Chapter Text
Castiel tastes the sauce with his thumb and frowns, because there's something not right about it that he can't put his finger on. He tries to project himself into critic mood rather than cook mode, but it's useless. He can read faux emotional states from cooking errors, but he can't hone into the knitty gritty and declare not enough salt with any degree of confidence. The sauce tastes like Castiel is apprehensive and unsure and overthinking everything, which may in fact translate to too much salt, or too little seasoning. He needs Dean to translate his abstract notions into something helpful. You gotta trust your mouth, Cas, don't think too hard. This parts all about instinct. It's emotional. Just, taste. What do you feel?
He could add pepper? More parsley?
“Well, that day was a total shitshow --” Dean’s voice carries from the the doorway of their apartment, even though he is very much not supposed to be home right now.
“You're supposed to be at work,” Castiel says, hurrying out of the kitchen to block Dean's usual path towards coffee, or beer, depending on the point of the day. At five thirty, it could go either way.
“Uh, you know it's my birthday right? You're supposed to be nice to me and all that junk,” Dean says, with a lopsided smile that makes Castiel's chest warm up slightly. Dean is lovely, even when he's objectively disgusting from the heat of the kitchen after the shortest shower a human has ever taken this morning, after Castiel wished him a happy birthday thoroughly enough to make him exceptionally late.
“Yes,” Castiel says, impatiently, “Happy birthday. Why are you here?”
“To see my freaking charming boyfriend,” Dean says, then he hoans on his skin just below his earlobe with his bright green gaze. Dean swipes a thumb across his skin, coming away with sauce. Dean tastes it because he is impossible and wonderful. “More pepper,” Dean says, mouth hinting a smile.
“You cannot tell from that.”
“Okay,” Dean says, pressing his lips to the bolt of Cas jaw, swiping a tongue over the skin like this is a normal way to greet someone after you’ve inexplicably returned from work early. Castiel curls a hand against his chest, anyway, because… Dean. Dean pulls back and smirks at him. “You're right, man. Needs more everything -- pepper, salt and parsley.”
“Really?”
“What is she? A priest’s daughter. Ramp it up, Cas. Add sex appeal.”
“You just like discussing sex,”
“Guilty,” Dean grins, nudging him with his hip. “You cooking me dinner?”
“No,” Castiel says, “Now go away.”
“Nu-uh,”
“Now you establish healthy work life boundaries,”
“Ah, don't bitch at me on my birthday, Cas.”
“You seem very convicted of this belief that I care to celebrate the anniversary of your birth,” Castiel says, with his best attempt at his cool and collected face that Dean has been able to see through for a long time now.
“Uh huh, whatever you say, Darlin’ --”
"--- Really,” Castiel says, “Your brother said you prefer low key celebrations so I haven't prepared anything.”
“I can smell pie,” Dean says , and heads for the kitchen.
“There's no pie,” Castiel says, following him into the kitchen, even though it's useless and he’s not really committed to any of this being a surprise, anyway. He told Dean to try and get off work on time (by which he had meant around nine PM, not five thirty) and… if Dean hadn’t have come home, he probably would overthought the ridiculous sauce to the point of ruining it. This is better. “ I got cake. That's what you prefer, right?”
“Man, you wanted to pull off this not caring about my birthday crap, you shouldn't have gone to town on the birthday sex this morning.”
“Your complaint is duly noted. It won't happen again next year,” Castiel says, stepping round his ridiculous, infuriating and lovely boyfriend in order to block the view of the oven. They’ve spoke carelessly about next years like they were a given for a while, now, but there’s something about doing so right now that resparks the worry that seeing Dean had pushed down.
“I was kind of hoping it would happen again next freaking hour.”
“Is that why you're home early?” Castiel asks, smirking at him a little, “Because you're horny and you think you get special treatment because it's your birthday?”
“The big three zero, Cas,” Dean grins, bending down to assess the pie in the oven, peering past Castiel’s legs to leer at it. “But, no, work kind of sucked -- not in the fun way -- and then I remembered I'm the freaking boss, so.”
“Did Charlie make you go home?”
“Yeah,” Dean concedes, straightening up to look at him with a broad smile. God, he loves this man. Those smiles. The fact that he can very much envision the conversation that must have happened before Charlie finally ordered him out of the kitchen. “What's going in the pie, Cas?”
“It's not for you,” Castiel says, “I'm baking it for deprived children.”
“Uh uh.”
“I'm very busy writing, Dean, go away.”
“It's cute when you try and be annoying.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Castiel says, “And now you're going to try and interfere.”
“Won't,”
“Dean, you already told me how to season my sauce and I can see you trying to turn the oven down without me noticing,” Castiel says, sending a pointed look to Dean’s hands; one resting against the oven temperature dial, the other just millimeters away from Castiel’s hip on the kitchen counter.
“Just... don't want it to catch.”
“Go and watch TV, Mr Birthday,” Castiel says, “This pie will live or die by my hands.”
“Will you let me stay in the kitchen if I pinky promise not to backseat drive?” Dean asks, presenting Castiel with his little finger like this is a reasonable way for adults to solve debates. That is Dean Winchester, though. A fully fledged adult who will insist on playing (and losing) rock, paper scissors to decide who should do the laundry, something fundamentally endearing leaking out of his every movement.
“Fine,” Castiel concedes, offering his finger out to humour him. Dean’s smile widens. He is in a very good mood today and it’s hard not to be swept up in it. “But you will allow to me look after you, Dean Winchester.”
“Okay,” Dean grins, taking a seat at the breakfast bar and propping his chin up on his elbow as he watches him. Castiel turns down the oven despite himself. “Cas,” Dean says, after a few minutes of companionable silence have passed while Castiel reasons his sauce while trying not to overthink about any of it. “How the hell did you even get sauce on you freaking neck?”
In the end, it's probably the best thing he's ever cooked, and he only asks for Dean’s assistance ten minutes before everything's ready, when the usual cooking related anxiety begins to press in on all sides.
Besides, it’s good for Dean’s ego to play the knight in shining armour, even for his own birthday dinner.
*
“Presents now,” Castiel declares, after they've spent enough time sat on the sofa, sleepily full, for the gnawing worry about Dean's birthday to come crawling back to him. Castiel is bad at presents, and it's only just been Christmas, and for some reason that he is not yet ready to discuss he has felt nothing but nauseating nervousness about this whole day since he got back from visiting his brothers for Christmas. Now, he wants it done with. He has taken two days off work to actually see Dean (damn Dean’s work schedule) and he has cooked and Dean looks happy and content and as worry free as Castiel has ever seen him, so perhaps they can slide past the issue of what to give a man who so persistently invests his happiness in other people rather than himself, and get the whole thing done.
“Uh, presents plural?” Dean asks, untangling his arm from round Castiel's shoulders to better the grip on his wine (Dean, for all his posturing about being a beer men, has excellent taste in wine and drinks it with dinner more often than not. Castiel bought his favourite bottle). “You know I was kidding about giving a crap about my birthday --?”
Dean smiles, all crinkled and lovely, at both the food processor (Dean never replaces any of his kitchen equipment at home, despite the fact that every time he sees this type of food processor on the TV adverts he starts talking excitedly about speeds and settings and six hundred other things Castiel does not understand) and a year’s subscription to fancy coffee. Dean is practical, but Castiel wanted him to have something nice too, because he's not very good at allowing himself luxuries in the way he lathers then on other people.
“You know, this is kind of, uh, overkill right?” Dean asks, pleasant pink tinge to his cheeks, “Not that it isn’t awesome, but , uh, pretty sure I took you out for dinner and bought you a freaking book for your birthday and —”
Castiel's birthday was several weeks after they started up their official relationship, and is an entirely different thing to this as far as Castiel is concerned. And it was an exceptionally good dinner.
“There's more,” Castiel says, some more of the dread beginning to creep up on him, but he... freaked out. He was in the shopping mall, which he detests , and he freaked out and he called Sam for help , and then he called Anna, and then he inadvertently lost his damn mind.
“There's more?” Dean asks, eyebrows raising now.
“I,” Castiel begins, but he might as well attempt honesty. “I panicked.”
“This is panic?” Dean asks, looking at him slowly. If Dean has this expression of confusion at this point in the game, Castiel doesn’t know what’s going to happen when the rest of it comes out in the wash, but…
“Yes,” Castiel says, and really, it’s going to be easier to show him. Easier for Castiel to go back to their shared bedroom and dig out the rest of the gifts he purchased in the middle of his own (hopefully) premature mid-life crisis, to cross the room with all the bags in his hands and press the rest of Dean's gifts in his direction with a distinct sense of shame. “This is panic.”
And, oh god, Castiel bought him panties. He'd lost any semblance of sanity by this point, and he doesn't remember how many pairs he bought. Had no idea what he was thinking when he bought the damn cheese grater, or the book on Japanese cooking (the one type of cuisine Dean has said, matter of fact, that he totally sucks at). He thinks he bought a series of Doctor Sexy and maybe two new shirts and definitely a pack of six pairs of black socks.
Dean just looks at him.
“I, wow. Okay,” Dean says, stopping all together after he's opened the third pair of fucking panties to look at him. “When you say, you panicked…?”
“I didn't know what to buy you.”
“So you --- bought freaking everything?”
“I was stressed,” Castiel says, ringing his hands at the foot off the sofa. He’d been avoiding addressing this conversation, bbecause these conversations never go well. Castiel gets too intense and too emotional about everything and it all ends up difficult and upsetting, but then it leaked out into this crazed-shopping and his credit card bill.
“I don’t get it,” Dean says, which is reasonable. Very reasonable. This makes very little sense, and if Castiel had been thinking clearly enough he would’ve returned half of these damn presents before it was too late. “What are you… what are you panicking about? I thought … thought things were going pretty good.”
“Exactly,” Castiel says, helplessly.
“What? Cas, you know that I don’t really care about birthdays. Dinner would have been a pretty sweet deal, if you ask me,” Dean says, entirely honestly, and Castiel knew that. That was part of the fuel for this madness in the first place; the knowledge that Dean would consider Castiel cooking him dinner and a few beers with Sam and Charlie tomorrow more than sufficient to make him happy, even though Castiel is a terrible cook and Sam should probably find more time to see his brother every week, not just the one his birthday is in. He wants Dean Winchester to have endless good things. He wants him to have the best damnable kitchen equipment in their kitchen, at home, and he wants him to have exceptionally good coffee, and to embrace the part of himself that finds wearing women’s underwear hot, and to have his favourite TV show on tap (even though it’s terrible) and, most of all, he wants to be the one to give these things to Dean.
“It's your thirtieth,” Castiel says, weakly, as though that offers anything bordering an explanation for this.
“Yeah, I know. Sam got me the card.”
“Most people freak out about this.”
Castiel is still standing in front of him, awkward and anxious, but he’s not sure he can move.
He should not have started this conversation.
No, he should have started this conversation, but as a conversation. Not via the medium of excess gift giving and not on Dean’s birthday, because it could all go wrong, and that’s probably what has left Castiel frantically practicing cooking and thinking himself into difficult corners that he’s needed Anna to help him out of.
“And instead you freaked out for me?” Dean says, “Look, Cas, first time in my goddamn life things are pretty fucking good in all areas of my life. Sam's doing good, profits are steady, I got you. Pretty damn impressive turnaround from twenty nine, so. I'm good. Thirty is good. I'll take it.”
“The… The scope of the birthday celebration was accidental,” Castiel says, more blurts out than anything, “But, Dean,” Castiel continues, mouth pulled into something and, what is he doing? Why is this surprising and wonderful man capable of leaving Castiel so idiotic? Dean called it wiring problems, once, and the description is apt. Dean has entirely broken his internal functioning. “I kept thinking about your sixteenth birthday.”
Dean looks at him blankly. He has absolutely no fucking idea what Castiel is talking about.
“You told me about it. About your father neglecting to come home -”
“Dude, that was supposed to be a happy story about Sam.”
“Your brother borrowing money from your food budget to purchase you a second hand Metallica record is not a happy story,”
“Okay, when you put it like that, but -”
“ - I wanted you to have nice things, but you are so very unmotivated by stuff , and I kept thinking about Christmas and….” Castiel trails off, because there’s nowhere else to go with this than the truth, even though it's paralysing and complicated and will probably implode. He wishes he was sat down, but now it feels too uncomfortable to do it. “I suppose it was supposed to be a gesture.”
“A gesture?”
“There's something I wanted to say.”
“Okay,” Dean says, “Then say it.”
Then say it.
Castiel vehemently wishes that it was that simple.
“I don't know how,” Castiel says, voice cracking slightly.
“So you bought me a freaking food processor?” Dean asks, “Wait, this isn't some kind of apology, is it? I --- what happened at Christmas?”
“No,” Castiel says, frowning, “No. I just… I missed you at Christmas.”
“Okay,” Dean says, eyes slightly narrowed, resolutely not looking away from him. Castiel would very much like to hide in their shared bedroom, or go back in time and not mention the excessive amount of things he purchased in Dean’s honour by accident, or just sit the fuck down. “Right back at you. Just didn't realise the way to say that was twelve pairs of freaking panties -?”
Twelve pairs.
Castiel is utterly moronic.
“Is there,” Castiel begins, “Oh. I really bought twelve pairs?”
“Uh, going by the Victoria secret wrapping paper...” Dean says, gesturing at the pile of presents on his lap, some of which have slid onto the floor during this conversation. Castiel stands there and gapes at him for a few long moments and decides that it is not the time to mention the fact that Dean recognises Victoria Secret wrapping paper, but to file it away for later.
If they ever get past this conversation.
“I don't mean I missed you, I mean that it was hateful that you weren't there.”
“Cas, you're kind of freaking me out,” Dean says, evenly. A pair of black panties falls off his lap. “Like, a lot freaking me out.”
“Why is this so difficult?” Castiel asks, frustrated and still stood up. “Dean, I love you. That's… That's all.”
“No, it ain't. Cas. Talk to me.”
“You'll become uncomfortable,”
“This is making me uncomfortable.”
Castiel feels vaguely ill.
“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,”
“I don't mean the freaky amount of women's underwear, dude, I mean the way you're clamming up like a… Like a clam. Or something. And, sit the fuck down, Cas,” Dean says, reaching out to tug on his arm, pulling him back towards the sofa. Thank God.
“Dean,”
“The last time someone I was dating bought me more than one freaking present for my birthday she was cheating on me, so….”
This is not going as Castiel anticipated.
“I'm not cheating on you.”
“Damnit, I know that! That's not what I freaking meant, but this is starting to feel a lot like overcompensating.”
Oh, god.
He is. Castiel is overcompensating. He is overcompensating hard.
He is his damnable sauce: apprehensive and unsure and overthinking.
“I… I don't want to do another Christmas separately,” Castiel says, after a few long moments of silence while Dean waits him out. Dean blinks at the words when he finally speaks, gaze racking over Castiel’s skin.
“I - okay? Well, we can try and do some scheduling next year -”
“I mean, indefinitely.”
“You mean, ever?”
“Dean,” Cas says, frustrated, “I think this is going very well. Remarkably so, given our early history.”
“Well, me too,” Dean says, scanning his face, his expression softening slightly and… and, Castiel thinks he might have caught on to what Castiel has been chewing over in his head for weeks, but… he can’t have, because there is no way that Dean would look so calm if he was even minutely aware of what’s been going on in Castiel’s head since Christmas . “You're talking forever, now. So this is a future kind of conversation, huh?”
Except, maybe he has.
“I… Maybe,”
“You're know you're kind of verbally constipated for a freaking writer,” Dean says, easily. “Cas. Talk to me. I'm not gonna get freaked out. What does this have to with Christmas?”
“Gabriel was being profoundly irritating and Lilith was… It doesn't matter. They were loud and frustrating and I missed you, and it hit me that I wanted our relationship to be permanent. As in, I want to see your fortieth and your seventieth birthdays and… It's soon, Dean. I was with Balthazar for three years it never occurred to me to consider retirement, so I bought you a food processor and cooked you dinner and I bought an obscene amount of women's underwear and I think there's a garlic crusher there somewhere and, Dean, I think I really alarmed the woman in the lingerie shop -”
“No shit,” Dean snorts, reaching out to take hold of his hand. “You wanna like,” Dean says, looking remarkably like he's not squirming considering the grenade Castiel has just dropped into his birthday proceedings, via the medium of underwear. Wonderful. Dean runs a tongue unconsciously over his lips. “You… you wanna do that whole picket fence thing? With me?”
“Yes,” Castiel says, finally still.
“Like, marriage and mortgages and that junk?”
“I… I don’t know if I want to get married, but if I were to want to marry anyone… Then yes, it would be you.”
“Okay,” Dean says, “Huh.”
And this is where it all starts to blow up in his face. When Dean looks at him and tells him he’s an imbecile, because they haven’t known each other for that long, and it at beginning it was so ridiculous and complicated and --
“Dean, please don't construe this as pressure, I'm just-”
“- kids?” Dean interrupts and, and, Dean is still holding his hand.
And…
Kids?
“What?”
“Is that something you want? If we're talking future here, let's talk future.”
“Yes,” Castiel says, chest tight. “Yes, I want kids.”
The part of his brain that is still functioning stops him before he adds with you onto the end of the sentence, but it is still very much implied.
“Awesome,” Dean says. Castiel is very still, because he doesn’t know what will happen if he moves, or if he accidentally opens his mouth. “Couldn't work you out on that one.”
Oh.
“You… You have considered whether I’d want children?”
“Six months might be a drop in the ocean to you, but this is like three months longer than my longest relationship ever, and that's not counting that whole bit when I was lying to you about everything but still kinda crazy about you,” Dean says.
“You know I'm not that much older than you.”
“I mean compared to Balthazar, Grandad,” Dean says with an eye roll, pulling Castiel closer to him on the sofa, right into the space next to his arm. “Pretty sure your first college boyfriend was longer than this, too.”
“But,” Castiel says, his voice still a little strangled, “You’ve thought about these things?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, hand on Castiel's knee. “I mean, not like enough to stress buy nearly two weeks worth of freaking underwear, but yeah. You’re basically the best thing that's ever happened to me.”
Castiel freezes.
Dean shifts slightly and looks at him.
“I mean, you gotta know that, right? I know we're not exactly the best freaking communicators about this stuff, but, I've literally never been this happy before,” Dean says, and the noise in Castiel's head goes very quiet. Completely and utterly silent. “Okay. So you didn't know that. Well.”
“Me neither,” Castiel says, a little breathily.
“Awesome,” Dean says, pulling Castiel's legs more or less into his lap before he kisses him, slow and easy. “Also, this is the most adorable freak out I've ever seen in my goddamn life. You --- did you say there was a garlic crusher somewhere amongst this crap?”
“Yes,” Castiel says, flushing slightly. “You hate washing yours up, and this one has a detachable compartment you can put in the dishwasher.”
“Must be this one,” Dean says, reaching for a package that fell off his lap a while ago. It is not, in fact, the garlic crusher, but some razor maintenance kit that he bought at the end of his hellish shopping trip. “Uh, okay.”
“You have that nice fancy razor your father gave you -”
“ - what's this?” Dean asks, picking up something else. His smile is back now, with a vengeance, like he’s lit up with some secret joy locked in his chest and… and Dean didn’t freak out. He didn’t tell Castiel no fucking way, dude and… and he is happy and Castiel is very very happy right now.
“Dean, must we do this? It's embarrassing.”
“You want embarrassing, Sunshine, you try being chucked out your own damn restaurant by your big gay date in the middle of dinner service.”
“I'm not big,”
“ Oh, you're big in all the ways that count,” Dean grins, peeling the packaging off the next gift. Slaughterhouse five, with a limited edition cover. Castiel barely remembers buying it, but now Dean turns a raised eyebrow in his direction he does remember why.
“You said it was your favourite book, but you gave Sam your copy when he went to Stanford.”
“This game is fun,” Dean grins at him, eyes bright, “We’re taking at least half of it back, but --- I'm gonna open all the panties.”
Castiel hides his face in Dean's neck and finds himself laughing despite of himself as Dean works his way through all of it, because… Castiel is ridiculous, and Dean sweet and kind and has wondered whether Castiel wants children. He says things like ‘big gay date’ out loud without freaking out, these days, and he rests a hand on Castiel's back as he gently mocks him for all his impulse purchase, and he is most definitely the love of Castiel’s life.
“Okay,” Dean says, mouth soft as he opens the final package. “What's with the socks?”
“You need socks.”
“No, I don't,”
“ Dean,” Castiel says, fumbling to pull Deans leg up on to the sofa, and removing his sock from his foot. “This has three holes in, it's turned grey in the wash and,” Castiel continues, reaching for his other foot, “It doesn't even match your other sock.”
“These are going back.”
“No,” Castiel says, “You can return the colour coded chopping boards but-”
“Cas,” Dean says, caught halfway between a laugh and a wide smile, leaning over to retrieve his Victoria Secret purchases and throwing them more or less in his face, “Pick your favourite.”
And Castiel is absolutely not going to turn that down.
*
Castiel wakes up alone, which is not unusual. The persistent and apparently ‘unavoidable’ prevalence of early mornings is probably Dean Winchester’s biggest flaw as a boyfriend; or at least, it’s a trait that he’s yet to ever find endearing. Especially given Dean considers a day and a half off in the middle of the week an adequate substitution for a weekend and even on those days still insists on waking up before Castiel would generally wake up on the days that he’s working at the office. He feels, very strongly, that it his mission in life to ensure that Dean actually sleeps (or at the very least, stays in bed) past nine AM at least once a month and he is prepared to use all moves in his arsenal to that goal, including that thing with his tongue, butchering the concept of breakfast in bed and hiding all the clocks and telling Dean that it’s still three AM.
He has varying degrees of success.
His record remains ten forty five, but he’d been hoping to push past the eleven AM barrier this morning in the name of continuing to celebrate Dean’s thirtieth birthday, so it’s highly irritating that he’s already up, given that it’s only -
Ah. Half ten.
And, oh, Castiel bought Dean a food processor and three books, a subscription to fancy coffee, twelve pairs of painties, cooked him dinner and then told him that he wanted to have his children. Dean was remarkable lovely about his ridiculous freakout about the depths of his feelings (he has discovered, more and more recently, that Dean is an expert at dealing with Castiel’s personal brand of emotional baggage), and now --
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, wondering into the kitchen in a pair of Dean’s boxers and blinking owlishly at the surfaces because… Dean has cooked. Not cooked breakfast - although at least some of it is breakfast, and something smells cheesy and delicious and has made Castiel realised that he is distinctly hungry - but cooked, it seems, everything in the kitchen.
“Uh,” Dean says, not looking up from where he is frantically chopping up the marrow Castiel is quite sure was not in the fridge when Castiel went to bed last night. In fact, he doesn’t remember most of these groceries being in their apartment, which means that Dean has been awake long enough both to cook enough to fulfil an entire service worth of orders, and to go to the shops to buy the ingredients. “Hey.”
There is coffee, which is good. Vital.
“Dean,” Castiel says, very evenly, after he’s drank half his mug of coffee and watched Dean move seamlessly from stuffing the marrow with bread crumbs, parmesan and pine nuts, to reaching for some kind of squash that Castiel is entirely sure Dean spent one evening in late autumn trying to teach him how to recognise the difference from some other kind of squash. They’re a whole, freaking different shape, Cas, and they taste totally different. Come on. Open up, right, okay. Totally fucking different, right? “Is there a possibility that you’re belatedly freaking out about the conversation that we had last night?”
“I,” Dean begins, pausing before he beheads the squash with much more enthusiasm than when he usually chops up vegetables. “No,” He finishes, in what is possibly the least convincing attempt at shaming being in a good head space since the incident where Castiel met Sam and Jess at Trickster Cafe when they both believed he was a woman. “No.”
“Okay,” Castiel says, taking another sip of his coffee and watching Dean cube the squash with interest. “This is a lot of food.”
“Yep,” Dean says, popping the p and not looking at him. The squash is tipped into a baking tray, seasoned with sage and salt before it joins the stuffed marrow in the oven. Castiel is relatively sure that there is a pie crust cooking on the bottom shelf and… Dean is lovely. He is an esquite, possibly mildly insane creature, who Castiel is very much in love with.
He probably should have expected this.
“Dean -”
“ - I, shit, I need more cheese,”
“You,” Castiel begins, then his mouth pulls into a smile that he can’t really help, “You need more than the four kinds of cheese I can see on the counter?”
“I, uh, goats cheese,” Dean says, “For the squash. Otherwise it’ll … it’ll suck.”
“Okay,” Castiel says, “Do you want me to go and buy you the goats cheese?”
“Dude,” Dean says, finally turning to look at him. There’s a soft, grateful hue to his eyes that seems to acknowledge the fact that he is very aware that he’s being ridiculous and is glad that Castiel is humouring him rather than getting upset. “You’re not even a little bit dressed.”
“This is an accurate observation.”
“Asshole,” Dean says, affectionately, “I’m, uh, gonna go to the shop. You need anything?”
“Is there anything left in the shop?” Castiel asks, mildly, “Except goats cheese?”
“Don’t start with me, Mr a dozen pairs of women’s underwear.”
“I would plead the fifth, but I am utterly unashamed about incriminating myself.”
“This side of the morning, maybe,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck for a moment before he reaches for his jacket. He pauses to kiss Castiel before he double checks he has his car keys, which at least means that he hasn’t sunk so far into his head that Castiel should be concerned.
“Wait,” Castiel says, pressing one of his reusable carrier bags in Dean’s direction and pulling him in for another kiss, just because.
“Freakin’ hippy,” Dean mutters, accepting both the carrier bag and the kiss with a pleasing pink flush.
“Dean,” Castiel begins.
“ - Look, Cas, can we -”
“ - is this food preserved for some specific purpose, or -?”
“ Your freaking omelette is finishing under the grill. Put it in when I heard you waking up. Give it two minutes.” Dean says, with one of those charming smiles, before he kisses him again and leaves Castiel alone in the apartment with sixteen different dishes, all partially finished, spread out across the counters.
It occurs to Castiel in a moment of real panic that the oven is on and that Dean effectively left in charge of…. whatever it is that he’s cooking, before he makes the executive decision to shut the oven door with his knee and ignore it. Dean is not cooking for anything but the sake of cooking; he will forgive him some burnt butternut squash. He has done so before (six times).
Castiel tops off his coffee and narrows his eyes at the food scattered across the counters and… and, that’s Dean’s version of his mother’s three cheese omelette under the grill; pasta bake with baby zucchini hidden below the tray of mini baked potatoes Dean cooked for him, a month into their official relationship, to prove some point that Castiel can’t remember anymore; it is the type of squash that Dean tried to teach him to differentiate between; Castiel dared him he couldn’t make anything worth eating out of the sad, overgrown marrow at the grocers the week he moved in.
Castiel isn’t concerned that Dean is freaking out, because he just spent the better part of three weeks freaking out, and because Dean told him in that, even, butter-lovely voice of his that he’d wondered whether Cas wanted children before and…. And Castiel’s freak out manifested in ridiculous, overblown gifts in lieu of words, and now Dean is re-cooking all the significant moments of their relationship which, from Dean, is more like a love confession than a love confession.
Dean Winchester does not write sonnets, he cooks pie crusts and puts omelettes under the grill when he hears you begin to wake up.
And Castiel is very content to sit at the breakfast bar, surrounded by dishes that Dean has lovingly and anxiously crafted, to drink his coffee and eat his omelette and wait for Dean to come back home and be ready to talk about this. With goats cheese, if he remembers his guise for getting out of the apartment for long enough to commit to the purchase. And one day, he thinks he would like to marry Dean Winchester. To buy a house and have children and grow old together.
It doesn’t seem nearly as alarming this morning.
Then the doorbell rings, and Castiel remembers just after he’s opened the door, that in his crazed anxiety about Dean’s birthday, he organised a goddamn birthday party.
“I,” Castiel says, suddenly aware that he’s wearing Dean’s underwear, nothing else and facing down Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore in the doorway, “Hello.”
“Um, hey Cas,” Sam says, resolutely not looking downwards, “Is Dean, uh, decent?”
“He went to the shop,” Castiel says, stepping back from the door and glancing round the apartment. There is an entire saucepan of risotto abandoned on the coffee table and a block of cheese inexplicably on the sofa, and Castiel doesn’t really know what to say to explain what is happening, or why he forgot about the semi-surprise birthday that he arranged in Dean’s honour. “He…. he’s been cooking.”
“You don’t say,” Jess says, raising a stark eyebrow as she glances around the kitchen.
“Everything okay, Cas?”
“Yes,” Castiel says, “I -- I’m just going to… get dressed.”
“Maybe shower,” Jess says, lightly, “Just a suggestion.”
Right. Something he definitely did not do after either of the last two rounds of birthday sex yesterday evening.
“Yes,” Castiel says, “Will you -- watch the squash?”
“Sure,” Sam says, blinking at him like he’s lost his mind, which is reasonable.
“And the marrow and, I think there might be a pie crust -”
“All things in the oven are being watched,” Jess says with a mock salute, “And, um, maybe we’ll clean up a little. Before all the… other people arrive.”
“Yes,” Castiel says, expression pinched, “Thanks.”
He had most definitely forgotten about the other people.
*
“Okay, Cas,” Dean says, barrelling through the front door of the apartment before Castiel is able to warn him, “I am down with the housing buying, cause that’s gonna take a while. We can start saving and planning for that, or whatever, but we’re tabling the fucking marriage talk for at least four months, and we’re taking back some of the goddamn panties because there’s no way in hell I need…”
Castiel brain gets very stuck on four months at the exact moment that Dean turns round from hanging up his coat, and registers that Sam, Jess, Charlie, Gabriel and Kevin are all sat in his front room.
Dean drops his car keys.
Castiel is very, very still for a few moments and then, because Dean is not the only one whose brain breaks sometimes, says the first thing that comes into his head.
“Did you get the goats cheese?”
There is an achingly loud pause during which Dean does not even attempt to pick up his keys or answer Castiel’s inane question about goats cheese, and Castiel realises that no one else is filling the black hole in this conversation, either.
“Also…. Happy Birthday. Um. Surprise.”
Dean looks a little like he might be having a stroke.
“So,” Charlie says, after the silence has stretched out to the point of being painful, “Hey, Cas, why don’t you go talk to Dean about that thing outside, for a minute. You know, that thing you were just… telling us about?”
“Yes,” Castiel says, because that is an excellent idea and then he drags Dean out into the corridor by his arm and looks at him, not blinking. Dean has now turned slightly purple. It would be entertaining, if Castiel’s brain wasn’t resolutely repeating four months over and over, and if he were turning purple for something that was much less personal and awful than accidentally revealing to his closest family and friends something as private as that he occasionally wears women’s underwear, and would consider resuming the conversation about marriage in four months. “Are you all right?”
“Did that just -?”
“Yes,” Castiel says, “Yes, it did.”
“And -- Sam, and Jess?”
“Yes,”
“And…. Gabriel?”
“Yes, he was also in attendance.”
“Kevin?” Dean asks, “Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Why are they here?”
“I,” Castiel begins, then swallows, “Dean, I may have organised you a birthday party in the midst of my aforementioned panic about how in love with you I am. Although in my defence, I didn’t foresee this as a consequence and, also, I forgot.”
“You… you forgot that you planned me a surprise birthday party?”
“Yes,” Castiel says, “I was very surprised when your brother turned up when I was wearing your underwear.”
“Jesus,” Dean blinks, “Oh, fuck.”
“They might think you were talking about my underwear,”
“I appreciate the effort here, Cas, but that would make literally no sense,” Dean says, “Oh god, Gabriel knows you bought me fucking panties.”
“You would be willing to talk about marriage in four months?”
“Uh,” Dean says, the word sticking at the back his throat, “I mean, yeah.”
“Oh,” Castiel says, a pleasing warmth settling over his chest, something giddy and terrifying and completely wonderful. “Dean, I know you’re having a crisis, but I’d really like to kiss you now.”
Dean falls into it. Winds his arms around Castiel’s back and holds him, tight, with the bag of (presumably) goats cheese still in his left hand and… and this is good. This is excellent and as comforting and sustaining as Dean’s best winter stew; solid, surprising, lovely.
“Allright,” Dean mutters into his skin after a little while. Probably too long for them to be in the corridor rather than in their apartment, but not long enough as far as Castiel is concerned, “We should probably, uh… face the hyenas. Celebrate my motherfucking birthday.”
“Dean, I am sure no one will say anything,”
“Uh, Cas, you’ve met my brother, right? Scratch that, you’ve met your brother. No chance in hell no one’s gonna say anything,” Dean says, squaring his shoulders and taking a few deep, steadying breaths, “You may not believe it, but this kind of bullshit didn’t happen to me before I met you.”
“I like to think that I am worth it,” Castiel says, nudging him with his shoulder.
“Just about,” Dean says, offering him an easy, barely self-conscious smile and takes his hand before they head back into the apartment.
As it turns out, Gabriel is still laughing.
Castiel throws the goats cheese at him.
It does not help.
*
“You know,” Castiel says, as he picks around the room retrieving the laundry they shed all over their bedroom at various points in the past two days, pausing at the panties that ended up half under the bed. Dean is propped up against the pillows on their bed reading through Castiel's latest article for the food magazine before he sends it off to them, because Dean is an excellent boyfriend. “There are twelve months in the year.”
“Hm?” Dean says, glancing up at him, just barely paying attention, “You really think the guy at the steak restaurant has masculinity issues?”
“Dean,” Castiel says, mouth poised into an almost smile, “He called one of the options on the menu a ‘woman sized’ portion. Frankly, I'm astounded he's managed to avoid being branded a misogynist by the general populace.”
“Huh,” Dean says, “Freaking sweet peppercorn sauce though,”
“I wouldn't know, given you stole my steak.”
“That is a damned lie. I had a bite of your steak, and you’ve been a baby about it for weeks,”
“I was in the bathroom.”
“You snooze you loose. Review’s good, Cas. Really good. Better than the review of that douchey vegan joy sucker,” Dean says, flipping Castiel's laptop shut, “Did you just tell me there are twelve months in the year?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks for the tip, Buddy,” Dean says, “Did you lose your mind again?”
“I'm saying that perhaps we shouldn't return the underwear: twelve pairs, twelve months.”
“We could do that,” Dean says, gaze tracking Castiel's progress round the edge of their bed. Castiel puts another pair of jeans in the hamper and vaguely considers that they should keep more on top of the laundry.. “Or,” Dean says, his fingers dipping under the waistband of his jeans and lowering them just enough for Castiel to see a shock or lace, “Or not.”
“Have you been wearing those all day?”
“Yep,” Dean says.
“That is unacceptably hot,” Castiel says, and then he smiles, “And, snap.”
Dean's easy expression of confidence flickers into a blank look of shock before he speaks again. Well, stutters, because Dean is so deliciously entertaining to rile up.
“You,” Dean says, “You're not?”
“I thought I'd try it, given we have a sudden plethora of options.”
“Which ones?” Dean asks, his voice a little hoarse.
“You may never know,” Castiel says, picking up the rest of the laundry and arching his back as he stands, because he know that Dean is watching his every movement and it’s entertaining and the best kind of satisfying. “I've missed seeing you flustered.”
“You, shut up,” Dean says, “Fuck, you're hot.”
“Thank you,”
“Thanks for my birthday party,” Dean says, sitting up and crossing his legs, very deliberately. “Even if I nearly decked your brother,”
“He would have deserved it. It was convenient that you cooked all that food, in the end.”
“Yep,” Dean returns, “Ah, fuck. I have six messages from Sam about that future stuff he heard. Freakin’ bitch. Okay. Phone off.”
“Probably for the best,” Castiel says, beginning to sort their laundry into lights and darks. “About the ‘freaky’ amount of women's underwear I purchased you…”
“A pair of which you're wearing, right fucking now.”
“Yes,”
“That ain't how birthday presents work, you know,” Dean says, “Pretty sure I’m supposed to get first dibs.”
“This way you get to unwrap them twice.”
“Holy shit,” Dean says, or more, chokes on his own tongue. Castiel smirks at him. “You know, it's,” Dean says, “Uh, nine days till Bobby visits.”
“Is it?”
“And, if we've already taken out three pairs -”
“ - How very convenient,” Castiel says, smiling slightly. “In which case, it's only logical that we keep all of them.”
“We're taking back the goddamn socks.”
“Absolutely not,” Castiel says, “You can take back the garlic crusher.”
“Already used it,” Dean says, “Fuck it. We can start saving for this house shit next month. I like all the dumb crap you bought me, you freaking cute ass nut job.”
“Okay,” Castiel says, smiling, “I can live with that.”
“But you’re not getting me any dumbass things for Valentine’s Day, or my next two birthdays,”
“No promises,” Castiel says, evenly.
“Cas,” Dean says, “Screw the damn laundry and get over here and kiss me, you crazy asshole.”
And, really, Castiel thinks, who could resist such poetry?