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“Sam, I’m telling you, you’re not gonna believe your eyes,” Dean says as they make their way down the hall of the bunker.
There is a spring in Dean’s step, and Sam has to admit, his brother looks delighted. As he thinks about it, he probably never seen him this happy. It’s weird to think that something like that could make him this joyful, but Sam’s not going to question it. He’s just glad for him. After all, what’s wrong with a bit of nesting?
“You’ve gotta try it, dude. I’m telling you, it’ll change your life.” Dean gestures widely as he strides through the hall and into the command centre.
“So I have the kitchen done, right? Everything there is KonMaried. And it’s so freaking awesome, dude. Like... everything has its place, and I know exactly what is where. And Sam, let me tell you,” Dean says as he looks at him over his shoulder, “it’s as clean as it has never been. And it’s so easy to keep it that way.”
There’s an unmistakable spark in Dean’s eyes, and Sam can’t help but wonder whether this magical cleaning system is really that great, or whether Dean is under some sort of spell.
“Next, I’m doing my room. Then we’ll see. Maybe we could tackle the ar...chives…” the last word dies on Dean’s lips as he halts so quick, Sam bumps into him.
“What the hell, Dean?” Sam grumbles, stepping back from his brother.
Dean is standing in the kitchen entrance, frozen. And when Sam’s eyes shift their focus, he understands why.
Castiel is standing in the middle of the room, wearing a white apron over his usual attire. He’s covered in flour from head to toe, holding a bowl of dough in one hand and a spatula in the other. He’s looking down at the book on the table, a deep frown on his face. The table is sticky by the look of it; flour, dough, some sort of syrup, and berries residue all over it, some even dripping on the floor. There’s a pyramid of dirty dishes in the sink so high, you can’t even see the faucet. Three dark burned attempts of the food lying on the counter, steam still coming from one of them. Every single cabinet and drawer is open. The tools are all over the kitchen, even the tools you obviously don’t need to make a pie. Which, by the look at things, is what Cas was attempting to do.
Sam clears his throat to get the angel’s attention since it seems like Dean is at the loss of words. Cas looks up, his blue eyes immediately widening when he sees them.
“Dean, Sam,” he says, spatula falling from his hand and landing on the ground, sending a spurting sprinkle of dough all over the floor.
Dean whimpers low, and even though Sam can’t quite see his expression, he knows it’s full of agony.
“I… I was making a pie,” Cas says, his voice low and apologetic.
There’s a silence so thick, you could hear a pin falling to the floor. But maybe it’d be better if nothing else fell, Sam thinks.
“You’re lucky I love you,” Dean says. It's so low it’s more of a murmur than anything else.
“What?” Cas says, tilting his head into that particular angle, trying to decipher whether he heard right.
“What?” Sam says at the same time, his voice exasperated, but his mouth fighting between contorting into an “O” shape or a grin.
Dean looks between Sam and Cas a few times, his look as casual as if he said nothing. His glance lands on Sam in the end, and he frowns, shaking his head.
“What?” he shrugs as if he hadn’t just dropped the biggest truth bomb of the decade.
Then he makes his way to the middle of the kitchen and pats Cas on the shoulder as he walks by him and towards the burnt pies.
“Alright, buddy,” he says, taking the pies and throwing them in the bin. “First, we clean this mess up. Then I’ll show you how to make a pie. Deal?”
Cas and Sam look at him for a moment before their eyes meet each other, silently asking: “You’ve heard it too, right?”