Chapter Text
“I’m not scared of the dark,” Dean says with a little huff.
Castiel grins as he lights another candle and sets it down on the table before him. “I never said you were,” he replies gently.
“Yeah, but you’ve got that look on your face,” Dean grumbles. He sits down on the old wooden chair and stares at the tiny, flickering flame before him.
The weather had worsened, rain pelting against the glass windowpanes like little stones. Even from inside, Dean could hear the wind howling through the trees, and when Castiel had graciously offered him a sofa to sleep on, he had accepted.
“I promise, I’m not a serial killer,” Cas had said with a smile.
“That’s what a serial killer would say,” Dean had rebutted.
They've returned to the back room, Castiel lighting candles and placing them on the table and on shelves. The candlelight cast little shadows on the walls, making the room look even older than it was.
Dean threads his fingers together and observes Castiel as he flicks his thumb against the flint of a lighter, lighting yet another candle. If he thought Castiel was beautiful before in regular lighting, nothing compares to his face bathed in soft candle light. Shadows dance across Castiel’s skin, and his lashes look even darker, little half moons beckoning him to lean closer.
“You’re staring,” Castiel murmurs as he places the candle on the table. He sets the lighter down and pulls out the other chair, sitting down and placing his hands on the table.
Dean blushes and hopes that Castiel can’t see the flush in his cheeks. He looks down and focuses on his fingers. “So, how long have you been here?” Dean asks.
Castiel taps on his chin and hums. “Well, this shop belonged to my Grandmother. After she passed away three years ago, I discovered that she left the shop to me in her will,” he explains.
A flash of lightning illuminates the room and Dean takes the opportunity to study Castiel’s hands. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the guitar,” he says with a little smile.
Castiel hunches forward and slowly extends his arms across the table. He reaches for Dean’s hands and then he pauses. “May I?” he asks.
Dean swallows thickly but he nods.
Castiel smiles at him and gently takes Dean’s hand in his own. He tenderly traces his fingertips along the inside of Dean’s palm, tracing the little lines and marks imprinted on his flesh. “You have beautiful hands, Dean,” Castiel murmurs.
Dean feels his ears burn and he licks his lips. He suddenly feels very hot, and the chill that had been creeping into the room is gone, replaced by heat and warmth. Something blooms in his stomach, soft leaves, or perhaps, petals, and he smiles. “I don’t know if I’d call em’ beautiful,” he replies with a little shrug. He resists the urge to pull away from Castiel, from those probing eyes and his warm hands.
“You’ve done a lot with these hands…you’ve built things, and fixed things…” Castiel says.
Dean smiles tiredly and hangs his head. “I’ve also broken things and…” his voice trails off and he begins to pull his hand away.
Castiel stops him. “Don’t beat yourself up for things that are in your past, Dean,” he says. “I’m sure whatever you did, you did it for a good reason.”
Dean is unsure of how to respond. How can he explain to Castiel the way he feels? How can he even begin to tell him about the ache, slow and steady, starting at the base of his heels, traveling through his bones and settling in the pit of his stomach? He thinks of the loneliness that chips away at him, each day, little pieces of the façade falling and fading away. “My mother died when I was young,” he says softly.
The candles on the table flicker eerily in the darkness.
“My father…he’s a good man, but he…lost himself, while my brother and I were growing up. He drank a lot, didn’t take care of us the way he should have.” Dean doesn’t want to look up. He doesn’t want to see the look of pity that must be on Castiel’s face, as plain as day, visible even in all of this darkness. He doesn’t even know why he’s telling the florist all of this. He can’t remember the last time he’s opened up to someone about his past, and it makes him feel raw and venerable.
Castiel reaches forward for Dean’s hand once more. He threads his finger’s with the other man’s and he gives them a gentle squeeze.
When Dean finally looks up, he realizes that Castiel is smiling at him, a sweet, soft smile, reassuring and kind.
“Come with me,” Castiel murmurs. He gets up from his seat and picks up one of the candles from the table, holding it out in front of him.
Dean slowly rises and follows Castiel out of the back room and into the shop front. The wooden floorboards creak below their feet and Dean feels a momentary stab of fear as he steps into the other room. It’s dark, darker than he had expected it to be, and the air feels swollen and thick. He wonders if perhaps Castiel has heard the soft intake of breath from behind him, because he reaches back with one hand, searching for Dean’s. He relaxes when Castiel’s fingers brush against his own, and together they walk over to the counter.
Castiel slips behind it and beckons Dean to follow him.
Dean obliges and steps behind the counter. It’s spacious, but still small enough to make him painfully aware of Castiel’s body next to his own, radiating heat.
Castiel lifts the candle and shines the light on a picture frame hanging on the wall.
Dean squints. He can make out an older woman, she has a stern face, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. There’s the shadow of a smile on her face, and as he struggles to garner more details, he realizes that she is standing behind the same counter where he and Castiel are standing now.
“Is that…”
Castiel hums and nods. “My grandmother. This shop was her pride and joy.” He moves the candle over to the corner of the frame and illuminates what seems to be a dried flower. “A rose from the very first rose bush I ever planted,” he says softly. “I got into a huge argument with her. We disagreed on…certain things and…she died before I got a chance to apologize to her. I look at her picture every day, hoping she can somehow sense that I’m sorry for the things I said…” he says. He lowers the candle and smiles sadly as he turns to face Dean. He holds the candle between them and looks up into Dean’s eyes.
“I’m sure she knows, Cas,” Dean murmurs, the nickname slipping past his lips with strange ease.
This makes Castiel smile and he looks down. “I hope so, Dean.”
Silence wraps itself around them, and the only sound is the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the rain pounding itself into the ground.
Dean becomes hyperaware of just how close Castiel is to him. He can smell Cas, and strangely enough, he smells like the rain.
Castiel looks up at him and there is a storm in his eyes.
“Are you lonely, Cas?” Dean asks softly. He licks his lips and arches his brows as he reaches out to the wooden counter for support.
“Aren’t we all?” Castiel asks with a little smile.
Dean presses his fingers against the countertop, his fingers falling into smooth grooves in the wood. He imagines Cas here, day after day, his fingertips sliding into those same grooves. He sees him, gently tending his flowers, watering them, making bouquets, sweating out in the back while he weeds the yard. He sees Castiel sitting on his bedroom floor, strumming his guitar, singing love songs to no one. And then he sees himself. He sees himself stirring in an unfamiliar bed, exploring a strange new body. He sees a tuft of dark hair, he feels his fingers sinking into warm earth, he feels Castiel’s lips, on his neck, and he swallows thickly. “What’s happening to me in here?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Castiel grins, the candle casting shadows on his face. “It must be the flowers. If you listen close enough, you can hear them speak,” he says with a little wink.
Dean flushes. “What are they saying?” he asks.
Castiel squints. “They’re saying I should kiss you.”
Dean’s breath hitches in his throat and he licks his lips. “Okay,” he murmurs. He waits for Cas to place the candle onto the counter, and then, he is leaning in towards him.
Their lips meet, and Dean moans softly. He feels Castiel’s hands on his hips, squeezing down lightly. He moves closer to him, closing the space between them.
Castiel’s mouth is warm and sweet and he tastes like pad thai and something else Dean can’t place.
Castiel smiles against Dean's mouth and sighs contentedly.
Around them, the flowers watch silently, their scent lingering in the air.