I write things while I watch television.
Trust Issues
Dean hated witches.
Dean. Fucking. Hated. Witches.
It never ceased to amaze him what they were capable of doing. Actually, replace the words "amaze him" with "piss him the fuck off".
Hunting witches was nothing new; Dean had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The water that the witch had flung at him had been warped by a spell and, when it had splashed across his face, had seared his eyes with a furious burn.
Sam had dealt with the witch as Dean had clawed furiously at his eyes, shouting painfully. There was a lot of scuffling, Sam hauling him around, the familiar smell and texture of the interior of the Impala, the rumble of the engine, a drive while Dean's eyes remained shut and continued to burn, and then the musty stench of the motel room.
It turned out that the witch had cursed the water and stolen Dean's sight.
Needless to say, Dean was not happy. Anything not nailed down in the motel room was smashed and he ended up with several bruises on his ankles and shins. Sam took the time to calm him down, cleaned him up as best he could, and then drove them both to Bobby's because he couldn't think of anything better to do.
Bobby didn't have an answer either.
Another Dean Winchester style temper tantrum later, they called Castiel.
Dean felt the angel enter the room immediately. There was the soft rustle of wings and then the warmth of a friendly fireplace, the feeling of a group hug, the sensation of sunlight through the branches of fresh, green branches on a summer afternoon, the smell of the first snow and spring rain tangled together with pine needles and the heavy scent of the still air before a thunderstorm. Dean was intimately familiar with all of this.
He sat still on the couch as Cas' fingers brushed the skin around his eyes, felt the angel's own solid blue gaze on him and could almost hear the reprimands spinning in Castiel's mind.
"Yes," Cas said after a moment of silent contemplation, "I can heal him." There was a sigh of relief from Sam, "But I won't."
"Excuse me!"
"What the hell!"
"Cas!"
"This is the perfect learning opportunity." The angel spoke loudly over the protesting voices of the three other men in the room, "Dean has…trust issues." Dean sputtered at the comment but was ignored, "He cannot see and must rely on the rest of us to help him. I intend to take this chance to teach him a lesson." The hard note in Cas' voice softened, "I want him—I want you, Dean—to know that you don't have to keep carrying these things by yourself. We are here for you. We are here to help you. And you can trust us. With anything."
Under any other circumstance, Dean might have had a little empathy and gone along with Castiel's soft request. As it was, he was blind and his angel boyfriend refused to heal him.
He promptly had the equivalent of another temper tantrum.
"Dean, get out of bed."
"No."
"You can't stay there all day."
"I fucking can and I fucking will."
"You're being stupid."
"Tough." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and sunk down lower in his bedsheets, "I'm not getting out of bed until Cas heals me."
Sam made a frustrated noise and threw his hands into the air in defeat. The bandages that had been wrapped around Dean's eyes yesterday were gone and the full force of his angry scowl was clear on his face. The only thing that was different was the disconcerting lack of color in his irises. What once was deep forest green was now pale and washed out gray. And Dean was glaring at a point two inches to the left of Sam's head.
"Dean, please, you're being ridiculous." There was no answer from his brother, "You gotta leave to eat, you know." Another angry pause, "We're not brining your food up to you."
Dean's lower lip stuck out a little bit, his jaw worked as he tried to think of a reasonable excuse, and then grunted and swung his legs off the bed. Only he misjudged the distance and slammed one foot into the bedside stand and ended up cursing. Sam sighed and grabbed his older brother's upper arm. Dean made to jerk away, hesitated, and then allowed Sam to steer him off the bed and out of the bedroom.
He felt a lurch in his stomach as he lowered his foot down that first step on the stairway. It was weird and kind of frightening, not being able to see. Dean kept telling himself to mentally open his eyes, that the darkness would fade when he opened a door or turned a corner. Last night he'd automatically fumbled for the light switch and started swearing up storm when he realized a) he couldn't find it and b) it would have been pointless anyway.
The smell of food distracted him from his moody thoughts and he lifted his head, turning it in the direction of the smell. The floor felt familiar under his feet and he knew they were headed towards the kitchen. He yanked his arm away from Sam, determined to go the rest of the way himself, and ended up scattering a pile of books, backing away from them to bump into a small hallstand, and then rolling off of it and smacking into a wall.
He was still swearing when Sam forced him into a chair at the kitchen table.
Being sightless was an adventure.
An obnoxious, kill-me-now, humorous to everyone but you kind of adventure.
Trying to eat breakfast had been a pain in the ass but Dean had solidly refused to allow anyone to feed him.
It was agreed by all parties that they would never speak of the bathroom incident, even under pain of death.
Then there had been an argument with Sam about going outside, followed by a similar argument with Bobby, both of which Dean lost. He skulked around the house for a while, stumbling into piles of books and boxes, tripping over carpet edges, and catching himself on corners when his hand following the wall dropped into empty space. He didn't know if he was trying to annoy everyone, get them to throw him a pity party, or if he was simply bored. More than likely it was a combination of all three.
After lunch, Dean fell asleep on the couch. He didn't mean to but he was cranky and tired and bored and the sunlight coming in through the big windows was warm. He'd drifted off before he'd realized what was happening. At least he could still see in his dreams. Albeit his dreams were convoluted and psychedelic as dreams tend to be but they were something, even if Dean didn't remember what they had been about when he woke up.
He woke up because his hunter instincts told him that someone was watching him.
He felt his eyelids open and cursed at the darkness that was still there, his frame tense, wary. Waking up a Winchester, whether you were family or not, was a dangerous thing. Waking up a blind Winchester who was pissed as hell was likely to get you a death sentence provided said Winchester could find you fast enough to stab you.
But Dean was only wired for a second before he slowly unwound. The sun had moved since he'd fallen asleep and was no longer coming through the windows but the room still felt as though it was filled with sunlight. There was the presence of storm clouds in the distance and the light on in the house when you arrive home late at night that means someone you love has been waiting up for you.
"Cas, we talked about you watching me while I sleep." Dean grunted sullenly, relaxing across the couch again. He didn't know whether he should close his eyes again or not. In the end, he didn't.
"Sorry." He heard the angel say, "I wanted to see how you were getting along."
"Shittly."
"I do not think that is an actual word."
"Lemme tell you how much I care."
There was silence. Dean could practically sense Castiel's I-don't-know-what-I'm-supposed-to-do-here mindset. Had he been in a better mood, he might have taken pity on the angel but Dean was too frustrated to care. Not to mention that he was a little sore at Cas for not healing his eyes. That had stung.
"Do you need anything?"
Dean blinked (and mentally swore at the uselessness of the gesture) and turned his head in the direction he had heard Cas' voice coming from. He thought about it. He wanted his sight back, being blinded was a massive inconvenience, but when Cas put his foot down about something, it took a lot to get him to move again (a lot usually ended up being sex and Dean was not in the mood for it).
"Lay down with me." He ordered, shuffling backwards on the couch cushions so that he was pressed against the back. Castiel didn't even hesitate. There was the rustle of fabric and then the familiar smell of spices and crystal winters filled his nose, the worn texture of the trench coat warm against his arm, the warm burn of the angel's Grace bubbling against his skin.
Dean's forehead brushed Cas' and the angel automatically captured the hunter's mouth in his. Dean let him do it and used the opportunity to run his hand down Cas' side to rest on his partner's thigh. They parted but their heads remained together.
"You are bothered by my refusal to heal you." Castiel said in a low voice and the gravel in his tones but Dean's stomach hot.
"Yeah, I'm bothered by it. Kind of dick move, don't you think?"
"Tell me what bothers you most about it."
"I don't like the tone of voice you're using. It sounds way to therapeutic to be safe. Did Sammy put you up to this?"
"Sam is too busy…what do you call it?"
"Bitchfacing."
"Yes. That. He is…bitchfacing downstairs. At least, he does it at me every time I come into the room."
"Ha, so he's pissed at you too." Dean felt more pleased by this than he should and Cas, obviously sensing it (or maybe it showed on Dean's face), slid his hand under Dean's shirt to rub the other man's ribs. Dean squirmed and Cas pulled his hand away.
"Tell me what bothers you most about this." Castiel insisted again and Dean would have rolled his eyes if he thought it would have made difference.
"Fine, you know wanna what bothers me? The way you're all treating me like a invalid. I hate the way Sam seems to think I'm just going to stand in the same spot and cry unless he guides me around. I hate the way Bobby pretends way to hard that I'm not suddenly inconvenient. I hate that I have to rely on everyone else because, goddamn, they're supposed to rely on me and if you dare repeat that to anyone else I swear to…to whatever that I'm going to murder you."
Dean thought he felt Cas smile but he was ranting now, he was on a roll, and the words just kept coming, riding the wave of frustration, "I'm pissed at you for not healing me and trying to teach me a lesson. I hate that you think you had to do that because it reminds me of Gabriel and I hate that dick. I hate that I can't see the scrap yard or the food I'm eating or even the way the fucking sunlight comes through the dirty windows and makes pretty patterns all over the floor. I hate that I can't see Bobby giving me that "Dad" look. I hate that I can't see Sam bitchfacing and worrying and that I can't take care of him. I hate that I can't see you staring at me when you think I'm not looking. I hate that I can't watch you epically fail at humanity. I hate that I can't see you at all."
Dean dropped his voice and tightened his grip on Cas, "I hate that I can't see your gorgeous fucking wings and that you won't let me see them."
Castiel was quiet for a moment and then there was a soft rushing noise and Dean felt as though the room had suddenly gotten very crowded. Sunlight, fire, electricity, and sweet static sparks brushed across his cheeks and his hand automatically flew up to stroke the light-feathers he knew where there.
"I think," Castiel said slowly, "That the lesson has been taught."
"Good. You gonna give me my eyes back now?"
There was the barest hint of a smile in Cas' voice, "Not yet. I would like to try something first."
Dean grinned, he couldn't help it, "Wow Cas, that's hot. So, why don't you mojo us on upstairs and we can—."
"No," Castiel growled and he was suddenly straddling Dean, "I want you here. I want you in this sunlit room. I want you to sit in darkness and I want you to trust me while I sit in the light."
"Dude, your poetry is killing the mood."
Hot lips pressed against his, hands groped at his belt. Dean tangled one hand in the feathers of the wings above him while the other wandered across Castiel's form to find the angel's pants button. Only to discover that Cas wasn't wearing any clothes.
"Mojoing your clothes off? So not fair."
"Trust me, Dean. I need you to trust me."
A warm, honest smile,
"I already do."