beekeepercain:

There aren’t any curtains in the window, and the sunlight’s pouring in like God’s wrath. Dean wipes sweat off his forehead and pants, legs soaking underneath his jeans as he stands on top of the stool.

“The paint’s supposed to go where?” he asks with an incredulous look, staring at Lisa not that much below him, “Look - I’m tall. I’m not that tall.”

He used to know a guy who would have been. A sting of pain makes itself known somewhere beside his heart but he ignores it; he’ll have plenty of time to concentrate on it after midnight. The articles, the books, it’s all right there on his table still. Right where he left it at to get his three hours in the small hours of the morning. He shakes his head to get back into the present, and realises that Lisa’s looking at him expectingly, as if she’s just said something he should be answering to.

A faint blush spreads over his cheeks and he tries to appear as if he heard every single word out of the whole total of none that he can recall, and he turns around, stretches, and tries to reach the ceiling again.

“Dean.”

He can practically hear the eye roll happen right behind his back, and he shrinks back into himself again. Turns around. Sees the extension that Lisa’s holding, and the knowing look on her face.

“You’ve got to sleep sometime, you know,” she says as she hands it over to him, fully assembled, and takes back the short brush he so desperately tried to reach the ceiling with.

Dean grimaces.
“Yeah. Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he chuckles and leans down for a kiss.

The balm on her lips tastes like blueberry cupcakes.

Send me a pairing and a number?