Chapter Text
The heat was a physical weight, pressing against Dean’s turnout gear, heavy and suffocating. Through the visor of his mask, the world was a hazy, orange nightmare of smoke and flame. The radio on his shoulder crackled with urgent voices—Battalion Two ordering evacuations, Engine 24 reporting a collapse on the south side—but Dean’s focus was entirely on the frantic figure struggling against the police line in the front yard.
He didn't need the dispatch to tell him the address. 231 Mill Creek Road. Castiel’s place. His place. A cold dread, sharper than any blade of fire, cut through him as he sprinted from the engine.
"Cas!" Dean shouted, his voice muffled by the respirator as he grabbed the man by the shoulders.
Castiel—disheveled, wearing a flannel shirt Dean had bought him on their third date, that was now singed at the hem, his face smeared with soot and tears—fought against him with surprising strength. He wasn't looking at the house. He was looking at the cluster of wooden boxes stacked near the porch, the smoke swirling thick and angry around them.
"My bees!" Cas gasped, coughing violently as he tried to pull away. "Dean, I have to get the smokers! I have to calm them down—if the wax melts, if the heat spikes, they’ll cook inside the hives!"
"Let the fire department handle the structure!" Dean barked, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wasn't just a firefighter giving orders now; he was begging. "You can't go in there, Cas. Please."
"You don't understand!" Cas’s eyes were wide, blue and desperate, reflecting the inferno devouring the small farmhouse they had picked out together. "I have a queen in the fourth hive, she’s—"
A loud crack echoed through the night as the roof of the porch groaned, embers raining down like hellish snow. Dean didn't give Cas a chance to argue. He hooked an arm around his waist and hauled him backward, dragging him toward the relative safety of the driveway.
"Let go of me!" Cas thrashed, his voice breaking. "They’re already panicking! I can hear them humming. It’s a death scream!"
Dean shoved him down behind the fire engine, caging him in with his own body, trying to shield him from the sight.
"Hey, look at me," Dean demanded, his voice rough with emotion. "Look at me, Cas. We'll figure it out."
“You don’t understand.” Cas slumped against the tire, the fight draining out of him instantly as he watched the flames consume the porch. "It wasn't an accident," he whispered, his gaze hollow. "I turned everything off. I checked the breakers before I went to the store."
Dean’s instincts, honed by a decade on the job, pricked at the despair in his partner's voice. It wasn't grief; it was cold, hard realization. "What are you saying?"
Castiel looked up, his eyes hardening into something Dean had never seen before—something vengeful and terrifying.
"I'm saying someone wanted them to burn, Dean. Someone did this to me."
***
The alarm blared at 05:30, a piercing shriek that cut through the quiet of the bunk room. Dean Winchester was already awake, his eyes open to the darkness, his body trained to the rhythm of the station. He swung his legs out of the bunk, his bare feet hitting the cool concrete floor.
The other guys were stirring, a symphony of groans and shuffling blankets, but Dean was already moving, pulling on his duty pants and a fresh station shirt.
At thirty-six, Dean Winchester was the Captain of Lawrence Fire Station 24, and he ran his house like he ran his fires: with precision, authority, and a healthy dose of gallows humor. He’d been with the LFD for fourteen years, a wide-eyed kid who’d followed his old man’s footsteps straight into a life of smoke and sirens.
He’d earned his Captain’s bars three years ago after saving a family of four from a third-floor walk-up, a ballsy move that had also earned him a commendation and a permanent ache in his right knee.
He was good at his job. Damn good. His crew was a well-oiled machine, respected across the county for their response times and their clean saves. Dean was the guy you wanted in your corner when the world was burning down around you. He was calm under pressure, strong enough to carry a grown man down a ladder, and smart enough to read a building's intentions before it could betray them.
But the heroism didn't pay the bills for a life outside the station.
He sat at the long metal table in the common room, a steaming mug of black coffee in his hands, watching the sun paint the Kansas sky in shades of pink and orange. He thought he’d have it figured out by now.
This was supposed to be the easy part.
The house was paid for, a modest little place with a garage for his beloved Impala. He had a stable, respected career. He was a good man, he thought. A reliable one. He was the guy who always showed up.
So why was he always alone?
Dating was a special kind of hell. He’d tried the apps, the bar scene, even the awkward setups from well-meaning friends. The conversations always followed the same script.
"What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a firefighter."
The reaction was always one of two things: a flicker of primal attraction—the uniform, the hero fantasy—or a shadow of fear.
The first one was fun for a night or two, but it always faded. The second one was a permanent wall he could never seem to climb. They heard the job title and didn't see a man who wanted to come home to a hot meal and a bad movie. They saw 48-hour shifts, missed holidays, and the constant, gnawing worry that the man they were falling for might not come back from his next call.
It was a classic Catch-22. The very thing that made him a hero in their eyes was the same thing that made him a terrifying risk for a future. He wanted what his parents had, what Bobby and Karen had. A partner. A home. Someone to share the silence with. Instead, he had an empty house and the constant, low-grade hum of loneliness that even the roar of a fire engine couldn't drown out.
He drained his coffee, the bitter liquid a familiar comfort. The crew was starting to filter in, slapping him on the back, grabbing their own mugs. He was their Captain, their leader. He had their backs, and they had his. It was a family, of sorts.
But as he looked out the bay door at the quiet street, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the alarm to sound, for the next fire to start. It was all he knew.
***
Castiel’s day began not with an alarm, but with a low, steady hum. It vibrated through the floorboards of his small apartment, a constant, living pulse that was the heartbeat of his work and his life. At thirty-nine, he had been a beekeeper for twelve years, and he couldn't imagine a world without that sound.
He rose with the sun, padding barefoot across the worn wooden floors of his living space. Below him, nestled on the ground floor of the old brick building, was "The Honey Pot," his small shop and sanctuary. The air in his apartment always carried a faint, sweet scent of beeswax and clover, a perfume he had come to associate with peace.
His routine was a meditation. He’d brew a strong pot of Earl Grey tea, honeyed with a spoonful from his personal stash—the wildflower blend, rich and complex. Then he would descend the narrow wooden staircase to open the shop. He loved the morning ritual of unlocking the front door, flipping the hand-painted "Open" sign, and letting the soft morning light illuminate the neat rows of his product.
Castiel took immense pride in his honey. This wasn't the mass-produced, syrupy sweetness from a plastic bear.
This was the liquid soul of Lawrence, Kansas.
He had dozens of varieties, each labeled in his neat, spidery script. There was the robust Buckwheat, dark as molasses and earthy. The delicate, fruity Blackberry honey, harvested from the bushes along the creek bed. His bestseller was the creamy, golden Clover, a classic for a reason.
But his personal favorite was the Lavender-infused honey, a floral, aromatic creation that he’d perfected over years of trial and error. He also sold beeswax candles, salves, and small blocks of pure honeycomb, each item a testament to the intricate society he cared for.
He had inherited the business from his mentor, an old man named Ezekiel who had seen in the quiet, intense Castiel a kindred spirit. For twelve years, Castiel had poured everything he had into this place. He knew his queens by temperament, could predict a swarm by the change in the air, and spoke to his bees in a low, rumbling murmur that seemed to calm them. They were his family, his constant companions.
And like Dean, he was profoundly lonely.
Dating was an exercise in gentle disappointment. He’d tried, mostly through the gentle prodding of his younger sister, Anna. The conversations were always a minefield.
"So, what do you do?"
"I'm a beekeeper."
The reaction was usually a blank stare, followed by a condescending smile.
"Oh. So... you make honey? That's... cute."
They saw a quirky hobby, not a demanding, science-driven profession. They didn't understand the predawn checks, the constant battle against mites and disease, the delicate art of queen rearing, or the sheer physical labor of harvesting fifty pounds of honey from a single hive.
They'd listen with polite amusement as he tried to explain the waggle dance or the complex social structure of the hive, their eyes glazing over. They wanted to talk about their office jobs or their latest vacation, not the devastating effects of neonicotinoids on a local apiary.
No one took him seriously.
To them, he was just the weird honey guy, a harmless eccentric. They couldn't see the passion, the science, the profound connection he felt to the tiny, buzzing lives he was sworn to protect.
They saw a man who talked to insects, and they gently, politely, backed away.
He was pushing forty, and his life was full of the hum of bees, but utterly devoid of the warmth of a partner. He had his shop, his hives, and his quiet routines. It should have been enough.
But as he stood behind the counter, polishing a jar with a soft cloth, the empty bell above the door remained silent, and the shop felt a little too big, a little too quiet.
***
5 Months Earlier
The call came in as a structure fire with possible entrapment on the edge of town. By the time Engine 24 arrived, the small ranch-style house was fully involved. Orange flames clawed at the eaves and thick, black smoke billowed from the windows, a choking monster devouring the home.
Dean was out of the truck before it had fully stopped rolling, pulling on his mask and helmet.
"Benny, Garth, on me! Primary search!" he yelled over the roar of the fire.
A woman was on her knees in the front lawn, screaming, her husband holding her back.
"My baby! My Lily is still in there! She was in her room!"
"Where's the bedroom?" Dean demanded, his voice sharp and clear, cutting through their panic.
"Down the hall! Last door on the left!"
That was all Dean needed.
"Let's go." he commanded, and the three of them disappeared into the suffocating darkness.
The heat inside was a physical blow. Visibility was near zero. Dean stayed low, sweeping the floor with his gloved hands, his training taking over completely. The layout was simple—living room, kitchen, down the hall. He could hear Benny and Garth behind him, their heavy breathing and the crunch of debris under their boots the only sounds besides the fire's hungry crackle.
"Living room clear." Garth's voice crackled over the radio.
"Kitchen clear." Benny followed.
Dean pushed forward, the hallway narrowing around him. The smoke was thick and acrid, stinging his eyes even through the mask. He found the bedroom door, hot to the touch. He kicked it in, the splintering wood lost in the roar.
And there she was. A tiny lump under a pink blanket on the floor by the far wall, as if she'd tried to crawl away from the smoke.
"Lily!" Dean called, but there was no response.
He scrambled to her side, his large frame clumsy in the small space. He gently pulled back the blanket. The little girl, no older than five, was pale and still, her hair matted with sweat, her lips tinged with blue.
She wasn't breathing.
"Code Red! I have her!" Dean barked into his radio, his voice tight with an urgency that bordered on panic. "Unresponsive child! I'm coming out!"
He scooped her up, cradling her tiny, limp body against his chest. She weighed nothing. She was a fragile, broken bird in his arms.
"Okay, sweetheart, you listen to me," he murmured, his voice dropping to a soft, desperate plea as he backed out of the room, moving as fast as he could. "You're gonna be okay. You're gonna be just fine. We're almost outside, honey. Just hang on for me, sweet girl."
He burst back out into the relatively clear air of the living room. Benny was already laying out their gear, his face grim but focused.
"Let's have her, brother," Benny said, reaching for the child.
"No, I got her," Dean grunted, gently laying her on the floor. "Garth, get the bag! I need an airway, now!"
Garth ripped open the medical kit, his hands shaking slightly but moving with practiced speed. "I'm on it, Cap. Oxygen's ready."
Dean tilted her head back, his fingers searching for a pulse. Nothing. He pinched her nose and covered her small mouth with his, delivering two gentle rescue breaths. Her chest rose and fell, but there was no response from her.
"Come on, Lily," Dean whispered, his voice cracking. "Come back to me, honey. Breathe for me. Just one breath, sweetheart. That's all I'm asking." He looked up at Benny, his eyes wild with fear behind the mask.
The parents' screams were a raw, physical force against Dean's back.
"Lily! Oh God, Lily!" the mother sobbed, her voice shredding with every syllable. The father's shouts were a guttural mix of rage and terror. It was a distraction, a siren call of despair that threatened to pull Dean's focus away from the tiny, still form beneath his hands.
He tuned it out. The world narrowed to the space between his palms, to the small chest that refused to rise.
"Come on, honey," he begged, his voice a raw whisper. "Come on, sweet girl. Breathe for me."
He delivered another rescue breath, then another, his own lungs burning with the effort. He was counting seconds in his head, each one a hammer blow against his resolve. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
And then, a miracle.
A sharp, ragged gasp tore from Lily's throat. Her small body arched violently as a coughing fit seized her, expelling a thick cloud of black soot.
She was breathing.
She was breathing.
A wave of relief so powerful it almost buckled his knees washed over Dean.
"That's it! That's my girl!" he cheered, his voice thick with emotion. "Cough it all out, sweetheart. You're doing so good."
He didn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he scooped her up, blanket and all, and cradled her securely against his chest. He held her close, turning his body to shield her from the chaos and the frantic cries of her parents. He smoothed his gloved hand over her matted, soot-streaked hair, murmuring a constant stream of reassurance.
"You're okay now, Lily. You're safe. I've got you. I'm right here."
He shifted his weight, turning toward the sound of the approaching ambulance and the heart-wrenching sobs of the parents who were being held back by a police officer. Dean met the mother's desperate gaze and gave a single, firm nod.
"It's okay," he called out, his voice strong and clear, cutting through the noise. "She's breathing. You can come here."
The officer released them, and they stumbled forward, collapsing just a few feet away. Dean carefully knelt, keeping Lily's head elevated.
"She took a breath," he said, his tone calm and authoritative, the Captain back in control. "She's coughing up the smoke, but she's breathing. We're getting her to the hospital." He looked from the mother to the father. "She's a fighter. She's a tough little kid."
The wail of the ambulance grew louder as it backed into the driveway. Dean rose smoothly, never breaking his hold on the little girl who was now whimpering softly against his coat. He moved with purpose toward the open back doors, a steady, reassuring presence in the middle of a nightmare.
***
The late afternoon sun was warm on Castiel’s back as he moved through his apiary, the gentle hum of his bees a familiar balm to his soul. He carried a smoker, its puffs of white cedar smoke calming the hives as he performed his inspections. He worked with a slow, deliberate grace, lifting the lid of a hive to reveal the intricate, golden world within.
He pulled out a frame, heavy with honeycomb, and examined it closely. He wasn't just looking for honey; he was checking the health of his colony. He ran his thumb over a section of capped brood, the tiny, opaque cells where new bees were gestating. He looked for the tell-tale signs of a healthy queen—a solid, circular pattern of brood with few empty cells. He noted a few varroa mites, tiny red specks clinging to the bees, and made a mental note to treat this hive soon. In his worn leather-bound notebook, he jotted down: "Hive 7C - Strong brood pattern. Light mite load. Treat next week. Aggressive foragers." This was his science, his art.
Back in the shop, the bell above the door chimed, pulling him from his thoughts. A young couple was admiring the display, and Castiel offered them a warm, genuine smile. He loved watching people discover the difference between his honey and the store-bought stuff they were used to. He answered their questions about the benefits of raw honey and which floral notes paired best with cheese, his passion evident in every word. They left with a jar of the Lavender honey and a promise to return. The bell chimed again as they departed, and the shop settled back into a peaceful quiet.
Just as he was finishing restocking a shelf, the phone on the counter rang. He wiped his hands on his apron and picked it up.
"The Honey Pot, this is Castiel."
"Castiel! Hey, it's Sam."
A wide smile broke across Castiel's face. Sam was one of his favorite customers, a bright, earnest young law student who always asked thoughtful questions about pollination patterns and the importance of native flora. He was one of the few people who seemed to genuinely respect Castiel's work.
"Sam, it's good to hear from you," Castiel said warmly. "Running low on your Blackberry honey already?"
"You know it," Sam's voice came through the line, full of good cheer. "I swear I go through a jar a week. It's perfect in my oatmeal. Can I get my usual two?"
"Of course. It's a good batch this year, very floral."
"Excellent," Sam said. "Hey, listen, I'm swamped with finals prep, so I can't make it down there myself. Is it okay if my brother picks it up for me? He should be by in the next hour or so, if that works."
"Your brother?" Castiel asked, reaching for a paper bag.
"Yeah, Dean. He's, uh... he had a rough day at work, so I figured a little drive would do him good. Don't worry, he knows exactly where you are."
Castiel nodded, even though Sam couldn't see him. "That's perfectly fine, Sam. It's on the house. Consider it a thank you for all your hard work."
Sam chuckled. "You don't have to do that, Cas."
"I insist," Castiel said firmly, a fondness in his voice. "Think of it as a study snack for the future lawyer of America."
"Alright, alright. Thank you, Cas. I really appreciate it. I'll tell him to head right over."
After they hung up, Castiel moved to the shelf of Blackberry honey. He selected two perfect jars, the dark, rich liquid gleaming in the light. He placed them carefully in the bag, then grabbed his order pad and a pen. He thought for a moment, then wrote in his neat script: 2x Blackberry - PAID - Dean Winchester.
He folded the top of the bag and placed it on the corner of the counter, reserved for pickup. Dean. He'd never met the man, but Sam spoke of him with a mixture of exasperation and deep affection. He wondered what kind of person could handle the high-stress job Sam alluded to and still have time to be a good brother.
He hoped the honey brought him some small measure of peace.
The afternoon settled into its familiar rhythm. A few more customers drifted in—a woman buying beeswax candles for her mother, a chef from a local restaurant placing a bulk order for clover honey.
Castiel served them all with the same gentle, fond smile, his passion for his product evident in every interaction. He answered their questions, bagged their jars, and sent them on their way with a sincere, "Thank you for supporting local bees."
By six, the shop was quiet again. The last of the evening sun cast long, golden shadows across the wooden floor. Castiel closed the door, flipping the sign to "Closed," and headed upstairs to his apartment. He just needed a few minutes to himself, a moment of peace before he closed up the hives for the night.
He sat on his worn sofa, sipping a glass of water, letting the low hum from below soothe the day's minor stresses away.
He was lost in thought when the sharp, unexpected chime of the bell downstairs cut through the quiet.
His eyes snapped open. He’d forgotten to lock the deadbolt. With a sigh, he pushed himself up and headed for the sink, giving his hands a quick, thorough wash. He was halfway down the narrow wooden staircase when another sound made him freeze—the sharp, insistent ding of the small bell on the counter being struck repeatedly.
"Be right there!" he called out, his voice steady despite the slight annoyance at the impatience.
He took the last few steps two at a time, rounding the corner into the shop with a prepared customer-service smile on his face, and the words died in his throat.
Leaning against the counter was a man. A very handsome stranger. He was tall, with broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of a simple grey t-shirt, and his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. But it was the details that caught Castiel's attention and sent his heart into a frantic, unsteady rhythm. His hair was still damp, dark blonde strands sticking up in soft spikes as if he’d just run a towel through it. And he smelled… incredible. Not of smoke or ash, but of clean, fresh linen and a bright, zesty hint of citrus, like he’d just washed with a bergamot-scented soap.
Castiel stopped short, his hand coming up to grip the doorframe to steady himself. He felt a blush creeping up his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer the standard "Can I help you?" but all that came out was a breathless, stammering mess.
"I—uh—can I… can I help you?"
The man turned his head, and Castiel was struck by the most stunning green eyes he had ever seen, framed by long, dark lashes. They looked tired, but kind. A small, tired smile played on the man's lips.
"Hey," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate right through Castiel's bones. "My brother placed an order a little while ago. I'm, uh… Dean Winchester."
Dean. The name from the note. Sam's brother. Castiel's brain finally caught up, and he managed a shaky nod, pointing a finger toward the counter as if he'd forgotten how to form words.
"Right. Yes. Dean." He cleared his throat, willing his voice to cooperate. "Sam. I, um, I have it right here for you."
***
The water in the station's shower room was scalding, and Dean stood under the spray, letting it beat against his aching shoulders and the back of his neck. He could still smell the smoke, a phantom scent that clung to his skin and hair no matter how hard he scrubbed. He closed his eyes and saw the little girl's blue-tinged lips, felt the fragile weight of her body in his arms. She was alive. She was at the hospital, stable and with her parents. He knew that. But the image was burned into his memory, just like all the others.
He shut off the water and grabbed a towel, wrapping it securely around his waist as he sank onto the long wooden bench in front of his locker. The locker room was empty, a rare moment of quiet. He just needed a minute. A minute to let the adrenaline ebb and the exhaustion set in.
His phone buzzed on the bench beside him. He glanced at the screen—Sam. He sighed, swiping to answer.
"Hey, Sammy."
"Dean! Hey, did you get my text?"
Dean rubbed a hand over his face, his skin still damp. "No, man, just got out of the shower. What's up?"
"Oh. Well, I'm so sorry to bother you, I know you just got off a shift, but I am completely swamped with this paper on tort law and I'm out of honey. I was wondering if you could run an errand for me?"
Dean leaned his head back against the cool metal of the lockers. "Sam, I'm beat. Can't it wait?"
"It's for my oatmeal in the morning!" Sam pleaded, his voice dropping into that wheedling tone he knew Dean was a sucker for. "Please? I already called it in. You just have to pick it up."
Dean let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine. Fine. Where am I going?"
"The Honey Pot! You know, that little shop on Mill Creek? The one with the really good Blackberry honey?"
Dean nodded, even though Sam couldn't see him. He started rifling through his locker for clean clothes. "Yeah, I think I know the one. The place you never shut up about."
"That's the one!" Sam said, his voice brightening. "Hey, while you're there, you'll get to finally meet Castiel."
Dean paused with a t-shirt halfway to his head. "Castiel?"
"Yeah, the owner. He's the guy I was telling you about," Sam said, and Dean could practically hear the mischievous grin in his voice. "He's single, Dean. And he's got his own business, which is super impressive. He's not just some guy who sells honey; he's like, a legitimate scientist with bees. He's really smart, and kind of... intense, but in a good way."
Dean huffed, pulling the shirt over his head. "Oh, here we go. Sam, I'm not in the mood to be set up with your hippie beekeeper friend."
"He's not a hippie! He's a businessman," Sam corrected, though he was clearly enjoying this. "And I'm not trying to set you up. I'm just... informing you. He's a good guy. Just... be nice. And maybe don't smell like a forest fire when you meet him."
Dean rolled his eyes, pulling on his jeans. "Yeah, yeah. Anything else, Dad? Should I bring him flowers?"
"Just the honey, Dean. Thanks, man. You're a lifesaver."
"Right. I'm heading out now," Dean grumbled, ending the call and shoving his phone into his pocket. He ran a hand through his damp hair, the last thing he wanted to do right now being a social interaction.
But he'd promised Sam. He grabbed his keys and his wallet, sighing as he headed out to the Impala. He just wanted to go home, drink a beer, and forget the day.
The drive to "The Honey Pot" was long, but Dean spent the whole time mentally grumbling. He was tired, his knee was aching, and the last thing he felt like doing was making small talk with Sam's "smart, intense" beekeeper. He parked the Impala at the curb, cutting the engine and just sitting for a moment, staring at the small, brick-front shop. It looked quaint and peaceful, a world away from the chaos he'd just left.
He pushed the door open—completely ignoring the “closed” sign—and was immediately hit with a wave of warmth and a smell so potent and sweet it made his head swim. It was honey, sure, but also something else—wax, and dried herbs, and something clean and earthy, like a forest after a rain.
It was… nice. Calming.
The bell above the door chimed softly. The shop was empty, quiet. He could hear a faint rustling from a back room. He walked up to the counter, a thick slab of dark wood, and tapped the small service bell sitting on it. Ding. He waited a beat. Nothing. He tapped it again, a little more insistently this time. Ding-ding.
"Be right there!" a voice called out, steady and a little rough.
Dean leaned against the counter, shoving his hands in his pockets. He heard footsteps on a staircase, and then a man appeared in the doorway to the back room, stopping short when he saw him.
And Dean's brain just… stopped.
The guy was… not what he was expecting.
Sam's description didn't do him justice.
He had messy dark hair that stuck up in every direction, piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through him, and a jaw dusted with dark facial hair. He was wearing a simple button-down and an apron smeared with what looked like honey and pollen, and he was staring at Dean with an expression of wide-eyed shock.
"I—uh—can I… can I help you?" the man stammered, his cheeks flushing a pretty pink. He gripped the doorframe like he needed it to hold himself up.
Dean felt a smirk tug at his lips. All of Sam's hype, and the guy was a flustered mess. It was kind of cute.
"Hey," he said, letting his voice drop into that low, easy register he used to calm panicked victims. "My brother placed an order a little while ago. I'm, uh… Dean Winchester."
The man's eyes went even wider, if that was possible. He blinked, then gave a jerky nod, pointing a finger toward the counter as if he'd forgotten it was there.
"Right. Yes. Dean." He cleared his throat, a faint blush still on his cheeks. "Sam. I, um, I have it right here for you."
He turned and fumbled with a paper bag on the counter, his movements a little clumsy. Dean watched him, intrigued. Sam had described him as intense, but this guy seemed more like a startled sparrow—all nervous energy and shy glances. He finally turned back around, holding out the bag.
"Here you go. Two jars of the Blackberry. Sam's favorite."
Dean took the bag, their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second. The guy's hands were warm and smooth. "Thanks. How much do I owe you?"
"Oh, no, it's on the house," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I told Sam it was on me. For his studies."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah, that sounds like Sam. Always mooching." He glanced down at the bag, then back up at the man. He was still looking at Dean with those incredible blue eyes, a mixture of curiosity and shyness in their depths. "So, you're Castiel, right?"
The man nodded. "Cas is fine."
"Alright, Cas. I'm Dean." He held out his hand, a formal gesture that felt strangely necessary. "It's, uh, nice to finally meet the guy my brother won't shut up about."
Cas took his hand, his grip firm and sure. "He speaks very highly of you as well, he's very proud of you."
Dean froze, his smile faltering slightly, his cheeks turned bright red. “Does he now?”
Cas's eyes widened, and he looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "Oh! I—Sam just talks nonstop about you… I apologize, I shouldn't have—"
"No, it's… it's fine," Dean said, recovering quickly. He let go of Cas's hand, a strange warmth spreading through his chest. So Sam had been talking about him, too. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a little off-balance himself. "Well, thanks again for the honey. I'll, uh, I'll tell Sam you said hi."
"You're welcome, Dean," Cas said softly, a small, shy smile finally gracing his lips.
Dean backed toward the door, feeling an odd urge to stay. "Alright. Well. See you around, I guess."
He gave a final, awkward nod and pushed his way out the door, the bell chiming softly behind him. He stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, the sweet smell of the shop clinging to his clothes. He looked down at the bag in his hand, then back at the shop's window.
Intense, huh? Dean thought, a real smile finally breaking through. More like adorable.