Archive of Our Own ^beta

The flower shop of the Church has rich honey, flesh stirring lilac as a light spring scent. It is dramatically colder here, than outside, in the winter air. The young man, Dean Winchester, pulls his vert cardigan closer to himself, the cotton calms him that everything will be fine. 

In the corner of the flower shop is a coffee station. Creamers swim in a bowl, packets of sugar still in serenity. He ambles to the station, he smiles. He thinks he will take home the girl who usually sits behind the counter. She read this cosmopolitan magazine last time he came in, but he knows she wasn’t truly reading it. She was on her phone at the time, she was hiding her phone with the magazine. 

Dean pulls the flowers up from where they had sat, he pulls them closer to him. Dean doesn’t know how he ends up with the flowers again, he thought he was at the coffee station. But the honey, this old fashion scent, makes Dean feel like a young Adon. 

Recently his previous partner has gone. He is visiting the graveside of the Church soon. His brain swells. The plan now, the plan is flowers.

Rebounds. What is one without the necessity of connection?

If piety exists, forgiveness exists. But if piety exists, God should exist. In the young man’s book, there is no God, there is no hell, there is no purgatory. It is death or life. Still, he loves to entertain himself with the idea of piety. Piety starts with some stability of belief system, piety begins with innate fear of a God who will erode you for sinning. God wants your prayers to feel wanted, to feel important in His fret. God wants you to fear Him, until God has turned you into dust, has overworked you, has ravaged you, as He did Adam in the Garden of Eden for simply eating an apple. Tell the young man, is it just for God to now curse the generations of Adam for his mistake, for Eve’s mistake? Therefore, there is no just God, therefore, there is no God, therefore, there is no pure piety. Who will love an evil God? Is that not Lucifer?

Cool shivers slide down the back of the fragil, youthful man. He caresses flowers he plans to purchase for the dead: the attractive purple wolfsbane and gleaming white lilies. He thinks about buying takeout later from the feeling of rubble in his belly. A tender burger, crisp fries and a large coke.

His mind stops working as it should when he sees a man working behind the counter, instead of the girl. A dark-haired man, heavy and ivory voice talking to someone over the phone. There’s a rather delicious air he gives to a person. It makes Dean feel smarter, witter. A tingle that begins on his lips and swells his legs. His organs beat, beat, beat. 

The conversation is about what types of flowers to buy for the upcoming Valentine’s day. Dean prays to himself for gazing a moment too long at this man. Dean knows he should not. Dean is actively saving his love for Lisa. but what Dean has forgotten is that Lisa is long gone, she is now good bones for some green soil. Just like his past partner. They are only good bones on holy Church’s waste. 

“Listen, I don’t care you waited to buy red roses until a day before this holiday, we are sold out!” the cashier says, vexingly. It seems as though this conversation has lasted a while. It is perfectly reasonable that Dean tunes out whatever he comes into contact, which explains how he has not heard this conversation. Dean could see how the dark-haired man bites his lips through the call. The cashier shifts, he looks as though he will throw the block phone to a glass case filled with flowers. “Me? Listen, listen! I am sorry we cannot help you at this time, possibly—” There is a short pause and more yelling from the other end of the call. “Grow your own roses next time!” He hangs up. He fists his hair in a ball. 

“One of your best deals you’ve made?” Dean says with perfect relaxation. 

The person behind the counter snaps up to look at him. “Oh, I am so sorry you had to listen to that— I am so sorry,” he says. His wide blue eyes are genuine. Dean sees the tag more noticeably. Castiel. “I have been frustrated lately. Someone wanted to rob the Church now. That is besides the point. No one is looking after this shop as of right now, I’m doubling on shifts. Twenty dollars.”

Dean hums, distractingly. He does not trust himself. His bare fist still can be pious, not flith. But to reach out to Castiel, he is so close— no, he dares not into corruption. Not after what happened to Lisa, or to his partner. He will be tormented by his murderous Lucifer, a devil that lacks lawful humanity and yells and howls urine and screams gorillas and suffers repentance. God? Where is He when Dean needs Him? Where are You?

You are gone, and Dean only has the comfort of the belly fires and divinity of serpents. What is Hell if not a home of eternal paradise where Dean truly feels himself? Where Dean can finally play and smile and laugh and live? Such flesh bared on his skin the first time when it was only parricide, what’s another body when humanity is only a green light to Hell, to Home?

“For the flowers. Inflation this time of month. Ten and ten dollars. I wouldn’t worry about the tax because I’m already ripping you off by overcharging these flowers. Those are usually four dollars, plus tax, a piece.” 

“I appreciate you letting me know,” Dean says, who already knew it was overpriced from the entrance of the flower shop. He lets a moment pass. “Cas.” He proceeds to take out his credit card to give to Castiel, pretty and elevated as he is, his cheeks rose, a small peach fuzz haromizes this fascinating, beautiful human. What a saint. So ironic to his now pious Lucifer. “I’m Dean.”

“Dean.” He gives back the credit card. “Those are now yours.”

And you are mine, Dean wants to say. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

They don’t get out of there because Cas is a goody-goody and Dean thinks it’s because of the loyalty to their savior and their Lord. No, Cas wants the ability to pay rent for his apartment. The sucker doesn’t know anything yet.

When it’s too late, Dean meant his match.

In the flower shop, it is getting quite late, and Dean tries to make a comment about this, though everything goes black and everything comes back into a color soon. Dean is tied to a pole with weak rope, and Castiel has him at knife point. The sweet joy.

“Where did you put them?”

Dean laughs.

“Where?”

“I did it for us, baby,” he laughs further. “This is for us.”