Hi there! There is a fic Iām looking for. Itās about Cas as a phone operator/translator for (I think) deaf/mute people and Dean calls in (through video-calling) and he wants to call a sex operator and they just end up flirting with each other. Do you know it?
Yes I do!Ā Itās by @casthewise and can be found here!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
Free to watch ā¢ No registration required ā¢ HD streaming
Dean was born with a slight hearing defect where sometimes his hearing would go in and out, kind of like a radioās volume would. He wasnāt completely deaf, so he wasnāt completely useless and he could still go on hunts, though he and Sam would hate to use hand signals when his hearing shut off. This time, however, Dean didnāt see his little brother and all Dean could hear was an annoying and loud ringing in his ears. He was looking around frantically for the vampire, machete held tight in his hands. He didnāt hear the snap of a twig and his back was turned away from the vampire, breathing heavily and his heart pounding. He was such a damn easy target. Dean suddenly let out a yell when he was thrown to the side like a ragdoll, grunting when his back hit a tree and the vampire was suddenly inches from his face. The vampire was talking, but all that Dean heard was the ringing sound and just saw the creatureās lips Ā moving.Ā
Dean is deaf and love the feel of laying on Castiel's chest and feeling his heartbeat. After Dean's cochlea implant the first thing he asks to hear is Cas' heartbeat ā¤
Oh bless. Thatās adorable <3 Can cochlear implants do that? Because this is so sweet.
EDIT: Link! Dean would need a special stethoscope for use with the implants, which I like to imagine Cas buying him as a present.
Hi I need help finding a destiel fic I read on tumblr more than a year ago. There was a witch that casted a spell on Dean and he went deaf for 72 hours I think ? And Cas spent these three days telling him how much he loves him and it was really cute. Anyone know where I can read it again ?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Qualityā Free Actions
Free to watch ā¢ No registration required ā¢ HD streaming
apocalypse/soulmate? Destiel or DCJ - Please and thanks so much, I love your writing and I love these mashups :D
Here you go! (Read on AO3)
In the end, all of the worrying, teasing, pitying looks, and well-meaning words that had stung more than they comfortedāall of it wound up not meaning anything. Worldwide disasters on an apocalyptic scale had a way of putting things in perspective, and even a mysterious soulmate who had never appeared in oneās life takes a backseat in the face of focusing on the more basic levels on Maslowās hierarchy of needs.
Find shelter; escape the deadly ice and snow. Find food, or starve. Find clean water, or die before starvation can become an issue. Ice can be melted, which solves the water problem, but fire can be trickier than food when all the wood is frozen or wet.
Safety was technically higher on Maslowās pyramid than any of that, but, Castiel Novak noted wryly, if you canāt fend off danger in some way, none of it matters at all. Luckily, the first abandoned house heād found when shit had gone down had contained an axe and some good, large knives. Theyād all come in handy, multiple times.
How long had he been wandering? Castiel ran a hand down his face, threading his fingers through the dark, unkempt beard that there was no point in removing. Heād definitely lost weight, and his hair had grown long enough to curl messily at the base of his neck, but heād lost count of any metrics regarding the actual passage of time. For a while, when the first storm hit, the sky had stayed dark both day and night, no sunlight visible at all, and that had set the pattern for marking time based on physiological need rather than obsolete displays on dusty clock faces. Sleep when tired, eat when hungry.
Die when luck runs out.
āThis guyās luck did,ā Castiel mused out loud to himself as he settled back in an easy chair that faced a brick fireplace. He didnāt dare build a fire that would generate much smoke, even if he had enough burnable material to do it; columns of smoke were as good as a signal flare, screaming āCOME RAID MEā for anyone with eyes. Instead, he had a small flame dancing, and heād done his best to divert the smoke into the house rather than through the chimney, figuring there was no point in worrying over smoke damage or breathing issues at this point.
While he waited for the chunk of ice in the battered stockpot to melt and come to a boil, Castiel let his eyes drift over the possessions strewn about the house, the things whoever had lived here hadnāt tried to take with them. It was obvious that the place had been hit by looters at least once or twice before Castiel had found his way here, but even the secondhand ransacking had left behind things like family portraits and random mementos. One framed photo hung askew on the wall, showing a happy couple in summery outfits. Along her bare shoulder, words in black script were visible: My pleasure. The manās soulmark was mostly covered by his sleeve, but the letters poking out from the fabric were similarly benign: Iām gladā¦
Castiel snorted. Talk about obsolete displays.
There was a time, before any of this, when soulmarks were a thing of vital importance, clues there from birth that would guide a person to the other half of their heart. It wasnāt foolproof, and not all soul matches guaranteed a life filled with bliss and love. Some people never even met their soulmates, due to bad timing or even the premature death of the person they were meant to find. It was considered a tragedy, but a fluke of one. Most people, especially in an era where the internet could provide the assist, were able to locate their mates at some point, and most people found themselves willing to put in the extra work to maintain the connection once they had it.
And then half the population wound upā¦out of the dating pool, on a permanent basis.
Castielās hand drifted to his own collarbone. He couldnāt remember the last time heād looked at his mark. Even before the disaster, heād avoided it when he could, and now that there was no point in bothering with mirrors, he could almost forget it was there. Perhaps the mark, in an unlikely show of self-awareness, knew he was growing close to being able to forget it, because lately it had seemed to almost burn beneath the surface of his skin.
Wait, is that even the mark? Did I get scratched near there, and now Iām just ignoring some sort of growing infection?
āUgh,ā he groaned, hoisting himself to his feet. Better safe than sorry. Following the most likely path to where a main floor bathroom should be, Castiel shoved open a doorādark, windowless, but definitely what he wanted. After making a side trip back to his bag for a candle, Castiel stood in front of the cracked, dirty mirror and unbuttoned his shirt.
No scratch. No infection. Just a timidly scribbled phrase, as though the person who would speak it was embarrassed about what this type of soulmark would indicate: I canāt. Iām sorry.
Castiel rebuttoned his shirt as quickly as he could.
Dean Winchester had been lonely his entire life, even when he had family and friends surrounding him. Now, being actually and literally on his own, he wondered whether all that loneliness had been in preparation for this.
He hoped Sam was still alive and okay somewhere. His brother always had been resourceful. If he and his Stanford buddies had survived the initial wave of devastation, Dean figured they could have formed a plan to stay safe and outfitted to tough it out.
Of course, that assumed there would ever be an end to this, something to tough it out in order to reach. But at least a couple of the friends Sam had mentioned in his phone calls and emailsāBrady, maybe? And some sorority sister of Jessicaāsāwere taking courses in horticulture and botany. Sam said theyād been growing marijuana-catnip hybrid plants in their basements, trying to make something that would be legal and sustainable. Maybe they could turn their talents into something useful in a world that was going to need more wheat than weed pretty soon.
Not that Dean would ever know. Even if cell phones still got service, or the power grid to charge them was still up. Even if everything was going great for Sam and his group of friends, and he had the luxury of dropping Dean a call now and then to keep him updated. Hell, Deanās non-working phone could magically reanimate this very minute, start ringing for all it was worth with an almighty racket, and Dean wouldnāt know.
He still couldnāt believe it. After all the work heād done to convince himself that he wouldnāt die in a plane crash, and that flying to see oneās brother was something that normal people did every day, it turned out that just being in a damn airport, the epitome of the wrong place at the wrong time, was probably going to be the choice that did him in.
When the sirens had started blaring and the news reports had started screaming about evacuations and martial law, Dean had been in the middle of the concourse, trapped in a herd of panicked people who had reacted in exactly the way panicked herds usually do, and heād been knocked off his feet and onto the ground, kicked around helplessly and trampled senseless. By the time heād regained some form of consciousness, he began to realize that the ringing in his ears was only partly due to the sirens.
Eventually, the ringing faded. The rest of his hearing had never returned.
At least I donāt have to worry about not holding up my end of a conversation I canāt hear, he thought darkly. It was only through sheer luck that heād managed to survive this long without being able to hear sounds of danger around him. He was getting used to making sure to position his back to walls so that nothing could sneak up from behind, to using traps instead of trying to hunt for animals to eat, and to the weight of a silence that would probably never be broken.
Dean felt the snow cracking under his boots as he walked. It was probably making a godawful racket, but there was no sign that anyone or anything had been by here anytime recently, so he kept moving, trying to make it to somewhere sheltered while there was still light by which to see. If heād lost any of his vision along with his hearingā¦he didnāt even want to think about that.
He was lonely, but at least he wasnāt a burden on anyone. Samā¦if he was here, Sam would be trying so hard to take care of himself and Dean, and heād probably be putting himself in all kinds of danger to do it. Better this way. If Dean got killed, it wouldnāt be on anyoneās conscience besides his killerās, and nobody else would have to feel responsible. Not his brother, not a friend, nobody.
Hell, guess itās actually a good thing I never had a soulmate, after all. Sam would have argued that, Dean knew. He always had excuses about why Dean was born without a soulmark, or assurances that heād still be able to find the perfect partner even without stupid words written on his skin. Sam had tried to hide his own, New here?, as though just the sight of it would cause Dean pain, but that had almost felt worse. In the end, Dean had been right: there would be no partner for him. But he was fine with that. He was fine.
He was freezing, but he was fine.
There, up aheadā¦Dean saw a gravel path that had once been a driveway, now overgrown with weeds and brush. Squinting into the dusk and the lightly falling snow, Dean saw the corner of a house, the surrounding trees obscuring the rest of it. He paused, watching and waiting. On several occasions, not jumping straight into a potential shelter had saved his life, since squatters rarely liked to share space these days.
Was there someone else in there? It was hard to tell, with no power to light windows or spill cooking smells into the air. Dean could see the front door from where he was standing in the shadows of the trees, and there were no footprints in the snow leading to it, but that didnāt mean that they werenāt hidden beneath what had fallen after anyone in there had arrived. There might also be a back door, too. Was that a faint line of smoke coming from the chimney? It was so hard to tell.
A strong gust of wind cut through Deanās coat, the kind that he knew from memory howled like a wild animal. He didnāt need to hear it to feel the way it sliced at his skin like a knife. Gritting his teeth against his desire to rush into a hasty decision, Dean began edging around the house, studying every window and searching for any evidence of danger.
Castiel was standing by the kitchen sink, rummaging through the drawers for a knife sharpener that might have been left behind, when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. Quickly, he puffed out the small candle sitting on the counter, then peered through the window into the swirling snow. An animal? Something he could catch? Or someone looking for supplies, who wouldnāt hesitate to take them by force if necessary?
It was a long moment before he saw the movement again, and the hair on the back of his neck rose. That shadow in the trees was definitely human, and it was definitely studying this house. Castiel hoped heād managed to put out his light before it had been spotted, but there was no way to know for certain. He had to assume the lurker knew there was at least one person inside. Perhaps his hesitance was over whether there could be more than one, though, and Castiel could work that to his advantage.
The front door was on the opposite side of the house, and he made his way to it quickly, exiting as silently as he could. Once outside, he ducked into the trees, deeper into the grove than the shadowy figure had been, and stealthily crept toward where heād seen the person. If they were still watching the house, he might be able to come up behind them, using surprise instead of just waiting to be attacked.
The person wasnāt as hard to find as Castiel had expected. It was obvious that they were trying to be secretive, but, well, they werenāt doing a very good job of it. The noises of their footsteps, the sounds their jacket made as it brushed against branchesā¦he wondered if they were simply too desperate to care. Desperate people were dangerous people. Castiel gripped his axe tightly as he approached.
At the last moment, just as Castiel raised his arm, the person seemed abruptly to sense the threat. They spun, throwing up their arm in defense, as they ducked low. Castiel was caught off-guard by the leg that swept out, kicking at his knees, and he stumbled backward. He shouted wordlessly as he recovered from the trip, then bared his teeth and readied himself to rush forward again.
The stranger was a young man, maybe in his thirties, with a face so pale it seemed to blend into the snow. Whether that was his normal complexion or due to fright or trauma, Castiel had no time to learn. The manās eyes were wide, and he looked more startled than deadly, but looks could be deceiving. āPut your hands where I can see them!ā Castiel hissed. āI wonāt hesitate to use this!ā He had hesitated, the first time; it had been awful, and he still had nightmares, but heād had no choice but to learn. Theyād all had to learn.
This man, though, had apparently not learned. Rather than lifting his hands, heād balled them tight in front of him, crouching defensively. He scowled, shaking his head, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet.
āI said, show me your goddamn hands!ā Castiel shouted. āIf you have any weapons, drop them now! Drop them, or lose the hand.ā He brandished the axe again, praying the man wouldnāt try to call his bluff.
The manās frown deepened. His eyes shifted between the axe and Castielās face, seeming to focus on his mouth. He huffed loudly, an expression of frustration replacing his alarm. Finally, as Castiel wondered whether heād have to push his threat into action, the man opened his mouth and coughed. It was a dry, rough sound, as though he hadnāt spoken in a long time.
āI canātāā the man started to say, then broke off with a growl, shaking his head again. He jerked a thumb toward his ear, then made a fluttering motion with his fingers, as if to convey helplessness. āIām sorry,ā he finished. His words sounded strange, too slow and too loud, but Castiel was in too much shock to process that.
This is my soulmate.
He dropped the axe. The man startled again at the movement, jumping backward and almost falling. Castiel quickly lifted his hands, palms out. āItās okay,ā he said. āIām not going toā¦ā The man was shaking his head again, looking exasperated, and Castiel rolled his eyes at his own obtuseness. āYou canāt hear me,ā he said. āYouāre deaf. Okay, shit. Let me justā¦ā
Keeping his hands up, he slowly circled around the man, maintaining eye contact and trying to look like someone who wasnāt about to kill a stranger with an axe only moments before. When he was between the man and the house, he turned sideways and motioned for the man to come with him. āItās okay,ā he said, trying to mouth the words exaggeratedly. āCome.ā
Whether he was understood, or whether the man just figured that heād rather die inside than out, they both wound up in the living room in front of the fire. Deciding that the manās ashen skin, which he could now see was due to the cold, changed the risk-reward balance, Castiel built up the flames a little more, positioning the man where he could avail himself of the warmth. When the strangerās shivering had abated, Castiel sat down in front of him, locking eyes once more.
Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt collar, lowering the fabric. At first, the man tensed, not understanding. Then he saw the words. I canāt. Iām sorry. A few seconds passed, and then his eyes, which were glittering bright green in the firelight, went wide again in realization. He inhaled sharply, and then his shoulders started to shake.
It took Castiel a moment to realizeāhis soulmate was laughing.
He had no idea what was so funny, and he was beginning to wonder if he should be offended, when the man, wiping tears from his eyes, raised a hand and began to pantomime writing. Castiel went in search of a pencil and paper, finding both in a bedroom on a desk. Still chuckling, the man began to scratch a note. Guess that explains why I donāt have a soulmark, he said. Whatever you said to me out there, I couldnāt hear it.
Now Castiel started laughing. Taking the pencil, he wrote underneath, Thatās actually a good thing. You wouldnāt want to have grown up with a death threat on your skin.
They both cackled loudly, collapsing sideways into each other. It was the end of the world, perhaps, and maybe neither of them would survive to see another week, but here, in this moment, there was nothing but relief, companionship, and perhaps the first ember of hope.
Iām Dean, the man wrote, smiling so widely that his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Castiel wondered if heād ever seen anything so lovely in his life.
Castiel, he wrote in return, then chuckled at Deanās comedic expression of skepticism over his unusual name. Itās an angelic name. Dean snorted, rolling his eyes, then doodled a ferocious little angel on the page, complete with both harp and axe in hand, which had them both laughing hard again.
Worldwide disasters put things in perspective. Some things, though, simply defy explanation or logic. Water outweighs food, security outweighs the social contract, and when the two men drifted off to sleep that night, arms draped around each otherās torsos in a tentative show of budding affection, all those needs felt a little less sharp.
Castiel Novak; Florist, business owner, concerned neighbor.
Dean Winchester; Homeless, musician, Deaf.
Sliding a key into the knob, he unlocked the shop door. A light green plaque, that read āBee-utiful Bloomsā, clanked as he pushed the door open. A plume of sweet smelling fragrance hit his nose and he smiled. The space was filled with potted plants, cut flowers, and little seedlings trying to sprout. He greeted all of the plants, lightly grazing his fingertips against leaves and petals in a hello. He unbuttoned his pea coat and pulled off his pub cap, rustling his already messy black hair.
Castiel owned a quaint little flower shop in downtown. It wasnāt very busy besides when major events came up, such as Valentineās Day or Prom. He enjoyed it though, he loved setting up bouquets and preening his plants. Castiel got to live in his own little bit of paradise, just him and his flora. Not that it didnāt get lonely at times, but he couldnāt complain. Plus, he had the convenience of living right above in a loft.
After watering and checking up on all of his potted plants, making sure all the lights were aimed correctly, he peered out the window. It had started to snow while he was working, lightly dusting the street and parked cars, the first snowfall of the season. Castielās lips twitched downwards. Just like his plants, he didnāt thrive very well in the winter. Everything was freezing and wet, his nose would turn red, and the worst was when he would get a clump of snow down the back of his shoe. During this season he mostly stayed inside surrounded by his plants and a few heating lamps. Indulging in books and a warm cup of coffee.
Scanning the street he saw a man sitting on a milk crate, guitar in hand. His head tilted downwards as he strummed the instrument. The man had the collar of his leather coat popped up to try and block the wind and snow. There was a tin sitting next to his boots, and a few people dropped some change in as they passed.
He had seen the guy a few times, playing on the street or in the bars, wagering at pool. Which he seemed to win every time. From what Castiel could tell, he was a handsome guy. He had a rugged look about him, plaid flannels and boots mostly. Legs that bowed out as he would stride down the street. Hair that was tuft up at the front that Castiel wanted to run his hand through. Maybe he had checked out the mystery guy a few times from afar.
The interesting part was that Castiel was pretty sure the guy was homeless. There was a black Chevy that drove into town about a month ago and often it hung around downtown. Wherever the car was the man wasnāt far out of sight. Often times it would be parked near the flower shop overnight, and he knew that the guy wasnāt living in any of the lofts around there. Also, there werenāt any motels nearby.
The rest of the day was spent setting up arrangements for a few pick ups, balancing his books, and doing some winter cleaning. Bobby came in to pick up some flowers for his wife Ellen for her birthday. They owned the Roadhouse a few miles away, the local bar and restaurant that everyone drank at. He made small talk with Castiel before he turned around to look at the Impala parked outside.
āThat boy out there causinā you any problems?ā Bobby leaned against the counter, his voice gruff.
Castiel hummed in question before he looked up to see the musician he was talking about. āOh no, heās just been sitting out there playing for a few hours now. He hasnāt provoked anything.ā
Bobby grunted. āHeās got a mouth on him sometimes when he comes into the Roadhouse. Gets all the drunks riled up. āSpose that may not all be on him though.ā
āDo you know anything about him?ā He noted the snow was now accumulating on the sidewalks.
āNot a damn thing.ā
āI think heās homeless, Bobby. Iām almost positive he sleeps in his car.ā
āThatād make a helluva lot of sense. Well, you let me know if he brings any trouble to you. Ellen and I will be down here with shotguns.ā Bobby arranged the cap on his head again.
Castiel laughed and thanked him, handing him his flowers and watched him bundle up before he walked out of the store.
After Castiel had locked up the store for the day and settled himself upstairs in his apartment, he nestled on his couch. He had a cup of coffee on the table in front of him and an oversized comforter wrapped around him like a cocoon. The TV was casting coloured, flickering lights across the room and he was starting to doze off after a few episodes.
He moved his mass of bedding and began to shuffle to his bedroom. Passing by one of the windows, he peered out, seeing that same car where it was before. The black sheen of paint was covered in snow. If it was cold in his home, he couldnāt imagine what it felt like outside.
Castiel tapped on the frosted over window, the cup of coffee the only thing keeping his hands warm. He hadnāt thought to grab gloves as he rushed out the door, trying not to overthink what he was doing. He heard a rustle from inside, the car bouncing slightly from the shifting weight. The back door popped open slightly.
āCan I help you?ā The man ran a hand over his face, looking a bit exhausted and confused. He was bundled up with a hat and scarf.
āI just...Iāve seenā¦ā Cas swallowed hard, trying to push down his nervousness. āItās cold as frozen over hell out here and Iād figured you could use something warm.ā He quickly spit out the words while jutting forward the coffee cup.
The guy blinked a few times at the manās hand before his brows furrowed together in confusion. He looked up at Cas before slowly reaching out for the cup.
āThanks?ā He didnāt take a drink, he just looked up at Castiel, his eyes squinted. They stared at each other for a moment in awkward silence. āAnything else I can help you with, man?ā
Castielās cheeks were tinted red from the cold, along with the embarrassment that he didnāt plan this out terribly well. His voice got choked up in his throat once again, he cleared it before blurting out.
āWould you like to grab something to eat? Itās freezing out here and it canāt be terribly warm in your car. Iāll pay for you if thatās an issue. Iāve just seen you on the sidewalk and I just wanted to help. Of course, if Iām over steppingā¦ā Castielās words came out quickly and he tried not to stumble over his own tongue.
āSlow down there. Youāve got a streetlight right behind you, so I canāt read your lips that well. That all just came out as a jumbled mess to me.ā He shifted to stand up out of the car. Awkwardly, he shrugged on a leather coat before standing next to the other man.
Castiel brows furrowed together as he tilted his head. Reading his lips? Why would he have to that? And what was that accent?
āAlright, so what were you asking?ā He took a drink of the coffee, and it noticeably had a calming effect as he relaxed his shoulders.
āWhy do you have to read lips?ā He blurted out, his curiosity taking over.
A slight laugh escaped the guy, it was a mixture of amusement and bitterness. āIām Deaf, buddy. Those sounds coming out of your mouth, they aināt reachinā me.ā He waited for a response, his arms now crossed along his chest.
āOh.ā Slipped past Castiel lips. He had a swarm of questions bumbling in his head. Instead of releasing all of them at once, he pointed to the guy, then himself, and pinched his five fingers together and tapped out his mouth. A sign he thought he remembered that meant āfoodā.
The guy raised an eyebrow and full out laughed. āYou asking me on a date here? But I donāt even know your name.ā
Castiel fumbled to remember what little sign language he had learned in his community college, he had mostly taken it just for the credit and was now regretting not furthering his education. He curled his hand to make a āCā and then spelled out the rest of his name agonizingly slowly.
The guy just watched as Castiel struggled, but made no move to help him out.
āI appreciate the effort, but you can just talk. I can read your lips just fine, āCesnialā. Which, I'm gonna say isn't your name and you need to brush up on your alphabet.ā He bit his lip as he tried not to laugh.
Castiel dropped his head briefly before lifting it to look at the man. He noticed how the street light shined over his face. Showing the freckled band across his cheeks.
āCastiel.ā
āCastiel.ā He repeated, āThat's still a pretty strange name. Here, this is how you'd spell it.ā He showed how he had misplaced his thumb while signing.
Castiel mimicked the spelling slowly and then grunted an āokayā.
āI'm Dean.ā He spelled his name out since they seemed to be having an impromptu ASL class on the sidewalk. āSo, what were you saying about food?ā
Dean had agreed to go to a diner nearby with Castiel, a little confused why a stranger would invite him out. But Castiel assured him that he just wanted to get to know him and had seen him around town.
They sat over plates of burgers and made idle talk with a few awkward silences filling the gaps.
āHow do you play guitar if you can't hear it?ā Castiel took a bite of his food.
āI used to play when I was younger, when I could hear.ā He paused as if he was caught up in nostalgia. āI can feel the vibrations, I remember the chords. It all still speaks to me in its own way.ā
āYou weren't always deaf?ā
āNo.ā Dean left it at that and Castiel didn't pry.
āYou're the one that owns that floral shop, right? The one with the cheesy name.ā Dean looked up across the table.
āYes, and it's not cheesy, it's āpunyā.ā Castiel said defensively, putting air quotes around the last word.
Dean laughed. āWhatever you say. I can see you being at home there.ā
āWhat do you mean?ā Castiel tilted his head.
āJust an observation. I'm Deaf remember? I pick up on these things, it's like a superpower.ā What Dean didn't add in was that he noticed how graceful Castiel moved. How when he picked up a french fry it even seemed elegant. He maintained eye contact, but it wasn't a harsh stare. It was soft, despite the sharpness of glaciers in his eyes. How Dean could see him blending in naturally with the smooth petals, and maybe wanted to see if his skin felt the same.
