Considering disobedience - ⒸBase pic from cascaps
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“Shit,” Dean curses suddenly. He places the Visine roughly against the counter and leans on his hands. “Can’t even do one fuckin’ thing.”
Cas can do this.
summary: cas applies visine to dean’s eyes. somehow, this is deeply romantic. ~1.1k.
One familiar morning after a hard hunt finds Dean groaning into the mirror, his fingers holding an eye open to inspection. When Castiel, still sitting in bed, hums questioningly, Dean drops his hand and huffs, “My eyes look like hell, dude.” Then he begins to rummage through the dresser drawer in front of him. It seems that between their late-night return to the bunker, Dean’s usual insomnia, and the amount of time he’d spent cloaked, shivering, shaking, sobbing under the broad spread of Castiel’s hand on his back in the hold of the post-midnight, his eyes are a little red.
This isn’t the first time Castiel has woken to see the whites of Dean’s eyes cracked and reddened, harmless kintsugi of blood. Regardless, as with every time before, Castiel feels something large and protective roam up his spine and crawl through his mouth. He wants to walk over there, place his hand over Dean’s eyes, and unpop every burst vein in his eyes under a cool burst of care. He wants to find a way to take back every wrong thing ever done to Dean, to cut the fuel for the nightmares right out from under Dean’s harried subconscious. His hands open, fingertips spread across the wrinkled bedsheet below, Castiel pictures with sense memory what it would feel like to eradicate all the kindless shades from Dean’s past one by one, to feel them erase from existence under his palm.
Dean has found the little bottle of Visine they keep for mornings like this and is holding the cap, plastic crown made diminutive between the thick press of his thumb and forefinger. In the past, Dean wouldn’t have bothered to fix himself up like this, saying it was a waste of time and money and a bad use of grace just to “make me look pretty again.” Castiel let it be eventually, but sometimes, he still wonders whether Dean really didn’t care about it. Wonders whether Dean just couldn’t find a way to say that he actually needed it. Needed to be able to look in the mirror throughout the day and see his ruddy eyes, to remind himself that he’d woken up, he was free from whatever had clawed at him.
Now, they have a kid. Dean doesn’t like Jack worrying about him when he doesn’t have to. So he stands in front of the mirror and tilts his head back to let drops of Visine fall into his open eyes, but his reflexes keep him blinking and flinching instead of letting them hit, his mouth pulling into an annoyed line at the corners. Dean doesn’t even like putting contacts in. Cas knows this. Cas loves him fiercely. Cas is so proud of him for surviving so beautifully. Cas, silently frenzied with heart, wants to stand up, take the bottle from Dean’s hands, guide his head back until it rests against his bare collarbone, and let him close his eyes as Cas takes care of him, as Cas holds the Visine to the pink triangle of Dean’s caruncle and lets gentle water roll rivulet by rivulet into Dean’s eyes, healing him the way humans do.
“Shit,” Dean curses suddenly. He places the tiny opaque bottle roughly against the counter and drops his hands to either side of it, bracketing it in, leaning hard against them. His eyes are screwed shut. “Can’t even do one fuckin’ thing.”
A beat of quiet where the only sound in the room is the sigh that shudders visibly through the tense line of Dean’s back. Then, the angel Castiel breaks his reverie to push the blankets the rest of the way off his legs and stand. Hair rumpled from sleep, lines in his cheek from the pillow, borrowed boxers hanging from his hips, Castiel cannot banish the pain from Dean’s past, cannot rewrite his story to have a happier start, cannot even begin to fathom a way to untangle the web of chains that still draws Dean’s eyes tightly shut when he cries, like he’s waiting for someone to spit at him, to throw stones through his windows. But this. This simple salvation. Cas can do this.
Dean doesn’t start when one of Cas’s hands covers his own, doesn’t jump when Cas presses a soft kiss to the space where his head meats his neck, but it’s a close thing. Instead, he sucks in a sharp breath, lets out an equally sharp one, shoulders shivering, still tacky with the cold sweat he hasn’t yet had the chance to wash off.
“Hush,” Cas whispers.
He brings his free hand to Dean’s chest, feeling his heartbeat through endless layers of skin and sinew and the Walmart cotton-poly tee that blankets it all, and then drags it up his neck, feeling Dean’s breath, trying to encourage him by holding his warm hand over it to feel it too. So many mornings have started a similar way between them, Cas touching what he knows now he can touch. Today, Cas brings his hand the rest of the way up, cupping the box of Dean’s jaw in the spread of skin between his thumb and forefinger, and gently urges him to let his head fall backward, and Dean does, of course he does, because Cas asked him to, a quiet pained sound vibrating through the soft skin underneath Cas’s hand. He opens his eyes as he does, brows drawn together, the line of his lips a quiver.
“Cas,” is all he says.
“Hush, Dean,” Cas tells him, asks him, permits him. He picks the Visine up. “Close your eyes.” Dean does. “Let me take care of you.” Of course Dean does.
And so Cas holds the bottle just above the corners of Dean’s eyes and drops one, two, three drops of Visine into them. And so Dean shivers as he does, still not liking the feeling of the cold intrusion slipping in. And so Cas kisses Dean at the place where the subtle curve of his widow’s peak meets his skin. And so Dean turns his eyes this and that way beneath his eyelids, dispersing the product. And so Cas watches the smooth roll of that thin and vital skin and somehow, awed, almost not believing it, finds a way to love him even more than he did when they went to bed together yesterday.
And so tears leak from the corners of Dean’s slowly cooling eyes. And so Cas sets the bottle down and wipes them with both hands from the rough plane of Dean’s cheeks. And so Dean sighs like something fell abruptly loose in his soul. And soon there will be butter on the griddle and pancakes on the table. And soon there will be birdsong through the window and laughter through the hallway. And so, here and now, everything is mostly okay.
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