Work Text:
Dean sat there, researching some kind of supernatural Mongolian Death Worm that had hitched a ride from a far-off desert to make a home in southern Indiana. And meanwhile, I sat there studying him.
I studied the ginger-tint of the scruff that darkened the perfect line of his jaw, and wondered if he liked the look because it was tough or because it made him a stranger to the face he had seen in mirrors for thirty-some odd years.
I studied full lips that I knew would feel rough because he licked them often out of agitated habit, and wondered if he made a conscious choice not to smile more often or if he had simply forgotten how.
I studied spring eyes shaded by dusky lashes, and wondered what they saw when they looked at me.
All of this to the steady pat, pat, pat of his boots against the hardwood floor, keeping time to a private rhythm, until a wad of paper smacked me right in the face.
“Hey, slacker. Quit your daydreaming. We’re supposed to have a lead ready by the time Sam and Cas get back.”
Study completed.
Conclusion reached: Dean Winchester is a jerk.
(but I love him anyway.)