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"You can, you should, and if you're brave enough to start, you will."
-- Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
"This cobbler is delicious. Would you like to try a bite?" Cas offers a spoonful to Dean with a smile.
Dean flushes and looks around the diner before waving his hand as if he's trying to shoo away a fly. "Nah, Cas, put that down. Stop tryna feed me."
"Why? I think you'd enjoy it. It's not pie, but it seems very pie-adjacent." Cas squints at him for a moment before shrugging and eating the bite himself. He gives a happy little hum and digs into the bowl for more.
The cobbler looks fantastic. It's homemade, full of thick, fresh chunks of pink-tinged peach, oozing with juice, and a golden brown pastry top that even from across the table smells temptingly of pecans and brown sugar. Dean fucking longs for a taste. He's about ready to punch himself for his casual, "you go ahead, buddy" after the waitress had admitted there was only one serving left. But men don't split desserts and they sure as hell don't feed each other. He turns back to his piece of (obviously store-bought and completely mediocre) cherry pie.
"I don't understand why you do this," Cas states. He heaves a put-upon sigh before setting the spoon down next to his half-finished cobbler. "My grace is gone, but you're still so easy to read. You desperately want to try this food, and you would love it if you tasted it, I can assure you. Last night you slept poorly because you were cold and the couch in the motel room is worn and uncomfortable. There was plenty of room in the bed where I was sleeping, and I had more blankets than I needed, but you insisted you didn't want to share. Two weeks ago you twisted your ankle on that ghoul hunt, and I offered to wrap it for you to ease the pain. Even though I could see how much discomfort you were in, you lied to my face about it and said you were fine. You constantly torture and deprive yourself in large and small ways, and why? What is it you fear?" He rubs a hand over his eyes and his shoulders slump. "It's all so unnecessary, Dean. What are you afraid will happen if you were kind to yourself, if you allowed me to be kind to you?"
Dean scoffed. "M'not afraid, man. It's just--"
Cas raises a questioning eyebrow and waits for him to continue.
"That's just not how I am, Cas. It's not how men are. You're new to this human thing, but you need to understand. Men don't trade spoonfuls of peach cobbler in crowded restaurants. They don't share blankets, and they sure as shit don't share beds. They take care of their own crap on their own and don't ask for anything from anyone. Men are strong, Cas. That's how I was raised. That's how I am."
If Cas could roll his eyes any harder, he'd be looking at his own brain. "Dean, forgive me for being blunt, but you need to hear this. I love you very much, but everything you just said is complete horseshit. Your father was a fine man but a damaged one, and the lessons he passed on to you carried that damage along with them. You can be a man and let someone help you. You can be a man and let someone love you. You told me yourself, we're stronger together. Now, here's the rest of my cobbler. Help yourself. And then let's go back to the room and I'll rub your shoulders. I know you've got a terrible crick in your neck from that couch."
Dean picks up the spoon.