Work Text:
Every Saturday from 8 AM to 12 PM, the Lebanon Farmer’s Market is open for business. It draws a fair crowd, most people trying to get their share of fresh vegetables before the frost sets in and makes everyone hunker down. And it’s lively, in a way, where every seller has their regulars that they chat with for a moment here and there. Good fun and clean living. Most feel invigorated during these four hours.
Castiel Novak, unfortunately, is not one of those people. It’s been a rough week with a new hive and several queens. He can’t wait to fall into bed. But he’s here. Here, at this ungodly time of day, to sell his honey. And even that mission is being hampered by Dean Winchester.
Cas scowls over at the booth next to him. Dean fucking Winchester with his hair and his smile and the charismatic way that he talked. It’s an affront to handsome men everywhere that he was so good at all these things.
Hands clenched around his coffee thermos, Cas contemplates the ideals of maybe tipping his honey all over the other booth's gingham cloth. It would certainly send Dean into a tizzy, trying to save his bread.
And then maybe Cas could sneak one off the table (leaving compensation, of course). Because Cas covets Dean’s bread. He just can’t tell Dean that.
Force of habit, maybe. But Cas is going to be damned if Dean Winchester gets anything more out of him than usual.
Cas exhales, the air stinging his cheeks. There would be a storm soon. The realization makes Cas close his eyes; he hates, hates the cold. He’s always bundled up in two different sweaters, especially when it draws closer to the end of the season.
A voice startles him, making his knees bump the table. Cas’ eyes snap open to watch the filled honey jars shake and then upwards to glare at the perpetrator.
Green eyes. Crow’s feet. The grey in the beard. Dean fucking Winchester.
“Hey, buddy.” Dean’s voice is rough, hoarse with use. Cas’ honey could fix that. If only Dean wanted it—Cas had tried once, when he first started out, but Dean just waved him away. So Cas had learned his lesson; even if he still thought Dean Winchester was gorgeous, he was absolutely infuriating.
Cas says nothing, still astounded that the baker was talking to him.
“Looks like a busy day, huh? Barely been a minute where I wasn’t standing on my feet.”
“Huh?” Cas looks over at Dean’s booth, then at the sole person standing in front of his. Again, Dean.
“Anyway, I just wanted to drop this off. Little bit of a lull and I don’t think we’ll sell enough of these so—”, Dean trails off, kneading at the back of his neck. An almost shy look crosses his face. “Here.”
Dean Winchester shoves two loaves onto the table and retreats hastily back to his own booth. Cas looks down, slow from sleep deprivation, and finally figures out what Dean has just given him.
Oh no, Cas thinks, I owe him now.
-
Two loaves of bread is not a big deal. Really. Except Cas doesn’t like being in debt. No way, not even for measly carbs. He’s stared at the loaves for a good portion of two days. Dean’s bread is art ; something about the crumb and the thick crust and to boot, there’s always a design that must have taken hours to perfect.
Cas really has stared at these too long. Traitorous stomach. It wouldn’t hurt to eat just a little, right?
His hands grab for the bread of their own accord, breaking into the crust with an audible crack.
Cas. Covets. Dean fucking Winchester’s bread. There’s sounds coming out of Cas’ mouth that he didn’t think he could make. When he reaches for the butter, it’s the perfect combination. He needs to save some of it or else it’d be gone in under an hour.
All right, then. Cas pushes himself away from the counter and opens his pantry. Glass jars filled with different types of honey line the shelves. A bit of pride fills Cas’ chest—this, this is his calling. And the bees love him.
But back to the main task at hand. Cas squints, tilting his head and pondering a little. Dean likes—he likes something.
Eyes scanning the rows, there’s flavors like raspberry and cinnamon and even the honey sticks shoved in the back. Until—ah ha! Cas plucks one from a high shelf. It’s not one of his most popular flavors, but given how much Dean Winchester loves his apple pie, Cas thinks this might be the one for him. Not that Cas cares. (Maybe a little. A lot. Opinions of his honey are at stake here.)
-
The honey jar is tight against Cas’ chest, with the coffee thermos on top of it held precariously under his jaw. Cas’ other hand is trying to juggle the massive honey jar crate. Usually he would do this with two hands, but apparently he decided that two trips wasn’t worth the hassle.
He’s definitely regretting past Cas’ decision now. He’s going to drop everything—months worth of harvesting and care—in just a few moments. Shit.
Cas fumbles with the crate, grasp ever more precarious. The crate leans forward, the momentum taking Cas with it. Shit. So Cas really is going to spill 30 jars worth of honey all over himself. Huh. Maybe it's unusual for a person to see their life flash before their eyes this way, but it’s definitely on Cas’ mind. The glass shards, the sticky honey, a scraped chin. Shit.
Before any of that happens, though, a hand is bracing his shoulder and there’s somebody in front of him shifting the crate to make it more secure between them. No more glass shards. Cas breathes a sigh of relief.
“Careful there,” a voice says. Cas involuntarily freezes. Not Dean Winchester. Not him embarrassing himself in front of Dean Winchester. “Almost dropped this.”
Cas locks eyes with the baker, an amiable expression on Dean’s face, and feels something not quite rage. Why did Dean have to be, well, Dean Winchester?
“I’ve got it.” Shit, shit, shit. Cas can’t take this today. The idea that he has to interact with Dean and make coherent sentences is more terrifying than anything.
“Why don’t you let me help, at least to your booth? Four hands are better than two.”
Cas wants to protest, but the prospect of another fall is enough for him to agree. It’s a short walk before Dean is hefting the crate on the table. But then he doesn’t leave. He starts unloading the glass jars, making sure that the labels are facing out.
“You don’t—” Cas’ voice died down as he sees Dean shake his head.
“It’s fine,” the baker replies, “Benny’s already off-loading our stuff. Wanted to ask you how you liked the bread.”
“Oh.” Cas is at a loss for words.
There’s an immediate shift in Dean’s posture. He draws inwards, shoulders hunched over. Cas’ immediate reaction surprises him; he doesn’t ever want to see Dean this distraught again.
“I liked it! It was—good.” Somehow, this is the only descriptor that Cas can come up with on the spot. He wants to slap himself upside the head.
Yet, there’s a glint in Dean’s eyes that wasn’t there before. “Only good, huh?”
“I meant great! It was great!” Cas hates himself for the way he’s fumbling over his words.
Before he can stop himself, he’s grabbing the jar from his pantry—apple honey—and shoves it towards Dean. “Here. As a thank you, since you’re always talking about apple pie.”
The look on Dean’s face is incredulous and Cas has a moment of smug satisfaction that he has made Dean Winchester speechless. As well as paid his debts. Two birds with one stone. Now he can go back to the conformable animosity that exists purely within his head. He does not need to get closer to Dean.
All that disappears with Dean’s next words.
“Awesome! I’ll get you a slice next time we make it then. Just got in a batch of apples from Linda’s Orchard.”
All the honey jars are unpacked now, and Dean wanders back to his own booth, sending finger guns Cas’ way while walking backwards.
Cas sways slightly. Fuck.
-
Cas first meets Dean Winchester on a brisk morning in August at 7 AM in the morning. Cas is not an early riser, not in the slightest, so he clutches his thermos like a lifeline. It’s his first time here and truth be told, he’s a bit nervous. He’d rather have just stayed at home. Dean Winchester, although Cas doesn’t know his name until later, is an enigma wrapped up in multiple flannel shirts and a huge leather jacket.
Cas would think that Dean hates the cold as much as he does, except the flannels are never buttoned. It doesn’t make sense!
But despite a general lack of awareness in regards to coats and cold weather, Dean is—well, he’s Dean. It looks like he should be brusque and burly at first glance—large shoulders and beard—but then there’s the way that his crow’s feet appear whenever he smiles, and the small grey flecks in his beard. It makes him look kinder.
It also infuriates Cas. Nobody should be that good-looking and that kind and that excellent at baking.
Which is why Cas is currently looking solemnly at the other stall. It’s been a week and two hours since Dean told him he was bringing a pie to the market. But it didn’t seem like Dean had done that, which makes Cas marginally more happy, thinking that the awkward transactions even a year into knowing each other were going to stop.
Sighing, Cas takes another sip from his thermos. Sweet, sweet coffee.
The contentment he feels is broken up by someone sitting down next to him.
“Heya Cas.”
Cas turns to his left. Dean Winchester had a grin on his face and a plate of sliced bread in one of his hands.
“Hello Dean.”
The smile, oddly endearing, doesn’t leave Dean’s face. He sets the bread of the table.
“Long time no see, right?”
Cas frowns a little bit. “Not particularly. If you think about it, time is relative to the person experiencing it. What’s long for you might not be long for me.”
Dean lets out a small laugh. “Then a long time no see for me.”
Cas cocks his head, slightly unsettled by the words; he’s unsure why Dean would say something like that.
“Can I try? The raspberry honey with the bread.” Another voice makes them both turn around. A blonde-haired woman stands in front of the table—Cas’ first customer of the day.
“I’m not sure—” Cas said, already reaching for the bread to draw it back in, when Dean interrupts him.
“Sure!” The baker’s voice is raspy—didn’t Cas give him honey to deal with that already? “Cas, where’s your honey dipper?”
Cas is a bit struck. He ducks down beneath the table for his supply in only to wordlessly hand it to Dean. He watches as the other man explains the different tastes and drizzles a generous amount of honey onto a thick slab of bread.
Two thoughts come to mind. Is Dean Winchester helping him and she’s eating my bread?
-
Cas is frowning by the time Dean’s done with the customer. Dean’s voice is still so raspy it sounds like he gargled with gravel. The baker sits down, smiling gleefully at Cas until he sees Cas’ expression.
“Something wrong?”
Cas squints and tilts his head. “Did you not use the honey?”
Dean stares back. There’s a confused expression on his face. “Come again?”
Cas sets the thermos down with a massive thunk. “Did you not use the honey? Your voice still sounds like that.”
“Like what?” Dean sounds confused. He shifts in his seat. There’s the look in his eyes that Cas can’t place.
“Like what? Like that.” Cas’ voice takes on a sarcastic tone even as he pitches it like Dean’s. Cas’ natural register is lower than Dean’s, but something’s different today. Is he sick?
“Buddy.” Dean laughs. “My voice always sounds like this.”
On all levels except physical, Cas is grabbing Dean by the chin and saying look at me. Drink the tea with the fucking honey. It’s the reason I gave it to you. I cannot deal with you like this.
Cas reaches for another jar of honey, setting it down in front of Dean. “You drink this with tea. It’ll help.”
“Cas,” Dean says slowly, hands already outstretched to refuse the offering, “buddy, it’s not that I don't appreciate it, but it’s not what you’re thinking. God’s honest truth, cross my heart, or whatever, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. Besides, you owe me.” Cas is trying to think quickly on his feet. “You promised me pie. And you’re giving away my bread.”
“My bread?”
It’s the singular question—the one in the whole world that Cas has avoided—come back to bite him in the ass.
-
“I mean our bread.” That doesn’t sound any better.
Dean raises his eyebrows. “Our bread?” he questions.
Cas can feel his cheeks drain completely of blood; the tendency for his face to go completely pale after moments of embarrassment quite apparent now. He wishes he could just sink down into the middle of the Earth.
See, Castiel Novak covets Dean Winchester’s bread. And Dean Winchester does not know that. Cas refuses to tell him, especially because he knows that Dean will milk it for all it’s worth.
Cas sweeps a hands out towards the other vendors and the stall. “Our communal bread. The farmer market’s bread.”
“That’s pretty Catholic there, man. Thou shalt not covet and all that.” Dean shakes his head. “Don’t know how I’m going to compete with communal bread when I actually made you your own loaf.”
Dean grins, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards, as he pulls out a massive sourdough loaf and a slice of pie, pre-packaged with the Let’s Get This Bread logo on it.
“And,” Dean says smugly, “one slice of apple pie, as promised.”
Cas leans forward, the smell of sourdough too enticing to give up. The pattern though—it’s scored to look like a bee. The beekeeper looks up at his fellow vendor, confusion written all his face. He hadn’t expected this.
“It’s mine?” Cas squints at Dean, still a tiny bit weary. This Dean Winchester is a little bit too nice.
“Yeah, man. All yours.” Dean slaps the bread, making Cas squint at him even harder. What in the holy hell?
But there isn’t time to ask, Dean already pushing away from the table and standing up. The table sways a little. Dean stops. Frowns.
“Better let me fix this real quick,” he murmurs, ducking down under the table and pulling a multipurpose pocket knife from his back pocket.
“I’m not sure that’s necessary.” Cas tries to deflect.
“Cas, buddy, we all know what happened with the jars. You really want another FUBAR situation with broken glass around your booth?” Dean raises his head and looks at Cas. His green eyes seem more emerald in this lighting.
“No, Dean.”
“Then let me just tighten this really quick and we’re all set.” Dean flips over onto his back, stretching to reach the sprocket. His shirt rides up the tiniest inch, but it’s enough to give Cas a view of the little pudge that Dean has. A small smattering of freckles exists here too.
Cas freezes for a moment before decidedly looking straight ahead and not looking.
Dean Winchester is going to be the death of him.
-
“All right. Drink.” A thermos of tea is none too gently placed in front of Dean. Cas is adamant that if Dean fucking Winchester will be the death of him, at least he’d try to fix this situation with his voice. Too low, too gravelly, too much to think about lest Cas is actively going to dig his own grave. The baker is too much.
Dean looks up, startled, in the middle of cutting thick slices of his sourdough. A shiver runs its way down Cas’ spine. Dean’s gaze is intense, the green eyes focused solely on the beekeeper.
“Huh?”
Cas gestures to the thermos. “Drink up.”
“No time. Traffic was killer on the way in. I’m about 30 minutes late in set-up.” Dean gestures to the rest of the table, bags of full loaves haphazardly tossed on top. “Look at it. It’s a disaster zone.”
There’s a moment between Dean’s final words and Cas’ decision. He crosses over the other side of the table, brushing shoulders and placing his hand over Dean’s. “I slice, you drink. It’s not going to kill you, I’ve put too much honey in it for that.”
Dean opens his mouth like he’s going to protest but Cas beats him to the chase.
“Dean Winchester. I remind you that I have a sharp object in my hand and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“You promise?” Dean smirks.
Cas cocks his head and fixes him with a stare. “Interesting. Something to file away for future reference, perhaps.”
Dean’s cheeks turn slightly red. The baker backs away, slipping his hand out from under Cas’ and picking up the thermos with a mild look of distaste.
“Dean. Winchester. The tea is not going to kill you. I, however, just might if you do not start taking care of yourself.”
A slow smile breaks out on Dean’s face. He brings the thermos up to his mouth, holding it by the lid. Cas is about to throttle him. Could he not just hold it like any other normal person? Before he can think too much about acting on it, Cas turns back to the task at hand. It’s a fair minute before he hears Dean choke and turns to the side, knuckles white around the handle.
Dean’s coughing into one elbow. He finally gets out, “Biscotti strips of bread. That’s a first for me.”
Looking down at his work, Cas doesn’t understand. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Dean claps one hand over Cas’ shoulder. The warmth soaks into the fabric of Cas’ sweater, something that Cas appreciates especially as the weather gets colder.
“We usually just cut them in half. But that reminds me—next week we’re making some biscotti. I can do that, you know.”
“I believe your baking skills are up to par, yes.” Cas has a growing dread of where this is going.
“Great! I’ll bring you some next week.”
-
The weather has been particularly bad over the week and Saturday is no exception. It’s cold and grey and Cas is about to give up and go back to his house.
Sighing to himself, Cas presses his hands together, trying to get some warmth back into his hands after the ride over here. The scooter is perhaps impractical for this type of weather, but Cas can’t deny that the crate fits perfectly on the rack he’s built for the back. And he’s nothing if not stubborn.
He’s just hefting the honey jar crate up into his arms when he feels a trickle of water.
Oh no. Cas cannot run with this heavy of a box. There’s really only one thing to do. Cas shifts so the box is secure, then starts speed-walking. It must look funny, but he can only think about getting to his booth before it really starts to pour. The raindrops are really starting to fall now; Cas blinks as several hit his face.
Oh no.
All he can think about is—he feels a hand at his elbow, guiding him backwards into a dry area.
He looks up at the striped awning, then across to the person. “Hello Dean.”
“Hey Cas. You okay there?”
Cas stills, the crate getting heavier by the second. “I was attempting to get to my booth. It seems like that won’t happen.”
Dean grins, the smile radiant in the grey-toned light. “Not all bad though, right?”
“If I can stay here, yes, then it would be better.”
“Yeah, man, always.” Dean takes the crate for Cas, hands brushing against the beekeeper’s as he does so. “Don’t want you to get drenched. Although I think we might have lost that fight already.”
Cas is relatively dry, but his hair is damp and the temperature is just the right side of cold to make Cas shiver.
“C’mere.” Dean shrugs out of his leather jacket, stepping forward to bundle Cas in it. It’s heavy, thick, Dean’s warmth still there. The baker tugs it close, then pats Cas’ shoulders. “Better?”
Cas nods, watching as Dean’s hands trail down the side of the sleeves. He’s unsure about why Dean is doing this, but it’s not like he’s going to oppose it.
“Damn, Cas. Your hands are like ice.” Dean winces.
Before Cas can object, Dean gathers both of them close, enveloping them in his. “Better?”
There’s no significant reason why Cas shouldn’t be able to respond, but he’s opening his mouth and nothing’s coming out.
Oh no.
-
Cas tries to speak. Again, nothing’s coming out. He’s standing there, unmoving, and just staring at Dean Winchester. A Dean Winchester who’s still looking at him very earnestly, green eyes questioning.
“Cas?” Dean hedges, voice a bit unsure. “You doing okay there, buddy?”
“I—no.” The words are out of Cas’ mouth before he can think about it, a litany of thoughts running through his head and taking up any ability to form coherent sentences.
Dean frowns. “No?”
The baker starts to move away, hands slipping from Cas’. Almost immediately, Cas misses the warmth. He wants it back.
“No! No, I mean it’s better.”
The exclamation doesn’t make Dean move back in, but the shiver that runs through Cas at the next gust of wind does. It shouldn’t be this cold, but Cas figures the drive from his house to the farmer’s market chilled him more than he suspected. There’s a reason he’s always bundled up in sweaters.
Dean looks at Cas for a moment before nodding. “Yep, all right. We’re moving.”
Cas tilts his head, confused. “I don’t think moving in this weather is particularly wise.”
Dean gently smiles, dragging his hands down the sleeves of the jacket one last time before moving away and rummaging for something underneath the table. After a few seconds, he pulls out an umbrella.
“That’s why we have this.” He’s so proud of himself. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Dean draws Cas in close, slinging an arm over the beekeeper’s shoulders. Cas freezes, but Dean is marching them back out to the parking lot and next to a big, black car.
The baker quickly unlocks the door, guiding Cas in and walking over to the other side. When he slides into the front seat, he’s smiling and running his hands over the steering wheel. Cas thinks the car must mean an awful lot to him, but he’s still unsure why they moved and voices his concern as such.
Dean turns his gaze to Cas, the soft smile still there.
“Warmth.” Dean turns the key in the ignition. “Dry spot.” He points to the roof. “And—” he reaches back to pull out a tin and a thermos, “biscotti and cocoa.”
Cas nods along, still more focused on getting warm. Dean puts the tin on the dash before unscrewing and handing over one of the cups to Cas. “Careful,” he warns, “it’s going to be hot.”
The beekeeper nods again, waiting patiently with the cup held in both hands. The cocoa’s heat makes him shiver again, and Dean places a firm hand on his back to steady him.
“Better now?”
Cas looks up from the mug to watch Dean watching him. Dean’s hand has not left his back; it leaves a warmth that shakes Cas to his core—it’s like something he didn’t know he needed. Dean rubs his hand across the back a few times, the weight both a comfort and something very peculiar.
“Yes, Dean. It’s better now.”
Dean shifts closer; their legs touch now, a point of contact that makes Cas glance down. If Dean won’t say anything about it, then Cas isn’t going to bring it up either.
Even when Dean’s next words—I’ll take you home—make him choke a little.
-
“This isn’t necessary. I promise you I am fine driving myself back home.” Cas repeats a variation of the polite excuses he’s made for the last ten minutes.
Being alone in a car with Dean Winchester means more contact than Cas can handle. His brain has already gone into overdrive.
“Cas,” Dean fixes him with a stare. “No excuses, okay? I’ll drive you back later. It’ll be okay, I just want to get you out of the rain. You tend not to do well in colder weather.”
The comment makes Cas look up from his thermos. He gives a quizzical look to Dean. “How did you know about the cold weather?”
Dean grins ear to ear, taking his hand off Cas’ back to start the car.
“You’re buried under sweaters most of the time. Kinda hard not to notice.”
“Oh.” The word resonates throughout the car. It seems louder than it should be. In all this time, Cas hadn’t really thought about the possibility of Dean paying attention to him the way Cas does Dean. “You’re right.”
Dean grins, a half-smile that makes his dimples show. “So, you gonna let me drive you home now? Or would you rather keep shivering to death on your tiny ass motorcycle?”
“I would thank you not to disparage my scooter, Dean. It is a very dependable vehicle.”
Cas sees Dean look over at him. The grin remains.
The baker raises one hand in defeat. “All right, all right. Not talking smack. I like Baby better though.”
“Baby?”
Dean taps the wheel. “Been taking care of her since I was 16 and started to drive. Fixed her up from a junk pile in my uncle Bobby’s scrapyard.”
“So you’re good with your hands, then. Baking. Fixing cars up.” Cas gestures towards the dash. Being here now, Cas can see the care put into making the car Dean’s. It’s meticulously taken care of, free of any dirt and every inch polished.
“I’d like to think so.” Dean looks behind him, checking his blindspots. “So, I’m taking you home?”
“Yes, Dean. Let’s go home.”
-
Cas puts the thermos down, making sure it’s secure before looking back out the windshield.
He has to admit, being a passenger allows him to see how beautiful Lebanon is—the way the trees are starting to change color and there’s sweater sales for days. Even when it’s raining out.
But even though the heating has kicked in, Cas still feels cold. He presses his hands together, trying to get feeling back into them.
He’s never forgetting his gloves again.
Cas feels something nudge at the gap between his hands, startling him. He looks down to see Dean’s right hand slide into his—palm to palm, fingers interlocking. The baker’s thumb is slowly drawing little circles across the top, the action far more soothing than Cas will admit.
The beekeeper looks over at Dean, eyes wide, and back down to their clasped hands. They’re holding hands. They’re holding hands and it’s nice. What?
Dean doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s doing. Doesn’t seem to notice how Cas has fixated solely on their clasped hands. Running commentary in the form of what, what, what runs through Cas’ mind.
It feels normal. Feels right. Feels like he should have been here all along.
And if Cas is to be honest with himself, really be honest, all the space between them is Cas’ doing. Because if Cas is honest, he loves Dean Winchester. He loves Dean fucking Winchester with the grey in his beard and his crow’s feet around his eyes and the surety with which he carries himself.
If Cas is honest, he is in love with Dean Winchester.
The realization makes the breath catch in Cas’ chest. Because just like Cas can’t tell Dean how much he covets his bread, the beekeeper can’t tell Dean that perhaps he covets the baker as well.
-
It punches him in the gut, this not-realization but a truth that he’s not been able to verbalize until now.
Dean is beautiful.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that it’s any less infuriating. He’s in a car with Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester is kind and handsome and there’s nothing he can do about it.
Cas’ hand moves suddenly, making him look down and then back up to Dean.
“Cas? Your address?”
Cas has to think for a moment, reorientate himself before answering. “Sorry, yes.” He slips his hand from Dean’s to point at the street and immediately feels the loss. “It’s this way.”
The rain is still pouring down as Dean pulls into the driveway. Cas’ house—with the white trim with blue paint, the potted flowers on the railing—is small, but it’s his.
Dean reaches for the umbrella, signaling hurriedly for Cas to stay put before he opens the door and dashes around to the other side.
“All right, buddy, ready to dash?”
Dean wraps his arm around Cas as the beekeeper exits the car, drawing him in close to keep the rain off of him. They reach the porch with minimal wetness and the warmth from Dean’s body feels nice. Cas can admit that. He fumbles with his keys for a minute, letting Dean know it’s okay to put the umbrella on the porch, before opening the door and letting Dean in.
“Make yourself at home,” Cas calls out, and that feels right too. The beekeeper disappears into the kitchen, pulling out ham and cheese and crepe batter. It’s early enough that breakfast food is still permissible.
He’s in the middle of putting the cheese on top when Dean wanders in.
“Can I help?”
The words make Cas jerk out of his trance, making him bang his fingers against the stove handle. Ow. The pain is enough for him to gesture dismissively while gritting out, “Nope. It’s almost ready. Go sit back down.”
It’s a few minutes and then some before everything’s ready and Cas is walking out of the kitchen, only to find that Dean has his eyes closed, slumped back and head laying on the back of the couch.
He looks peaceful, but Cas can see the dark circles underneath his eyes. Likely a result from waking up at 4:30; after all, fresh bread doesn’t bake itself. Cas moves toward him, careful not to make any loud noises.
He knows, logically, that he should wake Dean up. But he doesn’t want to. This feels right.
Making his way to the couch, he places one hand on Dean’s shoulder, rubbing his thumb at the seam of the well-worn t-shirt. Dean mumbles, pushing Cas away and leaning further into the couch.
“Dean, please.” Neither him nor Cas are young men anymore; staying here certainly guarantees back pain when he wakes up.
But Dean is nothing if not infuriating, again, and so he doesn’t budge one inch.
Cas sighs and shakes his head, a sort of fondness growing in him. Infuriating.
There’s no point in fighting now, so he gently pulls Dean’s baseball cap off his head and spreads a blanket out over him.
Cas, if he thinks about it, could probably say he’s screwed. To feel this in love with the baker and not be sure of the other man’s feelings. At least, for this moment, he’s content just being by his side.
-
After puttering around and cleaning up what was supposed to be breakfast, Cas moves over to his honey bucket to restock his jar supply. The motions are soothing in their repetition and Cas falls into a lull. Untwist the cap, fill the jar through the double sieve. It’s quiet work, but something he enjoys.
A loud sound echoes through the room. Cas jumps, startled. What was that?
He grips an empty jar as he gets up slowly, creeping his way towards the origin of it. It’s probably not the best idea that he’s had, but it’s better than nothing.
Rounding the corner he finds—Dean, who lets out a long, loud snore. Cas hangs his head. Well, at least he knows Dean’s not dead. The man in question snores yet again, this time so loudly that Dean shakes himself awake, looking blearily around until he locates Cas.
“Who’s—who’s that?”
Cas fails to suppress a snort. “You, apparently.”
Dragging one hand down his face, Dean leans forward. The dark circles beneath his eyes are still there but less prominent. “Sorry, buddy, shouldn’t have left you hanging with breakfast. I hope it didn’t go to waste.”
“Not at all.” Cas fidgets before continuing with, “It’s in the kitchen if you’d like to eat it now.”
He watches as Dean stands up, stretching his hands over his head. The hem of his tee rides up again. Cas averts his eyes.
“All right.” Dean’s voice is raspy. Yet again. “Lead the way.”
Cas directs him to the kitchen, telling him to sit down. He can hear the plate being dragged across the table, but Cas is on a mission. Dean’s voice still carries that rasp and if Cas swears by anything holy, he is going to fix it, so help him.
Sounds of utensils now, followed by a question. “What’s this?”
“It’s a Chinese dish I learned from my neighbor during my twenties. It’s called dàn bǐng, which means it’s egg wrapped up in a scallion pancake. Do you like it?”
Cas is at the pantry, looking for the right type of honey. What did he give Dean last time? He reaches back to grab one of the last remaining jars.
“It’s good,” Dean hums in affirmation. “It’s really good.”
Cas can’t quite reach it, fingertips grasping at the edges of the bottle. “I’m glad,” he huffs, stepping closer. Finally!
He turns around to a grinning Dean with an empty plate. It astounds him how fast that man can eat.
Cas makes to step forward—to clear the dishes, maybe to stare at that smile for a longer—when his foot catches on one of the honey jars. The beekeeper flails, trying to keep his balance.
It’s no use. Chin, meet edge of counter. Edge of counter, meet massive amounts of blood. Cas is ready to meet his fate.
He is not, however, expecting to be met with a chest and strong arms wrapping around him.
-
It’s not a particularly easy landing. Cas’ chin connects hard with Dean’s chest, making his teeth cut into his lip.
Dean’s arms are warm around his body, one hand splayed out across his back, steadying him. The baker steps forward, taking more of Cas’ weight and trying to get him settled. It shifts him closer to Dean.
Cas’ heart is beating so loudly he can hear it thudding in his ears. Both from the fall and the fact that, well, Dean Winchester is holding him. Holding him. Present tense. He scrambles to push himself away—anything to make it less embarrassing—but he’s met with a firm grip and a low voice.
“Cas—Cas, take it easy, buddy.”
Dean’s hand runs across Cas’ back even as he gently peels himself away to get a better look at the wound.
It’s gentle, this touch—a brush of fingers against Cas’ jaw; Dean tilts the beekeeper’s head up to view the damage. There’s some blood, his upper lip already swelling up. Dean winces in sympathy.
“You need ice.”
“I’m fine.” It’s partly a lie—he can’t feel his face, but he’s not about to tell Dean that. The embarrassment is setting in fast. It’s like he can’t look at Dean now, now that he’s admitted to himself that he likes the other man.
At this point, he thinks perhaps throwing himself off a cliff is a good measure. However, that’s not an option. So he avoids Dean’s gaze instead.
“I’m really fine,” he repeats.
Dean grazes his thumb over Cas’ jaw again, making Cas wince. “Yeah, somehow that doesn’t convince me.”
It’s by accident that Cas catches Dean’s eyes and it’s like an electric shock. Fuck, Cas thinks, he’s beautiful. And the most dangerous thought, which Cas can’t—isn’t ready—to face.
They stare at each other, Cas fidgeting under Dean’s ministrations. By now, Dean has slid his hand down Cas’ arm to run his thumb over Cas’s knuckles softly. As if to soothe the other man.
Cas makes the accident of looking down at Dean’s lips. A brief thought of how they might kiss flashes through Cas’ imagination.
Dean moves away toward Cas’ fridge, rummaging for something. It’s a fair minute before he pulls out a bag of frozen peas.
“Knew I’d find it! Are these the ones Garth brings from two stalls down?”
Cas nods, looking anywhere but Dean.
“You sure you’re okay?” Dean asks, looking back at the beekeeper.
“I’m okay.”
Cas moves toward the kitchen island, clutching the edge of it until his knuckles are white.
It takes mere seconds for Dean to come back to Cas. The baker reaches out to press the frozen bag to Cas’ lip, but Cas stops him, steps back.
Dean frowns. “Buddy, what’s wrong? You don’t want me touching you?”
“I—” Cas starts, “I’m sure I can take care of it. It’s not serious.”
The beekeeper pries the bag away from Dean, turns away from him.
There’s a bit of silence before Cas definitively says, “You don’t need to take care of me.”
Dean Winchester is too bright, too much like a satellite that Cas keeps being drawn to. But there’s no way of knowing if Dean feels the same way. Cas thought he could do it—to keep existing in the same space as the baker—but it hurts. It hurts to be this close.
He doesn’t know how to be this Cas with this Dean.
But Cas isn’t expecting to hear what comes next.
“You ever think that I want to?”
-
Cas turns around, a bit unbelieving. His eyes are wide in shock, still unsure of what he just heard.
“What?”
It’s almost like time has stood still—if somebody were to take a snapshot of the moment, it would be Cas standing in front of Dean, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.
He can’t believe it. He doesn’t believe it. Cas’s heart beats a bit faster. Is he—
Cas has enough wits to ask again. “What did you say?”
“You’re my buddy. Of course I want you to be okay.” Dean gestures at Cas. “I mean, look at today—you rode that scooter and almost froze to death.”
The beekeeper has no words. He’s stunned. Oh. Buddy.
Dean keeps talking. “If you won’t take care of yourself, what am I gonna do with you, huh?” He steps forward, grips Cas’ wrist and pulls him into a hug.
It would have been nice, but Cas’ body is a stiff corpse. He’s encased in ice. All he can think about is buddy. Buddy buddy buddy.
He can vaguely hear Dean talking again, so he tries to focus on that. Even now, Dean’s palm is a warmth at his back.
Feels heavier now though.
“—can you promise me that?”
Cas shakes his head, only hearing the last half of the question. “What?”
Dean draws back, moving his hands up to frame Cas’ face. If Cas was a better man, he wouldn’t lean into it. But he isn’t. The touch burns, but maybe Cas will have the strength to suffer; he hopes to God he does.
“Are you okay?” Dean asks, “You look more tired than usual.”
Cas has to laugh. Of all things—of all things to say when he can clearly see Dean fucking Winchester himself has had little to no sleep.
“Me? What about you?” Cas’ voice is incredulous. The urge to shake the other man is almost undeniable. Look at me, Cas wants to say, I cannot deal with you like this.
Dean draws back, moving one hand to clasp the back of Cas’ neck. “Me? I told you, Cas, I’m fine. That half hour on your couch? Best damn sleep I’ve had in months.”
The look on Dean’s face is too earnest. It breaks Cas’ resolve in half. He is sorely, sorely in love with Dean Winchester—a fact that makes him want to yell.
Maybe—just maybe—if Dean is this much of a self-sacrificing person, Cas can take care of the baker too.
“Best sleep?” Cas blurts it out before he can think. “Well, it’s open to you any time.”
He can do this. He’s sure he can do this. Buddy’s fine. Buddy still means friend. Buddy means that Cas is still in Dean’s life, which he wants. Right?
“I might take you up on that offer.”
It’s at least a start. Dean’s touch is still a wildfire though—Cas is almost sure he’ll burn from it. The baker’s hands fall away as he looks through the window.
“Good news, Cas! Looks like it’s stopped raining. Want to head back?” Dean doesn’t even wait for an answer before heading towards the front door.
Cas is grateful for the moment alone; he needs to steel himself. He’s got this. At least, he thinks so.
One part of him is telling him to stick by the baker’s side, the other part is yelling at him for being this gullible. To withdraw for the sake of his sanity.
But if there’s one thing for certain, Dean Winchester will be the death of him.
-
Cas is right in that Dean Winchester will be the death of him. He just didn’t expect himself to be that much of a masochist too.
Any person looking at both Dean and Cas would probably just see two men being friendly with each other. However, Cas feels like he might explode. Calling Dean kind, calling him charismatic was dead wrong. Dean Winchester is a menace.
So the baker takes Cas back to the market. So he helps him secure the honey jar crate onto the back of the scooter with the bungee cords. So Cas would think that’s where it’s going to end.
Cas thought he would send the baker off with a couple of honey jars and hope that he used them. Exchange done, they go their separate ways; Cas takes care of Dean from a distance, like orbiting a sun, but in no danger of getting hurt.
Except, well, except it doesn’t happen that way.
Dean stays. He’s always at Cas’ booth, shoves gloves his way when he sees Cas shivering in the early morning.
After the weather shifts, Dean starts driving by his house to pick him up in Baby. Dean’s leather jacket—which Cas has learned is revered, is an heirloom from his mother—finds its place in Cas’ shoulders more often than not.
The beekeeper always tugs it closer to him, the weight a comforting thing. He would say it’s the closest Cas has gotten to a hug, but then again, Dean is the most tactile person Cas has ever encountered.
And this? This is where the problems start.
Cas could rationalize it in the beginning by saying that is how Dean shows affection. Platonic, a budding friendship even. But the things the baker does slowly start to get more and more bizarre.
He first claps Cas on the shoulder, brushes hands when dropping off his latest breads. It makes something warm bloom inside Cas, though he’s quick to tamp that down.
But then, in the moments that it happens, Dean lingers in hugs longer than Cas expects. Makes sure to press his hand into the expanse of Cas’ back whenever he passes by the beekeeper’s booth. On one momentous occasion that Cas will not mention to anyone besides his friend Charlie, Dean actively gives him a neck massage after complaining of sleeping on it wrong.
Cas has come to hate the word buddy . In fact, he desperately wants to stab something or, at the very least, send Dean a strongly worded anonymous note to cease and desist.
Holy hell.
So Cas is right. Dean Winchester will—certifiably, absolutely—be the death of him. At this point it’s just a matter of whether it’s quick or slow.
The thought is just enough to make Cas delirious. Something, he thinks, something has to give.
Cas just isn’t expecting it to happen like this.
-
It’s a slow Saturday this time—the weather is getting just cold enough that customers are few and far between. Cas is bundled up, like he always is now. Hat on, a gift from Dean.
Cas is sitting at his booth, two hands wrapped around a travel mug. He likes the quiet; there’s something completely innocuous about it. Peaceful, almost.
The honey is stacked in crystal-clear jars, and if the sun hits it just right, everything fractures to leave a soft warm glow on the table. The beekeeper smiles softly. This, this is what he loves about being at the market. This is what makes it special.
He involuntarily shivers, the cold air just a tad too good at penetrating his jacket.
A warm, familiar weight drops onto his shoulders. It’s Dean. The baker makes sure to pat Cas’ shoulder, like he always does now.
The touch burns, just a little.
“Hey Cas.” Dean’s voice is gentle. Cas immediately raises the mug to him, slightly shuddering as their fingers brush each other.
Pull it together, Novak.
“Drink.” It’s more of a trade-off now, Cas accepting the gloves and the jacket to warm himself up if only Dean lets him give something back. Like the first time they did it.
Dean has tried to refuse, but both of them are just on the right side of stubborn that everything is a stalemate.
So here they are.
Cas watches Dean like a hawk as the baker sips at the tea. He’s adamant that he’ll get Dean to start taking care of himself—first with Dean already conking out on Cas’ sofa after he drives them both back to the house and now with his voice. Even if Dean still thinks it isn’t much of a problem.
Dean lowers the mug. “How’s it going, buddy? Doing okay?”
Cas’ stare becomes shrewish. He tilts his head. God, the buddy again.
The expression must be bad for Dean to put the tea and step closer. He crouches down just enough to look Cas in the eyes.
Cas shivers yet again under the intensity of the gaze. Dean fucking Winchester with his charisma, with the crinkles around his eyes.
It makes Dean run a hand down the sleeve before he clasps their hands together. There’s a quick glance down as Dean rubs his thumb across Cas’ bare knuckles.
“Good thing I brought an extra pair of gloves, huh? Where’re the ones I gave you before?”
Cas swallows hard. He’s torn between telling Dean or not telling him. In seconds, Cas flicks his eyes down to the carrier bag he’s stashed the gloves in. Flicks his eyes back to Dean and how he’s holding Cas’ hands.
Pull it together, Novak.
The next sentence doesn’t really surprise him though. “I lost them, I’m sorry.” It’s such a blatant lie that Cas is surprised by himself.
Dean turns around, rummaging in his bag before turning back to Cas with tan gloves in hand. What’s next is simple, like something they’ve always done—Dean tugging the glove upwards, making sure everything’s in its proper place.
“That’s why I’m here. What’d you do without me, huh?” Dean gives a half-smile.
Moving away to stand up, Dean fiddles with the jars of honey, turning them left and right. “You know,” he continues, “when I was little, my mom would do the same thing—tugging on my gloves, making sure my jacket was zipped tight. She’d always kiss my forehead after.”
“Okay, so then do it.”
The words are out of Cas’ mouth before he can take it back. Dean whips around, eyes wide.
“What?” the baker asks, voice thick.
Cas can’t take it back. It’s out there now. Pull it together, Novak. He balls up his fists, looks Dean straight in the eye.
“Kiss me, then.”
-
Dean stares at Cas. Cas stares at Dean. It’s like they’re frozen in a moment of time— kiss me then, kiss me then.
The beekeeper’s resolve breaks down a little, just watching the other man completely still. Of all the bad decisions that Cas has made, this probably ranks highest. He shouldn’t have said anything.
Embarrassment floods through Cas, so much so that he turns to go. He just isn’t expecting to hear what Dean says next.
“Yeah?” The baker’s voice is hesitant, almost breathless.
It’s that singular question—that singular word—that makes Cas stop, turn back to face him.
“What?” Cas asks, unbelieving—an echo of disbelief.
Dean moves closer to Cas, eyes soft. There’s a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m going to kiss you?”
A rhetorical question. Maybe. Dean steps even closer, a hands-width apart from the beekeeper.
Cas has stopped breathing. Things feel intense, he’s so focused on what Dean’s doing—a hand on his cheek, a hand on his waist, the slight tilt of his head.
Dean’s lips quirk up into a smile. He’s beautiful. He’s always been beautiful.
“I’m going to kiss you now.” It’s no longer a question, but a statement. Cas only nods, star-struck and having trouble forming words.
The press of Dean’s lips against his is not an electric shock; it’s something warm and inviting. It’s a slow slide into oblivion. Cas doesn’t want it to end, even as Dean tilts his head a fraction more, deepening the kiss and licking his way into Cas’ mouth. The baker draws his hands up into Cas’ hair, making it more disheveled than usual.
Cas could—possibly, very likely—stay kissing Dean for the rest of his life.
It ends far too soon, Dean breaking away from Cas. The other man has a grin on his face, though he’s still cradling Cas’ face.
The beekeeper stands stock still, eyes wide in shock and immersed in the comforting lull of being kissed very thoroughly for the first time in a while. There’s a bit of a swaying motion that follows as Cas tries to maintain his balance. “Oh.”
“Good?” Dean asks, still smiling.
“Can I—again.” The words are a demand. Cas steps forward this time, hands braced against Dean’s shoulder, and goes in for a second kiss.
So Cas didn’t imagine it then; this kiss is just as good as the last time.
“It’s good,” Cas confirms, nodding slightly in affirmation. “It’s a bit too good.”
He narrows his eyes suspiciously at that. Of course Dean would be good at kissing as well. Not that Cas needed a lot of convincing.
Dean starts to withdraw. “Buddy, I won’t do it again if you don’t want to.”
Cas clasps a hand around Dean’s wrist, pulls him back towards Cas. “I want you to.” There’s a tense sort of moment when Cas panics about screwing this up.
But all Dean does is laugh, lean back in to give Cas a quick kiss. “Yeah, Cas, okay.”
-
Castiel Novak is not a person who gets up early. He’s at the farmer’s market for his bees and one Dean Winchester, the one person who manages to both get on his nerves and bring out an irate streak of protectiveness in him. Dean Winchester, who is the one person with whom he thought he had a one sided love-hate relationship.
It just happens that it wasn’t hate at all. Dean Winchester is a menace, and Cas loves him for that.
(Later on, Cas asks Dean if by being with him he’ll allow Cas to finally help with the raspiness.
Dean blinks, a bit stumped. Cas, he says, your voice is deeper than mine.
The look that Cas gives him—unimpressed and thoroughly discontented—sends him reeling.
He presses a kiss to Cas’ hair. Thank you for looking out for me. And Cas knows, instinctively, that the answer to that is always.)