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I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’, I’m burnin’ for you… He softly sang along as Burnin’ for You played from his phone on the counter.
Dean didn’t know why today felt so damn good. He woke up early, took a steaming hot shower, and had started making breakfast. His hands whisked the hell out of some egg whites in tune with the beat of drums.
He felt a presence behind him. “Normally I’d say you’re Cas,” he said, not turning around, “but I’m gonna guess it’s Jack this time.”
“You’re correct,” came a hesitant voice behind him. Dean set the bowl down and turned his head to flash Jack a smile. “What are you doing?” the kid asked.
“Making breakfast. You want some waffles?” Jack squinted at him in that adorable Cas way, and Dean’s smile grew in fondness. “I’m gonna make you waffles, ‘cause I’m thinking you’ve never had them and that’s a damn shame.”
“I’m sure they’ll be very good,” Jack declared. “You’re a very talented chef.”
Dean snorted and shook his head. “I’m just throwing stuff together,” he corrected. He took a rubber spoon and started folding the egg whites into the rest of the waffle batter. “It’s nothing special.”
“I disagree,” Jack said. “You’re very skilled at making precise measurements without specific tools, and I’ve never seen you overcook or undercook anything.”
“That’s just because I practice a lot,” Dean said. He leaned over to his phone to pause Van Halen’s Hot for Teacher, attempting not to get flour on it. Beside his phone lay a ladle, which he snatched up.
Dean scooped batter up and poured it into the hot, buttery waffle iron. “I see that as being dedication,” the kid insisted. Jack’s gaze was riveted to the waffle iron, escaping steam and all, but that still didn’t stop the onslaught of praise. “You provide for your family and you do a wonderful job at it.”
“If I don’t do it, who’s gonna?” Dean asked.
Sam walked into the room at that moment, heading for the coffee pot. “I’m no expert, but I think the proper response is, ‘thank you,’ Dean.”
Dean rolled his eyes but acquiesced. “Thanks, Jack.”
Sam took a sip of his coffee and turned to the kid. “Dean doesn’t know how to take a compliment,” he explained. Dean squawked indignantly, but he just continued. “He thinks he doesn’t deserve praise, but he’s internalized that thought. Denying affection is his way of going with what he knows, because any challenge on that sets off alarms.”
Dean shook his head, deciding to completely ignore Sam’s bullshit. The waffle iron beeped, and he focused on opening it and taking the waffles out. There went the good mood. He buttered the pan again and poured more batter in.
“Exhibit B,” Sam observed. “He’s ignoring it because he isn’t ready to admit he’s wrong.”
“Sam, for the love of god, please shut the hell up.” Dean tried to make it a snarl, but it came out as a plea. “I’ve got waffles cooking up for everyone, coffee ready for everyone, and my comfy robe on. I’m trying to have a good morning here.” He looked Sam in the eye. “Just let me have some fun, and we can shit on my emotions later.”
Sam had the decency to look guilty. “Yeah, totally,” he agreed. “Sorry for not being respectful about it.”
“Not like I’m open about feelings most days,” Dean admitted. “I prefer the kicking and screaming route. That way I’m still able to internalize things.” He and Sam both chuckled, and the tension broke with it.
Dean took that as his opportunity to plate Jack’s waffles. He carefully spread butter over them, then poured some artful stripes of syrup atop of all that. They looked and smelled awesome. He grabbed silverware and delivered all the breakfast needs to Jack. The boy grinned up at him and immediately dug in, using his knife to haphazardly cut off a little square from the corner.
Dean leaned backwards against the corner of the table, still facing Sam and the waffle iron. An empty chair sat between him and the kid, but it didn’t feel like a buffer in any way. Jack hummed happily at the taste, mouth full and a smile on his face. “I like waffles,” he said, muffled. Dean grinned and reached a hand out to ruffle his hair.
In that moment, the last man of the house joined the kitchen. He paused as though he was debating coffee, but ultimately went straight to sit in the empty chair between Jack and Dean. “Good morning,” he greeted, reaching a hand up to rest it on Dean’s knee.
“Morning, sunshine,” Dean said, giving him a little smile and covering Cas’ hand with his own. Between the unintentionally artful tousle of Cas' hair and the acres of skin made visible by the robe-and-boxer-briefs combination, he had an especially hard time taking his eyes off Cas this morning.
“Dean,” Sam snapped. Dean’s face immediately flushed, but he ignored it and hummed in question to Sam. “Waffle iron beeped,” was the response.
He nodded, and diligently moved to make more waffles. His knee went chilly beneath his robe without the heat of Cas’ hand on it. Cas was always so warm.
It was odd. He and Castiel has been more physically affectionate lately. Maybe it was losing Cas, maybe it was the new sense of calm. Nowadays, he would walk by the angel and put a hand on his shoulder or his bicep for no particular reason. He’d go out of his way to sit next to him on the couch, pressing their thighs together and reveling in the shared heat.
Cas would do it too. He would put a hand on the small of Dean’s back any time they stood next to each other, put a hand on his leg whenever they sat next to each other, place his hand on Dean’s shoulder whenever they stood across from each other. Personal space had gotten a little less important, the distance between them shrinking by inches at a time.
It didn’t even feel like it was dancing around anymore. Everything unspoken was suddenly out there, and it was a breath of fresh air. He didn’t need to talk about it. He knew how Cas felt, he knew how he felt, and he knew that Cas knew both of those things as well. It was this little mutual awareness, and a confirmation had somehow been reached that they both not only accepted it, but enjoyed it and wanted it to grow.
After so damn long, one might think there was no more growing to do. But every day Dean would notice another pattern in Cas’ stubble, would show him something just to find out his opinion, would learn what Castiel’s hand felt like when it was positioned just so. With every simple conversation he felt himself getting in deeper, becoming more comfortable, more certain. Castiel was it for him. He always had been.
Before Dean knew it, all the waffles were done. Sam had taken the second batch as his own, so Dean was left with two plates. He prepared both waffles the way he and Cas liked them, drizzled in syrup with a little pool along the side. He sat in Jack’s vacated seat; he heard behind him the sound of dishes being washed. Dean was grateful for that, considering how much he hated cleaning up after cooking.
“Hello,” Castiel greeted softly. He’d already said it to the group, but Dean smiled anyway. This one was for him.
“Hey,” he said, in the same low tone. He set the plates down, digging in at the same time as Cas did. Both of them let out matching groans simultaneously, then looked at each other and laughed. Dean could only imagine how goofy they must look, giggling like idiots with their mouths full of sweet, fluffy waffles. He glanced around, but the kitchen was empty save for them. Huh.
“You’re in a good mood,” Cas observed between bites. “Is it anything in particular?”
Something in his voice was a little mischievous. “I don’t think so,” he answered hesitantly.
Cas grinned and shook his head. “Must be something in your soul.”
Now that was weird. “What is it? What’s up with my soul?”
“Nothing bad,” Castiel assured him. “Today’s just a good memory. An anniversary of sorts.”
Dean tried desperately to remember what it might be. September 18th, that sounded familiar. “I know it’s something, but I can’t think of what it is.”
Cas met his eyes and smiled. “We’ve known each other for ten years today.” It all came back to Dean in a snap, all that they’ve been through together since that first meeting in the barn.
Dean’s heart swelled and he grinned back. “Happy anniversary,” he said.
“Happy anniversary,” Cas agreed. He licked his thumb, then reached up to wipe syrup off the corner of Dean’s mouth. He licked the thumb into his own mouth again, sucking the syrup off.
“Ten years of prolonged eye contact,” Dean joked. He had to admit, though, that a lot of that time was also spent looking at Castiel’s lips. Just like right now.
“Ten years falling for you,” Cas added. That snapped Dean’s eyes up. “Quickly from Heaven. Slowly in love with you.”
Dean expected a part of him to fight it, to yell at these positive feelings, but nothing came. All he felt was- “Love?”
“Love,” Castiel confirmed. “But I think you know that already.”
Dean chuckled and nodded. He leaned in to rest his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder, mumbling his response into the strong chest before him. “I think I love you too.”
“I know,” Castiel said. A soft kiss fell onto the top of Dean’s head, and he gently lifted it up to look at Cas. He didn’t pull away, didn’t expand the distance from two inches to something reasonably platonic. Instead, he closed the distance.
The first touch of his lips to Castiel’s was gentle, unsure. The next was more direct, more inquisitive. Dean’s hand rose to cup his angel’s cheek as it deepened. Their movements were soft and passionate, desperate but not rushed.
When Dean pulled away, he looked at his angel, those deep blue eyes that held behind them a being that had seen every split second of history as it happened. Cas had seen everything, known and understood it all, but he’d only ever felt this way for Dean. On some level, it felt like an accomplishment.
Dean met Castiel’s lips again, submerging himself in the sappy feeling of loving and being loved. As Cas pulled Dean into his lap, he had one last thought before losing himself to Cas’ touch.
I could get used to this.