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The smell hits him at the top of the stairs, as soon as he opens the door and starts down into the main room. He’d recognize it anywhere, but it’s out of place in the bunker: butter and cinnamon, the unmistakable aroma of apple pie.
He’s been having a rough time lately. Maybe Sam has taken pity on him, picked up one of those frozen pies at the grocery store. They’re not bad in a pinch, and he thinks they might have ice cream in the freezer. His mouth waters as he takes off his coat, sets his bag on the table and heads toward the kitchen.
"You’re spoiling me, Sammy," Dean calls as he walks through the doorway, expecting his brother, but it’s Cas who looks up with a smudge of flour on his cheek.
The kitchen is a wreck: mixing bowls on the counter and stacked in the sink, a whisk that looks like it lost a struggle of biblical proportions. A mess of spatulas. There’s flour in Cas’s hair and on the floor, remains of the wax paper wrapper from a stick of butter, a mound of apple peels—long spirals and short, angry bits undoubtedly caused by the angry flick of Cas’s wrist. Dean imagines him going to town on a pile of apples: not with his grace, but with the rusty peeler someone has thrown against the wall.
"You okay in here?" Dean asks.
Cas’s face settles into a scowl. He puts his hands on his waist as he surveys the damage.
"I didn’t think you would be home so soon," he mutters.
"Where’s Sammy?"
"Out."
"Out?" Dean repeats. "Out where?"
"He didn’t specify."
"So you thought you’d take up baking?"
Cas sighs, and some of the tension in his posture eases. He drops his arms to his sides, and takes up a dish towel. He brushes flour from the countertop into his hand and walks it to the sink.
"It seemed manageable," he says with his back to Dean.
"You made one hell of a mess," Dean observes through a chuckle.
"The internet makes it seem easy," Cas defends.
"Well," Dean says, "everything’s a little hard the first time."
Cas doesn’t look appeased. He continues to wipe the counter, bends down to retrieve the apple peeler, deposits it in the sink. He runs the water and gets out the dish soap.
"Hey," Dean says, rolling up his sleeves. "Let me help you with those."
"No," Cas snaps. He sighs and adds, softer, "I wanted it to be a surprise. You shouldn’t have to clean up."
"What did you make, anyway?" Dean asks, even though he’s sure he knows.
"Apple pie," Cas says.
"We had the ingredients for that?"
"No," Cas admits, eyes skittering to the counter where he scrubs away a spot of butter. He turns away and rinses the cloth under the tap, then starts on the dishes. Plastic grocery bags are balled up on the floor beside the trash can. There’s a receipt on the counter, and something in Dean’s chest begins to ache.
"Cas, don’t waste your money on me."
"It’s not a waste."
Dean can hear the determination in Cas’s voice. He wishes he knew what motivated Cas to do this, if it’s another of Cas’s misinterpretations of humanity; if it’s a form of repayment; if it represents something deeper.
The relationship between them is undefined. They’re friends; of course, they’re friends, but it’s not enough to call Cas that any longer. It’s not enough to call him a brother, either. He’s family, but his bond with Dean isn’t anything like the one he has with Sam. He can’t pretend that it’s the same anymore; he’s finally willing to admit that it’s not.
They toe this line but never cross it. Cas is hunched miserably over the sink, the pie he made for Dean bubbling in the oven, and Dean thinks maybe, maybe.
He takes a chance. He steps next to Cas and says, “I’ll rinse.”
Cas glares but doesn’t shove him away. He washes a mixing bowl and hands it to Dean, who rinses it and sets it in the rack. They clean the whole sink of dishes like that, shoulder to shoulder. Dean stands back while Cas dries water spots from the counter and shines the faucet. He hangs the cloth over the edge of the sink to dry.
"Thanks for going to all this trouble," Dean says, motioning to the oven.
"It’s no trouble."
A lump forms in Dean’s throat. He swallows and wonders if he’s about to fucking cry. Cas confuses him and thrills him; that’s the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone, because he wants to be irritated by Cas every day for the rest of his life.
"You heard from Claire lately?" Dean asks, changing the subject. Cas shakes his head, and Dean wonders if it was the wrong thing to say. He knocks Cas playfully on the shoulder, brushes the flour from his cheek. "You wanna watch TV while it bakes?"
Cas shakes his head again. “I need to make sure it doesn’t boil over,” he says.
"I’ll wait with you," Dean offers, aware of the parallel between that statement and a certain song he heard a couple teenage girls perform. Dean supposes that for an angel, standing in one spot for a couple hours isn’t a big deal, but something about it still tugs at his heart, the way this gesture does: Cas making something for him with his own hands.
"How come you didn’t use your mojo?" Dean asks.
"I don’t know," Cas admits. "Why do you fix your car by yourself, instead of having a mechanic do it?"
"Ain’t got the money for a mechanic," Dean says, "and I don’t trust anyone with my baby."
Cas considers this for a while, nodding. “I suppose I wanted to see if I could. After all, when my grace fades, I’ll be human again. Having a practical skill like cooking seems…”
He appears to search for a word.
"Practical?" Dean suggests. Cas gives him an unimpressed look. Dean just smiles at him, gets a beer from the fridge, gets one for Cas too. He pops them both open; they drink leaning against the counter.
"You know, there’re spare rooms," Dean says, eyes on the floor. "If you want your own space."
"I don’t sleep," Cas reminds him.
"You don’t sleep right now. What about…”
"I appreciate the offer."
"Well. You’re welcome to one anyway," Dean amends. "Sometimes it’s nice to know you got a place to go. When we found this place…" He shakes his head. "Sam and me, we hadn’t had a place to call home since I was three years old."
Cas nods.
"I like having you here, man," Dean adds, boldly. Heat rushes into his face, but he doesn’t regret saying it. He drinks his beer and sets it on the counter, cracks his knuckles, shoves both hands in his pockets.
Cas raises his eyes with that searching, soulful expression, the one where he looks at Dean like—
Like Dean’s worth looking at. God, he wants Cas to think he’s worth looking at.
"I enjoy being with you," Cas says. His voice wavers on the last word.
"We’re glad you’re here."
Cas shakes his head. “I enjoy being with you,” he repeats, with emphasis. He widens his eyes, as if he’s willing Dean to understand.
It’s stupid, the smile that spreads over his face because of that, the way his eyes sting, the way his vision goes hazy. The way his heart beats is stupid too, and it’s stupid the way he doesn’t care about personal space anymore when Cas steps into his. Cas’s smile is stupid, lopsided and timid. His hands are stupid the way they come up to frame Dean’s face. He’s even stupid the way he kisses, like Dean’s the only thing worth kissing in the world.
It’s stupid because they haven’t done it sooner, because it’s so simple—stupid that it took a pie Dean hasn’t even tasted to get them to this point. Stupid that he ever thought he couldn’t have this, or didn’t deserve this. Stupid to ever think he didn’t want it. The tears running down his face—they’re stupid too, and it’s probably stupid that Cas brushes them away.
But he whispers things into Dean’s mouth: You are cherished. You are a work of art. Dean swallows them, and they’re not stupid at all.