Chapter Text
Cas blinked awake.
For a long moment, he simply lay there, nestled in his brightly-coloured blankets and pillows, with the canopy of light, vivid muslin curtains covering half his bed. The other half was drenched in glorious, golden sunlight. He yawned, and closed his eyes. Just ten minutes longer…
Downstairs, he could hear the sounds of clattering in the kitchen. His eyes flew open; that meant Dean was awake - before Cas, as usual. He sat up before he could fall asleep again, and stretched, looking around his room blearily for some clothes. Jeans, there - he could wear them one more day before they needed washing, and there was a fresh t-shirt on the pile of clean laundry that he hadn’t got around to putting away in his closet just yet. His whole room was a technicolour mess, a haven of mismatched socks and runaway book piles.
He pulled on his clothes, brushed his teeth, and tried to check his phone, all at the same time; when he finally managed to push open his bedroom door, he was only halfway into his jeans and his phone was in his hand and his toothbrush was in his pocket - but he managed to get things into roughly the right place as he padded down a flight of stairs. His room was only one floor above the kitchen; Dean’s room was above his own, up another flight of stairs. Cas was privately certain that Dean had taken one look at Cas’ mood in the mornings, and decided that an extra staircase to deal with might be pushing it too far. Cas was grateful, and occasionally gave Dean pink hydrangeas to show it - particularly on the days when they’d stayed up impossibly late talking the night before, and Cas was heavy-eyed and especially grumpy the next day.
“Yeah, sure,” Cas heard, as he pushed through the door into the kitchen. Immediately, Cas recognised Dean’s slightly awkward tone, the one he used when he’d prefer not to be speaking at all; he was generally at his most nonverbal in the mornings, and they had most of their conversations through flowers as they set up the shop for the day ahead. Dean, one hand holding his phone to his ear, raised his eyebrows at Cas in greeting when he saw him walk in. He was sitting on the countertop, twitching his feet in a neat rhythm.
“Well, sales have gone up, uh, seventeen percent just in the past week, just ‘cause we put the signs out front like you said. Yeah, I know.” Cas leaned against the counter, waiting for Dean to finish; Dean frowned, reached over, and plucked a toothbrush from behind Cas’ ear. “No, I haven’t seen Sam this week, but he’s coming over for dinner on Friday. Yeah, I’ll let you know, don’t worry. Listen, Dad, I’d better go - stuff to set up - yeah, well.” Dean cleared his throat. “It’s nice to hear your voice too. I’ll call on Saturday. Bye.”
He rang off, and let out a sigh. Cas reached deftly for the vase that was on the kitchen counter, and plucked a day-old orange nasturtium out of the mix they kept ready. Dean smiled as Cas pressed it into his hand, with the tug of magic between them now so familiar that it felt like home. You did it, said the nasturtium. Victory!
Dean nodded, and smiled at Cas, reaching for his pocket. He pulled out a crumpled white bloom, and tipped it into Cas’ waiting palm; Cas felt the familiar light sensation of camellia flow into him, you’re adorable, and Dean waved the toothbrush with a grin. Cas sighed and laughed. White camellia was one of Dean’s favourite flowers to give in the mornings, and it always made Cas’ heart twist.
“I need coffee,” he said aloud, something too urgent to try to say via flower - though if he used petunia for I’m grumpy, Dean usually got the message. Today, however, Dean only reached behind him, and smugly produced a cup of steaming coffee from the other side of the counter.
Cas took it with the air of one receiving the holy grail, and took a too-hot sip. Reaching for the vase once more, he picked out a primrose, and tucked it behind Dean’s ear as he used his phone to text. Dean smiled without looking up. What would I do without you, the flower said.
And it was true. In the past three months, Cas had been happier than he ever had been before in his entire life - and a part of that, a huge part of that, was thanks to Dean. Yes, Castiel had bought this place, but it was Dean who was up every morning to oversee the flowers arriving; it was Dean who was the better salesperson, who pushed himself to speak aloud to customers to make their shop a success; it was Dean who had designed their logo - a pair of stylised roses, white and red, above the name of their shop in swirling letters. Both of them had worked hard to make These Roses Sing a success, but Dean always went the extra mile.
Of course, Cas thought, Dean would say exactly the same, but reversed. That was typical, though. They always seemed to see the best in each other.
Another hour passed quickly in the store as they neatened the displays and set out the fresh stock, clearing away any wilting flowers and making sure that the water in each of the buckets was fresh and sweetened with sugar to make the flowers stay vibrant and vivacious all day. Occasionally, they spoke - both of them in flowers, as had become their habit. Cas found that often he, too, preferred the silence; it was more peaceful, and it made him feel closer to Dean to share emotions without having to say them aloud.
When Dean’s alarm sounded, however, it signalled the end of their tranquility. Cas peered over a shelf of blooming forsythia and said out loud,
“Are you ready?”
Dean nodded.
“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out strong. Early mornings were for silence, but the daytime was for speaking out loud, and Cas thought that Dean seemed better at it now than he had been at first - better by far. Even though he enjoyed the quiet, Cas couldn’t deny that he still loved the sound of Dean’s voice; loved the way that it was gentle and easy when it was just the two of them, as though Dean were still relaxed, still at ease. “I’ll open the doors and flip the sign.”
“Thank you,” Cas replied, thinking of bluebells and hoping that Dean understood the kind of gratitude that he felt. Sometimes, words felt so unwieldy next to the delicacy of flower magic.
The morning passed at a pleasant pace. Dean and Cas moved around each other in the shop, knowing each other well enough by now that they never bumped into each other - instead, they lifted pots over each other’s heads and slid behind each other in the aisles with perfect grace. They were making excellent returns, this week - thanks, in part, Cas thought, to John Winchester, who had given them the tip to place some of their produce outside in order to get people’s attention. They’d chosen to leave the free samples that Castiel had thought of that first night out there. At first, they’d been worried about people stealing them - but then Dean had smirked, and reached into one of their vases, and plucked out a blue violet. I’ll always be honest, Cas thought as Dean handed it to him - and it was perfect. No one so far had stolen a single one, though their powerfulness was reduced by the witchery having only a vague ‘whoever picks this up’ focus, rather than specific people. Even still, it worked; they were getting stronger in their magic every day.
At around eleven, a familiar redhead walked into the shop, bearing gifts of coffee and doughnuts from the bakery down the street.
“Anna!” said Dean, loud enough for Cas to hear in the back room, where he was clipping ferns; immediately, he dropped his secateurs and pushed out through the beaded curtain to greet Anna with a smile.
“Morning, Dean. Morning, Cas. The usual?” she said, and Dean slid out from behind the counter to put together Anna’s usual weekly posy of poppies, fir leaves, and crocus.
“How’s the book?” Cas asked her, pulling one of the coffees towards him. He’d made good on his promise to himself to invite Anna over for dinner at his new house, and they’d since become good friends.
“Hopefully all the better, with a little bit of magic,” she replied, smiling at him.
“Did you quit your job yet? You can’t be my mother’s property manager forever if you want to be a writer, An. It takes up all your time.”
Anna’s bright expression faded slightly.
“Mmmm,” she said. “Actually, speaking of your mother - I’ve got some news. She, um - she guessed that I might know where you are.”
At her words, Cas’ stomach gave a lurch. The happy calm of their shop seemed to freeze, as though Dean had just pressed a blue hydrangea into his palm - horrified stillness.
“She knows? You told her?” Cas’ mind was filling with pictures - his mother, arriving here. Telling Cas to clean the place up, make it neat; ordering him to close the shop down and come home with her; telling him she didn’t believe in magic…
“No! No,” Anna said hastily. “But - I might have told her a little bit about what you’re doing. She asked me to give you this.” Reaching into the pocket of her jacket, Anna drew out a letter and laid it down on the counter. For a long moment, Cas only stared at it, looking down at the personalised stationery with half his mind still reeling and the other half thinking, embossed paper? Please.
“Whoa,” Dean said, stepping behind Castiel to lay Anna’s gathered posy on the counter and bending down to find the roll of pink cellophane that she liked best. “Who’s writing to you, the Queen of England?”
Cas tried a smile, but it didn’t entirely work; immediately, Dean’s posture changed, and he placed a hand on Cas’ arm. He said nothing - he never usually did at times of stress, as though he just forgot, as though using words wasn’t his first instinct - but Cas felt his support, and leaned into it.
“My mom,” he explained, and Dean’s expression shifted into understanding. He pulled the envelope closer to Cas across the counter, without picking it up, and raised his eyebrows.
Cas sighed. Dean was right. Waiting would only make it much worse, when he finally did open it.
He picked up the envelope, noting the heaviness - and consequent expensiveness - of the paper, and slit the envelope open in a messy tear that he knew would have had Naomi’s teeth grinding if she could have seen him. Pulling out the contents, he found a single piece of paper and, to his surprise - a flower.
A pink cyclamen.
Cas held it pinched between his fingers for a moment, before lifting up the paper, and starting to read.
Dear Castiel,
I have asked Anna to give this to you and she has promised that she will. You must be wondering why I am writing to you - perhaps wondering if I am going to come and find you, and tear down your door, and demand that you come home. I may rest your mind at ease on that point. I will not seek you out, Castiel.
Reading your letter was a complete shock to me, and yet I know now that it shouldn’t have been. I only ever wanted the best for you and for Michael, but I failed to notice that the best for each of you was two different things. I tried to make you into one person when you were fundamentally different and if that is the reason why you felt you had to run, as I believe it is, then I would like you to know that I regret my actions.
You also mentioned your stepfather many times in the letter, Castiel. I believed that he had been good to us after your father’s death - but your letter was something of a wake-up call. I have not been happy. It was never a love match, rather something strategic for both of us. But when I start to lose people I care about, it is time to stop playing games. I know this comes too late, but Richard will be served with divorce papers next week. And I will be running for mayor myself next fall. It is time his policies were questioned.
And this brings me to the last thing I wanted to say. Anna has told me that you are living with that boy from the garage, and that you call yourselves ‘flowerwitches’. I admit that at first, I was utterly taken aback. But then, Castiel, I remembered that day you gave me the cyclamen in the garden - and the valerian in your letter - and there have been other times, too. I always dismissed it, just as too often I dismissed you . If you tell me that you can do magic with flowers, then I should not be telling you it is not possible; I should be asking you what more I could have done to help, and whether you think there are any more people out there like you, who also need to know that they aren’t alone. I want to consider making it a part of my platform in the fall. I don’t know whether - witches, and such - are protected by the law and you certainly need to be. As mayor, I would have influence and I could use it to legitimise you and people like you, Castiel. I feel I owe you that. More than that, it is the right thing to do, I believe.
Castiel, I am - sorry. Sorry for the hurt. Sorry that I didn’t see your loneliness. I understand if you do not want me to be a part of your life. If you do feel you can reconnect - and it will be on your terms, without Michael unless you choose, and certainly without Richard - then please call me. My number will be the same.
With love,
Your mother.
Cas held the paper tightly in his hands, not able to believe what he was seeing.
“My mother - gave this to you?” he said to Anna, not looking up. Dean’s hand on his arm squeezed slightly, asking a question.
“She did,” Anna said cautiously. “I wasn’t sure whether or not to pass it on. I figured it was probably full of things you didn’t want to hear, and - you’ve been so happy. But I ended up deciding it wasn’t my business to keep it from you.”
Cas was nodding along, his eyes skimming back over the letter one more time. It was unmistakably his mother’s hand, and her tone of writing - but the words that she was saying were so out of the blue, so incredible.
“Is it bad?” Anna pressed. Cas huffed out a little dry laugh, and looked up at her.
“I can barely believe it’s from her. It’s not bad at all.” Dean’s hand on his arm released, and suddenly clapped him on the back. With a sudden relax in the tension, his voice returned.
“She’s not going to get us closed down?”
“She - she says she won’t try to find us. She says she wants to reconnect, but she won’t do it unless it’s on my terms. She’s breaking up with my stepfather. Dean,” Cas said, turning to face him fully, his throat suddenly tight. “She wants to be mayor, and she wants to use her influence to help make laws - laws to protect people like us. ”
Dean’s mouth dropped open and he opened his arms in celebration; Cas leaned into them, hugging him tightly.
“That’s amazing, man,” Dean said, the words rumbling against Cas’ chest. “That’s incredible.”
“I’m so happy for you!” said Anna, and Cas pulled away from the hug so that he could turn back to her, his fondness for her suddenly increased tenfold. “God. I really thought I was bringing bad news into your happy place today.”
“Turns out, you just made it even happier,” Dean said to her, grinning, one of his hands still resting on Cas’ shoulder. “Please, come again.”
“Well, maybe I will,” Anna said, making her tone mock-thoughtful, as though they didn’t all know that she would be back next week, with more coffee and cakes. She reached over, and picked up her little bouquet. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” Cas said, at the exact same time as Dean. They looked over, and smiled at each other in agreement.
“This one’s on the house,” added Cas. “And come over for dinner on Friday? Dean’s brother is going to be here.”
Anna, beaming from ear to ear, nodded her thanks and made her goodbyes, promising to bring along a batch of her famous profiteroles for dessert - ‘the one thing I can actually cook, and it’s the one thing no one else can’, she always said. On her way out of the door, bell tinkling, she brushed past a blonde girl - who stopped in her tracks, and watched after her as she walked away down the street.
“Dean,” said the girl, putting one hand on her hips, the other one supporting the weight of a large, brown box. “You didn’t tell me you had cute girls coming to this place.” She set the box down on the floor.
“Jo?” Dean said, disbelieving at first, and then stepping out from behind the counter to stride up the length of the shop and sweep her up in a bear hug.
“What the hell?!” Jo laughed. “What, did someone say I was gonna walk in here with a winning lottery ticket or something? I gotta come clean, guys, it’s just plain old me. Oh, and some bits and pieces from your dad, in the box.”
Dean put her down, still beaming, and Cas came over to explain.
“We just received some good news from my mom,” he said. “And then you arrived, and somehow today got even better.”
Jo’s smile widened, and she punched Cas in the arm lightly.
“Good news from your mom? Congrats! I always thought she was a total -” Dean cleared his throat loudly as Jo picked a colourful word - “but if she’s being less of a douche, let’s celebrate!”
“Are you in town for long?” Cas asked, reaching out to a nearby bucket of roses and pulling out a yellow one. He handed it to her, and she smiled as she accepted it - be happy, friend!, it said, the flow of the magic sending the familiar shiver down Cas’ back. Jo had visited once already since they’d been living in the new house, to give them their housewarming gift and to get to know Cas; ever since then, he and Dean had been hoping she’d make the trip back.
“A whole week,” Jo said, her eyes shining. “I’m staying with a friend. So, dinner and drinks every night, yes? Yes?”
“Cas likes board games,” Dean offered, and Jo grinned.
“I suck at board games,” she said. “I’m totally in. Thursday?”
“If you come Friday,” Cas offered, “then Anna will be here.”
“Anna - oh, redhead? You know her?” Jo wiggled her eyebrows. “I might just take you up on that. I call being on her team when we play Clue.”
“There are no teams in Clue,” Cas pointed out.
“There are when I’m playing,” Jo said. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I didn’t eat lunch yet…”
“There’s a bakery down the street,” Dean told her. “Does good sandwiches. And get a jelly doughnut.” Jo saluted him, and began to back out of the shop, careful not to trip over the box she’d brought on her way out.
“Any progress on finding me a job here, yet, by the way?”
Dean and Cas looked at each other for a long moment, before Cas turned back to face her.
“How do you feel about mopeds?” he said.
*
That night, they both climbed up the long flights of stairs, all the way up to their rooftop garden. When they’d first arrived, the place had looked sparse, only a couple of metal chairs to grace its cement floor; now, under an awning, there were four generously-cushioned loungers, a barbecue, and a coffee table - and surrounding them, filling up every possible inch, was greenery. It was here that they grew some of their stock - the rarer flowers that only bloomed at certain times, and yet which seemed to grow contentedly out of season under Dean and Cas’ careful hands.
At the far end of the garden, disguised by the overflowing leaves of the shrubs - hidden from view, a kind of secret place - there was a little space, perfect for laying out a blanket and some cushions, and sitting back and watching the stars.
Cas walked up the stairs that night and out into the open air, Dean behind him, with his heart beating harder than usual. In his pocket, he was used to carrying a few spare blooms, usually wasted or ragged ones from their stock, and he used them to talk with Dean throughout the day - and tonight, he had a particular flower in there.
A deep, red rose.
In actual fact, he’d picked up red roses several times over the course of the past few weeks, wondering if he’d have the courage to hand one to Dean. The relationship between them was so relaxed and easy that in a way, Cas never wanted it to change - and yet he couldn’t help it; couldn’t help the way his eyes were irresistibly drawn to Dean, his smile, his freckles, his eyes, his laugh - he loved all of it. He wanted all of it, in his life, for as long as he possibly could. Not in an iris kind of way, but in a deep, red rose kind of way.
He could only hope that Dean felt the same. But there was no way to be certain, and that was what had made Cas crumple all the previous roses in his pocket, not brave enough to try handing them over. Because if Dean didn’t feel the same, then everything would be changed - everything would be completely ruined, in fact. How could they go on with their easy relationship, if suddenly the imbalance in how important they were to each other was revealed?
Cas picked up half of the pile of blankets and cushions stacked up under the awning to keep them dry in case of rain - though there wasn’t much chance of that tonight, since the sky was clear and the air was beautifully balmy and cool. He heard Dean pick up the other half of the stack, and together they pushed through their miniature jungle, until they reached the little square of space where they usually made their nest, under the open sky.
They set it up in comfortable silence - or rather, Dean seemed comfortable, but Cas had a red rose burning a hole in his pocket and couldn’t ease into the familiarity nearly so well with it there. He wished there were a way of just knowing. He wished, more than anything, that feeling things and wanting things wasn’t such a leap in the dark.
They lay down, side by side, on the cushions, angled slightly so that their shoulders just barely touched. Cas took a deep breath, and tried to let it out slowly, calmingly. Above him, the stars glittered and winked, seeming to be sometimes there, sometimes not. It was impossible to be sure , Cas thought, smelling the jasmine and oregano on the air, always the two strongest scents at this end of the garden.
Suddenly, Cas felt a hand bat up against the back of his own clenched fist. He turned his head sideways to see Dean looking at him, his face concerned; in his hand, Cas saw, looking down, was a sprig of valerian. He looked up into Dean’s eyes, and then gently accepted it. The feeling of warmth that came from Dean’s magic comforted him as much as the flowers themselves.
“Talk to me,” Dean said, and Cas let out a breath. Dean was so close, his lips slightly parted, his gaze flickering over Cas’ face, as though trying to find an answer written in his lipline that he couldn’t find in his eyes. It made it much harder, Cas thought dryly, to breathe normally, when Dean did that.
“I’m - I’m just glad that you’re here,” Cas said. He reached into his pocket - his fingers grazed the petals of the red rose - and he pushed past it, reaching for the primrose that he knew was beneath. He handed it over, smiling slightly. I don’t know what I would do without you.
Maybe one day, Cas thought, he’d have to find out. If Dean started dating here in the city, if he found someone, if he moved out - or, worse, if he moved them into the house -
Cas shuddered.
“That’s not it,” Dean said, and Cas could hear his own tension making Dean nervous, making him not want to talk. “There’s something wrong.”
Cas shook his head, on instinct - and then, slowly, nodded it.
“Not - wrong, exactly,” he said. “But - there is something on my mind. It’s complicated, though.”
Dean was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, he said,
“Me too, actually.”
Cas went still. Was this the moment when Dean told him that he was moving out, that he needed his own space? Or that he was going back home to work for his father? Or -
“It’s nothing bad. Well, I mean - it’s complicated. But it’s nothing I know is bad,” Dean said, and Cas tried to stop creating nightmare scenarios. He nodded.
“Yes,” he said, and then tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t. Yes. Yes, it was complicated. Yes, it might be bad, but it might also not. Yes.
“Maybe it’d be easier - with a flower?” Dean said. “I have one with me. Do you..?”
Cas swallowed hard. Part of him wanted to deny the red rose in his pocket, pretend that he had nothing - but he didn’t want to lie to Dean, to have that weight between them. Throat too tight with nerves to speak, he nodded.
Dean sat up, and Cas followed his lead. They swung their legs so that they were sat facing opposite each other, looking earnestly into each other’s eyes - both waiting, in some way, Cas thought, for the punchline, the laugh, the eye-roll from the other, and not seeing it. He felt a little spark of courage in his chest. Being with Dean like this made him feel braver. They were sitting close to each other, close enough to make Cas’ heart sigh.
“Where’s your flower?” Dean asked.
“In my pocket.”
“Me, too. Close your eyes, I don’t want you to see before I give it to you.”
Cas closed his eyes, and then said,
“You close your eyes, too.”
“They’re shut.”
Cas reached into his pocket, and knew the red rose immediately - by the incredible softness of its petals, and by the low, warm singing of I love you that he understood through the touch. He pulled it out, careful not to rip the petals, and made sure that it was unfolded nicely and not crumpled by feel, keeping his eyes closed.
“Okay,” Dean said. “Do you have yours?”
“Yes,” Cas said. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
There was a long moment of silence. This was it, Cas knew. If everything went terribly, he would build a time machine and he would come back to this exact moment, and he would stand up and throw the red rose off the top of the rooftop garden before Dean ever had a chance to see it. It was tempting to just do that now, and save himself the trouble of grappling with intertemporal physics.
A light breeze blew in, bringing with it the scent of tiger lily and lavender from the other end of the roof. Cas swallowed. Be brave, he thought to himself. Imagine you’re holding a - a flower - whichever one makes you brave, or - or Dean’s hand. Imagine you’re holding Dean’s hand.
“You give me yours. I’ll give you mine at the same time. Okay?” Dean said. Cas nodded, and then remembered that Dean couldn’t see him, and spoke instead.
“Yes. Should we open our eyes?”
Dean seemed to hesitate.
“No,” he said, roughly. “Just - don’t look. Just feel.”
“On three?”
“On three,” Dean agreed.
“One,” Cas said.
“Two,” Dean said.
“ Three, ” they both said, together. Cas pushed forward his red rose, only having to move a little way forward before meeting the resistance of Dean’s hands, Dean’s flower - for a moment, the two blooms pressed against each other, and Cas was aware of nothing but his own deep red.
And then his fingertip shifted, and immediately, overwhelmingly, he felt a race of feeling that he recognised - that he knew, remembered in the core of his very heart, in his bones, from ten years before. It was a cool fire - a white hot, burning feeling, doubled a hundredfold since the last time he’d felt it, so powerful and intense that it stole Cas’ breath out his lungs, soared into his chest on wings of flame, opened up his heart and split it wide open into a new, terrifying, glorious depth of feeling - it was the white rose, the white rose that Dean had given him before, and it was tearing him in half - and it sounded like it was nice to meet you, but more, so much more -
And then, thrumming under the white like a heavy bass drum, came a second feeling. A passion that didn’t move so fast, but ran deeper, felt as though it could last for a thousand years or longer - red rose, a red rose feeling of unsurpassable I love you that only scored Cas’ heart down further, only weighed heavier, only felt even better and even more utterly unbearable. Caught between Dean’s hand and Cas’, the red rose became a gift to them both, as did the white. The power of the magic was unbelievably strong; his heart groaned -
And then. At last, when Cas thought he was at breaking point, there came the twining; the cool fire and the hot, threading into each other - neatly sealing together the halves of the heart they had just almost torn apart. White over red, red over white, over and over, a lacing, a binding - a bond. A bond more profound that any Castiel had ever felt, or knew he ever would feel again. Better together, sang the roses, high sweet white and low steady red. Better together.
Better together .
Cas opened his eyes, his hands shaking, his breath coming hard - and when he looked over to Dean, he saw a single tear on his cheek, and knew that he’d felt it, too.
Trying to calm his frantic heart, and equally never wanting the sensation to end, Cas couldn’t summon the words to speak - didn’t need to, because although the first wave had rolled over him, the pair of roses in their hands still spoke everything he could think of to say, and more.
He looked down at the blooms, pressed together in their palms, and breathed.
Stillness settled.
“You - you got your mother’s rose,” Cas said. “The one from before.”
Dean nodded, obviously also struggling to regain some normality.
“Jo brought it in a box today. From Dad.”
Cas smiled.
“I have a lot to thank that rose for.” He knew it, now - now that he was older, and had seen more of the world. It wasn’t only nice to meet you, the flower in Dean’s palm. It was a thornless white rose: it was pure love, at first sight. And in Cas’ palm, there was the red rose, the deeper and longer-lasting love that came through knowing, and liking, and caring. And when they intertwined…
Cas could still feel the flower-feeling in his heart, the lacework. It felt like being free, and coming home, both at the same time. It felt like himself, his true self, and like Dean.
“Better together,” Cas said aloud, and Dean smiled.
“Better together,” he agreed.
Cas leaned in a little nearer - still shy, somehow, even when everything was known between them, even when there was no reason to fear. They both knew it all, and even still, both of them took their time, moving closer to each other in slow degrees. They smiled a little with every inch they took; when they were nose to nose, Cas tilted his head just slightly left. Dean leaned in a little closer, and ever-so-gently, with so much care, they kissed...
After the flowers’ song, the press of their lips was a simplicity to run into, a physicality that was easy to understand. Cas brought up his free hand and cupped Dean’s cheek, feeling a thrill when Dean leaned into it, kissed him a little harder.
The wind brought scents of jasmine, and oregano, and tiger lily, carried them around the rooftop in a whirl. And they kissed, and kissed - let their lips move, wordless, because they had never needed words, in truth. And held gently in their witch hands were the flowers - one that was the start, and one that would see them through, right to the very end. The white, and the red.
Dean and Cas kissed on - and, between them, the roses sang.