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Every day since he moved to Angelus, Dean has seen the statue in the City Center Park, standing still and strong in the middle of the fountain while the crowds pass it by.
On the first day, he merely glimpsed a flash of color from the corner of his eye as he glanced down into the park from his seat on the train. The next day, he made sure he was looking for it, and nearly gasped aloud when he really saw it for the first time.
Soon enough Dean was getting off the train a few stops earlier so that he could walk by the statue in the park, gazing up at it in wonder and admiration.
The figure itself is carved with deceptive simplicity out of the purest, smoothest Alabaster, the white-on-white somehow clearly outlining the warrior’s armor, and the strong, sinewy muscles in his sturdy thighs. Dean regrets that the armor covered most of the statue’s broad chest and thick arms.
The stoic face carved from stone is breathtakingly, heartbreakingly, beautiful: an aquiline nose bisecting stern brows, and a lush mouth set in a hard line. All of that precision completely belied by the absolute mess of the warrior’s hair. If it hadn’t been stone, Dean would have been incredibly tempted to run his fingers through it. As it is, he feels his fingertips tingle every time his gaze catches on the unruly whorls.
Even more remarkable than the carving itself are the wings that leap from the statue’s back. Golden filigree holds tightly to a thousand feather-shaped pieces of glass, each beveled and faceted to catch the morning light in all their myriad colors.
It’s absolutely spellbinding, to stand in the square around the fountain, morning and evening, and watch the play of sunlight through the rainbow of feathers. Dean doesn’t understand why nobody else seems to care. The crowds that surge through the park daily are focused on their phones or their kids or anything else, and no one spares the work of art in the center more than a passing glance.
He tells his brother about the statue one day. Over the phone, Sam’s nerdiness rolls through him as he gets excited about the history of the city and tells him that it was supposedly founded by an angel, who turned the land arable after a monumental battle with a demon who was poisoning the soil. Legend has it that the angel put all of his grace into the city’s roots to make it thrive, and then disappeared.
On weekends, Dean still walks through the park, but now he has time to sit quietly on a bench, or, if he’s feeling brave, on the edge of the fountain, and watch the journey of the sun as it travels through the warrior’s feathers and cast shimmering patterns on the water and the surrounding stone. He wonders what happened to the angel who saved the city. He wonders if he looked anything like the statue placed here in his honor.
One night he dreams of the angel, face dirty and bloody from battle as he steps through a wall of fire. His hair is black and pasted to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes are so, so blue.
Dean wakes up just before dawn and can’t get back to sleep, so he pushes his feet into his sneakers and heads downtown in the dark.
At sunrise, the park is utterly still and completely deserted. The fountain has not turned on for the day and the statue’s reflection is mirror-like on its flat surface as Dean sits on the stone surround. He looks up, and from this angle it almost looks like the angel is sad. It must be a lonely life, he thinks, ignored by the people he saved, with no one to keep him company.
The sun begins its journey across the sky with a few long arms of light, each one slowly limning the gilded wings an inch at a time before the yellow glow highlights the back of the angel’s head, then his shoulders and back. Dean imagines that the sun’s rays are warm after a chilly night.
After not too long, the whole statue is illuminated, the sun refracted through the feathers to bathe the alabaster in washes of color. Dean squints. It must be a trick of his eyes, because it looks like the colors are moving. Almost as if the statue is breathing.
No.
That’s silly.
Dean scoffs at himself and shuffles around to the front, where the warrior’s face is in shadow. The lack of contrast almost has him believing that the plush mouth is bent a little at one corner, in a smile.
Dean is once again breathless at the beauty of the sculpture in front of him, heart beating at the thought of the man who was its inspiration.
He takes a quick look around. The park remains empty, and he figures he can chance it, if only just this once. Balancing carefully on the edge of the fountain, he leaps, toes of his sneakers catching at the edge of the platform where the squat plinth holds the statue. He almost loses his balance, pinwheeling his arms, until he manages to right himself, blushing, and faces the stone man in front of him.
He has to clamber up the carved rock outcropping on top of the plinth to get to eye level with the angel, who appears to be about an inch or two shorter than he is, and carefully sets his feet between those of the warrior so he doesn’t step on his stone toes.
Still feeling a little off-balance, he sets a hand on the angel’s armored shoulder, and looks more closely upon his beautiful carved face. From this distance, the statue feels more alive than usual, and Dean can’t help himself.
He leans in for a kiss.
He presses his lips gently against the smooth stone, eyes fluttering shut as he realizes that even in shadow they’ve been warmed by the sun.
He presses again, letting his lips slide along the velvety expanse of the angel’s bottom lip, breathing out on a shaky exhale.
Then his eyes shoot open as a hand, with a warm, broad, callused palm, gently cups the side of his face.
The angel’s hair is black, tousled, and gleaming in the sun. His skin is a tanned, smooth expanse of honey, and his eyes, oh, his eyes are the bluest, most electric thing Dean has ever seen.
And they’re looking at him, with a distinct twinkle in them that makes Dean’s stomach do a little flip.
His lips, as the angel tilts his head for a better angle, pull back at the corners into a grin that makes Dean feel warm from head to toe, and Dean beams back.
The angel’s other hand snakes around his waist, pulling him firmly against his chiseled, but living, chest, and Dean sighs as he leans in again, for another kiss.