21. Steal Smoked Fish

The next morning, Dean joins him later than usual for breakfast. Castiel had been a little worried, paranoid that he’d somehow sent Dean backwards in his recovery again yesterday –  but when the omega finally wanders into the kitchen, the difference in his demeanor is startling. 

He doesn’t look tired. That’s a first. 

Well rested and bright-eyed, the omega looks around the kitchen curiously. His hair is wet and his cheeks are still flushed from his morning shower, and he smells like toothpaste and apples. Castiel smiles at him and, shyly, Dean smiles back. 

That tiny expression is more than enough to make him feel like he’s floating. Dean blinks at the sudden joy he can no doubt smell in the air, a puzzled quirk to his mouth, but his smile doesn’t fade. Castiel wishes, hysterically, that he could snap a picture of that expression and frame it.

He’s been staring too long. “Are you hungry?”

Dean nods. He doesn’t automatically drop to the ground this time, but he doesn’t quite make it to the table either. Instead, he leans against the counter next to Castiel and inspects the omelette he’s been nervously over-engineering, waiting for Dean to come down for breakfast and convincing himself not to intrude by checking on him. 

“What’re those orange things?”

Castiel swallows at the omega’s sudden nearness, at his calm and content scent and at the conspicuous lack of sour fear in the room. It’s making him lightheaded. He’s giddy. After so long, Dean is finally starting to truly relax. “They’re bell peppers. Have you had those?”

From this close, he can see the intelligence in Dean’s green eyes, the way he sniffs the air and mulls the question over. “Dunno. They don’t really smell like peppers.”

He’s not questioning Castiel directly, but even this small moment of stubbornness is progress. With a little smile, Castiel gestures over at another half-chopped pepper on the cutting board with his spatula. “There’s some more over there, if you’d like to inspect them.”

Dean steps that way, and Castiel takes a moment to study the way the omega moves. He no longer appears to be sore, isn’t limping or holding himself like he hurts anymore. He’s grateful that, despite his paranoia, Dean had not stopped taking the medication that Castiel left for him on the bathroom counter. Castiel has spent hours tossing and turning to the image of Dean’s bruised sides and whip-marked spine, and he’ll likely spend hours more remembering them even after they’ve healed completely.

There’s a crunch, and with a start he realizes that Dean’s picked up a spear of pepper and bitten it. The omega’s nose scrunches up in a way that Castiel tells himself firmly isn’t adorable. 

“Are you not a fan?”

Dean opens his mouth to reply and then doesn’t, the words caught in his throat as he flicks his eyes up and catches Castiel’s gaze. He holds the piece of pepper in his hand like he’s not sure what to do with it; like he’s startled to find that it’s there in the first place. “Uh – no, that’s not…  I mean, it’s…” His eyes drop. “It’s fine.”

Castiel softens. Just a few moments with a more relaxed version of Dean has made him forget how easily he can be spooked – how cautious he needs to be. “If you don’t like it, Dean, you can tell me. I’ll just make your omelette without them. You certainly won’t offend me.”

Dean takes a breath, and when he exhales, it’s with a half laugh that sounds more self-deprecating than anything. He looks back at Castiel ruefully. “Okay. Sorta tastes like soap, actually.” He pauses, a quirk lifting the side of his mouth. “Dunno why I’m scared to tell you that.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I can think of many reasons, all of them understandable. But none of them are valid here.”

Dean is quiet at that. The omega is looking around the kitchen slowly, the pepper abandoned next to the cutting board. “Can I help you clean up?” he asks abruptly. 

Castiel blinks. “You are under no obligation to–”

“I know.” They both seem surprised that Dean cut him off, but he grimaces and continues on like he’s afraid he’ll lose steam if he stops. “It just feels weird to sit around and let you do all the work, you know?” He looks meaningfully at the ever-growing pile of dishes. “And, uh, not just because you’re an alpha and I’m not. Or because I’m… yeah. But it just seems unfair.”

Castiel can feel his mouth twitching into a smile, despite the topic at hand. This may be the most that Dean has said to him unprompted. He’s communicating without an extreme emotional trigger to set him off, for once, and he finds that he likes the calm rumble of his words, his slight southern drawl. Weeks away from confinement and danger, his voice has grown stronger, less raspy, and he can imagine that Dean would sound quite confident in another life. Could sound quite confident in this one, given the chance. 

“What do you propose?” he asks. The memory of Dean cowering under the sink and a broken plate is at the forefront of his mind, juxtaposed with the healthier young man in front of him. It seems like a lifetime ago, and at the same time, like it could have been yesterday.

Dean gives him another half smile, though the way his eyes linger at the sink tells Castiel he’s probably remembering the same. “You cook, I clean? Or vise versa.”

“You can cook?”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so incredulous, and he winces, but Dean just shrugs. He hesitates for a moment, considering his words, and when he speaks there’s some forced nonchalance there. But he still answers. “Sure. Ain’t very experienced with all this fancy stuff,” he says, gesturing to the bell pepper, and Castiel has to wonder what kind of childhood he had if that constitutes as fancy, “but I knew enough to get by, back in the day.” 

He has to wonder where and when Dean learned that, why he needed to know how to cook. Who he was cooking for. It would have to have been when he was a child, before he’d gone into the trade, because his paperwork hadn’t listed cooking as a skill. He thinks he’s beginning to understand where “Sammy” might have fit in Dean’s life, and the implication makes his chest ache. 

But he doesn’t ask about any of that, because he remembers all too well what happened the last time that Dean spoke of his past. Castiel has already resolved that if Dean ever wants him to know any of that, he’ll be the one to bring it up. 

He realizes that he’s been quiet for too long when Dean suddenly looks unsure of himself. “But, uh, I mean. Obviously if you don’t want that, I don’t have to –”

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve had someone else cook for me,” Castiel interrupts. “Other than takeout, I mean. It would be a pleasure. As would your assistance with cleaning up.”

Dean gives him the gift of another small, slightly nervous smile, ducking his head to his chest in a nod. “Alright. Can I start on those?”

The pile of dishes in the sink is starting to look like the Tower of Pisa, and Castiel can’t help the flash of embarrassment. “Ah. I apologize for that… I’ll admit I don’t really have much experience with the clean-as-you-go method.”

Dean’s already moving that way, carefully rolling the sleeves of the dark navy hoodie he’s grown attached to up to his elbows. “‘S fine.” 

Castiel takes the chance to look at the bruises around Dean’s wrists, around his neck – they’ve changed from a purple so dark that it was nearly black to faded yellows and browns, hardly visible. They’re healing. 

Dean’s healing. He hadn’t waited until Castiel had given him explicit permission to do what he’d wanted. The realization makes him smile. 

They work in companionable silence for a while, Castiel finishing up breakfast and Dean making a sizable dent in the dishes, and by the time the food is ready they’re both far more relaxed. Water and suds are soaked into Dean’s hoodie when he pulls away from the counter, and he looks at the stacked and drying dishes next to the sink with an expression of pure satisfaction. 

“You made very quick work of those,” Castiel says, nodding at the pile, and Dean glances at him, obviously surprised. “You’ll have to teach me your ways so that I can stop abusing the counter space.”

A smile spreads across his face, and before his eyes Dean seems to grow a few inches taller. And a new scent – pride – spreads throughout the room. It’s sweet and bright, like sliced green apples, so nice that it actually makes his mouth water a little. Is this the first time he’s paid Dean a genuine compliment? 

If it provokes this kind of reaction, he’ll do it as often as he can from this point forward. 

Dean doesn’t let him linger on the sentiment, though, before he moves on to gently teasing him. “You tellin’ me you don’t know how to do dishes, Cas?” he asks innocently, a mischievous spark in his eye that Castiel is delighted to see. 

“Not well. Though I think you may have noticed that already.”

He grins, shakes his head. “Nah.” And, still smiling, he follows Castiel into the living room. When he passes Castiel to sit, he brushes up against him, and perhaps Castiel is projecting but… it feels a little too intentional to be a mistake. He hopes that Dean gets the comfort that he needs from that contact, from whatever scent he just picked up without directly asking for it. 

He thinks about offering to hold him, about the warmth of the man against his chest.  Then he faces reality and thinks about how that would be for Castiel’s benefit instead of Dean’s, and dismisses the idea. He offers Dean his plate instead. The omega takes it without hesitation, settling down in front of the couch cross-legged and leaning back against it comfortably as he flashes Castiel a small smile. 

They’re about halfway through their meal before Dean speaks. “Did you cook for yourself like this before I got here?”

His voice sounds fairly smooth, but Castiel can hear the slight edge of nerves in it. It’s nice, though, that Dean seems committed to the idea that they share facts about themselves, committed to the idea of equivalent exchange. So he decides to be honest. It’s the least he can do. 

“I did not,” he answers simply. “I am frankly surprised that the local eateries have not put up missing posters.”

Dean breathes a little laugh out of his nose, mirth creasing the corners of his eyes, and Castiel thinks they’re probably equally surprised by the sound. “What’s your favorite?”

Castiel hums. “I have always been a fan of Chinese take-out. As well as the humble pizza.”

Dean snorts. “Weird to think about you eating pizza. ” Castiel wants to ask him to elaborate, but before he can Dean clears his throat. “I, uh. I used to be all about burgers and fries as a kid. Greasier the better.”

Castiel isn’t stupid. He knows that it’s meaningful that Dean is telling him even something this innocuous about his past life, giving him any sort of detail about when he was free. Dean won’t meet his eyes, looking down at his plate and picking at the omelette instead. “Perhaps we could cook that soon,” he offers, encouraged when Dean perks up a little. “I’d have to make a grocery run beforehand, but…” 

Mouth twitching up at the corners, Dean flicks his eyes upward to catch his. “That’d be awesome,” he says softly. And oh, what a sign of trust that is – Dean telling him what he likes, what he wants. 

“Then we will,” he declares, and Dean gives him a small, genuine, beautiful smile. 

Dean’s cellphone arrives on the porch a few days later. Apparently, Cas hadn’t been bluffing when he’d said he was going to order Dean one – not that Dean really thought he had been. Mostly, he’d just been confused enough about the whole thing that he’d made himself not think about it. A Dean Winchester specialty. 

The alpha smiles when he brings it into the office where Dean is waiting, leaning against the desk with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. He’d been asleep when the bell had rung, thankfully. Otherwise he might have been more afraid than he’d already been when he’d scrambled upright to the sound. But Castiel had been right there, murmuring, “That will be the phone, I imagine.” He’d rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder, staying with him until he’d been sure Dean was fully awake and calm. 

It’s the most Cas has touched him since their hug a few days ago. Dean has been pretty pitiful since then, brushing up against Cas like a needy cat, but he hasn’t been brave enough to ask for more direct contact. He knows Cas would give it to him – the man has been visibly patient with his “accidental” touches, never once commenting on them even though he easily could. But Dean just feels too exposed at the thought of coming out and directly asking for it. Feels too pathetic. So he hasn’t. 

And since there’s not much Cas will do without his explicit consent, he’s been going through friggin’ hug withdrawals ever since. 

Cas plops down in front of him after retrieving a letter opener, slicing through the tape holding the brown box together. Dean watches, a little mystified, as he pulls out another, smaller box, this one white with a picture of a colorful rectangle on the front. It takes Dean a stupid amount of time to realize that it’s a picture of the phone. 

The alpha hands him the box with a smile, and for a second, Dean just sits there like a lump. Then he opens the lid, fumbling because his hands are shaking a little when he does it. Nestled in a mess of black foam is a very breakable looking thing that, supposedly, belongs to him. 

He’s being too quiet – shit. He needs to say something. Should have already said something. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Cas says, sounding for all the world as if he doesn’t think this is patently insane. “You can program in the numbers that Balthazar and Pamela gave to you, along with mine. If you wish, that is.”

He picks up the phone slowly. Both too small and too heavy in his hands, it doesn’t spring to life like a futuristic robot as he half expected it to. It doesn’t even have buttons. 

“Cas?” 

“Yes, Dean?”

“I don’t…” He can feel himself blushing, dammit, hot all the way up to the tips of his ears. And it’s dumb that something like this should mortify him – Cas has seen him in far worse states. So he powers through, the reward far greater than the risk. “I ain’t got a clue how this thing works.”

He makes himself look up at the alpha, hoping his face is not as red as it feels, and Cas is looking at him in open surprise. “Oh. Oh!” he says after a moment, shaking his head. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Dean. That didn’t even occur to me.”

Dean hands the phone back to him with an enormous amount of relief – strange, really, because he should probably be fighting tooth and nail to hold onto it. But he’s past thinking that Cas is gonna take away the things that he wants Dean to have, so he doesn’t even think about the possibility that he won’t get it back. 

Cas turns it to the side, showing him a row of buttons along the edge that he hadn’t even noticed. “This is a newer model than mine,” he says thoughtfully, “but I believe you turn it on like this.”

Sure enough, the screen flashes white and little logos and words start to appear, and Dean stares transfixed as Castiel moves through the set-up options that do nothing but baffle him. He shows Dean how to “unlock” the thing, how to navigate to the little green box down at the bottom left corner that will allow him to call people. It seems absurdly small in relation to the rest of the screen, considering it’s a friggin’ phone. 

Numbers appear on the screen, and at least that much is familiar to him. He stares as Cas types in ten digits and then saves it as a contact. And it makes something warm flutter to life in his stomach when the alpha saves it under Cas, rather than any number of things Dean should by all rights be referring to him as. He hands it back to Dean carefully, smiling as he does so. 

“Would you like to text me so that I have your number as well?” he asks, and Dean’s hands shake a little as he clicks on the new contact name. A little row of options appear, and one of them looks like an envelope – he figures that’s the one. Sure enough, a new screen appears that looks vaguely familiar, except it has a full keyboard right there instead of physical buttons to press a few times till the right letter appears. 

He fumbles and mistypes it a few times before he manages to tap out, hey cas. The phone keeps thinking he’s trying to say can, so he stubbornly backspaces and retypes it until it stays fixed. Then he pokes buttons at random until it sends with a little whooshing sound effect, and a moment later Castiel’s phone buzzes. 

He smiles when he unlocks it, showing Dean his own message. “You’re quite a quick study,” he rumbles, tapping his phone a few times – to save Dean’s number, he guesses. “It's really very remarkable.”

And shit, he’s unprepared for the sudden burst of pleasure in his chest at those words, the way he feels lightheaded with some feeling he doesn’t even know how to name. A feeling that intensifies even more when the first text he’s gotten in a decade pops up on his phone: 

Hello, Dean. 

He glances up and catches Cas looking at him with a fond expression on his face, his features soft as he smiles. Dean wants to hug him so bad that it’s nearly painful – but he just manages to hold himself back, determined to act normal. 

“Thanks, Cas,” he says again, and if his voice is a little too quiet or choked up, the alpha doesn’t say a word.