all this time I’ve loved you, and never known your face.
Dean slowly stretches out a finger. Then his hand. Light, like the glow of the sun behind clouds, reaches back toward him, and Dean shivers.
“Are you made of masks?” he whispers.
These are my true faces, Dean. It’s not so much a voice as a resonance, the atoms of air vibrating, harmonizing. Dean’s bones sing like struck crystal.
“They’re awesome,” Dean blinks rapidly, eyes stinging, “You’re awesome.”
I am what I am, the air hums, its melody shy—even pleased.
Dean’s lips twitch into a smile. He lets his gaze wander, memorizing the smooth faces, the undulating hands, the smoke-caked feathers. Cas’s true form reminds Dean, oddly, of fireworks, or a kite soaring high against the sky. It’s like gazing up into a galaxy of smoke and feathers, one Dean could lose himself in forever.
“I think,” he whispers fondly, “wearing Jimmy didn’t do you justice.”
A warm wind, like a puff of laughter, stirs Dean’s hair.
I think, sings the air, it’s the other way around.