I was ultra excited to have normal draft back on EUNE, but I have a feeling that most people here are worse than blind pick enthusiasts. I mean, I have never seen so many people dodge a game in one day.
He’s tidying the table of his research, moving things onto the counter in order to set the table for dinner, when his fingers brush across a notebook.
Slim. Hardcover. Worn pages.
Thinking it another one of his roommate’s brainstorming journals, Cas opens it up to run his fingers over the back of a page of handwriting; Dean presses his pen against paper like he’s trying to rip a hole in it. but instead of finding the regular drawings of undercarriages and engines, Castiel finds words. This in itself isn’t entirely unusual—he may have simply come across a page filled with notes—but as his fingers lightly search out the raised markings, he notices a distinct lack of numbers and equations. In fact, the entire page seems to be filled with the same words, over and over again.
Frowning, Cas turns his attention to only a small section of the page, chewing his lip as he attempts to decode whatever Dean has written. Though he hasn’t been blind all his life, Castiel had been very young when he’d lost his sight; the markings of a seeing person take time to figure out.
“Hey, Cas, smells aweso—Cas?”
Cas is crying.
“Cas, you okay?”
Dean’s footsteps are loud as he approaches, carefully reaching out to touch. “What’s wrong? What's—oh.”
Carefully, the hand pressing against the notebook page gets pulled into the grip of another. “…Cas?” Dean sounds terrified, but Castiel can barely put what he’s feeling into words. Turning, he throws his arms around his friend, squeezing tightly. Dean’s tense shoulders marginally relax.
“I love you, too,” Cas hiccups. His fingers close around the soft, baggy material of Dean’s tee. “So much.”
At Castiel’s soft confession, his roommate slumps against him. Dean’s arms tighten around Cas’s body and a hand weaves through his hair, every movement screaming relief.
On instinct, the moment Dean pulls ever so slightly back, Castiel mimics him, the other carefully pressing their foreheads together. “Can I kiss you?” Dean breathes.
It’s soft and lovely, and Cas feels almost broken apart by its sweetness. Whimpering, he wraps his arms about his friend’s wide shoulders and pulls him as close as humanely possible.
It takes forever for them to drift apart, if only because every inch of gained distance is followed by a handful of chaste kisses and tender touches.
“So what, uh—” a sniffle, almost swallowed by a laugh when they finally part. “What’s for dinner?” Dean nuzzles into Cas’s hand, the latter brushing wetness from the former’s cheeks. He can feel Dean’s grin against his palm.
On the table, the notebook sits open and reads: I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you. I love you, Cas.
I honestly don’t get why most Disney fans can’t seem to understand that you can still love Disney and still be critical about it. I mean I still love Pocahontas as movie on it’s own, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn a blind spot to the problems the movie has just for the sake of nostalgia.