With apologies to spicyshimmy, for stealing her opening line—but goddamn that line was just such a great one that I wanted to play around with it a bit myself.
Those creases in the brow. That stubborn jaw, dusted with just enough stubble to seem dangerous. And of course those bright baby blues, the kind Dean used to think only existed in songs by The Who. It’s a face a guy could fall for, Dean thinks, if he weren’t careful.
But Dean is – careful, that is – because he knows you can’t trust a face like that, not really. It wasn’t made for you; it wasn’t made to fall for. Exact opposite, in fact. And despite whatever apocalypse currently rages within Dean or without, all a face like that offers him is that there’s something larger than himself that actually cares about his bullshit—and Dean knows there’s no thought less trustworthy than that.
Even if those eyes once burned with the same hurt and loss Dean had felt the first time he watched the tail-lights of John’s truck disappear in Baby’s rear-view mirror. Even if they now survey the bees with the same fondness Dean had felt watching Sam fumble his way through a middle-school production of “Our Town”.
Even if they still catch his, from time to time, and set his heart once more drumming, tip-tapping out the same 7/4 time signature as railed against his ribs that night in the barn.
Something within Dean had ignited like hell-fire that night, and he’d tried everything short of pouring holy water on a knife and nailing Cas to a devil’s trap to extinguish the flame. But none of it had worked. He still had to face facts: Sometimes demons were angels in disguise. Sometimes even he could be part of a bigger plan.
But every demon, Dean knew better than most, eventually came back home, leaving behind only a wet and junked-up meatsuit—still breathing, maybe, if you were lucky. (What Dean didn’t know that night—couldn’t know—was that angels did the same.)
And if Dean isn’t lucky now, he might just fall for a face like that. Give into those trusting and trustworthy baby blues, let them suck him right in while some hidden angel-blade carves him apart, piece by piece, as surely as Alastair’s knife ever did back in the Pit.
But, Dean thinks, when in his thirty-odd years has he ever been lucky? After all, aren’t the two of them stuck here on the wrong side of the Purgatory door?
The truth is, though, it took everything to get them here, luck and the lack of it, trust and the lack of that too, until now they fall toward each other like little planets, the space between them carved away, piece by piece, until nothing but skin and teeth and tongue are left. And the indescribable rage and mercy of Cas’s true face still lingers at the edges of Dean’s nightmares—and other, more pleasant dreams—lightning flashes like a heartbeat, calling his name, calling him home.