Bees & Buttercups & Books
Castiel finally plucks up the courage to visit the little bookstore across the street one week and six days after opening up his flower shop. It's a Thursday, and it's raining, and it's almost closing time, but he gathers up a small bouquet anyway - dwarf sunflowers, blue periwinkles and yellow acacia, all tied with a white ribbon - slips on his trenchcoat and makes his way over to Saving Pages, Hunting Titles with his heart beating double-time.
The little bell over the door tolls his entry, and he waits, silent, dripping, for someone to appear. The place smells of books, that delicious scent of ink and paper that Castiel revels in, and it sets him a little, if not a lot, at ease.
Footsteps. A cry of "Just a minute!"
And then.
Adonis. Green eyes and freckles and hair too dark to be blonde but too golden to be brown. Plaid. Jeans. Amulet and boots.
Castiel's heart stops.
"Hey, I know you," the attendant says with a blinding smile. "You're that florist across the road, right? What is it - Bees & Roses?"
"Buttercups." Castiel is surprised to find out the voice speaking is his own.
The bookkeeper frowns. "Sorry?"
"It's Bees & Buttercups. The shop. My shop." He licks his lips. Drips onto the hardwood floor. "I brought these for you. Um. Just. I thought maybe you'd, um."
"Thanks." Adonis smiles again, setting down the books he'd been holding and taking the flowers from Castiel's outstretched hand. "I think I have a vase out back. Just a sec." He disappears between the shelves, and Castiel fights the urge to flee. He looks around the store.
Breathes.
Smiles.
The stack of books on the counter is Vonnegut. Slaughterhouse-Five; Cat's Cradle; God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater. Castiel wonders if he'd be able to edge across and pick up Mother Night without dripping over Breakfast of Champions and Player Piano. Probably not.
Footsteps. The bookkeeper returns, bearing admiration, early friendship and concealed love in a plain white vase. He sets it down on the counter. Smiles.
"Dean," he says, extending his hand, and Castiel stares at those beautiful nail crescents, calluses and dry palms for a long moment, before realising he's meant to shake.
He does.
The handshake is warm.
Dean's hand is strong. Encompassing.
Castiel pulls away.
"You like Vonnegut?" Dean asks curiously, tilting his head to the side. At this angle, his eyes ensnare the sunlight and Castiel's favourite colour immediately switches to green.
"Yes, I do. What I've read of him."
Dean nods slowly, and turns to the stack of books behind him. He plucks out one. "You tried The Sirens of Titan?" Castiel shakes his head. "Then go for it." He offers the book up, still smiling.
"I'm sorry; I don't have any money -"
"Chill, dude," Dean grins. "This is my copy. You can, you know, borrow it. Between friends, yeah?"
Involuntarily, Castiel's breath hitches on the word friends. He repeats it aloud, questioningly.
"'Course we are, Cas."
Castiel starts. "How -?"
"Nametag." Dean waves the Vonnegut in front of Castiel's nose, who gingerly takes it. "Tell me what you think of it. Got nothing on Slaughterhouse or Cat's Cradle, but it's still good."
Castiel nods. Drips. "Thank you, Dean." Smiles. Turns for the door.
"Hey -" A hand halts his progress, curled around his upper arm. Castiel can feel the warmth through his trenchcoat. Dean walks around so they're facing each other again. "Wait out the rain with me? It's pouring out there."
Castiel blinks. Looks down at the book, at the scrawled Winchester inside the front cover. Breathes in the scent of the store; Dean's leather and wood shavings smell.
Nods.
An hour or so later, the rain still hasn't ceased. Castiel's trenchcoat hangs up on a hook by the front door of Dean's apartment, which is on the second storey, above the bookshop. Dean's leather jacket hangs on the next hook over.
Neither of them moves from their places until well into the following morning.