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Castiel Novak is, by nature, of a gentle disposition. But even he has limits. For the harsh clattering of a baking dish against granite counter to wake him at eight in the morning when he is in the midst of a glorious dream (that absolutely did not, in any way, feature a scantily-clad Dean Winchester) is a capital crime—one which warrants even his rage. The breathless gasps he definitely hadn’t been releasing in his slumber are therefore replaced by a litany of curses. “I swear to Cthulhu, Gabriel.” He mutters, “If you’re down in the kitchen inventing new candies at eight in the goddamn morning I will shove the world’s largest gummi bear up your ass.” He’d pulled the soft, red socks Mrs. Winchester knitted for him last Christmas onto his feet; slipped on his favorite sweater, a navy one Dean forgot in Cas’ room several months ago and hasn’t seen since because Cas never returned it; fumbled pitifully for his too-large, square glasses before setting them on his nose; and come up with at least seventeen different ways to murder his brother before realizing that anything was amiss.
The cacophony of kitchenware is familiar in its aggravating calamity, but the scent wafting through the house is absolutely foreign. His abode, for once, doesn’t smell of burnt sugar or sickeningly sweet artificial fruit: it smells like…what the hell? Bacon, is it? Castiel takes a moment to consider it carefully, as he isn’t fluent in breakfast meat odors. They never have any in the house because Gabriel refuses to ingest anything that isn’t at least 50% sugar, their mother is vegan (and more importantly, absent), and Castiel doesn’t eat breakfast because he never wakes up before noon.
But if there is one category of scents that Cas is well versed in, it’s Dean, who eats breakfast like it’s his goddamn job, so beneath his musk of leather and Old Spice and his Uncle Bobby’s garage, he smells faintly of whatever greasy animal he consumed in the wee-hours of the morning. So Castiel’s pretty confident that what he smells is bacon. Which, once again, what the Hell? He didn’t even know that his kitchen was equipped with a frying pan.
Having ruled out the possibility of any family members being in the kitchen, Castiel briefly considers calling the police. He’s not entirely convinced that the coppers will feel compelled to pay his home a visit solely because of suspicious bacon though, so he reckons he has to sort this one out on his own, or at the very least gather more information about the intruder before making the call. Thanks to Mary’s socks, he glides noiselessly across the hall and down the steps; stops just shy of the kitchen doorframe to press his back against its adjoining wall; takes several seconds to steady his nerves, appreciate how stealthy he is, and wonder if perhaps Daniel Craig will finish his run as James Bond soon so he can take over the roll; then cranes his neck to peer inside.
If he really was Agent 007, he reckons that the intruder would have been a Bond Girl: graceful, curvy, and dressed only in an apron. But he’s a nerdy, 17-year-old virgin who has never held a gun, played poker, saved a life, nor drunk a shaken martini. So he doesn’t see a Bond Girl at his stove, predictably.
But he does see Dean, which is nearly as surprising.
Cas steps through the doorway entirely to see better. He leans against the island, and watches intently, saying nothing. It’s not the first time Dean’s dropped by uninvited—far from it, Dean practically lives at the Novaks’—but he usually climbs through Castiel’s window or rings the doorbell or calls to give warning or something. Cas wonders what prompted this. More importantly, though, he finds that he’s got a unobstructed view of Dean’s ass, and he can admire it at his leisure.
For thirty seconds, there’s no noise in the house apart from the sizzling of grease in the pan, Dean’s whistled rendition of a classic rock tune, and the bubbling of the coffee percolator.
Then Dean speaks without turning around, his deep, mellifluous voice layering over the almost-silence. “Mornin’ Cas."
The whole situation is so absurd that the only response boy-genius Castiel can conjure up is a simple: “You’re in my house.”
“Yes.”
“Did Gabriel let you in?”
“Nope, he’s out, probably in search of thematic holiday candy or something.”
“You broke in.”
“Yep.” A brief period void of conversation follows, and Cas doesn’t quite know how to proceed in this circumstance, so he plays idly with the drawstring of his flannel pyjama pants and waits for Dean to give him some sort of indication of what’s going on. He doesn’t. Instead he says: “You gonna stare at my ass all day or are you gonna say good morning to me too, babe?”
Castiel, in his surprise, nearly chokes on the breath he was drawing in, and makes an attempted recovery with: “You flatter yourself, Dean. You aren’t my type.” The lie tastes forced and bitter on his tongue.
Dean spins around to face him with a cocked eyebrow, a hand on his hip, and a spatula held up in the other. He’s wearing Gabriel’s ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron, which makes Cas blush something fierce. “Your man buys groceries, carries them a mile in a snowstorm to your home because it’s too icy to drive, makes you breakfast, and prepares a mug of tea for you, and you’re gonna tell him that he’s not your type? What more do you want from me, Cas? I thought what we had was special!”
Castiel is once again struck by how effortlessly Dean can simultaneously break his heart and make it swell with hope: nobody has ever gone to so much trouble to do anything for him, and yet he knows he mustn't read into it because this is just the type of thing Dean does. Because he’s perfect. He works tirelessly at the auto shop to help his mother pay the bills because his good-for-nothing dad left them four years ago; he constantly drives his friends around wherever they want or need to go ‘cause he’s the only one of them with a car, and then he sticks around to make sure they’re safe; he gave up playing baseball so he would have time to help Sammy with homework everyday after school; and he spends so much of his life giving that for him it’s just autopilot. Dean helps others without a second thought because that’s what he does, and while Cas admires him for it and is grateful beyond reckoning, he knows that the attention Dean gives him doesn’t translate to Dean considering him to be particularly important. Castiel, as usual, cannot decide if he wants to praise Dean, pity him, or pity himself, and as always, decides to do something else entirely. He knows that Dean doesn’t want honest, heavy conversations. He wants to hang out with Cas to have a laugh and watch crap television and ignore the fact that his horrible, shitshow of a childhood is driving by him as quickly as his father drove away. So Cas plays it safe, remains expressionless and replies with: “I want ‘my man’ to not break into my home or wake me up at an ungodly hour.”
Setting the spatula aside, Dean picks up the aforementioned mug of tea, hands it to Cas, and ruffles his bedhead. “What you see is what you get, angel. C’mon, aren’t you thrilled to see me? We haven’t hung out in three weeks.”
Cas takes a sip of tea before replying, and isn’t surprised to find that Dean prepared it perfectly—English Breakfast, milk, no sugar. Typical. He has made one error though, albeit not in regard to the tea. It’s true enough that he hasn’t seen Dean in ages, but that always happens at this time of the year. Cas locks himself away from the world for the week prior to exams and the week of in order to focus all of his attention on his studies. As a reward for his diligence, he also refuses to see anyone for an entire week following exams, and uses that time to catch up on much needed sleep. Dean has come one day early. “You aren’t allowed to be here until tomorrow.” He says simply.
Dean chuckles so goddamn beautifully that Cas honestly doubts he’ll be able to send him away now, and then he says: “Good luck trying to kick me out. You’re too scrawny, Cas. Have you eaten anything apart from Gabe’s candy and frozen dinners for the past month?” Cas looks down sheepishly at his sock-covered toes in lieu of responding. “Seriously, Cas,” Dean continues, when he’s certain his best friend isn’t going to reply, “I know your grades mean everything to you because ‘good grades equals good college equals good future’ and all that, but having a good future counts for shit if you ain’t even fucking alive. You can’t not eat or sleep properly for a month and stay healthy.” He turns off the stove’s burners and starts pulling plates out of cupboards.
“Okay, mom.” Cas sneers. "Are you gonna keep lecturing me or are you gonna feed me some of that bacon?"
Dean’s face falls, his expression grave, and he speaks pointedly. “They’re motherfucking sausage links, you uncultured wench.”
Cas holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “Alright, Dean. Sorry. How was I supposed to know?”
“They smell different, obviously.” A filthy smirk breaks out across Dean’s features, and Castiel can sense that he's about to say something crass and immature. “Besides, isn't meat sort of your area of expertise?”
There it is.
Cas doesn’t want to give Dean the satisfaction of a reaction, but try as he might, he can’t suppresses the blush of embarrassment that suffuses his cheeks. He does manage to compose himself sufficiently to reply, however. “Dean, you are vulgar and disgusting and I hate you.”
Dean laughs again, and pulls his best friend in for a hug. Cas can’t help himself from melting into it, and he wraps his arms snugly around the plaid-covered Winchester’s waist. “I’ve missed you, dude.” Dean says. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities.” It’s only then, in seeing his sleeves around Dean’s middle, that Castiel remembers that the sweater he’s wearing isn’t technically his, and he tenses up. He only hopes Dean doesn’t recognize it. Apparently he doesn’t, to Cas’ palpable relief, because the next thing Dean says is: “Your sweater’s soft, Cas. Is it new?”
“N-No. I found it in my room a while back. I don’t remember where it came from.” He’s hugged Dean on multiple occasions in the 14 years they’ve known one another, but there’s something frighteningly different about it this time—a different energy. Because Dean leans into him too, holds him a little tighter, a beat longer than usual, and his hand is a fraction lower on the small of his back. Cas almost feels inclined to say that it’s intimate. He pushes away from Dean then, perhaps a little too forcefully, because he fears that his heartbeat’s become too erratic for it to escape Dean’s notice for long. He claps Dean’s shoulder awkwardly as he walks past him, feigning interest in the platefuls of food on the counter. “Thanks for breakfast, Dean. What are we eating?”
A lot, as it happens. Dean really outdid himself by the looks of it. The counter is covered with platters of sausage, fried eggs, toast, and pancakes. Cas doesn’t think he could possibly eat it all, but he surprises himself, and even polishes off Dean’s plate once he’s licked his own clean. He immediately regrets doing so though, because he feels so bloated and disgusting that he’s certain his pores are secreting grease. He cradles his food baby as he waddles painfully over to the living room to flop unceremoniously onto the futon. He feels more than a little guilty when the sound of running tap water implies that Dean has taken on cleaning the kitchen by himself, so Cas groans to get his attention. He feels the mattress dip slightly when Dean sits next to him. “What’s up, buddy?”
“Don’t wash any dishes.” He mumbles. “Lemme do it after I nap.” He knows Dean is preparing to protest, so he grabs his arm through lidded eyes to stop him from moving. “Don’t even think about it, Dean. You’ve done enough.”
“What am I gonna do while you nap, Cas? C’mon, let me be useful.”
Cas, delirious and drowsy, gives Dean’s arm a few lazy tugs. “Nap with me. I’m cold.” He thinks Dean has managed to escape when he feels him pry his hand off his arm and pluck the glasses off his face, but then he hears the back of the futon recline, feels Dean throw a blanket that smells faintly of mothballs onto him, and finally, lays down beside him. Cas instinctively scoots closer to Dean, nestles into his side, rests his head upon his shoulder, and throws his arm around his middle. This happens frequently enough that Dean doesn’t hesitate to pull Castiel closer to him. He wraps the arm Cas is half-atop of around his waist, grazing his fingers over the hipbone that juts out from his sweater. The brush causes Cas to clutch at the material of Dean’s shirt and—oh, this is new—he fucking whimpers. Dean knows this should sound some sort of warning alarm in his head, because he has definitely breached normal, platonic interaction. Instead, the noise stirs something within him which evokes an all-consuming desire to hear Cas make that noise again. Multiple times. Dean takes a shuddering breath, and drops a kiss on his forehead.
Cas doesn’t react this time, however, having already been lulled to sleep by the steady thrumming of Dean’s heartbeat.
Dean can’t decide if he’s disappointed or relieved.
____________________________________________________________
He manages to avoid dozing off.
Dean would much rather watch Cas sleep, as he seldom finds himself in situations that allow him to scrutinize his best friend so freely. His eyes trace the contours of Cas’ face: the slopes of his cheekbones, the sharp angles of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He contents himself with watching the rise and fall of his chest for some time as it works in tandem with the catch and release of his breaths, only for another part of Castiel’s anatomy to demand his attention. He finds himself easily distracted, his gaze shifting ceaselessly from one aspect of Cas to the next as he attempts to observe and catalogue the intricacies of his body. There is so little of it available for inspection, however, and so much more of it that he’d like to explore. His hands begin to move at their own volition: gentle, tentative touches as his palms map out the dips and angles of Cas’ back and sides through the layers of his clothes.
Cas is warm, solid; all lean muscle that remains invisible beneath the bulky sweaters he always wears. Dean allows himself to believe that he’s the only person who knows this about Cas—the only person who has been close enough to him and has touched enough of him to know what’s hiding under the cable-knit yarn. Cas has more sex appeal than he gives himself credit for, and while Dean knows that Cas would get a boyfriend instantly if he’d ditch the grandma getup and put himself out there, he’s also terribly pleased that Cas is so reserved; because Dean has always been a little selfish when it comes to Cas, and he’s not sure he could stomach the idea of sharing him. He seriously considers slipping a hand under Cas’s sweater to feel his flesh and the definition of his muscle, but begrudgingly decides against it. He supposes what he’d doing now is innocent enough, but if Cas were to wake up while Dean had his hand up his shirt, he’s fairly certain a conversation about feelings would inevitably follow not long thereafter, and he doesn’t want to deal with rejection right now. He’s not sure he wants to deal with Cas rejecting him ever, which is why he’s determined to never address these feelings that have surfaced within him recently.
Dean shifts onto his side so that he’s face-to-face with Cas, and stares at him some more. He unwillingly begins to imagine the type of man Cas will end up with, the man who will wake to this exact sight every morning. He reckons it’ll be some posh artist who has a swanky apartment in some big, metropolitan city and will write Cas poems and find a muse in him. He wonders what he’ll look like, what he’ll be called—probably something pretentious like Inias or Balthazar or—
“Dean?”
And wouldn’t that be a kicker? If Cas was fated to be with another Dean—a better one. It takes him a moment to realize that the name wasn’t supplied by his pathetic, lovesick brain, but rather by Cas’ lips. His startled green eyes snap up from Cas’ mouth to bore into his drowsy blue orbs. Cas speaks again. “Dean? What’s wrong? You look troubled.” His words are slurred from his post-nap haze.
“It’s nothing, Cas. Go back to sleep.”
Cas yawns, stretches, and settles back into the mattress, closer to Dean than before. They’re breathing the same air now, noses nearly brushing, but Cas’ judgment must still be clouded by sleep because he’s not remotely fazed by their proximity. Dean, by contrast, has to focus all of his attention on Cas’ stupidly blue eyes, because he’s determined not to notice that certain parts of their bodies are pressed together that definitely shouldn’t be. “Talk to me.” Cas says. His breath is warm on Dean’s cold skin, and the contrast makes him shiver. Unfortunately, in doing so, Dean's crotch rubs against Cas’ and there is no way the hard line pressed against the zipper of his jeans escaped Cas’ notice. Cas whimpers again. Then his eyes go wide with panic. “Fuck. God, I’m sorry, I’ll just—” Cas starts inching away, presumably to get off the futon, and for reasons unbeknownst to Dean, instead of letting him go, he tightens his hold on him.
“Shh, Cas, calm down, it was my fault.” Dean’s hands travel up to hold Cas’ face, forcing him to stop resisting and look at him properly. Dean reckons their friendship is fucked now anyways, or at the very least, in desperate need of renovation, so he figures now is as good of a time as any to throw in the towel. He doesn’t quite know how to proceed, because he’s always been spontaneous, has never put much thought into any of his actions because they’ve never mattered—not like this. He’s not sure he knows how to think before acting, but he’ll be damned if he won’t make the effort for Cas. “Cas…” he starts, and his voice sounds hesitant and nervous even to his ears. There’s a weight and vulnerability to his tone that must manage to convey what he can’t quite articulate because Cas relaxes considerably in his hands, and he looks at Dean so earnestly that Dean forgets to breathe.
Dean leans in a fraction so their foreheads are touching, so that his intentions are clear and Cas can retreat if he wants to. He doesn’t. Instead, his own hand reaches up to brush against Dean’s cheek, and then up again to card through his hair. That’s all the affirmation Dean needs. He pulls Cas’ face to his and slots their lips together gently.
Cas has imagined this before—dreamed about it—but every time he has it involved a lot more urgency and much less clothing and it was hot and rough and messy. And he hopes they’ll get to that too, someday, because he’s absolutely starving for it, but this… This is sweet and gentle, all tentative licks and gentle nips and small gasps. It’s meaningful and careful and it’s so utterly Dean that he’d be happy to do nothing else for a millenia. He whines when Dean pulls away, blushes when a kiss is dropped on the tip of his nose, and stares at Dean with lust-blown eyes when he hears his name whispered. “Hey Cas, I want you to take off my sweater.” Cas’ gasp of surprise is muffled by Dean’s lips on his again, and when they break apart Dean supplies an answer before Cas can ask for it. “I left it in your room on purpose. I thought It’d bring out your eyes.”
Cas grins, and dissolves into a fit of laughter, which evolves into a string of whimpered expletives when Dean’s mouth latches onto his neck. Dean reinstates that he’d really, really like Cas to take his sweater off, ‘cause he’s three months overdue in returning it, and this time Cas acquiesces.
As he’s leading Dean up the stairs to his bedroom, nerdy, 17-year-old almost-not-virgin Castiel considers that despite having never held a gun, played poker, saved a life, nor drunk a shaken martini like James Bond has, he might not be the one who's missing out. For, no matter what James Bond has accomplished in his kick-ass, fictional existence, he’s never had the privilege of waking to find Dean Winchester cooking him breakfast.