Castiel Novak ran a small flower shop in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It was nothing special; just a corner shop full of flowers with a back room for lunch breaks. A dime a dozen.

Business was busy February fifteenth, just as it always was. Even though Valentine's Day had been the day before, there were plenty of people who had forgotten the holiday and were looking for late bouquets for their significant others.

So, when the bell above the door sounded, Castiel had headed towards the chrysanthemums.

"Forgot about yesterday?" he said, without looking at the customer. "Chrysanthemums and orchids are usually good, as well as roses...." Castiel trailed off, heading back to the counter for a scissors.

"Actually," the man said, "I need a flower that says 'fuck you.'"

"Oh-" Castiel turned to look at the man, and his breath hitched.

The man wore jeans and a hunting jacket, under which an AC/DC t-shirt was visible. He had amber hair, stubble, and hard, transfixing evergreen eyes. Evergreen eyes that were fixed on Castiel.

"Oh- right." Castiel gave a start, then headed for the other end of the shop. "Wild tansy, then, as well as St. John's Wort, pumpkin flower, basil, and- do you prefer red or white garden anemone?"

"What?" the man said.

"Red or white garden anemone?"

"No, I mean, er, what does that all mean?" the man asked awkwardly, cheeks going slightly pink.

He was quite cute, Castiel found himself thinking, when he was blushing.

"The wild tansy is for a declaration of war," he explained, "Saint John's Wort and pumpkin flower are for animosity and crudeness. Basil is hatred. Red or white garden anemone is for poison."

"Huh. Well, I'll take whichever anemone is more poisonous," the man said with a grin. "It is poisonous, right?"

"If eaten, it can cause some minor illnesses. Other than that, the worst that will happen is skin irritation from handling," Castiel told him, "If you wanted an arrangement that would kill someone, you would want nerium oleander or the castor oil plant in it."

"I take it that you don't have either of those?" the man said hopefully.

"I don't endorse murder, no," Castiel said with a small smile.

"Dammit. I'll take the red, then."

Castiel began collecting the flowers. "I take it that yesterday didn't go in your favor...?"

The man grinned wryly. "Dean. I decided yesterday would be a good day to, er, tell my girlfriend that I play for both teams. She didn't take too well to that."

So he's available, Castiel thought happily. Then he felt guilty for being thrilled about that.

"Well, Dean, if she can't accept you, then she's not worth it," Castiel said. He reached to grab a few flowers to trim the stems off of, not paying attention to the ones he was grabbing.

"Woah, wait- aren't those the poisonous ones?" Dean said, quickly grabbing Castiel's hand to pull it away from the flowers.

Castiel looked more closely at the flowers. Red garden anemone. Rarely was he so distracted that he handled those without his gloves to prevent the discomfort and itchiness that came after.

"Oh, yeah. Thank you. Forgot gloves. My bad, I'll just-" he realized that Dean was still holding his hand.

Dean seemed to realize that as well. He let go hurriedly.

Castiel grabbed a pair of gardening gloves from off the counter and went back to the anemone.

"No problem." Dean watched as Castiel assembled the bouquet, trimming the ends of the stems, tucking the blossoms amidst each other, wrapping it, then finally passing it back to him. Dean examined its vibrant reds, yellows, and greens. "Bit bright and cheery for a 'fuck you,' bouquet, huh?"

Castiel nodded his agreement. "Whoever wrote floriography was evidently unaware of the emotions associated with these colors."

"Yeah. How much for this happy hate bouquet?"

Castiel gave him the price.

Dean paid quickly, thanked him, gave him a last smile, and left, holding his bright and cheery "fuck you" bouquet.

Castiel watched him leave, and continued staring at the door, long after the bell had sounded to signal that he had left.

It struck him how personal that had been- Dean had told him minutes after the two of them meeting that he was (or at least, Castiel assumed) bisexual. Something he was guessing he hadn't told this girlfriend that quickly. He wasn't sure why Dean had decided he could confide in him so soon, but he wasn't complaining.

Hopefully, he thought, Dean would come back. Usually, Castiel didn't open up very quickly to people, but he found, miraculously, that the idea of talking to Dean wasn't an unwelcoming one.

Dean Winchester couldn't stop thinking about the florist. That was how he was referring to him in his head, since he hadn't had a name tag or anything, and Dean had forgotten to ask. He had been too busy staring.

The florist. Dark, slightly messy hair, a warm looking sweater, and wide, electrical blue eyes.

Dean felt weirdly drawn to him. Maybe he should have asked for his number.

Instead, he had asked for a "fuck you" bouquet for Lisa, which he was driving over to her apartment right now.

There was snow on the ground, and the temperature was far from warm, but the wind wasn't awful. The sun was out as well. If it had been twenty or thirty degrees warmer and the sun wasn't so damn bright, it would have been a nice day to walk there.

Squinting against the light, Dean made his way to the Roman Apartment Complex.

It was a sprawling mess of buildings, all of which had the same upscale look to them. Lots of large windows, well pruned trees, and large fountains that lit up spectacularly at night. The insides were the same way. Crystal chandeliers in the lobbies, expensive carpet in the rooms, and a cleaning staff that never slept.

Lisa's room was on the third floor, which meant a ride in the glass elevator, and a short stroll through the spotless hallways to room three twenty two. There were no doorbells in the complex, so he knocked.

Dean had a fleeting wonder as to where the florist lived. Surely not in one of these luxury apartments. Maybe in a small house or in that brick complex a block or two away from his shop. There was one balcony there that always had an arsenal of colorful potted plants and flowers in the spring and summer. He hadn't ever really wondered who had lived there and tended to those plants until-

The door opened.

"Hey, Lisa," Dean said amiably.

"Dean." Lisa surveyed him and the bouquet carefully. "What are you doing here?"

"Flower delivery," Dean said. "I picked it up ten minutes ago, made specially for you."

"Is this your way of apologizing for saying something so disgusting last night?" Lisa said coolly. "Because you're going to have to do better than that."

"No. Actually, it's a 'fuck you' bouquet," Dean said matter of factly. "Wild tansy for war, basil for hatred, good ol' St. John's Wort for animosity and the like."

He had actually paid a decent amount of attention to what the florist had said. Which was surprising, since he hardly gave plants a second thought. Then again, the florist could have been talking about the history of cardboard and Dean would have listened raptly.

The wrapping crackled as Dean put the bouquet into Lisa's hand and gave her a smile. "Really fits you, don't you think? Enjoy the flowers." With that, he turned and left her standing in her open doorway.

He made his way back through the spotless hallways and elegant lobby to his Chevy Impala.

As he climbed into the driver's seat, his phone rang. Dean answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dean. How are you?" Sam asked.

Dean smiled, turning the key with one hand and holding his phone to his ear with the other. "I'm doing fine, Sammy. How about you?"

"Good. Really good, actually."

"You sound a bit better than good. What happened? Did you finally ask that chick out?"

"Jess and I are dating now," Sam confirmed. Dean could almost hear his brother's smile through the phone. "She actually asked me out, if you can believe it."

Dean grinned. "Good for you, Sammy. Just make sure that you're the one who asks about the ring in a year. I'm glad at least one of us had a Valentines' Day that worked out."

"We're not going to be getting married in a year, Dean," Sam said. "I think it'll take a bit longer than that. Anyway, what happened to your Valentine's Day?"

"Lisa dumped me. No big deal, though. It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"That sucks. How come?"

"Er, dinner. I didn't take her to a nice enough place."

"She broke up with you over that?" Sam didn't sound as though he believed him.

Time to change the subject. "Yeah. So, how's college going? Been to any good keggers?"

By the time Dean had driven to his apartment, Sam had made it clear that he had not gone to any keggers- Dean suspected otherwise, but didn't press it too hard- and relayed a number of stories about his nutty psychology professor.

"So get this- we were studying fear, which is a normal part of the curriculum. He's talking about the science aspect, then out of nowhere, he set a desk on fire to see how we would react, then made us analyse it for an essay. What kind of teacher does that?"

"I got no idea. Probably a nutter, though."

Sam agreed. "Yeah. Well, speaking of essays, I have one I need to finish up for my government class."

"So you're just going to bail on me? Thanks, Sammy," Dean said sarcastically.

"Anytime. Talk to you later, Dean," Sam said.

"Bitch," Dean said endearingly.

Sam laughed. "Jerk."

The call ended, leaving Dean with his thoughts, which quickly shifted from Sam to the florist.

He had to see him again, Dean decided. Which left him with one option.

He was going to have to go back to the flower shop.