almost definitely more depressing than you wanted it to be? sorrygladdeceaseFebruary 15 2010, 02:59:22 UTC
Dean plays with his fork while they wait. He's avoiding Castiel's eyes, and they both know it, but at this point what else is there to say? Nothing Dean wants to hear, he knows that much.
When the waitress comes over with the plate and a smile, Dean's returning smile is tired and half-hearted. She walks away with Castiel's untouched coffee, thinking to herself that she's glad she cut off an extra large slice. The two of them look like they need it.
Back at the table, Dean fumbles through forking up a portion of the pie for himself, and even though it's freshly baked and warm, he hardly makes a sound. It doesn't taste like ashes in his mouth or anything, but he's not particularly enthusiastic right now.
Too much on his mind.
Looking up, he finds no judgment in Castiel's eyes. Sadness - a hell of a lot of sadness - and some guilt. And understanding. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean pushes his plate across the table. Castiel looks down at the pie, then up at him, eyes wide and more than a little confused.
"Dean -"
"Just take it, Cas," he says, looking down. "Please."
After a moment, he hears the scrape of metal on china and closes his eyes. He listens to the sounds of the diner, of people talking about trivial things, of dishes clattering in the back, of something sizzling in the kitchen, of a waitress taking an order, of a baby crying somewhere. He listens and thinks this is why.
A hand falls on top of his own. Dean opens his eyes to stare at the hand, watch it squeeze his gently. He looks up.
Castiel is smiling at him, softly. His eyes are still sad, though there's something else there. "Thank you for the pie," he says. "It was good."
Dean pulls his hand away, immediately feeling like a dick, but not about to take it back. "Sure," he mutters. Of course it was good, he tries not to think. They know how to bake an apple pie in Detroit.
Standing with a sigh, he drops a twenty on the table and they leave. They've got a long night ahead of them.
When the waitress comes over with the plate and a smile, Dean's returning smile is tired and half-hearted. She walks away with Castiel's untouched coffee, thinking to herself that she's glad she cut off an extra large slice. The two of them look like they need it.
Back at the table, Dean fumbles through forking up a portion of the pie for himself, and even though it's freshly baked and warm, he hardly makes a sound. It doesn't taste like ashes in his mouth or anything, but he's not particularly enthusiastic right now.
Too much on his mind.
Looking up, he finds no judgment in Castiel's eyes. Sadness - a hell of a lot of sadness - and some guilt. And understanding. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Dean pushes his plate across the table. Castiel looks down at the pie, then up at him, eyes wide and more than a little confused.
"Dean -"
"Just take it, Cas," he says, looking down. "Please."
After a moment, he hears the scrape of metal on china and closes his eyes. He listens to the sounds of the diner, of people talking about trivial things, of dishes clattering in the back, of something sizzling in the kitchen, of a waitress taking an order, of a baby crying somewhere. He listens and thinks this is why.
A hand falls on top of his own. Dean opens his eyes to stare at the hand, watch it squeeze his gently. He looks up.
Castiel is smiling at him, softly. His eyes are still sad, though there's something else there. "Thank you for the pie," he says. "It was good."
Dean pulls his hand away, immediately feeling like a dick, but not about to take it back. "Sure," he mutters. Of course it was good, he tries not to think. They know how to bake an apple pie in Detroit.
Standing with a sigh, he drops a twenty on the table and they leave. They've got a long night ahead of them.
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