Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Though normally a frugal man, not prone to frivolous purchases like expensive and indulgent pastries from fancy bakeries, Castiel sees the cafe menu board on his walk home from work and has to pause. He reads the words tarte au citron and feels himself begin to salivate. He knows it’s a fairly common bakery item, but he can’t resist. Besides, he’s celebrating. He steps through the bakery doors. 

The smell hits at once, sweet and light. Vanilla and fresh bread and coffee. He inhales deeply, satisfied with his choice to enter. He can hear Gabriel in his head. See, little bro! We all deserve a treat sometimes.  

He steps up to the counter, eyes taking in the scattered tables and armchairs, the large circular front windows on either side of the door. A winding staircase leads to some closed off second floor. There’s even a fireplace, currently shut up for the August heat. The entire space is bright and clean, and Castiel feels immediately comfortable, a rare occurrence. He smiles to himself, small and private. Then he makes his way up to the counter.

There’s a petite blonde behind the register, wiping down the surfaces in her immediate vicinity. She tucks the rag into her folded waist apron, hiding the spray bottle away under the counter. 

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“Well, thank you. And yourself?”

“Can’t complain,” she answers. “What can I get you?”

“Do you have any tarte au citron left?” 

Her eyebrows raise at the French accent he layers over the name. He’s long since realized most people wouldn’t, but it’s a habit carried over from childhood, and it would take more of an effort to say the words without than with. 

“We do,” she says, lowering her brows. “Anything to drink with that?”

Castiel looks at the larger menu board behind her, taking in the impressive array of teas and coffee. The options overwhelm him. 

“Could you possibly make a tea recommendation?”

The young woman sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Sorry, boss, I’m more of a coffee girl myself. But if you’ll give me a sec, I can ask Garth. He’s our resident tea connoisseur.” She plays up her accent as she says connoisseur. Castiel would bristle, but he gets the sense she doesn’t mean any harm.

“Hey, Garth!” she calls over her shoulder. A gangly man about her age pokes his head out from what Castiel can only assume is the kitchen. 

“What’s up, Jo?”

“What tea goes best with the lemon tart?”

Garth’s face lights up. He looks at Castiel. “Well, that depends,” he says with the glee of someone who has been waiting all day for someone to ask that exact question. He steps up to the register and begins debriefing the pros and cons of all the establishment’s teas while Castiel stands awkwardly wishing the woman might intervene. 

She tries, shoehorning in a muttered, “I didn’t mean for you to read us the whole damn book on the subject.” But it’s in vain. He’s too much in his element. 

“Garth,” says a new voice, a man’s. A large hand lands on the man’s shoulder, a moment later the rest of the figure appearing just behind. 

Castiel swallows as he’s faced with the greenest pair of eyes he thinks he’s ever seen. 

“Check on the cookies for me, yeah?” He tosses Castiel a fond, if exasperated, smile, waiting for Garth to disappear back into the kitchen before turning to Castiel and saying, “He’s earnest.” 

“You got this, Dean?” Asks the woman, Jo, grabbing the bottle back from under the counter. 

“Yeah, you can get back to it.” He returns to Castiel. “If caffeine isn’t a concern, we have a lavender earl grey that’ll pair with that tarte au citron nicely. It’s organic. We get it from the tea house two streets over, so you’re supporting a local business, too. It’s good.”

Castiel’s mouth is frustratingly dry. “Yes, it sounds perfect.” He suspects he’ll regret the caffeine later, but then again, tomorrow is Saturday. There’s no longer anyone to tell him he must go to bed early if he doesn’t want to, and with nowhere to be the next day, he has no reason. 

“Cool,” says the man. Dean. He tells Castiel the price and then swings the mounted iPad that serves as the bakery’s POS system around so that Castiel can swipe and sign for his card. “What’s the name?” asks Dean. 

“Castiel,” he answers, shoving a five dollar bill into the tip jar. 

Dean nods at the gesture. “Thanks, man. Want your slice with your tea or now?”

“With the tea is fine.”

“Awesome. I’ll have it for you down there.” He jerks his head towards the far left of the counter where there’s an open space demarcated for pastry and beverage delivery. Beside it is a cart with various creams and sugars, a dish bussing station tucked on the bottom two shelves. 

Castiel nods at him, and then goes in search of a place to sit. There’s an open table by one of the expansive front windows, and he slides into one of the seats grateful for the view. He alternates between watching the passers by on the street and the staff in the bakery. Jo industriously wipes down empty tables, Garth pops in and out of the kitchen, and Dean makes Castiel’s cup of tea. 

Castiel’s eyes linger on him as he measures out the leaves using a small scale. As he checks the water temperature before pouring it into the cup, setting the timer and then stepping back into the kitchen. Castiel fixates on the man’s arm, exposed under the rolled sleeves of his button up. Tattoos he hadn’t caught while at the counter stand out to him now, Dean’s right forearm almost completely covered. He can’t tell what the art is, but finds himself further intrigued. Dean is beautiful, plain and simple. Castiel finds he wants to know more about him. 

He pushes the thought away, though, knowing the likelihood of such a thing. He makes himself look back out the window, rather than the space he knows Dean will shortly return to once the timer goes off. It doesn’t do to dwell on a fantasy. He’d learned that the hard way a long time ago. 

Because he’s studiously looking out the window, watching people hurry down the sidewalk or across the street, he misses Dean’s approach. 

“Castiel,” he says, name a little stiff on his tongue. 

Castiel starts at the sound. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you call for me.”

Dean shakes his head, smiling a little. “You’re good, I didn’t. Thought I’d just bring it over. Earn that tip you gave me.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, a little uncomfortable. He hadn’t thought he’d been that generous. “Thank you.”

Dean’s expression tightens. “No problem,” he says. “Enjoy it, man.” Then he walks away. 

Castiel watches him go, feeling like he’s missed a cue he didn’t know he even had. He’s familiar with the feeling, though he experiences it far less frequently than he used to. He thinks back over his interactions with Dean, but can’t imagine he said or did anything too egregious. With a sigh, he puts his worry aside and takes a bite of the tarte. 

It’s bliss. The closest he’s ever found to the one he had in Paris five years ago, which left a taste in his mouth he’s been chasing ever since. He closes his eyes against the rest of the world, wanting to live with only the flavor on his tongue and the memories it conjures. Memories of true freedom. Pure joy. The happiest and most terrified that Castiel has ever been. When he opens his eyes again, he realizes he’s more emotional than he thought, the corners of his eyes wet with unshed tears. He puts his fork down to grab at a napkin and dabs quickly at his face. He doesn’t look around to see if anyone has caught him--he’s grateful for the experience, therefore unashamed. He laughs a little at himself, giddy. Then he takes another bite. 

He sips from his mug next, and as predicted by Dean, the tea compliments the pastry nicely. The lavender is delicate, playing a little coy with the bergamot, both flavors managing to stand up to the lemon of the tarte. The tea brings another smile to his face, and Castiel is very glad he stopped inside. He finishes the tarte slowly, savoring both it and the tea, and leaves not a single crumb on his plate. 

Dean is steaming some milk by the pick-up counter when Castiel comes up to bus his dishes. 

“It was wonderful,” he says when Dean shuts off the steaming wand. 

“Yeah, you seemed like you liked it,” replies Dean, looking back at the table where Castiel had just been sitting.

Castiel shrugs. “It brought back some very happy memories.”

Dean’s face softens. He opens and closes his mouth. Opens it again. “I make it every Friday. Come back next week for another round.”

“I just might,” says Castiel, meaning it. “Have a nice evening.”

Dean nods at him. “Yeah, you too.”

Castiel returns the nod and then turns and leaves the bakery, already looking forward to next Friday. 

Chapter Text

“Jesus,” mutters Dean under his breath as he hears Garth dive into his exposé of the Family Business Bakery tea collection. Whatever poor sap asked for a recommendation has to be regretting it now, and honestly, Jo should have known better than to ask. Garth’s always more talkative when he’s spent a day in the back, missing his usual report with the customers. 

He decides to spare all involved parties by exiting the kitchen to relieve Garth. He steps through the opening out of the kitchen and into the main part of the bakery, and puts a hand on Garth’s shoulder while saying his name. 

Garth looks back at him, startled.

“Check on the cookies for me, yeah?” 

Garth’s eyes widen at his sudden remembering of the job he was doing recipe testing new shop items before Jo enticed him to talk about tea. He disappears back into the kitchen, leaving Jo and Dean with the customer. With Garth out of the way, Dean finally gets a look at the man, and finds himself a little dumbstruck. They get plenty of handsome folks in the bakery, but still Dean isn’t always immune. The combination of dark hair, light stubble, and bright blue eyes is just his type. 

Jo, who’s been part of Dean’s life far too long, gives him a knowing look. “You got this, Dean?” she asks as she slips past him to grab the spray bottle of cleaning solution they keep tucked into the cabinet under the counter. 

He narrows his eyes at her before answering, “Yeah, you can get back to it.”

She makes her way around the counter, smirk clear as day, leaving Dean to take this hot stranger’s order alone. He’d be more irritated if he wasn’t already a little grateful. He looks back at the man, refocusing on the task at hand, and gives him the tea recommendation he’s been waiting so patiently for. 

The smile the man offers as he says, “Yes, it sounds perfect,” is frustratingly endearing for being so small a gesture. And his voice. Dean’s going to hear that voice in his dreams. 

“Cool,” Dean says, feeling anything but. “What’s the name?”

“Castiel,” the man offers as he tips. Dean blinks at the amount. It’s not so big, the five dollar bill, but hardly the norm. “Thanks, man,” he says, not sure he’s ready to trip over his given name. Castiel. That’s a new one for him. 

After telling Castiel where he can pick up his order, Dean watches the man turn to find a place to sit, landing one of the coveted window tables. He allows himself a moment to watch Castiel settle before busying himself with making the man’s tea and plating his slice of tarte. When everything is ready, he considers calling Castiel’s name to come pick up, and then decides, eh, business is slow enough that I’ll just bring it over.

He approaches the table, a smile he hopes reads as flirtatious already on his face, and says with as much confidence as he can muster, “Castiel?”

The man jumps at the sound, looking at Dean with eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you call for me.”

Dean shakes his head, smile faltering. “You’re good, I didn’t. Thought I’d just bring it over.” He feels his face flush as he leans in towards Castiel. “Earn that tip you gave me.”

Either Castiel doesn’t get that he’s flirting, or he isn’t interested. “Oh. Thank you.”

Dean’s enthusiasm sours. He puts down the plate and mug. “No problem. Enjoy it, man.” Then he makes his escape. He figures it was dumb to try and pick up a customer anyway. It never pays to mix business and pleasure. 

Still, his irritation is softened when he sees Castiel take his first bite of the tarte. He watches the man’s eyes close, a smile coming immediately to his lips. Dean’s favorite part about owning a bakery--besides getting to bake all the pie he wants, whenever he wants--is seeing other people appreciate it. He needs his customers’ business to survive, but their appreciation is a validation of an entirely different kind. Seeing this man’s blatant enjoyment gives Dean a flush satisfaction. Castiel may not return Dean’s interest, but at least he likes his food. Another satisfied customer. He only tears his eyes away from Castiel when another customer comes up wanting to order. 

For the next twenty minutes, Dean alternates between serving customers, checking in with Garth, and staring at Castiel while hoping Jo hasn’t noticed. The wink she gives him when they’re both behind the counter, however, suggests otherwise. 

“Two medium mochas, loverboy,” she calls out to him after ringing up another customer, and his face whips around to her so fast he gets a crick in his neck. 

He checks on Castiel through the pain, relieved to see he doesn’t seem to have heard. Whatever’s on his mind is taking his full attention. 

“Joanna Beth,” he warns as he grabs the milk out of the fridge. “You better watch it.”

She only rolls her eyes and goes back to wiping down any newly cleared tables. "You're not my momma."

He’s steaming the milk for the mochas when Castiel comes up to the bussing station. Dean watches him out of the corner of his eyes, pleasantly surprised when Castiel turns towards him after putting his dishes away, waiting for the noise of the steaming wand to stop. 

“It was wonderful,” he says when Dean obliges. 

Dean looks back at the table, remembering the guy’s expression when the fork had touched his tongue. “Yeah, you seemed like you liked it.” 

He watches Castiel shrug. “It brought back some very happy memories.”

The power of food Dean thinks. He knows the punch to the gut a certain meal can be in more ways than one. The urge to offer the man another piece for the road, on the house, comes to him unbidden. But he thinks that might be a bit much, and Sam’s already on his case about how much free food he gives out. 

“I make it every Friday,” he settles on. “Come back next week for another round.” 

“I just might.” Castiel smiles like he means it. 

He makes his goodbyes and then walks back out onto the street, khaki trench coat fluttering in the early evening breeze. Dean watches him pass by the front window and disappear, hoping Castiel follows through. He certainly wouldn’t mind seeing him again. 

“Oh my god,” says Jo. 

Dean snags the rag out of her back pocket and smacks her arm with it. “Shut up. Or I’m taking that five dollar tip he left.”

“Fuck off,” she says affectionately. 

They go back to their own work after, Jo clearing the small stage in the corner of the shop of tables and chairs in preparation for their usual open mic night, Dean checking the stock of items they normally sell more of during the event. A little after 5:00 p.m. Garth comes back out of the kitchen with his finished batch of test cookies, iced and perfect. Dean and Jo both try one, and Dean’s brows go up at the taste. 

“Damn, Garth.”

“Seriously,” says Jo. “These are as good as the stuff Meg makes.”

He preens, cheeks pinking. “Shucks, guys. I’m just messing around.”

“You put the earl grey in the icing too?” asks Dean.

“Sure did,” answers Garth. “And just a dash of blackberry syrup for the purple color and sweetness.”

“Well, shit’s delicious,” Jo says. “Seriously, Dean. Start selling these.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He knows his tone is dismissive, but he catches Garth’s eyes and nods, knowing Garth will recognize the sincerity. “Get the final recipe added to the book, and next time you open roll ‘em out.”

His smile is blinding. 

“But for now,” continues Dean, “Clean up and get out of here. You’ve been talking about date night with Bess all week.”

Garth doesn’t need to be told twice, disappearing back into the kitchen. 

“Aw, young love,” says Jo.

Dean snorts. “Make sure you set aside a couple cookies for Ash and Ellen, but leave enough for Charlie and Sam.”

“Will do,” she agrees, heading back to the kitchen herself to claim a few of Garth’s successful experiments for later. 

By 5:30 p.m. Garth has clocked out, and Charlie is clocked in for her closing shift with Dean. 

“How’s it going, Charlie?” he asks as she washes her hands. "Garth's new cookies are waiting for your approval when you get a minute."

“Oh, he finalized the recipe? Nice.” She shakes her hands free of excess water before grabbing a paper towel. “And things are good! What about you?” she says cheerfully. She’s like Garth--perpetually bright-eyed. 

“Dean met his dream guy today,” Jo answers before he can say anything. 

“Did he, now?” Charlie asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Charles,” Dean warns. 

“Deanna,” Charlie counters, completely unconcerned. 

Dean scoffs. “You both have no respect for leadership.”

“Jo’s my manager, and I respect her just fine,” says Charlie. 

“Okay, well, I own this place.”

“What?” says Jo, mouth dropping open. “You do?”

“You both suck,” says Dean with a false frown. “I’m grabbing dinner.”

He ignores them both as he walks out from behind the counter, stopping by the kitchen to grab another cookie, and then heads up the stairs to his office. He notes the growing number of customers trickling in from outside as he makes his way, likely readying for the open mic night. But he trusts Jo and Charlie to get everyone set up. They know what they’re doing, and he needs to eat. 

Dean doesn’t like spending whole days at the bakery, and Sam’s gonna give him an epic bitchface when he finds out Dean’s been there since 4:00 a.m., but sometimes that’s just how things work out. Jo had gotten a last minute request from her mom to help out at the Roadhouse, which meant she couldn’t close with Charlie, which meant someone had to stay. Sam had some Welcome Back rally at the high school so he couldn’t cover, and besides, Dean was the owner. There was no one else to take the hit. 

Up in his office, Dean pulls his container of chili out of the fridge and gets it heated up in the microwave. He stares at his couch longingly, wishing he could lay down for a nap. Alas, no time. He’ll be sleeping there anyway once he’s done downstairs. No reason to head back home for a few hours when he’ll just need to be right back here by ass-crack o'clock. He doesn’t even let himself sit as he eats his luke-warm food, pulled from the microwave too soon out of desperation, as he knows if he sits, he won’t be able to get back up. Still, he at least gives himself a full thirty minutes away from the bakery to eat and disengage as much as he can. 

His break is over too soon, and just after 6:00 p.m. Dean is back downstairs, getting on with the night. And it is, objectively, a good one. The crowd’s a good size, they’re ordering a lot, and it’s one of those rare nights when most of the folks on stage have actual talent. It helps that Dean only has to listen to three slam poets, an unusually conservative number. Not to mention, with Jo and Charlie working the event, time passes by much more quickly than it might have if he’d been working with Kevin or Garth. Not because he doesn’t love those guys, too, but Dean’s not going to pretend he clicks with them the same way he does with Charlie and Jo. 

Soon enough, the bakery is emptying of anyone but Dean and Charlie, and Dean feels the relief of the day finally winding to its close. His relief is even greater when Sam walks in just as the last few patrons are walking out. 

“Sammy!” he calls out. 

Sam cocks his head. “You’re never this happy to see me.”

“I am when it means you can take over closing duties for me so I can sit down for the first time in seventeen hours.”

“Dean!” And there’s the bitchface. 

Dean just looks at Charlie. “Nice work, Charles.” Then to Sam, “I’ll see you upstairs when you finish.”

“Goodnight, Deanna,” Charlie calls after him.

The sigh Dean releases when he lays down on the upstairs couch is so loud he’s sure Charlie and Sam can hear it on the floor below. He relaxes even further into the ratty cushions, reminding himself he can’t quite fall asleep yet. He fails, of course, falling into a light doze until Sam’s knocking and entering thirty minutes later. Dean’s eyes open slowly, unhappily. 

“Charlie go home?” he asks. 

Sam pulls the chair at Dean’s desk over to the couch and takes a seat. “Yeah, she’s off. She’s amazing to close with, by the way.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, she’s all right.”

“So, what the hell, Dean?”

Dean groans as he shifts to get a better look at Sam. “Jo couldn’t stay. Ellen needed her, so I let her off early. Someone had to stay with Charlie.”

The bitchface is back in full effect. “You could have asked me, Dean.”

“You had your thing at the high school.”

Sam scoffs. “I could have left.”

Dean snorts. “Nah, you love that high school crap. I really didn’t mind staying with Charlie. Like you said, she’s amazing.”

“Do you at least get to sleep in tomorrow?”

Dean’s grimace is answer enough for Sam. 

“Christ, Dean. You’re running yourself into the ground.”

“Can it, Sam,” Dean snaps, but there’s isn’t any real bite. “I love this place.”

Sam sighs. “I know, man, I know. But you need to hire more people.”

“You do my books. Is it in the budget?”

Sam frowns. “It could be if you didn’t give so much product away.”

“Okay,” Dean says, hands in the air. “I take the question back.”

Sam looks up at the ceiling and lets out a slow breath. Dean figures he doesn’t want to have this argument again either. 

“I didn’t come by to bitch,” Sam says. 

“Promise?” quips Dean. 

“Dude.”

Dean’s hands go up again. “All right, so then why are you here? Not that I’m not incredibly grateful.”

Sam doesn’t answer immediately, and when the words finally leave his mouth, Dean understands why. “I’m doing Sunday dinner with Dad. Come with me?”

Dean’s breath comes out as a hiss. “Come on, Sammy.”

“I don’t want to go either. I think Kate and Adam are going to be there. But he asked for us, and I said yes, but only for me. I’m hoping you’ll say yes, too.”

“I hate you,” mutters Dean. “Fine.”

The relief on Sam’s face is worth the frustration that comes from a night with John Winchester and his family 2.0. “Thank you.”

Dean nods. He wishes he had work as an excuse, but Sam knows just as well as he does that Sundays are Dean’s day off, at least from the kitchen and cafe. He’s still in his office handling administrative tasks that make him want to pull out his hair. But it’s easier for him to take off a half day when he’s back in the office, and the bakery itself closes early too. 

Unpleasant favor out of the way, Sam stands to leave. “I’m guessing you’re sleeping here tonight, and not coming home?”

“Yeah, I can get more hours if I stay here.”

Sam nods. “I’ll bring you a change of clothes in the morning.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

“Least I can do.”

“You’re damn fucking straight.”

Sam snorts and shakes his head. “All right, see you in the morning, Dean.”

“‘Night, Sammy. Lock up on your way out.”

A final bitchface. “Dude, obviously.”

Dean smiles, eyes falling closed again. He knows he needs to get up and brush his teeth and take off his shoes and grab the blanket he keeps in the cabinet for nights he stays over. But the exhaustion makes it hard. He manages it eventually, heaving himself off the couch to ready for “bed” as best he can at the office. When he’s finally situated back on the couch, his final thought is of a pair of bright blue eyes and a stubbled jaw. A gravelly voice calling Dean’s baking wonderful.

Thank god Jo doesn’t have to know, or Dean would never hear the end of it.