Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Heya Cas.”

Dean’s never been the kind of guy to lay on the horn -- Baby isn’t a car that usually needs any help letting other drivers know she’s there -- but this traffic they’ve hit about 10 miles outside Sioux Falls has him reconsidering. It’s clear the asshole in the souped up Charger in front of them has never driven in snow, and while only a few inches have fallen it’s fresh and wet and slippery. After a tense moment watching taillights drift backwards, Dean slips his phone between a tilted head and a hunched shoulder and gives the horn a few taps. 

“What the hell is this guy -- sorry Cas, not you. What’s up?”

“Hello Dean. I’m here at Jody’s house and---”

“How’d you get there so fast?” 

Cas is silent for a moment, trying to figure out some way he should answer Dean’s question other than explaining that he drove.

Dean can practically hear Cas’ confusion and answers for him, a smile ghosting across his lips. “Guessing you missed all this traffic. So, uh…”

“Oh, yes. I thought it would be nice to make something for the meal but I, I have no idea how to actually prepare it. I looked at some recipes but it was, I have some questions.”

“Is anyone else there? Jody?”

“Just Claire.”

A lazy sing-song “Heyyyy Deeeean” drifts in from the background at the same time that Sam mouths “What’s wrong?” He’s been hunched over a book for the last hour, some old hardcover that could just as easily be recreation or research, but Dean’s question has him looking up from where he’s been squinting at a map drawn across one of the pages. The way their life is, when Cas calls it usually isn’t to chat. Well no that’s not entirely accurate, and Sam's shoulders relax at the realization. He doesn’t call Sam to chat.

“Nothing’s wrong Sam, ‘s just Cas." Dean glances over at his brother and then nearly rear ends the guy in the Dodge when the dick slams on his brakes unexpectedly.

"Dean! Look at the road!" Sam jabs a hand at the windshield, face pinched into what had been a bitchface when he was younger but is now just pure consternation that makes him look -- and feel -- like the older of the two of them. "Give me the phone, come on. Put him on speaker."

"Putting you on speaker," Dean says, voice chasing after the phone that's being pulled away from his face.

"---ay."

"Hey Cas, what's going on?"

"Oh, nothing Sam. I just have some questions for your brother about potatoes."

Sam can't hide his grin -- honestly he doesn't really try anymore, not when it's about these two -- and hears a choked laugh coming from somewhere in the background of the phone call. "Who's that?"

"Claire is here and -- yes I'm on speaker… Sam did… I was distracting Dean from his driving. ...No, I don't think -- Claire wants to know if it's a common occurrence, Dean being distracted by me."

Sam looks up like a man searching for strength from god and Dean turns beet red and then awkwardly clears his throat. “So uh, you, you had questions.”

“Yes. I wanted to contribute to the meal and I read that mashed potatoes are a staple dish for Thanksgiving dinner. But I’ve never cooked anything before and I was hoping you could tell me what I should do.”

“Well for one, Cas, it’s February. Little late for that.”

“I heard Jody on the phone with you. She clearly invited us to Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah I think she was making a joke there, buddy, you know, ‘cause we’d definitely missed it.”

“Oh. Well, um… Should I still make something?”

“Mashed potatoes are always good!” Sam supplies, his enthusiasm earning a look of surprised encouragement from Dean. Sam just shrugs; sure he doesn’t treat every single meal like it’s his birthday the way Dean does, but it’s also not like he really subsists exclusively on egg white omelettes and green smoothies. Sam might be a gigantic health freak but he knows the good stuff when he sees it.

“Yeah Cas, it’ll be fine.” Dean smiles at the phone, a small fond thing that Cas can’t see but he can hear. “Whatcha got?”

“Potatoes. We’ve established this.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, chop them into little chunks -- squares, whatever -- so they’ll cook faster.”

“Can you define ‘little’?”

“Inch, inch and a half? Doesn’t have to be exact, man.”

“Okay hold, hold on.”

There’s a beep as Cas presses something he probably didn’t mean to, and a clunk as Dean assumes Cas has clumsily set his phone down on the counter. Moments pass. Dean briefly glances over at his own phone, now sitting up on the dash, but forces himself to focus on the road. When no sound has come through for at least a minute he can’t help it any longer. Looking back and forth between the silent phone and his brother, whose book has been long forgotten, Dean clears his throat. “Um, Cas?”

“Yes.”

“What’s…”

“I’m chopping the potatoes.”

“Alright uh, how long’s this gonna take?”

“I don't…”

“How many potatoes you got?”

The other end of the call is silent.

“Are you counting them?” 

“Yes. Should I include the potatoes I’ve already chopped in my tally?”

“Just tell me what the bag says.”

“The bag doesn’t say anything about that.”

“No, I…” Dean sighs in disbelief while Sam murmurs an “Oh my god” under his breath. “Okay, what does it say, Cas?”

“The bag says ‘Baby dutch yellow farm fresh to you wash before cooking five pounds these buttery spuds with silky skins pair---.’”

“Got it. Call me back when you’re done," Dean says, slapping his phone to end the call and blowing out a sigh like he hates this, thinks it's so stupid. But Sam knows better. Dean loves this shit, and if more than a couple of days pass between Cas calling to check in or stopping by the bunker it's Dean who takes it as a grievous personal insult or an indication that something’s wrong and the other man is in grave danger somewhere. Sam gets concerned about Cas too when he goes radio silent, but Dean’s worry lives on an entirely different plane of existence. 

-----------------------------

“Of course.” Castiel taps the phone, not noticing that the call has already ended, and turns back to his task, methodically but not particularly skillfully chopping his way through the big pile of potatoes in front of him.

“I don’t get it," Claire speaks up from where she's perched on a stool at the other end of the kitchen island. "I know you’re like Mister Knife Guy but no offense, you kind of suck at that."

"Yes, well…" Cas shrugs down at the cutting board.

“And anyway, my da--- Jimmy was practically an amateur chef.”

“I’ve never used an angel blade to chop food; I don't think it's the same thing. And I… your father’s skills and memories were never mine to possess."

Claire sits with that for a minute before shaking the weight of it off. “Couldn’t you just like, chop them with your mind?”

“Probably, yes, but I want to do this right. My understanding is that the preparation of the meal is as ritualized as its consumption.”

Claire flicks her eyebrows up in a look that’s supposed to telegraph that she doesn’t care, but Castiel has seen that expression on Dean far too many times not to know otherwise. Claire could be doing anything else right now, but she’s choosing to hang out in the kitchen with this strange guy who kind of sort of used to be her father and doesn’t know how to chop potatoes. Cas has learned since his first clumsy, stumbling steps back into her life that less is more with Claire. 

It takes Dean and Sam another half hour to get to Jody’s house. Cas calls Dean at regular intervals, getting the next step in the recipe and then carrying it out. They hit a minor snag when Cas finds out that he really does not like using the potato masher (“You don’t understand, it’s a very awkward angle, Dean.”) but Dean assures him he can just use a wooden spoon and it’s fine.

Making their way into the house, Sam stops to talk to Claire, who’d relocated to the den at some point, hoping he’ll finally manage to come off more as a big brother than a lame uncle. He doesn’t, but it’s fine; Claire kind of likes having a lame uncle even if she’ll never admit it.

Dean keeps going, making his way through the dining room and into the kitchen where Castiel stands at the sink washing the knife he’d dirtied. Dean waits in the doorway for a moment, pan of fresh-baked brownies in hand, and just watches Cas from behind. He’s in one of those rare configurations of clothing that make him look comfortable and, if not human then at least less alien. Coat and suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up over forearms that Dean almost never sees, it’d be easy to mistake him for just a regular guy, someone whose tiredness comes at the end of a long day at the office instead of the end of the world.

But hey, for once the world seems to be chugging along just fine. Knowing their luck the end’ll probably come again someday, but that day is not today. Today is about good food and good beer and spending time with the family he’s gathered around himself over the years. Dean smiles to himself, acknowledging that yeah underneath it all, he’s a sap. 

Speaking of beer, there’s a handwritten note stuck to the fridge beckoning anyone who reads it to make themselves at home and Dean is more than happy to oblige. Staring into the open refrigerator past orange juice and milk and wilted lettuce he’s struck by how normal it all is, until his gaze lands on the half empty bottle of what’s sure to be dead man’s blood that’s sharing shelf space with the mayo. Dean shakes his head at the inescapable strangeness of hunter life and grabs a beer.

Trying -- and failing -- to twist the cap off because hey it’s not a twist-off, it’s times like these he misses that ring he used to wear. People always used to ask what it meant, which lost love it belonged to, what kind of charm or warding it contained. In reality though, it was just a damn good bottle opener.

Dean moves over to where Cas is, opening drawers on either side of him without any of the politeness or care that says he’s sorry he’s just inserted himself into someone else’s space. It’s a move that with different people and different circumstances might project annoyance, like the man at the sink is in the way. It might even be rude. Instead though, it’s just familiarity and, when Castiel reaches his arm over and around Dean (whose head is bowed as he cards a hand though a drawer full of kitchen utensils) to place a cutting board on the drying rack, it’s comfortable and somewhere in the back of his mind Dean knows it’s intimate too.

When Dean finds what he’s looking for he tilts his face up and meets Cas’ blue eyes looking down at him. There’s a steady warmth in them that Dean never could have imagined during that first year of knowing Castiel the soldier, the fearsome angel of the lord, but now can’t imagine them without. He smiles as he straightens up, opens his beer and takes a swig. Neither man says anything as Dean heads into the den. Neither man has to.

-----------------------------

“Dean.”

Dean’s only been settled in the armchair -- the ugly mustard one that he secretly loves -- for a minute or two when Cas walks into the living room holding a spoonful of mashed potatoes out in front of him. “Can you taste these for me?”

Dean hums and, without thinking, opens his mouth to receive the offered spoon. It’s only when Sam snorts that he realizes that Cas has just fed him. Or maybe worse, Dean has let Cas feed him. But he’s hungry and the potatoes are pretty good and who gives a shit, really. Still, he's got appearances to keep so he swats Cas’ hand away from the spoon that’s sticking out of his mouth but really, there’s no malice in it. “Mmmmm…" He smiles up at the angel, who's staring down at him with a solemnity more befitting a funeral than a food tasting, and says “Bit more butter.”

Sam watches this exchange from where he’s sprawled himself out on Jody’s ancient couch, the plaid one that has a tendency to swallow him up and make him look small somehow. For whatever reason, maybe it’s because she knows the life and knows what Sam’s been through to make a name for himself in it or maybe it’s just being back in Sioux Falls, Jody’s house is one of the few places since Bobby’s he’s felt truly able to relax. When he’s here he eats like he used to -- comfort food and pizza and whatever leftovers he can find -- and slouches like he wants to, not feeling too big or gangly or sasquatchy for the world, but simply relaxed in it.

So as he lays there, calm and comfortable and feeling like he’s home even though he technically isn’t, he’s both surprised and not surprised at all by what he’s witnessing. Because Dean lets himself be comfortable here too.

Once Dean’s rendered his verdict, Cas turns to head back into the kitchen, no effort made whatsoever to get Sam’s opinion on the food. It’s not a slight against Sam, it’s just how Cas is with his brother. Cas could have asked Claire to be his taste tester -- she was in the kitchen while he was cooking -- but no, it’s Dean’s opinion, approval, maybe just his comfort, that Cas is focused on.

As he follows Cas’ path back into the kitchen, Sam catches Claire’s eye. When her gaze flicks over to Dean with a knowing smile, it’s clear she’s caught on to all the same things Sam has. When he smiles back she rolls her eyes but there’s no bite to it. Sam isn’t really sure what her relationship to Castiel is -- he’s wearing her dad but he isn’t her dad -- but he can see that she has a soft spot for Cas and Dean together. These two guys she was so sure had ruined her life forever, but who had instead taken the time to stitch it back together with obvious care and attention and regret.

A moment later Dean jumps up from his chair and hurries into the kitchen, like he’s worried Cas isn’t going to know how to add butter to the potatoes, like he’s definitely going to need Dean’s help even though he hasn’t asked for it. Sam listens to the low sounds but not to the words; he can’t hear them, just the easy tone, and he doesn’t try.

When Dean comes back into the den a few minutes later he has an absent-minded smile on his face and another beer in his hand.

-----------------------------

“Hey guys!” Jody yells as she comes in from the garage. “Sorry I’m late, couldn’t get away from the precinct and the -- oh, thank you Sam.” Sam had leaped up from the couch as soon as he saw the armful of Gas-n-Sip bags Jody was carrying, one of which he’s now trying to pass off onto an oblivious Dean.

Dean gives an apologetic little whoop as he jumps up from the recliner and takes the bag, relieved to hear the jostle of bottles coming from within, and follows Sam and Jody into the kitchen where Cas is still fussing about.

Truth be told, he’s been hiding in the kitchen. It’s not that Castiel doesn’t feel welcome or wanted out in the den, it’s just that there’s a casual purposelessness to slumping in a chair and talking over the half-watched TV that Cas can’t quite get right. “Shooting the shit,” as Dean had called it when he’d tried to coax Cas out of the kitchen after explaining just how much butter is “a bit more.” It’s not his strong suit and even with the people in the world he’s the closest to, the thought of getting it wrong fills him with trepidation.

So when Jody walks into her kitchen, it’s to the sight of an angel concentrating deeply on the task of carefully examining the contents of the drawer Dean had combed through earlier.

“Castiel. Oh, you made potatoes.”

“Jody.” Cas puts down the tongs he’s holding and bows his head in greeting.

“Wait, you made potatoes. Huh, I didn’t know you cooked.”

“I don’t, typically.”

“What? No…” Dean, who’d wasted no time grabbing another beer from one of the 6-packs he’d just carried in, gives Cas a look, clearly disapproving of his modesty. “Best sandwich I ever had?” He drapes an arm across Cas’ shoulders and smiles broadly at the group. “This guy.”

Sam and Claire lock eyes briefly.

“You never told me that.”

“Oh, well, yeah. We were a little busy. Hey, here.” Dean hands Cas the beer he’d originally opened for himself, then reaches across the counter to replace it with a new one.

“It was a pretty good sandwich,” Sam agrees.

“It was an amazing sandwich,” Dean corrects.

Cas casts his glance down and tells the floor thank you.

“Well that’s… That’s good. Okay, so, I got us something on the way home -- the grocery store parking lot was a nightmare. Didn’t even bother stopping when I saw it, just kept on driving. Claire, can you go and grab the pizzas out of the truck please?”

When Claire returns she’s carrying three huge pizza boxes and a bag of napkins and sauces and probably those little packets of crushed red pepper that no one ever uses. Atop the stack is a smaller box that promises garlic bread or mozzarella sticks or one of the other extras that Sam and Dean both always dreamed of ordering as kids but never could because they didn’t have the money. Jody seems embarrassed that she invited the boys over for a home-cooked meal and had to settle for pizza but truly, this is opulence.

“Damn, you got a lot of food,” Claire comments as she spreads the boxes across the countertop.

“Yeah, well, I figure these two could each put down a whole pizza on their own.” Jody jerks a thumb at Sam and Dean. As the two of them begin loading up their plates, Dean looks like he’s just gleefully accepted a challenge and Sam looks sheepish but also isn’t saying no.

“I suppose we don’t need these now,” Castiel says, gesturing toward the pot warming on the stovetop, tone even in a way that would sound neutral to anyone but the two people in the world who know him best. Even Claire, who usually has a knack for seeing through Cas’ bullshit, doesn’t pick up on it. Sam glances at his brother, tossing this one straight to him not because Sam doesn’t want to have to deal with it, but because he knows he isn’t the person Cas will listen to here. Turns out Sam didn’t even need to punt, because Dean is already fluffing up the angel with accolades.

“No way Cas, there’s never a time when potatoes aren’t gonna be good.” And with that, Dean stacks the slices of pizza on his plate to make room and dollops a heaping spoonful of Castiel’s handmade mashed potatoes in their place. “There ya go, now it’s Thanksgiving dinner.”

The potatoes are delicious and Dean goes back not just for seconds, but thirds.