffocating in the pillow.
His entire body aches in interesting new ways, but Dean decides that's a good thing, a really, really good thing. He grumbles as much to the parts of his brain that are still undecided on the matter. He moves his face, stares briefly at the dim outline of the nightstand, before shutting his eyes again and rolling his face back into the pillow -
- only to drag it back up in dizzy disbelief. The world sways in and out, nightstand, sheets, wall, blurry bookshelves, crappy wallpaper, his own damn nose.
"What the fuck?" His voice is thin and startled, breathless. He can see. He's only getting half of what he should be able to see, there's something weird - he raises a hand, and he can see his own hand, he can see his own hand. Dean lays it over his right eye and the world goes completely black, he lays the other over his left eye and he can see the room again, shockingly bright for early morning.
The world isn't supposed to be back. He's not supposed to be able to see. He'd had his eyes burnt out and Castiel said they couldn’t be fixed, said that his eyes were gone. Everyone had said they were gone.
Jesus.
He throws the sheets back and staggers out of bed. For a minute perspective swings around wildly. Until his brain seems to remember that he's been seeing fine his whole life. Minus the last three weeks. Dean's shaking, actually shaking, the rushing in his ears adrenaline loud, when he stumbles into the bathroom and slams on the light.
There's a vicious stab of brightness that makes him wince in delicious familiar pain. He squints, holds his hand over his right eye until it stops singing a chorus of surprised misery. Then Dean looks in the mirror. His right eye is no longer white, it's a fierce brilliant blue.
Dean's hands grip the edge of the sink and he sucks in a breath.
"Oh god, Cas what did you do, what did you do." But Dean's afraid that he knows already. Knows that Castiel has mutilated himself- and that's terrifying in some way he can't explain.
He can't breathe. He leans into the sink, staring at the bright whiteness of it, at the curve of his hands, at the drips of water and the way the soap's crooked and he can't find any words. Because everything is real and there, he can see it and there's no way to not be grateful for that. No way to not be stupidly painfully grateful in a way that hurts.
He takes breath after breath.
Oh god, I love you. You stupid, beautiful son of a bitch
"When I see you I'm going to kill you."
"My eyes are an ocean, in which my dreams are reflected."
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10,300
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: It's amazing what you decide you can get away with when you can't see a damn thing.
AN: Part One.
Dean makes vague kicking movements until he finds the leg of the bed, then shuffles round and sits on it.
"You know it's harder to come find you when I can't actually see right?"
"I didn't know you were looking for me," Castiel says quietly. Which doesn't give Dean any indication of whether he'd let him find him if he was.
Dean lifts a hand, finds the solid curve of Castiel's shoulder through his coat. And Dean thinks that's maybe the one thing that he's grateful for that he's never admitted. That it's easier to touch him now, now Dean can't see, now he has a reason, or an excuse? He can just reach a hand out and touch him. Sometimes Cas reaches back. This time Castiel tilts slightly into the movement, faces him.
He'd always thought that Castiel just didn't want to talk about it. He's always so tense, so brittle every time Dean brings it up. Like he's waiting to be cracked into pieces. But Dean thinks maybe they do need to talk about it after all. That maybe they need to talk about a lot of things.
"I saw you," Dean says quietly, and he feels the way Castiel tenses under his hand, suddenly less human. More angel under the gentle press of his fingers. But this time he doesn't stop. "I don't remember much of it, mostly I remember the screaming because it felt like the whole damn world had exploded, but that second when you stopped being you and became you. I think I remember that."
Dean stops, because the memory aches a little if he thinks about it too hard. It's almost like seeing him left a hole inside. Or filled one up, one that he wasn't used to noticing.
"At least I remember as much of it as I can, some of it's whited out -" or maybe that was Castiel? That huge yawning white space that he can't quite grasp.
"I'm sorry," Castiel says quietly, and it's more than an apology, Dean can hear it under the words, it's something sharp, something that feels like pain. And Dean doesn't get it, he honestly doesn't get how Castiel can feel bad about something that wasn't his fault.
He shakes his head. "You don't have to be, seriously. I fully expected to end up dead at the end of this. Hell, I expected all of us to end up dead. I think we got off lightly. I think it's a freakin' miracle that this is all we get. Sure it sucks, clearly it sucks. But I don't blame you, I don't blame you for being the last thing I ever saw."
It's too quiet, and Dean wishes, again, that Castiel made those tiny noises that people did, he's always so damn quiet, always different. Dean stretches a hand out to make absolutely sure that Cas hasn't gone. He hasn't, though his hand is irritatingly still when Dean shifts his own over it, when he finds the warmth of Castiel's fingers and prods at them for some sort of reaction.
"You can't do anything about what you really look like. It's not your fault it's too much. Dude, you were between me and Armageddon, that's pretty epic. We should both have been fucking ash." The bed creaks, Dean doesn't feel Castiel move but he tightens his fingers anyway, like he can stop the angel from disappearing. He takes a breath, sighs it out and thinks about what else he needs to say. Even if he doesn't want to. "Sam thought I should let you know - that I should make sure you know that you can go, if you want to. That you don't have to stick around here with us. I'm thinking you probably have more important things to do."
"There are other things," Castiel admits. "But nothing more important."
Dean finds that briefly amusing, because maybe when it was his job to stop Armageddon, maybe, but now, not so much.
"Those upstairs, they do know I'm broken right?"
Castiel sighs, like Dean is impossible, like no matter how hard he tries he can't change that. He's quiet in his frustration and Dean kind of wants to poke it to see if it's there.
"Dean, you're as sharp and bright as you were at the beginning," Castiel's voice is calm. But Dean doesn't think that was the first thing he wanted to say. Wasn't what he meant to say either.
"But not exactly an important wheel in the scheme of things any more," Dean says, just to clarify. Castiel says nothing, so he assumes he's right, and Dean's really, really grateful for that. He's never been so happy to be completely unimportant in his whole damn life.
"I want to stay," Castiel says quietly.
Dean can't help how stupidly relieved he is to hear that. He exhales, roughly.
"If you want me to go-" Castiel starts.
"No," Dean says fiercely. "No, damn it Cas I want you to stay. But not if it's because you feel guilty, not if this is your penance or something, because if it is then I'd have to say, screw you."
Castiel flinches, just a little, but he doesn't pull away, doesn't draw back, like Dean has a right to be angry.
"I don't want you sticking around just to be my seeing eye dog, I have Sam for that. Even though he's useless at it, but I'll deal because he's my brother. You have to suffer for family."
Cas tries to draw his hand out of Dean's grip. Dean doesn't let him.
"Cas, tell me you didn't stay because you felt guilty?"
Castiel sighs, an edge of sound that Dean thinks maybe he makes just for him.
"I didn't entirely stay because I felt guilty," he admits. But that's ok, Dean wouldn't have believed him if he'd said anything else.
"Can I have another reason?"
There's a sound there, a very faint whisper of skin on cloth and Dean thinks maybe Castiel has turned his head to the side, looked away from him, and he doesn’t know why that bothers him but it does.
"You saved everyone and you deserve to not be abandoned." Castiel's voice is quiet but calm, like that's one of the reasons but probably not one of the important ones.
"I didn't do it for them," Dean's admission is just as quiet. But he thinks maybe that's too honest too quickly.
He shakes his head. "I miss looking at you you know," he says instead.
Castiel's still doing his 'too quiet to be real' act. Which really is incredibly bad for Dean's nerves, he has no idea how to get around the fact that he has no input, no shifts of movement, no sighs, no quiet noises at all. Dean's always relied on other people's reactions to know if he's saying or doing the right thing. This is hard, it's really fucking hard. But he figures that he's not going to know anything until he starts taking chances. It's amazing what you decide you can get away with when you can't see a damn thing. Dean lifts a hand again, finds the rough edge of Castiel's jaw, folds his fingers round it, knows exactly where he is in the darkness. Castiel doesn't move back out of the way, he doesn't push, doesn't resist at all when Dean shifts into his personal space, way into his personal space.
He finds his mouth easily enough. It's soft, rough at the edges and it gives under his own in a way Dean doesn't expect. He'd thought it would be impossible, but it's easy. Castiel slowly, hesitantly, lets him turn it into a proper kiss. It's strange, different and intimate, like it's important somehow, or maybe that's just what kissing is now, all sensation in the dark. Dean wouldn't know, he hasn't kissed anyone else since he went blind.
He pulls away, breathes loss the second he can't feel the warmth of Castiel's mouth. He feels strangely vulnerable with his face that close to his. He's never been so aware of someone looking at him before. He turns his head to the side the moment he thinks it, eyes sliding away even though he can't see anything.
"Dude, I can't tell what your face looks like," Dean tells him, frustrated and nowhere near ready to admit how honestly afraid he is. "Not that I can tell what you're thinking even when I can see your face, but at least I can try -" Apparently he's struck the angel completely dumb and Christ wouldn’t they make a fine pair then.
Dean shrugs, almost helplessly.
"I thought you should know, if you're going to stay, that there's that. That that's something I feel, something I want sometimes." All the time, all the damn time. The quiet is impossibly heavy, and if Castiel is going to reject him in that calm, polite angelic way he has then at least Dean doesn't have to see it. He never has to see it. "Cas?"
For a minute he doesn't think Castiel's going to answer. He's still here, Dean can still feel him.
"For your services to heaven you're allowed certain liberties," Castiel says eventually.
"Like what?" Dean says cautiously, because the mention of heaven generally never ends well for him. It's a gut reaction that he thinks Castiel is trying to change.
"Me," Castiel says simply. "If that's what you wish."
Dean's struck by the flat uncertain tone of his voice. But the words, the words are impossible to ignore.
"Do you mean that in the biblical sense?"
"I mean that in every sense," Castiel's voice is soft. Something lurches in Dean's chest, though he can't tell for the life of him whether it's a good sensation or a bad one. He takes a breath, lets it all flow out.
"Are you offering yourself to me Cas?"
Castiel inhales, slow and careful like he's deciding what to say.
"It's been a long time since I was simply following orders. The way I feel about you is both very simple and yet complicated...sometimes too much. I want to give you what you want." The honesty trails off, like Cas maybe doesn't quite understand it himself. But Dean doesn't think there's anything there like desire, nothing that wants. It's missing in a way that leaves him helpless to do anything else.
"I don't think you feel like this though do you?" Dean asks quietly, he shakes his head, pulls his hands slowly away from Castiel's space. "I won't do anything that isn't your choice."
"Dean, my choice is -"
Dean reaches out a hand again, finds Castiel's mouth and stops it from making words.
"Cas, don't, it's ok to say no, just go off and do angel things. Think about it, and if you want to come back later -" Dean can't think of a way to end the sentence, so he doesn't. "If not I'll see you tomorrow." He lets his hand fall.
The quiet lasts for a long time. When Dean stretches his hand forward he finds the bed empty.
~~~
Dean hears the car twenty minutes before Sam comes through the door. Though he doesn't say a word. He can tell Sam still feels shitty about it, about the fact that he now has the car by default, and Dean's not getting her back. Not ever getting her back.
"Where's Cas?" Sam asks straight away, like there's some obvious Castiel-shaped hole in the place and Dean's probably more annoyed than he should be about that. But he's blaming it on the fact that he thought he'd be the only one who noticed it.
"He left," Dean says simply.
Sam wanders across the floor, dumps his bag somewhere close. Then there's the scrape of a chair coming out and Sam's all the way into his space, smelling like cold wind and leather.
"Is everything ok?" Sam has apparently decided it's sharing and caring time and if Dean knew exactly where his face was right now he'd share his thoughts about that with an appropriate facial expression.
"It's fine," he says flatly instead.
Sam sighs, in that way he has when he thinks Dean's fucked something up. He knows the face that goes along with that too. That one he's not going to miss so much. But maybe he did, maybe he deserves that disappointed, chastising and unsurprised blur of sound from Sam.
"So where is he?"
"Dude, I don't know, gone to do angel things."
The silence from Sam is dubious and accusing.
"He'll be back tomorrow," Dean adds, in case Sam thinks he's driven him away for good. It takes him a second to realise that even his subconscious is expecting the worst. Yeah, screw you too subconscious. He works out where Sam's chair is with a foot before he goes to walk out of the kitchen and Sam doesn't try and move out of the way, since there's too much of him and he always seems to end up more in the way than before.
"Dean, if you want to talk about you and -"
Dean smacks him on the back of the head on the way past. Yeah, he had a one in ten chance of getting that right. He's awesome.
Sam doesn't follow him upstairs and he's grateful for that. Sam developed a little bit of a creepy stalker vibe for a while after Dean lost the ability to see anything at all. They never did have the conversation about not following him upstairs and listening outside his door. But they had that whole 'Dean throwing a boot at him' instead, that cleared it all up. But laying on his bed staring into the dark beats talking to Sam about his inappropriate attachment to angels by a mile. Though the whole 'having absolutely nothing to do,' gets old really quickly. He really doesn't get how anyone thinks those sensory deprivation tanks are a good idea. You could get books on tape now though right? Everything you'd ever wanted to not-read pumped straight into your ears. Maybe he could get Sam to get him some books on tape.
...
Then, after that, he'll buy himself a cardigan, take up pipe smoking and wait somewhere in an armchair to die. He laughs into the darkness and wonders exactly how Sam would react to that. He suspects Bobby would fling water in his face...again.
The bed creaks.
Dean blinks at the ceiling. Because he's fairly sure he closed the door, and there's only one person who makes a habit out of coming into rooms without opening the door. But he honestly never thought he'd come back and for a second Dean can't do anything but breathe in the dark. Because this changes everything. It changes everything.
He pulls himself to a sit, forces himself not to reach out and find out where Castiel is.
"Did you do angel things?" he asks carefully.
"I did," Castiel says quietly, about a foot to his left, and in that same calm voice that gives nothing away. Dean thinks maybe if he asked what kind of things Castiel would tell him. Maybe he'd ever understand some of them.
"I didn't expect you to come back," he says honestly. Because obviously when he'd thought he wasn't going to say anything he'd been wrong.
Castiel's quiet in a new way, the faintest sounds that Dean can pick out, it's almost like he's searching for something to say.
"They find my feelings for you strange and distasteful," Castiel eventually says quietly.
Dean can't help snorting laughter at that, and he hates the fact that he can't see Castiel's expression, can't see if he's offended him, or amused him.
"They said that you're human and you can't see past the flesh, that that's all you want from me."
That stings like a slap, though he's more angry on Castiel's behalf than from the assumption.
"Do you believe that?"
"No," Castiel says slowly, but he doesn't sound certain and it kind of hurts that he doesn't. But he continues before Dean can speak. "But I've never experienced pleasure in a human body, I feel unfit to judge you."
"You're wearing that weird half-confused little frown now aren't you."
There's a soft noise from not very far away at all.
"Yes," Castiel admits.
"I miss that," Dean says honestly.
He breathes the tension for a long second.
"Cas, do you want me to touch you?"
"Yes," Castiel says simply.
Dean slides a hand across the sheets, and Castiel meets him halfway. He finds the shape of him, past his hands, the bend of his neck, head tilted up before Dean has finished curving a hand round his jaw, they meet in the darkness and Dean kisses him like he doesn't quite believe Cas came back. Like he doesn't quite believe that he can have this. But Castiel pulls him closer, a strange uncertain movement, like he's not sure if he's allowed.
"Dean." Castiel's hand drifts over his face, warm fingers trailing the curve of his forehead, the sensitive edges of his eye sockets, and there's something raw in the gesture.
"I forgive you," Dean says quietly. "You must know that."
Castiel takes a breath like he never expected the words, hand falling, and Dean pulls gently at his wrist until it slides free, finds his face and pulls it close, misses his mouth on the first try but it's close enough that he can correct, push it open. Castiel kisses him, pulls him close and kisses him, mouth soft against his own, and then harder. It presses in like he thinks he'll be told to stop.
Dean doesn't tell him to stop, he buries a hand in his hair, finds it as warm and as soft as it's always looked and he kisses him until his mouth hurts, until he's pressed into Castiel's thigh, warm and hard, harder when Castiel lets Dean tip his head back, lets him mouth the rough skin of his jaw and the fragile delicate line of his neck. This, this is what he wants, and if he ever thought anything else it was too long ago to matter. He'd already accepted the fact that Castiel could make him feel like this, could make him want things he's never wanted before. He'd accepted it in a hundred motel rooms, fighting a hundred battles, the smell of blood so deep in his nostrils it followed him into sleep.
Castiel, soft, furious, determined Castiel became the one damn constant thing. Followed him into hell and back, more than once. And just like that Dean needs to know he's not the only one.
"Tell me you want this," he demands.
He can feel Castiel's breath, every flare of it over his own mouth. Instead of answering there's the quick rustle of fabric, the soft familiar sound of clothing being dropped.
"Wait -" Dean reaches out, finds Castiel's hands and stills them. "Tell me you're not just doing this because I want it."
Castiel catches his hand, pulls it close against his body, presses it down over where he's hard too, a shock of reaction that Dean can't stop fucking touching. He groans out a breath into Castiel's mouth.
"Oh Jesus, you have no idea -" the rest of the sentence is lost when Castiel kisses him again, and Deans hands are dragging open buttons, tugging Castiel's shirt away from his skin.
He goes obediently when Castiel eases him back and strips his t-shirt over his head, long clever hands going for the button and zipper on his jeans. Then Castiel's in his hands again a mess of warm skin and cotton and Dean separates the two, with a reverence he didn't know he had, before his fingers are distracted by the edge of his pants, the loose edge, so easy to open. He slides his hand inside, and Castiel sucks a breath and pushes into his fingers.
The fact that he can't see Castiel's face hurts, he doesn't know, can't know, if this makes his eyes go wide or fall shut, if his mouth is soft and open.
"God I wish I could see you," Dean murmurs against his mouth, and Castiel makes a sound he shouldn't have to make.
A sound Dean kisses quiet. "Not your fault," he tells him. "Not your fault." He throws Castiel's shirt to the left and it just ceases to exist. Dean's done this before, so many times, but it's different, it's completely different, a different shape under his hands, a different strength in every kiss and every dig of fingers. It's Cas, and he can't see a damn thing. It's like he remembers what it's like to be nervous and awkward again. Like there are different rules now.
Castiel's movement are almost impatient, skin shivering and pushing into him wherever Dean touches. Dean shoves at the waistband of his pants and shorts, fingers working them down his thighs until Castiel moves out of his hands, leaving them briefly empty, before he catches them and pulls them back and Dean's fingers find nothing but bare skin.
"Cas." He wants to dig his fingers in but Castiel's trying to get his own hands down the back of Dean's jeans, protesting wordlessly. Dean's a little less graceful getting out of his own jeans and boxer shorts. If there'd been any part of him that thought it would be weird it's long been strangled into submission because when Castiel presses into him again, one bare thigh sliding between his own, Dean catches his waist with his hands and just holds him there for a long second, resisting the urge to just rut against his skin.
He forces a breath out through his teeth.
"In the drawer," Dean's voice sounds too thick. "Get the oil I use for the guns."
Castiel takes a breath, skin slithering through Dean's hands, though not leaving them, never leaving. The scrape of wood is strangely loud in the quiet and then Castiel sways back and Dean drags his head close enough to kiss, just because he can.
He hears the click of plastic in the dark, tips his head to the side.
"Put it on your hand."
A breathy little noise shivers out of Castiel in a way that tells Dean he knows exactly where this is going, and Dean thinks, thousands of years and not once, not once did he ever -
The bottle falls into the sheets.
"Put your fingers inside me," Dean commands and Castiel shudders out a breath of shock and need.
Castiel pulls him close, impossibly close, fingers drifting over the curve of his ass, then lower. The first push is slow, cautious, and Dean pushes back into it. Castiel goes very still, like he's not prepared to have something inside him and Dean presses down on his arm, encourages him to move. Slow, steady pushes. Every one accompanied by a shuddering breath.
"Two," Dean says quietly.
Castiel pushes in another, awkward but insistent and Dean thinks he could get used to that uncomfortable stretch. He could get used to the way it makes Castiel gasp against his mouth.
"Yeah," Dean says, voice half broken and shameless; it doesn't sound like him at all but he doesn't fucking care. "Like that, just like that." Dean wrecks his mouth, ignoring the ache when two fingers becomes three, when Castiel's carefully reined in patience shreds at the edges, leaves every push quick and greedy.
Dean knows he can't leave it any longer, and though there's still a sliver of quiet, nervous disbelief that he's going to let Cas do this his body's not listening, his body doesn't care. He's pushing back, encouraging that shade of recklessness, and Dean thinks Castiel would look beautiful like this, wet and wrecked and needy. Because there's no question now, no question at all that Castiel wants to fuck him.
Dean's left knee finds the bottle of oil that he abandoned and picks it up. He empties it into his hand, then slides it down the jumping skin of Castiel's stomach, listens to the breath shiver out of him when he finds the hard jut of his cock and wraps his fingers around it, makes it slippery.
"I'm gonna turn around," Dean says breathlessly. "Get down on my hands and knees. You can push in slowly after that, just go slow, stop if I tell you to, I'm not exactly experienced at this either."
Castiel catches his face, and he's kissing him, quick, then again slower. And the sharp jangling hum of Dean's skin feels nervous and needy.
"You can be inside me if you want to," Castiel breathes into his mouth. "I won't be hurt by anything you want to do."
Dean's breath falls out in a groan and he kisses the corner of Castiel's mouth.
"That is so - Jesus - so very tempting, but right now -" he finds Castiel's waist, his thighs, the slippery length of him, leaves his breathing short, thoughts scattered. "- right now I really need you to fuck me." Castiel's fingers dig into his waist, then loosen a second later when Dean shifts round, spreads his knees and eases down onto his hands.
Castiel's fingers slide into him again, easy and soft but intent, and Dean shudders in the darkness, prepared but half dizzy under every nervous too-quick breath, and then Castiel draws them free, pushes against and then into him. One slow solid push, and Dean drops his head forward and groans because it's more than he thought it would be, ache sliding to pain and back again, strange and too intimate. His skin feels too tight, and Castiel's hands, sliding up his back and hips, feel like they're holding him together.
He's a breath away from telling Castiel to wait, to just wait a minute. Until Cas says his name on the end of a breath, stunned and reverent. Dean tilts his hips, just a little, and Castiel sinks in deeper, sinks in all the way. He expects it to hurt, but instead he just aches, too full and too tight, hands fisted in the sheets where Castiel's are carefully gripping his waist, and Dean doesn't know what that's costing him.
Castiel breaks the stillness, moves carefully and all the breath leaves Dean in one go, because that's different, so fucking different. Every push is slow, steady, and not entirely comfortable but Cas's low murmurs are slow and tangled up, voice like a shattered thing and the fact that Dean can do that to him- Jesus- can break him like that, leaves him breathing encouragement, sliding back into his hands with careful enthusiasm.
Until Castiel pushes into something that has Dean gasping and reflexively pushing back. The movement gets him a second, harder push, that leaves him breathless, curving into every single one that comes after. Castiel, not as careful now, is making noises like he's watching, like he's watching Dean shove himself back onto him, and he loses any sense he has left. He lets one hand take his weight, wraps the other round himself, fingers still faintly slick and the first glide leaves him shaking.
Then there's just the harsh, slightly obscene, sound of skin on skin in the dark and Dean's making hard encouraging noises that sound filthy, but makes every push after a little harder than the one before.
"Cas."
Castiel groans, deep and greedy under the sound of his name, his fingers dig in, brief but sharp, where Dean's skin moves through his hands. It's quick and desperate now, shivering just over the edge of pain, Dean bends his spine and takes it, every breath a burst of hot air, one hand fisted in the sheets the other working in quick slippery pulls on his cock, a ragged shaky rhythm that drags him closer and closer to the edge.
Everything is too close in the dark, skin damp under every slide of Castiel's hands.
"Cas, Cas, please."
"Dean, I can't -" there's a thready apology under the words and Dean groans encouragement.
"Take it," he tells him, and Castiel makes a noise like he’s broken, folds over Dean's back and presses in, quick, deep and almost helpless. Pushes that are going to leave bruises everywhere and a solid ache inside him.
Dean's lost then, gasping, shaking apart underneath him, coming over his own fingers. Castiel stops breathing and pushes in so damn hard. He makes a soft noise like it hurts and Dean feels it, feels every single second of it, and it's dirty and unbelievably hot.
Castiel sinks backwards, pulling Dean with him and he groans at the shift of protesting muscles until he's sprawled out in some indeterminate place on the bed.
Castiel pushes a shaking hand though his hair and breathes slurred words into his ear that Dean doesn't understand.
"You liked that huh?" Dean asks when his heart stops trying to slam out of his ribcage. Castiel's reply is a soft flare of sound, low and stunned like he never wants to let go. Dean makes a ragged noise that's something close to agreement.
The sheets are cool against his skin, air cooler where he's damp and still sensitive. He's completely relaxed for the first time in what feels like forever. Castiel's hand is still moving, fingers whisper-soft on his stomach. They seem fascinated by the way his skin feels. He shouldn't be so comfortable with the way Castiel seems reluctant to let go of him, and there's too much skin touching to call this anything other than exactly what it is. But Castiel is warm and still naked and Dean can't think of a single good reason for sliding away.
"I miss it," Dean says quietly, and it's the first time he's admitted it like that. Without anything else papered over the top. Quietly angry, broken, desperate. Castiel doesn't tense up this time. He just breathes into the side of Dean's face, fingers pressing just faintly into the indentations where his ribs are.
Dean sighs and continues.
"I miss my car, I miss being able to walk outside and not get lost after thirty seconds, I miss being able to make my own food, I miss Sam's stupid dorky face. I miss the sky. I miss you Cas. Because this- what we just did, without me seeing you, it feels, I don't know, unfair somehow." There's so damn much, so much he misses, too much.
Castiel's hand stops, lays flat on his chest.
"Dean, do you trust me?" Castiel asks in his ear, low and intense, and Dean's aware that somehow, close and in the dark, it's a very important question.
"Yes," he says simply, because it's that easy. "Why do you -"
But he's tired, he's so damn tired.
~~~
Dean wakes up half suffocating in the pillow.
His entire body aches in interesting new ways, but Dean decides that's a good thing, a really, really good thing. He grumbles as much to the parts of his brain that are still undecided on the matter. He moves his face, stares briefly at the dim outline of the nightstand, before shutting his eyes again and rolling his face back into the pillow -
- only to drag it back up in dizzy disbelief. The world sways in and out, nightstand, sheets, wall, blurry bookshelves, crappy wallpaper, his own damn nose.
"What the fuck?" His voice is thin and startled, breathless. He can see. He's only getting half of what he should be able to see, there's something weird - he raises a hand, and he can see his own hand, he can see his own hand. Dean lays it over his right eye and the world goes completely black, he lays the other over his left eye and he can see the room again, shockingly bright for early morning.
The world isn't supposed to be back. He's not supposed to be able to see. He'd had his eyes burnt out and Castiel said they couldn’t be fixed, said that his eyes were gone. Everyone had said they were gone.
Jesus.
He throws the sheets back and staggers out of bed. For a minute perspective swings around wildly. Until his brain seems to remember that he's been seeing fine his whole life. Minus the last three weeks. Dean's shaking, actually shaking, the rushing in his ears adrenaline loud, when he stumbles into the bathroom and slams on the light.
There's a vicious stab of brightness that makes him wince in delicious familiar pain. He squints, holds his hand over his right eye until it stops singing a chorus of surprised misery. Then Dean looks in the mirror. His right eye is no longer white, it's a fierce brilliant blue.
Dean's hands grip the edge of the sink and he sucks in a breath.
"Oh god, Cas what did you do, what did you do." But Dean's afraid that he knows already. Knows that Castiel has mutilated himself- and that's terrifying in some way he can't explain.
He can't breathe. He leans into the sink, staring at the bright whiteness of it, at the curve of his hands, at the drips of water and the way the soap's crooked and he can't find any words. Because everything is real and there, he can see it and there's no way to not be grateful for that. No way to not be stupidly painfully grateful in a way that hurts.
He takes breath after breath.
Oh god, I love you. You stupid, beautiful son of a bitch
"When I see you I'm going to kill you."
"My eyes are an ocean, in which my dreams are reflected."