Chapter Text
It all starts when Castiel admits he’s never eaten a french fry. Dean’s brain short circuits and he’s left with a mouth full of food and a burger in his hands, completely at a loss.
When his brain comes back online, he chews, swallows, wipes his mouth, and stares pensively down at his plate. Cas is starting to show some concern at the lack of conversation. Sam sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose, and pops open his phone to start a game of Snake.
“Cas,” Dean says finally, “what the fuck.”
Cas glances around the podunk diner in concern. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“I don’t even know where to start,” Dean says darkly. “How old are you again?”
“I thought we were talking about—“
“And you never, in all that time you spent here on God’s green earth, you never tasted a french fry?”
“I’ve never tasted anything,” Cas replies simply and Dean fights to keep his composure.
“Cas. Goddamit, Cas!”
“You seem to be inappropriately upset about this, Dean. I don’t require food to—“
“Well, that’s not the fucking point! Food is... Food is everything.”
“To a human, yes. I imagine the thing that sustains your very life would be important to you, but I—“
Dean waves his hands furiously in front of Cas’s face and Sam actually snorts a laugh. “Not. The. Point.”
“I don’t follow.”
“If food were just for ‘sustaining life’,” Dean’s air quotes are insulting, “we’d be eating green power shakes and bunches of kale. Food—FRENCH FRIES—are not consumed to ‘sustain life’.”
“Quite the opposite, actually,” Sam chimes in.
“I have found the human senses bound in this vessel to be...base.”
“Rude.” Dean points a finger at Cas with a frown.
“I am merely telling the truth. In the celestial plane, the idea of only five senses is laughable. In fact, there’s a wonderfully entertaining joke about it in Enochian.” Cas’s lips have quirked into a small, reflective smile, but it falters at the deepening frown on Dean’s face.
“All I mean is that angels don’t experience stimuli in the same way. We don’t...” Cas pauses and glances at the ceiling as if searching for the right words there. “We just know the essence of all things, all at once. Human senses are so rudimentary—molecular—in comparison.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever, you sound like a stuffy philosophy professor. You’ll eat your words in a minute, Cas. Just wait.”
When the server returns, Dean puts on a polite smile. “We’re gonna need to order a plate of fries. Just a big ass plate.” Dean holds his hands apart roughly platter-sized. “Biggest you got.”
The server, Dianne, doesn’t look half as amused as Sam does by the whole thing, jots something down on her pad, and walks away.
“I really don’t think this is necessary,” Cas says.
“Oh,” Dean says, perfectly and deadly serious. “It’s necessary.”
—
Castiel holds the fry at eye level and peers dubiously at it. “I’m not sure—“
“Eat the damn fry, Cas,” Dean cuts in.
Cas’s eyes flick up to Dean, then back to the fry. “I really don’t see why this is...” he trails off.
“Seriously, Cas,” Sam says imploringly, “you should just eat the fry before Dean makes a scene. He may actually force-feed it to you if you hold out any longer.”
Cas looks at Dean again who tries to look like that’s a crazy idea and he would never stoop that low. (He totally would though.)
And Cas takes a bite. Dean watches intently, perhaps too intently, but he swears it’s for educational purposes only. Cas’s face is blank at first, chewing mindfully. There’s a flash of something in Cas’s eyes and Dean’s face breaks into a grin, preparing to gloat at what is clearly about to be an emotional awakening for Cas.
Then Cas drops the other half of the fry on the plate and shrugs one shoulder. “Adequate.”
Dean clenches his jaw in surprise and sits back in the booth (when did he lean forward?) “Adequate,” he repeats.
Cas shrugs again and raises his eyebrows. “I am sure whatever pleasure you derive from this won’t be ruined by lack thereof.”
“Man, you’re not human,” Sam says.
“That is correct,” Cas replies.
Sam rolls his eyes.
Dean sighs, takes a couple fries from the plate, and shoves them in his mouth. Well, there’s no accounting for taste, apparently, even for an angel of the Lord.
—
Dean is a light sleeper—a curse and a gift given his occupation. But the familiar double-beat of whumpf whumpf and a stirring of the air in their otherwise stale, dark motel room doesn’t startle him. Cas is known for showing up at any time or place with little regard for sleep schedules or appropriateness of dress.
Dean rubs a hand down his face and glances at the red numbers glaring at him from the clock on the bedside table. 3:02 AM. Figures. Sam is in the next bed seemingly dead asleep. That also figures. He could sleep through a tornado ripping through their house—and he had, more than once, back in Kansas, before everything.
Dean rolls over and inhales sharply. “Jesus, Cas,” he hisses. Cas’s face is less than a foot from Dean’s when he turns over. After a moment to calibrate, he realizes Cas is squatting next to the bed so he is at eye-level with Dean.
“My apologies,” Cas replies, but doesn’t move from his spot. “But it was important.”
Dean closes his eyes tightly, willing the impending headache away. “What happened? Everything okay?” He sits up and Cas stands, finally taking a step back.
“I...must confess something.” Cas isn’t making eye contact, which is something to note since he’s pretty much the king of awkward staring contests.
“Uh, well, I hate to break it to you, Cas, but I’m definitely not a priest.”
“I lied to you,” Cas continues, ignoring Dean’s jibe. “About the fries.”
It takes Dean a moment to remember what Cas is talking about and when he does, he roves quickly through confusion to annoyance to surprise and finally to caged delight in a matter of seconds.
“You liked the fries, didn’t you?” Dean asks, not helping the grin that spreads across his face.
Cas finally looks at him, but it’s a disparaging look that Dean accepts with glee. Dean glances back at Sam again, but he’s still sound asleep. “Let’s take a walk,” Dean suggests. Cas doesn’t reply, watching as Dean pulls on a pair of jeans, his leather jacket, and boots, and following when Dean heads out of the motel.
They walk in silence, just the crunch of gravel sounding as they make their way across the parking lot. Dean beelines toward the rotting wooden picnic table stuck in a small grassy patch adjacent to the main office of the motel.
“So,” Dean says. He’s once again incapable of not smiling. He’s not even sure why he finds Cas’s love of fries so delightful. Maybe it’s the fact that he lied about it.
“I wanted to apologize,” Cas says.
“For...”
Cas looks annoyed, but continues, “For lying to you.”
“About...”
“Dean,” Cas chastises and Dean actually laughs a little.
“You’re the one who wanted to confess. Never said I would make it easy.”
Cas nearly rolls his eyes; the sentiment is there, at least. Instead, he turns from Dean as Dean steps onto the seat of the picnic table and sits on the top. Cas takes a couple steps, then turns back toward Dean.
“When I first came to earth, it was advised that we temper the senses bound to our vessels. They were a distraction, we were told. An antiquated form of experiencing existence that would hinder our ability to complete our missions, whatever that may be. My true form can better facilitate these experiences. What you would recognize as heightened senses of sight and sound, among other things.”
Dean’s initial reaction to quip about Cas lecturing Dean about how superior angels are is stoppered when he sees the look on Cas’s face. He looks sad and Dean can’t fathom why. So for once in his life, Dean shuts up and he lets Cas talk.
“Do you know why Lucifer fell?”
Dean reels a bit from the switch to a biblical history lesson. “Uh, because he’s a jackass with daddy issues up the ass? And he hated humans so much, Daddy punished him for it. Because we’re awesome.”
“He was jealous,” Cas says. “Jealous that God loved you so much, yes. But also because he knew what a gift God had given you.”
“Free will,” Dean says.
Cas gives a curt nod. “And I always thought that was it. But now...” He trails off, glancing toward the motel, then back to Dean.
“Wait, sorry, are you telling me...Lucifer was jealous because we got french fries and you all didn’t?”
“Dean,” Cas says sharply.
Dean holds his hands out and says, “Well what the hell do you mean, then?”
Cas sighs, his breath fogging the air and Dean notices for the first time that there is something different about the angel. Something almost imperceivable, like when someone moves a piece of furniture half an inch and you don’t notice until you do and then that’s all you notice. It’s the way Cas holds himself, his posture, and his hands at his sides that move more naturally where before he had the stature and countenance of a toy soldier. It’s like he’s finally in this body standing before Dean for the very first time. Cas’s eyes are slightly more reflective, somehow more opaque than normal and his mouth... Dean shuts down that thought and diverts his attention to his Impala parked some 30 feet away, sleek and shining with evening condensation.
“Perhaps nothing,” Cas finally answers. “I may be...” He trails off and Dean hesitates to interrupt because regardless of the ridiculousness of the conversation, it seems important to Cas that he explain this to Dean.
When Cas doesn’t continue, staring into middle space contemplatively, Dean clears his throat. “Well, it sounds like you deserve a human senses crash course.”
Cas’s eyes flick over to Dean, expression unreadable. “Crash course,” he repeats.
“Yeah, man! If you thought fries were good, that’s small potatoes.” Dean finds great joy in the frown that pulls at Cas’s mouth at his incredibly good use of wordplay. “Pie, for one. Apple, specifically and—hey, you got wings! You fly to Mama Janie's Diner in Waverly, Kansas and—“
Dean reels back as a rush of wind and a distinct loss of pressure in the atmosphere signals Cas’s abrupt disappearance. A few moments later, Cas is back holding an entire pie. Dean wonders why he and Sam haven’t been ordering angel to-go service this whole time, but that’s a conversation for another time.
“Okay,” Dean says in surprise. “That’s, uh, great.”
Cas stares at the pie with mild interest. “It does smell...good.”
“It won’t be as good as a pie straight outta the oven, but Mama Janie's stuff pretty much tastes good no matter what. Here.” Dean takes the pie from Cas, flips around, and sits at the picnic table properly. He motions for Cas to sit opposite him and he does. Just as Dean realizes they don’t have utensils, Cas holds out a spoon.
“I only got one,” Cas realizes. “I can go—“
Dean waves his hand. “It’s fine,” he says, perhaps too quickly. “It’s your pie anyway.” Cas retracts the spoon and twirls it between his fingers dexterously. Dean’s stomach does a little flip watching Cas’s slender fingers maneuver the utensil, which is ridiculous and Dean must be more tired than he thought.
Dean pops the plastic lid off the pie before pushing it toward Cas. “Dig in,” he says cheerily.
Cas only hesitates a moment before following orders, and Dean is once again forced to convince himself his staring at Cas’s mouth as he chews is merely for educational, friendly purposes. But then Cas lets out an unholy moan that causes Dean’s entire midsection to do a somersault and his face warms.
“It’s...very good,” Cas says matter-of-factly.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, but the word gets caught in his throat. He coughs a little and adds, “Told you. It’s heaven on a plate.”
Cas hums around the spoon in his mouth as it delivers a second bite. His brow is furrowed in concentration which is just downright precious. “It is hard to describe,” he says. “Apple and cinnamon and sugar and...something else.”
Dean points a finger at Cas. “Secret ingredient. Trust me, I’ve tried to get Mama to tell me, but she’s as tight as a devil’s trap.”
Cas swallows and then glances at Dean. He twists the spoon around and offers it to Dean.
“Oh,” Dean says and takes it, their fingers brushing briefly. “Thanks.”
When he takes a bite, he’s not thinking about the fact that his mouth has now been where Cas’s was, because it’s totally fine and he’s shared utensils with Sam all the time and it’s the exact same, thank you very much.
“Man,” Dean says. “I hope my heaven is just Mama Janie's Diner lined floor to ceiling with fresh-baked pies.”
Cas huffs out a small laugh.
They spend the next ten minutes or so in companionable silence, trading the spoon back and forth until there is barely a crumb left.