You jumped as your boyfriend’s head appeared above your shoulder, hovering over you and surveying your spread of polish and paper towels on the coffee table. You turned and threw a smile in his direction. “Painting my nails.”
Dean scrunched up his face and leaned down to pick up a bottle of metallic, dusty rose nail polish, spinning it in his fingers thoughtfully. “Why? You’re a hunter, you know it’s just gonna get messed up.”
“I know, but I like it. It relaxes me.”
Dean threw himself down behind you at that, settling his legs on either side of your hips and pressing his chest to your back. “I thought I relaxed you,” Dean whispered, breath brushing your ear as his rough hand slid down your arm.
Your eyes fluttered shut and you leaned back into Dean, savoring your boyfriend’s touch and getting lost in his sent. Then you got hit with a whiff of that oh so chemically nail polish smell and managed to snap yourself out of your Dean-induced daze. “You do,” you said in hushed tones, “but I still wanna finish this, so stop distracting me!”
The hand on your arm rescinded and wound around your waist instead, Dean’s chin resting on your shoulder as he watched the delicate strokes of your brush, coating your bare nails in the same color he’d picked up earlier – that is, until he decided he wanted to do it himself.
“Hey … can I try that?” Dean asked.
You didn’t even look up from what you were doing. “… Try what, hun?”
“Painting your nails, can I try it?”
This time you straightened and turned. “What?” you asked, confusion clear in your voice. “Why do you wanna do that?”
“I don’t know, you said it relaxes you and it just looks so … smooth, and inviting.”
You cocked an eyebrow. “Smooth and inviting?”
“I don’t know, okay!” Dean looked flustered and maybe a little embarrassed. “I just wanna try. So can I, or not?”
You smiled and closed your hand around his, squeezing reassuringly. “You painting my nails or yours?” Dean leveled a glare at you. You held up your hands in mock surrender, a small laugh escaping your lips. “My nails, got it.”
You tried to stand up so you could sit facing Dean, giving him a better angle to work with, but he held you in place and pulled you further into his chest, reaching around you instead and caging you in with his arms. “Are you sure you don’t want me to … ?”
“Sit still,” Dean mumbled, “the master is working.”
You rolled your eyes and smiled, settling into Dean’s right side and giving him a better view of your unpainted left hand. His free arm tightened around your waist as he brought the shaky, too saturated polish brush to your waiting nail with his other.
“Dean, you’re doing it backwards - you’re supposed to go towards the tip, not from it.”
“Shh …” He dropped a giant glob of pink on your skin. “Master. Working. Silence.”
This time you stifled your laugh as Dean dragged the paint across your nail – and cuticle, and skin – and simply watched the man you loved. Watched the hard lines of concentration on his face, watched the way his tongue darted out from between his lips whenever he would start a new nail. He was beautiful - and loving, and deserved more simple moments like this. Deserved far more than he ever got. So when he finished his lumpy, misshapen masterpiece and asked you how he did, you simply pulled him down to your level and pressed a sweet kiss to his lips.
“I love you.”
*These gifs are not mine, both the gifs are from Google Images*
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