Down on the beach he'd cut his hand on a fragment of shell. Now, up on the dunes, he holds it up to the breeze and the salt in the air makes the wound sting. He could go in and get it seen to. But he could so he doesn't. Its his left hand. His drawing hand. But he hasn't drawn in a while. The pencil calluses have faded away to be replaced with the wear of the road. That'll heal to and then what will he be?

Luna's pale hand joins his dark one.

"Sea air always makes my skin feel sticky."

"Does it?" He bumps his hand against hers. It swings away seeming to wipe away a cloud as it passes across the sky.

"Yes." Her hand returns to cover his. "Feel."

He swivels his wrist and links their fingers. Her palm is rough and...

"Yes, a bit sticky too."

He thinks, hopes, that she's looking at him. Hair wind-whipped with grains of sand caught up in the straggles that dance across her blushing cheeks. But maybe that's just a picture he's drawing of her. Maybe...

"I could sketch you." He blurts out to the sky.

"I could sketch you." He hand pulls away and his drops to his chest. She traces a finger through the air and he can almost see her cloud Dean staring back at them.

"I can draw you." He turns and she isn't watching him. He brushes her cheek. "I can. I remember how."

She smiles at the sky. Then, a bit later, she hums as he kisses salt off her lips.