When a sudden epiphany led Cas to try to discover the meaning of life through art, Dean never questioned it, never tried to hinder his creativity. Hell, he actively supported him. He bought him the tools: all canvas, paints, and crayons Cas could possibly desire, then helped him set up a workshop in one of the empty rooms. He'd even take him to the most picturesque places of wherever they were at the time to get his creative juices flowing.
But this? This is a wee bit too much.
"It's for pottery," Cas explains, trying to help Dean out through his micro crisis of faith at the sight of a pottery wheel sitting in the center of Cas's workshop.
"I know that," Dean replies, simultaneously biting his tongue not to say anything more snappy. "I'm asking what this is even— You know what?" He throws his hands up in defeat. "I don't wanna know."
But Cas doesn't stop looking at him with a weird smile on his face.
"I thought you'd be interested in this. It's a practical art, so, unlike, say, painting, the creations don't only serve decorative and contemplative functions, they're also pragmatic." Cas shrugs as if that ramble explained everything. "You like pragmatism."
"Pragmatic." Dean purses his lips. "Uh-huh, okay, Demi Moore. Then go ahead and make me something pragmatic."
"I will." Cas nods solemnly, then double-takes at his newest purchase. "As soon as I figure it out."
Dean can't help a warm smile creeping on his lips. He quickly shakes it off. Pottery. He's not getting over that any time soon.
"You never heard of playdough?"
He only gets a squinty look in return. He waves his hand; too late to explain that now. Hopefully, Cas will get bored of it, soon, as he did of landscapes, and they'll be able to sell the wheel and forget about it.
He looks at the machine as it starts to spin on Cas's command. With sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the guy slaps a ball of clay in the center of it and begins to fondle it.
"Nope, I can't look at this," Dean mutters and marches away.
Freakin' pottery wheel.
—
"Close your eyes, Dean."
Dean looks up from his book to see Cas standing in his doorway. There's a grin plastered across his face and his hands are both hidden behind his back.
This should be good.
Cas has spent the last few days occupying the kitchen and barring everyone's entrance for hours at a time. First time around he threw a pack of beef jerky and a bottle of beer at Dean just to keep him away while Dean's nose, sadly, informed him it wasn't a pie that was tanning in the oven.
Just when Dean was about to organize an intervention, Cas moved with his new toys outdoors, to the field behind the bunker. He looked much more cheerful at dinner that afternoon.
So it's not a terrible surprise what's that behind Cas's back. Or at least what it's made of.
Dean's still up for playing along. He puts the book down and sits up straight with his hands reaching out. He shoots Cas last, amused glance and closes his eyes.
Cas crosses the room in quick, heavy steps. He stops right before Dean and puts the gift in his open palms.
"Should I guess what it is?" Dean asks, turning the bowl-like object in his fingers.
It's too shallow for a bowl, though, and too small for a plate. The thick edge has three symmetrical grooves carved into it.
Dean's eyes shoot open before Cas can respond.
"Is this an ashtray?"
There's no doubt about it, the form's way too specific for that. The creation's black and shiny and very much ashtray-esque.
"You wanted something pragmatic," Cas responds, plopping down on Dean's bed.
Dean narrows his eyes at him. "You do know I don't smoke, right?"
Cas shrugs. "That's not my fault."
What the hell is he even supposed to say to that? All he can do is force his mouth to close and take a closer glance to judge the craft rather than the relative pragmatism. It's elegant and fairly shapely. The black glaze seems to do the trick of covering most of what flaws are there.
"Not bad," Dean teases, "for a beginner."
"It is harder than it looks on the videos," Cas muses, reaching to the ashtray. He doesn't take it from Dean, though. His fingers linger against Dean's skin, while his thumb traces invisible lines on the surface. "But I'm only getting started."
Dean tries hard not to take that as a threat.
As Cas's palm lets go, he moves the ashtray to his nightstand, right next to his new, silver lighter. The only thing missing is a pack of cigarettes.
Cas must be thinking it too.
"But don't take it as an encouragement to start smoking, Dean," he says. "As a human, I won't be able to clean out your lungs or cure you of potential lung cancer."
"Noted—"
"Although, I did read about an exhibition that involved a ruined set of lungs, so you could probably still contribute to art posthumously."
"Oh, thanks," Dean grumbles. "Glad to know that I'll still be useful rotten."
Cas sighs. "I still prefer your lungs healthy and pumping oxygen into your body." Much less chipper this time and a little more resigned, he regards the gift. "I guess this wasn't so pragmatic after all."
"It's fine." Dean chuckles. "Though, next time maybe go for a huge popcorn bowl."
"I'm gonna need more clay for that," Cas says, as he gets up and heads for the door. "Oh," he adds, without stopping, "and I'm gonna have to borrow two thousand dollars for a kiln. The oven's not hot enough."
Dean blinks at the door that Cas just disappeared behind.
"How mu—" he springs off the bed and plunges into the corridor. "Cas! How much did you say!?"
—
After that first piece, the bunker begins to drown in bowls, plates and mugs, and vases for which no one can bother to supply any flowers. It's slowly getting out of hand, but Dean doesn't say anything. Cas's craft is decidedly improving, after all, from the smooth shapes down to the colorful painted patterns.
"You know I did some research and handmade pottery is now all the rage," Dean says, inspecting a bright yellow vessel shaped suspiciously similar to an urn. "Maybe not this one."
"I told you, Dean, these aren't for sale."
He's sitting behind the wheel, again, finishing up yet another creation. His hair covers his eyes, as he leans, focused on each movement of his fingers. A millimeter too far, too much pressure and his work will get ruined. Or so he says.
"I'm just saying. You could save money for that kiln you wanted. You wouldn't have to bother with that whole fiery pit." His voice gains a more preachy tone as he says, "No hole should be burning unless there are bones inside."
Cas doesn't answer, not right away. He separates the vase from the wheel and carries it over to the rest of its clay friends. He pauses to look at the collection with a gentle smile, like a proud momma at the newest batch of her babies.
It's kinda endearing.
And kinda hot — the way he looks, with stains all over his jeans and the sleeveless shirt revealing his clay-covered arms, with his hair in disarray and a gray streak on his cheek. Dean takes a step closer, reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb. Cas holds his breath.
"There."
"Thanks," Cas says quietly before tearing his eyes away.
"Yeah, um—"
"I actually enjoy it," Cas goes on and it takes Dean a moment to remember what they talked about. "It's the oldest method of firing clay. People made pottery this way almost thirty thousand years ago." He pauses and pouts as if a thought only just now occurred to him. "I might have even witnessed its invention."
"Hey, if you got into it right away, by now we could just stack the pots one on the other and make a bridge to Pluto."
Dean kind of regrets the joke before he finishes it, though Cas lets out a soundless laugh.
"I had other things on my mind, then."
It's the first time, really, that Cas is talking about his angelic past since he fell. Dean's not sure whether it's healthier for him one way or the other, not now when his movements die down and his eyes stare right through the vases and through the walls.
But it's only for a second, and maybe Dean even made that up. The next moment Cas is back to shuffling around his studio, cleaning up the mess he's made while creating. There's something different in his moves, though, in the slouch of his shoulders, in the hasty motions of his hands.
"Hey, Cas, uh—" he cuts off, waiting for Cas to look up at him. "Do you think you could show me how you do it?"
Cas narrows his eyes at him, surprised.
"You want to try?"
"Yeah, sure, I'd like to."
—
The clay is weird to touch. It's cold and wet and stubborn. It doesn't want to do what Dean's hands tell it to. It curls and spreads and flattens in all the wrong ways and it bends Dean's fingers to its will. Then it climbs up to his elbows, though Dean's no idea how.
It takes him a long time, under Cas's amused gaze, to turn an uncomfortably phallic shape into something that could one day resemble a bowl. It takes just a second to turn the bowl into an accidental plate.
"Son of a—!" Dean snaps, slapping in frustration the now shapeless slab of clay. "It's so much harder than it looks."
He expects a laugh from Cas, but that doesn't come.
"Don't force it, guide it," he only offers, towering above Dean, though his hands seem to itch to take it over from there and do the thing right.
"Thanks, Mr. Miyagi."
Dean stops the wheel to form the pulp back into a ball and start again. He's gonna be more careful this time. He'll guide and not force, whatever that means. He gathers his week's quota of patience and uses it on the task.
And when that doesn't work, he pours more water on it.
"Now you're just making mud," Cas groans, dismayed.
Dean throws his hands in the air, spattering the clay-mud everywhere. "I give up!"
"Put your hands back on the clay," Cas orders.
Reluctantly, Dean does, watching Cas, as he walks away. And then he comes back with an extra chair. Dean's breath hitches for a beat and his hands destroy the lump of clay once again.
"Don't forget Righteous Brothers," he jokes, but the joke falls flat on all fronts as Dean's heart begins to race and his face heats up and he's this close to jumping off his seat. And he's holding onto it even harder.
And then Cas's face is there, before him, squinty eyes and impatience.
"My brothers can hardly be called righteous," he deadpans, ignoring everything else, as he sets his chair on the opposite side of the wheel.
"Touché." Dean decides to go with it, while he's trying to calm the hell down.
It's okay, Cas didn't catch it. And the whole pottery thing is not just a long ruse to pull a Swayze on him.
Dammit.
"First the shape." Cas brings Dean's attention back to the clay.
Cas's palms, bent into half-circles, hover an inch away from his, gesturing for Dean to follow. Dean imitates Cas's movements and the bowl begins to take a form, if a bit wobbly.
"Steady."
The tips of Cas's fingers press to Dean's skin, as they lead slowly upwards. Dean lets himself be guided, fighting not to lose focus. He wants to look up to see if Cas is as hot as he feels, but he can't take his eyes off their hands working together to create something.
"So, tell me about it," Dean says, but only gets a confused hum from Cas. "Why pottery of all things?"
"I told you already."
Now it's Dean who's confused. Cas told him many things, but he can't dig out of his memory anything that'd apply here.
"It's not just beautiful. It lets me create something useful," he explains.
"That it?"
It seems too simple. Way too simple for how much time, energy and clay Cas puts into it. But Cas only speaks in gestures now, showing him how to hollow out the bowl without turning it into Salvador Dali's painting.
With Cas's hands on his, it suddenly seems so easy. Like they were meant for it. Like Cas's hands were meant to fit Dean's like this.
They're almost done when Cas speaks again.
"It lets me create something." It's nearly a reiteration of the previous sentiment, yet the meaning's so different. "For so long my hands only seemed to destroy. And now they just make things out of a lump of soil. It feels good."
Creating something. Making something new. Of course. Dean should have known. He knows the feeling well. Every time Dean fixes up the Impala and when he cooks.
"And it kind of reminds me of when I rebuild you."
Dean wheezes in and chokes and tries to hide a coughing fit but fails. Cas's hands on his body, bending it and shaping the way he does with clay is not something he wanted to think about, ever.
"Well," Dean clears his throat and gestures widely to the creations lining the shelves, just to change the topic, "I'd say you're really fucking great at it. Clay, I mean," he adds just to be sure.
"Thank you." There's a playful smile on Cas's lips as he points to the neat, little bowl they made together. "So are you."
Right. Dean pulls a face at Cas and gets a brief salve of laughter in return.
"Need help?" Dean offers, trying to scrape gray goo off his arms that just won't come off that easy.
Cas shakes his head. "I got this, go take a shower."
"Okay."
He's not gonna lie, cleaning all that didn't seem like fun. He's not sure he'll manage to clean himself up from all this clay. He happily leaves Cas to it and heads for the door. But as soon as his foot stands in the corridor, a chill runs up his spine.
From behind him, comes a hummed melody that sounds uncomfortably familiar. A deep, drawn out, sentimental tune he's heard a dozen times in a very specific movie scene.
Dean's head shoots back in horror, to where Cas looks up from the wheel he's cleaning and sends Dean his most innocent smile.