The man is gorgeous to look at, tall, fit, effortlessly charming and insanely talented. If I was a man I'd probably hate his guts ... thankfully I'm not and I definitely don't - just in case you hadn't noticed ;-)
On top of everything he seems to manage to be a nice, decent, modest and grounded person.
I mean, can someone possibly be more irresistable?
So in honour of the lovely man's birthday ... I present some utterly plotless and dribblesome objectification.
(and of course I will still respect him in the morning!!!)
Genre: general appreciation
Word Count: approx 1,500
Disclaimer: don't own him ... do you think I'd have time to write fanfic if I did?
… the vicious afternoon sun beat down from a cloudless sky over the grimy figure in the field below …
Wiping the back of his saturated neck with his discarded T shirt, Dean rested a stiff, corded forearm along the handle of the shovel, rubbing a sore, chafed hand over his forehead, and shuddered as a stray bead of perspiration trickled down his bare back, tracing the ridges of his spine before disappearing into the moist waistband of his jeans.
Glancing up into the sunlight, he squinted; impossibly long, dark lashes brushing the resulting salty tears across hot, reddening cheekbones. He blinked to clear his vision as he looked down once more into the exposed soil at his feet
Aching shoulders raised the shovel again, a heavy, dirt-caked workboot driving it down heavily into the firm ground with a breathy grunt; a brief hesitation before his sweat-slicked back arched and glistening biceps bunched into the strain of flinging the weighty load to join the growing mound of earth behind him.
Mud-streaked chest heaved out a deep sigh.
He stooped to pick up a water bottle, and throwing his head back, took a deep draught, relishing the cooling liquid as it soothed his fiery throat and offered a small relief against the oppressive heat. He drunk greedily, allowing the water to trickle down his chin, tracing the curve of his neck and pooling in the hollows above his collarbones. He tipped the remainder of the bottle's contents over his head, long fingers rubbing it through short damp hair into his burning scalp.
Another deep breath lifted his broad chest as he relished the brief respite, before reluctantly grasping the handle of the shovel, once again driving the blade into the hard earth with shoulder jarring force.
Next time, he thought, my freakin' smartass brother can find an incantation that doesn't involve burying a dead cow; either that or he can get his ass out of that damn library an' do his own freakin' digging!"
Sitting among the long grass Dean stared at the massive trench containing the cow carcass, the fruit of his earlier labours, and the looming pile of soil next to it. Stiff forearms rested on bent knees, as he relaxed after his afternoon's work.
The burning afternoon sun had sunk to the horizon and left a chokingly oppressive evening warmth. Dean's chest tightened as he inhaled deeply of the moist, thick air; the hazy early evening sunlight casting long shadows across the contours of his heaving ribs.
He stood wearily and stretched his neck. Throwing his head back, he stared up at heavy grey clouds, pregnant with unfallen rain.
Calloused fingertips kneaded the long sinuous curve of his neck, pinching and rubbing tired, knotted shoulders. His aching spine arched into the stretch, muscles flickering and flexing beneath glistening, dirt-streaked skin.
His chest lifted with a long sigh as his whole body relaxed out of the stretch, and he glanced again at pile of soil with a scowl. "C'mon man," he admonished himself, "move your ass; freakin' hole's not gonna fill itself in."
Suddenly, his body jolted as a clap of thunder rolled across the sky and fat raindrops began to spatter down on him, cold against hot skin; soothing against shoulders sore from too much sun.
The pattering raindrops turned into a downpour. Relishing the cool deluge, he tilted his head back and tasted the sweet, fresh rain, allowing it to splash on his face; it trickled down his neck, streaming down the hollow of his chest, across the firm ridges of his abdomen, pooling at his navel and into his sodden jeans.
He revelled in the impomptu shower, washing the grime of the days work from his skin; his hands tracing the contours of his torso, spreading the fresh rain over his body like soap; goosebumps blossoming across his skin as the cold torrent washed the bitter tang of sweat and dirt away.
He shook his head as the downpour began to peter out and scraped soaked, dripping hair back from his forehead. Wiping a hand over his face, he blinked as a stray raindrop glistened on his wet lashes.
… and the hole still wasn't filled in.
Dean stood motionless as the dark clouds rolled overhead taking the downpour with them. He paused in the fresh, post-storm air, broad chest lifting with a deep breath. He slowly raised his arms, feeling the stretch through flexing pectorals, entwining long fingers across the back of his head, feeling droplets of moisture from his wet hair trickling along strongly muscled forearms, dripping off the points of his elbows.
Cold, sodden jeans clung heavily to narrow hips and long, stocky thighs, and he scowled as the thick, soaked denim resisted and pinched against his movements.
A soft breeze ghosted across his bunched shoulders, and he shivered; smooth skin puckering into goosebumps under the sudden chill.
The short downpour had turned the peaty soil into thick, black mud which squelched around his feet, soaking into his boots. He wiggled numb toes through the cold sludge and cringed.
Sculpted chest swelled around a long sigh, and he knew that his job had suddenly become much heavier and much messier.
Reluctantly picking up the shovel he bent stiffly, ignoring the protesting muscles along his arching back and thrust it into the base of the pile with a grunt.
Two hours later the trench was full and he was standing over the freshly laid mound of soil. He leaned bonelessly on the shovel, back heaving heavily through each weary breath. He wiped a filty forearm across his sweat slicked forehead, briefly giving in to the ache of every bone, muscle and sinew in his body.
Staring down at his mud spattered torso, he dragged a clammy hand across his taut midriff, spreading the dirt thinly across the smooth, damp plane of his belly.
Streaks of mud mottled his skin, and watery, black trickles spidered over the ridges and contours of his chest. His soaked jeans were stiff with the foul, viscous slurry; and the foul stench of the stuff combined with the sour tang of his own sweat made his stomach lurch. No way was he getting in the Impala in this state.
He stared up at the darkening sky, long neck flexing sinuously with the motion.
Where's another freakin' rainshower when you need one?
Glancing around in the rapidly darkening twilight, he spied a horse trough close by and walked over to it; he looked into the trough and grimaced; but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Numb fingers shakily undid laces, and he kicked off his mud caked boots. Pulling his leather belt back through the buckle, he began to carefully work his way down his fly, clumsily undoing the stiff buttons of one by one.
His thumbs threaded through the empty belt loops and slim hips snaked their way out of the stiff, befouled denim as he worked it slowly down his muscular, clammy thighs.
The mud encrusted jeans pooled at his feet; he stepped out of them and leaned over the trough, peering into the green tinged water.
He cupped his hands in the cold water, scraping a thin layer of bindweed off the top of it. Splashing it up onto his face, and gasping at the contact of the frigid water on his skin, he grimaced and blinked stray droplets away from long lashes, spitting as some of the bitter liquid found it's way between his pursed lips.
Narrow rivulets worked their way over his chin following the muscular curve of his neck, tracing clean tracks through the ingrained dirt and pooling in the hollow of his throat.
He worked more of the water over the hard ridges of his ribs, feeling them expand under his palm as he took in a deep breath, shuddering as already misused muscles twitched and flickered under the sudden chill. He scrubbed his arms and back, working the water up under his arms and over the gentle curve of his belly down to the low-slung waistband of his boxers.
Finally, feeling a little cleaner, he straightened up. Clutching the trembling muscles in his protesting back, he shook the water from his cold limbs and was mightily relieved to see the headlights of the Impala pull up alongside the fence.
Gathering up his discarded clothing, he walked stiffly over to the car.
Sam stood at the fence and squinted through the dusk as Dean stumbled toward him.
He made a mental note to ask his brother why he was walking across a field wearing nothing but his socks and boxers; but not now. The incantation was complete, the spell was broken, the family were safe.
This was not a time for questions, but for beer and pie and a good nights sleep.