once & done: destiel one shots

In which Castiel bakes pie

Summary: The smell hits him at the top of the stairs, as soon as he opens the door and starts down into the main room. He'd recognize it anywhere, but it's out of place in the bunker: butter and cinnamon, the unmistakable aroma of apple pie.

+

The smell hits him at the top of the stairs, as soon as he opens the door and starts down into the main room. He'd recognize it anywhere, but it's out of place in the bunker: butter and cinnamon, the unmistakable aroma of apple pie.

He's been having a rough time lately. Maybe Sam has taken pity on him, picked up one of those frozen pies at the grocery store. They're not bad in a pinch, and he thinks they might have ice cream in the freezer. His mouth waters as he takes off his coat, sets his bag on the table and heads toward the kitchen.

"You're spoiling me, Sammy," Dean calls as he walks through the doorway, expecting his brother, but it's Cas who looks up with a smudge of flour on his cheek.

The kitchen is a wreck: mixing bowls on the counter and stacked in the sink, a whisk that looks like it lost a struggle of biblical proportions. A mess of spatulas. There's flour in Cas's hair and on the floor, remains of the wax paper wrapper from a stick of butter, a mound of apple peels—long spirals and short, angry bits undoubtedly caused by the angry flick of Cas's wrist. Dean imagines him going to town on a pile of apples: not with his grace, but with the rusty peeler someone has thrown against the wall.

"You okay in here?" Dean asks.

Cas's face settles into a scowl. He puts his hands on his waist as he surveys the damage.

"I didn't think you would be home so soon," he mutters.

"Where's Sammy?"

"Out."

"Out?" Dean repeats. "Out where?"

"He didn't specify."

"So you thought you'd take up baking?"

Cas sighs, and some of the tension in his posture eases. He drops his arms to his sides, and takes up a dish towel. He brushes flour from the countertop into his hand and walks it to the sink.

"It seemed manageable," he says with his back to Dean.

"You made one hell of a mess," Dean observes through a chuckle.

"The internet makes it seem easy," Cas defends.

"Well," Dean says, "everything's a little hard the first time."

Cas doesn't look appeased. He continues to wipe the counter, bends down to retrieve the apple peeler, deposits it in the sink. He runs the water and gets out the dish soap.

"Hey," Dean says, rolling up his sleeves. "Let me help you with those."

"No," Cas snaps. He sighs and adds, softer, "I wanted it to be a surprise. You shouldn't have to clean up."

"What did you make, anyway?" Dean asks, even though he's sure he knows.

"Apple pie," Cas says.

"We had the ingredients for that?"

"No," Cas admits, eyes skittering to the counter where he scrubs away a spot of butter. He turns away and rinses the cloth under the tap, then starts on the dishes. Plastic grocery bags are balled up on the floor beside the trash can. There's a receipt on the counter, and something in Dean's chest begins to ache.

"Cas, don't waste your money on me."

"It's not a waste."

Dean can hear the determination in Cas's voice. He wishes he knew what motivated Cas to do this, if it's another of Cas's misinterpretations of humanity; if it's a form of repayment; if it represents something deeper.