The world was still half-asleep.
Pink fog clung to the gravestones like sleepy cotton candy, and the sun was just beginning to stretch its rays across the quiet cemetery. Everything smelled faintly like damp earth.
And freshly salted ghost remains.
Dean Winchester stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, his breath leaving him in white foggy clouds. Sweat clung to his temples and his hair stuck up in ways that said he had just run for his life twice in the past twenty minutes. The last of the burning bones crackled behind him in a shallow pit, pops of ember echoing in the otherwise peaceful dawn.
Castiel, in contrast, looked like he had spent the morning in a botanical garden rather than a haunted graveyard. He had wandered off a few minutes earlier without explanation, his coat swaying behind him calmly.
Now he walked back toward Dean with quiet purpose.
In his hand was a small white flower. Cas held it with the same gentle focus he used when handling fragile relics or newborn kittens.
Dean straightened slightly. “Uh. Cas? You good?”
Cas ignored the question. He came to a stop in front of Dean, the distance between them filled only with fog and the faint smell of burning spirit goo. Dean glanced at the flower, then at Cas, then back at the flower again.
Cas lifted it with both hands like it was something sacred.
Before Dean could speak, Cas reached forward and eased the flower into the right breast pocket of Dean’s jacket. He adjusted the stem until it sat perfectly upright, the petals aimed forward like a tiny banner.
He stepped back and admired his work.
Dean froze completely. His head dropped so he could stare at the flower sticking out of his pocket. His eyes, however, flicked upward at Cas, slow and bewildered.
Cas looked almost smug. “There. Much better.”
Dean blinked. “Cas. What. Why.”
Cas folded his hands behind his back. “You looked in need of something pleasant.”
“Pleasant. Softening. You have been engaged in violent action for the past hour.” Cas nodded toward the smoking grave. “It seemed appropriate to introduce something gentle.”
Dean stared at him as if Cas had just invented the concept of flowers. “So you picked one off a haunted grave. And put it on me.”
“Like I am what? A vase?”
Cas tilted his head. “More like a very important surface.”
Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again. He squinted at the flower like it might offer answers. The delicate white petals swayed gently in the early morning breeze. He was too tired to process this.
He was too tired for most things, really.
Cas took a small step closer, his expression earnest. “Do you dislike it? I can retrieve another if this one is not aesthetically balanced.”
Dean felt his ears get warm. “No, no. It is. I mean. It is fine.”
Cas brightened with quiet satisfaction. “Good.”
They stood there, surrounded by fog and gravestones and the fading crackle of ghost fire. Dean still had his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slouched, breath slowing. The flower looked ridiculous on him. He knew it. Cas definitely knew it.
Dean chanced a look at Cas’s face. There was a softness there that made his stomach go strange.
Cas, noticing the stare, simply said, “It suits you.”
Dean swallowed. “Yeah. Well. You, uh… picked it real straight.”
The sun finally broke over the horizon, casting gold over the two of them. The fog turned peach. The graves shimmered. A bird chirped somewhere, far too cheerful for the hour.
Dean cleared his throat. “You wanna get breakfast?”
Cas glanced at the flower in Dean’s pocket and seemed unreasonably pleased. “Yes. I would like that.”
Dean nodded once, still not removing the flower.
And Cas walked beside him, very proud of his decorative choice.
