Chapter Text
When Cas first moved in to the bunker, Dean made a point of encouraging him to try new foods. Now that he was cut off from his grace, he was essentially human. “You gotta eat anyway, so you might as well enjoy it,” Dean told him, around a mouth full of fries. Cas could see the logic in that, so he agreed to try whatever his friends thought he might like.
Sam couldn’t help noticing that the first foods Dean had lined up for Cas to try were all of Dean’s favorites. Fries and burgers for lunch, and now steak and baked potatoes for dinner.
While he ate, Cas remarked that he seemed to have similar tastes to the late Jimmy. He was a big fan of red meat. At lunch, Cas had said that the fries were “crispy” and seemed to enjoy the novelty of biting into them. At dinner, he poked dubiously at the plain baked potato and confessed that he didn’t care for its texture.
Sam looked at them over his plate of mixed greens topped with grilled chicken breast. He fretted that he was going to have two unhealthy eaters to worry about now. The only “vegetable” that Dean liked to eat was potatoes (preferably fried), and the only time Dean got any fruit in his diet was when it was baked inside of a sugary crust! As if that weren’t bad enough, now Dean was teaching Cas to eat just like him. Sam could only hope that he’d have a chance to introduce Cas to the simple joy of eating a nice salad. Maybe when Dean was out working on the Impala or something.
After they were done eating, Dean cleared their plates away. “Don’t go anywhere, you guys, I got dessert.”
Sam sighed.
“C’mon, Sammy, you’ve been good. Salad, no red meat. Live a little! Have half a slice of pie.”
“Well . . . maybe. What kind is it?” Sam asked.
Dean rubbed his hands together and grinned. “It is a sour cherry bourbon pie with an oat and slivered almond topping, sprinkled with orange zest.”
“I . . . wow, you’re really stepping up your pie game.”
“Dude, I am in love with that new bakery I found. It’s a long drive to get there, but they make the best stuff.” Dean peeked through the oven window where the pie was warming. “Haven’t tried this kind yet, but they’ve never let me down before.” He cracked the oven door open and breathed in the warm, pie-scented air. “Mmmmmm.”
The scent wafted over towards Sam and Cas.
Sam sat up a little bit straighter. “Oh, wow. Okay, I’ll have a tiny little slice.”
Cas tentatively sniffed the air. “It does smell pleasant.” He frowned and put a hand to the side of his face. “My mouth is producing more saliva than usual.”
Sam laughed. “That’s what happens when you smell something delicious. It’s, ah, where the phrase ‘mouth-watering’ comes from.”
Cas frowned in concentration. “‘Mouth-watering.’ How odd. I’ll have to remember that.”
Dean carefully took the pie out and cut a regular slice for Cas and a small one for Sam. He brought them over to the table and then rummaged around in the fridge.
“Can’t forget the finishing touch!” he said, and held out an aerosol can of whipped cream to Sam and Cas.
Sam chuckled. “No, I’m good, man. This is more than enough.”
Cas looked intrigued. “I’ll give it a try.”
Dean handed him the bottle and went to get his own slice of pie. As he was trying to decide how generous a slice he should cut, Dean heard a hiss of whipped cream and a stifled yelp.
Back at the table, Cas was sitting stock-still and eyeing the whipped cream can indignantly. There was a dollop of whipped cream sitting on his nose.
Sam was giggling and trying not to spew his mouthful of pie everywhere.
Dean hustled back over to the table and took the can from Cas.
“My bad, I forgot you wouldn’t know how these work.” He couldn’t help grinning at the sight of frazzled Cas with whipped cream on his nose. Dean reached a finger out and scraped the whipped cream off his friend’s nose.
He held his finger in front of Cas’s face. “Go ahead, try it.”
Cas just looked at Dean.
“See if you like it. If you do, I’ll put some on your pie. If you don’t, I won’t.”
Cas steadied Dean’s hand with his own, leaned forward and tentatively poked his tongue at the whipped topping, then sat back and licked his lips.
“How do you like it?” Dean asked
“It’s sweet, but mildly so. Cool. Light and,” he smacked his lips together, “fluffy.”
“Want some on your slice?”
Cas narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. “I . . . think so, yes. Please.”
Dean dispensed a dollop of whipped cream on the pie and slapped Cas on the shoulder. “Enjoy. I’m gonna take this with me,” he waggled the can at him, “so you don’t hurt yourself.”
Cas huffed and started poking the pie with his fork.
Dean set the whipped cream down by his seat and went to wash the remaining whipped cream off his hand.
Sam had gone from giggling to silently staring at Cas and Dean with his mouth open. But then his half-chewed bite of pie almost fell onto his plate, so he hastily shut his mouth and focused on eating his pie.
“How do you like the pie, Sam?” Dean asked as he settled his seat with a hearty slice of pie.
“What? Oh, um, it’s really freakin’ good! Whole different class from those sticky-sweet convenience store pies. There’s this tartness to it, and a bourbon kick.”
Dean shoved a huge forkful in his mouth and leaned back and moaned. “Oh my god, yes. What you said. Mmm.” Dean spent the next few minutes shoveling pie into his mouth and making hedonistic moans of delight. Mouth still partly full, he asked, “What do you think, Cas?”
A glance at his plate told him that Cas had only eaten the tip of the slice, a few bites of the crust, and all of the whipped topping.
Cas pursed his lips. “I enjoyed the taste of the cherries, but not the texture of baked fruit. I might like unbaked sour cherries. There was also a sting—from the bourbon? It was interesting. The slivered almond and oat topping was nice- not too sweet, and crispy. But I don't think that pie is really my ‘thing.’”
Dean looked crestfallen.
“Well, Dean, you won’t have bicker about who gets the last piece of pie when you’re an old married couple,” Sam said.
Dean glared at his brother. He pointed a finger at Sam and opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out Cas pushed his plate of mostly-uneaten pie at him. “Do you want the rest of mine? You’ve already finished yours.”
“I—yeah, thanks, Cas.”
Sam grinned. “Like I sai—oof!”
Dean kicked Sam in the shin before he could say anything else.
“Anyway, sorry you didn’t like it that much, Cas. I was hoping you would.”
“I enjoyed trying something new. Humans have to eat several times a day; I’m sure I’ll have a chance to find more foods that I like.”
Dean nodded in lieu of speaking because he had once again crammed his mouth full of pie.
Cas yawned, then frowned, rubbing his jaw. “I'll never get used to that.” He folded his napkin and set it on the table. “Well, thank you for the meal, Dean.” He yawned again.
Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, no problem. Why don’t you head off to bed, I’ll clean up here.”
Cas stood up. “Yes, time for me to go . . . fall unconscious for several hours. Yet another thing I’m getting used to.” He sighed. “Good night, Sam,” he said as he walked off to his room.
"Night, Cas!" Sam stared after him and shook his head.
Dean carried his dirty dessert plate over to the sink and turned on the tap. “Hey, Sammy, whenever you’re done, if you bring over the dirty plates, I’ll scrub.”
“Yeah, sure.” Sam carried over the remaining dirty dishes and silverware. Dean dumped the clean plates in the dish rack and Sam started drying them off and putting them away.
They worked in silence, which would have been nice and comfortable if not for the slowly-deepening frown lines etched into Sam’s forehead.
“Sam, what is wrong with your face? If you got somethin to say, say it.”
“Well, I, not that it matters, and I don’t really care either way, but I’m just curious . . .”
Dean stared at him. “About what? Spit it out already.”
Sam tilted his head. “What’s goin on with you and Cas?”
“What? Nothin. We made up. We’re not fightin anymore.”
“Well, yeah, I can tell you’re not fighting anymore. It’s just that, at dinner tonight, you guys seemed kind of . . .”
Dean gestured, palms up and eyebrows raised, indicating for Sam to get the fuck on with whatever he had to say.
Sam winced, afraid of how Dean would react. “. . . relationship-y.”
Dean’s facial expression quickly changed from impatience to disbelief. “‘Relationship-y?’” he repeated, using air quotes. “That’s not a real word Sammy.” He turned his back and returned to scrubbing dishes.
Sam scoffed. “Well, I don’t know how else to describe it, Dean, you hand-fed him whipped cream like it was no big deal.”
Dean blushed. “Cuz it’s not a big deal!” he said. He scrubbed the dishes with more force than necessary, sending soap suds and warm water slopping all over the place.
“Him licking whipped cream off of your finger, while you guys were maintaining eye contact is not a big deal?” Sam asked.
“It’s not—He’s never been able to like, really taste food before, cuz he’s been a friggin ‘multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent’ for like a thousand years, and even in his vessel apparently that doesn’t feel the same as being plain old human, and I’m just, you know, takin him under my w—, I mean, showin him the ropes . . .”
Dean looked over his shoulder. Sam was staring at him with his arms crossed, looking like he wasn't buying any of it. Dean turned back angrily. “Just drop it already, Sammy.” Dean attacked the grimy frying pan. “It’s just . . . dudes bein dudes.”
Sam held up his hands in defeat. “Ooo-kay. I wasn’t aware that ‘dudes’ hand-fed whipped cream to other ‘dudes’—”
Dean pointed the soapy frying pan at his brother. “Yeah, well maybe you should ‘stop being close-minded,’ ‘broaden your horizons,’ and ‘get in touch with your sensitive side.’ Huh? That sound like good advice to you? I seem to recall some nerdy college Poindexter tellin me that, a few years back.”
“Alright, alright, you win.”
“Damn right I win,” Dean grumbled, turning back to the sink.
“Tell you what, I’ll cook us dinner tomorrow night to make it up to you.”
Dean frowned. “How is me eatin rabbit food a reward for winnin an argument?”
“I’ll make it taste good, I swear.”
Dean gave him a wary look.
“No, really, I’ll go look up some recipes now. I won’t let you down, I swear.” Sam left the kitchen before Dean could have a change to argue with him even more.
Dean let out a deep breath and scrubbed the frying pan more gently. “Just dudes bein dudes,” he said to the soap bubbles.