Fics: Surprise Pie and Out of Service
These two go together. The first is from a prompt, and the second is a sequel and sort of a coda to 5.16. This might be the thing I'm most proud of from all my comment!fic lately.
Title: Surprise Pie
Characters: Bobby, Castiel
Ratings/Warnings: PG/Spoilers for 5.15 "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid"
Word Count: 1900
Summary: From newt_slash's prompt: A really ill Cas shows up at Bobby's when the boys aren't there. Bobby has to care for him until they get back.
Bobby’s always been pretty good at figuring out omens. It’s less a book learning thing and more a gut reaction - being able to tell when a couple dead cattle are dead ‘cause of something fishy, knowing when a prickly feeling up the back of his neck is just a chill or not. (He should’ve known with Karen. No, God help him, he did know. He knew. He takes another drink.) So Bobby knows, even through the haze of whiskey, that when a gale fit for the big bad wolf rattles the windows and lightning streaks across the still sky, this storm ain’t just a storm. He’s started keeping his favorite shotgun in the cabinet with the liquor for convenience’s sake, and now he wheels to the front windows with the shotgun in his lap and a glass in one hand, watching.
The lightning does a whip-crack just over the house, and that’s when he sees it: that goddamn trench coat, hanging off Dean’s angel pal. He’s standing by the nearest pile of cars, wings silhouetted behind him. When the lightning flashes again, he’s a heap on the ground, and one of those wing shadows is sticking out crooked behind him. The wind stops making such a racket, and the lightning crackles in a dying sort of way. Bobby sighs, setting his glass down on the windowsill, and goes outside.
The angel doesn’t react to him at first, lying there in the shadow of a busted Mustang with his eyes closed, breathing slow. There’s blood all down the front of his shirt.
“What’re you doing here, Castiel?” Bobby says.
The angel doesn’t answer. Bobby prods his shoulder with the business end of the shotgun.
A wince, and a deep breath. Castiel’s eyes roll up to meet Bobby’s. “I was ambushed by Zachariah,” he says. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
He must’ve picked that up from Sam and Dean. Nobody pays social visits to Singer Salvage anymore, just “We didn’t know where else to go” visits. (And back from the grave visits, smelling like peach pie and that damn department store perfume she always squirreled away money for even when they couldn’t afford luxuries, to deliver messages from Death. Christ, why’d he leave the whiskey inside?) It’s a pain in the ass. Bobby sniffs, jerking his wheelchair around in the thin layer of mud that the angel made with his flashy entrance.
“If you need to crawl inside something to die, make it the Nova,” he says, pointing with the shotgun, and hauls his ass back inside the house.
***
In the morning, Bobby looks out the front windows and sees a pair of legs hanging out the back door of that piece of crap Chevy Nova station wagon. The car’s been around since a little after he bought the place - previous owner’s kid crashed it into a cow, if he remembers right, and never bothered to fix it. (Karen used to curl up in the back of that thing with a fleece blanket and read when she wanted to be by herself, he almost forgot. It still smelled like her for three months after the possession, until a family of possums moved in. He wishes she was here right now - wishes she’d always been here, but especially right now, because he knows he’s a lousy host.)
“Crap.”
He goes outside to check on the angel - without the shotgun, this time.
“Hey.”
The body in the Nova shifts, and (Christ, he’s covered himself with one of her old blankets, full of leaves and fur and now angel blood and Bobby wishes he’d brought the shotgun now because goddamnit, what’s he thinking touching that) Castiel peers up at him with these wide, haunted eyes.
“Still alive, huh?”
The angel pulls himself upright, wincing. “I seem to be, yes.”
Bobby crosses his arms. “So, what’d your old pal do, beat you up for your lunch money?’
“Zachariah wanted the location of the Winchesters, but I refused,” Castiel says, his free arm curling protectively across his bloody shirt front. “He tried to tear out my grace with his bare hands.”
“Bet that stings.”
“Understatement,” Castiel says, in a voice not quite his own, and then gives Bobby a look like there’s something under his skin he needs a better look at. “It’s like having the best parts of yourself ripped from you at once.”
(Don’t think about her.) Bobby swallows. Then he waves toward the house. “Oh hell, son, just come inside.”
***
The angel seems perplexed by soup, but he makes an effort anyway. He’s sitting on the couch (wrapped up in a different blanket, one that doesn’t hurt to look at), the bowl balanced on his knees and the spoon making achingly slow trips between it and his mouth.
“This is supposed to help?” he says after a few bites.
And Bobby, who’s on the other side of the room with his arms crossed and his own soup waiting in the kitchen, says, “Not really.”
(But it’s what she would’ve done.)
***
In the middle of the night, Bobby wakes up to pained sounds coming from the living room. He pulls himself blindly into his chair, just about knocking it over in the rush.
The air tastes electric, like a damn lightning storm is coming. Castiel’s on the floor in front of the couch, his whole body curled in toward his chest and both hands grasping at it like he’s trying to hold something in.
Bobby reaches down and shakes the angel’s shoulder. “What in the hell are you doing?”
Castiel takes a lurching breath, opens his eyes, and uncurls slightly. “My…my grace was torn from me…” He clutches his chest, and his shoulders loosen up. “But it’s still here. It was a dream.” He gives Bobby a look he can only describe as panic. “I don’t dream. I don’t sleep. It’s still here, but I’m losing it anyway, gradually.”
Bobby’s throat kinda clenches at that, even though he doesn’t want it to. The angel might be dressed like a grown man and talk like a Bible salesman, but lying tangled on the floor with that stricken expression, he looks more like a little kid just woken up from a nightmare (like the kid Karen always wanted), and Bobby aches a little for the guy.
“It hurts,” Castiel says. “I don’t know how to make it not hurt.”
There oughtta be laws against the angel saying things like that, because Bobby’s sure as hell not gonna take the guy on his lap and hug the sadness out of him, but a little part of him (the little part that sorta wanted a kid, too, maybe) wants to. He clears his throat, rolls into the kitchen, and comes back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Setting them down on the end table next to the couch, he says, “This’ll help.”
***
“He’s fine, he just needs to rest up a few days. And you gotta learn to take better care of your angel.”
“Wait, how is he ‘my’ angel?”
“He followed you in rebelling against Heaven, and he’s paying for it because of you. Keep an eye on him. Ask him how he’s doing once in awhile. Jesus, Dean, it’s not rocket science.”
“Fine. Whatever. Look, we’re working a case right now, but I’ll give him a call when we’re done and we’ll meet up.”
“Great.”
***
Three days after Castiel landed at Singer Salvage, he’s strong enough to be up walking around. The first thing he does is use his refreshed angel mojo to clean the blood off his shirt.
“You oughtta do my laundry, too, seeing as I’ve been giving you room and board,” Bobby snarks.
Castiel focuses on a spot on the wall for a moment, then blinks and says, “Done.”
Later, Bobby finds the whole hamper load of dirty clothes from the last month sitting clean and folded right where he left it.
(One of her dresses is on top, from a couple weeks ago, before the funeral pyre, and he tries to ignore it, tries to push it out of mind, but it’s getting harder.)
***
“Why are there pies?” Castiel calls from the pantry.
Bobby wheels into the doorway. “What?”
He just sent the angel out to grab an extra ribeye from the meat freezer. It should’ve taken thirty seconds. But the guy’s standing there with the lid up, letting all the cold air out, so when Bobby leans over to see what he’s talking about, the skin on his arm prickles from the cold as well as the sight of it.
Pies. Pies stacked five deep, each of them carefully labeled in Karen’s neat cursive: peach, blueberry, cherry, pecan, key lime, and something she’s just called “surprise pie,” which he knows from decades ago is what happens when she gets low on fillings and starts combining things she thinks he’d like.
And that’s…that’s damn near impossible to ignore.
“Just get the ribeye,” he says to Castiel through the knot in his throat, and then he flees to the porch, looking out over the Nova and the driveway she walked up a few weeks ago and the charred spot of ground where he burned her again. He cries like a sissy, and Castiel, blessedly, doesn’t say a thing about it when he comes back inside.
***
Castiel’s cell phone goes off one afternoon just as Bobby’s getting lunch ready. It’s Dean, of course, heading between hunts and wondering what Castiel’s up to. Castiel asks about his location, and in the kitchen, Bobby pushes away the second can of soup he was going to put on the stove.
“You leaving?” he asks when Castiel hovers in the doorway.
“Yes.” Castiel hands him a scrap of paper with a phone number on it, like he’s presenting a damn business card. “If you need someone to talk to,” he says, and shows a shade of a smile, “or to get you soup or do your laundry…”
He shakes his head, and before he realizes it, he’s saying, “I never stopped needing that, son, but she’s gone. Twice now.”
And there it is. It’s easier to say than he would’ve thought. And at the same time, harder. How’s he lasted this long? How’s he even still breathing without that woman?
Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder. They both look hard at it. Bobby raises an eyebrow. Castiel removes his hand.
“Get outta my house, you nuisance.”
The air goes electric, and with a sound like wings taking off, Castiel goes.
***
A week later, Bobby dials the number on the scrap of paper. It rings once, and then a knock on the door interrupts him. He hangs up and goes to answer it.
Castiel is standing on the porch with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in his hand. He extends it to Bobby. “I was hoping you might have some pie that would go with this.”
“Think I got some pecan in the freezer,” Bobby says, and opening the door, he lets him in.
Title: Out of Service
Characters: Bobby, Castiel
Ratings/Warnings: PG/Spoilers for 5.16 "Dark Side of the Moon"
Word Count: 600
Summary: Castiel out of touch. Bobby tries to reach him.
"The number you are trying to reach is out of service."
Bobby frowns at the phone and clicks it back down on its cradle. That’s new.
He glances over at the peach pie thawing on the counter, takes a sip of his PBR, and puts the other bottle back in the fridge. The pie goes with it. He’s fine with drinking alone - it’s practically his calling in life, if you listen to some people in town - but the pie requires company.
He considers for just a second calling Sam or Dean to ask if they know where the angel’s got to, but he doesn’t feel like explaining the visits and the pie and the dry sense of humor Castiel’s got about dead languages. And besides, it seems a mite needy.
***
It’s well past midnight but Bobby’s still up, fiddling with a busted speaker on an old CB. Something rustles across the room, and when he looks up over the desk, there’s Castiel on the couch. The unexpected sight makes his whole body seize up for a second, and when he breathes again, it’s with a curse.
“Goddamnit,” Bobby hisses, slamming his screwdriver down on the desk. “You just about gave me a heart attack. What, are your arms broken? Ya can’t knock on the damn door?”
Castiel’s mouth opens as if to answer, but no sound comes out. He’s staring at the coffee table with this hollow look like he doesn’t really see anything around him.
Oh hell. Bobby knows that look. He’s seen it enough times on Dean to know exactly what it means.
“What happened?” he asks, moving closer.
Castiel stares a second longer. Then blinks. Then licks his lips and says, “Sam and Dean were killed, but they’ve returned now.”
And that’s… It takes Bobby a minute to process that. “So, they died…again…but now they’re fine?”
Castiel nods.
“Okay.” Bobby never signed on for this kind of weirdness. He shakes his head. “I’m gonna get myself a drink. You want anything? I got PBR, some cheap whiskey, lemonade… Pie, too.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Castiel says, his voice small. “Nor hungry.”
“Ain’t that kinda the point, you being an angel and all?”
Castiel says nothing. Bobby goes to the kitchen and gets them each a PBR and a slice of peach pie. He sets Castiel’s slice in front of him on the coffee table, on that spot he won’t stop staring at. The filling spreads out from under the cracked crust, pretty as can be.
Castiel stares, and Bobby’s pretty sure he’s not even seeing the perfect slice of pie right in front of him. Bobby’s halfway through his beer by the time the guy actually says it.
“My Father has abandoned me.”
Bobby’s lips leave the rim of the beer bottle. “Yeah?”
Castiel’s eyes widen, wet. This isn’t about the apocalypse. It’s something else. “He passed on a message to Sam and Dean. I’m supposed to stop searching.”
Bobby takes a long gulp of PBR and sets the bottle down on the coffee table. “Well, screw him.”
Castiel looks over at him, and for the first time since he came in, Bobby thinks he’s actually looking. “What?”
“You heard me,” Bobby says. “Screw him. Any father worth his salt would be proud to have you. You’re a good kid.” He smirks. “Hell, I’d take you myself, seeing as I keep picking up strays.”
The angel blinks a few times, and his mouth moves, but again, nothing comes out.
Bobby hands him the fork that’s been sitting idle on the plate. “Eat, you idjit.”
Castiel nods, his shoulders relaxing, and obeys.
THE END!
Title: Surprise Pie
Characters: Bobby, Castiel
Ratings/Warnings: PG/Spoilers for 5.15 "Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid"
Word Count: 1900
Summary: From newt_slash's prompt: A really ill Cas shows up at Bobby's when the boys aren't there. Bobby has to care for him until they get back.
Bobby’s always been pretty good at figuring out omens. It’s less a book learning thing and more a gut reaction - being able to tell when a couple dead cattle are dead ‘cause of something fishy, knowing when a prickly feeling up the back of his neck is just a chill or not. (He should’ve known with Karen. No, God help him, he did know. He knew. He takes another drink.) So Bobby knows, even through the haze of whiskey, that when a gale fit for the big bad wolf rattles the windows and lightning streaks across the still sky, this storm ain’t just a storm. He’s started keeping his favorite shotgun in the cabinet with the liquor for convenience’s sake, and now he wheels to the front windows with the shotgun in his lap and a glass in one hand, watching.
The lightning does a whip-crack just over the house, and that’s when he sees it: that goddamn trench coat, hanging off Dean’s angel pal. He’s standing by the nearest pile of cars, wings silhouetted behind him. When the lightning flashes again, he’s a heap on the ground, and one of those wing shadows is sticking out crooked behind him. The wind stops making such a racket, and the lightning crackles in a dying sort of way. Bobby sighs, setting his glass down on the windowsill, and goes outside.
The angel doesn’t react to him at first, lying there in the shadow of a busted Mustang with his eyes closed, breathing slow. There’s blood all down the front of his shirt.
“What’re you doing here, Castiel?” Bobby says.
The angel doesn’t answer. Bobby prods his shoulder with the business end of the shotgun.
A wince, and a deep breath. Castiel’s eyes roll up to meet Bobby’s. “I was ambushed by Zachariah,” he says. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
He must’ve picked that up from Sam and Dean. Nobody pays social visits to Singer Salvage anymore, just “We didn’t know where else to go” visits. (And back from the grave visits, smelling like peach pie and that damn department store perfume she always squirreled away money for even when they couldn’t afford luxuries, to deliver messages from Death. Christ, why’d he leave the whiskey inside?) It’s a pain in the ass. Bobby sniffs, jerking his wheelchair around in the thin layer of mud that the angel made with his flashy entrance.
“If you need to crawl inside something to die, make it the Nova,” he says, pointing with the shotgun, and hauls his ass back inside the house.
***
In the morning, Bobby looks out the front windows and sees a pair of legs hanging out the back door of that piece of crap Chevy Nova station wagon. The car’s been around since a little after he bought the place - previous owner’s kid crashed it into a cow, if he remembers right, and never bothered to fix it. (Karen used to curl up in the back of that thing with a fleece blanket and read when she wanted to be by herself, he almost forgot. It still smelled like her for three months after the possession, until a family of possums moved in. He wishes she was here right now - wishes she’d always been here, but especially right now, because he knows he’s a lousy host.)
“Crap.”
He goes outside to check on the angel - without the shotgun, this time.
“Hey.”
The body in the Nova shifts, and (Christ, he’s covered himself with one of her old blankets, full of leaves and fur and now angel blood and Bobby wishes he’d brought the shotgun now because goddamnit, what’s he thinking touching that) Castiel peers up at him with these wide, haunted eyes.
“Still alive, huh?”
The angel pulls himself upright, wincing. “I seem to be, yes.”
Bobby crosses his arms. “So, what’d your old pal do, beat you up for your lunch money?’
“Zachariah wanted the location of the Winchesters, but I refused,” Castiel says, his free arm curling protectively across his bloody shirt front. “He tried to tear out my grace with his bare hands.”
“Bet that stings.”
“Understatement,” Castiel says, in a voice not quite his own, and then gives Bobby a look like there’s something under his skin he needs a better look at. “It’s like having the best parts of yourself ripped from you at once.”
(Don’t think about her.) Bobby swallows. Then he waves toward the house. “Oh hell, son, just come inside.”
***
The angel seems perplexed by soup, but he makes an effort anyway. He’s sitting on the couch (wrapped up in a different blanket, one that doesn’t hurt to look at), the bowl balanced on his knees and the spoon making achingly slow trips between it and his mouth.
“This is supposed to help?” he says after a few bites.
And Bobby, who’s on the other side of the room with his arms crossed and his own soup waiting in the kitchen, says, “Not really.”
(But it’s what she would’ve done.)
***
In the middle of the night, Bobby wakes up to pained sounds coming from the living room. He pulls himself blindly into his chair, just about knocking it over in the rush.
The air tastes electric, like a damn lightning storm is coming. Castiel’s on the floor in front of the couch, his whole body curled in toward his chest and both hands grasping at it like he’s trying to hold something in.
Bobby reaches down and shakes the angel’s shoulder. “What in the hell are you doing?”
Castiel takes a lurching breath, opens his eyes, and uncurls slightly. “My…my grace was torn from me…” He clutches his chest, and his shoulders loosen up. “But it’s still here. It was a dream.” He gives Bobby a look he can only describe as panic. “I don’t dream. I don’t sleep. It’s still here, but I’m losing it anyway, gradually.”
Bobby’s throat kinda clenches at that, even though he doesn’t want it to. The angel might be dressed like a grown man and talk like a Bible salesman, but lying tangled on the floor with that stricken expression, he looks more like a little kid just woken up from a nightmare (like the kid Karen always wanted), and Bobby aches a little for the guy.
“It hurts,” Castiel says. “I don’t know how to make it not hurt.”
There oughtta be laws against the angel saying things like that, because Bobby’s sure as hell not gonna take the guy on his lap and hug the sadness out of him, but a little part of him (the little part that sorta wanted a kid, too, maybe) wants to. He clears his throat, rolls into the kitchen, and comes back with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Setting them down on the end table next to the couch, he says, “This’ll help.”
***
“He’s fine, he just needs to rest up a few days. And you gotta learn to take better care of your angel.”
“Wait, how is he ‘my’ angel?”
“He followed you in rebelling against Heaven, and he’s paying for it because of you. Keep an eye on him. Ask him how he’s doing once in awhile. Jesus, Dean, it’s not rocket science.”
“Fine. Whatever. Look, we’re working a case right now, but I’ll give him a call when we’re done and we’ll meet up.”
“Great.”
***
Three days after Castiel landed at Singer Salvage, he’s strong enough to be up walking around. The first thing he does is use his refreshed angel mojo to clean the blood off his shirt.
“You oughtta do my laundry, too, seeing as I’ve been giving you room and board,” Bobby snarks.
Castiel focuses on a spot on the wall for a moment, then blinks and says, “Done.”
Later, Bobby finds the whole hamper load of dirty clothes from the last month sitting clean and folded right where he left it.
(One of her dresses is on top, from a couple weeks ago, before the funeral pyre, and he tries to ignore it, tries to push it out of mind, but it’s getting harder.)
***
“Why are there pies?” Castiel calls from the pantry.
Bobby wheels into the doorway. “What?”
He just sent the angel out to grab an extra ribeye from the meat freezer. It should’ve taken thirty seconds. But the guy’s standing there with the lid up, letting all the cold air out, so when Bobby leans over to see what he’s talking about, the skin on his arm prickles from the cold as well as the sight of it.
Pies. Pies stacked five deep, each of them carefully labeled in Karen’s neat cursive: peach, blueberry, cherry, pecan, key lime, and something she’s just called “surprise pie,” which he knows from decades ago is what happens when she gets low on fillings and starts combining things she thinks he’d like.
And that’s…that’s damn near impossible to ignore.
“Just get the ribeye,” he says to Castiel through the knot in his throat, and then he flees to the porch, looking out over the Nova and the driveway she walked up a few weeks ago and the charred spot of ground where he burned her again. He cries like a sissy, and Castiel, blessedly, doesn’t say a thing about it when he comes back inside.
***
Castiel’s cell phone goes off one afternoon just as Bobby’s getting lunch ready. It’s Dean, of course, heading between hunts and wondering what Castiel’s up to. Castiel asks about his location, and in the kitchen, Bobby pushes away the second can of soup he was going to put on the stove.
“You leaving?” he asks when Castiel hovers in the doorway.
“Yes.” Castiel hands him a scrap of paper with a phone number on it, like he’s presenting a damn business card. “If you need someone to talk to,” he says, and shows a shade of a smile, “or to get you soup or do your laundry…”
He shakes his head, and before he realizes it, he’s saying, “I never stopped needing that, son, but she’s gone. Twice now.”
And there it is. It’s easier to say than he would’ve thought. And at the same time, harder. How’s he lasted this long? How’s he even still breathing without that woman?
Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder. They both look hard at it. Bobby raises an eyebrow. Castiel removes his hand.
“Get outta my house, you nuisance.”
The air goes electric, and with a sound like wings taking off, Castiel goes.
***
A week later, Bobby dials the number on the scrap of paper. It rings once, and then a knock on the door interrupts him. He hangs up and goes to answer it.
Castiel is standing on the porch with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in his hand. He extends it to Bobby. “I was hoping you might have some pie that would go with this.”
“Think I got some pecan in the freezer,” Bobby says, and opening the door, he lets him in.
Title: Out of Service
Characters: Bobby, Castiel
Ratings/Warnings: PG/Spoilers for 5.16 "Dark Side of the Moon"
Word Count: 600
Summary: Castiel out of touch. Bobby tries to reach him.
"The number you are trying to reach is out of service."
Bobby frowns at the phone and clicks it back down on its cradle. That’s new.
He glances over at the peach pie thawing on the counter, takes a sip of his PBR, and puts the other bottle back in the fridge. The pie goes with it. He’s fine with drinking alone - it’s practically his calling in life, if you listen to some people in town - but the pie requires company.
He considers for just a second calling Sam or Dean to ask if they know where the angel’s got to, but he doesn’t feel like explaining the visits and the pie and the dry sense of humor Castiel’s got about dead languages. And besides, it seems a mite needy.
***
It’s well past midnight but Bobby’s still up, fiddling with a busted speaker on an old CB. Something rustles across the room, and when he looks up over the desk, there’s Castiel on the couch. The unexpected sight makes his whole body seize up for a second, and when he breathes again, it’s with a curse.
“Goddamnit,” Bobby hisses, slamming his screwdriver down on the desk. “You just about gave me a heart attack. What, are your arms broken? Ya can’t knock on the damn door?”
Castiel’s mouth opens as if to answer, but no sound comes out. He’s staring at the coffee table with this hollow look like he doesn’t really see anything around him.
Oh hell. Bobby knows that look. He’s seen it enough times on Dean to know exactly what it means.
“What happened?” he asks, moving closer.
Castiel stares a second longer. Then blinks. Then licks his lips and says, “Sam and Dean were killed, but they’ve returned now.”
And that’s… It takes Bobby a minute to process that. “So, they died…again…but now they’re fine?”
Castiel nods.
“Okay.” Bobby never signed on for this kind of weirdness. He shakes his head. “I’m gonna get myself a drink. You want anything? I got PBR, some cheap whiskey, lemonade… Pie, too.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Castiel says, his voice small. “Nor hungry.”
“Ain’t that kinda the point, you being an angel and all?”
Castiel says nothing. Bobby goes to the kitchen and gets them each a PBR and a slice of peach pie. He sets Castiel’s slice in front of him on the coffee table, on that spot he won’t stop staring at. The filling spreads out from under the cracked crust, pretty as can be.
Castiel stares, and Bobby’s pretty sure he’s not even seeing the perfect slice of pie right in front of him. Bobby’s halfway through his beer by the time the guy actually says it.
“My Father has abandoned me.”
Bobby’s lips leave the rim of the beer bottle. “Yeah?”
Castiel’s eyes widen, wet. This isn’t about the apocalypse. It’s something else. “He passed on a message to Sam and Dean. I’m supposed to stop searching.”
Bobby takes a long gulp of PBR and sets the bottle down on the coffee table. “Well, screw him.”
Castiel looks over at him, and for the first time since he came in, Bobby thinks he’s actually looking. “What?”
“You heard me,” Bobby says. “Screw him. Any father worth his salt would be proud to have you. You’re a good kid.” He smirks. “Hell, I’d take you myself, seeing as I keep picking up strays.”
The angel blinks a few times, and his mouth moves, but again, nothing comes out.
Bobby hands him the fork that’s been sitting idle on the plate. “Eat, you idjit.”
Castiel nods, his shoulders relaxing, and obeys.
THE END!