18: [Action/Video] Touch Me

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A video camera, recording, is propped up on Dean's bedside table, giving any viewers a wide frame of his torso and head.  A bottle of Scotch sits next to it, half-empty.  The Doors' Touch Me is playing in the background, fairly quietly as Dean's music goes.  He's thumbing through an automobile magazine, predictably, and humming along (a wee bit off

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Cas wanders in a few minutes later, his attention drawn to by the music, and Dean's humming (not that he'd admit it, but it's nice, okay). His gaze falls on the scotch, and he frowns.

"Dean, why are you drinking. It's 9am." Dean has schooled him well in the Etiquette of Booze, and he's pretty sure one is supposed to wait until evening. Or at least late afternoon.

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He lifts his head from his scintillating magazine - really, it's almost torture to read this shit when he doesn't have his baby here - and quirks a smile.

"Because, my nerdy friend," Dean grabs the bottle, lifting it in a mock toast before taking a swig. He coughs at the spicy liquor and chuckles a little. "It's my birthday."

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"Oh. Happy birthday, then." He attempts a smile; it looks awkward on him, but not terrible.

There's a pause while Cas holds the smile stiffly, then asks, "...should I be drinking too?" Is it a birthday rule or something?

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Dean sort of stares at him for a minute, lips pursed, then breaks into a laugh. "Dude, it's a birthday - It ain't a funeral. And it's not..." He looks at the bottle of Scotch guiltily. He really shouldn't be drinking. His liver will kill him before the goddamn Operator does again.

"...you don't have to. I figure I'll get something from the kitchen to celebrate."

Dean snaps the magazine shut and tosses it to the foot of his bed, uncrossing his legs and getting to his feet. "You wanna come? I was thinkin' of makin' some pie."

While he could ask for some, it's never quite the same as homemade, and it's one of the few things he could probably wrangle up on his own.

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"Uh. Sure." Making pie sounds as good as anything. "You know how to prepare food?" Castiel's face is straight, earnest as ever; Dean will never know that last bit is a joke, even if Cas is the only one amused by it.

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"Yeah, I know how to, uh...roast...things."

Mostly set things on fire. Cooking's hard, okay? It takes time and effort, which Dean usually has in scant supply. Here, though, he can at least managed a damn pie.

"Just...yeah. I'll manage. C'mon, Clarence." Dean picks up his room key and spins it around on his finger, waiting in the doorway.

"You comin'?"

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"I do not believe pies are roasted," remarks Cas, gravely. "But I will accompany you. Perhaps I can assist." Or at least put out fires.

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Dean grunts in affirmation, wondering if he should regret inviting Castiel long on his baking adventure. The angel seems genuinely interested, so there can't be any harm, right?

...right?

He leads the meandering way down to the kitchen, pulling out a few bowls and spoons and other things that look appropriate for making pie, and go through the inventory in his head. A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Dean had made pie. He could remember the ingredients. Hopefully.

"We need, uh...sugar...some green apples, butter, flour...cinnamon," Dean thinks harder before adding, "...eggs."

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"And are there not books of directions for preparing food?" Cas adds, looking around the kitchen he's never been in before, "Or do you know how to make one without it?" It's rather like a ritual, he supposes - the right ingredients, the right arm-motions, and out the other end comes your desired result. If all goes well, and demons don't interrupt.

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Making an apple pie is one of the few things Dean has made sure to remember. While he can appreciate the pie of someone else, it's never quite the same as doing it yourself and savoring the results.

"Nah," He replies, pulling the things he needs out of one of the magical cupboards, setting it all on the island counter in the middle of the kitchen. "I mean, there are, but we're not gonna use one. Grab some aprons, will ya, Iron Chef?"

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Luckily Dean gestures toward the items in question, or Cas would be stuck wondering what an apron is. He fetches them, bringing them back to Dean and proffering one to him. It's pink and has frills along the bottom edge. Cas thinks it will look nice on Dean, especially with his green eyes.

"Should I... assist?" he asks, eying the pile of mysterious items on the counter.

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Dean grapples to one side, taking the garment in his hands distractedly as he pores over the ingredients he has at his disposal. Only moments later, when he's slipping the loop around his neck and starting to tie the back, does Dean realize exactly what heinous object he's wearing.

He nearly has a spasm pulling it off.

"Aw, dude, c'mon," He scowls at the apron in all its sinister, pink frilliness before foisting it onto Cas, taking the black apron instead. "I'm not wearing pink," Dean mumbles, putting the black one on and pushing some ingredients aside to sprinkle flour on the countertop.

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Cas is a little disappointed Dean doesn't leave the pink apron on. It really did look nice. He laugh inwardly at his reaction, though, smiling a tiny smile and mentally tallying himself: 1, Dean:0.

He dons the pink apron himself, feeling he looks quite dignified in it. He smooths the front down, coming to stand near Dean, leaning sideways into his personal space to see what he's doing with the flour. Cas must observe and learn. From close-up.

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Grumbling to himself, strangely suspicious that Castiel is amused at his bitching, Dean mixes eggs, flour, and water in a bowl before picking the dough up and smacking it down on the flour-covered countertop. White powder puffs out onto his apron, and Dean gets An Idea.

"...hey, Cas."

He turns, picking up a handful of flour, and releases said handful at a relatively harmless velocity, sending it toward Castiel's face.

Dean: 1, Cas: 1.

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...what.

Castiel is very grateful for his vessel's quick reflexes, thanks to which he does not have flour in his eyes. He suspects that might be somewhat uncomfortable. As it is, he's blinking white dusty eyelashes as he fixes Dean with a glare. This simply will not do.

Calmly, exhaling and sending a small puff of flour out of his nose, he reaches out and grabs his own handful of the white stuff, weighing it consideringly in his palm. He then raises his arm and empties his hand over Dean's head, watching the flour catch in the spikes of his hair. "Much better," he approves.

Cas: 2, Dean: 1.

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Dean wrinkles his nose and follows Castiel's hand with his eyes, wordlessly shutting them as flour clumps in his hair like uneven snow drifts.

Sonuvabitch.

"Oh, so that's how it's gonna be?" Blinking the white powder away and suppressing an obvious smirk, Dean's fingers fumble over the counter. He refuses to break eye contact. Not for one fucking second. Even if Castiel's penetrating gaze makes him feel uncomfortably bare. Dean ignores his brain's "hilarious" inner joke about angel food cake, mentally triumphant over the fact that his hand found an egg.

Which he promptly cracks over Castiel's head, a broad grin cutting across his face like a knife as he holds back a wave of low chuckles that threaten to break free.