He ran his calloused tips over the bristles of the flower before the white seeds disintegrated in his palms. He grimaced not long before picking out another from the plush meadow we sat upon, his head resting firmly on my torso. I could feel his heart pulsating underneath my fingers, and I could practically breathe in his saccharine musk from where my façade was embedded in the crook of his neck. He glanced up at me through long lashes, his emerald irises gleaming with curiosity. "Cas, where do flowers come from?"
I couldn't help bare a grin at the naivety in the sentence. His tone sounded as if he was a child who wanted me to introduce him to the concept of procreation.
I then laughed soundlessly to myself. How could I possibly go about explaining something greater than him, greater than me, or even greater than the Gods and Heavens?
Each seed implanted in the ground is a derivative of my Father's soiled hands. He had great plans for these flowers, and even greater plans for the mundanes who would much later inhabit his paradise.
Strange enough, flowers reminded me a lot of Dean. Flowers had perforates—those veiled thorns underneath the outwardly silky surface—but no matter how many times you bleed, you were always ineffably drawn to its beautiful exterior. I never had the opportunity to possess my own flower. Every time I would reach for one a brother would be idling beside me, placing a cautioning hand on my small shoulder. Don't pick that flower, Castiel. There are many plans for that flower. It cannot possibly mature into something greater with your prodding fingers, now can it?
Alas, like many entities in this world, flowers cannot sustain life forever. Flowers eventually wither away into the boundless atmosphere. I always used to fear that flowers would one day parish forever from the face of mankind; nothing has changed except for mere fact that I finally had in possession my own flower, one that I could hold and cherish and nurture and call mine. Yet I never lost sight of my brothers' words. There are many plans for that flower. It cannot possibly mature into something greater with your prodding fingers, now can it?
Vegetation was my Father's most exquisite creation, next to Dean Winchester, of course.
I enveloped the man I loved tighter in my arms and drew him nearer to my face. As we witnessed the evanescence of the last seeds, I found myself stranded with one final notion as night fell over the vast earth: As long as Dean Winchester was secure in my arms, I was holding onto the singular most beautiful thing in the world.