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Castiel understood Sam and Dean Winchester in a way he would never understand two other humans. But sometimes he still didn’t know how he should behave. What would the brothers prefer the morning after a demonic Dean had tried to kill his brother but was then cured: some time alone to “deal with their crap,” as Dean would succinctly put it, or a friend’s presence to distract and diffuse any tension?
Castiel had no idea. But considering he wanted to see how the brothers were doing, he came for breakfast, anyway.
Or, a little too early, apparently: the bunker was dark and silent, the kitchen empty. Castiel sat at the table and waited.
Dean was the first to arrive, surprisingly, actually jumping when he turned on the light and saw Castiel sitting there.
Perhaps he should have come later.
“Dude, wear a bell or something!”
“A bell would not ring when I was sitting completely still,” Castiel replied logically.
Dean tilted his head and frowned at him like he was trying to figure out if Castiel was joking or not. Castiel made it easy for him and let his mouth quirk a little in a human expression of humor.
Dean snorted and grabbed the coffee carafe, heading to the sink. “Figured I should at least make Sam breakfast after, you know, trying to bash his brains out last night. He doesn’t look like he’s been eatin’.”
“Of course not. He was worried about you.”
Dean paused a moment, then finished filling the coffeepot and took it back to the appliance to prepare a fresh pot. Castiel had considered doing that himself, knowing how much the Winchesters needed their caffeine, but the smell also seemed to rouse them and he’d wanted them to sleep.
“So. You wanna tell me now about the ‘female outside in the car’?” Dean asked as he worked.
Castiel opened his mouth to respond when there was the sound of running footsteps in the hallway. Sam skidded into view in the doorway, grabbing the doorjamb to keep himself from falling. He still looked half asleep, stubbled and bloodshot, his hair in impressive disarray, and his injured arm was held close against his chest, out of its sling. He had to have just woken up and, judging from the panic that faded from his eyes as he caught sight of Dean, been suddenly afraid his brother had relapsed, or was gone, or perhaps had never even been there.
Dean unfroze and turned toward the refrigerator as if nothing had happened, but Castiel had seen him raise a hand and then drop it again. “Everything’s cool, man. Green eyes, see?” He gave his brother an insincere grin over one shoulder as he blinked exaggeratedly.
Sam took a breath and ran both hands through his hair. It helped, a little. “Yeah. Right, no. I just…I heard voices and…wondered who was here.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean said. He was standing with his back to them, gazing into the open refrigerator. “Dude, there’s, like, nothing in here. When’d you last go shopping?”
“Uh…”
“Never mind. Good thing I’ve got my secret stash in the freezer.”
The next few minutes were quietly domestic. Sam fixed three cups of coffee—Castiel took his without comment even though they both knew he didn’t need it—and disappeared and returned a few minutes later looking more clothed and less freshly deceased. His sling was also on again. Dean was silent as he cooked, none of his usual humming, which Castiel found he missed even though it had always sounded discordant to him. But Dean didn’t seem inclined to talk, so Castiel did not.
The “secret stash” was apparently considerable, as a feast accumulated on the table: toast and butter and jam, hash browns, bacon—Sam’s kind, Dean pointed out meaningfully, although Castiel did not know the difference—scrambled eggs, and small sausages.
Sam picked at his plate at first, but then seemed to find his hunger and dug in. That apparently gave Dean permission as well, and he also began to eat. Castiel watched them and considered that the one thing he’d missed from being human was the taste of food.
The brothers occasionally glanced at each other, but not at the same time. Was his presence the impediment, Castiel wondered, but doubted. Dean did not talk easily about feelings, and Sam would not wish to hurt his brother with a reminder of the last two months.
“So…” Dean finally said, and stopped.
“Wasn’t you,” was Sam’s complete response.
They were finally looking at each other, Sam pugnacious, Dean resigned. Castiel could not understand most human social cues, but these two he knew well.
“No, Sam, that was me—I wasn’t possessed.”
“You were influenced—it’s the same thing. Like…when I was on the demon blood.”
Castiel finally found something useful to interject. “Or like the effects of the Dark Side.”
Two faces turned toward him. “The what?” Dean asked, frowning.
Had he made an incorrect connection? Castiel considered: no, it fit. “Like the Dark Side. Exposure to it slowly corrupts the person to become something they were not. Like Anakin Skywalker.”
The two humans stared at him with identical expressions of shock. It was…disconcerting.
“Dude…” Dean finally spoke. “Did you just make a Star Wars reference?”
Considering Dean regularly quoted those movies, Castiel did not understand the confusion. “Of course.”
The brothers looked at each other, then back at him. Then Dean snapped his fingers. “That’s right, you knew about the Death Star before. Something you wanna tell us, Cas?”
“About Star Wars?” He did not understand.
Sam stepped in. “I think what Dean’s trying to say is, how do you know about Star Wars?”
“Did I not reference it correctly? I could also cite Evil Dead and My Little Pony as pertinent examples, but Star Wars seemed the most appropriate.”
They were staring at him now as if he’d grown a second head, which was very uncomfortable.
Castiel gripped his mug. “Perhaps I should go.”
“No!” The Winchesters spoke in unison, Dean reaching out to grab Castiel’s arm. The angel sank back onto the bench seat, confused. “Did you binge movies while I was gone or something?” Dean asked.
Ah, he saw the issue. It was true that he’d never before understood when Dean had called him “Chewie.” “Metatron gave me the knowledge of all the movies, books, and television he’d ingested. It is…a considerable amount of useless information.” Especially something called “reality television,” which didn’t seem to be like any reality Castiel had ever experienced.
“…Huh,” Dean muttered.
Sam was frowning. “Metatron watched My Little Pony?”
“It’s pretty good,” Dean said, almost defensively.
Sam stared at his brother the same way he’d been staring at Castiel.
Dean ignored him, turning to Castiel again. “So…you haven’t actually seen Star Wars, right? You just know about it.”
“Yes…”
Dean clapped his hands together. “Awesome. We’re doing a marathon—Sammy, make some popcorn.”
Sam ate a last bite of egg and then hurried to obey. “Okay. But we’re watching the episodes in order then.”
“Dude, no way. Machete Order—that’s the best way to do it.”
“It’s not chronological.”
“It’s not starting with Jar-Jar Binks and that annoying kid!”
Castiel considered interrupting the argument to remind them that the Mark was still a big problem they needed to resolve. But…he was the one who’d recommended Dean take a little time to heal. And Sam clearly also needed to recover, both physically and emotionally. The current disagreement, which both sides were clearly relishing, was the most animated and comfortable Castiel had seen them since Dean’s return. Dean had already called Sam “Sammy” once.
Perhaps a day of watching movies was exactly what the Winchesters needed.
“It makes more sense, seeing it from the beginning, the story of the Skywalkers!”
“Who cares about Anakin? You can’t start the best series ever with the lamest movie ever!”
“Lamer than My Little Pony?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Castiel smiled at these two humans he loved like brothers. Perhaps this was just what he needed, too.