Disclaimer: Not a thing is mine but I wish I owned Castiel *sighs*
Spoilers: None
Author Notes: This is the english-side of "En tus ojos encuentro mi verdad" a spanish fanfic of mine. Be warned. This is Dean being all introspective and overthinking. Like a lot. Also, lots and lots of thanks to the lovely Vin, who picked this thing and whipped it into proper english.

In your eyes I find my truth.

There is not a single doubt in Dean's mind that if Sammy were the one who had to explain the fucking situation he currently finds himself in, his little brother would start spewing all those mile-long words he is so fond of and would analyze the point, inside out, until he found something close enough to resemble a solution.

Sadly, he is neither Sam nor does he have a brain the size of Massachusetts, so he is quite confused and not a little angry (at himself and, in general, at the whole fucking world) and, going to the point, Dean doesn't. Know. What. The. Fuck. To. Do.

Which it is quite pathetic since, in theory and in practice, Dean has experience in gallons (fuck it, he could write manuals) in all this thing called "relationships (not necessarily long-lasting, thank you) with the opposite sex."

Only that, the whole fucking point of this mess is that it's not really about the opposite sex. And if he wanted to go and get technical, it's not even about any kind of sex. Because in every reference he has come up with (and yes, Dean Winchester does read books without suffering an apoplexy, no matter how much Sam likes to go on screeching the contrary), angels are kind of junkless down there. So, even if he is inhabiting the body of a man (quite good-looking, if Dean has to say so), Castiel is, to all purposes, asexual.

And this throws Dean like a bitch. Because, up to this moment, every single time he had felt attracted to someone he had known perfectly which steps he needed to take. Sex is something as familiar to Dean as breathing and he has mastered the foreplay with the same precision he uses to recite an exorcism and kick some mother fucker's demonic ass back into hell.

Everything comes down to a couple of looks, a slanted smile, a casual brush of skin and he already knows if this is going to get him a quickie (against a wall, on the pool table, wherever) or it's simply a little game that goes nowhere (a lot of cock-teasers running around.)

But then, sure, now go and try swapping looks with Castiel. Because the angel goes around with this robot-like expression most of the time. Or so one thinks if he doesn't look into his eyes. Those impossibly blue eyes that can see everything.

Castiel doesn't look at you. Castiel traps you with those abysses the colour of the sea, he pins you to the floor as if he wrapped you in threads of steel and seizes your breathing until your lungs burn and you drown, and drown, and drown, because. A. Fucking. Angel. Is. Looking. At. You. And it's as if he ripped your chest open wide and started playing with your insides, only to place it all back in its place and close you up, leaving you intact, brand new. But with your flesh raw, delicate and hypersensitive, feeling everything thousandfold. And his eyes are still laying on you and they don't let you run away. Ever.

That is what Dean has to go through every fucking time he meets with the angel. And he feels like a total dickhead because. Hello? A Fucking Angel of the Lord. And it's ok if his relationships usually go nowhere (a hunter doesn't hold a lot of lottery tickets to win a stable relationship. A quick fuck and a little cuddling afterwards is often more than enough to get by), but this thing with Castiel is so absurd that he shouldn't even be considering the possibility. Not to mention the whole fucking theological mess that would explode if he really went and did something about this burning that creeps from his stomach towards his throat and expands all over his chest every single time he looks at Castiel.

If he were a smart boy, Dean would tear out this warmth and send it all to hell, because most of the time he is forcing himself to think it's not worth it. That whatever the fuck it is he feels for Castiel is only a mistake, an anomaly. That he wouldn't be a coward if he turned his back on it and started running in the opposite direction.

But, once again, he hasn't exactly stood out as the brainy one amongst the Winchesters. He is more suited to instinct and all of that crap, that kind of gut feeling that moves his muscles and drives him to act. And his instinct is telling him that this thing able to rock him to the basest part of his being and overwrite all his values about what it is to feel can't be not worth it. That those things really worth anything don't usually come easily and many times they hurt like a bitch and all this fucking mess has reached the point where meeting Castiel has become a sweet pain Dean misses when he doesn't feel it trespassing his skin and dissolving in his blood.

Basically, Dean has become a fucking junkie and his drug of choice is a honest-to-goddamnit-it-all angel of the Lord, and worst of all, he seriously doubts there is a remedy that can erase this craving for Castiel that burns slow but unstoppable in the deepest part of his gut.

So Dean Winchester closes his eyes and ignores the thread of nervousness that's started worming its way into his stomach and decides that, perhaps for once, a little honesty won't cause too much damage. As if he whispered mute words to his heart, he tells himself that maybe this thing he feels for Castiel looks a whole lot like love.

And that, all in all, he still hasn't got a fucking clue as to what to do about it.

He only can hope that, some day, when the angel will keep him once again bound to his unrelenting gaze, leaving Dean exposed and vulnerable, he will find the strength of mind to quit running. And to step forward. And to dive in. And to finally accept wholeheartedly this oh-so-sweet captivity offered by those beloved eyes the colour of the sea.

F I N