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It’s been raining for close to a week now, from sun showers and drizzles to thunderstorms and everything in between. The bunker’s too heavily insulated to let the real sound of it in, but the greyness of it all is clear as soon as Dean steps outside, filling him with thoughts of turning right back around, back to his home with its comfort and safety and warmth.
He plans to stay inside for the entirety of the next day, starting with spreading ingredients out on the kitchen counter with a small smile on his face. The bread he’s using is a good few days old, but it still makes a satisfying crunching sound as he breaks it apart and spreads it across the bottom of the glass baking pan.
At some point – after Dean’s beaten the eggs and stirred in the milk and sugar, but before he’s measured the vanilla – Cas shuffles into the kitchen, with heavy-lidded eyes and an old pair of (Dean’s) sweatpants slung low on his hips.
“Good morning, Dean.” Cas halfway mumbles as he makes a beeline for the coffeepot. His nose whistles a little bit as he breathes, proof that he hasn’t yet quite overcome his cold.
“Morning, Cas.” It’s actually much closer to noon, but Dean can’t bring himself to say it out loud. And he can’t help the overwhelming feeling of just pure adoration for this grumpy angel-turned-human from bubbling up in his chest. There’s still so much power that Dean can’t even fathom packed into a body with chapped lips and three days’ worth of stubble, and Dean’s still can’t stop smiling at him like a dope.
He eventually pulls himself away to continue working. As he’s dumping in the cinnamon, Cas speaks up. “What are you baking?” His voice is still rough from sleep, causing its gravel pull to be even more prominent than usual.
“Bread pudding.” Dean pours the egg mixture over the torn bread, uses a fork to submerge the pieces. “Should be done in about forty minutes or so. Gotta make sure it’s not soupy.”
Once the pan is in the oven, he pours himself a mug of coffee and leans against the counter. Cas still seems pretty out if it, the steaming coffee right below his nose probably the only thing keeping his eyes open.
“My mom used to make it whenever it rained.” Dean says softly. “Except, she’d make two. One with raisins and one without, because she knew I didn’t like the raisins.”
The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches up, “You like raisins now.”
“Not in my bread pudding, I don’t.”
The conversation trails off from there. They drink their coffee in the comfortable silence that follows, both eventually emptying their mugs. Dean refills Cas’ and sets his own with the other dirty dishes by the sink. There’s still just over twenty minutes left on the timer so Dean plugs and fills the sink with hot water, thinks he might as well try to get as much done as he can. It’s an easy rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing, setting each dish on a towel spread across the counter because who has time to set up a drying rack? He’s drying the last of them as Cas softly pads up behind him and wraps his arms around Dean’s waist.
He noses at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder. “Hello.” He still sounds bogged down with sleep, but less so after his pick-me-up.
“Hey.” Dean sets the mixing bowl from earlier on the counter to air dry, the used dish towel crumpled beside it. They’re standing so close their noses brush as Dean turns in Cas’ arms. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” Cas blinks and Dean swears he can feel the air from the movement brush against his cheek. Then Cas grins. “I know a man who can cook some chicken noodle soup with probable healing powers.”
“Hey now.” Dean knows he’s blushing, he knows. “There’s nothing magic about it, just lots of practice.”
And Cas is grinning even wider now because he can see how flustered Dean is, how red his cheeks are, and Dean drops his head onto Cas’ shoulder to hide his matching smile.
Cas hands move up to rub Dean’s back, tracing the muscles of his shoulders and the knobs of his spine. “You are an excellent cook, Dean.” He says quietly. “As you may know, I am of the belief that you are one of the most beautiful and talented men I have ever met, but cooking is certainly one of your stronger points. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Dean takes a moment to breathe in, his nose pressed to the skin of Cas’ neck. “’M not ashamed.” He says it into the soft fabric of Cas’ t-shirt, before pulling his head back up and resisting the urge to drag his hand across his face. He has never known what to say or do after receiving compliments. Hell, Cas gives them out all the time, and he still has no idea how to react. He groans. “It’s too early for this.”
Cas’ eyes twinkle. “Actually, I believe it’s rather close to noon. Have you ever classified that as early, Dean?”
As Dean’s struggling to come up with a retort, he’s saved by the ringing of the timer. He uses it as a welcome escape. “Gotta make sure we don’t have egg soup anymore.”
Cas smiles like he knows exactly what Dean is doing – which of course he does, Dean’s not nearly as smooth as he thinks he is – but lets Dean out of the circle of his arms. As soon as Dean pulls the pan from the oven, the entire kitchen is filled with the sharp scent of cinnamon, creating the illusion of one of those bakeries where they have fresh goods for sale every day. It looks fully baked to Dean, but he still pokes a toothpick around in the center just to make sure.
Dean pulls ramekins from the cabinets and two spoons from the silverware drawer, arranges them on the counter. “Now,” He wedges his way in between Cas and the sink again, rests his ass on the lip of the counter. “We’ve got about ten minutes before that’s cool enough to eat.” He drapes his arms over Cas’ shoulders, knowing he’s being ridiculous. “What do you think we should do?”
Cas is closing the gap between them almost before Dean even gets his last question out, but he can’t find it in himself to care. If he were being completely honest with himself, he could kiss Cas for hours and never be bothered. Cas’ hands like to roam when they kiss, sliding up and down Dean’s sides, pulling at his arms, slipping under the hem of Dean’s shirt. He bites at Dean’s bottom lip and moans into Dean’s mouth and god dammit, Dean loves him.
He loves him when they’re making out with his hand tangled in Cas’ hair. He loves him when Cas curls his arm around Dean’s waist before they go to sleep. He loves him when Cas takes Dean in his mouth, he loves him when Cas is inside him, god, he loves him. He loves him when Cas glares at him over his morning coffee, when he gets frustrated at the grocery store trying to decide what cereal he wants to eat for the month. He loves him when they go for walks in town and Cas stops at each garden to point out the flowers he knows, their meanings, and informing him that “This one particularly is very good for the bees, Dean.” It’s hit him before, but it’s hitting him again now with the cold kitchen counter digging into his back. He loves Cas, and he will never stop loving him.
Dean pulls away and Cas chases Dean’s lips. “Hey, I love you.”
Cas offers one of his small smiles, the kind that doesn’t look like much until you see its worth reflected in his eyes. “I love you, too.” He kisses Dean’s cheek. “Always and forever.”