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The bunker was enormous. It took Mary almost fifteen minutes to find the kitchen. When she finally did, she also found Dean. He was standing at the stove, still in his pajamas, using tongs to toast a piece of bread over one of the gas burners. He smiled when he saw her in the doorway, and her heart stuttered in her chest. She was still having trouble recognizing her round faced, smooth skinned baby boy in this tall, muscular, scarred and calloused man, but that smile hadn't changed one bit.
"Morning," he said, his voice still a little rough and grumbly from sleep. "There's coffee in the pot." He pointed with his free hand to a table that held a collection of chipped mugs and an object that must be a coffee maker judging by the warm, delicious aroma emanating from it. It had more buttons and blinking lights than any coffee maker she'd ever seen, and she was a little afraid to touch it in case it exploded. There was no pot. It was just a plastic box with a semicircular niche in the front. "Just put the cup in the slot and press the red button," Dean said, clearly amused by her hesitancy.
She selected a mug — black with the words BLAME THE FLYING MONKEYS printed on it in neon green — and followed his instructions. Hot coffee streamed into the cup from a hidden spout. When she turned around, Dean was putting his perfectly browned toast on a plate and starting a second piece. "You have a coffee maker that belongs on the starship Enterprise," she said, "but you don't own a toaster?"
He laughed, the first time she'd heard him do so. It was nothing like his high, jingling baby laugh. It rose up from deep in his chest and stuttered like a stalled engine, but it was a nice sound. "We do," he said, "but it always burns the toast, and Cas won't eat burnt toast. He's very picky about food." He didn't seem annoyed by that. His eyes got a soft look as he said it, and Mary noticed that he was indeed watching the toast very carefully, making sure not an inch of it got more than lightly browned. Her suspicions about the nature of Dean and Cas's relationship strengthened, but before she could make up her mind to just ask, Cas himself appeared in the doorway.
He looked much better than he had yesterday. There was color in his face, and though he moved carefully, he didn't seem to be in a lot of pain. Even so, Dean immediately barked, "What the hell are you doing out of bed? You could pop a stitch."
"Then you should have brought the coffee to me," Cas said, unphased by Dean's apparent anger. He took a blue mug with a faded picture of a kitten on it and operated the coffee maker deftly.
"I was going to," Dean grumbled. "As soon as I finished your damn toast."
"Well, I'm up now, so I might as well eat in here and avoid getting crumbs in the bed." Cas took his coffee over to the breakfast table in the corner, but after setting the mug down, he started over to the fridge. When he tugged on the door, his face instantly twisted up in pain as the movement worked the injured muscles in his abdomen.
"Cas!" Dean snapped, but it was alarm, not rebuke. He dropped the half finished piece of toast on the plate and crossed the room in three long strides. Unceremoniously he tugged up the hem of Cas's t-shirt and checked the bandages for blood spots. Finding nothing, he went back to masking his worry with fake annoyance. "Will you just sit down and let me take care of you? I swear, you're worse at being sick than I am. What were you looking for? Milk?" While he talked, he hustled Cas back to the table and pushed him into a chair, his gentle touches belying his sharp tone.
Mary watched Dean fetch milk and sugar for the coffee, finish and deliver Cas's toast, and bring out butter and jelly. He banged each item down on the table as though it had personally offended him, but when he touched Cas it was like he was handling an injured bird or a fragile sculpture. There was nothing overtly sexual about the touches — a brief squeeze to Cas's shoulder, a hand on top his head lightly ruffling his sleep tousled hair — but every one expressed so much love and devotion that Mary found herself looking away as though she was intruding on something private. Intimate.
"You want toast?" Dean asked, and because she wasn't looking at him it took her a moment to realize he was talking to her now. "Or I could make eggs," he said when she didn't answer right away.
"Toast is fine," she said. "And I don't mind if it's a little burnt." She didn't want to put him to any extra trouble when he had already delayed his own breakfast to take care of Cas.
He nodded and popped four pieces of bread into a good old fashioned toaster with no buttons or flashing lights. Then he poured himself a coffee and sat down next to Cas, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "What?" he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"You're giving me a funny look."
"Sorry. I just … I don't mean to pry, but are you two …" She trailed off, unsure how to phrase the question.
Dean's cheeks turned a little pink, and he looked down at his coffee. "Yes," he said to the black liquid. "Does that bother you?"
"No," she said quickly. A little too quickly maybe.
"Good," Dean said, and there was suddenly something hard in his voice. He met her eyes again, and for a moment he was a complete stranger to her. A man who had lived a life she knew nothing about. You may have given birth to me, that look said, but that doesn't give you the right to judge me. I don't need your permission or your approval. Only your tolerance.
The toast popped, and Dean went to retrieve it. It was a little burnt around the edges, but she'd always liked it that way. She watched Cas bite into his second slice of perfect toast and remembered how John had always known to burn her toast a little. And her mother would always make sure a couple pieces got charred nearly black because that was how her father liked it. It was one of those couple things. She wondered how long they had been together, but with everyone's mouths full, now didn't seem like a good time to ask.