“You’ve got nice… y’know,” Dean gestures vaguely to the stranger in front of him, eyes caught on dark hair, blue eyes, and a tan trenchcoat.
The stranger laughs nervously. “You just gestured to all of me.”
“Yeah… I, uh, I guess I did..” Because he’s pretty. Handsome. Gorgeous. Whatever. He’s got just enough stubble to be considered reasonably sexy, and his hair looks sex-blown. Unfortunately, the attractiveness ends there: the stranger is wearing a huge, garish-looking sweater, the thing so big it covers his ass with room to spare, a tan overcoat, and a pair of well-worn dark jeans. On his feet are fraying black boots.
Now, Dean isn’t a model or anything, but even he knows that that sweater should be burned and vaporized and burned again. Not that he’s looking particularly great in his olive green Henley and ripped blue jeans, but it’s better than what the weirdo has on. Fidgeting, Dean rocks back and forth on his heel, biting his lip and looking everywhere but at the man in front of him as he takes a breath, eventually dragging his eyes back to the situation at hand. The stranger is staring at his lips unabashedly. Dean clears his throat and blushes. “I’m Dean,” he offers awkwardly, holding out a hand.
The stranger nods and shakes the offered appendage. He has a good grip. “Castiel.”