Your Nourishment - Dean/Castiel
Title: Your Nourishment
Author: majorenglishesq
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Words: 4276
Note: I wanted this to be finished for DeanCas Week 2013 but it was not cooperating. So it goes.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, setting, show, etc. No harm is intended.
«»
Dean cooks. Castiel is less surprised at this than Sam is.
Humans must eat. Castiel had simply assumed that all humans cooked specifically to their tastes when they had access to a home kitchen and time. Cas had seen humans in kitchens. For families, kitchens were important. It would follow that Dean would use a kitchen to honor his brother in such a way, with food prepared by hand, when the opportunity arose. Dean values Sam and he values food. It seemed proper and correct.
With Dean arched over a white kitchen counter, papers under him, eyes and attention down upon them, cooking also seems to Castiel an important function worthy of patience and study. Dean currently looks like Sam had looked when Cas had left the library: Books and papers are spread out below him and his teeth are worrying at a corner of his lip. Castiel stands in the middle of the kitchen.
"You have to siddown, Cas, unless you're going to help."
Castiel does not know how to help cooking. There are a variety of foods and he doesn't know which one Dean intends to make. He looks to the stove. Should he turn a nob? Should he fill a glass with something? Should he find where the spoons are kept?
There is a stool on the opposite side of the counter from Dean. Castiel sits.
Dean flattens a book out with both hands and nods, then begins gathering up the other books and loose pages. He looks at Castiel, across from him.
"Huh. You sure do... hover."
"Hover?"
"Loom. You stand in the middle of the room and loom, you sit at the counter and loom. I guess looming is what you do. Are you gonna to sit there and loom while I make muffins?"
"I doubt I could be of assistance while making muffins. I don't know how they're made." He pauses. "Though perhaps with an oven. Should I turn on the oven?"
"Nah," Dean smirks. "I got it." Dean moves to a far cabinet with the other books and puts them away. He starts gathering foodstuffs from cabinets and the refrigerator. He does turn on the oven, though in a precise way that Castiel would not have known how to choose. He places some items on the counter by the book and returns to the pantry, searching for something. He crouches low and starts moving boxes and bags out of his way. "Hey. The list at the top of the page. Does it say baking powder or baking soda?"
Castiel pulls the book close. "I see both of those items listed here."
Dean "hmm"s and takes two boxes. Cas hears his knees crack when he rises.
Dean pulls the book back over, reads more, and retreats to a different part of the kitchen to unearth bowls, spoons, and cups of various sizes. When he gets back to the counter he pulls a knife across the top of a bag to open it. "Chocolate chips. Some for me," he pulls out a handful, tips his head back, and funnels them into his mouth. "And some for chef's little helper," he says with his mouth full. He digs for some and holds a fistful of chocolate chips out to Castiel.
"I don't need to eat."
Dean's mouth curls. "Chocolate, dude. You don't even wanna see what all the hype's about?"
Castiel does not know how to respond to that accurately. He has no need of food, doesn't want it, wants Dean and Sam to have the sustenance they need for themselves, and doesn’t care about the "hype." He only shakes his head.
Dean is still for a moment, assessing Castiel. Cas tries not to tune in to the thought behind his expression as Dean disagrees with his thoughts being responded to aloud. He knows that Dean distrusts the rejection of food, but he also knows that Dean comprehends the reality of his angelic nature and is not offended or worried, nor does he find Castiel any "weirder" for it. Dean accepts all facets of Castiel's "weird."
He moves on.
Creating muffins requires measurement. Dean scoops cups and small spoons of different ingredients and collects them in a bowl. He mixes the contents vigorously and eventually pours the mixture into a pan with several cylindrical cavities.
"Son of a bitch," he complains, powdery hands up in the air.
"What?"
"I forgot to grease the fucking pan. Or use papery cups or some shit. We're gonna be digging these things out with a fork."
"Muffins cannot be eaten with forks?"
"No. Well, yes, but they're better if you get to peel the paper off and-- you know what, fuck it. Forks are good enough. And they'll only stick if I really burn 'em. Let's try it."
Dean leaves the pan in the oven. There is a small timer nearby and he tries to turn it but it makes noise and Dean seems dissatisfied with it. "Where's my-- do you see my phone anywhere?"
They both look without moving. Dean throws his hands up again.
"Yeah, so whatever." He points at Castiel. "Tell me when it's been eighteen minutes."
Castiel is equal to the task.
«»
At sixteen minutes Dean is attempting to describe the difference between muffins and cupcakes when Sam drifts in.
"What smells like cupcakes?"
"Dude! They're muffins. Muffins are for breakfast, not cupcakes."
Sam smiles wide. Castiel thinks that Sam heard their conversation before he entered and is only taunting Dean. Castiel smiles. "From what I understand, every muffin is one serving of icing away from being a cupcake."
"They're not for breakfast, though!" Dean nearly shouts.
"Hah!" Sam laughs. He moves to the oven. "Does this thing have a light?"
"Don't touch that."
"I wanna see if they're done."
"They're not done. How much time do they have left, Cas?"
"One minute and thirty-two seconds."
"I want to see them, th--"
"The light is on the goddamn front. Flip the thing," Dean points.
"The thing?"
Dean's eyes go wide and he acts as if to claw at his face.
"How do you oven?" Sam paws at the front door of the oven.
"GO AWAY."
"No! Give me muffins!"
"Christ, are you six?"
"Breakfast, Dean," Sam is kneeling in front of the oven, now, as if huddling into the warmth it radiates. He paws at the oven door again.
Dean is clearly attempting not to laugh at this point.
"Get the plates, asshole. Make more coffee."
"How come Cas doesn't have to make the coffee?" Sam rises and moves towards the coffeemaker anyway.
"Cas already has a job. He's the timer. How long, Cas?"
"Eighteen seconds."
"Being a clock isn't a job."
Dean gets pot-holders and waits by the oven.
"Say when, Cas."
Castiel asks, "When?"
Dean opens the oven.
«»
The muffins needed a couple more minutes and then Dean over-estimated into a couple more. Forks were indeed required. Sam leaned on Cas's side of the counter and dug into a cylinder. Dean also ate directly out of the pan, across from them.
"Fuhk. Theser goohd."
"Dohn't talk with yer mouth full," Dean says with his mouth full.
"Have one, Cas. No, actually, go get the milk, then you can have one," says Sam.
"He doesn't eat," Dean reminds him.
"You don't even try?" Cas is still up on the barstool and when Sam elbows him lightly, he kind of nudges his side.
"I have no need of food."
"Sure you don't need it, but you liked to eat that one time. And you used to like to drink."
"The only purpose behind food consumption while not under outside influences would be for the taste alone. And I have no opinion on flavors."
Sam chews for a minute.
"Wow, Cas. That takes exactly all of the fun out of eating. Yeah. Stay away from my muffins."
«»
Castiel returns the next day at approximately the same time. While the Winchesters conduct research in the Men of Letters library and Kevin continues translations, Castiel finds some other outlets he might use to search for information. If he were to speak honestly on the subject, he pulls himself away from the Winchesters' new home when he decides that it is time to do work. It is too easy to want to stay and simply be in good company. Sam is funny and warm, Sam is his friend. Dean's company is richer. It is comforting, fitting, as if he ought to be there in Dean's presence. Dean is more open, lately, trying to reel Castiel into their world without attempting to change who Cas essentially is. He would rather be in their space, hearing them learn and make discoveries; even hearing their frustration and exhaustion. He would rather share their space than pull himself away.
But he goes and he returns in the morning. Meals are familial, communal. Castiel thinks perhaps to attend them, even if he does not partake.
The kitchen is empty. It seems to be too early yet.
The coffeemaker is an essential kitchen tool. Castiel thinks that Sam was right. He can at least make coffee.
There are buttons and a lid and a glass container. He doesn't know much about coffee.
And so Castiel lays a hand on the coffeemaker and wills it to perform its function. Mojo coffee, he thinks, will do.
Dean's presence is not stationary for long. When he begins to move about his room, Castiel walks down the hall and calls at Dean's door.
Dean cracks the door open while shrugging on a bathrobe.
"Good morning."
"Are you making coffee?"
Castiel looks back towards where the kitchen is. "Coffee has started, yes."
"Wow. Good job, Cas." And Dean gives him a lazy smile which makes him wish he'd actually done it by hand, by himself.
Dean brings yesterday’s mug with him back to the kitchen.
"So, what do you want for breakfast, Cas?"
"I… don't want anything," he shakes his head.
"I'm really not gonna get you to eat, am I?" Dean asks. "What, not even with pancakes?"
Castiel attempts to convey something with his face, somewhere between apology and confusion and slight annoyance. Dean is better at interpreting Castiel's face than Cas is at speaking with it.
"You're missing out, dude, seriously." Dean pulls the muffin tin from yesterday out of the fridge and gets a fork for himself. He sets it on the counter between them as he had yesterday. Cas wonders if this arrangement means he should sit and not loom, but he will wait for Dean to indicate that. He stays standing on his side of the counter.
Dean stabs his fork into one of the remaining chocolate chip muffins.
He pauses with a fluffy hunk of pastry on the end of his fork and says, "You know what?"
Cas shakes his head.
"Here," Dean extends the fork to him.
This time Castiel fully rolls his eyes. "Dean."
"No, come on. What, my baking isn't good enough for you?"
"You know it's not that. I have no need for food. Your body needs food. I will not consume your food simply to indulge in taste."
"Yeah," Dean drawls. "That's only logical," he seems to mock, "but we ain't starving here and I want you to know what it tastes like. I just want you to taste it; it has nothing to do with necessity. This for fun, Cas, you get to have fun sometimes. You're fucking entitled, alright?" He eats the forkful for himself. "Ahy mee," he chews and swallows, "I mean, unless everything that isn't booze or burgers tastes like shit to you. Why not, dude? Are you completely opposed to trying something just to try it?"
Cas has to think about that for a moment.
"I suppose?"
"Alright. Good." Dean gathers another forkful, walks around, and comes to Cas's side of the counter to hold it out to him.
"No, I mean, I suppose that I am opposed to trying something only to try it."
"Dude. That's so boring."
Castiel feels himself actually bristle at that. It shudders from his head down. He... really doesn't want to be boring.
"I'm not boring."
"Yeah, well you are. You're totally vanilla, dude." Dean stuffs another hunk of the muffin into his mouth. "'N ahm choawclate-f'avored."
Very suddenly. Very, very suddenly, Castiel knows what would most certainly make him not-so-boring.
Dean chews, swallows, feels Cas's hands on his face, and then Castiel's lips on his. His mouth is kind of slack with chewing and surprise and so Cas licks right into his mouth and stays there for a minute. Tasting. Tasting the back of his teeth. And his tongue. And holy fuck.
His fingers must have dropped his fork because both of his hands are at the back of Castiel's head. When Cas attempts to pull away, having tasted his fill (goddamn), Dean only keeps him there, tasting back. Tasting air and tongue and the water from a glacier and the breath of a lakeside forest and the sunshine on a road and the wind off of a hillside of orange groves in the spring. Cas. Cas.
"Cas," he says in the small space between them now, "holy shit, Cas."
Castiel blinks. His hands fell long ago, minutes ago maybe, Dean thinks, to Dean's sides, under his robe.
"Chocolate," Cas finally says. Or croaks, more like.
"Yeah," Dean says, thinking, I woke up five fucking minutes ago. Castiel's fingers tighten just slightly on his sides, gripping his t-shirt. In this, the middle of the kitchen, the morning quiet, the muted light, Dean is positive he could pull Cas back down the hall, return to bed, press Cas back and-- Low swoop in his stomach, the breath from his lungs travelling too short a distance to Cas's mouth where he unconsciously licks his lips. Heavy, drugging feeling of arousal.
Dean pulls him the short distance back in. Warm, lips-parted kiss to Cas's lips. For the second time, Cas is the one who deepens it with tongue.
Inevitable, far-off crack and creak of a door being opened.
Dean's brain shows him the maneuver: He could tug Cas's hand, they'd move down a different hallway, to a different room. Or maybe Sam won't head for the kitchen, but the showers first. They'd have another ten minutes of quiet to themselves.
Cas is looking in that direction now, stepping away from him. Dean's hands fall to grip his coat and they listen for a minute.
He can't hear the hot water heater rattling to life.
"Dean," Castiel says, and their eyes connect again. Dean doesn't know what he wants to hear from him right now.
Castiel pulls Dean's fingers from their grip on his trench coat. His hands linger there just long enough that he knows the next words aren't empty:
"I'll be back after lunch," Castiel says. He folds the fingers into Dean's palms and backs one step away before he is gone.
Dean spends the next two hours at the great table with one cold cup of coffee and the same three pages of newsprint, reading nothing, tasting nothing.
«»
Sam doesn't ask Dean what's up. To be honest, books don't attempt to break your face off if you ask if they've just had a nightmare about hell or a fight with their angel so there's a few books in front of him that are super-duper interesting today and a phone call to make to Kevin that has exactly everything to do with what's not going on in the bat cave right now.
He picks at the last delicious crumbly bits in the muffin tin until he has to remind himself that he's absolutely too grown up to try to stick his tongue in the holes.
Around one in the afternoon, Dean proves that nothing will put a damper on his new can-do housewife spirit by presenting Sam with a seriously amazing pulled-pork sandwich. Saucy, spicy, sweet, finished off with salty homemade fries. Fucking divine.
«»
Dean takes their empty plates back to the kitchen, dumps them off in the sink, and leaves Sam to his books. Bitch is gonna have to learn pretty soon that the chef makes the food and everyone else does the dishes.
In ten-to-fifteen minute intervals Dean decides whether or not he'll see Cas again today. Or ever. This ten minutes has him thinking probably not. Really he'd do the dishes but probably lying on his floor listening to music and feeling sad and doubtful will feel better than productivity at the moment.
He selects a record and begins to cue it up, closes his door to spare Sam the noise, and turns to bring up the volume when Cas is in front of him, gazing wonderingly up at the objects on the wall.
He watches Cas inspect the room. When he's done, his eyes land on Dean's bare feet.
Dean wants to have something to say to this. He could talk about his room (he still finds it wildly exciting, not even kidding), he could explain to Cas the purpose of having a music poster (he knows he's going to ask eventually because Cas asks anything and everything that makes Dean feel like a total muggle), he could tell Cas how awesome it is to take your socks off in your own home (hang up his trench coat, put his shoes by the door).
Or he could think about making out with him in the kitchen this morning and stand there with is mouth open. Which is what happens. And, like, nothing else. He just stands there watching Cas watch him.
Castiel's eyes focus on Dean's lips. Cas used to do that but usually when Dean was speaking, like Cas wasn't sure he was getting the full meaning of things and needed to read Dean's lips.
"Cas, what's up?" stumbles out of his mouth. He wishes he'd started the music. This quiet is clawing at him.
Castiel puts a hand in his pocket and when it withdraws, there's a smallish orange in his hand. "How do these taste?" Cas asks.
"Uh, good. Nice." Dean thinks about it for a second. "Actually an orange tastes pretty much like it smells."
Cas cocks his head to the side slightly, but lifts the orange and sniffs at it.
"Cas," Dean says again, "what's up."
Castiel holds out the orange to him. Dean takes it from him and the hand he empties reaches forward to his torso. Cas's fingers ghost up the front of him to his neck. He stops at Dean's pulse and Dean watches him swallow, looking suddenly hollow and freaked.
"Okay," Dean says, and steps forward to press his mouth to Cas's.
«»
There is spice in their kisses. Dean explains what he made for lunch and each time he lists an ingredient, Cas presses forward to find it in his mouth.
Dean opens the orange with a pocket knife. He holds out a piece to Cas but the angel shakes his head yet again. Dean sits on the end of his bed and eats pieces of the orange. Cas sits beside him and pulls his head forward after each piece drinking the flavor in. He climbs into Dean's space. He pulls Dean's body to him.
"So do you like 'em?" Dean asks. "Oranges?"
Castiel stops and stills and thinks for a moment. "Better than the chocolate, yes. As much as the pepper, I think, and the chili powder."
"Dude. You could really taste the difference in those? From- from here? From all the way," Dean gestures something that includes his mouth and lunch and time, "over here? Now?"
"Yes. What does air taste like?"
"Air? It tastes like air. Or whatever's in the air."
"Like orange blossoms in the spring. And sunshine on a road."
Dean pauses. "Cas. You can't--"
"I can't help it. When you're right here. I can taste everything you taste. I can essentially taste what you're thinking. When we're close."
Dean shouldn't abide that, maybe. But if Cas can't help himself, that's different. That's Dean's too-loud brain spilling out all around him, which is his own lack of self-control. He doesn't mean to dump these things all over Cas--
"No," Castiel says. "Stop that." He won't respond, specifically, to how Dean is disparaging himself, but he can't think it's all him. Castiel searches for a phrase. "We're meeting in the middle. Or. Rubbing off on each other."
Okay. With Cas coming around more, he's just more sensitive to Dean's brainwaves or whatever. And, naturally, with Cas around more, well, Dean just thinks about him more. It's just them.
Dean sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Cas on the bed. Should he be telling him to fly off? They could spread out a little more, keep out of each others' minds. Out of each other's space.
He wants Cas in his space. He wants Cas at the dinner table with them, and drinking beers and listening to music. Driving, no matter how much Cas can't stand how long that takes. And really, he thinks, still tasting Cas and oranges, that's not happening now, is it? Couldn't have Cas at the dinner table just once a week and not think about tasting him. Christ.
"You couldn't just let me feed you. It had to turn into this."
He's not looking at Cas and it's deadly quiet in here. That wasn't the best thing to say, either.
But Cas is tasting the spillover from his brain, apparently, so he won't huff off all resentful and shit.
Instead of spending mealtime with his friends, he shows up after each. Sometimes he kisses Dean until he can taste what his own body tastes like through Dean.
Sometimes he brings snacks.
«»
The formulae on the tablets free the earth of both major demonic and angelic influences. There are some beings left behind, but they can be dealt with as each threat presents itself. Now there are only the growing numbers of dead to contend with.
As Dean and Sam plot humanity’s next move, Castiel sits with them. Through meal times and all other times. He is here all the time now.
There are some beings left behind.
«»
Castiel looks pale and sullen in the dim light of the kitchen. "I don't need that," he says, when Dean places a plate with a turkey sandwich down in front of him.
"No, you really do," Dean wipes his hands on a kitchen towel. "Humans need to eat."
Dean has been wary of him, careful of him. But it doesn't sound like a compromise will be happening on this one. There is a pit in Castiel's stomach where nothing ever before made a sound. Heaven left him behind, or he got himself left behind. There is small consolation in the fact that he can still hear the roll of thoughts which the Winchesters leave in their wake. Sam's presence in the bathroom above, washing blood out of things. Dean's impatience and concern turning steadily to fear. What have I done to you? his mind asks aloud.
Castiel pulls the plate forward. He will eat to keep Dean calm. It is just the white ceramic and a plain sandwich, halved, thick, fluffy bread. Castiel takes his old seat at the counter.
He clears his throat and asks, "May I have orange juice?"
"Yeah, Cas," Dean says quietly, but doesn't move until after Castiel has eaten his first bite.
He stays on the far side of the counter, but they trade sips from the same cup of OJ.
In bed that night, the taste of orange is still lovelier in Dean's mouth.
«»
Taste is now an adventure that Cas gets to have on his own. Some things do not look good (guacamole, choritzo, cheesy broccoli, pistachio gelato) and so Dean tastes them first for him and Cas tastes them second.
He learns what he likes. He is profoundly disappointed when Dean doesn't eat something he likes. But he can't experience everything through Dean's senses first. He knows this.
Castiel learns the value of texture. He enjoys grain as a texture. Not grains themselves, but the grain of sugar crystals on top of pie, sprinkles on cake, coarse salt on chips. And the crunch of chips, too. The crunch of fried things is nice, but not as good as the crunch of thin, fragile things, like crackers or matzo from a box.
He learns the joy of crunching into things with the corner of his mouth open. He doesn't like spraying crumbs on all of Sam's books like Dean does, but he likes the way Sam's face loses expression and then his jaw kind of grinds to hear Cas keep crunching and crunching. To that end, Dean introduces him to Chex Mix and cereal and, eventually, pop rocks.
Dean laughs and laughs. Then Sam tells him what happens when you chip a tooth. To get the gap filled, sometimes they have to grind down the broken edge of your tooth, and--
Castiel leaves the crunching to Dean from then on.
«»
Dean returns from a grocery run one day and pulls Castiel off to their bedroom. He sits at the end of the bed and Cas sits up by the pillows. Between them on the sheets, Dean peels open a yellow bar and it falls to multi-colored pieces between them. He unwraps one of the pieces and chews for a while before yanking Cas forward and kissing him deeply. He tastes what he knows now to be something-like-strawberry.
"Starburst," Dean says, holding one of the candies out to Cas. The wrapper is orange.
Author: majorenglishesq
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Words: 4276
Note: I wanted this to be finished for DeanCas Week 2013 but it was not cooperating. So it goes.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to these characters, setting, show, etc. No harm is intended.
«»
Dean cooks. Castiel is less surprised at this than Sam is.
Humans must eat. Castiel had simply assumed that all humans cooked specifically to their tastes when they had access to a home kitchen and time. Cas had seen humans in kitchens. For families, kitchens were important. It would follow that Dean would use a kitchen to honor his brother in such a way, with food prepared by hand, when the opportunity arose. Dean values Sam and he values food. It seemed proper and correct.
With Dean arched over a white kitchen counter, papers under him, eyes and attention down upon them, cooking also seems to Castiel an important function worthy of patience and study. Dean currently looks like Sam had looked when Cas had left the library: Books and papers are spread out below him and his teeth are worrying at a corner of his lip. Castiel stands in the middle of the kitchen.
"You have to siddown, Cas, unless you're going to help."
Castiel does not know how to help cooking. There are a variety of foods and he doesn't know which one Dean intends to make. He looks to the stove. Should he turn a nob? Should he fill a glass with something? Should he find where the spoons are kept?
There is a stool on the opposite side of the counter from Dean. Castiel sits.
Dean flattens a book out with both hands and nods, then begins gathering up the other books and loose pages. He looks at Castiel, across from him.
"Huh. You sure do... hover."
"Hover?"
"Loom. You stand in the middle of the room and loom, you sit at the counter and loom. I guess looming is what you do. Are you gonna to sit there and loom while I make muffins?"
"I doubt I could be of assistance while making muffins. I don't know how they're made." He pauses. "Though perhaps with an oven. Should I turn on the oven?"
"Nah," Dean smirks. "I got it." Dean moves to a far cabinet with the other books and puts them away. He starts gathering foodstuffs from cabinets and the refrigerator. He does turn on the oven, though in a precise way that Castiel would not have known how to choose. He places some items on the counter by the book and returns to the pantry, searching for something. He crouches low and starts moving boxes and bags out of his way. "Hey. The list at the top of the page. Does it say baking powder or baking soda?"
Castiel pulls the book close. "I see both of those items listed here."
Dean "hmm"s and takes two boxes. Cas hears his knees crack when he rises.
Dean pulls the book back over, reads more, and retreats to a different part of the kitchen to unearth bowls, spoons, and cups of various sizes. When he gets back to the counter he pulls a knife across the top of a bag to open it. "Chocolate chips. Some for me," he pulls out a handful, tips his head back, and funnels them into his mouth. "And some for chef's little helper," he says with his mouth full. He digs for some and holds a fistful of chocolate chips out to Castiel.
"I don't need to eat."
Dean's mouth curls. "Chocolate, dude. You don't even wanna see what all the hype's about?"
Castiel does not know how to respond to that accurately. He has no need of food, doesn't want it, wants Dean and Sam to have the sustenance they need for themselves, and doesn’t care about the "hype." He only shakes his head.
Dean is still for a moment, assessing Castiel. Cas tries not to tune in to the thought behind his expression as Dean disagrees with his thoughts being responded to aloud. He knows that Dean distrusts the rejection of food, but he also knows that Dean comprehends the reality of his angelic nature and is not offended or worried, nor does he find Castiel any "weirder" for it. Dean accepts all facets of Castiel's "weird."
He moves on.
Creating muffins requires measurement. Dean scoops cups and small spoons of different ingredients and collects them in a bowl. He mixes the contents vigorously and eventually pours the mixture into a pan with several cylindrical cavities.
"Son of a bitch," he complains, powdery hands up in the air.
"What?"
"I forgot to grease the fucking pan. Or use papery cups or some shit. We're gonna be digging these things out with a fork."
"Muffins cannot be eaten with forks?"
"No. Well, yes, but they're better if you get to peel the paper off and-- you know what, fuck it. Forks are good enough. And they'll only stick if I really burn 'em. Let's try it."
Dean leaves the pan in the oven. There is a small timer nearby and he tries to turn it but it makes noise and Dean seems dissatisfied with it. "Where's my-- do you see my phone anywhere?"
They both look without moving. Dean throws his hands up again.
"Yeah, so whatever." He points at Castiel. "Tell me when it's been eighteen minutes."
Castiel is equal to the task.
«»
At sixteen minutes Dean is attempting to describe the difference between muffins and cupcakes when Sam drifts in.
"What smells like cupcakes?"
"Dude! They're muffins. Muffins are for breakfast, not cupcakes."
Sam smiles wide. Castiel thinks that Sam heard their conversation before he entered and is only taunting Dean. Castiel smiles. "From what I understand, every muffin is one serving of icing away from being a cupcake."
"They're not for breakfast, though!" Dean nearly shouts.
"Hah!" Sam laughs. He moves to the oven. "Does this thing have a light?"
"Don't touch that."
"I wanna see if they're done."
"They're not done. How much time do they have left, Cas?"
"One minute and thirty-two seconds."
"I want to see them, th--"
"The light is on the goddamn front. Flip the thing," Dean points.
"The thing?"
Dean's eyes go wide and he acts as if to claw at his face.
"How do you oven?" Sam paws at the front door of the oven.
"GO AWAY."
"No! Give me muffins!"
"Christ, are you six?"
"Breakfast, Dean," Sam is kneeling in front of the oven, now, as if huddling into the warmth it radiates. He paws at the oven door again.
Dean is clearly attempting not to laugh at this point.
"Get the plates, asshole. Make more coffee."
"How come Cas doesn't have to make the coffee?" Sam rises and moves towards the coffeemaker anyway.
"Cas already has a job. He's the timer. How long, Cas?"
"Eighteen seconds."
"Being a clock isn't a job."
Dean gets pot-holders and waits by the oven.
"Say when, Cas."
Castiel asks, "When?"
Dean opens the oven.
«»
The muffins needed a couple more minutes and then Dean over-estimated into a couple more. Forks were indeed required. Sam leaned on Cas's side of the counter and dug into a cylinder. Dean also ate directly out of the pan, across from them.
"Fuhk. Theser goohd."
"Dohn't talk with yer mouth full," Dean says with his mouth full.
"Have one, Cas. No, actually, go get the milk, then you can have one," says Sam.
"He doesn't eat," Dean reminds him.
"You don't even try?" Cas is still up on the barstool and when Sam elbows him lightly, he kind of nudges his side.
"I have no need of food."
"Sure you don't need it, but you liked to eat that one time. And you used to like to drink."
"The only purpose behind food consumption while not under outside influences would be for the taste alone. And I have no opinion on flavors."
Sam chews for a minute.
"Wow, Cas. That takes exactly all of the fun out of eating. Yeah. Stay away from my muffins."
«»
Castiel returns the next day at approximately the same time. While the Winchesters conduct research in the Men of Letters library and Kevin continues translations, Castiel finds some other outlets he might use to search for information. If he were to speak honestly on the subject, he pulls himself away from the Winchesters' new home when he decides that it is time to do work. It is too easy to want to stay and simply be in good company. Sam is funny and warm, Sam is his friend. Dean's company is richer. It is comforting, fitting, as if he ought to be there in Dean's presence. Dean is more open, lately, trying to reel Castiel into their world without attempting to change who Cas essentially is. He would rather be in their space, hearing them learn and make discoveries; even hearing their frustration and exhaustion. He would rather share their space than pull himself away.
But he goes and he returns in the morning. Meals are familial, communal. Castiel thinks perhaps to attend them, even if he does not partake.
The kitchen is empty. It seems to be too early yet.
The coffeemaker is an essential kitchen tool. Castiel thinks that Sam was right. He can at least make coffee.
There are buttons and a lid and a glass container. He doesn't know much about coffee.
And so Castiel lays a hand on the coffeemaker and wills it to perform its function. Mojo coffee, he thinks, will do.
Dean's presence is not stationary for long. When he begins to move about his room, Castiel walks down the hall and calls at Dean's door.
Dean cracks the door open while shrugging on a bathrobe.
"Good morning."
"Are you making coffee?"
Castiel looks back towards where the kitchen is. "Coffee has started, yes."
"Wow. Good job, Cas." And Dean gives him a lazy smile which makes him wish he'd actually done it by hand, by himself.
Dean brings yesterday’s mug with him back to the kitchen.
"So, what do you want for breakfast, Cas?"
"I… don't want anything," he shakes his head.
"I'm really not gonna get you to eat, am I?" Dean asks. "What, not even with pancakes?"
Castiel attempts to convey something with his face, somewhere between apology and confusion and slight annoyance. Dean is better at interpreting Castiel's face than Cas is at speaking with it.
"You're missing out, dude, seriously." Dean pulls the muffin tin from yesterday out of the fridge and gets a fork for himself. He sets it on the counter between them as he had yesterday. Cas wonders if this arrangement means he should sit and not loom, but he will wait for Dean to indicate that. He stays standing on his side of the counter.
Dean stabs his fork into one of the remaining chocolate chip muffins.
He pauses with a fluffy hunk of pastry on the end of his fork and says, "You know what?"
Cas shakes his head.
"Here," Dean extends the fork to him.
This time Castiel fully rolls his eyes. "Dean."
"No, come on. What, my baking isn't good enough for you?"
"You know it's not that. I have no need for food. Your body needs food. I will not consume your food simply to indulge in taste."
"Yeah," Dean drawls. "That's only logical," he seems to mock, "but we ain't starving here and I want you to know what it tastes like. I just want you to taste it; it has nothing to do with necessity. This for fun, Cas, you get to have fun sometimes. You're fucking entitled, alright?" He eats the forkful for himself. "Ahy mee," he chews and swallows, "I mean, unless everything that isn't booze or burgers tastes like shit to you. Why not, dude? Are you completely opposed to trying something just to try it?"
Cas has to think about that for a moment.
"I suppose?"
"Alright. Good." Dean gathers another forkful, walks around, and comes to Cas's side of the counter to hold it out to him.
"No, I mean, I suppose that I am opposed to trying something only to try it."
"Dude. That's so boring."
Castiel feels himself actually bristle at that. It shudders from his head down. He... really doesn't want to be boring.
"I'm not boring."
"Yeah, well you are. You're totally vanilla, dude." Dean stuffs another hunk of the muffin into his mouth. "'N ahm choawclate-f'avored."
Very suddenly. Very, very suddenly, Castiel knows what would most certainly make him not-so-boring.
Dean chews, swallows, feels Cas's hands on his face, and then Castiel's lips on his. His mouth is kind of slack with chewing and surprise and so Cas licks right into his mouth and stays there for a minute. Tasting. Tasting the back of his teeth. And his tongue. And holy fuck.
His fingers must have dropped his fork because both of his hands are at the back of Castiel's head. When Cas attempts to pull away, having tasted his fill (goddamn), Dean only keeps him there, tasting back. Tasting air and tongue and the water from a glacier and the breath of a lakeside forest and the sunshine on a road and the wind off of a hillside of orange groves in the spring. Cas. Cas.
"Cas," he says in the small space between them now, "holy shit, Cas."
Castiel blinks. His hands fell long ago, minutes ago maybe, Dean thinks, to Dean's sides, under his robe.
"Chocolate," Cas finally says. Or croaks, more like.
"Yeah," Dean says, thinking, I woke up five fucking minutes ago. Castiel's fingers tighten just slightly on his sides, gripping his t-shirt. In this, the middle of the kitchen, the morning quiet, the muted light, Dean is positive he could pull Cas back down the hall, return to bed, press Cas back and-- Low swoop in his stomach, the breath from his lungs travelling too short a distance to Cas's mouth where he unconsciously licks his lips. Heavy, drugging feeling of arousal.
Dean pulls him the short distance back in. Warm, lips-parted kiss to Cas's lips. For the second time, Cas is the one who deepens it with tongue.
Inevitable, far-off crack and creak of a door being opened.
Dean's brain shows him the maneuver: He could tug Cas's hand, they'd move down a different hallway, to a different room. Or maybe Sam won't head for the kitchen, but the showers first. They'd have another ten minutes of quiet to themselves.
Cas is looking in that direction now, stepping away from him. Dean's hands fall to grip his coat and they listen for a minute.
He can't hear the hot water heater rattling to life.
"Dean," Castiel says, and their eyes connect again. Dean doesn't know what he wants to hear from him right now.
Castiel pulls Dean's fingers from their grip on his trench coat. His hands linger there just long enough that he knows the next words aren't empty:
"I'll be back after lunch," Castiel says. He folds the fingers into Dean's palms and backs one step away before he is gone.
Dean spends the next two hours at the great table with one cold cup of coffee and the same three pages of newsprint, reading nothing, tasting nothing.
«»
Sam doesn't ask Dean what's up. To be honest, books don't attempt to break your face off if you ask if they've just had a nightmare about hell or a fight with their angel so there's a few books in front of him that are super-duper interesting today and a phone call to make to Kevin that has exactly everything to do with what's not going on in the bat cave right now.
He picks at the last delicious crumbly bits in the muffin tin until he has to remind himself that he's absolutely too grown up to try to stick his tongue in the holes.
Around one in the afternoon, Dean proves that nothing will put a damper on his new can-do housewife spirit by presenting Sam with a seriously amazing pulled-pork sandwich. Saucy, spicy, sweet, finished off with salty homemade fries. Fucking divine.
«»
Dean takes their empty plates back to the kitchen, dumps them off in the sink, and leaves Sam to his books. Bitch is gonna have to learn pretty soon that the chef makes the food and everyone else does the dishes.
In ten-to-fifteen minute intervals Dean decides whether or not he'll see Cas again today. Or ever. This ten minutes has him thinking probably not. Really he'd do the dishes but probably lying on his floor listening to music and feeling sad and doubtful will feel better than productivity at the moment.
He selects a record and begins to cue it up, closes his door to spare Sam the noise, and turns to bring up the volume when Cas is in front of him, gazing wonderingly up at the objects on the wall.
He watches Cas inspect the room. When he's done, his eyes land on Dean's bare feet.
Dean wants to have something to say to this. He could talk about his room (he still finds it wildly exciting, not even kidding), he could explain to Cas the purpose of having a music poster (he knows he's going to ask eventually because Cas asks anything and everything that makes Dean feel like a total muggle), he could tell Cas how awesome it is to take your socks off in your own home (hang up his trench coat, put his shoes by the door).
Or he could think about making out with him in the kitchen this morning and stand there with is mouth open. Which is what happens. And, like, nothing else. He just stands there watching Cas watch him.
Castiel's eyes focus on Dean's lips. Cas used to do that but usually when Dean was speaking, like Cas wasn't sure he was getting the full meaning of things and needed to read Dean's lips.
"Cas, what's up?" stumbles out of his mouth. He wishes he'd started the music. This quiet is clawing at him.
Castiel puts a hand in his pocket and when it withdraws, there's a smallish orange in his hand. "How do these taste?" Cas asks.
"Uh, good. Nice." Dean thinks about it for a second. "Actually an orange tastes pretty much like it smells."
Cas cocks his head to the side slightly, but lifts the orange and sniffs at it.
"Cas," Dean says again, "what's up."
Castiel holds out the orange to him. Dean takes it from him and the hand he empties reaches forward to his torso. Cas's fingers ghost up the front of him to his neck. He stops at Dean's pulse and Dean watches him swallow, looking suddenly hollow and freaked.
"Okay," Dean says, and steps forward to press his mouth to Cas's.
«»
There is spice in their kisses. Dean explains what he made for lunch and each time he lists an ingredient, Cas presses forward to find it in his mouth.
Dean opens the orange with a pocket knife. He holds out a piece to Cas but the angel shakes his head yet again. Dean sits on the end of his bed and eats pieces of the orange. Cas sits beside him and pulls his head forward after each piece drinking the flavor in. He climbs into Dean's space. He pulls Dean's body to him.
"So do you like 'em?" Dean asks. "Oranges?"
Castiel stops and stills and thinks for a moment. "Better than the chocolate, yes. As much as the pepper, I think, and the chili powder."
"Dude. You could really taste the difference in those? From- from here? From all the way," Dean gestures something that includes his mouth and lunch and time, "over here? Now?"
"Yes. What does air taste like?"
"Air? It tastes like air. Or whatever's in the air."
"Like orange blossoms in the spring. And sunshine on a road."
Dean pauses. "Cas. You can't--"
"I can't help it. When you're right here. I can taste everything you taste. I can essentially taste what you're thinking. When we're close."
Dean shouldn't abide that, maybe. But if Cas can't help himself, that's different. That's Dean's too-loud brain spilling out all around him, which is his own lack of self-control. He doesn't mean to dump these things all over Cas--
"No," Castiel says. "Stop that." He won't respond, specifically, to how Dean is disparaging himself, but he can't think it's all him. Castiel searches for a phrase. "We're meeting in the middle. Or. Rubbing off on each other."
Okay. With Cas coming around more, he's just more sensitive to Dean's brainwaves or whatever. And, naturally, with Cas around more, well, Dean just thinks about him more. It's just them.
Dean sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Cas on the bed. Should he be telling him to fly off? They could spread out a little more, keep out of each others' minds. Out of each other's space.
He wants Cas in his space. He wants Cas at the dinner table with them, and drinking beers and listening to music. Driving, no matter how much Cas can't stand how long that takes. And really, he thinks, still tasting Cas and oranges, that's not happening now, is it? Couldn't have Cas at the dinner table just once a week and not think about tasting him. Christ.
"You couldn't just let me feed you. It had to turn into this."
He's not looking at Cas and it's deadly quiet in here. That wasn't the best thing to say, either.
But Cas is tasting the spillover from his brain, apparently, so he won't huff off all resentful and shit.
Instead of spending mealtime with his friends, he shows up after each. Sometimes he kisses Dean until he can taste what his own body tastes like through Dean.
Sometimes he brings snacks.
«»
The formulae on the tablets free the earth of both major demonic and angelic influences. There are some beings left behind, but they can be dealt with as each threat presents itself. Now there are only the growing numbers of dead to contend with.
As Dean and Sam plot humanity’s next move, Castiel sits with them. Through meal times and all other times. He is here all the time now.
There are some beings left behind.
«»
Castiel looks pale and sullen in the dim light of the kitchen. "I don't need that," he says, when Dean places a plate with a turkey sandwich down in front of him.
"No, you really do," Dean wipes his hands on a kitchen towel. "Humans need to eat."
Dean has been wary of him, careful of him. But it doesn't sound like a compromise will be happening on this one. There is a pit in Castiel's stomach where nothing ever before made a sound. Heaven left him behind, or he got himself left behind. There is small consolation in the fact that he can still hear the roll of thoughts which the Winchesters leave in their wake. Sam's presence in the bathroom above, washing blood out of things. Dean's impatience and concern turning steadily to fear. What have I done to you? his mind asks aloud.
Castiel pulls the plate forward. He will eat to keep Dean calm. It is just the white ceramic and a plain sandwich, halved, thick, fluffy bread. Castiel takes his old seat at the counter.
He clears his throat and asks, "May I have orange juice?"
"Yeah, Cas," Dean says quietly, but doesn't move until after Castiel has eaten his first bite.
He stays on the far side of the counter, but they trade sips from the same cup of OJ.
In bed that night, the taste of orange is still lovelier in Dean's mouth.
«»
Taste is now an adventure that Cas gets to have on his own. Some things do not look good (guacamole, choritzo, cheesy broccoli, pistachio gelato) and so Dean tastes them first for him and Cas tastes them second.
He learns what he likes. He is profoundly disappointed when Dean doesn't eat something he likes. But he can't experience everything through Dean's senses first. He knows this.
Castiel learns the value of texture. He enjoys grain as a texture. Not grains themselves, but the grain of sugar crystals on top of pie, sprinkles on cake, coarse salt on chips. And the crunch of chips, too. The crunch of fried things is nice, but not as good as the crunch of thin, fragile things, like crackers or matzo from a box.
He learns the joy of crunching into things with the corner of his mouth open. He doesn't like spraying crumbs on all of Sam's books like Dean does, but he likes the way Sam's face loses expression and then his jaw kind of grinds to hear Cas keep crunching and crunching. To that end, Dean introduces him to Chex Mix and cereal and, eventually, pop rocks.
Dean laughs and laughs. Then Sam tells him what happens when you chip a tooth. To get the gap filled, sometimes they have to grind down the broken edge of your tooth, and--
Castiel leaves the crunching to Dean from then on.
«»
Dean returns from a grocery run one day and pulls Castiel off to their bedroom. He sits at the end of the bed and Cas sits up by the pillows. Between them on the sheets, Dean peels open a yellow bar and it falls to multi-colored pieces between them. He unwraps one of the pieces and chews for a while before yanking Cas forward and kissing him deeply. He tastes what he knows now to be something-like-strawberry.
"Starburst," Dean says, holding one of the candies out to Cas. The wrapper is orange.