If it hadn't been for the gun, the first thing I would have noticed would have been his eyes. Later, I would spend years noticing those eyes, catching in them flashes of the feelings he tried to hide, tried to stuff down until he was beyond capacity and cracks began to form from the pressure. Lies that he was fine would come easily to his tongue, but never to his eyes. His eyes would reveal what raged within, pummeling him from the inside as he fought to keep it contained, to hold it back, just another way he had of putting himself between what danger lurks and the rest of the world.
Occasionally, before the cracks got deep enough to break him completely, his internal pressure valve would open and force a purge of raw emotion, tears or violence, from him. His eyes were the safety gauge.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. All this was yet to happen, moments that would exist and then transform in an instant to increasingly distant memories, memories I didn't have yet that day. The day I met Dean Winchester it was the gun I noticed first. I had to admire his choice. The 1911 was a good weapon, one of my favorites, and Dean's was a beautiful example of one. It was sleek and shiny, catching the glint of the sunlight off the polished barrel. Elaborate engravings ran the length to the mother of pearl grip, which rested comfortably in his palm as if it had been designed to fit there.
A fine weapon, well cared for, this was the third thing I took note of.
The second was the practiced ease with which he handled it. He didn't brandish it, making of it a totem for pretended strength. Nor did he baby it as if he feared the power of it. There are rules with a firearm, and even when somebody is used to handling one, there's always a part of their focus that gets reserved for taking care with proper procedure.
Not with Dean. It wasn't that he had a disregard for the power he held in his hand, but rather that he knew he had that power completely within his control. He was calm, steady, a craftsman familiar with the tool of his trade to the degree of second nature.
None of this, however, was the first thing to draw my attention, not the fine weapon, nor the expert handling of it. These were points worthy of consideration, but neither was as important as the first thing I noticed. The day I met Dean Winchester the most important feature of his beloved Colt, the thing foremost in my mind as I took in the sight of it, was the fact that it was currently aimed directly at my face.