Work Text:
“The salmon's eighty-sixed, Garth. Make sure the servers know. Tell 'em to push the pork medallions instead.”
“You got it, chef!” The lanky expeditor hustles out of the kitchen, and Dean turns back to the flat top. Nothing he's tending there requires his full attention, so his thoughts and his eyes drift, as usual, to the Patissier's station in the corner.
Castiel Novak had been one of Dean's first hires when he'd opened Impala, and not a day has gone by since that he hasn't thanked the culinary gods for that blessing. Cas's mousses are the airiest, his pâte sucrée the tenderest, his crèmes brûlées the richest Dean's ever had the privilege to taste. Last week he'd put together a mugwort panna cotta with blowtorched berries, whipped cream, roast peach ice cream, and honeycomb that had been so delicious, so elegant, so perfectly balanced that Dean had almost passed out when he'd tasted it. He'd had to put the spoon down after the third bite and sit with his head between his knees until the ringing in his ears stopped.
Rumor is that Impala is on track to gain its first star this year. If (fingers crossed) that does come to pass, Dean knows he'll have Cas to thank. To end a meal at Impala with one of Cas's desserts is to walk out of the restaurant with joy in your heart. Even the most jaded Michelin inspector is powerless to resist that joy.
Dean rearranges the medallions on the grill, pulls a few to plates, and passes them off to Jo, his Entremetier. It feels good to be on the line tonight. As the owner, he's Chef de Cuisine, and generally spends his time in his office, fine-tuning menus and dealing with their suppliers. When his Grillardin Benny had called this morning to say his wife was in labor and he'd need to start his paternity leave a little early, Dean had jumped at the chance to cover his station for the night. It's been too long since he'd spent a shift in the kitchen, and he's missed it. The bustle and chaos of a dinner service feeds his soul in a way that nothing else can.
Besides the pleasure of nostalgia, there's another reason he was happy to rotate in as a Station Chef for the night instead of letting his Chef de Tournant pick up the slack. At the moment, that reason is drizzling spiced red wine syrup across a vanilla bean and yuzu pot de crème. Dean watches him work for so long that he almost overcooks a filet, yanking it off the heat just before it crosses the death line from medium rare to bleccchh.
He's known Cas for seven years now. Together with the rest of their core staff, they've built Impala up from the ground with their bare hands. They've been through the wars side by side, in a way, and the bond they share as a result is profound. He'd readily claim anyone on his line as a blood brother (or sister), and he feels closer to some of them than he does to his actual family. But he's always sensed a different... flavor to the connection he and Cas have.
It's pretty clear the feeling goes both ways. They've expressed it in shy smiles and lingering touches, and there have been many moments over the years when Dean's been sure Cas would be more than receptive to a kiss. But he's been loath to cross that line. He's seen the havoc that sexual entanglements can wreak on a kitchen. (Thank you Jesus, Mary, and Auguste Escoffier that Andréa came along a couple years ago and settled Benny's ass down for good before he'd managed to dick his way through Dean's entire Brigade de Cuisine!)
Dean would never endanger their working relationship, and the success they've built together, for a quick fumble in the walk-in (even though that's a scenario he's envisioned in detail more times than he can count, especially when he's in the shower). It's time to admit, though, that what he wants with Cas has progressed light years beyond fumble territory. The walk-in fantasy shares equal billing these days with something much more domestic – a soft-focus vignette of the two of them making dinner together in the kitchen of a house they share. He imagines glancing touches, shared jokes, dropping a kiss on Cas's cheek as he hands him a whisk. It makes him ache in a way the dirty thoughts never do, with a sweet pain like pressing his finger against a love bite, and he can never keep away from the feeling for long.
Despite his intention to enjoy his nostalgic night back on the line, he passes the rest of the service with his mind in the clouds, lost in daydreams about him and Cas at the farmer's market, him and Cas shopping for a new bed, him and Cas in the new bed (hey, he's only human). Before he knows it, the last plate has gone out to the floor and it's time to tear down the stations before the cleaning crew shows up.
He stretches, and his back and feet scream at him, reminders that he's not as young as he was the last time he worked a dinner rush. As much as he'd like to head straight home and collapse, he does have a bit of paperwork on his desk that he needs to sort out before the morning deliveries. He gives a wave and a “thanks, everyone” to the rest of his kitchen and returns to his office.
He's stapling the last receipt when there's a knock at his door, and Cas peeks his head in.
“You're still here,” he says in his rock salt voice. “Good. I brought you something.” With a flourish that he must have picked up from their headwaiter, he sets a small plate on Dean's desk. On it are three small scoops of ice cream. “Let me know what you think.”
“Are these new recipes you're working on?” Dean asks as he takes the spoon Cas is holding out to him and digs in to the scoop at 4 o'clock.
“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to give you something.”
Dean quirks an eyebrow at that, and is about to inquire further when the taste of the ice cream hits his tongue. There's honey in there, and double cream, but the top note is delicate and elusive. He lets the flavors expand as the heat of his mouth warms the ingredients...
“Chamomile?” he asks uncertainly. Cas nods. “Interesting. I like it.”
He carves off a bit of the second scoop. This one is pale pink, and tastes of... “Vanilla and... Roses?” Another nod. In a less skilled hand, the flavor would be bitter or perfumey, coating his mouth and his nose, but Cas has given him something ethereal. He takes another, bigger spoonful and savors it before moving on to the third scoop, which looks chocolatey.
There's definitely cacao in there, but yet again something unexpected is entwined with it. Dean considers for a moment. “...Lavender?”
Cas grins. “Perfect score, chef.” Then his expression changes to something bashful, making him look uncannily like a school boy standing in front of his crush, holding out a scraggly just-picked bunch of...
“Cas,” Dean says slowly, as a realization dawns. “Are you giving me flowers?”
A blush spreads across his pastry chef's cheeks, but he looks Dean straight in the eyes when he answers. “It's a customary way to indicate romantic interest, is it not?”
Dean has never wanted to kiss him more. But somehow, knowing that they're finally ready to cross the line together, that a kiss is definitely going to happen, makes him okay with waiting a little longer for it.
“You wanna grab a burger with me, Cas?”
“Are you asking me out on a date, Dean?”
“It's a customary way to indicate romantic interest, is it not?”
“Then yes.”
“And in the morning, you wanna hit the farmer's market together?”
“I'd love to.”