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1.
They were in a police station in some small town in Illinois. At least, Dean thinks that it was Illinois; he knows that it was long before the trials, long before Naomi got her claws into him, before Purgatory, before the Leviathans, in the time when Cas' mojo had been waxing and waning with each day that passed. They’d been working on a case together, just something small to kill time while they waited for Bobby to dig up more information on what the Colt could and couldn't kill. While they were waiting around to meet with the sheriff, Dean had grabbed some coffee out of instinct, sipping it from a paper cup that seemed likely to break at any moment. After a few moments, he’d noticed Cas staring at him and he’d handed him a cup of the stuff as well because hey, that was what feds (even fake ones) did: they drank coffee, regardless of how disgusting it was. Dean hadn't been entirely sure if Cas could even taste the stuff but considering how stiff and awkward he looked, it would at least contribute to his disguise.
The first and only sip he took ended up sprayed across the nearest desk, soaking some papers that looked very important. Castiel was staring at the cup rather intensely, muttering something about motor oil and while Dean had to agree that the coffee was really frigging gross, he was pretty sure that they’d lost their chance of getting any information out of the sheriff.
In the end, it didn't really matter, because Sam called from the high school across town before the mess was even cleaned up and said that he'd located the nest of vampires they were searching for. They had two young kids, a boy and a girl no older than fifteen, strung up in one of the sub-basements of the school and by the time they were finished, the walls were literally dripping with vamp blood and Cas disappeared with a flap of wings before they got back to the Impala.
2.
Dean doesn't see Castiel drink coffee again until after the angels have plummeted to the ground. With Charlie’s assistance, they manage to track his dead cellphone to a field in Michigan. When they find him, he's drenched to the bone, his eyes dull and glassy, shivering so fiercely that Dean thinks he might die. Him and Charlie bundle him up and take turns driving, staying in constant contact with Sam, taking the back roads so that they don't run into the cops. They stop at a service station in Illinois and Dean gets the biggest coffee he can and climbs into the backseat and even though he knows that it probably has the taste and consistency of tar, he holds Castiel's jaw still so that he can drink the warm liquid down. He's wearing a mixture of Sam and Dean's spare clothing and he's wrapped in a shabby blanket from the trunk and even when the glassiness begins to leave his eyes, he looks nothing like the angel he used to be. He looks like a man, all thin skin and blood and breakable bones and even after all the fucking stuff they've witnessed, that sight still makes it into the top five scariest things Dean has ever seen.
Once they get back to the bunker, Dean practically has to carry Cas inside. They deposit him in Dean's bedroom (because it's closest Dean says, that's all) and Cas sleeps for thirty-six hours, only waking to stumble into the bathroom and drink the glasses of water they keep putting beside his bed. Once he's rested up, he doesn’t talk about falling. He doesn’t talk about any of it, about Naomi or Metatron or the fact that the majority of his brothers and sisters have died. Instead, the first thing he does is ask for something warm and although Dean reaches for the whiskey first, after the look he gets from Sam, he decides on coffee instead.
Cas’ face crinkles up on the first sip but at the very least, he doesn’t spit it across the room. After a few more sips, he even seems to enjoy it, holding the mug tight in both hands until his fingers turn red from the heat.
“This is quite bitter,” he muses, bringing it closer to his nose and shutting his eyes as he inhales. “But I think I understand why you enjoy it.”
After he finishes the drink, he falls back asleep for another eight hours. When he wakes up again, Dean pours him another cup of coffee, this time with a little milk and sugar added to it. Cas drinks the liquid even faster this time, so fast that he burns his tongue. With a tiny noise, he pokes it out of his mouth, prodding the end of it with his finger and Dean can only imagine how bizarre it must be to be able to feel your nerves reacting to pain for the first time.
“That was painful,” he says around his tongue, the words slurred and barely understandable and even though Dean smiles and makes some flippant remark, he finds it hard to swallow around the lump of bitterness that has taken up residence in his throat.
3.
Dean would be lying if he said he didn't like the smell.
One day, while they're sitting at the table in the library, Dean catches himself watching Cas simply drink, one hand wrapped around the white mug with the chipped rim that he has claimed as his own. There's an old book open in front of him but his eyes are unfocused and Dean thinks that he can see thoughts floating behind his irises. A small frown settles upon his mouth after a moment or so but after he takes a sip and drags his tongue over his lips, it changes to a tiny smile. It's different from the smile Cas had occasionally shown when he was still a creature of grace and fury; maybe it's because now he has the beginnings of crow's feet around his eyes when his lips quirk up or maybe it's because he genuinely does look happy, even considering their circumstances. Whatever it is, it makes something stir low in Dean's chest and he quickly looks away, forcing himself to focus on the research Sam has brought up on his laptop.
He can only look away for so long, however. He turns to ask Cas if he knows anything more than what their internet sources say and although he does manage to get the question out, it's with difficulty. Cas is in the process of draining his mug and when he sets it down on the pitted tabletop, there's a thin film of coffee over his lips and Dean is almost bowled over by the urge to lick it off.
He doesn't succumb to said thought but he doesn't forget about it either.
4.
It takes awhile for Castiel to adjust to being human. He adapts to the little things remarkably quickly but the big things, like his own mortality, don't stick in his mind. On the second case he joins Dean and Sam on, his gun jams and he goes after a skinwalker with only a knife, plunging into the darkness of the abandoned warehouse the thing has set up shop in without a moment of hesitation. By the time they catch up with him, Castiel is barely on his feet, blood gushing from a deep gash on his forearm. Sam distracts the thing so that Dean can gank it but by that time, Cas has already passed out, slumped against the wall, his jeans and khaki jacket sodden with blood.
Sam drives forty over the limit back to their motel. Dean sits in the back, Cas’ head in his lap, keeping pressure on the deep wound with the shirt he tore off his own back. The filter between his mind and his mouth completely breaks down and he spends the majority of the ride hunched over so he can whisper into Cas' ear, so that he can whisper don't you leave again you son of a bitch, don't you dare leave, Cas and he hopes like hell that the words register in the survival part of Castiel's brain.
They stitch up the gash in the tiny motel bathroom, dousing it with liquor and peroxide from the first aid kit and by the time they're done, every conceivable surface (including their clothes) is stained with blood. Sam finds a piece of gauze in the bottom of his bag and Dean tapes that down over the wound once it's sutured closed. Cas wakes up long enough to take some painkillers and then he’s gone again. With Sam’s assistance, Dean gets Cas laid out on one of the double beds and he sits against the headboard beside him, promising that he won’t fall asleep, that he’ll stay awake in case something goes wrong.
He only dozes off for two hours but when he awakes with a jolt, Sam is asleep on his own bed and Cas is sitting cross legged beside Dean, holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. There’s another one on the bedside table beside Dean and he takes it silently, countless words sitting heavy on his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Cas says quietly, eyes fixed on the lid of his drink. “That was foolish of me.”
“You’re damn right it was,” Dean mutters but the words don't come out as harsh as he intended them to. It’s only then that he notices that Cas has shed his blood stained clothes; instead, he’s wrapped up in one of Dean’s flannel shirts and a pair of his jeans. Both articles of clothing are too big for him and when Castiel raises his coffee to his lips, the sleeves of the shirt slide upward to his elbow, exposing the thick cords of his forearms and the knobs of his wrists, which have been scrubbed clean of blood.
“It’s fine Cas,” he finally says and before the logical side of his brain can scream stop, Dean reaches out and rests his hand on the side of Castiel's face. He can feel Cas' pulse beating against his thumb and there's harsh stubble prickling his palm and Cas is staring at him like he's either performed a miracle or committed one hell of a travesty.
“Just don’t pull that shit again, alright?” he mutters, dropping his hand back down into his lap and swallowing a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. “You aren’t Superman anymore.”
“I know, Dean.”
He falls asleep to the smell of coffee and he wakes up to it a few hours later and even though he’s covered in bruises and laying on a bumpy bed in a shitty motel room that still smells like blood, he can’t help but wake up with a smile because Castiel is asleep beside him and he's alive and it's a wonderful fucking thing.
5.
“It’s not like anyone's using it, right?” he says, more to himself than Sam. Sam simply shrugs and when they get back to the bunker five hours later, Dean sets the machine and four boxes of K-Cups on the kitchen counter. Castiel wanders in from the library and the wound on his forearm has healed to a thick, raised line of pale pink tissue that is undoubtedly going to form into a scar.
“Brought you a present,” Dean casually says, plugging the machine in. Cas already has a mug in his hand but he sets it aside and starts fiddling with the machine, pressing his fingertips to it like he's learning through touch alone. Dean grabs a beer from the fridge and by the time he pops the top off, Cas has figured it out, popping in a cap that promises to make Mountain Blueberry flavored coffee.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, scratching idly at his scar tissue and smiling. Once his drink has finished, he leaves the room, presumably heading back to his research. Dean finishes his beer and makes it as far as the couch in the living room before he passes out, bone tired from the drive and the hunt.
He sleeps for five hours, which is a long stretch for him. When he wakes up, Sam is nowhere to be found and Dean assumes that he’s asleep in his bedroom. Cas, on the other hand, is still awake, or has woken up already. He's sitting at the dining room table, thick book laying open in front of him, lips moving soundlessly as his eyes scan the page. When Dean steps closer, he can see that Cas is wearing an old pair of Dean’s pajama pants, the hems ratty and frayed, dotted with holes. His hair is more mussed up than usual and in his left hand, he's holding a steaming mug of coffee, fingers tightly wrapped around the handle. Dean grabs the chair next to him and spins it so that he's facing Cas. Once he flips the page, Cas turns his chair as well and smiles, reaching beside him and pulling another mug closer.
“It might be a little cold, but I made you some earlier,” he says quietly, eyes slightly crinkled with sleep. “It’s supposed to taste like French toast but I think it’s inaccurate.”
Just like that, Dean feels it hit him like a ton of bricks and for the moment being, he ignores the coffee. He waits until Cas sets his own cup down before he lunges forward and kisses him, curling his fingers into the downy hair behind Cas' ear. Cas stays still for a moment, his lips parted and eyes half-closed but then, with a content sigh, he slides to the edge of his chair and returns the kiss, hands pressed against Dean's knees, fingernails pressed into the worn denim of his jeans.
When Dean slides his tongue against Castiel's lips, teasing against his own, Dean realizes that Castiel's statement is true. The coffee Cas had been drinking tastes nothing like French toast; rather, it tastes a thousand times better, like caring and loyalty and home and even though Dean knows that it's only for a few, precious seconds, it's one of the happiest moments of his life so he seizes it with all he has and thanks whatever God that is listening for the gift of coffee beans.