head is in the clouds!

dean winchester and the dilemma of the average man, ft. angel! reader

The bunker’s air was always still, tasting faintly of old paper and dust. You had felt the distinct, familiar pulse of Dean’s soul from three rooms away, a vibrant, complicated hum that was easy to track. You didn’t think to knock. Such formalities were for humans.

You turned the handle and walked in.

Dean was halfway through a shirt change, a black Henley bunched around his shoulders, his torso bare and flushed from the heat of… whatever activity he’d been engaged in. He froze, his eyes wide as they met yours. “Hey! A little warning next time, would ya? I’m indecent here!”

But you didn’t answer. You couldn't.

The room, the half-packed duffel bag, the pile of dirty laundry—they all faded into insignificance. Your focus narrowed to Dean’s eyes. They were the color of whiskey in sunlight, a familiar, beautiful shade you'd cataloged as soon as you laid eyes on him. Then, your gaze began its slow, meticulous descent.

Your eyes traced the strong column of his throat, where a faint, attractive blush was starting to creep up from his chest. You followed the sharp line of his collarbone, down to the broad, freckled expanse of his chest. You noted the soft dusting of hair, the way his breath was becoming shallow, the faint sheen of sweat.

You continued your examination. Your eyes moved down his stomach, mapping the defined lines of his abdomen, the way the muscles tightened under your silent appraisal. You lingered on the elegant, muscular V that dipped below the waistband of his black boxers, the one that pointed like an arrow to the very heart of the matter.

And there, you paused. For three full seconds, your gaze rested on the undeniable, impressive package that was outlined under the black, thin, cloth. It was a purely objective observation, a collection of data to be processed.

Then, just as suddenly, your gaze snapped back up to his face.

Dean’s face was now a remarkable shade of crimson. It was the color of a ripe, sun-warmed tomato. His jaw was slack, his eyes still wide. He wasn't moving. He wasn’t even trying to cover himself. He just stood there, his soul flickering with a chaotic mix of mortification, confusion, and something else, something hotter that made his blush intensify.

“You are better equipped than the average man.” you stated, your voice a factual, calm monotone. The words were clinical, but there was an underlying warmth to your tone, a hint of.. cheerful acknowledgment. You were just stating a fact, after all.

With that, you turned, walked to the door, and closed it softly behind you.

You had taken exactly four steps down the hall when the door flew open again.

“Hey- HEY WAIT! HEY! WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???”

Dean’s voice was a frantic, strangled shout. You heard a series of thumps and a strangled curse as he apparently tripped over his own feet. You glanced back over your shoulder to see him hopping on one leg, his jeans halfway up his thighs, his face now a shade of scarlet that matched the bunker’s old brick. He was frantically trying to pull the zipper up, stumbling into the wall with a loud bang.

Sam, a book in his hand, rounded the corner from the library. He stopped dead, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he watched his brother, pants half-on and face on fire, screaming down the hall after you.

“Dean… what are you doing?” Sam asked, his voice a perfect blend of exasperation and utter disbelief.

Dean, now having stopped and wrestling with the zipper, didn’t even acknowledge his brother. He just pointed a shaking finger at your back. “YOU! GET BACK HERE! WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!”