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Dean awoke to the smell of warm ginger. Bread, maybe? Cookies? Some sort of pastry for breakfast? Whatever it was, he wanted it.
He climbed out of bed, not bothering to put pants on over his boxers, not even bothering with a t-shirt (what? He had the dead guy robe). Of course, all he did was run a hand through his hair, just not caring to be bothered with making himself look more presentable right now. He was at home. Everybody would have to deal with it..
Dean walked the halls, the concrete cold against his bare feet.
When he entered the kitchen he was privy to a bizarre sight of pure chaos. There were cookies everywhere, and when he meant everywhere, he meant everywhere. There were cookies on the kitchen table, cookies on the metal counter, cookies carefully arranged in every nook and cranny. There was white frosting and sprinkles and gumdrops, and gingerbread houses that were falling apart. Cas was in the pajamas Dean had lent him, and they were covered in all different kinds of powder. There was butter on him, frosting. There was even granulated sugar stuck to his left forearm by butter that was probably more stubborn than the average dairy product. Somehow, there was a brown powdering of spice on Castiel’s cheek and nose.
“Uh… what is this?” Dean asked.
“I know it’s a human tradition to make gingerbread cookies and gingerbread houses for Christmas, so I thought I’d join in on the festivities. I’ve been working all night.”
Dean stepped into the kitchen, and snagged a cookie, taking a bite out of it despite what he was about to say, “Cas, we haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet. Chill.”
“I don’t like Thanksgiving.”
“Why?” Dean asked around a mouthful of cookie. Part of him wanted to spit it out, or wash it down with coffee. Castiel had put too much ginger, and it was burning his tongue in an unpleasant way. “The food’s good,” Dean argued.
He went over to make coffee, back to Castiel now. As he’d walked over he’d seen Castiel with a too-wide spatula trying to coat one of the cookies in the frosting. He’d picked one of the cartoony man shaped ones, and it hadn’t seemed to be going so well.
Dean turned after he started up the coffee machine, and leaned against the counter. Gingerbread men toppled over thanks to his hip banging against them. They came apart on the floor.
Oops.
“Well,” Castiel began, “I find it rather vile and morbid to celebrate the genocide and cultural destruction of entire peoples.”
Eesh. Yeah, he’s right.
“So you’re skipping right to Christmas?” Dean asked, crossing his arms and shifting. More cookies fell and broke. He winced. “Sorry.”
Castiel let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes at him, rolling his whole head and part of his body with it.
Then he went back to frosting, getting it all over his fingers.
Dean started having thoughts about those frosting-coated fingers and what he could do with them. Though, he wasn’t sure if he trusted that the frosting was any good. That immediately broke him out of his reverie.
“Yes,” Castiel answered. “I think it’s best to go right to Christmas.”
“Couldn’t you at least have waited for December?”
Castiel tilted his head at him. “Would that have been preferable?”
Dean shrugged. “Maybe.”
He went over to Cas, and there was no ignoring the way Cas looked his body up and down before stopping at his lips. Dean leaned in as if he was about to kiss him, but then he grabbed a cookie and jumped away. Cas’ jaw dropped, eyes wide and nearly hurt, a disbelieving look on his gorgeous face.
“You got swerved,” Dean explained. He bit the head off the cookie, and immediately leaned over, sputtering, spitting it out on the floor. “Babe, you burnt the gingerbread man. What kind of sick torture is this?”
Castiel glared, but there was a playful light in his eyes. “The kind that you’ll end up enjoying.” Dean swallowed roughly. “Now clean up your mess,” Castiel reprimanded. “It’s not customary to spit on the floor.”
Dean set about doing that, having sips of his coffee here and there, and then he squeezed in before Castiel and right up against the counter.
“Dean, what are you doing? I have to finish these.”
“I’m cleaning up my mess.”
Before Castiel could object, he grabbed one of his frosting covered fingers and sucked it into his mouth. His eyes grew hot. Yet, Castiel pulled his finger away.
“Let me get back to this.”
Dean stepped away, pressing up against Cas as he did so. He picked up a dark brown cookie and turned it to examine the body. Dean tsked, shaking his head.
With a playful smile on his face, he said, “I can’t believe you murdered the gingerbread man.”
Castiel gave him a flat stare before chucking a frosted cookie at him.