Work Text:
When Dean did 87 in a 55 barreling towards a destination at 2am with only one thought on his mind, it was usually for one of two reasons:
1: Someone was dying.
Or 2: He wanted to feel like he wasn’t.
Sometimes it was both, but it was always confined to that very brief list.
Until this time, where Dean found himself with his foot almost to the floor of the Impala, urging it to go as fast as it possibly could. His destination? The nearest grocery store.
You might think that the grocery store was special; that it was infested with demons or ghosts or witches or shifters or ancient Gods or maybe even vampires, but it wasn’t. It was a normal grocery store, open 24/7 and probably being run by a bunch of stressed teenagers and old ladies. You might think that it contained something special, like some sort of antidote or secret ingredient to a ritual that Dean needed to do, but you’d also be wrong. Truly, in all senses of the word, it was just... normal.
It had the same normal fluorescent lights that make you forget half of the list you intended to buy there. The same normal shopping carts that all manage to have janked-up wheels that don’t spin, squeal so loud it draws attention to you, or wobble the entire cart. It has normal aisles of food and an array of other items that don’t necessarily belong together (pesticide right next to the produce section must have seemed like a good idea at the time). It was small and grimy and had awful-yet-normal floors in a hideous shade of faded blue-green that made your head spin if you looked at them for too long.
But Dean didn’t care about any of that. He didn’t care that he parked his car over four parking spots or that the cart he grabbed squealed so loud and couldn’t turn. He didn’t care that the floor was awful and there was no tangible or reasonable layout to the aisles. He just kept his eyes fixated forward, circling down every aisle, scooping objects into the bed of his cart.
“Rough day?” The cashier says sympathetically. She’s a sweet woman in her mid-70s, and she tosses Dean a knowing look. Her hands glide the supplies across the scanner, and where Dean's grocery trips would usually have her hands touch bottle after bottle and case after case of alcohol, instead her hands move graham crackers, marshmallows, chocolate, and roasting sticks.
“No, actually.” Dean says, with a breathless lilt to his voice. “But, y’know. An angel asks for something with those big puppy-dog eyes and you just can’t say no.” He throws a chuckle at the end and the cashier pats his hand knowingly.
“How long have you two been together? It sounds like you must really love her.” She continues the conversation as she scans the cart-full of items.
“He and I have known each other…” Dean thinks, not even noticing the strange look that wafts across the cashier’s face, quickly replaced with a thin-lipped and forced smile.
“Oh… a year or two now, I think?” Dean hands her his credit card, and the cashier begins to hand his bags to him, a forced tone to her voice as she wishes him a good night.
Dean doesn’t care that she seemed to intentionally give him the worst plastic bags she had. Hell, she could’ve dumped the items in his arms and kicked him out for all he cared. All he knew was that he needed to get back to the place that they were staying as soon as possible.
They had managed to find a small cabin in the woods. Secluded, dark, and completely abandoned. This one, thankfully, had only a sparse amount of black mold. Much better than the last place they stayed at, where the mold had apparently established an extensive lease with the house that would’ve been the main feature in a home inspector’s worst nightmare. But the best part of the house they were currently staying in was the fact that it had an old, working TV. Sure the thing was practically ancient and would randomly throw lines of static across the screen. Sure it only got three channels and two of them were in Spanish, but that was considerably better than anything else they’d managed to find in the past. Dean would take a crap TV over waking up to a staring contest with a rat any day.
Even though the TV was the best amenity that they had, Dean wasn’t really interested in it. Or at least, he hadn’t been interested in it until Cas had been interested in it. And then he had spent a full night fixing the thing so Cas could watch. Did he fix it because Cas insisted that Dean sit next to them and watch reruns of movies that were so old Bobby wouldn’t even know them? Maybe. Did he fix it because Cas would grab onto Dean’s arm during scary parts or bump his shoulder when something funny happened? Definitely not. Did he fix it because sometimes Cas would fall asleep while watching and drift slowly into Dean’s lap or lean against his shoulder? That’s ridiculous. He simply fixed it because he wanted the guy to have something to do. Without something to keep him occupied, Cas would just annoy Dean. So, really, it was selfish motivation that made him fix it, and nothing else.
But then, about twenty minutes prior to Dean sprinting through the store aisles like there was a fire under his ass, Cas had yelled for Dean.
Dean, who had been in the kitchen with Sam discussing a potential case in the next city over, popped his head around the corner to see what Cas needed.
“I need to ask you a question.” Cas gestured vaguely to the TV. Sometimes things on TV (especially certain phrases or sayings) would spur Cas to question Sam or Dean about what it was. Usually, Dean was sitting right next to Cas to answer them, but when he wasn’t, Cas would yell for him until Dean would come to help.
“What’s up, man?” Dean moves across the room to sit next to Cas on the makeshift couch, which was a couple of boxes stacked up and their bags put on top of it for lumpy, awful pillows.
“There.” Cas points again at the screen. “These humans are roasting something, but I cannot tell what kind of animal carcass they are roasting.”
“That’s all you called me out here for?” Dean says, a little disappointed. Usually, Cas’ questions were at least interesting or made him think. This was easy. “They aren’t roasting any animal, Cas, those are marshmallows.”
“Marshmallows?” Cas repeats the word, tilting his head like a confused puppy. Silently, Dean dotes on how much he loves it when Cas does that.
“Yeah, you know. Like, fluffy white squishy things made of pure sugar.” Dean says. “You put ‘em over a fire and they get all gooey and toasty. You can put ‘em in a s’more or eat ‘em right off the stick.”
“But it’s a… dessert?” Cas says, and Dean’s eyes widen.
“Sam!” He calls, not responding to Cas’ question. “Sam, get in here!”
Sam rounds the corner, looking slightly annoyed. “What, Dean, I’m trying to do some research and you’re being incredibly-”
“Cas has never had a s’more!” Dean jumps up as he says it, like it’s some sort of crime.
“Well, yeah, Dean. That makes sense. I don’t really think they do that in Heaven.” Sam scoffs with a good-mannered look on his face.
“We have to roast s’mores. He has to have one!” Dean says, excitement bouncing across his voice.
“I mean, sure. If we want to do that at some point, then-” Sam says, starting to turn back to go into the kitchen.
“Throw me my keys!” Dean calls, already extending a hand. “I’m going to go get the supplies.”
“We’re going to be making s’mores?” Cas says eagerly, eyes moving from the screen to Dean.
“Dean-” Sam says exasperatedly, holding the keys in his hand.
“You guys make a fire out back, I’ll be back with all the junk we need!” Dean catches the keys as Sam throws them with a small laugh.
The gleam in Cas’ eyes and the excitement of showing his best friend something new pushes his foot to the floor as he cruises back from the store. He tears through the doors, tossing his keys somewhere in the living room and continues running to the back, where Sam and Cas have set up chairs and have a sizeable fire roaring.
Sam and Cas talk idly as Dean makes his way down the dirt clearing behind the abandoned house. With a huge grin, Dean sets the bags next to his chair.
“Marshmallows, graham crackers, chocolate…” Dean says the name of each as he takes them from the bag and hands them to Cas. “Oh, and of course the health nut, lame-o versions of each for Sam.” He hands a bag to Sam, who takes it skeptically.
“Woah, how did you know these are the good brands?” Sam pulls out his own versions of each snack, the respective labels boasting titles such as “GMO free!”, “gluten free!”, “sugar free!”. If you asked Dean, they really should just say “fun free!” on it instead, but Sam hates that joke, so Dean just keeps it to himself unless he’s in a mood to piss off his younger brother.
“Your roasting stick, sir.” Dean says in an awful, overexaggerated posh accent as he hands a roasting stick to Cas and then Sam.
“How do you do this, Dean?” Cas says, bouncing in his chair. A big grin splits Dean’s face and he leans over, tearing open the bag of marshmallows and plucking one out. He shows Cas how to put a marshmallow on the stick; just low down enough that it won’t slide off once it gets nice and gooey, but not so far down that it’s difficult to put in the fire. Dean can’t remember who taught him how to do that. Maybe he taught himself. It’s not important, even though it eats at the back of his mind. He brushes it off as he shows Cas the perfect place to put a marshmallow for roasting: right next to some reddened coals.
As soon as Dean starts preparing his own stick, he hears a panicked cry coming from Cas. He looks over, seeing Cas waving his stick around in the air like a madman while Sam laughs at the show. At the end of the stick is his marshmallow, completely ablaze.
“Woah, woah!” Dean can’t help but laugh as he grabs Cas’ arm, steadying the stick so he can blow out the small blaze at the end of it.
“Oh no.” Cas says miserably, staring at the charred marshmallow left on the end of his stick. “I ruined it.” Dean rubs his thumb comfortingly on Cas’ forearm, not realizing that he’s still touching the angel until Cas looks down at his hand.
Clearing his throat, Dean assures Cas that the marshmallow is not, in fact, ruined and that many people prefer them this way.
“Go on, try it!” Dean urges, pushing the stick towards Cas. Skeptically, Cas looks from Dean to the charred, cooling marshmallow on the end of his stick. With a slight shrug, Cas plucks the marshmallow off the end of the stock and tosses it in his mouth. Within seconds, his face lights up, and through a mouth of goopy, sticky mess, he cries,
“Thith ith really good!”
Dean is grateful for the closeness of the fire. That’s why his face is tinged pink, no other reason. Definitely not because Cas’ trench coat and suit jacket were discarded somewhere inside and he’s sitting out here in just the button up and tie with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Not because the light from the fire dances beams of heavenly light across Cas’ eyes that make them glow with a brightness that brings Cas’ soul to dance along with them. Not because Cas keeps looking at Dean with a giddy, childish excitement that Dean put there by putting this whole thing together. Not because Cas keeps sneaking glances at Dean when he thinks Dean isn’t looking. And definitely not because there’s a dot of marshmallow at the corner of Cas’ mouth that Dean is dying to wipe away.
“Dean.” Sam says in a hushed whisper, with a tone that either means “stop staring at Cas like you’re going to kiss him” or “stop staring at Cas before he notices”. Clearing his throat quietly, Dean goes back to putting a marshmallow on the end of his stick and handing Cas his next marshmallow.
As Dean shows Cas how to turn the stick regularly so the marshmallow gets puffy and browned, he feels a wave of contentment hit him like a wave. He forgets, for a while, all of the things that make him who he is. In this moment, he’s not a hunter. He’s not in danger. He can’t feel the cold metal of the gun tucked in his waistband against his back. He’s just a guy, spending a perfect night with his brother and his best friend.
And for a moment, Dean Winchester knows what it must be like to be “normal”.
“What about all of that?” Cas gestures to the pile of chocolate and graham crackers sitting next to them. Dean grins, pulling their sticks from the fire and holding them in the air. Expertly, he opens the box of graham crackers and pulls out two, cracking them perfectly with one hand. He shows Cas how to lower the marshmallow onto the graham cracker and then slide it off with the second piece, which has a hearty amount of chocolate and another graham cracker. He smushes it down so marshmallow puffs out the side.
“Can I try it?” Cas says excitedly.
“Go nuts, man.” Dean chuckles, handing it off to Cas. Cas takes a first bite, dropping crumbs and stringing a thin line of marshmallow between him and the food in his hand. His reaction is instant; his face lights up and he spins back to look at Dean with the most excited look in his eyes.
“Is it good?” Dean can’t help but laugh, not really at Cas, but more out of happiness.
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted!” Cas exclaims, swallowing down his bite. “I don’t understand how you can eat burgers all day when food like this exists.”
“Well, it’s not like we can really pull over and cook s’mores for dinner every night.” Sam says, matching Dean’s laugh. “But I do get your point.”
“We could try.” Cas says, already halfway finished with the s’more. “This has been my happiest memory in a while. I would love to do this every night.”
Maybe it’s the way he looks at Dean while he says it. Maybe it’s the fact that it was already 4am. Maybe it’s the fact that Sam had eaten two s’mores and then just sat and listened to the conversation for the rest of the time. Maybe it’s the way that Dean looks back at Cas. But no matter what it is, Sam stands up abruptly, announcing that he’s heading inside to get some rest. Which really means that he’s going to do more research but doesn’t want Dean to feel like he has to come inside too.
“Alright, g’night Sam.” Dean calls and Cas waves at Sam as he heads back into the house.
If either of them had been watching Sam, they would have seen a small smile on his face. Now, Dean knew all of Sam’s smiles. Spending almost every waking second with a man would do that to you. But this smile, specifically, was a smile that Dean wouldn’t have been able to recognize. It was one that Sam saved for the moments when he knew Dean couldn’t see him. It was rare that Dean ever seemed truly happy, and it was rarer that Sam got to see the moments where he was. So he made sure to stay as long as he could to watch them play out, and at the end, he would give his brother space, stepping away with a “maybe there’s still hope for us” smile. Because he enjoyed those moments just as much as Dean did.
Cas and Dean sit in comfortable silence for a little while. Cas makes his third s’more and Dean stokes the fire, tapping out after his second one.
“Hey, Dean?” Cas asks quietly, wiping his hands on his pants after he finishes his s’more.
“Yeah, Cas?” Dean says, still focusing on stoking the fire.
“What is a date, by human standards?” Cas asks. Dean almost chokes on air. Instead, he calmly says,
“Well, a date is when two people who are interested in each other go and do something they both enjoy. Or at least, that’s how I would describe it.”
“Oh. Have you been on a date before?” Cas says, just staring forward at the fire.
“A few. Not many, though. Hunter life doesn’t really let you go bowling with a chick on a Friday night.” Dean laughs sourly.
“Is a date just… bowling?” Cas asks, saying the word bowling like he did the word s’mores earlier.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you haven’t been bowling either. God, there’s so much I have to show you.” Dean leans back in his chair, turning his head to look at Cas and smiling. “But, no. A date isn’t just bowling.”
“So… this could be a date?” Cas also turns to look at Dean, whose heart seems to freeze in his chest.
“Do you want it to be a date?” Dean’s voice is quiet and his heart hammers in his chest. The only time this much adrenaline courses through his system is when he’s fighting a monster.
“Do you?” Cas’ voice is hopeful, and Dean feels a little bit like he’s being throttled. No way is this happening right now. With the fire casting gorgeous shadows on their faces, sticky marshmallows on their hands. After a perfect night, this all has to be a dream.
“Cas…” Dean’s eyes can’t help but travel to Cas’ lips. Where there is still a dot of marshmallow.
Slowly, giving Cas time to smack his hand away and reject him, Dean moves his hand towards Cas’ face. Although Cas makes a small face, he doesn’t move. He completely trusts Dean. And slowly, Dean cups Cas’ face, his thumb swiping away the dot of marshmallow. But even after his job is done, he doesn’t let go. His hand barely touches Cas’ face, hovering just in case Cas changes his mind. But then Cas nuzzles into his touch and Dean smiles.
“Dean…” Cas says, voice low. God, his voice. How much Dean loves his voice. And so Dean leans forward and Cas leans forward and Dean’s hands are shaking and his stomach is in knots. He has never felt like this before. Never felt this afraid or this vulnerable. But it’s perfect. Cas is perfect. Everything is perfect.
And with the fire dancing both on his side and in his chest, Dean pushes forward and closes the gap, connecting his lips to Castiel’s.
The kiss is sticky. It’s laced with sugar. Cas tastes like marshmallows, coffee, and something that Dean would affectionately label “divine smite” (because he was divinely smitten as soon as he tasted it). One of Dean’s hands stays cupping Cas’s face, but his other hand travels up and rests on Cas’ forearm, rubbing soft circles against the exposed skin there. Cas, who is generally a stiff guy, absolutely melts into the kiss, the hand not being held by Dean traveling up to rest on the back of Dean’s head.
They pull apart after what feels like much too short of a time, and lean their foreheads against each other, breathless. Dean feels like he’s on cloud nine. He could die tomorrow and he would gladly go with the reaper. Cas feels like he’s flying; that weightless, adrenaline-surged bliss that he hasn’t been able to find anywhere else until right now.
“We should make s’mores more often.” Dean laughs, which draws a genuine laugh from Castiel.
And as they lean back into each other, they are changed. Even if it is only for a night, they are not angel and hunter. They are just connected.
They are happy.