We die to each other daily.
Dean unzipped the cover over the door, the canvas still wet from morning dew.
What we know of other people
Fumbling with his keys, he unlocked the screen door to reveal his home away from home.
Is only our memory of the moments
Dean set his keys and bag of audio books on the small table with the cash register.
During which we knew them. And they have changed since then.
He kicked the tarp off of the garden pallet sitting in the corner.
To pretend that they and we are the same
In one swift motion, Dean collected both a bucket of small bottles and a water spritzer.
Is a useful and convenient social convention
Dean paused to adjust his headphones.
Which must sometimes broken. We must also remember
His head lolled back, eyes closed, allowing his soul to soak up his favorite line into the roots of his mind.
That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.
Dean exhaled deeply, making room for another breath of the earthy aroma of the greenhouse. A shiver was sent up his spine as the crackly blur of noise ensued after the end of the last poem. He began to search through the small bottles in his bucket, looking for the right nutrients and minerals for the cucumber plants in front of him.
The GreenHouse had been his parents' idea for the longest time before they passed away. When he was fifteen he found their blueprints in a dusty box in their even dustier attic. Everything was there, ready to go. All it took was someone to take the first step.
He spent night upon night in his bedroom at Uncle Bobby's, consuming every last detail of his dad's chaotic handwriting in an attempt to understand just what had to be done. Then, at the age of sixteen, he, Bobby, and Sammy began to construct the green house their parents had always wanted in the parking lot behind their dad's old hardware shop.
So that's how it was. Dean a year away from college, working in The GreenHouse. That was his responsibility and no one else's. Sammy helped out in the shop when he didn't have his nose in a book and Bobby became the manager.
Dean only felt it fit that some life come from their deaths, so he spent a majority of his free time tending to the greens of his amateur business. Nobody bothered him there. He liked it that way. It was quiet.
Of course, that was before 7:18 a.m. came around and someone actually needed help finding something in the comfortably crowded one-room greenhouse.
He felt the tap on his back first, almost jumping out of his skin. When he turned around to see who it was, he almost clubbed them with his watering can.
"Whoa!" the guy exclaimed, backing up defensively.
Dean tore off his headphones, leaving them to settle around his neck. "Sorry, dude."
Almost-decapitated-with-gardening-tools-guy's eyes were wide, still recovering from the near death experience he just encountered. "No… no it's my fault. I should have known better."
Dean laughed in an effort to calm the guy a little more. He looked incredibly tense. "Yeah, well no biggie," Dean said, smile still present on his face. "What can I do for yah?"
"I would like to purchase one of your tomato plants, please."
Okay. Direct. And surprisingly proper wording for someone who lived in a small town like theirs. Not to mention his bombshell voice that sounded like gravel ran across his vocal chords. "Yeah, sure."
Dean led the guy to the back of the greenhouse toward the tomatoes. He gestured at them, saying nonchalantly, "Well, there yah go."
The guy bent over for a second to examine the plants, searching for the right one. Dean noticed the intensity of his gaze as he did so, like nothing else was occupying his mind but what was in front of him. Then Dean found his eyes started to travel the length of his entire being. Probably around Dean's age. A button down with somewhat skinny jeans and a pair of white converse to top it off. He was lean. That much was for certain. Lean and incredibly flexible as he snapped back up to his full height without a moment's notice. Dean took a second to realize that he was done appraising the fruit.
"This will do," he said decisively, pulling a pot from the middle. It had to be the most developed of the tomato plants in stock.
"Great," Dean smiled. "Is that all?"
The guy looked around, biting his lower lip. Every thought shone through his expression, the consideration, the realization, and then the decision. Like a movie screen with a perfectly timed reaction projected onto the canvas. With this guy's looks, he could actually be an actor or something. Dean wondered if he ever thought about it.
"Yes, I believe so. I am ready to pay."
Once at the register, Dean asked, "So when did you move here?"
The guy gave him a bewildered expression, too serious for Dean's taste. "How did you know I moved here?"
Dean shrugged. "The way you talk. You're not from Kansas, at least not from this neck of the woods. Plus, I know all the locals." Dean took his money and put it in the cash register. "I've never seen you before."
The guy nodded. "That makes sense."
As Dean slid the plant into the bag he asked, "So where are you going to school at?"
The guy looked confused. "There is only one school in a fifty mile radius, if I am correct. But I'm going to Whitman, to answer your question."
Dean smirked. "Yeah, I should've guessed. Sorry."
The guy smiled back shyly. "Do not be sorry. You were not at fault for a misconception. No one is."
Dean blinked at him, stopping what he was doing. "Whoa, man," he exhaled. "That's some pretty deep stuff."
The guy's lips tugged into a small smile again, his eyes downcast. "Well I read some 'pretty deep stuff.'"
Dean's eyes squinted a bit when he smiled larger. He held out his hand. "I'm Dean Winchester. I go to the same school you'll be going to."
Dean saw the guy's eyes lit up slightly. And what eyes they were: blue with electric sparks in them when he made a realization like this one. "That's fantastic! I am Castiel Novak." He took Dean's hand gingerly and shook it.
A smirk reached Dean's lips. "Funny name. I kinda like it… Cas."
For the first time in their entire encounter Cas's smile was full blown, showing each white tooth. Dean's breath hitched as his heart fluttered. The sight was almost magical… but not. No. Dean was a manly man of science. There was no such thing as magic. But Cas's smile could give all of the arguments against it a run for their money as it only grew wider.
"Cas…" he tasted the nickname on his tongue. "I… I like it."
They stood there for a second, neither of them saying anything. Dean realized that sooner or later he would have to leave to do what he had to with his tomatoes. But he wanted to see that smile again.
"So what're you planning to do with these little guys?" Dean asked, trying to create a reason for Cas to say.
"I am going to eat them."
Well, Dean didn't know what he expected. "No, I mean what are you going to do with them? Cook 'em? Make somethin'? Eat 'em raw?"
Cas smiled that instant anti-depressant smile of his. "Pesto. I'm making pesto. I don't like tomatoes, but I like pesto."
Dean laughed. "Understandable. Pesto's pretty good." Dean leaned an arm on the counter, accidentally making one of his audio book tapes fall to the dirt-sprinkled floor.
Cas immediately bent down to pick it up. "T.S. Eliot," he read. "The Cocktail Party… interesting choice."
Dean's face immediately grew red. "It's nothing… just some light reading… well not reading, obviously, but listening… I don't really have time to read so I do this… what I mean is—"
"We die to each other daily.
What we know of other people
Is only our memory of the moments
During which we knew them. And they have changed since then.
To pretend that they and we are the same
Is a useful and convenient social convention
Which must sometimes broken. We must also remember
-And this is my favorite line-
That at every meeting we are meeting a stranger."
Dean stared at Cas, mouth agape. "You know it?"
Cas looked at Dean like this was a stupid question. "Do I know it? I live, breathe, and sleep T.S. Eliot. I feel he was one of the best poets of our race… he understood human beings. What it means to live and what it means to die."
Dean laughed softly, more in disbelief than anything else. "Yeah… he is pretty great."
"It's a shame about his fate, though," Cas said morosely.
Dean shook his head. "Emphysema."
Cas's eyes grew wild, unlike anything Dean had seen so far. Not really surprise, but excitement that Dean knew so much about an author who had been dead for a long time. "Has anyone told you that you have superb taste in literature?"
Has anyone told you that you're friggin' adorable? Dean wanted to reply with, but retained himself. "Not recently."
Cas had another thinking moment, the visible strands of thoughts once again appearing on his face. And again, a realization. "I have some books of his at home. I'm sure I could find them among the boxes I have yet to unpack. And some William Faulkner. Do you like Faulkner?"
Dean looked at him as if he were crazy. "Is water wet?"
Cas laughed. The mere sound of it made Dean felt like his life was complete. If he ever head Cas laugh again, he could die a happy man. "This is wonderful!" Cas exclaimed, the beautiful voice that was his filling the room of plants. The GreenHouse felt more alive than ever before, and the place was literally built for creating and sustaining life. "Where's a good place to eat?"
Dean thought about it. "Uh… there's a good diner downtown… Marty's. Kind of old fashioned. Good burgers though."
Cas smiled again, sending Dean on a joyous overload that made him want to squeal like a little girl. … but a manly squeal, of course. "I couldn't think of a better place. Can I meet you there around… say sevenish?"
Dean's eyes bulged. Wait… was Cas… asking him out? "But we've only just met… and you want to eat with me?"
Cas's smile didn't even waver as he picked up his bag. "It's not every day that I meet a scholar such as yourself… I'm looking forward to it."
And with that, he was out the door.
Dean stood in the silence that he was so used to. And suddenly, it didn't feel as comfortable as he had thought it to be not even twenty minutes ago.