The next day, Castiel arrives with a full crew in tow. Dean is more than a bit alarmed by the number of people now milling around outside of his business at 4 am on a Thursday morning, feeling like he was lured into a false sense of security with only the cameraman and sound tech before.
"Cas?" He says carefully, approaching a dishevelled Castiel, dressed strangely casual in sweatpants and a hoodie, "Who are all these people?" Cas turns to Dean and gives him a tired but reassuring smile.
"Hair, Make-up, a couple light techs…" he offers pointing out each one.
"Dude, I can't have 20 people standing around my bakery all day," Dean huffs.
"They won't be anywhere near the bakery," Castiel says, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, "We commandeering the lot over there," He waves his hand vaguely behind Dean and he can guess that he's referring to the empty dental suites, "When we shoot, it'll just be the small crew like we had a couple days ago. Crowley does like everyone to look their best on camera, though." Dean give him a concerned look at Castiel direct's him to RV which is acting as hair and make up.
30 minutes later and Dean is officially a painted whore. He emerges from the trailer, primped and powdered, crossing the street to his bakery. He grumbles to himself about being an hour late as he enters through the kitchen, grabbing his chef's jacket off the hook and throwing it on over his t shirt. Castiel is already there, looking weirdly dashing in a plain oxford shirt and jeans, talking quietly with Hannah.
"Ah, look who finally arrived," Crowley says, clapping his hands together, "C'mon, let's get started."
The morning goes better than expected. Dean goes about his normal routine feeding the starter, making and baking pastries for the first rush and making the dough that he prepped the night before into donuts. Castiel stands aside, watching quietly, occasionally interjecting with advice and tips. Dean was expecting a lot of eye-rolling on Castiel's part, like he had in most other episodes (Dean might have watched a few on Netflix, so what?), but for the most part, Castiel's poker face doesn't waiver.
Not until Sam arrives at 6:30 am and the shop bursts to life. The crowd isn't large, not compared to neighboring bakeries in the area, but it still has Dean running around frantically. At one point, he nearly drops a tray of donuts pulled straight from the oven when Sam bolts unexpectedly through the swinging door. Castiel and his crew keep to the side, carefully observing and making notes while the camera man sticks to the brothers like glue, much to Dean's annoyance.
"Castiel!" Dean yells out as he places two pans of pastries in the oven, "If you don't get this guy off my ass right now, I'm gonna go Sweeney Todd up in here!" The camera operator goes white and takes a step back, next to a smirking Castiel. He tips his head to the side, leading everyone out of the kitchen and out of Dean's way.
In front, Sam cheerfully rings up a customer and bids them goodbye.
"Busy day?" Castiel asks. Sam snorts and shakes his head.
"We'll be lucky to break even when we factor in utilities," he sighs. Castiel frowns in confusion.
"The way Dean was running around, I would have expected a good profit today." He says. Sam shakes his head and wipes down the counter.
"Dean wouldn't be so busy, but he keeps trying to expand the menu." Sam plops down onto a nearby stool and looks at Castiel, "Our mom had this… book, this journal full of recipes, Items she dreamed of making and selling, and Dean is determined to do that. He thinks that's the key more customers."
"Is it working?" Castiel asks, earning a sarcastic guffaw from Sam and a sweeping gesture to the empty room, "So he's wasting money then?" Sam shakes his head unexpectedly.
"Yeah, sort of," Sam admits quietly, "I mean, everything's great. Dean's very good at what he does, but…" Sam trails off as he runs his hands through his hair.
"What?" Castiel asks. He sees Crowley behind the sound guy, making motions with his hands to coax the information out of Sam.
"I just wish he'd slow down," Sam finally huffs out, "He never stops and it's hurting the business. Dean get here at 4:30 in the morning and he's here all day. I leave at 8 and every night, he's still working when I walk out the door." Sam throws up his hands in exasperation. Castiel leans against the counter and considers Sam.
"He's here 16 hours?"
"At least," Sam replies.
"How many days a week are you open?" Cas asks, mentally doing the math.
"Six, but he's here most Mondays too," Sam exhales heavily and leans back against the wall, "He's so focused on the big picture, that he can't see all the little mistakes he's making. Like earlier when he nearly dropped a pan… That happens at least twice a week and usually we lose a batch." Castiel frowns deeply.
"He makes dumb mistakes, like mixing up his salt and sugar or forgetting an ingredient. I've seen him add evaporated milk when a recipe called for sweetened condensed milk."
"So he's careless?" Castiel concludes, crossing his arms over his chest.
"He's exhausted!" Sam insists, careful to keep his voice down, "I try to help as much as I can, as much as he'll let me, but I have a wife at home and a life and even if I were to drag him out of here when I leave, he's got his own set of keys. He'd come back." Sam looks thoroughly drained by his confession, but Crowley, standing just a few feet behind him, looks entirely gleeful.
"Have you thought about hiring more staff?" Castiel ask.
"We had a few for awhile, uh, Gordon and Krissy." Sam offers, "Krissy left for college a year ago and Gordon… Gordon was a long-time employee, friend of our dad's. One day, we figured out that he was dipping into the till." Castiel's brows fly toward his hairline but he doesn't say anything.
"After that Dean figured it was better if we just kept it in the family, so to speak," Sam continues, shaking his head, "I guess it's for the best. It had been a struggle to pay them anyway."
"You said you had someone come in and work the counter occasionally?" Castiel asks, trying to get a clear picture of the situation.
"Yeah, Jo." Sam says, standing as the bell signaling the front door opening tingles. "She's like a little sister to us. We pay her in donuts."
"Donuts?" Castiel repeats, very confused.
"Excuse me, I have to take care of this customer." Sam greets the person approaching the counter while Castiel takes the chance to slip back into to the kitchen. Crowley and the crew are occupied getting filler shots of the business so this may be his chance to talk to Dean before he's back on camera.
Dean seems a great deal less frantic now than before. A large swath of dough is spread out over the prep table and Dean is carefully coating it in soften butter with a pastry brush like a painter covering a canvas.
"Cinnamon Rolls?" Castiel guesses. Dean looks up, his face lighting up slightly when he sees Castiel.
"Not just cinnamon rolls," Dean replies deviously, "Hot chocolate rolls." Castiel makes a surprised noise and steps closer to see what Dean is doing. A prep bowl sits to his right, filled with brownish, spicy smelling powder.
"When I was a kid, my mom used to make hot chocolate with marshmallows and buttered toast." Dean explains, "We'd let the marshmallows melt into the cocoa and then dip the toast in it." Castiel grimaces.
"You're mother must've really loved sweet and savory combinations," He says, remembering the cheese and apple pie concoction. Dean chuckles and puts down the pastry brush.
"That she did," He agrees, "but this is actually my concoction." He holds the prep bowl in Castiel's direction. He takes a deep sniff of the aromatic mixture.
"Chocolate and cinnamon," Castiel says flatly.
"Also orange zest and just the barest pinch of cayenne," Dean adds, "The mixture is one part my own cocoa mixture, one part brown sugar and one part cinnamon." He grabs a spoon off a nearby rack and takes up a heaping spoonful, gingerly shaking it over the buttered dough. The heady sweet scent fills the air and Castiel can't help smiling as he inhales it deeply.
"After they're done," Dean continues, "rather than cover them with cream cheese frosting, I top them with a toasted marshmallow cream."
"Good Lord! How on Earth do you and Sam not weigh 500 pounds each?" Castiel chides. Dean laughs as he shakes the last spoonful of powder over the dough, spreading it evenly with the back of the spoon.
"Well, we don't eat it," He counters, "I mean, Sam's not too big on sweets anyway, never has been, and me… Well, I spend all day around this stuff, I'm practically inhaling sugar. At the end of the day, it's pretty much the last thing I want." Dean places the bowl back on the table. He pinches a bit of flour out of a small ramekin at the corner of the table, dusting his hands, before beginning to roll the dough lengthwise.
Castiel watches him with a quiet fascination.
"Dean, tell me something," Castiel starts, looking at him curiously, "How many hours do you work a day? On average?" Dean shrugs, continuing to carefully roll the dough into something resembling a log.
"Usually around 10 hours," he offers, "but that's pretty normal for a small business owner." Castiel frowns deeply.
"Sam says that you get here at 4:30 in the morning and you're still here when he leaves at 8 in the evening," he points out, "That's a lot more than 10 hours." Dean laughs heartily.
"Sam is exaggerating," he says, glancing around the kitchen for a moment before grabbing a roll of unwaxed dental floss off the shelf, "I may have worked a little longer a few days-"
"Six-plus hours is more than 'a little longer,'" Castiel interrupts, "He also says you come in on your off day as well." Dean nods and shrugs. He carefully clips a strand of floss and wraps it around the roll, about two inches in.
"That's part of owning a business," Dean huffs, anger beginning to surface in his voice, "We need to do whatever possible to keep us running."
"What about hiring some help?" Castiel offers. Dean raises his head quickly, giving him an incredulous look.
"With what money?" Dean hisses, "We can't pay everyone in baked goods, Cas! And I've learned the hard way that good help, help you can trust, is impossible to find!" Even in his anger, Dean still has a light touch, pulling the end of the floss carefully as they cut through the dough, a perfect spiraled roll the result.
"Sam mentioned your issues with employee theft," Cas mutters. Dean purses his lips as he lines a tray with parchment paper.
"Yeah, Gordon," Dean sighs, continuing to cut rolls, "The worst part about that is that he'd been here for years. We have no idea how long he'd been doing it. Maybe thousands of dollars lost." Dean turns to Castiel.
"Look, I know I work a lot, but what other choice do we have?" Dean shrugs in concession, "Nothing is going to get better if I stop." He continues to place the rolls in perfect rows in the tray.
"Sam also said that you have been making mistakes more lately," Castiel says seriously. Dean groans and looks at the ceiling.
"Why? Because I drop things sometimes? Or a batch or a pie burns?" He snaps sarcastically, "Yeah, I know Sam thinks he's Mr. Perfect, but he has just as many accidents in the kitchen as I do. Do you know he cut his hand open on a mandolin a few weeks ago?" Castiel wants to interject, but at that moment Crowley's head pops through the swinging door.
"What the bloody hell are you doing back here? Without a camera much less?" He barks, "Get your asses out front right now!"
"In a minute!" Dean yells back, finishing the rolls and placing the tray in the oven. He sets the timer and follows Castiel out to the front counter.
They spend the next hour detailing all the proposed changes, with Castiel displaying each intricately-made design for Sam and Dean on the ever-present tablet. Sam seems to like everything, nodding and making suitable agreeable noises, but Dean is less assertive of the changes.
"What we're proposing is working with the… eccentric nature of the bakery, rather than scrapping everything," Castiel explains. He swipes to the next slide, "We thought the dark walnut of the wainscotting was nice and matched very well with the display case. If you replaced the formica counter with a nice wood one-"
"Wood?!" Dean interupts, "Won't the upkeep on that be insane?"
"Actually, they have some wood countertops that are treated to resist water and other damage." Castiel counters, "Plus it would be much less expensive than a granite or slate one would be." Dean nods in agreement and he might be imagining it, but a small, pleased smile curls at the corners of Castiel's mouth. They move through the room, Castiel pointing out how items can be repurposed or repainted to fit the look of the shop. When they come to the cracked and chipped table near the window, Castiel glances at the brothers doubtfully.
"This is one item I struggled with and I just can't see how we can incorporate it into everything," He taps the tops of the table and Dean tenses slightly.
"I don't see what you mean," Dean says slowly, "If it's the color, it can just be repainted, right?" Castiel gives Dean a pained look.
"It's not really meant to be painted," Castiel says, knocking on the top of it, "It's chrome and formica. I mean, even if it weren't… lime green, it would still stick out like a sore thumb against all the wood and the…" Castiel takes a deep breath as he tries to find the word, "Masculine feel of the place. I'm afraid this table has to-"
"Y'know, Cas," Dean quickly cuts him off, "The thought of losing the table has me a little thunderstruck." Castiel's claps shut. Dean's mouth is a hard line, but his eyes are silently pleading.
"Let's put a pin in this," Castiel stammers out, turning his attention to the windows, "Now, these curtains…" Castiel continues in his assessment as Crowley glares daggers at him and the Winchesters from his spot near the counter.
"See!" Sam gushes excitedly as he wiped down the prep table, "See! What did I tell you? Was that so bad?" He is beaming from ear to ear and Dean can admit his enthusiasm was infectious. The crew had left an hour before closing and the time alone gave Sam and Dean a chance to catch up on the routine cleaning that had slacked on during filming. Sam picks up stray utensils and hangs them against the metallic rail above the prep area.
"Yeah, yeah Sammy, don't get cocky about it," Dean laughs, scrubbing the stove. Despite the rocky start, having Castiel and his crew here had been a boon. Castiel wasn't as much of a hardass as Dean had expected and his advice really was on-point. Dean only had to utilize the safeword maybe three times. All in all, today had gone far better than expected.
"Castiel was a lot nicer than I thought he would be," Sam mentions, dropping the rag into the nearby laundry basket.
"Yeah, he seems alright," Dean mutters, focusing his attention on a stubborn spot where caramelized sugar had cemented itself to the stovetop.
"I mean, on the show he's so… aloof and unapproachable, y'know?" Sam continues, "But in person, he's just… normal." Dean looks up at his brother.
"I guess," Dean offers absently.
"He seems to like you," Sam says. Dean jerks his head up and stares at Sam.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Well, I mean usually the restaurant owner barely gets any say in the changes made. Castiel is very much 'my way or the highway,'" Sam explains, making a stiff gesture with his hands, "But he was actually listening to your ideas, like when you said you wanted an oven/range combo rather than two baker's ovens or the thing with the table-"
"He just recognizes genius, Sammy," Dean jokes, "Clearly great minds and all that nonsense."
"No, it's not that," Sam mumbles, "He like really... focuses in on you, like he's actually listening to you and considering what you are saying. He treats you like… I don't know, an equal."
"Does that upset you or something?" Dean asks with a sarcastic tone.
"I don't know," Sam shrugs, "He always seems so… otherworldly on TV and come to find out he's just a regular guy like us. It kind of destroys the mystique, don't you think?" Sam pulls a face and Dean can't help but laugh at his almost-forlorn expression.
"Oh, poor Sammy. The asshole of TV is actually a nice guy. The illusion has been destroyed. Woe is him!" Sam shoots him his best condescending glare (or "bitch face", as Dean as dubbed them) and heads through the swinging door to the front to count out the cash drawer.
Dean shakes his head warmly. He doesn't understand what the big deal is. So Cas is less Simon Cowell and more Jeff Probst? Dean finds is refreshing. He wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead and unceremoniously drops the rag in the laundry basket. He'll deal with the stove tomorrow.
Something Sam said comes to mind: "He seems to like you." He can't help preening a little at that thought. Dean may not have a fancy culinary degree or much than a high school diploma, but he knows his business and he knows how to bake. He can take a little pride in the fact that's he's earned Castiel's respect. Not that he wouldn't mind earning Cas' admiration in other areas, as well.
Hey, Dean is a red-blooded, American man; he knows what he likes. He knows he can't be the first person to have been a caught off-guard by Castiel's piercing blue stare or the way his lips curl into just a hint of a smile when he finds something amusing. Dean switches off the light and heads out the back door, laughing to himself.
So he has a bit of a crush. So what?
"Castiel, What the Hell do you think you're doing?" Crowley growls from the doorway of the suite. Castiel glances at him from his spot laid out across the bed. His bored expression doesn't change, but he does raise an eyebrow.
"What are yelling about, Crowley?" Castiel asks, sitting up. Crowley closes the door behind him, walking slowly into the room.
"Castiel, when I selected you for this production, it was in part due to your reputation as a hardass," Crowley says with an unusual calmness to his voice, "Not so you could let pretty-boy bakers walk all over you!" His voice gains an edge of fierceness at the end. He gives Castiel a heated glare, receiving only a blank look in response.
"What are you talking about?" Castiel asks, genuinely confused.
"You using this as an opportunity to flirt with Chef Zoolander!" Crowley barks, "You've been practically indulgent with the Winchesters! Every issue and change we'd planned has been shut down. By You!"
"That is not true!" Castiel argues, rising to his feet.
"Isn't it?" Crowley asks mockingly, "You're listening to them, Castiel!"
"And they're listening to us!" Castiel counters, "Have we ever had owners that weren't fighting us tooth and nail?"
"That's the point, Castiel! Where's the drama? Where's the tension? Where's the..." Crowley waves his hand in the air, trying to find the word, "Dun-Dun-Duh!" Castiel rolls his eyes and walk to the mini bar to grab a bottle of water.
"We got kicked out after 20 minutes on the first day," Castiel sighs, "What more do you want?" Crowley gives him a withering look.
"Castiel, let me explain something to you," Crowley says calmly, "Shows like this follow a particular formula, a story arc. You can't mess with it. It… confuses the audience. You need to feed them something familiar or they'll switch channels. We lose viewers, we lose sponsors. The network cancels and then you are out of a job. Understood?" Castiel rolls his eyes but nods.
"You can't just start with high tension and then have it fizzle out throughout the rest of the episode," Crowley continues, "I can only do so much creative editing and dramatic close-ups in post!"
"What do you want me to do?" Castiel asks, exasperated.
"Look, I don't care, just be your self," Crowley instructs, "Your normal self, with the yelling and the eye-rolling. Yes, just like that." The door clicks open and Hannah enters, arms loaded with brown take-out bags.
"They didn't have the Penne a la Norma this time, so I got you the-" She stops short when she notices Crowley standing next to Castiel, "Oh, hello Crowley. I didn't realize you'd be here for dinner. I would've gotten your order."
"No, no, that's fine," Crowley mumbles, slipping his coat on and walking toward the door, "I have a teleconference with head of programming. You two have a good night." He looks pointedly at Castiel, "Consider what I said." The door slams closed behind him. Castiel sighs and turns to where Hannah is unloading plastic containers onto the table. He scowls to himself, lost in a thought.
"They better have packed extra olive oil or there will be hell to pay," Hannah mumbles absently.
"Hannah," Castiel starts, "Do you think I was different today?"
"Different how?" She asks, not looking up from the bag.
"Crowley felt I was… permissive with the Winchesters today," he says, "What do you think?" Hannah glances at him for a moment before looking away and busying herself opening containers.
"Well?" Castiel asks, waiting for a response. She exhales heavily and stops what she's doing.
"You were a bit more… lenient than you usually are." Hannah admits.
"How?" Castiel asks, legitimately dumbfounded by this. Hannah hands him a container full of pasta.
"I don't know, Castiel. It's just little things," she says, "The first day, you were so gung ho about the menu but you haven't even mentioned it once."
"We're getting to that tomorrow," he interjects.
"You had no arguments when it came to the paint, and I know that wasn't the palette you liked," Hannah continues, sitting down, "Hell, you were actually apologetic when you mentioned throwing out the table! I've never seen you do that before." She chuckles to herself as spins her fork in her linguini.
"Well, you were the one who said go easy on them," Castiel sets his container opposite Hannah and sits, "Remember? Sentimentality?"
"I said lighten up, not back down completely," Hannah counters, "Is this because Dean Winchester is attractive?" Castiel goes stock still, fork held at his mouth about to take a bite.
"What?" He says, his voice an octave higher than intended.
"I mean normally we deal with middle-aged restaurant owners." Hannah points out, "How often are we going to have an owner that could double as a male model?" Castiel frowns deeply.
"It has nothing to do with Dean Winchester's level of attractiveness," Castiel snaps vehemently.
"But you do find him attractive?" Hannah asks, unable to hide a cheeky smile. Castiel sighs heavily and closes his eyes.
"Hannah," He warns softly.
"Because it's alright if you do," Hannah continues, "I mean, his face is structurally perfect."
"Hannah."
"And even if he's not into guys, there's no harm in looking."
"Hannah!" Castiel exclaims. Hannah glances at him with a knowing smirk and Castiel is sure him blush is radiating down to his toes.
"I'll drop it," she says, "But just think about how you're acting tomorrow." Castiel shakes his head and stabs his fork into his pasta for another bite.
The morning rush had just slowed when Crowley pulls Dean to the side.
"Dean, my boy, come with me," He wraps an arm around Dean's shoulder, pulling him away from the cornbread pie crust he was about to roll out, "We need to do some confessionals."
"What?" Dean asks, annoyed.
"Those talking head things where you tell the camera what you really think," Crowley explains. They move through the kitchen and out the back door.
"We're doing it is the loading area?" Dean asks, glancing around at the trash cans and the too-high grass.
"We've set up a spot at the side of the building," Crowley directs Dean around to where Hannah is setting up a pair of folding chairs across from one another and a tripod. Hannah reaches for Dean's shoulder, spinning him around and checking the microphone pack hooked to his hip.
"Ready to go?" Crowley asks her. She nods stiffly and steps back, turning on the camera, "Why don't you take a seat Dean." He cautiously sits downs, looking at both Hannah and Dean warily.
"What kind of questions are you going to ask?" he inquires.
"Just what you think so far, your first impressions or Castiel, of his methods," Crowley lists off each item, "That sort of thing. Hannah Dear, why don't you get Sam ready? We should only take about 15 minutes." Hannah nods and hurries off around the to the front of the bakery. Crowley checks the shot in the viewfinder and sits in the chair opposite Dean. He picks up the holy tablet where Hannah had left it and switches it on.
"So Dean," Crowley says as he glances at the tablet, "What were your thoughts when you found out your brother volunteered Winchester and Sons for Kitchen Overhaul?" Dean considers the question before answering.
"I was pissed, I mean-"
"Can I stop you?" Crowley interrupts, "Would you mind answering in present tense? These will be cut throughout the episode." Dean nods slightly.
"Uh, ok… I'm pissed." Dean says, "This bakery is our family. It was our mom's dream and to let some… strangers come in and change everything… It feels like a slight against her." Crowley nods in understanding.
"Anything else?"
"It really sucks he did it without my knowledge," Dean says, "He might be part owner but he should've discussed it with me first." Crowley nods and glances at the tablet again.
"So when you first met Castiel, what was your impression of him?"
"Emotionless asshole," Dean says flatly, earning a soft chuckle from the other man.
"Let's try to watch our language, alright Dean?" Crowley replies, "Can you extrapolate on that? Your impression of Castiel?" Dean shrugs.
"He just comes in here, doesn't say a word at first and then rattles off all of these changes," Dean scratches at the back of his head, "It feels kind of cold, ok? I mean, I see he's not really like that now-"
"We'll get there in a minute," Crowley instructs. They go through the events of the first three days, Dean giving his thoughts on each aspect.
"You and Castiel seem to be getting along now," Crowley says, "You've really done a 180, haven't you?" Dean straightens up in his seat and shrugs absently.
"I don't know," Dean mutters, "He's starting to make sense, y'know? Like I understand what he means about moving around the kitchen. It is more efficient, I can see that." Crowley nods once and looks at the tablet.
"Anything else?" He looks at Dean, raising a curious eyebrow.
"I like the idea of a wood countertop," Dean grins, "It'll look really sharp. Really… authentic, you know what I mean?" Crowley laughs to himself and nods.
"Yes, I believe I do," he mumbles, making a notes of something on the tablet, "So you like Castiel's decisions, then?"
"Yeah, sure." Dean replies, "Guy's smart."
"Even his recommendation that you step away from the business?" Dean's eye go wide and he feels like the floor has just dropped out from underneath him.
"What did you say?" he murmurs.
"Castiel made a recommendation that you step away from the business," Crowley says.
"To who?" Dean scoffs.
"You brother," he answers, "Plus, we have a running tally throughout the show of the recommended changes so that when we come back in six months we can see if you followed the advice." Dean blinks slowly. He can feel a ball of anger forming in his gut like a toxic pearl.
"He said I should step back?" Dean asks in utter disbelief, "I should give up the business I've been working in since grade school?"
"I guess you haven't been told about it yet?" Crowley says, watching Dean warily. Dean jumps to his feet, ripping off the microphone and battery pack and throwing them at Crowley.
"I'm done," he says, walking away.
"We have a few more questions, Dean" Crowley call after him.
"I don't care," Dean yells out. He stalks around the building to the back door. As soon as he's back inside the kitchen, he grabs a rolling pin and begins to vent his aggression into roughly rolling out corn bread crust. He doesn't care if it will make the crust tough, he's pissed.
Crowley watches him tromp out of sight. His look of concern only marred by the hint of a smirk twisting at his lip.