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Summary
Body graceful, expression magnificently blank, he makes his way to center stage. All eyes are on him, except for the pair that he craves so desperately to even acknowledge his presence.
His eyes are dead-set on General Castiel Novak, but General Castiel Novak has never so much as cast the alluring young man a second glance in all the dozen times he’s visited the establishment.
Gold is dripping from the creases of Dean’s practiced sleepy eyes, trailing down freckled cheeks and dripping off his strong jaw line, splattering across the white marble of the stage.
Dean Winchester is made of liquid gold.