Chapter Text
Even so early in the afternoon, there were already thousands more people at Austin’s community street fair than Castiel had expected. He kept his head up, uttering “Pardon me, excuse me,” as he sidewinded between teenagers and clowns and drag queens and parents with their kids perched up on their shoulders. All his steps were jagged and halting, hands clasped around his one-foot-cubed cake box as he made his way to his sellers’ table.
All around, shimmering summer heat blurred the endless colour and glitter of the crowds. There were portable tables bordering the central walkway all the way to the bridge in the distance, with sellers behind each table, showing off their wares – handmade clothes, jewellery, toys, hats, and, best of all: food.
Between all the ice-cream trucks and taco stands dotted throughout the fair, Castiel found the landmark he was looking for. Above a barbecue truck painted with the name Smokin’ Shotgun, particles of soot drifted black-gold against a pristine blue sky, soon whisked away by the dancing aroma of fried sugar pastry and a tickle of metallic confetti. And beside that seething black beast of a truck was his destination: a simple white table piled high with pretty pastel-coloured cakes.
With a huff of relief, Castiel made it to the blinding fabric sign that was draped over a hedgerow, which read ‘Sunday’s Child’ in his own cursive. There was a worse version with badly-spaced letters on the backside of the same cloth, but in the constant blaze of summer light, nobody could tell.
“Coconut-ice,” Castiel announced, giving a glad smile to his church group.
“Careful with that one, mijo,” Mariela warned, as Castiel snuck behind their table and started to unbox the new cake on its surface. “Put it over there, far right. Keep it out of the wind.”
Castiel looked the way she pointed, then looked left, wondering what was upwind that a coconut-ice cake ought to be afraid of.
In the few minutes he’d been getting the cake from his car, that chunky catering truck had opened its hatch just to the left of the Sunday’s Child display, and there was already smoke oozing out of its rectangular opening. A broad-shouldered shadow shifted around inside, while a red-haired young woman set up their register.
“You’re right,” Castiel said to Mariela, taking his delicate coconut-ice and placing it as far away from the smoke as he could. “The icing will end up tasting like barbecue ribs if it doesn’t sell fast.”
“Then thank God it’s your bestseller, ah?” Belén chuckled, tying her apron around her plump middle, then tossing Castiel his own apron. “Now let’s roll up our sleeves and get to it!”
The moment Castiel finished donning his protective gloves, a lightly-tanned, spiky-haired lumberjack in a plaid shirt came bounding out of the crowd and hit the front of their table. The cakes wobbled.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man said, again darting out of the way of a marching band, complete with spinning batons. He leaned a freckly hand on the tablecloth, then turned to Castiel’s church group, wearing a smile like he had a joke ready, only to see six sets of glaring eyes. He lurched back like the table burned him. “Wow. Okay. You’re gonna sell a lot of cakes like that, aren’t ya.”
He eased past the table, giving each of the Latina women a nervous look. Castiel made a point of glaring harder than everyone else.
“Dean, where were you?” the woman yelped from the barbecue truck, leaning out of the opening when she saw the lumberjack. Her short red hair was tucked under her black cowboy hat but tufted out over her ears. “You were meant to help us set up an hour ago!”
“Hey, cool it, Charlie, I know,” the man drawled, sounding apologetic. “That oven marked me for death the moment I moved in and now it’s killing me with how goddamn slow it roasts.” He reached up and dumped a foil-wrapped wad of roast beef on the service counter. “The middle’s done now, finally. Cold-smoke this bitch already.”
Mariela tutted, casting a cold look in their neighbour’s direction. “Must he really cuss like that? Block your ears, mijo. Help me cut this pie.”
Castiel acknowledged his older friend with an affirming hum, then rummaged in the tool tray for a knife – but his curious eyes turned back to this ‘Dean’ in any case. Dean moved fluidly, despite his muscular bulk; he took the hem of his band-logo t-shirt and flapped it, wafting some air against his belly. He had plush and shiny red lips, and even more dazzling eyes, but Castiel tried not to notice. He wasn’t curious about their colour at all, but seemed to remember them being... green? He’d only caught a flash of them as their eyes met in the trumpet-blast of the marching band, but they’d definitely been striking to see.
Dean wiped his hands together as he surveyed the landscape. For a moment, he unknowingly wore the same smile as Castiel. Despite the fact neither of them could see the other side of the street for people, the sun on their faces and the vibrancy of the event was enough to elicit a quiet joy within anyone. Distantly, Castiel could hear the muffled booms of an open-air drag show, and the vroooooooo-ooo-vvvvroom of child-sized go-carts rushing around the nearby marble court. Shouts and screams and ambient clucks of laughter faded together into one big happy summer rumble.
Dean drew in a sweet and smoky breath, chest rising completely. Then he exhaled, and looked to Castiel.
Castiel almost dropped the knife.
Dean’s eyes were indeed green.
♥
Dean tensed as he saw the tidy-looking white dude at the next table along giving him some hardcore stink-eye. Dean wondered what he’d done to offend such a man, someone who’d wear a white ribbed sweater in the unbroken sun of south-east Texas, topped off with a pastel-pink apron. If he could come out dressed like that in this weather, Dean’s existence must really be a stain on his afternoon.
“‘Sup,” Dean tried, with a chin-lift.
The man darkened his gaze and turned his body away, stubbled chin soon following. He pointedly went to the nearest pie and neatened the doily it sat on, knife held aloft in his other hand.
Dean then noticed the sign pinned to the hedge behind their set-up. Sunday’s Child: Blessed vegan delicacies. Ugh, no wonder. Bonny, blithe, good, and gay that man may have been, but there had clearly been one ‘fuck’ too many between Dean’s use of ‘Jesus’ and ‘Christ’. According to Dean’s own personal gospel, ‘vegan’ and ‘virgin’ were similar words for good reason.
Dean turned back to the BBQ truck, wearing a smile. “Figures we got planted next to Heaven’s prissiest bake-sale team. What d’ya say, fam, think we could smoke ‘em out?”
“We’re not here to compete with the neighbours, Dean,” Sam said from two feet above, dumping a folded set of clothes on the stainless steel shelf at Dean’s eyeline. “Get dressed and get in here, we’re wasting time.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a fun-sucker?” Dean asked, gripping his uniform pile in one hand. “Hell knows how Mom raised one of you and one of me. I’m just tryna enjoy my afternoon, Sammy.”
“Enjoy it once we’ve broken even,” Sam said, now a fast-moving shadow in the dimly lit truck, hazed around the edges by grill smoke.
Dean sighed. Charlie smiled down at him, which raised his spirits a little.
He looked around. “Where am I meant to get dressed, huh?” he wondered. “I’m not flashing my tits at the whole damn world.”
“Try the hedge,” came a rough, deep voice.
Dean glanced towards the neighbouring stall. “What’s that now?”
“Behind the hedge.” It was that man again. He pointed. “Privacy.”
Dean grimaced, but uttered a thanks as he trudged around his truck and snuffled his way between two prickly ends of hedgerow, finding himself knocking knees with a portable refrigerator and a broomstick. He tossed off his plaid shirt and sweaty band tee, laying them atop the fridge. He pulled his uniform out from between his bowed legs, tugging his black polo-shirt on, popping the collar, and finally covering his front with a black apron. He was still tying up the back as he left the hedge, old clothes hung from his mouth.
“Thanks, man,” he said as he pulled the clothes from his mouth, then scratched at his short beard. “You, uh. You guys professional bakers, or...?”
“Hobbyists,” the man replied, not looking at Dean, busy sectioning a cake into perfect slices. “But we have a sale licence. You?”
Dean chuckled. “You think I’d have a truck painted with ‘Winchester Family BBQ and Grill’ if this was just a weekend job? I’m the older Winchester. Dean. Boom.” He stuck out his hand.
The man looked at the hand in distaste. “Have you washed that?”
Dean hesitated, then drew back his hand. “I was going to in a minute,” he said, defensively. “Geez.”
“Castiel,” the man said back, and for a moment Dean wondered if he’d been insulted in Spanish. Responding to Dean’s blank look, the man clarified: “It’s my name.”
“Hah. Bet they spell that right on all your incoming mail.” Dean flicked his eyes upward, then turned away. “Have fun selling your angel cakes, church boy.”
“Do me a favour, Dean,” that rough voice called after him.
Dean looked back, with one boot on the metal step up to the truck. “Uh. Sure. Depends what it is.”
The man smiled hopefully. “Would you mind producing less smoke? Our cakes are going to get contaminated.”
“Dude.” Dean grinned. “It’s a barbecue. We smoke things. It’s smoky. Seriously, if your mouth ain’t watering right now there’s somethin’ wrong with you.”
Castiel – that was his name, right? – looked impassive for a moment, then his expression tightened as he took offence. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “There is something wrong with me. I thought you might be wiser than you looked. How quickly that was proven to be a mistake.” With that, he turned away, and didn’t look back.
Dean scoffed. He tilted his head to check out Castiel’s well-defined ass, pursed his lips approvingly, then stepped into his truck, and went to wash his hands in the sink at the back.
♥
It didn’t seem possible that the street could get more crowded, nor more lively, but it did. Confetti cannons blasted through the haze of flavour that rode the thick air. People danced, people drummed, people eclipsed the world beyond the white-draped table. Castiel had never been so grateful for a barrier. He had two feet of space to himself, even if he sometimes shared it with his friends.
Hands moved and cash exchanged hands, it was all a big rush of desserts and paper bags and shouting over the noise.
The smoke came pouring out thicker and hotter as the afternoon ticked on. The heat of the sun was known to soften icing, but with each eddy of wind, the cloying, breath-stealing heat of the barbecue wafted into Castiel’s face, and he saw the cakes truly begin to suffer. He began swapping them in and out of the mini-fridge, trying to save them.
It was only when Dean Winchester stepped outside his truck for a moment to pick up a crate of corn that Castiel saw his chance. He fled his own table and leant over the smaller table that divided them, calling, “Please! Can’t you do anything about the smoke?”
Dean yanked the weight of the crate higher, leaning back. His forehead was sweaty, freckled cheeks flushed, green eyes bright, and his expression turned amused when he saw Castiel. “What d’ya want me to do, exactly?”
“Turn down the heat. Cook something else.”
“Your frou-frou vegan crap and our meat ain’t exactly competing, dude. From what I saw you’re doin’ fine, you don’t need us to strike out.”
“It’s not about money,” Castiel retorted. “I don’t get such terrible headaches from smoke anymore, so it’s not even that.”
“So what d’ya have against us, then?” Dean laughed, sliding a step closer, shucking that crate higher. “Or should I just assume?”
“Dean, I’ve spent too long and worked too hard to keep this food free of contaminants. I am not allowing some shortsighted community organiser who put our stands together and didn’t think two steps ahead to ruin everything for everybody.”
Dean sniffed, half-grinning. “And some smoke ruins everything? Look, champ, if you don’t want your cake improved with some actual flavour, don’t eat it.”
Castiel’s jaw tensed, and he growled out, “I can smell the meat you’re cooking and that means little particles are flying in our direction and landing on our food. We can’t claim it’s vegan if there’s meat on it.”
“It’s smoke, man, it’s not exactly meat still. Burnt to oblivion.”
“And yet you’re claiming your charred animal carcasses are edible, when they’re burnt to oblivion.”
Dean scoffed. “You ever actually tried eating charred animal carcass? Delicious.”
“I’m not vegan, Dean. I eat animal products. It’s not about me.”
“Seriously?” With a raise of his eyebrows, Dean realised, “Wait... you’re... actually worried about your cakes. It’s not just – y’know – some personal vegan vendetta against a true and genuine Meat Man?”
“Yes! No!” Castiel squinted, then said, “Meat Man? Is that a euphemism?”
Dean huffed a laugh, eyes flicked up. “Look, hot stuff, I’ll see what I can do. But short of one of us shutting up shop, Cas, I can’t promise you shit.”
Castiel flushed with heat upon being called ‘hot stuff’, again at the shortened use of his name, then again at the cuss. “Thank you,” he snapped, rather shaken by the tingles that refused to settle.
Dean smirked. “You’re welcome.”
Castiel found himself smiling, angry, and thrilled. “Crawl back to your den of iniquity, Dean.”
Dean winked. And he left, looking back once to grin. Castiel caught his eyes, and turned away, blushing.
♥
Castiel was surprised to see a fiery red-and-black flag burst into existence two feet in front of him, just off to the left. Dean adjusted its weighted foot with several kicks, then peered around it to check its taut, curved shape wasn’t about to poke anyone’s eye out as people passed underneath. The breeze fluttered its cloth, changing ‘Smoin’ Shgun – WinchesFam BBd Grill’ to ‘kin’ Shotun – ster Family BQ and rill’, then back again.
“What’s that for?” Castiel asked.
“You asked to be spared the smoke, didn’t ya?” Dean came to stand by the table’s corner, hands on his hips. “I wasn’t gonna put the flag up but if it directs some of the breeze away, that’s something, right? Best I can do right this second.”
Castiel smiled. “Thank you.” Of course he could still smell the meat, but he was grateful for the gesture. “Do you want some cake? Or there’s pie. Pastry? On me.”
Dean wrinkled his upper lip. “Hng. Pass. You guys do your thing, I’ll, uh. I’ll stick to real food. No offence.”
Castiel squinted. “You don’t eat dessert?”
“Pie? Yeah. A decent fruit pie’s the best thing on God’s green Earth—” Castiel grinned, glad they were in agreement there. “But.” Dean’s smile twitched wider, responding to Castiel’s grin, but with a huff, he finished, “But c’mon, what’s the point if it’s vegan and – and gluten free, y’know?” He’d seen the ‘gluten free’ sign by the peach pie and seemed to draw away from it like it was explosive. “To each his own, I guess, but no thanks. ‘Preciate the offer, though. Really.”
“Dean,” Castiel said, amused, “what do you imagine is not contained within a vegan and gluten free pie that makes it so lacking?”
“Uh. The gluten. And the... flavour.” He said it like it was obvious.
Kindly, Castiel explained, “Gluten has no flavour, it’s a protein molecule. Most commonly it’s made from wheat. It’s a binder. Food glue. But a lot of people are allergic to it, and it’s hard for them to find safe food, especially when eating out. Admittedly,” he tipped his head, “without it your dough texture is altered, but that’s easily remedied with the right replacements.” He gestured to his peach pie. “Here I used a chickpea and rice flour base, thickened with arrowroot. It’s flavoured with real cinnamon and sweetened with real sugar. It’s not made of wheat or corn but I promise you, that doesn’t mean it’s any less sturdy or delicious. To make the pie vegan all I had to do was swap butter for coconut oil, cow milk for coconut milk, and gelatin for agar-agar. Which is made from algae, but that shouldn’t be any more off-putting than gelatin coming from cow hooves. Have you ever had peach and coconut pie?”
Dean arched his lips with mild consideration. “Nuh-uh.”
“Does that sound good?”
“Um. Nnnot... the worst. But.”
“Try it,” Castiel insisted, taking a little silver trowel from under that pie, and sliding a piece into a paper bag. “On the house. Or on the street, as it happens.”
Dean’s hand moved in two aborted movements, but took the bag and crumpled it until the pie poked out the top. He checked with Castiel, unsurely, but after seeing an encouraging hand-movement, he tilted his head and took a nibble of the pie tip.
He rolled the morsel between palate and tongue, then swallowed.
“Awful, isn’t it,” Castiel smiled.
Dean huffed through an easy grin. “Naw. It’s.” He took another bite, a proper one this time. “Mm.” He touched fingertips to lips, swiping a crumb. “God, that’s— Actually not bad.” He scrunched the bag some more and nosed into it, eyes half-closed as the world faded from his awareness and he devoted all his attention to Castiel’s baking.
Castiel swelled with pride.
“Excuse me, sir!” Castiel startled as Mariela touched his side. She then leaned past Castiel and told Dean, “Four dollars.”
“Oh, no, no, it’s my gift,” Castiel said, looking between the frustrated Mariela and the now-bashful Dean. “Really, don’t worry about it.”
Mariela Flores Dominguez had this way of making Castiel feel guilty without him knowing exactly how, but she did that thing a lot all of a sudden, and Castiel’s blood ran cold. He flashed Dean a smile, repeating, breathily, “It’s... free.”
Dean’s left cheek bulged with the pie crust, and he crumpled the empty paper bag, then mumbled, “Hey, look, I can get it. It’s no trouble.”
“Four dollars,” Mariela said, hand out.
Castiel groaned and palmed his forehead with both hands. “Mariela, please, he was kind enough to put up the sail—”
Dean had gone to the opening of the BBQ truck, bypassing a gaggle of customers and knocking knuckles on the metal. “Charlie, need four bucks. Some broad’s makin’ me pay for my free sample.”
“Oh, Dean, no—” Castiel cried. He turned to Mariela, but her glare made him swallow his complaints, and he sank back, letting Mariela take a five-dollar bill from Dean’s hand.
Dean shot Castiel a comforting look, then, once Mariela turned away with the money, he uttered, “Hey, don’t worry about it, buddy. My little brother Sammy’s like that. Freaks out every time I give a chick a free drink. ‘Cuts into profits’ this, ‘flirt on your free time’ that.” Dean touched Castiel’s shoulder with a warm hand, then let go and took the change Mariela offered. “Thanks, Cas. Pie was awesome. Totally worth the overpricing.” His eyes lingered on Castiel’s, sparkling bright, then lowered away, a faint smile on Dean’s lips as he went back to his truck.
“Flirting,” Castiel echoed under his breath. “Flirting—? I wasn’t...”
He tilted his head, then twinged inside as he realised, actually, maybe he was.
No wonder Mariela was mad at him. Dean wasn’t her ideal match for him at all. Practically the opposite, in fact.
♥