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The bed creaks as Dean rolls over onto his back, huffing out an agitated breath. He’s been riding the hazy edge of consciousness and sleep for what seems like hours, sluggishly working through every relaxation technique he knows, even mentally cataloging the proper care procedure for every weapon in the Impala.
Nothing has worked. To be honest, Dean feels pretty ripped off— he and Sam ganked the coven of witches they’ve been tracking for weeks, succeeded pretty admirably at the whole not dying thing, and escaped with minimal damage. Bobby even decided to break out a bottle of whiskey— the good shit, too.
The night was made slightly less awesome by Cas quietly announcing that he had somewhere to be before disappearing from the room. Dean had tried to inquire about what was so important, but Cas had merely shifted his gaze away with an “it is something personal, Dean. It is of no concern to you.” Dean tried to bite down the bitter feelings that welled up at Cas’ unwillingness to tell him what’s going on, and resolutely tried to convince himself that it was boring Heaven shit he wouldn’t give two damns about anyway.
Sam had huffed to himself afterwards and nudged him over to Bobby’s battered couch where some shitty black-and-white horror movie was playing; Dean soon found himself laughing, clinking his glass against Sam’s to catch his attention and point out the spectacularly shitty special effects. Either way, Dean’s pretty sure that, marathons of B-level movies aside, after everything they’ve gone through he deserves at least a decent night of fucking rest. But the whiskey has pretty much cycled through his system, and all he’s left with is a slightly uneasy, empty feeling and as not asleep as ever.
Dean idly scratches his stomach over the worn cotton of his shirt, restless with the feeling that there’s something he should do, something he has to worry about, someone he needs to save. But to be honest, things are probably about as fine as they could be— there will always be vengeful spirits and bitter ghosts; everyone will always have their demons, but for now, they’re actually okay.
And because it’s apparently Dean’s lucky day, that’s when the fire alarm goes off.
He stumbles out of bed before he even registers the sound and attempts to navigate down the stairs, clumsily trying to manage hitching a pair of faded jeans over his boxers while holding a gun at the same time. And to make his day even better, he can hear a low voice muttering, and he’s sure as hell it isn’t Sam or Bobby because he would’ve noticed the former’s Gigantor footsteps and the latter was currently snoring loud enough to contest a Zeppelin concert. Dean’s shifting through his mental list of what baddies can summon fire in their wake— elementals, ifrit… uh, shit, well, salamanders, but they can’t talk; maybe demons if they’re spectacularly fucked— but finds himself hindered, mind clouded by the sleep he didn’t get. He pauses outside the double doors leading to Bobby’s kitchen, watching the smoke trail through the gaps. It’s now or never, really, and he shoulders through, gun at the ready.
Dean blinks through the billowing cloud of smoke the doors released, trying to make out what he’s up against. Instead, he just finds Castiel, standing in front of the oven and looking entirely fucking bewildered.
Dean’s not feeling too hot about understanding what’s going on either.
“Cas! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he eventually manages, stalking towards the angel and attempting to dispell the smoke lingering in front of his face with quick, irate swipes of his arm. Cas declines to answer, and instead goes for the door of the oven.
If Dean thought the smoke was bad before, it’s absolutely intolerable now, so thick it feels tactile, like he could grab it and wrap it in his hands. Flames are lashing from the oven, and some buried-deep instinctual part of his brain is screaming savesavesave at the fire, itching to go grab Sammy and run out, and Dean almost takes a half-step backwards when Cas slams his hands palm-down on the stovetop and banishes the flames. Dean’s still trying to even his breaths and quiet his subconscious when Cas bends down and pulls something out of the oven.
He’s bemoaning that Cas grasping the thing with his bare hands is hardly the strangest part of the situation when the fire alarm cuts down through his thoughts. “That’s great and all, Cas, but could you—” he gestures vaguely with his gun towards the fire alarm, and hopes that Cas gets the hint. It isn’t until Cas quiets the alarm that Dean turns to get a good look at the thing Cas is holding, and it’s a charred and blackened mess. Dean honestly has absolutely no clue what the fuck it’s supposed to be. Cas seems to be looking at the… thing with a somewhat morose expression, but Dean’s pretty concerned with the fact that it’s still smoking. He’d swear that some of his and Sam’s fires made far less smoke. And smelled a goddamn world less toxic.
Dean narrows his eyes at the large, black lump in Cas’ hands, but deems the situation safe enough that he clicks the safety on his gun back on and lays it on the island in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen. It feels like an olive branch.
“So, Cas, what’re you holding there?” he asks, sauntering over and trying to feel casual about the fact that this is one of the strangest situations he’s ever found himself in. It doesn’t help that Cas is wearing only a button-up, his tie, and slacks; his trenchcoat and blazer have been cast off and slung over a chair, and Dean is almost uncomfortable with the difference. The lack of his trademark jacket has cut down Castiel’s edges, smoothing him down into something that looks startling human. But it’s his feet that really catch Dean off-guard, shoeless, with Cas’ toes curling gently against the floor. Something about it strikes Dean as downright vulnerable even though he knows how inaccurate that is, so he shoves down the welling of something that is almost protectiveness by distracting himself with the steaming sludgemonster Cas is currently holding.
“It is— it was meant to be a pie, Dean. You seem to believe that any cause for celebration is also a cause for pie, and since you have stated multiple times that ‘from scratch’ is the best, I thought I would attempt to make a pie. For you.”
The ‘for you’ catches Dean unawares, and something inside him stutters. His mouth parts softly, but he has no clue what to say and his brain remains stubbornly wordless. Cas seems to take his lack of reaction negatively, and he casts his gaze to the wall behind Dean, shoulders curving downwards. “I apologise that it didn’t come out as I had hoped. The one you had me previously sample was much more…” he pauses, Adam’s apple bobbing like he’s trying to remember the taste, the movement jutting and obscene. “Sublime.”
Dean’s mouth feels dry. It doesn’t help that he remembers the occasion, the sticky smear of cherry that had caught on Cas’ lip, the peek of tongue that had flickered out to sweep it off after Dean had rubbed a finger along his own mouth to gesture to the pie filling that had lingered after the fork.
His instinctual reaction is to come back with some off-hand remark, but he bites back the knee-jerk snort and “yeah, great job there, Betty Crocker,” before it has a chance to scrape its way past his throat. Dean remembers the clumsy, laboured stitching that’d decorate his and Sam’s clothes after he patched them up when they were younger. And really, the stitches, the pie, they’re just different ways of doing the same thing; looking after your fam— your people, right?
Dean turns his head away, attempting to collect his erratic thoughts before they wander too far, choosing instead to focus on the fact that there’s flour everywhere. It’s made an absolute mess of Bobby’s kitchen, and he wonders if he should be bothered that Cas’ baking failure has managed to distract him from from the the way the kitchen looks as if Cas had just given up and resorted to throwing handfuls of the stuff around. He turns to face Cas again, a smirk tugging up the corner of his lips. And of course, of course, Cas managed to get it all over himself too— his tie, his arms, his hair. Over his left cheekbone, the bridge of his nose. A small patch over his lips.
This time, Dean lets out the snort, but it’s quiet and amused and, hell, affectionate, because… fuck, they made a mess of Bobby’s kitchen and he’s probably going to kill them, but a fucking angel of the Lord tried to make him a pie.
Cas turns to put the pie down, the same slump still pulling at his shoulders, and Dean allows himself to drift over to Cas’ side. He finds that he’s misgauged the distance a little, because when Cas turns back around he’s right there. Dean runs his tongue over his own lips (the residual smoke must be drying out his skin) and doesn’t miss the way that Cas’ eyes dart down to track the movement.
“Dean,” Castiel says, voice gritty and low and hitching a little over the word, confusion knitting his brows together, “I believe this would be considered an invasion of your personal space.”
Dean’s brain kind of stutters because this is Cas, but yeah, it’s Cas.
So he reaches up, all casual ‘you got something…’s even as his breath snags in his throat. He catches the flour across Cas’ cheekbone with the heel of his hand, drags his fingers down the steep ridge of Cas’ nose to the corner of his lips.
He lets them linger there, looking at the contrast of his tanned, hunting-rough skin against the soft, expansive pink of Castiel’s lips before he catches himself and draws them away. Cas’ mouth parts, just a little, dragging minutely on the callouses of Dean’s fingertips.
“So you made me a pie, huh?”
Cas frowns, shoulders straightening a bit. “Well, the outcome of the pie is debatable, but—”
Screw it.
Dean crosses the last few inches, and what he thinks should feel momentuous just feels like relief.
Cas’ words die out in a quiet huff against Dean’s lips.
They pull apart and Cas says something that Dean can’t quite catch, voice too low for Dean to untangle the syllables, but they’re close enough that Dean can feel the shapes Cas’ mouth makes against his. It’s a tease that Dean can’t resist and he brings them together again, urging Cas to part his lips by doing the same himself, slight and soft. When he does, Dean hums his approval and uses his tongue to coax Cas into movement.
Dean feels the difference when it all comes together in Cas’ head, and then Cas is bringing his hand up to the back of Dean’s neck, sliding it into his hair to pull him forward, the other drifting down to stroke the stripe of skin between his low-slung jeans and worn-soft t-shirt. Dean’s startled into a moan, brings his hand up to mimic where it was earlier, brushing flour off Cas’s face.
Kissing Cas is just like kissing a human, mouth warm and wet and clean, with flesh that gives a little under his fingers when he tightens his other hand around Cas’ arm; kissing Castiel gives little hint of the righteous power that Dean knows is coiled tight under his skin. Dean feels swayed anyhow, unbalanced and a little bit shaky, like this alone can pull him apart and give him salvation.
“Dean,” Cas breathes against his lips as they part, heated and quiet and dark; Dean has to duck his head for a moment to avoid the hawk-sharp gaze, because Cas’ voice is like a punch in the gut, his name sounding ancient and beloved, something holy, something right.
Their atmosphere is something weighty and ocean-deep, and Dean thinks, distantly, that he’ll drown if he doesn’t move away. It’s something Dean needs to take a little at a time. He wants this, this thing with Cas, but he’s afraid that by diving in, he’ll lose his footing and fall. Dean needs his stability and control, at least for now.
He pulls back, Cas’ expression immediately falling into one that’s slightly hurt, a little confused, and it makes a little part of Dean ache. So he smiles, something warm that melts the lingering tension from Cas’ frame. Dean can’t resist brushing his thumb over the sweeping angle of Cas’ cheekbone one last time before letting his arm fall and stepping back. “C’mon, Cas. We should get this clean before Sam or Bobby wake up and think a demon left a little present for us.”
Castiel is halfway through an indignant frown before Dean bumps his knuckles against his hip, a show that the statement was only teasing affection, much in the way that Dean and Sam could bicker in the Impala for hours and end up feeling happier than when they had started. Cas’ mouth quirks upwards slightly in return, something that’s almost a smile, but not quite, yet lights up the dark shadows under his eyes anyway. He turns to grab the pie that lay forgotten on the counter, dropping it in the trash bin with a heavy thunk. The rest, Cas cleans with an encompassing sweep of his arm, and Dean takes a moment to appreciate the muscles shifting under Cas’ skin, like clockwork slotting into place. He’s soon interrupted by a yawn and he scrubs at his eyes with a palm, realising that perhaps he’s ready to go to sleep after all, and wonders if maybe Cas would like to join him.