Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This sucks,” Dean says, setting down his fork and rubbing some of the tension out of his forehead. He looks tried, in that drawn out, persistent way that Dean looked tired for most of the last six months.

“It doesn’t suck,” Castiel says, taking another forkful of risotto. It isn’t the best thing that Dean has ever cooked him (that remains a tie between the sickeningly beautiful cassoulet the day after Castiel accidentally asked him to marry him over the phone and this breakfast in bed Dean cooked him on some innocuous day that was just so perfect, so lovely, that Castiel felt irrevocably loved), but it’s certainly not bad. It’s still warm and comforting, it’s just lacking some of the life of Dean’s normal cooking. It’s flatter. Subdued.

“The great food critic Castiel hath spoken,” Dean says, poking at a grain of rice with his fork. “Gonna put that on my gravestone. Doesn’t suck.”

“Dean,” Cas says, serious enough that Dean looks up at him. “Thank you for cooking.”

“M’ a chef,” Dean says, “You don’t thank me for cooking, you just leave me a tip.”

“I’ll put a twenty on the dresser.”

Dean snorts and pushes away his plate slightly.

Castiel stands up and heads for the fridge, which at this point is mostly a testament to the variety and quantity of take out options currently available in Palo Alto, from the three day old sushi that Castiel is relatively sure needs to be thrown away to the half-pizza that they were going to have for dinner before Dean decided that he was going to actually cook. They do still have lemons and parmesan, because Dean is still a chef down to his atoms and can’t seem to help himself, even when he’s decidedly and purposefully fallen out with his muse.

“Dean,” Castiel says, quartering the lemon and bringing both that and the parmesan back to the table. “You need to eat,” he says, dragging his chair slightly closer to squeeze the lemon over Dean’s bowl and finishing it off with the quantity of parmesan that Castiel would want from an italian restaurant, before he inevitably lose the game of parmesan-chicken with the waiter. “Here,” he finishes, dropping a kiss to Dean’s disgruntled cheek before sitting back down.

“Huh,” Dean says, taking another forkful of risotto, “Who taught you how to cook?”

“My very talented husband,” Castiel says, “Although seasoning is certainly different to cooking.”

“Yeah, well, you used to suck at that too,” Dean says, taking another forkful of risotto. “I just --- I don’t wanna do it.”

“I know,” Castiel says, because he doesn’t really know what else to say anymore.

There were a few, short weeks at the beginning of this thing where Castiel was genuinely pleased that the restaurant was shut, which now makes him feel so selfish and guilty that he can’t sit still if he thinks about it. Back then everything felt transient and temporary and there was this novelty about Dean --- who has consistently tried to scrape a semblance of work-life balance since they have been together seriously, but is nevertheless a business owner with significant responsibility and a restaurant to run --- actually being home, off work. After an initial flurry of trying to do something with a full restaurant stock, with Dean sending staff home with dozens of burgers and the two of them playing delivery-service for people who were quarantining, or unable to afford essentials, the stop itself was jarring and sudden. The restaurant was open and then it wasn’t and then a few weeks became months, then they did delivery, and then this attempt at encouraging people to eat outdoors in December and now five hundred people are dying a day and it’s feeling growingly obvious that this isn’t going to end any time soon.

And the consequences of that are widespread and shitty.

“Okay,” Dean says, another four forkfuls of risotto later. “I’m just —— I’m gonna do it.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, steady. “Can I —— can I help?”

“Nope,” Dean says, swiping a glass and topping it off with wine from the bottle he opened to make the risotto and heading into their now shared-office, leaving Castiel with his risotto and facing down an empty chair. He’s not really hungry, either. He understands Dean’s sentiment about everything and the frustration of being powerless in the face of all of this and, even with Castiel’s edits, the risotto isn’t brilliant. It’s better, but it’s certainly not up to the standard of the first risotto that Dean cooked him, years ago, two address changes ago, when Castiel was hopelessly trying to work Dean Winchester out.

Dean takes less time than expected. Apparently, firing someone after five years of service is a relatively short conversation.

Castiel stands up to hug him as he re-emerges.

“How did it go?” He asks, this line of concern creased into his forehead as he runs his hands over Dean’s arms, keeping him close. Dean’s wearing a hard, reassigned sort of expression in the same way he had when he’d come into their little box office last week ago and said ‘I gotta fire Garth’ right after coming back from a Tuesday lunch shift. He was very factual about the thing —- about turnover and experience and really not needing a sous chef right now — and Castiel had shut his laptop entirely and suggested that they order something in for dinner.

“Well, he didn’t cry,” Dean says, sitting down heavily on the sofa and staring at his half empty glass of wine. “He was --- painfully nice about it.”

“He knows you don’t want to.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Maybe.”

“Are you going to eat anything else?”

“Nah,” Dean says, “Just gonna ——- not think, for a while.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, dropping a kiss on his cheek and heading back to the kitchen to clean up. Dean puts on that reality TV show he likes with the doctors as Castiel puts the rest of the risotto in tupperware and starts to methodically clean out the fridge of food that they probably should not eat anymore and half starts writing a grocery list.

He understands why Dean doesn’t feel like cooking right now, and it’s not a problem to Castiel who is both semi-capable of feeding them both (if he follows very exact instructions and doesn’t get stressed and doesn’t expect it to taste any better than mediocre) and doesn’t mind ‘supporting the hospitality industry’ via the medium of excessive take out, but he does think Dean might feel better if he cooked.

He has been cooking more at work than he had been for the last eighteen months or so, given that he’s now operating on less than a quarter of the kitchen staff he had at the beginning of the pandemic, but it’s a different experience. Dean likes playing around with flavour, new food, cooking things that Castiel likes, or finding things that Castiel doesn’t like and trying to convince him otherwise, and that part of it hasn’t happened.

Castiel writes down some of the basic things that Dean likes to start with when he’s uninspired — three types of cheese, baby zucchini, pork — and tops up his wine glass. He’s relatively sure he’s going to get it delivered, because he detests going to the shop at the moment, but he’s also sure he needs to check with Dean first in case he reads it as passive aggressive rather than an inadequate attempt to be supportive.

The TV is still blaring out Doctor Sexy, but Dean is conspicuously absent from the sofa. His wine is still there, so Castiel is assuming he went to retrieve his laptop to go over the numbers, again, to reassure himself that there wasn’t another option and that he did have to fire Garth.

Except, Cas walks past the bathroom on the way to finding him and the door is half open and Dean ——

Dean is half hunched over the sink, this white knuckle grip on the basin, eyes shut, pale and decidedly not okay. A jaw clenched, completely frozen kind of not okay.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Castiel says, which probably isn’t helpful, but he wasn’t expecting it and he’s not very good at surprises, particularly when it comes to Dean. He wasn’t expecting this.

“Am I?” Dean asks, voice tight, blinking, “I, uh.”

“Sit,” Cas says, navigating him to sit on the shut toilet seat and staring at him, hopeless, lost. He’s never really seen Dean look like this. In four years, he has never seen Dean this pale, this overwhelmed and he doesn’t know how to help. He doesn’t know what to do. “Talk to me.”

Dean shakes his head, balling his hands into fists and shutting his eyes again.

“Dean.”

“Can’t,” Dean manages, the word punctuating the room with significant effort, like it costs him to get it out. “I just….” he begins, trailing off into nothing. Almost shakes his head.

“Okay,” Castiel says, level.

In Dean’s hands, his phone starts ringing. They both read Charlie’s name off the screen.

“I should —-”

“—- don't be ridiculous,” Castiel says, taking it out of his grip.

“Cas it’s —- business. I gotta —-”

“Yes,” Castiel says, hitting answer himself rather than engage in this stupid notion that Dean should be taking business calls. “Hello Charlie.”

“Cas,” Charlie says, her own voice grimmer than Castiel had ever heard it a year ago. He always associates Charlie with lightness and laughter and fake Russian accents, but lately she’s been more subdued too. More serious.

“Dean’s in the bathroom currently,” Castiel says, heading out into the front room because he doesn’t really want Dean to think about work right now, because apparently Dean isn’t just finding work difficult, he’s finding it panic attack difficult.

“Did he speak to Garth?”

“Yes,”

“He okay?” Charlie asks, which probably means that Charlie has been more aware of Dean’s mental state than Castiel is, which is a painful jolt under the ribs. She’s clearly expecting Dean not to be okay and… it’s not as though Castiel thought that Dean would just shake off firing Garth after five years, but…

“This remains to be seen,” Castiel says, voice a little lower. “I don’t think now is a good time to talk, Charlie.”

“Just tell him I love him, okay?”

“He knows,” Castiel says, pouring a glass of water for Dean. He doesn’t really know what you’re supposed to do in the face of a panic attack, if he is categorising it correctly anyway, but water feels better than wine. He is not a trained psychologist, but he is relatively sure alcohol is not the answer.

“Tell him anyway,” Charlie says, “Okay —- speak later, Cas.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, stopping at his half-written shopping list on the kitchen counter and cleanly ripping it in two, because clearly it is not the time to talk to Dean about cooking.

“What’s that?” Dean asks, voice sounding solid again. He’s still a little shaky, maybe, but otherwise pretty composed, pouring some more wine into his glass with his familiar expression that Cas has seen a number of times in the past few months, but without the context, without understanding.

“Grocery list.” Castiel answers automatically, because he doesn’t know what to do with that expression, because he’s seen it. Multiple times. Repeatedly.

“Hm,” Dean hums.

Dean doesn’t say anything else as he crosses the room to and turns the television on, switching off Doctor Sexy and channel hopping like nothing has happened. There’s still this tension sitting in his shoulders. There’s still this distinct un-relaxedness as he holds his wine glass and fixes his gaze on the TV.

And ---

“This has been happening,” Castiel says, steadily. “You’ve been —— you’re…”

“M’fine,” Dean says, grip tightening on his wine glass, not looking at him.

“No,” Castiel says, steadily, following Dean across the room to sit on the edge of their armchair and look at him, this complicated feeling bubbling up in his gut. Something like guilt, for not noticing earlier, paired with worry and frustration and maybe disappointment. “You’re not fine, Dean. And that’s understandable. What I don’t understand is why you would be hiding this from me.”

“That’s,” Dean says, visibly struggling for words again, “I’m not…”

“Dean, please talk to me.”

“You —- ‘the most highly qualified therapist in existence could not untangle that much internal baggage in a month’. You hate it when I panic. You think I’m not fucking put together enough for you, and I —”

The sensation does not feel dissimilar to finding himself at the bottom of a well with no understanding of how he got there, blinking up at the light and thinking what? He lives with Dean. There has been a stay at home order for most of the year, so he has spent more time in the presence of Dean Winchester than he has at any other point of his life. He has spent more time with Dean in the past year than he has spent with anyone, ever, and yet he didn’t see this coming.

“Dean,” Castiel says, slightly dazed, “I said that four years ago in an entirely different situation.”

It’s not like he was under any illusion that Dean was doing well. Obviously, months of pandemic and financial insecurity and stress has taken its toll on him. Dean has been… dimmed. His normal irresistible spark has been smothered in the seriousness of it all. He’s been unmotivated. Irritable, occasionally. Certainly sadder, but he didn’t know that there was this ----

This wall. This insane barrier of untruths and this whole tirade of stuff that Dean has apparently been thinking. It is insane to Castiel that these things have been going round Dean’s head without Castiel knowing about it.

“Because I lied to you, because I couldn’t handle it, and —” Dean continues.

“And you thought lying about that was the way to fix this problem? We’re married, Dean.”

“It wasn’t fucking like that, I just, I was at the restaurant looking at these numbers and how much money I’m losing and how I can’t make the numbers add up, and I —- Anna was sick and you were upset, so I just. I was gonna talk to you later.”

Anna caught coronavirus in May and she’s Anna, so didn’t just catch it, she was captured by it, hospitalised, hooked up to ventilator, sick. And he was worried. He was upset. Anna not being okay has always had the ability to shift the gravity of Castiel’s world and he can very much understand why Dean wouldn’t speak to him about this then, but… Anna has been perfectly well for a very long time.

“Dean, that was months ago,” Castiel says.

“Thought I could fix it,” Dean says, “That I could work it out, but I’m just —— I’m fucking everything up again.”

And ---

--- And it is gut wrenching that Dean believes that.

“Dean,” Cas says, gently. “You’re not fucking anything up.”

“The restaurant is failing,” Dean says, the words cascading out, “We’re not —- it’s not gonna make it, Cas. I’ve already laid off most of my damn wait staff and most of my chefs and people aren’t ordering and I’m —- every single goddamn lunch service we’re losing money and I’m just, we don’t have enough reserves, Cas. I can’t do it. They’re talking about fifty percent capacity in months, and ——- I can’t make that turn a profit. I don’t know what to do and every day I don’t make a decision about it I’m hemorrhaging money and we —— we have a mortgage. Two goddamn mortgages and—-”

“—- stop,” Castiel says, hands on his shoulders, attempting to steady him. “Dean, I know it’s bad, but this is not your fault. You are not failing.”

“ Garth has a toddler, Cas. A freaking kid. I made him and his wife unemployed after five years, and Garth was so fucking nice about it. He’s gonna deliver pizza to buy diapers. I’m just —-”

“—- doing your best,” Castiel interjects.

“It’s not good enough. I’m not —”

And Castiel can’t stand that. He cannot abide by this concept that Dean’s not good enough for anything, when he’s always been brilliant. Dean is the best man Castiel has ever met and the fact that this is coming from inside Dean’s head, has been curdling there, is just ---

Unacceptable.

“You have always been good enough,” Castiel says, “Dean. You are remarkable, talented, loving, wonderful. You have been dealt a shit hand.”

“But I hurt you again, by bottling stuff up and not talking to you about stuff and I —- we’re supposed to be partners.”

“Yes we are,” Castiel says, “And I want to talk about that properly, but right now I would like to see your books.”

“My,” Dean begins, “You wanna see my books.”

“Dean, at least some of what has come out of your mouth this evening is irrational,” Castiel says, taking hold of his hand to temper his words and running a thumb over his knuckles. “And we will talk about that, but right now I want to know how much of your concern about this has weight so that we can make a decision about what we are going to do, because we are no longer at a point where I can tolerate you keeping me out. If you are in that much financial trouble, then I need to know. Besides,” Castiel says, “I used to be an accountant. I might be able to help.”

“I,” Dean says, taken aback, “Okay,” he continues, setting down his wine and heading towards the office that they now share, emerging with his laptop, folder and notebook in hand.

“This is,” Dean says, turning on his laptop, “Uh, accounts here and then —- projections in the notebook. They’re a little messy.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says, “Can I have a pen?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, picking up one of them too and handing it over, before sitting next to him and wringing his hands, vibrating with tension.

Dean’s record keeping is very good, considering how much he knows Dean hates this part of the job. The business instinct comes more naturally to him then he’ll allow himself credit for, which Castiel has always considered a shame. Dean’s lack of confidence has always been his main problem. Apparently, Dean is currently consumed by it, like the fact that his business is struggling after months of government enforced closures is some kind of personal failing.

There’s more of it on pen and paper than Castiel would have chosen to do, but that’s very in keeping with Dean, who’s never been overly invested in technology (had Dean had any interest in social media, Castiel would have probably worked out the ‘lying about the restaurant thing’ earlier, but as it was that part — which Gabriel had labelled as “sketchy as fuck” — turned out to be just a Deanism). He prefers to write down his working out as he goes along, methodically working through it, which makes it surprisingly easy to follow. That’s probably the point, really, given Dean has largely had minimal accounting support since he fired Marv, so this is designed to be obvious to himself and it’s logical, steady, clear. Very Dean-esque.

“You haven’t predicted an uptick in outdoor dining with the change in weather,” Castiel says, after a little while.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “That’s —- we’re already booked up. That’s the maximum number of outside covers we can do, with cleaning everything.”

“You have — eight tables,” Castiel says, flicking through to an attached diagram of their outside space. It’s a Dean drawing, with tiny numbers scribbled across it in Charlie’s handwriting to signify the measurements between the tables. Dean told him about that day and he made it sound fun rather than sad, with his usual twenty five tables shrunk down to eight.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “They get two hours each. I mean, if some people are eating quicker then we might get an increase in foot traffic when it’s not the dead of goddamn winter, but bookings are getting worse rather than better.

“It’s January,” Castiel says, “No one spends money in January. Everyone’s nursing financial hangovers and deluding themselves with New Year's resolutions.”

“January is normally a bad month, yeah. Just not this bad.”

And —- it is grim reading to watch Dean’s carefully earned reserves disappear and to tip from making a profit to barely making even, to scraping by on good Saturday nights. To a certain extent, it’s exactly what he expected. Dean hasn’t been hiding the fact that he’s losing money, really, even if he hadn’t told him how much it was bothering him. They talked about the financial impact of Dean cutting his own salary to keep running and he has watched Dean have to fire half of his staff, so it isn’t a surprise that they’re running closer into the red, exactly, it’s just how much of the cost-saving ultimately makes the business plan unviable altogether.

It’s nestled there, among the cash flow statements. Dean dropped his take home salary back in April and then in May...

“She made me,” Dean says, not blinking, watching Cas read it. “She said that if I was cutting my wage then there was no chance in hell she was taking her own salary, cause we’re partners,” Dean says, sounding haunted. And yes, that sounds like Charlie, who’s stubborn and forceful, with a keen sense of justice. But, they aren’t technically business partners, because it wasn’t set up that way. A year into Charlie stepping up and co-running it they’d had the conversation about it, but after some long discussions about different kind of partnerships and buy-ins, liability and getting legal advice, then asking Sam to give them exactly the same legal advice, Dean’s reluctance to make her to pay to buy-in and the reality of facing down having to work out how the tax would work, Charlie had lost her patience and declared they forget about it. They’d been half talking about a second restaurant then, with the notion of squaring it up then. The restaurant didn’t need a cash flow influx at that point and she categorically refused to let Dean give away his success for free. She is now a profit participant, but they didn’t make any profit for six months.

In order to make it on the up and up, Charlie decimated her official hours and has listed her job role as volunteer.

“Come here,” Castiel says, shutting Dean’s laptop and holding out his arms to him. Dean does, sinking into his side, hiding his face in Castiel’s shirt. “She told me to tell you that she loves you.”

And then Dean starts to cry.

Somehow it still takes him by surprise, because Dean is usually too stubborn and pigheaded to cry, but then Dean is sobbing into his chest and Castiel doesn’t know what to do except to hold him --- this beautiful, stubborn man --- and rubs circles into his back until he cries himself stillness.

“You mad at me?” Dean asks, pulling back to look at him however long later. Castiel thinks it would be hard to work up real irritation right now, because Dean looks wrecked by emotion and somehow believes that it’s not good enough, but the fact does remain that Dean did not tell him about any of this. About the severity of his financial concerns. About Charlie refusing to take her full salary. About hiding the depths of his emotional response out of some misguided belief that Castiel doesn’t like Dean when he’s struggling.

“I don’t think that’s the word,” Castiel says, even. “I’m --- concerned, mostly.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “I ---- didn’t make a decision not to talk to you about it. It just --- shit happened.”

“I know, Dean,” Castiel says, “But you’ve been experiencing this emotional turmoil and not talking about it and it’s not like you don’t have previous.”

“Thought you weren’t going to hold that against me,” Dean says, something complicated and thick in his throat and… it’s not the time for Castiel to be making this point when Dean has been crying, but Castiel has never been very good at handling his emotions when he’s upset, and he is upset. Castiel is upset and he’s upset with Dean, because of Dean, for Dean. Mostly the latter.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Castiel says, smoothing a hand over Dean’s hair. “I don’t mean it just like that but —— I thought we were in a place where that could never happen again and now I feel …. Idiotic, but it’s not of import right now.”

“You’re not idiotic.”

“I don’t know what I am,” Castiel says, “Except very much in love with you and very much worried about you.”

“Yeah I,” Dean says, swallowing and shutting his eyes for a moment, “Love you too. I’m --- m’sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologise,” Castiel says, “I just need you to talk to me.”

“Tomorrow,” Dean says, shutting his eyes, head slumping back onto Castiel’s shoulder and… and Castiel can’t really bring it upon himself to argue, because he keeps thinking about Dean half-hunched over in the bathroom overwhelmed and, currently, that seems slightly more important that reading through the rest of Dean’s accounts, or working out if they genuinely need to worry about the mortgage (either mortgage), so Castiel puts Doctor Sexy back on until Dean gives up on the day entirely, kisses him on the cheek and heads to bed without acknowledging any of it.

After, Castiel restarts his grocery list. He strips it back to the basics. He doesn’t bother with any of those foods that always awakens that inspired child-like part of Dean that likes to experiment with food, to create, to provide, because that is not where they are right now. Instead, he writes down things that are simple enough for him to cook for both of them: pasta, chicken, rice.

Chapter Text

Even after ten months of pandemic and restaurant-closures, Dean is still generally awake hours before Castiel. On good days, Castiel can manage to convince him to stay in bed or at least come back to bed with warmth and coffee and those exceptional arms Dean has, but he always knew this would not be a good morning.

He didn’t expect Dean not to be home at all.

And, quite frankly, Castiel is done with Dean hiding from him, because they are married and Castiel is completely besotted with him and he is not inclined to let Dean continue to bury his feelings like Castiel doesn’t care and value every single thought that has ever crossed Dean’s mind. Dean is fucking wonderful and Castiel won’t have him deciding that he’s some kind of failure, or disappointing anyone, or that this is anything but bad luck. He is not going to tolerate Dean choosing to suffer on his own, because it’s bullshit.

Castiel does take the time to drink a very strong coffee and to eat the breakfast that Dean left him as a peace-offering slash maybe apology (Castiel is unclear at present, but Dean does often use food as an apology, or an ‘I love you’), because it also gives him time to finish reading the rest of Dean’s paperwork, and then he digs out the spare key for the restaurant, pulls on his trench coat and sets off.

Predictably, he finds Dean in his office.

The tragic thing about all of this is that right before everything went to hell, Dean finally redecorated his office. He committed to it, too. He knocked down a wall into a storage room of forgotten cleaning supplies so that both he and Charlie could actually fit in it without feeling uncomfortably close. They both have desks, now, and they hung up photos. There’s a picture of Charlie and Dean outside the restaurant just after they reopened. A copy of that one, lovely picture of Mary Winchester that they also have hung up in the hall. Sam’s graduation from law school. A photo of Charlie and her parents at nine years old, the last one before the car crash. Two photos of the day they got married. Another one of the two of them on vacation. It’s finally Dean’s space, rather than an oversized cupboard Dean confined himself in because he never really believed his environment was worth investing in and he never really got to enjoy it before all of this happened.

“Hello Dean,”

“Hey,” Dean says, looking up from his notepad, “You know you’re not really supposed to be here,”

“Are you?” Castiel asks, “I was expecting you to be at home.”

“I left you a note,”

“Yes,” Castiel says, pulling it out of his back pocket, “’Gone to the Restaurant. Pancake mix in fridge. Use pan with blue handle, ten mins’ and then three lines of instructions for cooking pancakes.”

“Yeah, well, you like pancakes.”

“I do,” Castiel says, “They were delicious, thank you.”

“Got no idea how you make ‘they were delicious, thank you‘ sound passive aggressive.”

“I’m very talented.” Castiel says.

“Oh, I know sunshine,” Dean says, “But you’re really not supposed to be here. Covid regs.”

“I’m your accountant for the day.” Castiel says. Dean squares his jaw slightly. “Look, Dean, I’m giving you three options here and none of them involve me leaving you here alone to sulk, but if it makes you feel better then we can both go home.”

“You’re giving me three options, huh?” Dean asks.

“Yes I am,”

Dean huffs a humorous laugh and looks at him.

“Allright,” Dean says, “What’s behind door number one, Cas?”

“We sit down and we talk about money,” Castiel says, holding up a notepad that he took from the house, filled with his brief notes about what they can actually do in the face of all of this. None of them are particularly appealing concepts, but it is what it is. “Option two, we can sit down and talk about how you’re feeling.”

“And option number three?”

“Option three is primarily nudity and cuddling based.”

“You’re something else.”

“To be clear, all three are on the agenda,” Castiel says, “This is just establishing which is going to happen first.”

“And I suppose I have no say in this?”

Castiel’s resolve splinters.

“Of course you do,” Castiel says, sitting down heavily in Charlie’s seat. “If you want me to just go away and leave you alone then of course I will, I just want to help, Dean. You’ve had me believing your stress level is at a seven, not a fifteen and I want to help .”

“What scale are we using here?”

“Out of ten,” Castiel says, ringing his hands. “The money conversation is somewhat non-negotiable given we have a shared mortgage, but I can’t make you talk to me if you really don’t want to.”

Dean has that look again. Castiel thought it was just some kind of sadness but it seems more akin to guilt now and he doesn’t really know how to feel about that. It certainly isn’t the most productive thing that Dean could be focusing on, but that’s never really been how emotions work, and it’s not like Castiel can talk. He’s felt this guilty fear gnawing at his gut since Dean fell asleep last night, because he should have been doing more to avoid this.

Castiel feels plenty guilty about all those occasions he’s allowed Dean to brush off talking about it in favour of doing something else, out of this misplaced belief that it was what Dean needed. He thought that’s how Dean was handling it, but he isn’t, and Castiel has let him down.

Dean flicks his notepad shut and turns to face him head on.

“Where do you wanna start with this whole shebang?”

And there’s the relief.

He hadn’t been sure if Dean would dig his heels in and clam up again, because he does remember this Dean: easily spooked, cautious, afraid of his own feelings. He hasn’t seen him for a while, but he does remember. He barely knew him then. The restaurant and being in the closet aside, he was only just beginning to understand Dean’s warmth, his frustrating stubbornness, the places underneath the surface where Dean hurt.

Back then, he’d not pushed, until everything had collapsed spectacularly and Castiel yelled at him and threw him out of his own restaurant. He hadn’t pushed before because he was scared that if he pushed Dean would bolt, and because there were plenty of Castiel’s own insecurities that he hadn’t shared yet and because Dean didn’t really owe him anything back then. The truth about some of it, yes, but not about mining into where all this pain came from . He still wanted to know the parts of Dean he was keeping back, because he was already enthralled with him, but he was content enough to let fly when Dean had been clear enough that he wasn’t ready to wrap everything in a bow and call it a relationship.

This is more difficult to navigate. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to help.

Their relationship has been remarkably uncomplicated for a very long time. This is new.

“How you’re feeling is always going to be my priority, but I understand that talking about it can make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re way too fucking good for me,” Dean mutters, looking away again, fixing his eyes on the ceiling.

If they’re keeping a record, Castiel hates that notion too.

“Is that a comment on that statement, or on how you’re feeling more generally?”

“I mean, the first, but…” Dean trails off, the pause pregnant enough to fill the gap. “Most people would wanna start with the money thing.”

“That was my instinct yesterday,” Castiel says, because he’s always found honesty simpler than the truth, “And then you were upset and I decided that was inconsequential compared to what’s going on in your head. Did it start when Charlie insisted on cutting her wage?”

“Depends on what you mean by it.”

“Whatever this is that is bothering you,” Castiel says. “You said you didn’t talk me about it because Anna was sick, so there was a moment, a something, that happened.”

“I —- panic, mostly”, Dean says, rubbing his forehead, “I don’t know, Cas. Things were really fucking good. With us and the restaurant and Sammy and then it felt like everything was gonna fall apart, like that was just some big cosmic fucking joke to make it hurt more when I wrecked everything and I just sat here and it felt like someone put my freaking chest in a blender and I couldn’t move so I just sat here until my brain shut up.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I understand your concern about the restaurant, but this has nothing to do with us, or your brother, or you wrecking anything.”

“It got all tangled up, before,” Dean says, and that’s fair. It did get tangled and twisted and… He’s beginning to understand how they might have gotten here, because the steps are almost logical, even if the overall conclusion isn’t. Really, Castiel should have seen it coming. He should have been preparing for it.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, twisting his wedding ring round his finger, “But a lot of things have changed since then.”

“I know,” Dean says, “And then it all felt so freaking illogical, after, that when you got the news that Anna was okay I figured you didn’t wanna be bothered by this dumb freak out and I thought —- I thought things were gonna get better again, but they didn’t, and Pam quit when I had to cut her hours and I know I had to, Cas, but I —- I said it wrong and then I locked myself in the damn bathroom and tried to just breathe, but I kept thinking about all this stuff I should’ve done and then I didn’t tell you because, I don’t know, I didn’t want you to think I’m some pathetic asshole who can’t handle someone quitting on them and I hadn’t told you about Charlie, or before, and then I had a reason for feeling like I was fucking things up with us, and it all felt like before, when I was lying to you about the restaurant and about being out and how much I hurt you. And you haven’t exactly been having a good time, Cas. Locked inside trying to pull something worth writing out of your ass.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “I don’t know if it’s helpful for me to sit here and explain why each of those assumptions are wrong, but it is difficult to hear them put into the universe unchecked. I always want to be bothered by what’s happening in your head, I have never believed you to be pathetic and you have brought me significantly more joy than hurt. In pancake mix alone you have brought me more joy than hurt.”

Dean doesn’t exactly smile, but something in his expression softens slightly.

“I love you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “And I know that, I just…”

“Things got out of your control.” Castiel substitutes.

“Yeah.”

“And that scares you.”

“It —- yeah,” Dean says, “It fucking terrifies me, but it’s more than that. It —- it just paralyses me. Things are happening and they’re happening to me and I… can’t do anything. Can’t say all these words in my head and then I start fucking everything up, and letting everyone down. And then I’m just frozen in my body watching my life fall to shit knowing that I should be doing something but I can’t, and then my lungs feel like they’re being crushed by how much I’m disappointing you.”

Mostly, Castiel would like to wrap him in his arms and tell Dean nice things about himself until they’ve crowded out every insecurity in his head, but he doubts Dean would let him and he doesn’t really know if it would actually be helpful.

“Is that how you felt when we started dating?”

“I —- yeah, mostly.”

“Dean,” Cas says, slow. He wants to take hold of Dean’s hand and kiss him, and he wants to go back in time and apologise and he wants to fix it, but there’s very little he can actually do. “When I said that you weren’t ready for this relationship I didn’t mean that I didn’t want the version of you that struggles with things, sometimes, and I am sincerely sorry if I have ever made you feel like it’s not okay for you to be not okay.”

“This isn’t on you,” Dean says, “This is my fucking fault.”

“My initial reluctance to resume our relationship was because I didn’t think you were ready to be out, which was no fault of yours. Sometimes things take time. I know that you weren’t ready for a global pandemic that decimated your livelihood. No one was. Not the government, not me, personally. And I’d rather not talk about , because I’m very certain that I should’ve noticed how much this is bothering you. This isn’t your fault. You’re not disappointing anyone.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, with this thick, fake, humour.

“If you’re talking about your father, he can shove his opinion up his ass and choke on it.”

Dean snorts.

“He hasn’t said anything.” Dean says, “He’s been good, like we agreed. Don’t mean he’s not thinking it.”

“I do not care one jot about what your father thinks,” Castiel says, “I care about you thinking these things about yourself.”

“Not just me, though,” Dean says, “The reality is my business is falling apart.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “You’re not allowed to open your restaurant in the way that you designed it to make profit. That’s not your fault.”

“The delivery thing —-“

“—- it’s a different model, Dean,” Castiel counters. “A lot of your margins come from your drinks. Food delivery models don’t tend to have such high overheads because they don’t need as much space and it’s a market that’s saturated in a different way to a restaurant. This is not a personal failing.”

“But it’s failing.”

“It is not ideal.”

“Cas, I am liable for this stuff. If we go under, they could take our fucking home.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, a jolt of something under his ribs, even though he’s perfectly aware of that. He’s been aware every time they saw another article about hospitality industry closures, or every difficult decision Dean’s made recently to claw back some of his financial liabilities. He knows that Dean fired Garth to avoid financial ruin, but neither of them has put in those terms. He’s allowed it to be subtext because the other option is scarier, which means Castiel is definitely culpable for some of this mess.

They’ve never really had to talk about money like this. They’ve talked about it in the context of planning for good, future things. They’ve sat down and debated buy-a-house verses second-restaurant verses adopt-a-kid and they’ve talked about some of the financial viability of Castiel’s career decisions, but Dean’s restaurant has always felt like a separate entity to Castiel, or their marriage. It’s just always been so Dean’s and his income has been steady enough that it felt more like a salary than a business (except for Dean’s hours, but even that had been better lately), at least since they’ve had joint finances. “We’re not at that point,” Castiel says, which is true, but the trajectory is… alarming. “And there are a lot of things that we can do before that becomes a real possibility, just like you have been doing for the last nine months.”

“Like shut and sell up?” Dean says, the words cutting through the air, jarring and harsh, but —

Neither of them have acknowledged it as a possibility for ten months, but it is a possibility. Dean has kept cutting things and soldiering through, but he’s never mentioned any of these fears and Castiel has allowed him not to, because…. Because he wanted to create spaces in Dean’s life where he didn’t have to think about it and because it’s scary and because Castiel really thought they’d be the lucky ones. Maybe they will be, but it’s not a given.

“As a last resort,” Castiel says. He wants to reach out and touch him, but he’s not sure if he’s trying to ground Dean or himself, and he’s tired and it’s still very early and the pancakes are sitting heavily in his stomach. They’re supposed to be talking about how Dean feels without it bleeding through into the money conversation. “Dean, I truly think you’ve been making good decisions throughout this thing, but you know that you are allowed to make mistakes without it changing your worth.”

Dean exhales.

“Can I pick option three now?”

“Of course,” Castiel says, swallowing back the rest of his words. He doesn’t really think he’s said anything effective against the whirlwind of Dean’s inner monologues and that sparks his own wave of inadequacy, because it feels like, at this point, he should know how to get through to his husband. “Nudity seems better conducted at home.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, flicking his notepad shut, shoving a menu draft into a drawer and standing up. “Need to —- kitchen. Give me five minutes.”

“Whatever you need,” Castiel says, standing up and looking at those pictures again. Mary Winchester, their wedding day, Sam’s graduation. Dean’s happier in all of these pictures. Lighter. He looks content, relaxed, proud. He’d been doing very well and Castiel is prouder of him than he has been of anyone or anything and he hates this.

“Alright,” Dean says, standing up, sad and tired.

Castiel waits in the restaurant.

Mostly, with a few notable exceptions, Castiel has always loved this place. The Bunker has some of Dean’s quintessential essence running through it; it’s fun and homely, warm, comforting, rich. His menus are generous and delicious. It’s hard to see the tables pushed against the walls, chairs stacked against the side of the room, empty. He hasn’t been here much since they had to close, for obvious rule-type reasons and it’s unwaveringly sad.

Of Dean’s eight tables, half are two tops. He has three four seaters and one six. He can feed twenty six people where he used to be able to feed it seventy, in chunky, impractical two hours slots. Obviously, it doesn’t fucking work. Twenty six burgers can’t pay two hours of wages for the number of staff required to run a viable restaurant. It’s heartbreaking to see Dean’s pride and joy reduced to an attempt at outdoor seating and Dean working himself to death to try and turn a profit, somehow convincing himself it’s his own fault.

And Castiel did know all of this, really, but he hasn’t had to face it down. Dean’s been coming here most days and looking at his empty tables and his near-empty kitchen and of course he’s struggling.

“You alright?” Dean asks, halfway through pulling on his coat.

“Yes,” Castiel says, eyes fixed on the stack of menus on the nearest point, which no longer have the crisp line of the impala on, or Dean’s lovingly named subsections. They’re down to paper so they can be thrown away at the end of each shift. Six or seven options. “Fine.”

“Sure?” Dean asks, as he locks back up again. There’s a coronavirus notice on the door with the new opening times and how to book a table and it’s all just sad.

“I haven’t seen it so empty,” Castiel says.

“Usually pretty empty pre nine AM,” Dean says, although that’s only half true, because some days he used to be open for breakfast and, even if he wasn’t, there’d be line cooks and kitchen prep. “But yeah, it’s pretty damn bleak.”

Bleak.

It’s a fifteen minute walk home.

They’re only half through the door when Dean tangles his fingers through his shirt and kisses him, raw and a little desperate, which is fine, good even, if slightly impractical for being cognizant enough to lock the door behind them. They’ve always been good at this part but… it has been a while. Castiel hadn’t really noticed, although it’s registering now Dean is crowding him against the wall, because… coronavirus has been long and painful and the nice symbiotic parts about them working in the same field from different angles have just meant they’re both under pressure, so Dean has been back to working fourteen hour days for enough money to pay for gas for the impala and Castiel has been writing and talking and editing and… and Dean has been tired and uninspired and , apparently, panicking, so sex has been lower on the agenda.

And they’ve been together a long time now. Sex takes a certain degree of effort. They’ve always been good at it, but he was definitely more thinking of ways to get Dean to fucking relax rather than his own benefit, and because Dean isn’t really a words person and Castiel doesn’t really know how to make sure that he feels loved and respected and taken care of in this particular moment, but he can kiss it into jawline and hold him, and at least it feels like he’s doing something to help.

Dean is wonderful, though, and Castiel is sad. He didn’t really know that he was sad, because he’s been very much focusing on surviving this these last few months, but —— he’s sad that Dean didn’t speak to him and sad that Castiel was too busy surviving to notice and he’s sad that any of it is happening, because Dean is right. Everything was going very well. He was very happy and now they’re not, even if neither of them have acknowledged it until this week, until it’s all came tumbling out and unraveling, and none of it is really fixable.

So he takes his sadness and channels it into pulling Dean to their bedroom and closeness and affection and love, instead, till he’s a little unclear about which of them this was supposed to help.

*

“How are you?”

“Hmm,” Dean hums, rearranging the pillows behind his head and shutting his eyes for a moment, body curved into Castiel’s side. “Freakin’ exhausted.”

“When did you get up?” Castiel asks, voice low, watching Dean not-sleep next to him.

“Woke up when you came back to bed,” Dean says, and there’s definitely a hint of something there, but Castiel’s brain is too fried to establish if it’s just straight up concern or passive aggression. Both usually mean the same coming from Dean, anyway. “Just after three. Gave up an hour after that. Was feeling a little restless and I didn’t wanna wake you, so went and got a jump start on kitchen prep.”

“So you slept for four hours?’

“Hark whose fucking talking,” Dean says, which is not unreasonable. “You were at the restaurant by eight, so you can’t have gotten your eight hours in.”

In all these years, they’ve never quite managed the same sleep schedule, but the pandemic has somehow made it worse. Castiel has been restless and bored enough not to be able to sleep until very late and Dean’s never kicked his kitchen habit of five AMs. The reality is, Dean’s current work schedule isn’t really compatible with quality time at any time and Castiel has loosened his grip on his freelance-work routine to try and make it work, which has always impacted his ability to sleep. He is tired.

“I woke up and you were gone,” Castiel says, “When last night you cried and told me we weren’t good enough. I had to come to the restaurant by eight.”

“I —- Sorry,”

“I’m not looking for an apology,” Castiel says, running the back of his knuckles over Dean’s abdomen, flattening a hand against his hips. He’s lost weight, which is both impressive and worrying given their current diet of takeout and things that can be cooked in under ten minutes. Castiel knew that, too, and has watched him picking at food and skipping whole meals to keep working, so really he should have joined the dots on Dean’s stress level, but Dean is very talented at repression. This from the man who half-convinced Charlie Bradbury that he was straight and fell out of the closet at twenty-nine. His facade is very compelling.

“You get some writing done last night?” Dean asks, cracking open an eye to look at him. ‘Writing’ is Castiel’s general excuse for not sleeping, because it seems better than ‘watching bad television on the sofa with the laptop on his lap’, but it’s even less true than normal. This gnawing concern in his gut wouldn’t let him sleep.

“Hmm, no,” Castiel says, “I read your cash flow statements for the last three years.”

“Three years? ”

“I wanted to understand your usual margins,” Castiel says, “My restaurant knowledge is very theoretical, as is my understanding of tax for sole proprietorships. I meant it about wanting to help, and I couldn’t sleep.”

“Don’t need you to be my accountant, Cas,”

“I assure you, it’s more for my own benefit,” Castiel says, leaning forward to brush his nose against Dean’s cheek and pulling the covers round them a little more. “But —- we do need to make some decisions.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I’m —- look, I know you deserve a lot fucking better, but I’m really not ready to talk about that yet.”

“Do you know when you will be ready to talk about it?”

“Usually works out about a week after I needed to fucking talk about it.”

“By my calendar, we’re passed that.”

“Maybe,” Dean says, shutting his eyes. “Not right now. Let’s stick with nudity, cuddling and feelings.”

“Hmm,” Castiel says, pulling him a little closer. It’s gratifying that Dean says things like that, these days, when once Dean gave a very good impression of being a person who didn’t want to cuddle. A lot of things have changed since then. “We can check off the first two.”

“Awesome,”

“Dean,” Castiel says, slowly, “It’s normal to dislike failing. You have born witness to how much I dislike failing --- with my career.” He continues, because… Dean has always been remarkably supportive of Castiel attempting to work out what he wants to do, and several iterations of wrong before he ended up here, where his bio on his blog calls him a “food journalist” and his income trickles in from blogs, and articles, and the odd TV appearance and the two days a week editing responsibility he retained because it felt sensible to retain one steady stream of income. And it all worked fine, until there was a pandemic and earning money from talking crap on the internet felt a lot less stable and a lot more like an unnecessary risk, because there’s no guarantees, but it was too late to take it back then. Still, Dean has always been Team Castiel. He’s read over articles and helped him write job applications and was astonishingly forgiving that time Becky’s idea of the newlywed food game went viral. Dean told him to sell that damnable blog ripping him to shreds to further his career with absolute sincerity. Dean has never viewed any of Castiel’s failures as moral failings and has always been steady, loyal, lovely.

He wishes that Dean could extend this courtesy to himself.

“But you seem to take this fear of failure to the nth degree, until you let some small area of your life that you’re struggling with consume your existence and…” Castiel trails off, trying to summon the words up. “I want you to be happy, always. I don’t want this to keep stopping you.”

“It’s not exactly a small area of my life.”

“I didn’t mean that it was,” Castiel frowns. “I’m saying this wrong.”

“No,” Dean says, pulling away from the warm cocoon of covers and comfort to sit up. “You’re --- you’re fine. I get it. Being an ass.”

“You’re getting up.”

“Restaurant,” Dean says, pinching his forehead, “Burgers. Lunch service. Kitchen ain’t gonna lose money all by itself. Well, maybe,” He says, mouth curled into this humourless smile, “But it’ll be slower if I show up to supervise.”

“Dean.” Castiel says, chest aching.

Dean catches his eye and the hard edge to his expression softens and ---

--- he doesn’t want Dean to go back to his empty restaurant, stuck in his sparse kitchen, thinking about losing money and not being good enough. He doesn’t want him to think about Garth delivering pizza. He doesn’t want him thinking about John Winchester’s opinion or losing their home, or that he’s somehow ruined everything.

He would like Dean to stay here, to actually sleep, to eat some real food and to relax.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean says, in that softer alone voice, “Just —— don’t worry about me.”

“You’re very worrying,” Castiel says, as Dean presses a kiss into Castiel’s shoulder blade and starts picking around their room for his clothes. “You’re working a double shift?”

“Get an hour off at three.”

“I hate this.”

“Look, sweetheart, it’s eight hours. That’s a regular damn working day.”

“You’ve been at work for three hours already,” Castiel says, “And you won’t take an hour at three. You’ll catch up with your suppliers, or your accounts —”

“Well sounds like you’re auditioning to be my goddamn accountant —“

“—-Do not do that,” Castiel says, “I have no intention of arguing with you, Dean Winchester, so you will not act like an assbut in the face of my concern.”

Dean sits back down on the edge of the bed and looks at him.

“I’ll take my hour at three, okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel says, curt, but he takes hold of Dean’s available hand anyway and threads their fingers together. Dean squeezes his hand and smiles at him. It’s the kind of smile that doesn’t really make it past the corner of his lips, but the effort is there. Dean is trying.

“You —- what’ve you got today?”

“I have some articles to write,” Castiel says, although he can’t think of anything less appealing than sitting down and trying to dredge something interesting out of his brain, because he’s saturated. He’s dried out, overcooked, over-seasoned. “Some to edit. I am a guest ‘food journalist’ on some evening news show and, ideally, I need to blog. And there is laundry. I’ll cook dinner for when you’re home.”

“Alright, Donna Reed.”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“Forget it,” Dean says, squeezing his hand one last time before standing up again and stretching. “It’ll be late, you can eat without me.”

“I know I can, I just don’t want to.” Castiel returns, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. Prickly.

“Just cause my food schedule’s whacked —-”

“—- Dean, for the next nine hours I am going to sit in this house, alone, thinking about all of this. It would be nice to eat one meal a day with the company of a human being, specifically my husband.”

Apparently, it’s Castiel’s turn to splurge emotions everywhere.

He hates coronavirus. He hates it.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice butter-soft, rich and comfortable. “You want me to call you at three?”

“No,” Castiel says, although he does, but it wouldn’t quench his desire for genuine quality time, anyway. He would still want more and it would cost Dean too much. “I’m being needy. I’m —- it’s fine.”

“Fuck that,” Dean says, “Look, man. I know being locked up here is driving you crazy. You’re not being goddamn needy. I can call you at three if you need me to. Hell Cas, I can come home at three if it’s gonna make you feel better.”

“Regardless of your intentions, you will take a maximum of forty five minutes for lunch. If you come back here you won’t have time to eat. You need that time to sit still and not talk to anyone. I know and understand that. Go, Dean. I’ll see you later.”

“Got the whole of tomorrow off,” Dean says, hovering at the edge of the bed. “Can stay in bed till noon if you want to. Whatever you want.”

“Think tomorrow is supposed to be your choice, but I would not be opposed to staying in bed all day.” Castiel says, “Kiss before you go, please.”

“Roger that,” Dean says, reaching forward to kiss him. “And get some damn sleep.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, pulling the covers around his legs, with the familiar Dean-scent and Dean warmth, listening to his steps on the stairs and his key in the lock, until the house falls back into silence.

He gets back out of bed around noon to reheat yesterday’s risotto.

Somehow, it’s gotten worse since yesterday. It’s heavier. Duller. The hard edges of the parmesan feel dense and overwrought. He tries adding more lemon, but it doesn’t help much. He makes it through about half of it before he decides that it’s unappetising enough to outweigh his hunger and throws the rest in the bin. He dislikes wasting food as a general rule, particularly food that Dean has cooked him, but Dean was right: it does suck.

Chapter Text

At least one of the options Castiel scribbled down at two in the morning was for Castiel to take on more of the burden of their finances until everything settles, so logic dictates he should be spending the day re-sifting through his inbox for work, or doing some of the actual work they he does has confirmed, or doing something financially productive.

And yet.

He cannot focus.

He tries.

He writes a to-do list, with increasingly basic tasks (clean kitchen, wash laundry, fold laundry, put away laundry, drink coffee, write, write, write), until he gets annoyed with it and crushes the list into a ball to have something to do with his simmering emotions. He does finally buy groceries and he does stare at his laptop for a while, but actually getting his thoughts to line up to something that isn’t a petulant toddler yelling about how unfair this all is is not happening.

Castiel paces the house for a while, considers starting another list and then calls Gabriel for something to do with the uneasy frustration in his gut.

“You gonna tell me what’s crawled up your ass?” Gabriel says cheerily, after Castiel has snapped at him for no real reason other than Gabriel-being-Gabriel for the third time in under a minute.

He sits back down at the table heavily and stares at his phone.

“How’s the cafe,” Castiel says, “Financially?”

“Ah,” Gabriel says, “Okay. Certainly going down as the worst financial year of all time, but … pretty much operating as a take out service, which saves on cleaning up after pain in the ass clientele dropping coffee, so that’s a win. That’s a thinly veiled barb at your husband, by the way.”

“He dropped coffee once,” Castiel says. “But yes, I got it.”

“Didn’t clean it up though, did he?”

“Most of it went on his jeans and, if we think back, I cleaned up the rest of it,” Castiel says, “But —- you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay, Cassie.”

“And you’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“Suffering in silence isn’t really my style, little brother,” Gabriel says. “So. The Bunker is struggling, huh?”

He didn’t really call to say that, because he honestly has no idea if Dean has been talking to anyone about this, so he’d probably appreciate some discretion about it. Obviously, Charlie knows, but it seems relatively likely at this point that Sam has been treated to a similar version of the truth: not so much rose-tinted, but definitely filtered out for emotion and fear.

Apparently, Castiel hasn’t been very subtle.

“Yes.” He says, heavily.

“I mean, kinda figured,” Gabriel says, “Eight tables outside doesn't add up to shit.”

“It adds up to plenty of shit, Gabriel,” Castiel says. “Obviously, I knew that it was tight, but…”

“Dean being Dean about it all, huh?”

“He’s exceptionally stressed.”

“And you?”

“I was naively only moderately stressed,” Castiel says, “This has recently changed.”

“How bad are we talking?”

“I —- I need to talk about this with Dean, first. Respect his privacy.” Castiel says, “I didn’t mean to blurt things at you.”

“You didn’t,” Gabriel says, “Pretty sure you could leverage some emotional baggage to get the big bros to lend you some money, you know. Remind them of how they nearly ruined your childhood and all that.”

“That sounds charming,” Castiel says, staring at the corner of the table. The thoroughly depressing part of it is that is on his list, too (although, without the emotional blackmail part. At this stage in his life he’s relatively certain that any of his older brothers would be able to shelve their pride for long enough to bail him out after a pandemic. Dean would definitely be the one that would need convincing because he’s stubborn and pig-headedly self-made). “Perhaps after I could remind them about Anna getting sick and our dead mother.”

“I’d offer myself, Kiddo, but I mean okay in the pretty literal sense of the word. Not a lot of spare change.”

“I didn’t call you for money, Gabriel,” Castiel says. “I just —— wanted to know that you were okay.”

“I am okay,” Gabriel says, “Ready for this shit fest to be over.”

“Yes please,” Castiel says, “It’s not looking like this will happen soon.”

“Nope.”

“I have to go prepare for this news thing,” Castiel says,“By which I mean get dressed, mostly.”

“Good plan,” Gabriel says, “Keep me updated --- capisce?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, because he supposes he’s signed his own death warrant now that he’s told Gabriel about it, even if he didn’t really mean to exactly, then wanders upstairs to put on real clothes and to work himself up to doing something with his day.

The good thing about the news show is that he can’t procrastinate himself out of productivity.

The bad part about it is almost everything else.

He can’t remember why he agreed to this in the first place, or exactly how he ended up on their list, but occasionally if something vaguely food related or hospitality related comes up they ask him to say things about his opinion, and then they turned this segment into a weekly discussion of the current guidelines and generally ask him to show up. Right now he’d rather be continuing to stare into space than to video call into a damn TV show to talk about the intersection between coronavirus and restaurants, but the first five minutes are relatively tolerable.

It’s fine and then —

“Castiel,” The presenter says, twisting toward his image on the screen. “Here’s a question from one of our viewers—- do you think it’s selfish for the hospitality industry to call for relaxed restrictions over risking people’s lives?”

“Do I think it’s selfish?” Castiel repeats, evenly, mostly to try and give time for the adrenaline spike to lessen. The raging injustice of the question has his heart beating loudly in his chest and he would very much like to tell the viewer what, exactly, they can do with their question, but effectively his only job here is to not swear, be polite and remain unassuming.

It isn’t really this person’s fault, anyway. He can understand why restaurants might feel like less of a priority than seeing family and hugging and schools. It is perfectly reasonable that most people care much less about the economic impact on an industry than they do about their loved ones, but Castiel is having a very bad day.

“You know that my husband is an executive chef at his restaurant,” Castiel says, which wins him a nod of recognition from the presenter. “My husband started pot washing aged sixteen. By seventeen, he had three jobs. By eighteen, he had dropped out of school to pay rent. He has consistently worked seventy hour weeks since then. He put himself through business school while working those kinds of hours. When I met Dean, he did not take weekends off, he did not take vacations and he would be at his restaurant at half five in the morning to do prep for morning service. He is the most hard working individual that I have ever had the pleasure to meet and he has poured all of his money, all of his energy and all of his time into making his restaurant a success. Dean is creative and talented, generous and committed and quite remarkably unselfish.” Castiel says, and it’s all a terrible idea and what he really needs to do is shut up, but he’s tired and he’s hungry and he is angry and he is not really thinking clearly.

He’s just thinking about Dean spending his 3pm lunch break cooped up in his office, eating another leftover burger and texting Castiel about two of his reservations not turning up.

“At this point, his restaurant has been nearly continuously shut for nearly a year. He has adapted, as many restaurants have. He has been running a delivery service, which is not something his restaurant was set up for. He has invested in outdoor seating and created one way systems and changed the layout of his tables and reduced his menu . And despite all of that, he is consistently losing money. He is barely drawing a salary and he has had to let go of staff that he has employed for five years who he considers to be friends.

“My husband also has family he wants to see. He has a brother he desperately wants to hug after months of social distancing and he has a brother in medical school, who has been telling us about the grim reality of this disease and what it’s doing to our lungs and our hospitals. No, I do not think my husband is selfish for wanting to be able to work, after fifteen years of tirelessly working and investing in his dream. Neither of us are scientists. Of course, hospitality can only open when it’s safe to do so. Of course, he understands the need to protect lives. If it isn’t time, then it isn’t time, but the fact of the matter is that this has decimated his livelihood. They’re estimating that a third of restaurants won’t survive. Hospitality accounts for a significant part of our economy and without support we will lose it. These are small businesses. Family run, family owned businesses and sole proprietors. These are not big companies with significant reserves, we’re talking about hard-working, passionate individuals operating in a difficult industry with hard margins at the best of times . Yes, this pandemic has been terrible for everyone, but the hospitality industry deserves our sympathy, not admonition.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Castiel is a complete assbut.

“And… that’s all we’ve got time for on the subject of restaurant closures,” The presenter says, “Thanks for the impassioned speech from Castiel Winchester, food and lifestyle journalist. Back to Jenny with the weather——”

Frankly, Castiel is surprised that they didn’t mute him.

He logs out of the call and off the computer as soon as he possibly can, shutting his laptop with a decisive click and allowing his churned-up adrenaline-and-rage to take him into the kitchen.

After he’s calmed down, he has regrets.

After the news outlet has turned it into a two minute video clip of him ranting and shared it on all their social media channels, he has more regrets.

Gabriel is the first person to text him, with a very helpful ‘so how’s respecting Dean’s privacy going?.

An hour or so later, Adam Milligan posts ‘thanks for the shout out, Cas’ with a link to the video on the infernal “family” group chat, which is terrible because it’s the one with John Winchester, Kate and Adam, rather than the one with Bobby and Ellen, or the one with all of his siblings and he could’ve lived without anyone bringing that damnable video to John Winchester’s attention. Adam follows up with a “and remind me not to piss in your cereal, man. Wow” which absolutely makes him feel worse.

And then Sam calls him.

“You saw it.” Castiel deadpans.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says, “I saw it.”

“If I ask Adam to remove the message —-” Castiel begins, but he’s not really sure it wouldn’t make it worse. Adam is generally less instinctively aware of the uncomfortable weight John Winchester’s opinion brings, so less likely to hold his tongue or opt for selective-communication. He is under no illusion that John is a saint, but he missed the restaurant-show-down and Dean’s very specific peace terms. Neither of them ever correct Adam, though, or choose to fill in the context. He thinks explaining to Adam that he’d rather keep John as in the dark as possible from their personal business would break that unspoken rule and somehow mess things up.

“What?” Sam asks, “What message?”

“On that family WhatsApp group ——”

“Oh, no, haven’t seen that.”

“Then how —-?”

“This associate just came in here and asked if this was my brother-in-law, because his kid-brother is making some kind of tik tok video out of it.”

Castiel is a complete idiot.

“Wonderful.”

“Cas, not really the reason I called,” Sam says, and of course it isn’t. Castiel as good as told everyone that they’re heading quickly towards being very broke and started ranting about restaurant closures and how achingly wonderful he thinks Dean is. It stands to reason that Sam doesn’t care about fucking tik tok. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Castiel asks, feeling slightly hysterical. “That is your question?”

“Look,” Sam says, “I’m gonna chew out Dean of being a total idiot later, but I’m assuming he’s working right now —”

“ — yes, he’s working, but —-”

“—- and, look, I know what he’s like,” Sam says, “So I can pretty much fill in the blanks here.”

“I,” Castiel begins, but he doesn’t really know what to say to that. He’s torn between trying to defend Dean’s honour which Dean probably deserves after Castiel has spilled their personal details everywhere and asking Sam his top tips for getting Dean Winchester to talk about his emotions. “I’m having a bad day, Sam.”

“Yeah, I worked that out,” Sam says, kindly. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Sometimes, it’s hard to conceptualise the fact that Sam and Dean Winchester came from the same womb.

“Do I want to talk about it?” Castiel repeats back, dumbly.

“I’ve been meaning to call you, anyway,” Sam says. “Know things have been pretty rough over there.”

“Dean is ---”

“--- Cas, I kind of meant for you,” Sam interjects, “Look, you’ve been working from home, mostly freelance, with no colleagues to bounce off, with Dean off working increasingly insane hours. Figured you must be going crazy.”

“Crazy is a subjective term,” Castiel says, sitting down heavily on the sofa with something complicated in his gut, because Sam isn’t wrong. In real terms, he’s been finding this latest stay-in-place thing growingly maddening and growingly lonely and awful (which, if he’s fair to himself, is probably how some of this Dean-stress-money situation slipped past his attention; he does generally know Dean very well), but it seemed so much less-terrible than Dean working himself to the bone for absolutely nothing, or those working in hospitals seeing people sick and dying, or people in low-income, insecure work forced into exposing themself to risk, so he hasn’t really let himself think about it. He has a nice home and a wonderful husband and a steady-ish income but it’s ---

--- pretty rough.

“I know Dean’s been worried about you, too. I should’ve been doing more to support you.”

“I ---- I’m fine, Sam.”

“Cas,” Sam says, “You know that you’re my friend, as well as my brother-in-law, right?”

He forgets, sometimes, what a wonderful person Sam Winchester is.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“I mean, it helps that you’re clearly crazy about my infuriating jerk of a brother, often pretty publicly, all over the damn internet and tv now, apparently,” Sam says, with some of that light, Dean-humour colouring his voice, “But you’re also objectively pretty awesome so just --- you can talk to me, if you want.”

“I appreciate that,” Cas says, half-smiling at the ceiling.

“And don’t worry about Dad,” Sam says, “We’ve all got bigger problems than worrying about what he thinks about anything.”

“I know,” Castiel begins, “It’s just Dean is ----- calling me, apparently,” Castiel says, staring at his phone feeling a strange sense of dread that doesn’t normally accompany seeing Dean’s name on his phone. Normally, it’s that finally-seeing-your-food-coming-at-a-restaurant-joy but he really does not know what Dean is going to say about his outburst. “Sam, I ---”

“Yep, go,” Sam says, “And --- don’t worry. It’s all going to be fine, with Dean. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye.” Sam says, with a level of easy-confidence that Castiel absolutely does not share, because Dean is private and has this sense of stubborn-pride and a very real aversion to being seen as weak.

“Hello,” Castiel says, warily.

“Hey,” Dean says, the familiar noise of the kitchen in the background. “Hey Cas —— hey, Kevin, my fucking hero, I need you on burger prep, stat, and —- yeah, Cas, I’m —- really sorry, but I’m gonna be later than I said, okay?”

“What?” Castiel asks, something in his chest plummeting. He’s been very accustomed to being alone over the past year, but he’s very certain that he is done with it today, “Dean, why?”

“I —— yeah, Kev, forget about tomorrow, I know that’s not what I said but this is the definition of unforeseen freaking circumstances, so, make me some damn burgers and then get on sides before I lose my shit — and I’m busy as hell.”

Castiel waits a beat too long before it occurs to him that Dean might be waiting for something from him.

“Is that to me or Kevin?”

“You,” Dean says, “Cas. Oh I know — that’s to Kevin —- look, Kitchen’s backed up. Had to call Kevin in on his one freaking night off because otherwise it was just me and goddamn Tim drowning in burgers —-—so I gotta re-jig my stocks.”

“You’re busy?” Castiel frowns. It sounds busy, but given their earlier conversations it seems statistically unlikely. It’s Wednesday. Castiel has looked at Dean’s Wednesdays night takings for the last three years and he can’t really fathom Dean needing to call in backup.

“Stacked,” Dean says, “Apparently, some crazy asshole went on television talking about how great I am.”

“Ah.”

“Yup,” Dean says, sounding almost cheerful, which is…. Unusual. He was mostly anticipating that Dean would be irritated at him, but compassionate enough about this coming from a place of emotional unrest to not actually start an argument over it. He’d expected a hard-edged, closed-off Dean, but he sounds genuinely happy. A little like that light-humour that Dean carries around has actually permeated through his outer layer for the first time in months.

“You know I’m not very logical when I’m upset.”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean says, “Don’t worry about it, Sunshine. Not mad at you. Okay —— Kevin, forget that a sec, just tell me if I’ve got enough burgers for these tickets, and if not tell Charlie she’s gotta call time on deliveries because —- okay, you got it — Cas, I’m back, should probably warn you that you’re on speaker.”

“Hello Kevin.”

“Hey Cas,” Kevin’s voice says, “And—- how many covers on table four, Dean?”

“—- uh, no idea,” Dean says, “But if we’re that close to the wire then that’s pretty damn uncomfortable from where I’m sitting so —”

“—- heard.” Kevin says, “Your two top, two chicken is bordering on overdone —-”

“—-shit, on it, thanks Kevin. My fucking hero,” Dean throws back, followed by a hiss of a pan, somewhere, and that sound of metal-tray onto metal-pass. “No offense Cas,” Dean tags on, from slightly further away.

“None taken,” Castiel says, digging a thumb into the centre of his forehead to try and help him focus on the important parts of the background noise. “Kevin, how’s your mother?”

“Good thanks Cas, she’s —-”

“—- not that this little chit chat isn’t freaking heartwarming —-” Dean says, closer again. He sounds like he’s giving Kevin the look, or perhaps Castiel just knows his very well.

“Right, Charlie, on it.” Kevin says, then there’s steps, the swing of the kitchen door.

“Okay, Cas. Go.”

“I… don’t remember what we’re talking about.”

“Your publicity stunt.”

“It wasn’t —-“

“Yeah, I know. Just teasing you, but it definitely freaking worked.” Dean says, which Castiel supposes is something.

“I gave more personal information about you than I would have done if I was thinking clearly.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Dean says, “Charlie hooked you up to speakers.”

“Oh god.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “The guys in the restaurant cheered. Charlie tried to make me come out and take a fucking bow, till I reminded her about the whole covid crap.”

“Well there’s a silver lining,” Castiel says, weakly.

“Yup,” Dean says, “Hey, Charlie —— did Tracy —-? Okay, awesome, that’s great. Yeah. No, I just want my order tomorrow, bring it forward. Can pick it up myself. Tell her I’m gonna recalculate and I’ll probably up quantities, do an extra, but I gotta do the math and —- Cas, just give me a minute,” Dean says, then his voice is lost in the sound of kitchen prep; the deep fat fryer-hiss, background talking, pans. The hint of Charlie in the background, then relative quiet. “Okay, I’m with you.”

“Dean, if you need to go —-”

“No, Kevin’s on the pass, we’re okay,” Dean says, “Figured you’d be freaking out. Wanted to check in.”

“I —- yes, I’ve been freaking somewhat. Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Not looking for an apology here,” Dean says. “Mostly just wanted to say that I fucking love you.”

As frustrating as Dean can be, he is also exceptionally lovely.

“Thank you,” Castiel says.

“And, look, tonight’s gonna be late, okay? And you’ve barely slept, so please go the hell to bed. Don’t wait up.”

“I want to speak to you.”

“I know,” Dean says, “Look —- we’re gonna talk about the money thing tomorrow afternoon, okay? I’m gonna need to come back and work first thing tomorrow, cause this run has been goddamn insane and I need to restock, replan.”

“I’ve caused you more work.”

“Cas, I needthe fucking work. It’s okay. Good even.”

Currently, Castiel is not sure he cares about any amount of money more than he cares about Dean taking a day off tomorrow to actually rest, but he’s willing to take Dean’s word for it. He sounds better than he has for weeks, at least.

“Alright.”

“Oh,” Dean says, “And I sent one of our delivery guys on route with some garlic bread, made it myself.”

“You romantic.”

“That’s me,” Dean says.

“You sound happy.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Well my dumbass husband loves me enough to spout shit on the tv and go viral with it, again.”

It is becoming somewhat habitual.

“It was an accident, again.”

“And I know I’m making a profit tonight and that always makes me feel tingly.”

“Good,” Castiel says, “I’m very happy for you, Dean, but —- you know that my powers over the internet are somewhat limited. I don’t think you can count on this lasting more than a night.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, “But I’ll take one good freaking night, at this point. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” Castiel says, smiling at his stupid phone.

He digs out the video again afterwards, because he doesn’t actually remember mentioning the Bunker. He remembers spouting various affectionate and passionate things about Dean, but not nearly anything as sensible enough as the name of his restaurant and how to order a burger. If he was aiming for a publicity stunt, he’d have done a terrible job, but…

Some very kind person in their editing department has done the job for him. He’s referred to as husband of executive Chef at ‘The Bunker’, which is one of the best titles he’s ever been given. They’ve even gone far enough to tag both Castiel and The Bunker in it, which is probably how Charlie saw it to play it through the damn speakers (and also because she’s Charlie and seems to automatically absorb anything that happens on the internet).

Five minutes later, his garlic bread arrives in the takeout box that Castiel helped him pick out. The garlic bread itself is in a crude almost-heart shape, wonky and lopsided, and it smells delicious. There’s a scribbled note with it too, in Dean’s rushed scrawl.

Technically, this was an accident and failed quality control. But sometimes the best things happen by accident — D

Castiel smiles at it dumbly for a few moments before he takes a picture, shares the stupid video from the news outlet and a picture of his lovely garlic bread— becuase if his idiocy can be turned into something that helps Dean, then he might as well embrace it—- then he sits crossed legged on the sofa and eats.

Chapter Text

“This doesn’t look like how it does when you do it,” Castiel says, frowning at his delicate-ish attempt at a plaited pastry top. Gabriel’s are usually pretty (surprisingly so given Gabriel is so chaotically destructive and/ or hedonistic most of the time), but Castiel’s looks a little smushed together and messy. It looks a lot like it was attempted by a very enthusiastic five year old, rather than how he imagined it would look when he pictured the Instagram post.

“Course it doesn’t,” Gabriel says, voice emerging from Castiel’s phone, where he has him propped up against a mug of coffee, on video call. “You’re culinarily challenged with no finesse, or appreciation of delicacies.”

“Thank you, that’s very helpful.”

“Cassie, just roll out the pastry and put it on top. Pretty sure this plaited lattice is beyond you.”

“You said that you would help,” Castiel says, setting down his sad plait to squint at his brother on the screen. Gabriel is still in bed, potentially naked (or at least shirtless, but Castiel lived with him for long enough to know too much about how frequently Gabriel slept naked) and Castiel is relatively sure this isn’t how he envisioned this morning panning out.

For a start, Dean wasn’t supposed to be at work.

“What do you want me to do here?” Gabriel asks, “Told you I’d ship you a damn pie.”

“Yes, that’s a lovely expression of sentiment. Here’s a free pie my brother made for you.”

“Never said I wasn’t gonna charge you for it, Bro. Times are hard.”

“You’re an idiot,” Castiel says, poking at a particularly messy part of the plait as if that will somehow make it better. Instead, he leaves a finger-shaped dent, which is definitely worse. “How bad does it look?”

“Whell….” Gabriel begins, just as Castiel hears the key in the lock and Dean’s footsteps. He half steps in front of his terrible pie-top to hide it from view, more to avoid embarrassment than because he’d really committed to pie being a surprise. He’d expected Dean to be home all day, which would have made a surprise ambitious. Besides, he has attempted this every year, with varying degrees of success. Dean is intelligent enough to expect it at this point.

“You’re back earlier than I expected,” Castiel frowns, as Dean walks in, drops a kiss on his cheek and starts inspecting the significant amount of mess Castiel has created.

“Yeah --- figured I’d go in early, get it done, come home. Huh, I get pie.”

“Yes, well, I consider it to be a very important husbandly duty,” Castiel says, “How early?”

“Six ish,” Dean says, which means significantly before six in Dean-language. If he manages to achieve anything today, he hopes it’s that he managed to get Dean to get some decent sleep. He didn’t get home till around midnight, which adds up to sustained sleep deprivation and he very much thinks it would help.

“Tsk, I was promised you’d stay in bed all day. I feel cheated.”

“We can go back to bed after you’ve finished baking me pie.”

“I’m not re-ineacting some erotic pie-fantasy, where I feed you in bed.”

“Uh --- not that this isn’t a perfect mix of adorable and embarrassing, for you,” Gabriel pipes up, cheerfully, “But I am still here.”

“Hey Gabe,” Dean says, leaning over and picking up the phone and holding it in front of them, so that they’re both in view of the camera. “Giving Cas pie lessons again?”

“Under duress,” Gabriel says, “Next year, you’re on your own. Happy Birthday by the way, Deano.”

“Thanks,”

“Heard you’re one of the most hard working individual’s Castiel’s ever met,”

“Allright,” Castiel says, sharply, “I have a button that can shut you up and I will use it.”

“Dude, doing you a favour here. Here I am, putting myself out for you ---”

“You’re not even dressed,” Castiel says, “You’re not at work and you’re legally obliged to stay at home. How much is this really impacting your life?”

“Think I can probably handle pie supervision from here, anyway,” Dean says, “And I’ve got an erotic pie-fantasy to talk your little brother into, so we’ll let you get back to… whatever it is that you’re doing with your day.”

“Well played, Winchester,” Gabriel says. “And hey --- sorry about the fucking pandemic.”

“Yup,” Dean says, “Laters, Gabriel.”

“Happy birthday. I’d kiss you properly, but I’m covered in pastry.” Castiel says, holding out his pastry-covered fingers between them.

“Pretty sure I can handle it,”

“Mmhm, okay,” Castiel says, reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him, long and slow. It’s a very good kiss. Dean pours some of his tentative hope into it and it’s tantalizing and delicious and a very nice distraction from his bad pie and his lack of finesse and their impending financial doom. “Sorry my actions yesterday meant you had to work.” Castiel says, stepping back just far enough away to look at him. “Was it all okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, “Just looked a helluva lot like I was gonna run out of damn meat today and that makes running a burger place pretty difficult.”

“That is a run.”

“Yup,” Dean says, thumbing along the edge of Castiel’s jacket under the guise of straightening it, which he expects is due to Dean’s desire for closeness rather than any actual attempt to bring order to Castiel’s appearance. He has pie-filling on his neck, so he’s sure the latter is a lost cause.“You’ve got a lot of power for a nerdy guy in a trench coat.”

“It’s my dazzling wit,” Castiel says, brushing pastry off Dean’s cheek. “Sparkling personality.”

“Oh you’re charming, allright.”

“I am sorry,” Castiel says, “About yesterday. I know it worked out okay, but I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“Honestly, kind of made me feel better about everything,” Dean says, “Here’s this objectively fucking beautiful man running his mouth off ‘bout how unfair this all is, clearly completely freaking besotted with his husband and, I dunno, always makes me feel kinda better when you start bleeding emotion all over the place, too.”

“In which case, I enthusiastically take back my apology.” Castiel says, “You resolved your meat issue?”

“Yep. Looped back to the kitchen, made up about six thousand burgers for lunch and dinner tonight, came home in time for pie.”

“You’re getting half a pie, currently.” Castiel says, stepping back to observe his pie-attempts. He’s pretty sure that last year’s was much better, but maybe aiming for year-on-year improvement was slightly too ambitious.

“Well, gonna take a shower.”

“But then who will supervise me?”

“The smoke alarm will yell at you if you really fuck up,” Dean says, “I’ve got faith in you.”

“I’m still not bringing you pie to bed,” Castiel says, “I changed the sheets yesterday and the good clean ones are still drying.”

“You’re fucking great,” Dean says, looking distinctly fond, with flour smudged over his cheek and that tired sad look still pooled at the corner of his eyes. “Not that tired, anyway.”

“We’ll see,” Castiel says, turning back to his terrible, lopsided, twisted pastry plaited-lattice. It looks bad, but he feels like he’s too far along the process to give it all up as a bad job.

He spends another five minutes trying to improve it, then decides that it more or less sums the past twelve months up nicely and puts it on top of his pie.

*

They’re halfway through pie-and-presents when Dean runs into the bottle of highly suspicious home-brewed (or maybe home-infused) blueberry vodka from Garth and something about the almost-easiness of the day shatters. Castiel wishes he’d hidden it, or something, because he does not like seeing that expression on Dean’s face.

“Okay,” Dean says, resigned, pushing the bottle away and standing up, with this restless energy that doesn’t fill Castiel with confidence. “Let’s talk money.”

“We don’t have to do this today.”

“Cas, I’m not gonna have a proper day off for a while. You’re right that we’ve gotta talk about it.”

“But it’s your birthday,” Castiel counters, which is probably a pathetic argument given the magnitude of the thing, he’s just always been slightly insane about Dean’s birthdays and he just wants Dean to have a good day. He wants to talk about money, too, because they have to, but he doesn’t really want to do it now. The concept of the conversation is much more appealing than the actuality.

“Even with the pandemic and the money talk, this is not going to get marked down as the worst birthday I’ve ever had, so whatever.”

“I know that,” Castiel says, “This is why I conspired with Charlie to make you take the day off. Before I caused you the extra work, I mean. You deserve good, remedial birthdays.”

“Cas,” Dean says, with that look that’s hard to argue with. Commanding and serious.

“Alright,” Castiel says, standing up to retrieve his notes and a pen from their study and bringing them back to the sofa. He added more to his plan last night, in some garlic-bread fueled inspiration, some creeping optimism sitting in his gut.

“So,” Dean says, jaw squared as he looks at the wall, sitting down now, with no less of that tension held in his limbs. “How fucked am I?”

“I think your projections are fair, if nothing changes.”

“So —-April. Two months.”

“Ten weeks. I think —— Cut Tuesday and Wednesday lunch.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, rubbing his forehead. “Yeah, that was next on the list. I just really didn’t wanna cut anymore hours, but I can’t — it's just a freaking money pit.”

“Dean, you have eight tables having practically one sitting at lunch because of the two hour time limit. Making it pay one person's wage after overheads is ambitious. It’s not your fault. Thursday to Sunday the delivery is making it viable. If they allow twenty five or fifty percent capacity then I think you could add it back in —”

“—- if,” Dean says, “Cas, we don’t know if that’s gonna happen.”

“No, we don’t,” Cas says. “But, you’ve focused on your worst case scenarios.”

“I’m living the goddamn worst case scenario.”

“If nothing else changes,” Castiel says, “Without those lunches, I think we have until the beginning of May until the restaurant hits significant financial hardship. I think —- with vaccines and any measures they allow, the reality is more likely that we will have until June.”

“Awesome.”

“And then we will need to make some decisions.”

“I’m out of decisions.”

“We have savings Dean. Personal savings.”

“That’s,” Dean says, “Cas, that’s for kids and house stuff. And we’ve been slowly eating into the damn savings for months anyway. There’s not that much left.”

Castiel flicks through his pages to pull out their latest bank statement, because Dean isn’t wrong. It certainly has not been a good year for their savings, given that Dean basically isn’t earning anything and Castiel’s income has always been slightly variable.

“Dean, we can’t adopt if we don’t have means of supporting them, regardless, and if you don’t have the restaurant it becomes a moot point.”

“I could just get a job. Any job.”

“No,” Castiel says, “That’s unacceptable to me. Dean, we have time to save again.”

“But what’s the fucking point?” Dean asks, “Honestly, the amount we have saved right now ain’t gonna buy me that much time, Cas, and —- even if we can reopen tomorrow I don’t have any goddamn stock, or any freaking staff left. Gonna have to advertise and train up new chefs. I’m gonna be running in the red for months and —— I don’t wanna lose everything.”

“I know that,” Castiel says, “And I have no no intention of allowing us to lose everything, but if we can ride this out, then… is this reasonable for the cash influx you’d need for stock and hiring?” Castiel asks, pushing the piece of paper at him.

“Yeah that’s —- that’s doable.”

“The key is not to be in unmanageable debt and have that kind of capital available, at the point that you can reopen. It’s fine to be in the red, just not —”

“Drowning in it.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “But we don’t have any capital. I mean, not enough and it’s only getting worse. Unmanageable fucking debt kicks in in May or June.”

“And then we have three options,”

“You and your three fucking options,” Dean mutters, darkly.

“You shut and sell up, we find money, or you take the chance that it will improve in time and do nothing, regardless of the consequences.”

“So we have two options.”

“I don’t know how risk averse you are when it comes to finances,” Castiel says, evenly. “For some people, throwing a hail mary is better than living with regret or not taking a chance.”

“No,” Dean says, hard and sharp. “Remember not knowing how I was gonna make rent. Not doing that again. Not ever.”

And really, there’s nothing that Castiel could say to that, even if he didn’t agree.

It’s just so unfair after all of Dean’s hard work, dedication, effort and talent that it’s even on the cards. They shouldn’t need to have this conversation. Dean shouldn’t have to wrestle with feeling inadequate because of all of this, when it’s just something that’s been happening to them through no fault of his own.

“Okay,” Castiel says, “Well, that’s certainly not my preference, either.”

“Talk to me about finding money,” Dean says, “Cause this ain’t a Disney movie and I don’t play the damn lottery, so I’m not sure how the hell we’re supposed to do that.”

“The general solution is borrowing it.”

“And that helps with unmanageable debt, how?”

“Dean, you know where this is going. I know you don’t like it, but….” Dean squares his jaw, frowns, doesn’t look at him. “For a start, we could see if they will give us a second mortgage on the house.”

“No.”

“Dean, listen to me, it’s viable.”

“Is it? Look, Benny tried that months ago. Got laughed out the fucking bank.”

“Benny’s restaurant opened last January,” Castiel frowns, “He can’t prove that it’s a viable business model. You’ve been open for over five years and consistently made money. It’s not the same situation. It’s unfortunate, but it’s not the same.”

“Not putting our house at risk for a pipe dream.” Dean snaps, sharp enough that Castiel doesn’t think it’s worth pointing out what they both know, which is that it’s at risk anyway if they tip into unmanageable debt without a plan. Dean is aware of that. He’s very aware of that and Castiel is more interested about Benny, who Dean hasn’t mentioned for months. Castiel doesn’t really like the man, but that never stopped Dean talking about Benny’s restaurant-venture before, with something slightly wistful in his voice that made Castiel believe that Dean might want a second restaurant more than he was willing to admit out loud.

That’s probably not going to happen now. Not for a very long time, at least. If they want children, realistically it’s going to have to wait until after that.

“What’s Benny doing?” Castiel asks. Dean looks determinedly at the edge of the coffee table again with that look crossed his face, except Castiel knows what it means now. He’s paying enough attention and aware enough about the new rules of the game to know that backing off probably isn’t helpful “Dean, tell me.”

“Giving up,” Dean says, voice thick, “He’s —- like you said, only just goddamn opened and he got screwed. He’s… filing for fucking bankruptcy. Told me last Tuesday.”

They were one of Benny’s first customers. He worked for Dean for two or so years before he decided to go for it alone and Dean coached him through some of the process and championed him in it, because he is an excellent employee and a good friend. Benny insisted on giving them the best seat in the place on opening night and it was good and Castiel wrote about it on his blog telling people they should go, even though he mostly finds Benny irritating and frustrating (for reasons that he knows are entirely due to unfounded jealousy, which Dean tends to be bemused amount and Benny finds hilarious enough to mock him for it), and ---

He doesn’t deserve to go bankrupt.

“Dean,” Castiel says, this disappointment-sadness-guilt sticking to the back of his throat like treacle, because Benny told him this last Tuesday. That’s the day Dean came home with that grim look and his newfound commitment to fire Garth and… presumably, Benny has been talking to him about this for months, with the camaraderie of both being screwed over by the same circumstance and battling the same beast, but he hasn’t mentioned it. These things have been upsetting him and he’s been storing them up and not talking about them, and Castiel hates that. He hates this idea of Dean burying his pain and his panic. They are married. Castiel sleeps next to him every night and Dean’s is still confounding and concerning. “Is there anything else that you haven’t told me? I’m calling an information amnesty. Anything else that is hurting you that you’ve been squirreling away needs to be said now, and I will not be mad about you keeping it from me, within reason.”

“He’s,” Dean begins, swallows. “She’s leaving him. Andrea. Said —- she said this wasn’t what she signed up for.”

“Andrea is an imbecile.”

“But she —— she’s not wrong,” Dean says, “Two years ago, they had a pretty sweet life, till Benny bet it all on some restaurant dream, then he’s been working seventy hour weeks to lose money, coming home stressed as hell and exhausted and miserable, with nothing left to give. Not a freakin’ surprise. I’m pissed on principle, but I’m not even sure she’s being unreasonable, she —- Benny isn’t exactly a lot of fun right now.”

Oh, Dean.

“Dean,” Castiel says, taking hold of his hand and unclenching his first, slowly, so that he can thread their fingers together, and get Dean to actually look at him. It’s very important right now that Dean looks him in the eye and understands. “This is exactly what I signed up for. You. Your dreams, your struggles, your stress and exhaustion. For richer or poorer, Dean. That’s what I promised and I meant it. That doesn’t mean this doesn’t suck.”

“It really sucks,” Dean exhales, voice shaking slightly on the words.

“Yes,” Castiel says, “It completely fucking sucks.”

“Just wanna do my damn job, Cas, and I can’t.” Dean says, eyes shining slightly. “And then —- Sam and Jess…”

“Had been growing apart for years.”

“I, yeah, logically, I know that, it just —- I’m fed up of everything sucking. I’m over this pandemic shit. I want people to eat my damn food when it’s hot, ‘stead of crappy lukewarm delivery. I wanna hug my little brother. I wanna actually see you and go on a fucking date and have sex not cause apparently I’m loosing my shit again, but just because. I don’t want to take a loan out on our damn house, Cas. I just want to make you happy and not make you so freaking worried that you stay up all night reading accounts and writing pages and pages of — I don’t even know what this crap is, but you’ve drawn graphs,” Dean says, taking the notepad out of his hands and flicking through it, wildly, before dropping it onto the coffee table with a heavy thud and burying his head in his hands.

“I find numbers soothing.”

“What?”

“I did used to be an accountant.”

“Yeah, but that was soulless corporate Cas, not you.”

“We are the same entity, Dean,” Castiel says, “And I did like the numbers part. It makes my brain quiet.”

“Okay then,” Dean says, running his fingers through his fair, frustrated. “Good to know.”

“You make me very happy, Dean.”

“Just don’t feel like I’m bringing a lot to the table, right now.” Dean says, small and directed at the floor, which is, of course, insane, because Dean is wonderful all the time. Even when he’s stressed and hiding at the restaurant he still takes the time to make Castiel pancake mix for when he wakes up, and he texts him through his lunch breaks and sends him garlic bread, and forgives Castiel for being an idiot with his feelings and smiles like Castiel is miraculous when he bakes terrible-pie, and just exudes his incredible Dean-ness; loyalty and love, fun and this glorious zest for existence that makes Cas want to make him happy, which is an easy endeavour because Dean is astonishingly easy to please.

Dean Winchester is Castiel’s favourite person, always and… Castiel needs to change tact.

“Have I ever told you about when we first met?” Castiel asks, dropping his voice low. The question is unexpected enough that Dean removes his head from his hands to arch an eyebrow at him.

“I was there.”

“Yes you were,” Castiel says, “Things weren’t going very well, in my life. I was a pity pay rise away from working for tipped pay, at my brother’s cafe, attempting to make money out of a food blog, single, effectively friendless, sleeping in my brother’s spare room because I had nowhere else to go, with no plan. I was having a very bad day, Dean. I’d been rejected from some copy editing job I didn’t even want and was severely debating giving up on all of it and just being a sad, boring accountant, and Gabriel insisted that we go out, and I conceded because he said something cruel and very accurate about me being a hermit and my non-existent sex life, and then Gabriel ditched me to dance because he’s an assbut.”

“Sounds about right,” Dean says, “The Gabriel part. The rest is bullshit.”

“That’s how I felt at the time,” Castiel says, “So, I went to buy a very large amount of alcohol and then you were there, and you turned to me and said ‘that’s some voice’.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, “Think I blocked that out.”

“It was a bad line,” Castiel smiles, “But you did better than me. I just stared at you for an embarrassing length of time, internally debating if you were the most attractive man I’d ever seen in real life, or if I was just a lot drunker than I realised. You gave me your name and then I continued to not say anything and then you said ‘this is usually the part where you tell me your name’ and I did, and you raised your eyebrows and said ’okay then’ and then, as it turns out, immediately forgot it.”

“You try remember Castiel when you’re drunk,” Dean says, “And it was goddamn loud.”

“I think that was your next line to encourage me to go outside with you,” Castiel says, “Although I could be wrong on that one. Mostly, at this point I was waxing poetic about how obnoxious and beautiful you were and how absolutely worth breaking my usual rules about casual sex would be if you kissed me, and then somehow we ended up debating whether it was impolite to leave Gabriel there to go back to my apartment, because at the time I was strongly convicted that if we left it was only reasonable to offer to share a cab with him, which you were passionately against.”

“Huh”, Dean says, “Always wondered how we ended up at mine.”

“You don’t remember?” Castiel asks.

“Not this part,” Dean says, “Remember getting in the cab.”

“You switched to water when it became clear that I was absolutely receptive to your advances.”

“Regular old Boy Scout, me.”

“Oh you were prepared.” Castiel says, which wins him one of those endearing flushes that creeps up Dean’s neck. He’s very glad that Dean is much more comfortable with his own feelings these days, but he’s also glad that he still has the ability to make him slightly flustered.

“God,” Dean mutters, leaning back on the sofa and looking at him, allowing Castiel to coax him under his arm. “Awesome. And you thought I must be some emotionally repressed closeted asshole.”

“Dean, I thought you were breathtaking,” Castiel says, “And at the time I was feeling very insecure and ascribing your forward confidence to bravado made me feel better. Really, my first impression was much more about me than you.”

“Except you were right.”

“I wasn’t,” Castiel corrects, “I was reducing you down to a lack of depth because it was supposed to be a one night stand and I was much too interested from the off. I’m not very good at casual sex, Dean, it doesn’t really suit me. But you’ve never lacked depth. You’ve always been lovely.”

“Okay. So I take you home,” Dean says, “And you leave me your number.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “And we start dating and I learn that you passionately love your brother, that you think I’m funny, that you work very hard at a job that you’re quite cagey about and that you can cook. There was this night,” Castiel continues, “You cooked me a three course meal.”

“Risotto,”

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Crab cakes and this exquisite chocolate tart, which I am still offended about. It was unfair of you to so thoroughly seduce me with chocolate and wine, when I had only known you a few weeks, and --- and we talked so much that you had to reheat the risotto twice and you --- you’d told me that you hadn’t been to college, but that night you talked about not finishing high school and I --- in my judgemental family and small-minded existence, people didn’t do that, and here you were, enigmatic, intelligent and clearly successful at something, capable and talented, talking about working through school with easy acceptance of your hardships and I thought that you were incredible and fascinating. I love watching you cook,” Castiel continues, half-smiling at the memory, half at Dean right-now, watching him tell this story without cutting him off, or throwing off the compliments like he does, sometimes. “Because you exude this calm confidence. You’re so in command. You can see your passion and how very sure you are that you can create something that will make someone feel good. And I noticed it first then and I was terrified, because I wanted to keep you and it was very soon, and everything else in my life was an abject failure and I didn’t understand why you seemed to like me enough to treat me like I was important. I have since learned that you treat everyone like they’re important, but --- it was very disarming.”

“You’re,” Dean begins, “You’ve always been special. To me.”

“I know that too,” Castiel says, low, resting a hand on his knee. “I felt it in my lungs and my gut. Popular culture has always told me that you’re supposed to feel it in your heart, but it was the way I felt like I couldn’t get all the air I needed in my lungs because there were too many feelings there. And my gut ached with it. With wanting to know everything about you and wanting you to keep finding me interesting and attractive. It was a very good evening.”

“Yeah,” Dean blinks, “You’re --- none of that stuff about you is true.”

“I know that,” Castiel says, “That’s just how I was feeling at the time, which is probably how we ended up in such a mess. I used that time apart to do some real soul searching too, Dean, but… this is all to say —— I love you because of who you are, not because you are successful. I was falling in love with you before I knew you ran a successful restaurant, because you are generous and loyal and lovely. How I feel about you isn’t contingent on anything but you being you,” Castiel says.

“I’m really glad Gabriel made you go to that fucking bar.” Dean exhales, shutting his eyes for a moment.

“Me too,” Castiel smiles, “Have you spoken to your brother? I think he’s worried about you.”

“Yeah,” Dean says.” Called him on the way back from the supplier he —- he offered me money.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s a corporate lawyer and he’s thirty,” Castiel says, evenly because Dean forgets that sometimes. To be fair, Castiel hadn’t written Sam down on his list, so maybe he’s guilty of assuming Sam is younger and less-successful than he is, too. He still sometimes thinks of him as the hoodie-clad kid studying for the bar. “His bonus alone could keep you open for another month.”

“I raised him.”

“Exactly,” Castiel says.

“He doesn’t owe me for that.”

“I’m not saying that,” Castiel says, “I’m saying that’s how family works, Dean. I didn’t think of Sam, but every other thing on my list involves approaching one of my siblings for a loan.”

“You’ve written like, half a fucking book. That can’t all be different ways to ask Michael for money.”

“No,” Castiel says, “I wrote us a household budget.”

“You,” Dean begins, arching an eyebrow, “You wrote us a budget.”

“Dean, this is all interconnected, and you’re here cutting the cloth, while we’re wasting money on takeout and Netflix. It’s —- illogical. We can economise, I can find more work, even the soulless, corporate things if anyone will take me. This is all possible.”

“Don’t do the accountant thing. Write that book they asked you about. You were thinking about it anyway, and you’re bored.” Dean says and, yes, Castiel has been weighing it up since the suggestion came into his inbox three months ago, from some publisher that, hilariously, wants Castiel to write a cookbook. Of sorts. Some intriguing mix of recipes and semi-autobiography, about food and the culture of food. It would probably end up being ninety percent about Dean, because that tends to be what happens when he writes from the heart, and he’d toyed for the offer for weeks before he decided that it was maybe too-personal, or maybe too-difficult. He had started thinking about it again in the last few weeks, though.

“I don’t think that book would fix our financial problems, but —- yes, I have been thinking about it again.”

“Not saying it would, but it’s a cash advance,” Dean says, “And it’d be cool. Don’t want you doing something you’re gonna hate, or that makes you feel like any of that stuff you said before. I’d hate it if you were doing that for me.”

“It would be my honour, but… Either way, realistically, it won’t be enough on its own, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, chewing over the words. “I don’t wanna shut up and sell up, Cas. Maybe that makes me selfish, but —”

“I think I made my views on whether you’re selfish very clear,” Castiel says, “You could incorporate, if it made you feel better. Have someone invest in the restaurant rather than loaning it to you personally.”

“Don’t really remember how that works,” Dean says, “Know we talked about it with Charlie, but…”

“I can go over it with you,” Castiel says, “It doesn’t have to be now. This is just to establish your willingness for the available options.”

“They’re all a load of crap.”

“Yes they are,” Castiel says, “But personally, I think shutting the restaurant would be worse.”

“Let’s see our damn budget, then,” Dean says, leaning over him to take the notes out his hand, which is probably a better reaction than Castiel was expecting. It’s another distraction technique, really, but it’s at least a productive one. “Huh, you really went to freaking town, is this —— a goddamn meal plan? Is this like the twenty twenty one equivalent of the fifteen pairs of panties and the food processor —-”

“—- twelve,” Castiel corrects, “Let’s not exaggerate.”

“Right,” Dean snorts, flicking through his pages, “Okay, wow, this is six months of fucking groceries lists.”

“Most of our current superfluous spending is food,” Castiel says, “These are all things that I don’t normally fuck up, repeated at a tolerable frequency.”

“What’s this ninety dollars and my name every other week?” Dean says, paused with a finger over a line on Castiel’s budget and… ah. He finished most of this somewhere between his second and third glass of wine last night, before he gave up on his attempt at waiting for Dean to get home and sleep. He didn’t really think it through. “You giving me a damn allowance, or something?”

Castiel isn’t entirely sure how to get out of this.

“No,” Castiel says, frowning to try and buy himself some thinking time, “It’s…”

“It’s what?”

And… fuck it.

“It’s a therapy budget.”

“Okay,” Dean says, without missing a beat,“Why is this in our damn budget?”

“So that when I suggest it in an appropriate and sensitive manner that you don’t tell me that we can’t afford it.”

“We can’t afford it.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, evenly. “Currently, your restaurant literally cannot run without you. Your only back-up who could feasibly run the pass Kevin and I’m assuming he would struggle on a weekend dinner service —-”

“Not really getting your point, here.”

“It’s a counterpoint,” Castiel says, “What we cannot afford is for you to have to take time off work.”

“That isn’t really part of the plan.”

“You said this felt similar to when we were first dating.”

“Yeah.”

“You shut the restaurant.”

“I redecorated.”

“You needed time,” Castiel says, “I actually want you to talk to someone because I think that it would be helpful for you, but if we have to reduce it to a financial argument then I can make one of those too. I’m relatively sure that this is going to get worse before it gets better, Dean, and you’re very stressed . I —- I know that you have pulled yourself out of this headspace on your own before, but —— you’re having some form of panic attacks and not talking about it and that worries me.”

Dean makes a noise that’s somewhere between a hum and a grunt of acknowledgment.

“This isn’t something I intended to bring up on your birthday,” Castiel says.

“You and my damn birthday,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “We have talked about it, now. I’m not… not gonna keep at it, just —- couldn’t snap out of it. Wanted to talk to you.”

“I know,” Castiel says, “But, Dean, I’m not a trained professional. My people skills are questionable at best. I don’t know how to help you with this.”

“Your Dean skills are pretty good.”

“Well, I practice three times a week,” Castiel says, “Study. It’s your decision, Dean.”

“I’ll talk to Sam,” Dean says, “About the loan thing.”

It’s helpful to note that a good strategy for getting Dean to talk about something difficult, is to bring up something he wants to talk about even less. It’s not encouraging for the topic of therapy, but…

“Would you rather borrow money from Sam than any of my siblings?” Castiel asks, genuinely curious.

“Got no idea,” Dean says, “I —- either kinda makes me want to punch something, but —- it’s better than the alternative, I guess.”

“It is,” Castiel asks, the words tasting honey-sweet, as Dean looks at him.

“I’m gonna call Charlie. Talk to her about it.”

“Alright,” Castiel agrees, light.

He looks much better when he finally emerges from his phone call to find Castiel carefully chopping onions in the kitchen. He’s less burdened and tired, more Dean-like. Not smiling, but that grim look has dissolved into something softer.

“Whatcha cooking?” Dean asks, tapping his fingers against the surface.

“Dean Winchester’s un-fuck-up-able chicken curry,” Castiel says, slicing through the garlic in the way that Dean taught him to, years ago, in a kitchen they didn’t own.

“You don’t,” Dean begins, then cuts himself off. Castiel looks at him. “Can help with the cooking crap. It’s literally my job.”

“Food is complicated and emotive for you currently. I understand that. I don’t mind, Dean, if you can tolerate my cooking.”

“Obviously,” Dean says, hovering close in the kitchen, looking at him with those eyes, “I —- thanks for being so damn great, about all of this. I mean you’re,” Dean says, gesturing at him vaguely, “You’re fucking amazing and I am crazy in love with you —- and I’ll think about it. The therapy thing.”

“That’s all I ask,” Castiel says, tipping the onions into the sizzling pan and turning to the ginger. “You’re a very capable, very exceptional, grown man. It’s your decision.”

“Not like that,” Dean says, hip-checking him out the way and taking the ginger from his hands, “You’ll waste half of it, you gotta…. Like this.”

“You don’t need to cook, Dean,” Castiel says, “You’re tired, it’s your birthday and cooking is complicated for you. I don’t mind.”

“Nah,” Dean says, expertly scraping the skin off the ginger, with those capable, sure hands. “I —- appreciate it, but —- let’s do it together. Teamwork.”

“Okay,” Castiel agrees, and Dean gets out another chopping board, and they cook.