"No, Cas, for real, you have to try Ellen's pie. It is the best thing you will ever eat. Ever." Dean may have been stressing the point a little, but he was always the first to admit that he was a pushy drunk.
Castiel looked up from where he had been staring dubiously at Dean's fork. "Cas?"
"No, pie."
"It's just… You just called me Cas."
Dean considered this from the other side of the booth. "You mind?" he asked. "Your name is a bit of a mouf- of a mou- a bit wordy."
Cas stared at him intently, like Dean had just told him the secret to the universe. Or like he was counting Dean's freckles, perhaps. It could go either way. "It's fine," he said eventually. Leaning over, he took the bite of pie from Dean's fork. Dean startled a little; he'd forgotten that he was still holding his fork out in invitation. He blushed, nonsensically, and then blamed it on the alcohol.
"I've never had a nickname, before," Cas admitted, licking a stray bit of berry from his lips.
Dean felt as if they were having two entirely different conversations, but for the life of him couldn't remember what the other one was. He took another bite of pie and decided to join this one, instead. "That's just sad. Not even as a kid?"
"No," Cas said, downing another shot of whiskey. He'd been matching Dean drink for drink and then some, but seemed little worse for wear. "If we could avoid childhood stories tonight, I'd be grateful."
Dean shrugged. "'s fine. Didn't much like mine, either."
They settled into a comfortable sort of quiet after that. Dean finished his pie and his beer, ignoring the way it tasted sour and bitter together. Across from him Cas seemed to be taking in the bar. It wasn't much to look at, honestly. The wood was dark with age instead of polish, and the booths were lined with cheap plastic that practically glued itself to bare skin in the heat of summer. There was a TV at the end of the bar, but it was old and low def, and you had to squint to be able to tell that it was showing an archery tournament. Around the bar blue collar workers huddled over beers, more content in silence than with words. A few, like Bobby earlier, were eating breakfast in the booths instead. For Dean, this was home away from home, but looking around he wondered what Cas saw.
He looked back at Cas and was only somewhat surprised to see that Cas was already looking back at him. "Dean, is this a date?"
"What? No-"
"I only ask-"
They stopped at the same time. Dean took a sip of his beer. "Are you gay?"
Cas sat up a little straighter, looking wary but defiant. His voice was even lower than usual when he asked, "Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, Cas- It's not…" Dean paused, thinking of how he wanted to say this.
Dean was bisexual. As a teenager, he'd made the mistake of telling his dad this. John just heard the part about still liking girls and told him that he could choose to be a man, or be a homo, and that only men were welcome in his house. Dean made a choice. The old man's liver gave out when Dean was 19, but it took him another 2 years after that to feel comfortable in his sexuality again. He hadn't done anything about it, except let himself look at different types of porn, though. At this point he was comfortable taking women home for a night, and wouldn't know how to find a man in a gay bar. Why disrupt his life when he was comfortable as he was?
The problem with explaining all of this was, Dean was drunk.
He soldiered on anyways. "I get it. I do. Guys are cool. I like guys. I hang out with guys all the time, and we get along great. Banging a dude would probably be pretty cool, too. And you're…" He sipped his beer philosophically. "But, chicks, man. Women are…" He contemplated this. He wasn't going to say easier, because damn if he hadn't met a high maintenance chick in his lifetime. He couldn't say more convenient, either, because that wasn't the only reason he went for them. "I sleep with women," he finished, lamely.
Cas had relaxed during his impromptu coming out speech. "I think I understand what you're trying to say Dean," he said kindly.
Well, thank fuck one of us does, thought Dean.
They got Ellen to bring them more alcohol, and the rest of the night afterwards was kind of a blur.
Sam woke up to the smell of pancakes and coffee. The smell of coffee wasn't an unusual scent to wake up to in itself, but the fact that it didn't smell burnt was interesting. Maybe Dean brought home a girl.
He took a shower and got dressed, then grabbed his physics textbook and shuffled towards the kitchen. He paused when he saw the blanket and pillow on the couch and he called out, "Benny?"
A rumpled, hung over looking man in an oversized trench coat stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Hello. You must be Sam. My name is Castiel."
Castiel disappeared back into the kitchen before Sam could respond. He followed him and was rewarded with a plate full of what looked like chocolate chip pancakes. "You don't have syrup, so I would suggest peanut butter and chocolate sauce," Castiel said while flipping another pancake.
Confused, Sam followed his instructions. "I didn't even know we had chocolate chips. Or pancake mix."
"They were in the back of your pantry. And it's not a mix."
"Did you use bananas?"
"They looked like they should be used." Castiel put the finished pancake on a plate and poured another into the pan.
Sam felt like he should have questions. Lots and lots of questions. But the truth was, he was hungry, and tired, and had a physics test first period that he wanted to do some last minute studying for. "Thanks," he said.
After a couple of minutes Castiel joined him and they ate in silence.
Castiel left a few minutes before the bus was due, after he had asked where the Roadhouse was so that he could pick up his car. Sam went to school. Dean woke up some time around two and found banana chocolate chip pancakes in the fridge, with a phone number written in neat, blocky numbers resting on top.
