Dean had a guilty pleasure, one Sam and Bobby had no idea about. It wasn't the bottle or his impala, no, they both knew about those pleasures. It was, in fact, baking. Now, mind you, Dean was what some could call 'macho' man; he was a hunter after all. That was the reason no one could know. Well, saying no one, there was a couple of exceptions: Lisa and Ben. It was at theirs he developed his passion and skill. However now days his baking moments were often non-existent with the food always being eaten before anyone else noticed.
Today Dean is alone. Sam and Bobby are out, chasing the vampire they are hunting. He vaguely remembers an explanation to why he was left alone in the house, but for the life of him he cannot recall it. His memories of the past day are blurred by the hazy fuzz of drink. The moment the slam of the front door had finished echoing, Dean had sobered up enough to realise he was alone. Properly alone, not the five seconds of peace he often gets. For Dean being this alone for too long means his mind starts to drift and he tends to remember. 'Remember what?' I hear you wonder. He remembers the only thing he can when he is alone as this: hell. His memories hit him in flashbacks and echoes, the pain searing through him and the deadness he felt when it was his turn to cause indescribable pain, seize him once more in its iron grip. Instead of being a victim to his mind, Dean decides to release his pain in the way he has learnt how: he decides to bake.
Soon he is on autopilot; a flurry of ingredients and bowls flittering across Bobby's kitchen. There may be no whisk, and half the utensils are cracked, but it is certainly better than what motels often provide. His shoulders visibly relax as he mixes the gingerbread mixture together and soon he is humming 'Eye of the Tiger' to himself softly. Even though he is baking, he is still on autopilot, which has its downfalls as he soon realises. Each roll represents a stab of pain; each man he creates from the dough represents a slice of flesh carved out of a soul. No! He must not; he is baking. He must pile his 'sad face thoughts', as Sam calls them, into a cage and lock them tight, preferably one similar to Lucifer's. He needs to think of something else, but what?
"Why don't you think about Castiel, your little angel friend?"
A voice appears in Dean's head, its impish grin smirking as if it knows something Dean does not. Dean shakes his head and it disappears in a flurry of sound, however, whatever the voice was been planning, it certainly achieved something. By the time twelve gingerbread men are accepting their fate to be burned alive; Dean's mind is overtaken by the image of a beige trench coat and piercing, bright blue eyes.
At a snail's pace, far calmer than the before, Dean begins to wash up. The colour of His eyes sticks in the forefront of Dean's mind, the cobalt blue seeming to penetrate his mind and read his thoughts. There they stay, never blinking, never unfaltering, until one moment they are there and the next they are in front of him, staring tirelessly into his own.
"HOLY SHIT, CAS!" Dean roars, almost dropping the bowl he is drying. "W-What are you doing here!?" It is all Dean manages to pipe out, still not over the shock of Cas appearing. Of course it doesn't help that Cas is still staring at him with those eyes of his. Does he ever blink?
"You called me, Dean," a simple reply, stating the obvious as Cas' replies usually do. When Dean does not answer, Cas continues. "You called me and I was intrigued on what you were doing and so naturally I came down to investigate.
"Jesus, Cas, it's just baking!" If Cas is annoyed at Dean's casual use of blasphemy, he does not show it.
"Baking?" Cas tests out the new word on his tongue, his forehead creased and head tilted.
"Yes, baking. It's what we humans do sometimes. Here," Dean throws him one of his cookbooks. "Turn to page 5, it explains everything there.
Cas does as he is told, a rarity Dean notes, and his brow furrows even more as he reads. Dean waits patiently, watches patiently. He takes in Cas: his ruffled hair; intense Eton blue eyes which are now concealed from view from his paper thin eye lids; his stubble, a thing which never seems to grower longer than its perfect length; his tie that, no matter how many times Dean ties it for him, it always comes undone. Dean drinks all of Cas in, just as Cas is doing with the worn cookery book.
Their comfortable silence is broken only when a loud recurring beep erupts from the cooker. Both men jump, their eyes meeting. Fear, protectiveness and fierceness all flash across Cas' eyes in a matter of seconds. Dean immediately resumes his usual façade, hoping he is not as readable to Cas as Cas is to him.
"I think they're done." Dean grabs an oven glove, pulls the golden tray out and rests it on the top. Cas reaches out to take one but before his hand has even the slightest chance of catching the gingerbread men, Dean slaps his hand away. "They're hot!" And before Cas can reply with something stupid about how his vessel can withstand temperatures Dean can only dream of, Dean saunters to the fridge and pulls out a can of whipped cream. "Besides, they're not even finished yet."
The can is shaken violently by Dean before one of the unlucky gingerbread men is dressed in a bra and knickers made of cream. A smug smirk crosses Dean's face. "Now we just need to dress the others."
"Can I-" Cas reaches out his hand, pointing at the cream. "Can I have a go?"
A look of uncertainty crosses Dean's face and he reluctantly hands over the can. "Just be careful, Cas."
Gingerly Cas steers the can around so the nozzle faces him. "So you just press this?" Cas gestures to the part at the top.
"Yeah. WAIT NO CAS IT'S THE WRONG WAY-"
It was too late. Cas' face is covered completely in whipped cream and Dean softly facepalms himself. "You've got a bit there." Dean points vaguely to Cas' face wearily once he looks up again. Gently Cas reaches up to his face, wiping the only cream free spot on his face.
He looks down at his hand, confused at why there is no cream, "where?"
"Here, let me do it." Dean grabs a towel and wipes Cas' face down. He dunks it into the sink and inspects his handiwork. "Oh wait, you still have a bit on your face." Without thinking, Dean leans foreword and wipes it off with his thumb. "Here," he gestures towards the angel, expecting him to wipe it off with his own finger.
Instead Cas surprises him, again. He takes Dean's hand between his own and, as if he was a cat, laps the cream up. Stunned at both the contact and how it caused electric shots to run throughout his body, Dean lets his hand grow limp between Cas'. He wants to let go, he thinks, but he cannot seem to drop his hand free from Cas' grip.
The spell which held them suddenly breaks, letting the men drop their hands awkwardly to their sides. A rose tinted blush slightly covers Cas' cheeks and the awkward silence between them begins. "Do you want another go?" Dean blurts out, hoping Cas will not notice his desperate attempt to break the silence. Noiselessly, Cas nods and reaches for the can.
Another man is dressed, this time with trousers and a beard even Santa Claus would be jealous of. This time, the silence between them consists of Dean awestruck at Cas' artistic talent. However artistic you can be with whipped cream for paint and a gingerbread man for a canvas that is.
Soon all of the men were dressed and ready to go on their trip down Dean and Cas' mouths to their stomachs. "We better eat them quickly," Dean manages to choke out as he crunches down on his third man. Cas' eyebrows crease in confusion, his mouth too full of biscuit to ask why. "Because," Dean answers his question for him, "Bobby and Sam might be back soon."
"I don't understand."
Now it was Dean's turn to turn a faint red. "They… They don't know about all this." His waves has hand in a vague gesture, pointing somewhere near the gingerbread. "I feel it makes me less manly in a sense. It's stupid I know…" He trails off and studies his half eaten man in his hands.
"If it helps, I don't think it makes you any less manly." Dean looks up when he hears Cas' voice. Their eyes lock. Cas takes the final bite of his gingerbread, smearing cream just above his lip.
"You've got a bit," Dean mumbles, waving his hand over his face.
Cas licks his lips and tries, oh how he tries to lick the cream off, but his tongue is not long enough. He keeps on licking his lips, trying and trying, until Dean can not take it anymore. He leans in and slowly, carefully, making sure not to scare his angel, licks the cream from where it was sitting above Cas' lips. He should take away his lips now, back away in shame, but he doesn't. He lowers them instead and kisses him. It is a chaste one, but a kiss nevertheless. Cas pulls away instantly and steps away, his face showing no emotion and his eyes, for once, unreadable.
"I-I…" Dean tries to speak but he cannot. 'I'm sorry' are the words he is trying to say. But the words will not form. "I-" he tries again, but he cannot say it. The words seem to be trapped under the memory of what happened. It dawns on him why he cannot say them, because, do you know what? He just does not want to say the god dammed words. Truth be told, if Cas rejected him and it ruined their friendship, Dean would never regret it. How can one regret something that feels, and tastes, so damn good?
Dean is swung around and his back pressed against the wall. All he can see are those two blue eyes staring into his. He feels Cas' lips on his, biting, licking; he feels Cas' hands running through his hair, tugging, stroking. He feels Cas all around him and it is perfect. Dean's lips feel bereft when Cas draws back for air and a slight whine even escapes from his lips. He is content, however, when he feels Cas' lips locking onto his neck, leaving something for Bobby and Sam to question the next day.
Later Cas will tell Dean how he learned to kiss like that from the pizza man. Later, but not yet, as now they are too busy kissing to care where each other learnt their skills from.