#i wanted this day to go well but i friggin couldn't order a stupid dish it's so embarrassing i hate feeling like that

[liron-ao3]

Read on AO3 here.

Pie-ning

It's in the wee hours and the kitchen worktop looks like after a demon attack.

A thin layer of flour dusts the stainless steel, butter softened by being outside the fridge for too long slowly greases the surface. Scraps of clingfilm are stuck on the bench, and dough sticks to a rolling pin. Formerly ice-cold water reached room temperature a while ago.

Castiel sits at the wooden dining table, his arms folded underneath his head. "This is a disaster," he murmurs.

The plan started easy enough. Castiel waited until Dean, Sam, and Jack were fast asleep. Then he started with the filling, because the recipe said so.

Unfortunately he hadn't read it properly. It asked for ready made pie crusts and well, he hadn't had the time to go shopping and smuggling the apples inside had been difficult enough.

The filling was already cooling in the pot when Castiel started to search the internet for pie crust recipes. They sounded easy enough. Boy, was he wrong.

Cutting the dough with a fork was a drudgery and it took ages to produce something that looked even close to what the photos showed. Why for heaven's sake had a kitchen where Dean Winchester lived and breathed not a pastry cutter!?

The recipe mentioned to cool the dough for an hour, but Castiel was running out of time and hoped it wouldn't turn out too bad if he gave it just 15 minutes in the fridge.

Well, it did. Turn out bad, that is. About half an hour ago, Castiel declared defeat by carbohydrates and fat. Stupid molecules!

Right when he decides to rise and clean up the mess he made, the kitchen door swings open. In comes Dean, eyes still at halfmast, the open bathrobe showing his batman pyjamas. Castiel can't suppress a small smile at the sight. How can a grown man look so adorable?

When Dean catches his gaze, Castiel looks down at his wringing hands, not sure if he can hide the heat he sure feels crawling up his neck. Maybe it's just a phantom blush. He hopes it is just that.

"Whatcha doin', Cass?" Dean asks, looking around the kitchen. He scowls at the chaos.

Castiel diverts his gaze to the messy worktop and opens his mouth to say something, but his lips close again when he realises that the reason is a sure thing to turn into something he will be the butt of the joke of.

He gets up and walks over, scrapes the unsuccessful attempt of an apple pie into the wastebin.

Dean watches him in utter silence. He frowns at the scene as Castiel opens the fridge to save the rest of the butter, walks to the kitchen sink, does the dishes as if he hadn't heard the question still hanging between them.

Dean closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his still sleep-heavy head. This is too much before his first coffee of the day.

He contemplates to walk over to prepare a cup of liquid ambrosia, but the even for his own standards oddly acting angel deems him more important. Dean cocks an eyebrow at that thought. Must be the sleep deprivation talking.

Castiel concentrates on the cleaning. Maybe Dean will just walk away and leave him be. It's not as if he didn't already think him to be weird. Even after knowing each other for so long, Castiel is well aware of the fact that they might be friends, even family of some kind, but that Dean still doesn't see him as a normal man. He is always set apart, but who isn't in this strange, self-made family? They are all freaks in their own ways.

Dean's attempts to dress him up, to make him appear more human notwithstanding, Castiel thinks he still sees him as not really part of this world. Or maybe it's just Castiel's fear that whispers these thoughts into his ear. They've never been good at talking things out. That nearly broke their friendship more than once.

As Castiel pulls the plug and dries his hands on the white apron Dean loves to use, he feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and solid. He wishes it would ground him, but it doesn't. It stirs him up in a very confusing way. It's not exactly hurting. Castiel knows pain. He's a born soldier after all. But on the other hand, it kind of does, but in a more than physical way. Every touch outside a life and death situation sends tendrils through his body, interacts with his grace, lights up every synapse of the human body that is wholy his now. He feels like going up in flames, the heat spreading like a wildfire from his shoulder to every cell of his body.

The hand just stays where Dean put it, a silent question, just a few more unspoken words between them.

Castiel wishes he could just say out loud what it feels like to be touched by Dean. To finally see his reaction. At this point the outcome would be nearly all the same to him. His urge to make Dean happy, to help him with all the crap that is thrown at him won't go away anyway.

"Speak to me, buddy," Dean orders, his voice still rough from sleep, and Castiel huffs a tiny laugh in response.

"I wanted to surprise you."

Castiel can nearly hear Dean's frown now. He turns to look at the other man which is a mistake as they are standing way too close now. But they somehow always do, so what's the point in correcting it?

The soft titillation of Dean's breath dancing on Castiel's skin is a welcome distraction from the thoughts the angel allows himself to think only very rarely in Dean's presence.

The hunter's breath catches and he takes a step back. Of course.

"I thought it would be nice to have pie for the special occasion. I know traditionally it's a cake, but as you love pie, I thought ..."

Dean stares at him in confusion. "What are you talking about, man?"

"It's your birthday, Dean." Castiel shrugs his shoulders nearly apologetically. "Granted, I don’t know the traditions in the House of Winchester, as I never celebrated your birthdays with you before, but Sam didn't buy a cake and Jake won't know that ..."

"You baked me a birthday pie?" Dean asks with barely hidden delight in his voice. His face lights up in the most beautiful way. It takes Castiel's breath away for a long moment.

"Well, ... I tried," he says when he can breathe again. He gestures to the waste bin and presses his jaws together, "but it seems I failed."

Dean starts laughing, a whole body, full belly laugh. He slams his hands on the worktop and shakes his head. Castiel looks at him, a tiny smile forming on his lips. He could hear Dean laugh for all eternity. It's not often enough that he has a reason to do it. The lines around his eyes are at least 50 percent made of grief and pain. Castiel would give everything to let them grow deeper only from laughter from now on.

The sparkle in Dean's eyes catches him off guard. There was a time when Castiel had seen the beauty of Dean's soul, the goodness of his heart. He still sees all of this despite the things the hunter has done and what others did to him. But there is even more he sees now.

Maybe it's because he lived with humans for too long or it's just Dean, Castiel isn't quite sure. But what he is sure about is that Dean is beautiful on a purely physical level, scars, wrinkles, and all. It's the greenness of his eyes and the curl of his lips, the slight curve if his nose and the freckles dusting his cheeks. Castiel can barely keep himself from staring. Not that any of them is good at stopping themselves from doing that, again and again. It's awkward for everyone forced to watch.

Dean grins at him with that boyish look that makes him seem a decade younger and that turns Castiel's legs into jelly. Dean Winchester will be the death of him, most likely literally. The angel doesn't even care. It would be worth it, if he saved him instead.

"That's ...," Dean trails off and blushes a little. Adorable and beautiful shouldn't be looks that go hand in hand together, but the hunter somehow pulls it off. "I don't know what to say, buddy ... Thank you."

"There's nothing to thank for. Filling doesn't make a pie." Castiel waves his hand into the stove's direction and Dean straightens to walk over. He sticks his finger into the mixture and stuffs a piece of apple into his mouth.

Cinnamon explodes on his tounge, the tartness of the apple perfectly balanced with brown sugar. "That stuff is good. I tell ya, I could eat it with a spoon."

The mere thought that Castiel put into this warms Dean's heart in ways that he couldn't admit to anybody. He wished he could speak his thruth out loud just once. How these little gestures keep him from falling apart, how Castiel's kindness rubbs off on him, and how thankfull he is that the angel somehow manages it to keep him human. But that's not possible, not without risking to let even deeper things out. "This is friggin' awesome!" he says instead.

Castiel smiles mildly at the praise. He watches Dean beam at him as if he hang the moon and his heart threatens to leap out of his chest. Human bodies are weird.

"As I see it, we have two options here," Dean says matter-of-factly.

Castiel raises a questioning eyebrow, amusement clearly tugging on the corners of his lips. "Is that so?"

"Mmh," Dean says around another fingerful of filling. "A - We pull out the spoons and share it just between us; the others will never know. Or B - I show you how to make a proper crust."

Castiel's face turns into a countenance of surprise. "You know how to do that?"

"Yeah. It's not as easy as pie. The folk saying is wrong about that. But it's no witchcraft either."

Dean raises his hand to motion Castiel to stay put and returns just a few minutes later with an old notebook in his hand. A women's handwriting says 'Recipes' on the front and Dean browses the pages until he finds what he was looking for.

Castiel watches him in silence, his eyes tightening in concentration. Dean appears almost bubbly. The angel hasn't seen him like that often. It only occurs when the hunter lets his guard down and that's barely happening.

"There it is. My grandma's pie recipe. That's how my mum baked it."

Pain flickers over Dean's face for a second before he schools it. He walks to the fridge and pulls a fresh block of butter from the back of it, then collects the other ingredients.

"It's important to work quickly and then give it a good, cool rest," he says and starts working as if he had done this a hundred times before. Maybe he did. Castiel watches him with awe.

"Help me with the water and the vinegar," the hunter says and Castiel obliges with a soft smile, watching as Dean uses a wooden spoon to incorporate the liquids and then switches to using his hands to form the dough.

"I didn't know you were a baker," Castiel states.

Dean chuckles. "Well, I haven't done proper baking until we moved into the bunker. I used cake mixes before that. One year I stole cupcakes from the store for Sammy's birthday."

Dean's smile falters at the memory. "We aren't really great at celebrations. I tried to give Sammy the holiday and birthday experience, but ... I guess it fell short on what other people have."

Castiel looks at him with sad eyes. "I'm sure Sam appreciated your efforts."

Dean shrugs it off. There is no use in dwelling too long on his fucked up childhood. He clears his throat. "Where is the plastic wrap?"

Castiel reaches under the table and hands it over, their fingers brushing against each other when Dean takes it. The hunter looks at him from beneath his long eyelashes. Castiel remembers when he recreated every single one of them, not knowing what a gaze thrown through them would be able to do to him one day.

He swallows the sudden lump in his throat. Maybe he should just say it, get over with it, see Dean's disgust or delight or even indifference. But, no. That could destroy everything between them. It's enough to be allowed to be in Dean's orbit. It has to.

Dean busies himself to put the dough into the fridge and cleans the surface of the worktop. He dries his hands at a rag and leans against the kitchen island. Castiel's gaze is as unreadable as it is inescapable now and Dean feels a rush of something running through his body.

The softness of Castiel's eyes is warming him from inside out and the feeling is highly disturbing. He can't have these kind of emotions for his best friend who isn't even a real human being.

Dean rolls his eyes inwardly at himself. As if that would be the main problem here. He interrupts his train of thought and walks over to the coffee maker, brewing two cups.

"I wish I could have taken the pain away," Castiel says seemingly apropos of nothing.

Dean sits down at the table, putting one mug in front of him and one on the opposite side of the table. He stays silent for a long moment. "Care to elaborate?"

"When I rebuilt you. My order was to pull you out of hell and put you back into the exact state you were before, past injuries, bad memories, and all. I wish I had known you well enough then to spare you at least some of them."

Dean purses his lips and shruggs. "It's what made me who I am today."

Castiel nods and sits down. "That's true. A righteous man, loyal and caring. The best friend someone could ask for."

Dean blushes under the praise. "Come on, man. Don't turn this into a chick flick moment."

Castiel tilts his head to the side and his eyes tighten in concentration when he scrutinises the other man. "I wish you could see yourself the way that I do, Dean," he finally sighs, well knowing that the stubborn hunter would rather leave than listen to the truth. The truth that he is worthy to be saved, worthy to be loved, worthy to die for.

Dean takes a big gulp of his coffee, burning his tongue in the process. The pain is a welcome feeling. It eases the sadness and melancholy inside him that swarms his guts like an unwanted colony of bees. He can't handle Castiel looking at him like that, so open and warm as if he were the most precious gem in God's vast creation.

No, it can't be that. Castiel could never look at him like this. He knows his very soul, he knows how broken he is inside, how ugly his dark spots are and how rare the light ones. There's no way that he looks at him in adoration.

Dean wriggles about on his chair. He doesn't know what to make of it, of this look, of the way the angel always comes back no matter how often he chases him away. And he doesn't know what to make of the feeling of pure relief every time he sees his angel again, well and alive.

Fuck, this shouldn't be so difficult, right? He is just a friend, his best friend. Dean would bake him a cake too, if the angel had a birthday. Or maybe not. Without Castiel Dean wouldn't even know that it is his birthday, today. Calendars kind of lose their meaning if you're hunting monsters and fighting God 24/7, 365 days a year.

No, celebrations and anniversaries are for normal people, and the Winchesters and their chosen family are anything but.

The two men drink their coffee in silence until Dean starts chuckling. Castiel raises a questioning eyebrow.

"One year, I bought a cheap cake mix for my birthday. I used margarine to make it, butter was too expensive. The cake tasted awful," he chuckles. "But Sammy had the idea to coat it and we built little towers of thin sliced cake and jelly layers. My old man was drunk in front of the tv. I had been so happy that he wasn't gone for once that I brought him the tower I had built and he looked at me in this way, where your insides get all twisted and you think you will throw up."

Dean's fingers run over the rim of his now empty mug. He shakes his head to clear it from the memory. Why is every good one always attached to one tainting it?

He feels Castiel's hand nudging on his own, giving it a squeeze when he lets go of the cup without resistance. They keep the contact, loose and soft. It should bug Dean, but he can't make himself pull away. Castiel's hand is like an anchor pinning him to the presence. It's way too easy to get lost in memories if there isn't something or someone to hold on to.

Dean doesn't know how long they are sitting like this. It doesn't matter. He is so starved of human touch. When did he stop to pick up women for that? Maybe at the same time he started to feel comfortable in the rare hugs he and Castiel are sharing.

The timer pulls him out of his unhelpful musing. "Time to rock'n'roll," he exclaims a little too enthusiastically as he pulls his hand away, missing the touch instantly.

Castiel follows him and watches as he dusts the worktop with flour, much more lightly than the angel did a few hours earlier.

"C’mere," Dean says. "I'll teach you how to roll it out properly."

Castiel walks around the kitchen island and stands in front of the two balls of dough, squinting at them suspiciously.

Dean chuckles. "They won't bite. Flour the rolling pin and roll it over it. Not too timidly and not too slow. If it cracks in some places, we can fix it later."

Castiel does as he's told, but the dough doesn't cooperate. Dean laughs at his failing attempts and the angel swears unholy curses, the scale of his embarrassment rising steadily. For heaven's sake. He should be able to do such a mundane task with ease.

He's just short of giving up when he feels Dean moving around him, his hands gliding past him on either side.

Castiel holds his breath when Dean puts his hands on top of his own and guides his movements. The hunter's breath tickles his ear and the closeness of their bodies is nearly unbearable.

If Castiel just knew that Dean is feeling the same. That he's wavering between joy and dread, that the fear to overstep any boundaries nearly overwhelms him. But it feels too good to lightly press into the angel's body and it would be awkward if he pulled back now. So he decides to enjoy it, a little birthday present that's harming no-one but him.

When they managed to roll both crust out, Dean steps back and prepares the baking tin. It's only when the decorated pie is in the oven that his mind goes fully back to Castiel who just finished the cleanup.

Dean should make fun of his appearance, the apron powdered with flour just like the coat the angel is still wearing underneath. But he can't find it in himself to tease him. Because honestly? Castiel without his trenchcoat would border on nudity and Dean knows better than to let his thoughts go astray. It's too risky. It might make him blurt out how much he loves him, that he wants him to stay. Forever.

But no good would come out of it. Are angels even capable of romantic love? Physical attraction, sure. He had that with Anna. Obsession, clearly, as Ishim showed. But true love? Dean swallows at his own thoughts. He knows by now of what nature his feelings for Castiel are. It's not as if he didn't try not to fall in love with the angel. But he can't help it. Damn it, Elvis, shut up!

"What is it?" Castiel asks softly, his low voice vibrating through Dean's very soul.

"Nothing." Yeah, that sounded totally convincing. He clears his throat. "Thank you. For the idea to make me pie and for spending the time with me to finish it."

That sounded more cheezy than wanted, but Castiel doesn't get that. It's little mercies like these that keep Dean from forming puddles of embarrassment ever so often.

"You're welcome," Castiel says, forrowing his brows in a way Dean wants to kiss away. "I liked spending time with you. Although I still wish I would have managed to do it on my own."

Dean chuckles. "I baked our birthday cakes every year, but the only time I remember is the one with the jelly towers. It's memories like that that will stay with us, Cass. Not the picture perfect ones. Not that I had plenty of experience with those. Anyway." Dean clears his throat again. Why is it so dry?

Castiel nods. "You are a remarkable man and I hope to make many more beautiful memories like this with you."

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat with no success. How can the angel just say something like that? As if it was the most natural thing to say. Maybe it is. Or Castiel is just insane. Dean doesn't know what's normal anymore. Maybe he doesn't want to if it means having the angel at his side.

"Yeah," he agrees tersely, too worried that the truth might spill out otherwise. How Castiel's sheer presence makes his life more beautiful, that he would be happy to just look into his eyes and forget the world as he does right now. But he keeps it inside, neatly packed away next to all the other things he holds on tightly, never to see the light of day. His love is poison. He knows that. It had been for Sam, for Lisa and Ben, and even for Castiel way too many times to count.

He wasn't aware that he was staring again when Castiel moves into his personal space and cups his face tenderly with both hands. It would be easy to just lean in a little, to brush his lips over the angel's.

"Happy birthday, Dean," Castiel says reverently and Dean closes his eyes. It's too much and way too little. And still the best birthday present of his life.

#happy birthday dean #happy birthday dean winchester #dean winchester #fanfiction #destiel #deancas #I miss Dean #Dean deserved better