Fandom Supernatural
Character(s)/Pairing(s) Castiel, Dean; Cas/Dean
Genre Apocalyptic/Domestic/Dystopia/Future!fic/Slash
Rating PG
Word Count 1,251
Disclaimer Supernatural c. Kripke, CW, WB
Summary Even if the road to 2014 seems inevitable, Dean has the power to change some of it.
Warning(s) spoilers up through season six episode twenty-two
Notes This is for -wondersmith's Destiel World Prompt Contest and I requested the word learning from the prompt list. When I saw the word, I saw the past-present-future layers I could work with and I wanted it.
Learning
One year ago, Castiel proclaimed himself God only for the souls to become too much for Castiel to handle four months later. Castiel was now human and traveling with Dean. Almost fully recovered from a broken leg seven weeks ago, Castiel was still in pain but his makeshift cast of a splint and ace bandages worked well enough. Sam was not with them. Lucifer reclaimed his vessel four months ago.
Castiel sat in the kitchen of a rather nice house that was only just falling into the first signs of disrepair. Another chair propped up his injured leg. It was the third house the pair squatted in since they went into hiding from Lucifer. He turned another page of the cookbook he pulled out of a cabinet. The owners were probably croatoan now or in one of the fledgling compounds across the world. Michael was either in the cage or let loose in Adam's body when Castiel opened Purgatory. Dean and Castiel had yet to run into Adam or Michael. The weight of all these things registered in Dean's constantly tense shoulders.
Dean sat across from Castiel at the kitchen table, squishing the occasional ant that tried to venture across the tabletop or dared to try to scurry up Dean's arm. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, yet Dean tried to keep his posture relaxed in the dining chair. Castiel could tell Dean was anything but relaxed.
The family who used to live in this house stocked the place with provisions against an impending economic depression. There were cans of this and jars of that, but most of it were foods or spices that Dean had never encountered before and the first few times cooking with these supplies provided less than ideal results. The pair sat down with the two cookbooks that looked the most used hours ago. It was too dangerous to move to another house for now.
"I could cook," Castiel offered. His stomach rumbled quietly in agreement.
"Keep your pants on," Dean said, "I think I figured it out." Yet, Dean was still staring at whatever recipe he had been staring at a long time now.
"My foot is broken, not my hands," Castiel stated. He still struggled with curbing the grouchy feeling that accompanied hunger.
"Yeah, well, last time you cooked, you started a fire." Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose. He set the book down. "I think I know what we're doing." He pushed the book towards Castiel. "Recipe forty-five."
Castiel looked at it. "We don't have all of this." They had most of it, but there were supplies that were gone now.
"I know." Dean stretched his legs and collected the dead ant bodies into a tissue.
"What about forty-four?" Castiel passed the book back. "We have everything for that."
Dean looked at the book. He picked it back up and remained quiet for a long moment.
Castiel's stomach rumbled again and he adjusted his leg on the chair. He looked over his shoulder at the medicine cabinet. He wanted more pain medication but Dean was strict about when and how much. Castiel sighed and decided not to ask for more medication yet. He was too hungry to argue about such things. He looked back at Dean. The furrow in Dean's brow returned. It was odd. Castiel had never seen Dean take so long with something written before. Dean always was the first to figure out what he would get at the diner, he was quick with forms, and he seemed to be able to glance at a label and know if Sam was allergic to something.
Dean shifted his weight as though he knew he was taking too long. Yet, he persisted. His eyes moved over the words, sometimes pausing on one or lingering on another. Castiel started to observe Dean's eyes. Forms were always in the same formats. Sam's allergy was as simple as looking for certain food dye terms, rosemary, or palm oil. Then most diners either had pictures or it was simply a trick of looking for the words bacon cheeseburger and checking it was not a salad or some other weird concoction.
Castiel stood up and grabbed a cane they found in the last house to help himself out of the dining nook of the kitchen and over to the spice cabinet near the stove on the other side of the kitchen's island. He began to retrieve the ingredients for the recipe. It would make enough that they would not have to use the solar generator with the oven tomorrow. "Why don't you bring the book over here?" I'll read it off to you and watch you do it. I've got to figure out cooking sometime." His stomach rumbled again. Castiel could hear Dean's stomach answer back.
Dean opened his mouth and closed it. "There's chicken in the freezer." He got up and brought the book over, setting it on the counter out of their way. He knelt down and checked the level on the solar generator. Then he went to retrieve the chicken from the freezer. There was a battery-powered generator keeping the refrigerator running. He brought the chicken out and put it in the oven to thaw the chicken.
Castiel retrieved a saucepan and the measuring utensils they would need. He leaned on the counter, trying to put a small amount of weight on his injured leg without aggravating the injury.
Dean washed the chicken germs off his hands with some water from a bucket in the sink and then returned to the oven. He stepped close to Castiel and then farther away before deciding a point somewhere in-between the distances. It was a gesture becoming increasingly frequent as Castiel noticed Dean's appointed distance between them shrinking every so slightly every day. Castiel hid a small smile and turned to look at the book by his side. "'In a small sauce pan over medium heat," he began to read off the instructions, watching Dean perform each task. It was not quite the memorized recipes Castiel saw Dean perform at the last house, but Dean knew what he was doing. Castiel knew Dean was in charge of domestic chores as a child and he was very good at all of them.
Castiel and Dean worked, both inching just a little closer until there was a quarter of a person's width between them. "'…until juices –'"
"'– run clear,' I know," Dean said. He put the chicken in the oven. He double-checked that the solar-powered generator would cooperate for the next forty-five to sixty minutes. He stood back up and then looked at Castiel.
Castiel stopped leaning on the counter and grabbed up his cane again. His eyes held Dean's gaze. He reached out with his hand and wiped a bit of sauce off Dean's chin where the pot spit it earlier. "I can wash the pot." He needed something to do. He needed a purpose.
"No, it's good." Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Just go sit down. It's almost time for more Advil."
"So I could take it now," Castiel pointed out.
"You wish. Ten minutes." Dean squirted a little bit of liquid soap into the pot and began to scrub.
Castiel watched Dean scrub the pan. The pain in his leg sent him back to the chairs in the kitchen's dining area. In the back of his mind, the problem of Sam as Lucifer and what to do about it lingered, yet no solution bubbled to the surface.
The End