Castiel slowly chewed on his lip, gazing at an eternally empty canvas. His paints sat idly beside him, aching to feel the gentle bristles of the brush occupying his calloused hand. Unfortunately, he had yet to be struck with any form of inspiration. He cursed silently under his breath—what he was cursing, he didn't know. His Father for giving him a penchant for art, but a less-than-abundant creativity. Himself for buying the canvas and easel and paints on a whim. Both? Neither? He sighed, placing his brush back on the floor and stood slowly, hands reaching into his hair.
His bright eyes searched his living room. It was rather plain—beige carpet, light gray walls, a few dark wooden bookcases (all filled) beside an old leather sofa—except for the beautiful paintings adorning the walls. By the window there hung what looked to be a photograph of the clear night sky; Castiel regarded it adoringly, walking closer to his handiwork. The placement of each star he knew by memory; the exact shading of each nebula, the temperature at which every sun burnt. He had watched each and every one be created and placed perfectly in the universe. They were mere dots now, painstakingly placed in the blue-black painted sky by his brush, but he smiled as he recalled the night he put this particular set of paints and brushes on this canvas. He had sat on the hood of Dean's precious Impala, with Dean sleeping soundly in the backseat; he spread his tools across the roof and, with great care not to spill anything, he spent the night recreating the sky on his canvas. Of course, he didn't really need to look at the sky to know the exact coordinates of every celestial body—it was nice to have the serenity though, not to mention a reference point just in case.
And suddenly, inspiration hit him like a brick.
Castiel flew to his canvas, picking up a brush wordlessly and slowly dragging it across his palette. As bristle touched fabric he shivered, smiling; he had created this masterpiece once before, so he would have no problem remembering every minute detail. He took his time, letting the gentle motions create Dean all over again, painstakingly placing every freckle and pore exactly where it belonged. His heart swelled when he mixed the dark and light greens for his eyes, recalling the first time they gazed upon him. Staring back from the canvas, Dean seemed to come to life, to look at Cas in the same adoring manner he always tried to hide from Sam and Bobby.
Finally he was finished. He smirked, stepping back to admire his work. Dean looked almost real, from his freckles and his slightly messed-up hair to his chapped lips and wind-tinted cheeks. Cas knew he would fall in love all over again every time his eyes fell upon the picture; he nodded to it, silently thanked his Father for Dean, and left the paint to dry.