electricity shed

Stars Above Us, Heaven Below

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.

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