Winter and glasses don’t mix. Unfortunately, it seems no one informed Cas’s ophthalmologist about it and she remains convinced that glasses and winter do, in fact, mix. More than that, in Cas’s case, they have to—unless he wants his sight to degrade even further than it already has due to two decades of neglect.
And so there he is now, freezing his nose off on the steel frames. He should have listened to Anna when she recommended the thick, plastic ones. They just didn’t seem very practical at the time, and now that’s just another regret.
At least, it stopped snowing.
The bright side of wearing glasses, of course—winter or not—is that Cas can now read the bus timetable without having to, figuratively, press his nose to it. He can even see the number of the incoming bus from the very crossroads and consequently spare himself the guessing and getting to the door last.
He really should have gotten glasses sooner.
Cas gathers his bags off the bench and moves towards the middle entrance. As soon as the door opens he steps into the warmth of the crowded vehicle. The puff of heated air envelops his face and—
The world goes white.
All of it.
Well, almost all of it; there are still colors and movement on the periphery of his vision. The entire center field is obscured by dense, white fog.
He stops in his tracks, shifts all heavy bags into one hand to free the other but the incoming passengers keep pushing him forward. Blinded, he attempts to move toward the rear end of the bus without stumbling. There’s too much hustle to try wiping the steam off the glasses now; with half a dozen shoulders pressing on him from all sides, he can’t even lift the freed hand.
The jam loosens, slightly, when the doors close and Cas manages to find a little safe footing. He reaches to the glasses but the tips of his fingers can barely brush the frames when the bus starts and the yank sends Cas tumbling forward.
He shoots his free hand up in a futile attempt to grab a strap and collides into someone’s chest. A strong scent of cologne fills him up as his nose sinks into the man’s collar. An arm wraps around Cas on instinct. The man stills them both easily.
“Got you,” a low voice purrs above his ear.
A hot blush creeps up Cas’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, trying to pull away.
The steam covering his glasses begins to recede around the edges, but still not enough to make out the face in front of him.
“S’fine,” the man says, loosening his hold, but doesn’t let go entirely until Cas finds the strap over his head. “Let me help ya, buddy.”
He gently pulls the glasses off Cas’s nose before Cas can protest. He starts wiping them with a handkerchief in his other hand, elbow locked around a pole. His eyes are trained on his own working fingers, the corners of his lips are raised in a tiny smirk. He must be around Cas’s age, maybe a couple years younger, and, Dear God, even without the glasses Cas can tell he’s beautiful.
Okay, but for your consideration: the parallels of Bonnie in “The World Will Remember Me” singing ‘I can’t believe that you see that in me. I always knew I’d be a star, how intelligent you are!’ and then in “Too Late To Turn Back Now” singing “With that bullet you shot him and you shot me - Clyde, how stupid can you be?”