Chapter Text
The first thing Dean notices upon entering the shop is the smell.
The only word he can use to describe it is…dank. It smells like wood and fresh earth, and it conjures up images of long, hot summers, spent running off the pier and jumping into the lake. He remembers dirt beneath his fingernails and the soft coolness of mud between his toes. The image quickly fades as he finds himself standing in front of a colorful display of blossoms, their smell assaulting his nose.
The flowers are beautiful, bathed in the warm glow of the sun. He spots a bunch of pink carnations, sitting at the top of the wooden shelving, a little out of reach. His eyes roam over the rest of the flowers, there are roses, various different colors, and more carnations scattered in between. He spies some long, lanky sunflowers, rising out of a green vase, their faces turned away from him. Marigolds line the bottom shelf, bursting with color, bright orange and yellow; they remind him of his mother, and he smiles.
He notes that even though he has been in the shop for at least two minutes already, no one has stepped forward to help him, or ask him if there was anything he needs. In fact, the shop seems deserted, and it’s unnaturally quiet, almost as though the world had melted away and there was nothing left but him and the flowers. A strange feeling settles on his chest, a nostalgia for things that he has never known, sunlight spilling onto an old wooden floor, a bed, sheets strewn with crushed petals, music, old sounding, accordions and violins, things that make his heart ache.
Something stirs in the air and he pauses. Music, he realizes, coming from somewhere behind him. First, the soft strumming of a guitar, and then, a voice. He turns around, eyes taking in the rest of the dimly lit shop. He stops when he sees it, a beaded curtain hanging in a doorway at the back of the room. Almost as though he were compelled, he begins walking toward the curtain. His heart begins to race, the closer he gets, and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. He stops inches away from the curtain and he watches as his hand hovers in front of the beads. He brushes them with the tips of his fingers and they rattle gently.
Immediately, the music stops.
“Is someone there?”
Dean stumbles back, startled by the gravely voice coming from the other room. He hears footsteps, the soft creaking of floorboards and he knows he doesn’t have enough time to move away. With his heart caught in his throat, he waits, frozen, like a statue carved out of stone. The beaded curtain parts and for a moment, Dean forgets to breathe.
Standing before him is the most beautiful man he has ever seen.
His eyes are drawn to the man’s mouth first, soft, chapped lips, dusty pink, with the faintest shadow of stubble surrounding it. He drifts upward to his nose, then to his eyes. Dark lashes fan out, reaching for him, providing shade to two pools of blue. In one moment, they seem dusty and dark, and he thinks of the sea, foam cresting on waves, waves crashing on rocks, dangerous, and in the next moment, it is gone, replaced by something softer, more delicate. There’s a faint tinge of pink on his cheeks as well, a pleasant, rosy flush that makes Dean’s heart beat even faster in his chest.
“Can I help you?” the man asks. He runs a hand through his dark, unruly hair and finally steps out of the other room. He crosses the threshold and plants his hands on his hips.
“I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to pry,” Dean says quickly.
The man smiles and waves him away. “It’s fine. I was having lunch…well, getting ready to have lunch. I thought I flipped the sign out front but I guess I forgot,” he says. “Again,” he adds, more to himself than to Dean.
Dean watches as the man slides effortlessly behind the counter, paying attention to the little sliver of skin exposed at the base of his shirt.
“So, who’s the lucky girl? Are you proposing? Or perhaps, you were just in the mood to do something nice? Or is it for your mother?” the man asks, flashing Dean with a wide grin.
Dean frowns. “Excuse me?” He feels his cheeks burn and he rubs the back of his neck.
“Flowers. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” the man asks.
Dean blinks and stares into the florist’s blue eyes. No, not blue, he thinks. He searches for a different color because suddenly blue seems too…simple, too easy for such an electric shade. He purses his lips and then with the glimmer of a smile, he lifts his tool kit. “I’m actually here to fix your sink,” he says.
The man’s lips part in surprise. “Oh,” he says softly, then he smiles. “It’s in the back,” he says.
Dean nods and he looks down at the wooden floor below his feet. “I’m Dean, by the way,” he says as he looks up.
The man smiles at him and nods. “Hello, Dean. I’m Castiel.”