Fic: Kitchen Overhaul (3/4)
Part 3
It’s a half an hour before anyone notices Dean is not with the rest of the crew in the front of the shop. Castiel ducks his head into the kitchen and finds him head down, forcefully chopping pecans.
“Dean,” Castiel calls out over the sound of a knife repeatedly hitting the cutting board. Dean doesn’t acknowledge him but continues to work, laser-focused on his task.
“Dean!” Castiel yells, stepping through the door. The knife stills and Dean glances at Castiel from the corner of his eye.
“What?” he mutters coolly.
“We need you out front,” Castiel says.
“I’m busy,” Dean responds flatly, grasping the handle of his knife once more.
“Yeah, well there are no cameras back here and we need you for-”
“I said I’m fucking busy!” Dean snaps, heading turning toward Castiel. His easy expression drops at the hard look in Dean’s eyes and he wonders what prompted it. “We have a pre-order of three mocha pecan pies for tomorrow. I need to get started on them now because you and your staff have been hijacking all of my time.”
“This will only take a few minutes,” Castiel replies carefully, “Then you can get back to work.”
“I don’t have a few minutes. I barely have time to piss during the day.” Dean says lowly, “I thought that was made clear to you? Or is that just something else to use against me?”
Castiel licks at his lips. The tension in the air is palpable, even worse than it had been at their arrival. He doesn’t understand why Dean is suddenly so upset but he finds it exceedingly irritating. He has been bending over backwards for this man and this is the thanks he gets? Childish Petulance?
“Dean,” Castiel begins, attempting to maintain his composure. “What is the deal-” He is cut off as Sam swings open the door.
“Dean there you are!” He says, “We need you out here to go over the menu! C’mon!” Dean rolls his eyes, but puts down his chopping knife and follows Sam through the door. Castiel stands in the kitchen alone for a moment, confused and angry, before following the brothers.
Dean grimaces at the sight of a large white board on an easel sitting in the middle of the floor, every menu offering written down the side. He mutters something sarcastic under his breath about “professionalism” as Castiel approaches the board. He glimpses Crowley, who throws him a signal to begin.
“We have here every menu item you have regularly listed,” Castiel says, gesturing to one side of the board “plus the items that we’ve noticed that you’ve made in our time here that aren’t on your menu.” he gestures to the opposite side where nearly the same number of dishes and items are listed.
“They’re specials,” Dean says flatly, crossing his arms in front of him.
“Yes, but it seems like a waste of assets to make so many,” Castiel replies, “I mean, don’t you see how 15 off-menu items might be a bit much?”
“They sold,” Dean challenges calmly, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, then why not cut some of the other items off the menu that don’t sell.” Castiel swipes on the tablet and goes over the sales numbers from the day previous, “I mean, the apple pie doesn’t-”
“Thunderstruck!” Dean says loudly. All heads turn to Dean. His expression is cold, his mouth a hard line.
“Dean,” Castiel says with a tight smile, “If just let me finish-”
“Thunderstruck,” Dean repeats, “The pie stays.” He uncrosses his arms and lets him balled fists drop to his side.
“Well, what if we made is a seasonal thing?” Sam offers, very confused as he glances between Castiel and Dean.
“No, the apple pie is a menu staple.” Dean says firmly. Castiel looks at him, his thinning patience at a breaking point.
“Dean, can I talk to you for a moment?” He asks quietly.
“Everything stays on camera, Castiel,” Crowley calls out from behind the sound tech. Castiel groans inaudibly and rubs at his eyes.
“I’m here to help, Dean,” he sighs in exasperation, “But I can’t do that if-”
“Then leave,” Dean hisses, “If you can’t fucking fix things without breaking everything to pieces, then leave.” Castiel is dumbstruck. He has no idea where this sudden surge of hostility is coming from. Crowley admonishes Dean for his language, but only receives an eyeroll in return.
“What is your problem?” Cas mutters under his breath.
“My problem is that you think you can just come in here and just change shit arbitrarily,” Dean barks, “Trying to take away what I’ve worked my entire life for! You have no right and you have no clue how this places runs.” Castiel tries not to respond, but it’s too much.
“You know what? You’re right!” Castiel snaps sarcastically, “I have no idea how this places works! I have no idea how you didn’t run it into the ground 3 years ago! You make no profit, Dean. That is rule #1 of running a business!”
“Well, Spending money on that frou-frou interior design bullshit is not going to help us!” Dean bellows. Cas chuckles humorlessly.
“Well, it’ll do far more good than you throwing your money down the drain ‘experimenting’ from your mom’s diary!” Dean’s expression drops for a moment before turning righteously angry. Dean looks like he’s about three seconds from laying him out, so Castiel decides to just go for broke and live up to his reputation.
“God forbid anyone with any sort of business acumen come in and try to help you!” Castiel continues, “But you're so pig-headed and so determined to fail on your own-”
“We’re not failing!” Dean yells, stepping up into his face. Castiel snorts derisively.
“Six months,” he mutters, “and you will be.” Dean frowns bitterly, nostrils flaring before turning on his heel and stomping out of the building, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the impala’s engine roaring to life echoes down the block, as does the squeal of tires as it peels out.
Sam turns and glares at Castiel incredulously before brushing past him into the kitchen. Castiel looks at Hannah, who studiously avoids his gaze, instead focusing on the tablet in her hands.
“I guess that’s a wrap for today,” Crowley sighs, “Come along then, let’s get packed up and back to the hotel.” Hannah follows Crowley and the crew out the door, sparing Castiel one pained look before she does.
Castiel let’s his back fall against the wall and rubs at his temples. He had never had an episode dissolve like this. Especially one that had been progressing so well. Dean just lost it. Over what? Apple pie.
Castiel pushes off the wall and follows the crew out the door.
“It was a mistake to come back here,” he mutters.
As soon as he enters the suite, Castiel flops down onto the bed. Hannah is meeting with Crowley about changing their flights out of Chicago, so he has a few minutes to himself. The entire ride back to the hotel he had stewed over what could’ve caused Dean’s outburst and by the time they’d arrived, he’d worked himself into a pretty good funk. There was potential in Winchester and Sons, so much potential, but Dean stubbornness was its biggest inhibitor. The guy couldn’t take two steps back and look at things objectively. It was all about the dream; not even his dream, his mom’s.
Castiel sighs and drags a hand over his face. He hates this. There haven’t been many, but the episodes where they walk away knowing the restaurant or business they’re working with is beyond help are the hardest. The worst part is, for a second, Castiel saw what Winchester and Sons could be, or could’ve been as is now the case.
There is a knock at the door and Castiel stands from the bed to open it. Crowley is there, still in his coat.
“Hannah is about to do a dinner run,” he says, “What would you like?”
“Not hungry,” Castiel mumbles, walking away from the door. Crowley follows him into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.
“Ah, you’re in a mood I see. Is this about today?” Crowley asks, “Honestly, Castiel, you can’t take these situations so personally. This is one of those things you can’t control.” Castiel falls onto the bed once more.
“But I did have control!” He insists, “Everything was going so well yesterday. Hell, this morning everything was fine. I just don’t understand what set Dean off.” Crowley sits down the besides him.
“He’s just a hothead, Castiel,” Crowley assures, “One with some obvious emotional issues. We’re good to be rid of him.” He slaps him on the back hard, lurching Castiel forward.
“And it isn’t a total loss,” Crowley says rising to his feet, “I have enough footage to cut this into a decent episode. Maybe we can get in touch with Sam, do a close-out interview.” Castiel shakes his head.
“No, no, Don’t bother Sam. He has enough on his plate. Let’s just get out of here,” He sighs. Crowley nods and bids him a goodbye as he leaves the room. Castiel waves, not raising his gaze from the floor.
As soon as the door closes, he lifts his head and grabs the remote from the bed, switching on the TV. Two talking heads are arguing back and forth on CNN and Castiel knows he can’t handle that right now. He flips the channel and rises to his feet.
The idea of raiding the minibar seems very appealing right now.
Three hours later, Castiel is feeling comfortably numb. He sucks down a small bottle of Absolut in one gulp and chuckles at the ridiculousness of infomercial cookware (What the Hell is a Flavor Wave??).
There is a soft knock and it takes Castiel two beats before he realizes that someone is knocking on his door. He stands, swaying slightly, and walks toward the door. It opens to reveal Hannah, brows furrowed and holding a camera.
“What?” Castiel says, politeness flying out the window with his sobriety. Hannah thrusts the camera toward his chest before stepping into the room. She scrunches her nose as she takes count of the tiny empty bottles littering the table.
“Are you drunk?” She asks.
“No,” Castiel says, “just a little buzzed.” He rolls his eyes as Hannah shakes her head in disappointment.
“You know, I could’ve bought you three full-size bottles of alcohol for what you paid for the mini-bar?” She crosses her arms in front of her and Castiel feels the need to remind her that he is her boss, not the other way around.
“What do you want, Hannah?” He asks, falling back onto the bed. The camera lands a few inches from him, bouncing on the mattress.
“You should watch that,” she instructs.
“What?”
“Watch the recording.” She says. Castiel raises his head and picks up the camera, studying it.
“It has Dean’s confessional,” Hannah explains as she sits in the chair opposite.
“So?” Castiel grumbles, the thought of Dean souring his mood.
“Just watch the damn thing.” She sighs. Castiel sits up with a grunt, taking the camera in his hands and switching it on. He taps the playback button and the screen comes to life. Dean is staring back at him, face open and friendly in spite of the bags ringing his eyes. Castiel hears Crowley’s voice asking Dean questions, receiving short, curt answers in return. Dean begins to talk about why he didn’t want the show there in the first place, how angry he was about it, everything Castiel has heard before. He glances doubtfully at Hannah.
“Keep watching,” she says.
Dean brightens as he discusses further Castiel’s changes and what he’d implemented. Castiel smiles sadly. He doesn’t know what Hannah’s reasoning was in making him feel worse.
“So you like Castiel’s decisions, then?” Crowley’s voice is audible from behind the camera.
“Yeah, sure.” Dean replies, “Guy’s smart.”
“Even his recommendation that you step away from the business?” Castiel’s eyes widen.
What the hell did he just say? On Camera, an array of emotions cross Dean’s face within a matter of seconds: hurt, betrayal, anger, shock. Castiel glances at Hannah, his face no doubt mirroring Dean’s.
“I know,” she mutters, giving him a pained smirk. The camera cuts off a moment later. Castiel sits up, completely dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe Crowley would twist his words like that. No, that’s not true; He absolutely believes Crowley would do that. Castiel switches off the camera and drops it back down on the bed.
“Why?” It’s all he can think to ask. Hannah leans back in the chair and crosses her arms.
“I guess Crowley didn’t think the episode was dramatic enough,” she mutters, clearly as disgusted as Castiel. He gets to his feet, feeling much more sober than he had been a few minutes ago. He grabs his wallet and slips the room key card into his back pocket.
“Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” Hannah calls after him.
“I owe Dean an apology,” he says, grabbing his coat out of the closet, “What’s closest: the red line or the blue line?”
Dean finds baking meditative. It’s so easy to zone out when all you have to think about is how many cups of one thing or what kind of consistency you need for a certain batter or dough. Sam occasionally tries to drag Dean to yoga, and while he doesn’t appreciate the medieval-style torture that is vinyasa, he does get it when the instructor talks about “clearing your mind”. All he needs, though is a little flour and a warm oven; Sam can keep his yoga studio.
He methodically drags the spatula along the side of the bowl, scraping the excess ganache back onto itself. The chocolate raspberry tart serves a dual purpose: one, to help him relax and clear his head and two, as an apology for Sam. His brother may not like sweets, but Dean is well aware that his sister-in-law would do nearly anything for a slice of Raspberry Chocolate Tart, including sweet talking his brother for him.
Dean smiles to himself as he stirs, only drawn out of his revelry by a heavy knock at the back door. Dean is at attention, but not alarmed. Occasionally, they get a few homeless from around the neighborhood knocking on their door after hours, asking if they might take any of the leftover baked goods off their hands. However, it’s a less common occurrence in the bitterly cold weather of early march.
Dean walks to the door cautiously, taking note of where his dad’s old Colt revolver is stored on the shelf above the doorway.
“Hello?” He carefully cracks the door open, peering out into the dark. He doesn’t believe his eyes for a moment; Castiel Novak is standing at his back door, bundled up in a peacoat and knit hat.
“I knocked this time,” he says sheepishly, “Um… Hello, Dean.” he adds. Dean’s instinct tells him to slam the door right in Cas’ smug, oh-so-perfect face, but something about Castiel’s defeated expression stays his hand.
“What do you want?” He says curtly, pressing his head through the door. Castiel fidgets in the cold and stares down at his feet.
“I came to… um, apologize.” He says. Dean frowns angrily.
“Day late and a dollar short, Chuckles,” Dean huffs. As he tries to shut the door, Cas’s hand flies out, keeping it wedged open.
“Dean, please,” he interjects, “I just want to talk.”
“Nothing to talk about,” Dean tries pushing harder on the door, “Or are you just trying to kick a man when he’s down?” He gives Castiel a sarcastic smile. Cas sighs heavily and shakes his head.
“Please, just… Can we just talk? Inside?” He emphasizes, “It’s cold as Hell out here.” Castiel pulls his bare hands out of his pockets, rubbing them together frantically. He makes a pitiful sight. Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose and steps aside, swinging the door open to allow Castiel in.
Castiel steps inside, shedding his coat and placing it onto a nearby hook. He peers around the kitchen in the same manner that he did on his first day, but instead of a critical eye, his gaze seems almost curious of the set up.
“What are you making?” he asks, taking note of the ingredients on the prep table.
“Dark chocolate raspberry tart,” Dean offers stiffly, “Don’t worry, I paid for the ingredients myself. I’m not wasting the bakery’s money.” Castiel’s looks away bashfully. He drops his coat over the edge of a stool.
“Listen, Dean, I want to-”
“You listen,” Dean cuts him off, “You can make me look like the biggest asshole on Earth if you want; That’s your right and it’s probably not far off from the truth. But do not take my… behavior out on Sam or the bakery.” Castiel looks at Dean, tilting his head in confusion.
“We were really counting on the money,” Dean admits, leaning against a shelf full of pans, “It’s already been earmarked for the stove and we… we can’t afford it otherwise. Please… Please don’t-”
“Dean,” Castiel stops him, “We’re not taking the money away. We never were. Hell, I bet if it were up to Crowley he’d double it.” Dean stares at Cas warily.
“Wait… then what-?”
“I never said that you should give up the bakery,” Castiel blurts out finally, “Crowley twisted my words.” Dean’s mouth hangs open before forming into a frown.
“You said I should step back,” Dean says angrily.
“I said you should take a step back,” Cas sighs, “You are working yourself to death, Dean. 70, 80 hour work-weeks are not healthy or normal, not even for a small business owner. You need a break. You need to sleep!” Dean runs a hand through his hair. Castiel’s words aren’t unfamiliar; they are the same ones he hears near-constantly from Sam.
“Yeah, well I don’t have much of a choice,” Dean spits harshly.
“You could get a staff,” Castiel offers, as if he’s the first person to offer the idea.
“We’ve already gone over this, Cas,” Dean groans, “With what money?”
“There are ways to get staff for cheap,” Castiel reasons, folding his arms in front of him, “My recommendation on the show, and to your brother, was hiring a few students form a local culinary college, make it into a work study program.” Dean glares at Castiel incredulously.
“Why would I want to baby-sit a bunch of ‘Top Chef’ Wannabes?” Dean snorts sarcastically, “Much less let them near my kitchen?”
“Because you could teach them,” Castiel replies, “Not just about cooking, but about business management. Real-world experience is a valuable commodity. I know many students would be chomping at the bit for a chance like that.” Dean has no response to that. He’ll grant that It’s not the worst idea on Earth.
“I’m not entirely sold, but… I guess that idea has some merits,” Dean admits reluctantly, “I’m still pissed about what you said earlier.”
“Yeah, and I’m an asshole. I thought that was established early on. Have you seen my show?” Dean laughs loud at that, and Castiel’s own grin in response makes his heart skip a beat.
“Look, Dean, what I said was uncalled for-”
“No, you’re right,” Dean shakes his head, stepping back to his spot at the prep table to finish his work, “I get too caught up in trying to make things exactly as my mom would’ve wanted them. My Dad was the same way: ‘Do it like this, Dean. Work harder, Dean. Don’t let Mom down.’ Drilled that into my head until a heart attack sent him packing.” He grabs up the prep bowl of ganache and begins pouring the smooth, dark filling into the fluted pan.
“I never stop to think about what I want, or Sam.” Dean continues glumly, “At this point, I’m not sure if I actually like what I’m doing.”
“You do,” Castiel says with complete certainty, “I know you do.”
“How?” Dean says caustically, leveling the ganache in the pan with a spatula.
“Because I see the way you bake.” Castiel says, watching Dean carefully, “I see the way your face lights up when you take a pie or a batch of pastries from the oven.”
“I like baking,” Dean says with a shrug, setting down the bowl, “Doesn’t mean I’m cut out to run a business.”
“But it’s more than that,” Cas says, “It’s more than some misplaced obligation. You have this … gleam in your eye, when you talk about this place, when you’re enjoying yourself. I think if you were to let go, you might see that more.”
“Let go?” Dean asks, raising a questioning brow, “Got any other advice, Queen Elsa?” Cas chuckles and leans against the prep table as Dean transfers the tarte to the cooler.
“I’m serious, though,” Cas counters, “You clearly enjoy doing this, but you won’t let yourself because you can’t release any of that responsibility.” Dean looks doubtful and Cas sighs.
“Just think about what I said,” He offers, “Bringing in students.” Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods. He watches Cas for a moment as the other man glances inside the now empty bowl, a few stray lines of chocolate decorating the sides. Castiel dips his finger into the bowl, drawing it along a smear of chocolate before popping it into his mouth. His eyes widen and he hums in surprise.
“You like it?” Dean asks, a small swell of pride rising within him.
“Very much,” Castiel says, dipping his finger into the bowl once more and gathering up more stray chocolate, “It’s very good, but there’s something in there… I can’t… quite…” Castiel’s eyes light up, “Chambord! Is that it?” He smiles brightly.
“Yup,” Dean says with a grin, “I’ll add glazed raspberries on top once it cools, but the liqueur gives it a little kick.”
“Certainly does,” Castiel agrees quietly, meeting Dean’s eye and going in for a third taste. As he does, a bit of chocolate gets caught at the corner of his mouth and, for some reason, Dean can’t focus on anything else. Castiel is saying something, but Dean’s eyes are locked on soft pink lips muddied with chocolate. He can feel himself licking his own lips subconsciously when Castiel waves a hand in front of his face. He takes a step toward Castiel.
“Can you… Can you hold still for just a second?” he mumbles. Cas’ brow furrows as Dean steps forward and reaches out, brushing a floured thumb from the outside corner of his mouth, inward. Cas’ breath is warm against Dean’s hand and his lips part slightly in response. Dean pops his thumb into his own mouth, sucking the chocolate off it.
Over the sound of the walk-in cooler and pipes rattling, Dean can hear his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. Castiel’s tongue darts out, following the path of his thumb and It’s almost too much for Dean to handle.
In an instant, he closes the distance between them, cupping Cas’ face in his palm and bringing their lips together in a heated kiss. Cas tenses in surprise for just a moment before melting against Dean’s lips, soft and pliant. His hands find Dean’s shoulders, gripping them tightly and pulling himself closer into Dean’s body and deeper into the kiss.
Dean responds immediately, pressing Cas against the prep table. He parts Cas’ mouth with his own, moaning as their tongues slip past each other. His body is hard and warm against Dean’s and he can’t control his hands as they slip over Cas’ sides, fingers brushing beneath the hem of his t-shirt and causing a shiver to run through the other man.
Cas is the first to pull back from the kiss. Dean’s lips chase him and for a second he fears that maybe he went a step too far. Cas’ eyes are locked on Dean’s lips. He doesn’t say a word, rather launching for Dean’s mouth once more in a kiss far hungrier than before.
He wraps his hands around Dean’s neck. Dean responds in kind, hands tugging at Cas’ thighs and pulling him up until he’s seated on the prep table. A cloud of flour rises in the commotion and both men are distracted when an empty metal bowl falls to the floor with a crash.
Dean pulls back, coming to a rational realization.
“I can’t fuck you in my kitchen,” he mutters.
“Take me home then,” Cas says, latching onto Dean’s neck and sucking at the tender skin. Dean pushes Cas away gently and takes him by the hand, picking his wool coat up off the hook by the door as they pass it.
“How’d you get here?” Dean asks, as pulls Cas toward the impala.
“The train,” Cas mumbles. Dean stops and glares at him.
“The nearest station is 8 blocks away,” he mumbles in disbelief. Cas shrugs but doesn’t say anything. Dean wants to simultaneously wrap Cas in his arms and smack him upside the head for not calling a cab. He suddenly sees what Sam meant about the illusion being broken. Castiel looks stripped raw. Dean isn’t sure if it’s an effect of the kissing or the late winter wind whipping past them. He seems unexpectedly vulnerable and it’s difficult for Dean to not find that appealing.
“C’mon,” He sighs, tugging at Cas’ hand and pulling him close as they continue toward the car.
Castiel is nothing like he expects. He lets himself be guided around Dean’s apartment, clothes slowly being pulled from his body. They do a strange, stilted dance, lips continuously attached to some point on each other’s body as the make their way toward the bedroom. Dean can’t get enough of him. He makes these reedy high-pitched gasp as Dean’s tongue trails trails down his neck before he clamps onto his collarbone.
When they finally make it through the doorway, Dean lazily hooks two fingers into the belt loops of Cas’ jeans, pulling him closer. Cas looks up at him and, even in the ambient dark of the bedroom, his clear blue eyes stand out. Dean finds himself momentarily lost in them when he feels Cas’ fingers meticulously working on the top button of his own jeans.
“Cas,” Dean croaks out softly. He opens his mouth to continue but is met with silence. There are so many things he wants or needs to tell him, but he’s unsure as to where to begin.
“Have you ever…?” Cas trails off the implication of done this before left unsaid. Dean shakes his head minutely.
“Not this exactly... a guy,” he mumbles, glad that the darkness hides the flush that has no doubt risen to his cheeks, “I’ll be honest, man, I’m not too clear on how to do this.” Even in the dark, Dean can see Castiel’s tentative smile.
“I’ll show you,” He encourages softly, now leading Dean toward the bed, “Do you have lube?” Dean’s eye are wide, the thought that Cas would possibly want to top him only now occurring to him. Dean looks at Cas nervously.
“Cas, I-”
“I want you to fuck me, Dean,” Cas says, simply and without judgement. Dean’s face must show his relief because a small, amused grin crosses Cas’ expression, “You can stop worrying.” He kisses Dean lightly as they tumble onto the bed.
Dean, as it turns out, does have lube and it’s quickly put to good use as Castiel is stretched out across Dean’s bed. Dean watches in awed fascination, transfixed by the sight of Cas opening himself up, grasping Dean’s hand and drawing his fingers southward to join his own. Castiel, moans quietly, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Dean follows his fingers, mimicking his actions and stretching and spreading his digits within his hole. He feels drunk on his arousal, desperate to touch every inch of Cas. His lips hover over the other man’s as he feels the shaky breath and the vibration of a low groan coming from within Cas.
“Oh fuck, Dean,” Castiel gasps, his fingers grasping at the sheets, “Please, I fucking need… I’m ready.” Dean just nods and withdraws his hand before positioning himself over Cas. He settles himself between his knees and smooths his palms up the smooth hair of Cas’ claves, pressing his thighs toward his chest.
Cas’s eyes never wander from Dean’s face, his mouth hanging open slightly. Dean rolls on a condom and slicks himself up generously, not wanting to hurt Cas. Cas’ hand grasps onto Dean’s cock, lining him up as he presses forward.
Dean exhales heavily. The warm compression of Cas around him is nothing like he’d imagined, and he needs to take a moment to gather his bearings or this whole thing is going to be embarrassingly fast. He catches Cas’ gaze, who just gives an enthusiastic nod as a go-ahead.
Dean begins to move, relishing the warmth and grip of Cas’ body. It’s slow as Dean attempts to find a balance in his rhythm. He leans close into Cas, pressing kisses down his neck and nipping at the sensitive skin. quiet gasps rise from within Cas and his hips can’t up to meet each of Dean’s thrusts.
Dean’s confidence grows with signs that Cas is enjoying himself and he picks up the pace. He cups Cas’ face in his hands and kisses him deeply, swallowing a low groan.
There are no words between them, just inarticulate moans and sighs. Dean glances down at Cas’ thick cock resting between them and he has a sudden, urgent need to touch him.
He wraps a hand around Cas’ cock and begins pumping in time with his own movements. A litany of filth begins streaming out of Castiel’s mouth and his legs wrap around Dean’s waist, urging him deeper.
“Oh fuck, Dean!!” Cas cries out, throwing his head back, Dean nuzzles into Cas’ neck, doing everything in his power to hold off his orgasm. He speeds up the movement of his hand, determined for Cas to come first.
A stuttering moan fills the room as Cas erupts over Dean’s fist onto his own stomach. Dean lets go, pumping into Cas a few more times until he’s tipped over the edge. He collapses on top of Cas, nuzzling into his neck. Both men pant unevenly, catching their breath. Dean presses himself up on his forearms, pulling his flagging cock out of Cas, and falling next to him on bed. After a moment, He sits up, rising from the bed and walking in towards the bathroom. He drops the condom in the trash and glances in the mirror. For the first time in a very long time, Dean sees what Sam and Cas both see: He looks tired. Not just tired, but drained. Maybe they’re right, Dean is spreading himself too thin. The last thing he wants it to be stopped in his tracks by a heart attack at 45 like his dad. He sighs and turns on the tap, running a wash cloth under the water once it’s warm.
As soon as he returns to the room, towel to clean Cas off in hand, he stops in the doorway. Cas is dead to the world. Dean’s quilt is bunched around him and, even though he might be a blanket hog, Dean finds it endearing.
He drops the wet washcloth on the dresser and stumbles into bed. He snuggles under the covers, pulling a sleeping Cas into his arms and pressing a kiss into his hair before dropping off to sleep.
Dean wakes slowly, his hand falling on the opposite side of the bed, noticing the cool sheets beneath his fingers. It takes a moment to register that Cas is not in the bed. Dean lifts his head groggily, ready to grouse to himself about his stupidity over hooking up. His hurt and anger immediately fade, though, when he notices a shirtless Cas dressed just his blue jeans, arms hanging out of a half-open window. His skin is stubbled with goose bumps in the early morning air and Dean notices a plume of gray cigarette smoke mixing with the fog of his breath as he exhales.
“That’s a filthy habit,” Dean mumbles, sitting up so he’s resting back on his forearms. Cas startles at the noise and turns to look at Dean. In the light of day, Dean makes note that Cas is still unfairly attractive, all mussed hair and pillow-creased cheeks. Dean is sure he looks exactly like the hot mess he feels.
“I know,” he sighs, indicating his fingers clutching the cigarette as they hang out the window, “I’m trying to quit.”
“How long have you been trying?” Dean asks ruefully.
“8 years,” Cas replies with a snort. He takes a long puff, flicking ash and directing the smoke out the window. “Dean-”
“Don’t,” Dean orders gently.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say what you are going to say.” Dean knows exactly what Cas is going to say: You’re nice, Dean. You’re cute, Dean. I like you a lot but this won’t work for reasons XYZ. It’s the same reasons he’s heard from an endless string of girlfriends and one-night stands.
“What am I going to say?” Cas asks curiously, flicking the spent butt out into the street. He pulls the ancient window shut with a high pitched squeak.
“It doesn’t matter, but I know it won’t be good for me,” Dean mutters. He meets Castiel’s pensive gaze, “It’s too early to talk about things, anyway, especially when all I want to do is pull you into my shower and give you the blowjob of your life.” Cas raises an interested brow at this idea. He stands to his full height and unbuttons his jeans.
“Well then,” Cas lets his jeans fall to the floor, revealing his lack of underwear, “Who am I to stop you?” Dean grins brightly and scrambles from the bed. He leads Cas toward his too-small bathroom, fortunately blessed with enough hot water and steller water pressure.
They make out lazily as the warm water washes over them. Dean sinks to his knees and enjoys the feeling of the spray on his shoulders as he swallows Cas down.
If he thought the noises Cas made last night were enjoyable, the echo of the shower only makes them better. Cas runs a hand through Dean’s hair, grip tightening each time his tongue does something right. Dean may have never fucked a guy before, but he has blow-job game down to a science.
Cas comes hard with a guttural moan. A second after Dean swallows all of his release, he’s catching Cas in his arms as he sinks to the floor of the shower on shaky knees. They sit there under the stream for a moment before Cas pulls Dean on top of him, wrapping a hand around his cock and jerking him quickly until he comes with a cry.
They finally exit the shower a half-hour later, clean and pruney. Dean dresses on autopilot, eyes never leaving Castiel. He raises his gaze at one point, no doubt feeling Dean’s stare on him and smiles.
“We need to talk, Dean,” he says gently. Dean shrugs as he throws a flannel over a black t-shirt.
“We will,” Dean mumbles, “Let’s just get through the rest of the day, ok? We’ll grab coffee or something. Go someplace where I don’t work.” Castiel smiles at him, but something about his expression seems conflicted.
“Alright,” He mumbles. He throws on his peacoat and crosses the room toward Dean, kissing him tenderly.
“I have to get back to the hotel or Crowley will flay me alive,” Cas says. Dean snorts and nods, lightly taking Cas’ fingers in his own. Castiel glances at him, a look of confusion causing his brow to furrow, “Aren’t you late for work?”
“It’s Monday,” Dean says plainly, “We’re closed.”
“You’re not going in on your day off?” Cas asks with a mixture or sarcasm and surprise.
“Naw, I think I’m going to take a day,” Dean replies with a shrug, “You’re, uh… welcome to join me if you like.” Dean looks up at Cas through thick eyelashes, trying for a sad-puppy-eyes like Sam. Cas smiles and shakes his head.
“No, I need to get back,” He says, pulling up Dean’s hand to kiss the top of his knuckles.
“I’ll see you at the bakery tomorrow morning?” Dean asks hopefully. Castiel face is abruptly unreadable before breaking into a soft smile and a nod.
They kiss goodbye at Dean’s door and he watches Cas retreat down the hallway toward the stairwell. As Dean closes the door, he lets his head fall heavily against the wood. This isn’t going to be easy, in fact it’s going to be awkward as hell. Not because he feels uncomfortable with Cas, but because he knows as soon as he sees him again tomorrow, he’s going to want to kiss him, enthusiastically and often.
He understands that clearing the air is the smart thing to do, but Dean wants at least one day to pretend that everything is perfect: His business isn’t dying, He’s not losing everything he’s ever worked for, and he just met someone who isn’t more than likely going to disappear out of his life in a few days.
For one day, things can be perfect.
The next morning, Dean arrives right on time at 4 am. He makes his way to the trailer where Hair and Makeup prod and pull at him until they deem him good enough to be on camera. He crosses the vacant parking lot and the empty street toward the bakery, walking around the building to the back door.
Sam is already in the kitchen, doing an inventory count. He nods hello to Dean as his lips continue to mouth “seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…” The camera and sound guys both offer Dean lazy salutes as he pulls on his chef’s jacket. Dean looks around the kitchen; there’s no sign of Castiel, Hannah or Crowley. They must be in the front of the store.
Dean pushes through the swinging door. Hannah stands on the middle of the room, tapping frantically on the tablet. Crowley stands to the side, talking emphatically into his phone, but there is still no Castiel in sight. Dean quickly organizes the front register, biding his time. Maybe Cas is having a cigarette out back, maybe he’s late. Dean tries not to think about it as he marks the day’s specials on the blackboard near the front door. He debates on weather Tuesday is a Frito pie kind of day or Quiche Lorraine, but his eyes keep wandering out the window, hoping he’ll see Cas coming up the walkway.
After 20 minutes he can no longer take it and breaks.
“Uh, Hannah,” He asks meekly, “It’s getting time to open. Where’s Castiel?” Hannah glances up from her tablet. Her expression is blank, but Dean can swear for a second there was a flash of sympathy there.
“Castiel has an event in New York tonight,” She states, “He needed to get back. We’re just going to finish with some coverage shots, narration, a couple talking heads.”
Dean looks at her blankly for a moment and then nods silently. He turns back to his work, letting the news settle in on him.
He’s hurt by Castiel running off without an explanation, but it’s not intense, more like a soft ache in his chest. A sense of resignation telling him “Well, what the hell did you expect?” It’s not like Dean is a stranger to one night stands. Hell, he practically invented ‘love em and leave em’, but being on the receiving end is a far different experience. He walks back to the kitchen where he sees Sam looking over the day’s baking order.
“I think maybe we should make three apples today.” Sam says as an aside, “We can do 2 traditional and one dutch-”
“Cut it,” Dean says sternly.
“What?”
“Cut the Apple. It’s off the menu until the fall,” Dean replies, focused on setting up his mise. He can see Sam watching him out of the corner of his eye, a deep look of concern on his face.
“Dean-”
“I think we should make Quiche Lorraine Tuesday’s standard from now on,” He plucks a couple pie pans off the shelf.
“Dean!” Sam repeats, louder this time.
“And then we can do something Tex-Mex on Thursday,” Dean continues, popping into the cooler momentarily to grab a carton of eggs and butter, “Which do you think? Chili Con Carne Pie or Frito Pie?”
“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam finally gets out. Dean meets his brother’s eye reluctantly. Sam’s expression is puzzled, clearly searching for whatever is bothering him. Dean, true to form, does what he has done his entire life: he carefully collects all of his misery and frustration and buries them deep down within himself.
“I’m making a change, Sam,” He says flatly, “A lot of changes.” and without another word he turns back to his prep table and gets to work.
Part 4
It’s a half an hour before anyone notices Dean is not with the rest of the crew in the front of the shop. Castiel ducks his head into the kitchen and finds him head down, forcefully chopping pecans.
“Dean,” Castiel calls out over the sound of a knife repeatedly hitting the cutting board. Dean doesn’t acknowledge him but continues to work, laser-focused on his task.
“Dean!” Castiel yells, stepping through the door. The knife stills and Dean glances at Castiel from the corner of his eye.
“What?” he mutters coolly.
“We need you out front,” Castiel says.
“I’m busy,” Dean responds flatly, grasping the handle of his knife once more.
“Yeah, well there are no cameras back here and we need you for-”
“I said I’m fucking busy!” Dean snaps, heading turning toward Castiel. His easy expression drops at the hard look in Dean’s eyes and he wonders what prompted it. “We have a pre-order of three mocha pecan pies for tomorrow. I need to get started on them now because you and your staff have been hijacking all of my time.”
“This will only take a few minutes,” Castiel replies carefully, “Then you can get back to work.”
“I don’t have a few minutes. I barely have time to piss during the day.” Dean says lowly, “I thought that was made clear to you? Or is that just something else to use against me?”
Castiel licks at his lips. The tension in the air is palpable, even worse than it had been at their arrival. He doesn’t understand why Dean is suddenly so upset but he finds it exceedingly irritating. He has been bending over backwards for this man and this is the thanks he gets? Childish Petulance?
“Dean,” Castiel begins, attempting to maintain his composure. “What is the deal-” He is cut off as Sam swings open the door.
“Dean there you are!” He says, “We need you out here to go over the menu! C’mon!” Dean rolls his eyes, but puts down his chopping knife and follows Sam through the door. Castiel stands in the kitchen alone for a moment, confused and angry, before following the brothers.
Dean grimaces at the sight of a large white board on an easel sitting in the middle of the floor, every menu offering written down the side. He mutters something sarcastic under his breath about “professionalism” as Castiel approaches the board. He glimpses Crowley, who throws him a signal to begin.
“We have here every menu item you have regularly listed,” Castiel says, gesturing to one side of the board “plus the items that we’ve noticed that you’ve made in our time here that aren’t on your menu.” he gestures to the opposite side where nearly the same number of dishes and items are listed.
“They’re specials,” Dean says flatly, crossing his arms in front of him.
“Yes, but it seems like a waste of assets to make so many,” Castiel replies, “I mean, don’t you see how 15 off-menu items might be a bit much?”
“They sold,” Dean challenges calmly, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, then why not cut some of the other items off the menu that don’t sell.” Castiel swipes on the tablet and goes over the sales numbers from the day previous, “I mean, the apple pie doesn’t-”
“Thunderstruck!” Dean says loudly. All heads turn to Dean. His expression is cold, his mouth a hard line.
“Dean,” Castiel says with a tight smile, “If just let me finish-”
“Thunderstruck,” Dean repeats, “The pie stays.” He uncrosses his arms and lets him balled fists drop to his side.
“Well, what if we made is a seasonal thing?” Sam offers, very confused as he glances between Castiel and Dean.
“No, the apple pie is a menu staple.” Dean says firmly. Castiel looks at him, his thinning patience at a breaking point.
“Dean, can I talk to you for a moment?” He asks quietly.
“Everything stays on camera, Castiel,” Crowley calls out from behind the sound tech. Castiel groans inaudibly and rubs at his eyes.
“I’m here to help, Dean,” he sighs in exasperation, “But I can’t do that if-”
“Then leave,” Dean hisses, “If you can’t fucking fix things without breaking everything to pieces, then leave.” Castiel is dumbstruck. He has no idea where this sudden surge of hostility is coming from. Crowley admonishes Dean for his language, but only receives an eyeroll in return.
“What is your problem?” Cas mutters under his breath.
“My problem is that you think you can just come in here and just change shit arbitrarily,” Dean barks, “Trying to take away what I’ve worked my entire life for! You have no right and you have no clue how this places runs.” Castiel tries not to respond, but it’s too much.
“You know what? You’re right!” Castiel snaps sarcastically, “I have no idea how this places works! I have no idea how you didn’t run it into the ground 3 years ago! You make no profit, Dean. That is rule #1 of running a business!”
“Well, Spending money on that frou-frou interior design bullshit is not going to help us!” Dean bellows. Cas chuckles humorlessly.
“Well, it’ll do far more good than you throwing your money down the drain ‘experimenting’ from your mom’s diary!” Dean’s expression drops for a moment before turning righteously angry. Dean looks like he’s about three seconds from laying him out, so Castiel decides to just go for broke and live up to his reputation.
“God forbid anyone with any sort of business acumen come in and try to help you!” Castiel continues, “But you're so pig-headed and so determined to fail on your own-”
“We’re not failing!” Dean yells, stepping up into his face. Castiel snorts derisively.
“Six months,” he mutters, “and you will be.” Dean frowns bitterly, nostrils flaring before turning on his heel and stomping out of the building, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the impala’s engine roaring to life echoes down the block, as does the squeal of tires as it peels out.
Sam turns and glares at Castiel incredulously before brushing past him into the kitchen. Castiel looks at Hannah, who studiously avoids his gaze, instead focusing on the tablet in her hands.
“I guess that’s a wrap for today,” Crowley sighs, “Come along then, let’s get packed up and back to the hotel.” Hannah follows Crowley and the crew out the door, sparing Castiel one pained look before she does.
Castiel let’s his back fall against the wall and rubs at his temples. He had never had an episode dissolve like this. Especially one that had been progressing so well. Dean just lost it. Over what? Apple pie.
Castiel pushes off the wall and follows the crew out the door.
“It was a mistake to come back here,” he mutters.
As soon as he enters the suite, Castiel flops down onto the bed. Hannah is meeting with Crowley about changing their flights out of Chicago, so he has a few minutes to himself. The entire ride back to the hotel he had stewed over what could’ve caused Dean’s outburst and by the time they’d arrived, he’d worked himself into a pretty good funk. There was potential in Winchester and Sons, so much potential, but Dean stubbornness was its biggest inhibitor. The guy couldn’t take two steps back and look at things objectively. It was all about the dream; not even his dream, his mom’s.
Castiel sighs and drags a hand over his face. He hates this. There haven’t been many, but the episodes where they walk away knowing the restaurant or business they’re working with is beyond help are the hardest. The worst part is, for a second, Castiel saw what Winchester and Sons could be, or could’ve been as is now the case.
There is a knock at the door and Castiel stands from the bed to open it. Crowley is there, still in his coat.
“Hannah is about to do a dinner run,” he says, “What would you like?”
“Not hungry,” Castiel mumbles, walking away from the door. Crowley follows him into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.
“Ah, you’re in a mood I see. Is this about today?” Crowley asks, “Honestly, Castiel, you can’t take these situations so personally. This is one of those things you can’t control.” Castiel falls onto the bed once more.
“But I did have control!” He insists, “Everything was going so well yesterday. Hell, this morning everything was fine. I just don’t understand what set Dean off.” Crowley sits down the besides him.
“He’s just a hothead, Castiel,” Crowley assures, “One with some obvious emotional issues. We’re good to be rid of him.” He slaps him on the back hard, lurching Castiel forward.
“And it isn’t a total loss,” Crowley says rising to his feet, “I have enough footage to cut this into a decent episode. Maybe we can get in touch with Sam, do a close-out interview.” Castiel shakes his head.
“No, no, Don’t bother Sam. He has enough on his plate. Let’s just get out of here,” He sighs. Crowley nods and bids him a goodbye as he leaves the room. Castiel waves, not raising his gaze from the floor.
As soon as the door closes, he lifts his head and grabs the remote from the bed, switching on the TV. Two talking heads are arguing back and forth on CNN and Castiel knows he can’t handle that right now. He flips the channel and rises to his feet.
The idea of raiding the minibar seems very appealing right now.
Three hours later, Castiel is feeling comfortably numb. He sucks down a small bottle of Absolut in one gulp and chuckles at the ridiculousness of infomercial cookware (What the Hell is a Flavor Wave??).
There is a soft knock and it takes Castiel two beats before he realizes that someone is knocking on his door. He stands, swaying slightly, and walks toward the door. It opens to reveal Hannah, brows furrowed and holding a camera.
“What?” Castiel says, politeness flying out the window with his sobriety. Hannah thrusts the camera toward his chest before stepping into the room. She scrunches her nose as she takes count of the tiny empty bottles littering the table.
“Are you drunk?” She asks.
“No,” Castiel says, “just a little buzzed.” He rolls his eyes as Hannah shakes her head in disappointment.
“You know, I could’ve bought you three full-size bottles of alcohol for what you paid for the mini-bar?” She crosses her arms in front of her and Castiel feels the need to remind her that he is her boss, not the other way around.
“What do you want, Hannah?” He asks, falling back onto the bed. The camera lands a few inches from him, bouncing on the mattress.
“You should watch that,” she instructs.
“What?”
“Watch the recording.” She says. Castiel raises his head and picks up the camera, studying it.
“It has Dean’s confessional,” Hannah explains as she sits in the chair opposite.
“So?” Castiel grumbles, the thought of Dean souring his mood.
“Just watch the damn thing.” She sighs. Castiel sits up with a grunt, taking the camera in his hands and switching it on. He taps the playback button and the screen comes to life. Dean is staring back at him, face open and friendly in spite of the bags ringing his eyes. Castiel hears Crowley’s voice asking Dean questions, receiving short, curt answers in return. Dean begins to talk about why he didn’t want the show there in the first place, how angry he was about it, everything Castiel has heard before. He glances doubtfully at Hannah.
“Keep watching,” she says.
Dean brightens as he discusses further Castiel’s changes and what he’d implemented. Castiel smiles sadly. He doesn’t know what Hannah’s reasoning was in making him feel worse.
“So you like Castiel’s decisions, then?” Crowley’s voice is audible from behind the camera.
“Yeah, sure.” Dean replies, “Guy’s smart.”
“Even his recommendation that you step away from the business?” Castiel’s eyes widen.
What the hell did he just say? On Camera, an array of emotions cross Dean’s face within a matter of seconds: hurt, betrayal, anger, shock. Castiel glances at Hannah, his face no doubt mirroring Dean’s.
“I know,” she mutters, giving him a pained smirk. The camera cuts off a moment later. Castiel sits up, completely dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe Crowley would twist his words like that. No, that’s not true; He absolutely believes Crowley would do that. Castiel switches off the camera and drops it back down on the bed.
“Why?” It’s all he can think to ask. Hannah leans back in the chair and crosses her arms.
“I guess Crowley didn’t think the episode was dramatic enough,” she mutters, clearly as disgusted as Castiel. He gets to his feet, feeling much more sober than he had been a few minutes ago. He grabs his wallet and slips the room key card into his back pocket.
“Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” Hannah calls after him.
“I owe Dean an apology,” he says, grabbing his coat out of the closet, “What’s closest: the red line or the blue line?”
Dean finds baking meditative. It’s so easy to zone out when all you have to think about is how many cups of one thing or what kind of consistency you need for a certain batter or dough. Sam occasionally tries to drag Dean to yoga, and while he doesn’t appreciate the medieval-style torture that is vinyasa, he does get it when the instructor talks about “clearing your mind”. All he needs, though is a little flour and a warm oven; Sam can keep his yoga studio.
He methodically drags the spatula along the side of the bowl, scraping the excess ganache back onto itself. The chocolate raspberry tart serves a dual purpose: one, to help him relax and clear his head and two, as an apology for Sam. His brother may not like sweets, but Dean is well aware that his sister-in-law would do nearly anything for a slice of Raspberry Chocolate Tart, including sweet talking his brother for him.
Dean smiles to himself as he stirs, only drawn out of his revelry by a heavy knock at the back door. Dean is at attention, but not alarmed. Occasionally, they get a few homeless from around the neighborhood knocking on their door after hours, asking if they might take any of the leftover baked goods off their hands. However, it’s a less common occurrence in the bitterly cold weather of early march.
Dean walks to the door cautiously, taking note of where his dad’s old Colt revolver is stored on the shelf above the doorway.
“Hello?” He carefully cracks the door open, peering out into the dark. He doesn’t believe his eyes for a moment; Castiel Novak is standing at his back door, bundled up in a peacoat and knit hat.
“I knocked this time,” he says sheepishly, “Um… Hello, Dean.” he adds. Dean’s instinct tells him to slam the door right in Cas’ smug, oh-so-perfect face, but something about Castiel’s defeated expression stays his hand.
“What do you want?” He says curtly, pressing his head through the door. Castiel fidgets in the cold and stares down at his feet.
“I came to… um, apologize.” He says. Dean frowns angrily.
“Day late and a dollar short, Chuckles,” Dean huffs. As he tries to shut the door, Cas’s hand flies out, keeping it wedged open.
“Dean, please,” he interjects, “I just want to talk.”
“Nothing to talk about,” Dean tries pushing harder on the door, “Or are you just trying to kick a man when he’s down?” He gives Castiel a sarcastic smile. Cas sighs heavily and shakes his head.
“Please, just… Can we just talk? Inside?” He emphasizes, “It’s cold as Hell out here.” Castiel pulls his bare hands out of his pockets, rubbing them together frantically. He makes a pitiful sight. Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose and steps aside, swinging the door open to allow Castiel in.
Castiel steps inside, shedding his coat and placing it onto a nearby hook. He peers around the kitchen in the same manner that he did on his first day, but instead of a critical eye, his gaze seems almost curious of the set up.
“What are you making?” he asks, taking note of the ingredients on the prep table.
“Dark chocolate raspberry tart,” Dean offers stiffly, “Don’t worry, I paid for the ingredients myself. I’m not wasting the bakery’s money.” Castiel’s looks away bashfully. He drops his coat over the edge of a stool.
“Listen, Dean, I want to-”
“You listen,” Dean cuts him off, “You can make me look like the biggest asshole on Earth if you want; That’s your right and it’s probably not far off from the truth. But do not take my… behavior out on Sam or the bakery.” Castiel looks at Dean, tilting his head in confusion.
“We were really counting on the money,” Dean admits, leaning against a shelf full of pans, “It’s already been earmarked for the stove and we… we can’t afford it otherwise. Please… Please don’t-”
“Dean,” Castiel stops him, “We’re not taking the money away. We never were. Hell, I bet if it were up to Crowley he’d double it.” Dean stares at Cas warily.
“Wait… then what-?”
“I never said that you should give up the bakery,” Castiel blurts out finally, “Crowley twisted my words.” Dean’s mouth hangs open before forming into a frown.
“You said I should step back,” Dean says angrily.
“I said you should take a step back,” Cas sighs, “You are working yourself to death, Dean. 70, 80 hour work-weeks are not healthy or normal, not even for a small business owner. You need a break. You need to sleep!” Dean runs a hand through his hair. Castiel’s words aren’t unfamiliar; they are the same ones he hears near-constantly from Sam.
“Yeah, well I don’t have much of a choice,” Dean spits harshly.
“You could get a staff,” Castiel offers, as if he’s the first person to offer the idea.
“We’ve already gone over this, Cas,” Dean groans, “With what money?”
“There are ways to get staff for cheap,” Castiel reasons, folding his arms in front of him, “My recommendation on the show, and to your brother, was hiring a few students form a local culinary college, make it into a work study program.” Dean glares at Castiel incredulously.
“Why would I want to baby-sit a bunch of ‘Top Chef’ Wannabes?” Dean snorts sarcastically, “Much less let them near my kitchen?”
“Because you could teach them,” Castiel replies, “Not just about cooking, but about business management. Real-world experience is a valuable commodity. I know many students would be chomping at the bit for a chance like that.” Dean has no response to that. He’ll grant that It’s not the worst idea on Earth.
“I’m not entirely sold, but… I guess that idea has some merits,” Dean admits reluctantly, “I’m still pissed about what you said earlier.”
“Yeah, and I’m an asshole. I thought that was established early on. Have you seen my show?” Dean laughs loud at that, and Castiel’s own grin in response makes his heart skip a beat.
“Look, Dean, what I said was uncalled for-”
“No, you’re right,” Dean shakes his head, stepping back to his spot at the prep table to finish his work, “I get too caught up in trying to make things exactly as my mom would’ve wanted them. My Dad was the same way: ‘Do it like this, Dean. Work harder, Dean. Don’t let Mom down.’ Drilled that into my head until a heart attack sent him packing.” He grabs up the prep bowl of ganache and begins pouring the smooth, dark filling into the fluted pan.
“I never stop to think about what I want, or Sam.” Dean continues glumly, “At this point, I’m not sure if I actually like what I’m doing.”
“You do,” Castiel says with complete certainty, “I know you do.”
“How?” Dean says caustically, leveling the ganache in the pan with a spatula.
“Because I see the way you bake.” Castiel says, watching Dean carefully, “I see the way your face lights up when you take a pie or a batch of pastries from the oven.”
“I like baking,” Dean says with a shrug, setting down the bowl, “Doesn’t mean I’m cut out to run a business.”
“But it’s more than that,” Cas says, “It’s more than some misplaced obligation. You have this … gleam in your eye, when you talk about this place, when you’re enjoying yourself. I think if you were to let go, you might see that more.”
“Let go?” Dean asks, raising a questioning brow, “Got any other advice, Queen Elsa?” Cas chuckles and leans against the prep table as Dean transfers the tarte to the cooler.
“I’m serious, though,” Cas counters, “You clearly enjoy doing this, but you won’t let yourself because you can’t release any of that responsibility.” Dean looks doubtful and Cas sighs.
“Just think about what I said,” He offers, “Bringing in students.” Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods. He watches Cas for a moment as the other man glances inside the now empty bowl, a few stray lines of chocolate decorating the sides. Castiel dips his finger into the bowl, drawing it along a smear of chocolate before popping it into his mouth. His eyes widen and he hums in surprise.
“You like it?” Dean asks, a small swell of pride rising within him.
“Very much,” Castiel says, dipping his finger into the bowl once more and gathering up more stray chocolate, “It’s very good, but there’s something in there… I can’t… quite…” Castiel’s eyes light up, “Chambord! Is that it?” He smiles brightly.
“Yup,” Dean says with a grin, “I’ll add glazed raspberries on top once it cools, but the liqueur gives it a little kick.”
“Certainly does,” Castiel agrees quietly, meeting Dean’s eye and going in for a third taste. As he does, a bit of chocolate gets caught at the corner of his mouth and, for some reason, Dean can’t focus on anything else. Castiel is saying something, but Dean’s eyes are locked on soft pink lips muddied with chocolate. He can feel himself licking his own lips subconsciously when Castiel waves a hand in front of his face. He takes a step toward Castiel.
“Can you… Can you hold still for just a second?” he mumbles. Cas’ brow furrows as Dean steps forward and reaches out, brushing a floured thumb from the outside corner of his mouth, inward. Cas’ breath is warm against Dean’s hand and his lips part slightly in response. Dean pops his thumb into his own mouth, sucking the chocolate off it.
Over the sound of the walk-in cooler and pipes rattling, Dean can hear his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. Castiel’s tongue darts out, following the path of his thumb and It’s almost too much for Dean to handle.
In an instant, he closes the distance between them, cupping Cas’ face in his palm and bringing their lips together in a heated kiss. Cas tenses in surprise for just a moment before melting against Dean’s lips, soft and pliant. His hands find Dean’s shoulders, gripping them tightly and pulling himself closer into Dean’s body and deeper into the kiss.
Dean responds immediately, pressing Cas against the prep table. He parts Cas’ mouth with his own, moaning as their tongues slip past each other. His body is hard and warm against Dean’s and he can’t control his hands as they slip over Cas’ sides, fingers brushing beneath the hem of his t-shirt and causing a shiver to run through the other man.
Cas is the first to pull back from the kiss. Dean’s lips chase him and for a second he fears that maybe he went a step too far. Cas’ eyes are locked on Dean’s lips. He doesn’t say a word, rather launching for Dean’s mouth once more in a kiss far hungrier than before.
He wraps his hands around Dean’s neck. Dean responds in kind, hands tugging at Cas’ thighs and pulling him up until he’s seated on the prep table. A cloud of flour rises in the commotion and both men are distracted when an empty metal bowl falls to the floor with a crash.
Dean pulls back, coming to a rational realization.
“I can’t fuck you in my kitchen,” he mutters.
“Take me home then,” Cas says, latching onto Dean’s neck and sucking at the tender skin. Dean pushes Cas away gently and takes him by the hand, picking his wool coat up off the hook by the door as they pass it.
“How’d you get here?” Dean asks, as pulls Cas toward the impala.
“The train,” Cas mumbles. Dean stops and glares at him.
“The nearest station is 8 blocks away,” he mumbles in disbelief. Cas shrugs but doesn’t say anything. Dean wants to simultaneously wrap Cas in his arms and smack him upside the head for not calling a cab. He suddenly sees what Sam meant about the illusion being broken. Castiel looks stripped raw. Dean isn’t sure if it’s an effect of the kissing or the late winter wind whipping past them. He seems unexpectedly vulnerable and it’s difficult for Dean to not find that appealing.
“C’mon,” He sighs, tugging at Cas’ hand and pulling him close as they continue toward the car.
Castiel is nothing like he expects. He lets himself be guided around Dean’s apartment, clothes slowly being pulled from his body. They do a strange, stilted dance, lips continuously attached to some point on each other’s body as the make their way toward the bedroom. Dean can’t get enough of him. He makes these reedy high-pitched gasp as Dean’s tongue trails trails down his neck before he clamps onto his collarbone.
When they finally make it through the doorway, Dean lazily hooks two fingers into the belt loops of Cas’ jeans, pulling him closer. Cas looks up at him and, even in the ambient dark of the bedroom, his clear blue eyes stand out. Dean finds himself momentarily lost in them when he feels Cas’ fingers meticulously working on the top button of his own jeans.
“Cas,” Dean croaks out softly. He opens his mouth to continue but is met with silence. There are so many things he wants or needs to tell him, but he’s unsure as to where to begin.
“Have you ever…?” Cas trails off the implication of done this before left unsaid. Dean shakes his head minutely.
“Not this exactly... a guy,” he mumbles, glad that the darkness hides the flush that has no doubt risen to his cheeks, “I’ll be honest, man, I’m not too clear on how to do this.” Even in the dark, Dean can see Castiel’s tentative smile.
“I’ll show you,” He encourages softly, now leading Dean toward the bed, “Do you have lube?” Dean’s eye are wide, the thought that Cas would possibly want to top him only now occurring to him. Dean looks at Cas nervously.
“Cas, I-”
“I want you to fuck me, Dean,” Cas says, simply and without judgement. Dean’s face must show his relief because a small, amused grin crosses Cas’ expression, “You can stop worrying.” He kisses Dean lightly as they tumble onto the bed.
Dean, as it turns out, does have lube and it’s quickly put to good use as Castiel is stretched out across Dean’s bed. Dean watches in awed fascination, transfixed by the sight of Cas opening himself up, grasping Dean’s hand and drawing his fingers southward to join his own. Castiel, moans quietly, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Dean follows his fingers, mimicking his actions and stretching and spreading his digits within his hole. He feels drunk on his arousal, desperate to touch every inch of Cas. His lips hover over the other man’s as he feels the shaky breath and the vibration of a low groan coming from within Cas.
“Oh fuck, Dean,” Castiel gasps, his fingers grasping at the sheets, “Please, I fucking need… I’m ready.” Dean just nods and withdraws his hand before positioning himself over Cas. He settles himself between his knees and smooths his palms up the smooth hair of Cas’ claves, pressing his thighs toward his chest.
Cas’s eyes never wander from Dean’s face, his mouth hanging open slightly. Dean rolls on a condom and slicks himself up generously, not wanting to hurt Cas. Cas’ hand grasps onto Dean’s cock, lining him up as he presses forward.
Dean exhales heavily. The warm compression of Cas around him is nothing like he’d imagined, and he needs to take a moment to gather his bearings or this whole thing is going to be embarrassingly fast. He catches Cas’ gaze, who just gives an enthusiastic nod as a go-ahead.
Dean begins to move, relishing the warmth and grip of Cas’ body. It’s slow as Dean attempts to find a balance in his rhythm. He leans close into Cas, pressing kisses down his neck and nipping at the sensitive skin. quiet gasps rise from within Cas and his hips can’t up to meet each of Dean’s thrusts.
Dean’s confidence grows with signs that Cas is enjoying himself and he picks up the pace. He cups Cas’ face in his hands and kisses him deeply, swallowing a low groan.
There are no words between them, just inarticulate moans and sighs. Dean glances down at Cas’ thick cock resting between them and he has a sudden, urgent need to touch him.
He wraps a hand around Cas’ cock and begins pumping in time with his own movements. A litany of filth begins streaming out of Castiel’s mouth and his legs wrap around Dean’s waist, urging him deeper.
“Oh fuck, Dean!!” Cas cries out, throwing his head back, Dean nuzzles into Cas’ neck, doing everything in his power to hold off his orgasm. He speeds up the movement of his hand, determined for Cas to come first.
A stuttering moan fills the room as Cas erupts over Dean’s fist onto his own stomach. Dean lets go, pumping into Cas a few more times until he’s tipped over the edge. He collapses on top of Cas, nuzzling into his neck. Both men pant unevenly, catching their breath. Dean presses himself up on his forearms, pulling his flagging cock out of Cas, and falling next to him on bed. After a moment, He sits up, rising from the bed and walking in towards the bathroom. He drops the condom in the trash and glances in the mirror. For the first time in a very long time, Dean sees what Sam and Cas both see: He looks tired. Not just tired, but drained. Maybe they’re right, Dean is spreading himself too thin. The last thing he wants it to be stopped in his tracks by a heart attack at 45 like his dad. He sighs and turns on the tap, running a wash cloth under the water once it’s warm.
As soon as he returns to the room, towel to clean Cas off in hand, he stops in the doorway. Cas is dead to the world. Dean’s quilt is bunched around him and, even though he might be a blanket hog, Dean finds it endearing.
He drops the wet washcloth on the dresser and stumbles into bed. He snuggles under the covers, pulling a sleeping Cas into his arms and pressing a kiss into his hair before dropping off to sleep.
Dean wakes slowly, his hand falling on the opposite side of the bed, noticing the cool sheets beneath his fingers. It takes a moment to register that Cas is not in the bed. Dean lifts his head groggily, ready to grouse to himself about his stupidity over hooking up. His hurt and anger immediately fade, though, when he notices a shirtless Cas dressed just his blue jeans, arms hanging out of a half-open window. His skin is stubbled with goose bumps in the early morning air and Dean notices a plume of gray cigarette smoke mixing with the fog of his breath as he exhales.
“That’s a filthy habit,” Dean mumbles, sitting up so he’s resting back on his forearms. Cas startles at the noise and turns to look at Dean. In the light of day, Dean makes note that Cas is still unfairly attractive, all mussed hair and pillow-creased cheeks. Dean is sure he looks exactly like the hot mess he feels.
“I know,” he sighs, indicating his fingers clutching the cigarette as they hang out the window, “I’m trying to quit.”
“How long have you been trying?” Dean asks ruefully.
“8 years,” Cas replies with a snort. He takes a long puff, flicking ash and directing the smoke out the window. “Dean-”
“Don’t,” Dean orders gently.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say what you are going to say.” Dean knows exactly what Cas is going to say: You’re nice, Dean. You’re cute, Dean. I like you a lot but this won’t work for reasons XYZ. It’s the same reasons he’s heard from an endless string of girlfriends and one-night stands.
“What am I going to say?” Cas asks curiously, flicking the spent butt out into the street. He pulls the ancient window shut with a high pitched squeak.
“It doesn’t matter, but I know it won’t be good for me,” Dean mutters. He meets Castiel’s pensive gaze, “It’s too early to talk about things, anyway, especially when all I want to do is pull you into my shower and give you the blowjob of your life.” Cas raises an interested brow at this idea. He stands to his full height and unbuttons his jeans.
“Well then,” Cas lets his jeans fall to the floor, revealing his lack of underwear, “Who am I to stop you?” Dean grins brightly and scrambles from the bed. He leads Cas toward his too-small bathroom, fortunately blessed with enough hot water and steller water pressure.
They make out lazily as the warm water washes over them. Dean sinks to his knees and enjoys the feeling of the spray on his shoulders as he swallows Cas down.
If he thought the noises Cas made last night were enjoyable, the echo of the shower only makes them better. Cas runs a hand through Dean’s hair, grip tightening each time his tongue does something right. Dean may have never fucked a guy before, but he has blow-job game down to a science.
Cas comes hard with a guttural moan. A second after Dean swallows all of his release, he’s catching Cas in his arms as he sinks to the floor of the shower on shaky knees. They sit there under the stream for a moment before Cas pulls Dean on top of him, wrapping a hand around his cock and jerking him quickly until he comes with a cry.
They finally exit the shower a half-hour later, clean and pruney. Dean dresses on autopilot, eyes never leaving Castiel. He raises his gaze at one point, no doubt feeling Dean’s stare on him and smiles.
“We need to talk, Dean,” he says gently. Dean shrugs as he throws a flannel over a black t-shirt.
“We will,” Dean mumbles, “Let’s just get through the rest of the day, ok? We’ll grab coffee or something. Go someplace where I don’t work.” Castiel smiles at him, but something about his expression seems conflicted.
“Alright,” He mumbles. He throws on his peacoat and crosses the room toward Dean, kissing him tenderly.
“I have to get back to the hotel or Crowley will flay me alive,” Cas says. Dean snorts and nods, lightly taking Cas’ fingers in his own. Castiel glances at him, a look of confusion causing his brow to furrow, “Aren’t you late for work?”
“It’s Monday,” Dean says plainly, “We’re closed.”
“You’re not going in on your day off?” Cas asks with a mixture or sarcasm and surprise.
“Naw, I think I’m going to take a day,” Dean replies with a shrug, “You’re, uh… welcome to join me if you like.” Dean looks up at Cas through thick eyelashes, trying for a sad-puppy-eyes like Sam. Cas smiles and shakes his head.
“No, I need to get back,” He says, pulling up Dean’s hand to kiss the top of his knuckles.
“I’ll see you at the bakery tomorrow morning?” Dean asks hopefully. Castiel face is abruptly unreadable before breaking into a soft smile and a nod.
They kiss goodbye at Dean’s door and he watches Cas retreat down the hallway toward the stairwell. As Dean closes the door, he lets his head fall heavily against the wood. This isn’t going to be easy, in fact it’s going to be awkward as hell. Not because he feels uncomfortable with Cas, but because he knows as soon as he sees him again tomorrow, he’s going to want to kiss him, enthusiastically and often.
He understands that clearing the air is the smart thing to do, but Dean wants at least one day to pretend that everything is perfect: His business isn’t dying, He’s not losing everything he’s ever worked for, and he just met someone who isn’t more than likely going to disappear out of his life in a few days.
For one day, things can be perfect.
The next morning, Dean arrives right on time at 4 am. He makes his way to the trailer where Hair and Makeup prod and pull at him until they deem him good enough to be on camera. He crosses the vacant parking lot and the empty street toward the bakery, walking around the building to the back door.
Sam is already in the kitchen, doing an inventory count. He nods hello to Dean as his lips continue to mouth “seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…” The camera and sound guys both offer Dean lazy salutes as he pulls on his chef’s jacket. Dean looks around the kitchen; there’s no sign of Castiel, Hannah or Crowley. They must be in the front of the store.
Dean pushes through the swinging door. Hannah stands on the middle of the room, tapping frantically on the tablet. Crowley stands to the side, talking emphatically into his phone, but there is still no Castiel in sight. Dean quickly organizes the front register, biding his time. Maybe Cas is having a cigarette out back, maybe he’s late. Dean tries not to think about it as he marks the day’s specials on the blackboard near the front door. He debates on weather Tuesday is a Frito pie kind of day or Quiche Lorraine, but his eyes keep wandering out the window, hoping he’ll see Cas coming up the walkway.
After 20 minutes he can no longer take it and breaks.
“Uh, Hannah,” He asks meekly, “It’s getting time to open. Where’s Castiel?” Hannah glances up from her tablet. Her expression is blank, but Dean can swear for a second there was a flash of sympathy there.
“Castiel has an event in New York tonight,” She states, “He needed to get back. We’re just going to finish with some coverage shots, narration, a couple talking heads.”
Dean looks at her blankly for a moment and then nods silently. He turns back to his work, letting the news settle in on him.
He’s hurt by Castiel running off without an explanation, but it’s not intense, more like a soft ache in his chest. A sense of resignation telling him “Well, what the hell did you expect?” It’s not like Dean is a stranger to one night stands. Hell, he practically invented ‘love em and leave em’, but being on the receiving end is a far different experience. He walks back to the kitchen where he sees Sam looking over the day’s baking order.
“I think maybe we should make three apples today.” Sam says as an aside, “We can do 2 traditional and one dutch-”
“Cut it,” Dean says sternly.
“What?”
“Cut the Apple. It’s off the menu until the fall,” Dean replies, focused on setting up his mise. He can see Sam watching him out of the corner of his eye, a deep look of concern on his face.
“Dean-”
“I think we should make Quiche Lorraine Tuesday’s standard from now on,” He plucks a couple pie pans off the shelf.
“Dean!” Sam repeats, louder this time.
“And then we can do something Tex-Mex on Thursday,” Dean continues, popping into the cooler momentarily to grab a carton of eggs and butter, “Which do you think? Chili Con Carne Pie or Frito Pie?”
“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam finally gets out. Dean meets his brother’s eye reluctantly. Sam’s expression is puzzled, clearly searching for whatever is bothering him. Dean, true to form, does what he has done his entire life: he carefully collects all of his misery and frustration and buries them deep down within himself.
“I’m making a change, Sam,” He says flatly, “A lot of changes.” and without another word he turns back to his prep table and gets to work.
Part 4