happy happy happy happy birthday to Fea, aka nestingdean!! <3
Cas painted the stars, every day.
Dean had bought him the art supplies at a local store, with electric lights overhead shedding a tacky light over the canvases and brushes and graphite pencils. He’d caught Cas watching an art show on the TV several times, always with narrowed eyes, his fingers unconsciously mirroring the strokes of the brush on the screen - and so, finally, he’d gone to the store to pick him up a few things. The place had smelt strange, clean and papery and sharp.
Cas had enjoyed practicing sketching and working with acrylics, but his instant favourites were the watercolours. Every morning, he was to be found sitting at the dining table, with newspapers spread out to catch the droplets of paint and painty water; he hunched over his work with round shoulders, his back a smooth curve.
And he painted the stars. Every day.
At first, Dean had wondered whether that was the only watercolour technique that Cas’ favourite art show had covered. But he’d watched it himself, just dipping into the room once or twice when Cas had it on - okay, and a couple of times when Cas hadn’t been there, too - and the guy showed you how to do trees, rivers, skies, the sea. Cats and rainbowed fish and people. But not stars.
Still, Cas painted them, over and over.
Sometimes they came out sparkling and electric blue against a wash of greyish black, the beaming rays picked out in minute detail, every little gleam of every single sun lovingly painted; other times, they were pastel and huge, great swoops of colour and celestial movement that stole Dean’s breath away just to look at them. Dwarfs and giants, the zodiac signs, the depth and beauty of the galaxies: Cas captured them again and again and again. He never tired.
One late evening, Dean was in the kitchen, sifting from one sheaf of paper to the next, enjoying the light show. Sometimes, he paused a little longer on one, his brow creasing as he studied it. The paintings were so beautiful, but they made him feel so… small. So stupidly small.
“Dean?” The sound of Cas’ voice surprised him; he almost dropped the stack of paintings guiltily, even though Cas had never shown any desire to hide his work. He neatened them into a careful pile in his hands, and then lay them back down on the table.
I usually don’t headcanon dragons having cities because of the clan structure but like. dragon cities would be fucking cool ngl
nature cities shaped out of still-living plants with complex irrigation systems winding through sidewalks, floors and ceilings opening and retracting with the sunlight until the city has its own circadian rhythm
plague cities carved from bone and rotting flesh, necessary muscles and tendons tied together by plague magic and automated until it’s less a city and more a living construct
arcane cities bound together by pure magic, built from branching crystals fractaling endlessly from the core of the city, constellations lovingly carved into blank walls and vast domed ceilings
light cities built to emulate the marble ruins that surround them, huge and majestic and open-roofed under the bright sky, strategically placed mirrors preserving every bit of the sunlight
shadow cities half sunk into the bog, fenced off by driftwood and brambles, dim mushrooms and will-o-the-wisps providing flickering light and shadows aplenty. observant travelers notice the layout of the cities mirror their sister light cities eerily well
ice cities stark and cold and built from the sides of the mountains, as vertical as they are horizontal, frozen shelves of ice and snow arrayed concentrically on the slopes like some vast, terrible flower
lightning cities stretched and suspended over canyons, hunched over massive generators and machinery piled on the empty floor below and thick cables like fingers linking them, tall spires overhead sparking and shedding electricity day and night
earth cities with lonely, stark outposts aboveground and vast tunnel systems below, murals ancient and modern decorating the walls, painted and carved and inlaid with precious gemstones side by side
fire cities rising over pools of lava, the layout of the streets and buildings changing daily with the land beneath them, modular cities that collapse and rebuild themselves like the phoenix
water cities built into the ocean floor, dark and claustrophobic with the weight of the water overhead, invisible currents sweeping the unwary with them into the directionless depths
wind cities crafted of hundreds of kites lightweight enough to float on the winds but sturdy enough to support the weight of dragons, clean lines and bright patterns oR YOU KNOW THE CLOUDSONG. THE CLOUDSONG IS FUCKING AMAZING???
Lydia is in her grandma’s lake house and is in some sort of danger (myeb an assassin trying to kill her, or she just breaks down), but considering she threw mountain ash all around the house, the only one that can get to her is stiles.