He had these shattered jade eyes, clouded with sorrows he had held back for years piled on years. Holding your fingers lightly on his cheek, you could feel the miles between the both of you as your soft skin glided across his. Self conflict stormed beneath his forehead. This must've caused the brooding wrinkles between his thick brows.
When you pried the pieces of his life apart, your arms would shake as they'd be too weak to separate the intellectualism and keen personality in which pushed down all of the baggage.
An understanding was embedded in his soul. An understanding for pain, knowing what makes a human tick, knowing the game and how to play it. You would never guess such a quiet man could be so clever; he knew the less he talked, the more he'd interpret.
White knuckles grip the steering wheel as he drives, the other hand hanging from the window with a cigarette between two fingers. Inside his troubled mind, he wanted to run for his life. He wanted a price on his head so that the only thing he left behind were his tire tracks.
Lost inside a spin-cycle of torment, his mind and body acted on tortured impulse. He held a guilty humidity in his chest, and a poisoned heart. With each beat that it skipped, her presence flooded his senses. Her face metaphorically inches from his, her soft blonde hair brushing his bare shoulder, though when he would open his eyes, it remained nothing but the crackling asphalt and the sun falling just above the horizon.
The one peculiar thing about Dean was his utter silence. The longer you studied his face, the more a somnolent distance would grow between your entirety and his. You could force out a hand and reach to pull him back but nothing would ever advance to enough. Any time she ever stared into him, he'd find himself haunted by her ghostly pale eyes, wanting to reach right through her chest and rip a beating heart out. He often swore he would have done this if she'd even had one.
These odd ways did not develop inside of Dean until later in his life. As a child he carried about his summer days riding bikes and dancing barefoot around the cul de sac with his close-knit community of neighboring kids. As a teenager he'd take the field on Friday night, paying attention to the various distractions yet keeping his mind nailed on the intensely important game of football unraveling before him.
He'd fallen in love before, torn hearts, as well as having his beaten down an incalculable amount of times. He was depressingly normal but it never once envenomed his thoughts; at least not until he'd pushed through the abnormal and made it out alive.
