This is my first Supernatural fic to ever write (even though it's just a one-shot), so I'm sorry if the characters are a bit OOC. In any case, hope you enjoy!
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Honestly, the things Castiel did for Dean were inexcusable.
Stealing from an amusement park was not the proper use of his angelic, God-given abilities. It wasn't particularly fun either. It was more damp and uncomfortable than anything, really.
It was a bright, humid, God-forsaken (and Castiel did not use the term lightly) day at Mideastern County's annual Pie Festival, held in the local funland. Children darted to and fro across the muddy hole that the main path consisted of, and a pair dashed by Castiel. Mud splashed onto his shoes. It hurt him, deeply, to be here.
Then again, he probably should cease standing in the middle of the so-called road like a lost puppy and get moving. Castiel's footsteps squelched in a way that he hoped to never experience again.
"Now, you just have to look for a green tent that smells like heaven," Dean had explained earlier that day, expression deathly serious. It was honestly disturbing, given the context. Castiel had been around humans long enough to know that they did not usually wear such expressions while talking about pies.
"Dean, heaven does not smell like any particular thing, per say. It is dependent upon-" Castiel tried to explain, but Dean cut him off with an exasperated wave of his hands.
"No, no, not literally-" he sighed. "Okay, forget I said that." The seriousness was back in motion, and Dean leaned in closer, radiating self-assuredness. "A green tent that smells like...really good pies. Forget the heaven part."
Castiel nodded, confused. "A green tent, yes. What do I compare the smell of the pies to, to know they are 'really good'? I did not know there was a hierarchy of pies." He'd only ever come into contact with the ones Dean bought from gas stations, and Castiel assumed that they weren't a proper example of "really good pies", based on how Dean had been salivating over the thought for the last half-hour. (Which was ever since Sam had mentioned this "Mideastern Festival").
Dean dragged a hand down his face in what Castiel guessed was another show of exasperation.
"You know what, buddy, why don't you just ask someone when you get there? Zap in, zap out. Pie." Dean seemed so excited about the pastries that Castiel could hardly refuse him.
So, he eventually assented to go. And now he was in the midst of an over-crowded outdoor mud festival in search of the elusive "green tent that also smells like good pies".
Castiel approached an older man through the throng of small children and sweaty adults. The man hung by the wall of a cotton-candy shade, apparently taking refuge from the unforgiving heat of the sun. Castiel thought that was very sensible of him, and therefore he must be quite knowledgeable. The man looked up when Castiel cleared his throat. "Do you possibly, uh," Castiel floundered with his words for a moment before catching himself. He wasn't very used to "small talk", although Dean had been trying to school him on it. "Do you know where I can find a green tent with 'really good pie'? In particular, the smell is supposedly outstanding. This is very important."
The man looked at him strangely, and Castiel wondered if he'd said anything wrong. He'd followed the script Dean had told him to the letter. Eventually the man seemed to collect his wits enough to speak. "Sure it is," he said slowly. Then he pointed into the distance. "Try over there, near the outer corner. Big green tent. You'll know it by the line."
Castiel decided he'd bothered the man enough, and didn't ask him to clarify what "the line" meant. Some sort of rope? He thanked the man with a nod and squelched in that direction. The heat was uncomfortable, even for his vessel.
"Just get the pie," Castiel mumbled to himself as he passed oily vendors and various contraptions full of screaming children, made of tall metal scaffolding and straps. He wondered if he should save the children from what appeared to be some sort of torture, but they all seemed to recover quickly enough once they were freed. Castiel decided to tell Dean about it when he returned to the bunker later, but for now he was on a mission.
A Godforsaken mission, but a mission nonetheless.
The green tent appeared in the distance like a beacon of hope, a lighthouse during a summer storm, and Castiel quickened his pace, weaving through the slow-moving crowd like a man on a mission. Well, angel. And he was on a mission. The tent rose above him in a tangle of canvas and poles, smelling of baked confectionaries and freedom. The entrance was so close. Just a few more steps, and he would-
"Hey!" a man shoved him back, away from the tent's entrance. "Get in line!" He gestured to the crowd that milled around the building.
This must've been what the older man he'd talked to earlier meant by "the line", Castiel guessed. "Of course, my apologies," Castiel placated the man, and made to act like he was "getting in line", as he so obviously wanted the angel to do. Of course, the moment not an eye was trained on him, he unfurled his wings and hurled himself into the fabric of space and time, popping back out after a split second. Child's play.
In that instant he was within the tent, and Castiel quickly concealed himself from the eyes of two ladies working within, who were bustling to and fro with so much energy that it exhausted Castiel just to watch. They had strange plastic bonnets covering their hair, and rubber gloves concealing their hands, which held the so-called glorious pies.
They appeared to be selling them to the people outside, who were clamoring for the sweet pastries like rabid animals in their fervor.
Castiel fidgeted for a moment, the moral implications about what he had to do nearly unacceptable. Stealing was wrong, but-
"Would Dean rather have cherry or peach?" Castiel asked himself, recalling that he had specifically said, "'No nut pies. Anything but nut pies, Cas.'"
Both a moral delimma and a personal one raged in Castiel's mind.
Cherry or peach?
He stood there for a good, solid ten minutes, struggling between the two fruits. Then an idea came unbidden to the forefront of Castiel's mind. He was already stealing one, why not two? If Castiel was to commit a crime and sully his hands, would it truly be so despicable to make the most of it?
Cherryandpeach?
Castiel flickered into the bunker, a pie in each hand, and dumped them unceremoniously onto the table Dean was working at. They steamed there invitingly. The man looked up, eyes alighting on the pies and instantly brightening. Castiel curled his lip.
"Took you a long time to find, huh?" Dean said, eyeing the peach one and reaching for it with one hand, while the other itched towards its cherry-filled companion.
"I was struggling with the moral implications of theft, actually," Castiel replied, lightly miffed. "And which fruit filling you would find most acceptable."
Dean rose, both pies now stacked up and balanced in one hand. He used the other to slap Castiel on the shoulder, which Castiel remembered was an affectionate human gesture, rather than a blow.
"Well good job, buddy," Dean grinned,seemingly oblivious to Castiel's disgruntlement. Dean began to head toward the kitchen, presumably to consume both of Castiel's stolen items,a bright and uncharacteristically contented smile on his face.
Castiel stood there for a moment, then sighed deeply. Well, at least Dean was happy. If anything, Castiel supposed, that smile was worth it. Somewhat.
The man really did love his pie.