I apologize for the long wait. It was a combination of real life getting in the way and me trying to make sure this chapter was the best it could be.

My eternal gratitude to my reviewers, gnbrules, podothedruid, Eyum daRelmera, NeteleJala, and Guest.

And about a million extra thank yous to Eyum daRelmera who whined, pestered, and finally outright bribed (blackmailed?) me to get this chapter finished. I couldn't have done it without you, hon. Now pay up. =)

Chapter Seventeen

At first Claire was understandably wary of this enormous stranger, and prison obviously hadn't afforded Sam many opportunities to learn how to talk to kids, but he gave it a try. "Dean says you like cooking, Claire."

She looked up from her plate and gave the tiniest of nods.

"Did he ever tell you about the time when he was about your age and he made macaroni and cheese with marshmallows?"

Castiel almost choked on a bite of chicken as he burst out laughing. "You did what?" he said when he had managed to safely swallow.

"I was eight," Dean said defensively, "and it was his idea." He pointed his fork accusingly at Sam.

"Yeah, but I was four. You should have known better than to listen to me."

Claire looked back and forth between the brothers, and for a moment Castiel was afraid that she thought they were really arguing, but then she put down her fork and pulled out her little notepad and pencil.

Castiel and Dean exchanged a hopeful look. She'd started communicating with Gabe and some of the others at the restaurant this way, but they hadn't expected her to warm up to Sam so quickly. Maybe Dean's obvious affection for him had swayed her, or maybe she was just getting more comfortable with written words at least, if not spoken ones.

But when she finished writing, she passed the note to Dean, not Sam. Dean read it and snickered. "She wants to know if you cook too, Sam. Can I tell her about the time you set off the fire alarm while trying to boil water?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "That wasn't my fault. The stove was electric and it shorted."

"Yeah, yeah. That's your story."

Castiel felt a momentary twist of pain in his chest as he watched the good natured brotherly bickering. He vaguely remembered a time when he and Jimmy had been able to argue without actually arguing, back when their lives had been … Well, not happy, but full of simple, familiar miseries that they endured side by side. He dragged his attention back to the present before he could get sucked too deep into the quicksand of memories, and he realized Sam was talking to him now.

"Dean might have gotten all the culinary talent in the family, but I know good food when I eat it, and this is really good. Mind if I take more of that ratatouille?"

"Of course not," Castiel said, passing over the dish. "Eat as much as you want. I'm glad you like it."

Sam wasn't the only one who liked it apparently. Claire was also eating the unfamiliar vegetable stew with every sign of enjoyment. She had helped Castiel make it, peeling the vegetables under his careful supervision and meticulously layering them in the pan as he cut them up. He had noticed that she was always more willing to try new foods when she had a hand in their preparation. Maybe he should give the vichyssoise another go with that in mind.

"So, Sam," Castiel said in his most innocent tone, "do you have any embarrassing stories from Dean's childhood you'd like to share?"

It was Dean's turn to almost choke on his food.

Sam needed no further encouragement, and before his brother could recover enough breath to protest, he had launched into a tale of the time sixteen year old Dean had styled his hair in a bright blue mohawk.

While they were loading the dishwasher, Dean sidled up behind Castiel and wrapped strong arms around his waist. "Thank you," he murmured. "You have no idea how much it means to me that you did this."

Castiel relaxed back against him. "I'm glad I could make you happy. I love you, Dean."

"Love you too."

He could feel the words, not just humming along his skin where Dean's lips were pressed to his neck, but also resonating in his heart and soul. He turned in the circle of Dean's arms and caught his lips in a kiss. He meant it to be short and sweet, but as usual they got lost in each other, and the next time Castiel opened his eyes, the edge of the counter was pressing into the small of his back, and Dean was wedged between his invitingly spread legs.

And Sam was standing in the doorway, the empty ratatouille dish in his hands and an amused smile on his face. "Can I come in, or do you guys need another minute?"

Castiel couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed. He was way too happy. Dean turned a little pink (well, pinker than the kiss had already turned him) and mumbled, "Shut up," but he made no move to release Castiel.

The doorbell rang.

"That will be Missouri," Castiel sighed, loath to leave Dean's arms and get ready for work.

~o0o~

Dean had to drive Sam home, so Castiel got to the restaurant ahead of him. Naomi was waiting.

"Castiel, I'd like to go over the new menu if you have a minute." As usual the polite phrasing did not disguise the fact that this was an order.

"Can it wait until Dean gets here? He's running a little late tonight." Anna had always been included in menu meetings, and at least half the suggested new items were Dean's ideas.

Naomi's mouth pressed into a thin line. "If he can't be here on time, then I'm not going to rearrange my whole schedule to accommodate him, no." And she swept into her office, clearly expecting Castiel to follow promptly.

He glared after her and deliberately took his time buttoning up his chef's coat and tying his apron, making sure every fold lay perfectly. This was the first time Dean had ever been even a little bit late, but heaven forbid anyone should have a life outside of work. Naomi certainly didn't seem to. In eight years Castiel had never heard her talk about a family or friends. Some of the staff speculated that she slept in a coffin, but he rather thought that was too poetic for her. She probably just plugged herself into a charging port every night.

"Deep breaths, chef," said Gabe who was folding napkins nearby. "It's too early to be letting her spike your blood pressure like that. This is a marathon, not a sprint."

He was right, and Castiel forced himself to take a calming breath. It was going to be a long night if he let her get under his skin that easily. "Is it just me or is she getting even more unbearable?" Maybe he was just more sensitive lately with all the stress of taking care of Claire and trying to process his own tangled feelings about Jimmy's death.

"She does have quite the bug up her ass about you and Dean," Gabe said, his deft hands never pausing in their work, the napkins almost seeming to dance into shape all by themselves while he hardly paid attention to what he was doing. "Personally I don't see why she objects. You're much more pleasant to work with when you're getting laid regularly."

"Happy to be of service," chuckled a voice right behind Castiel.

He jumped and spun around, almost crashing into Dean's solid chest.

"Whoa. Hey, babe." Dean steadied him and then pecked him on the cheek. They had relaxed their no-kissing-at-work rule somewhat, but kisses on the lips could still get out of control fairly quickly as evidenced by their unintentional PDA earlier, so they tried to save that for home. Even so, the brush of Dean's mouth on his skin, the catch of stubble and the warm whisper of breath had Castiel's eyes slipping closed for a moment and the tension melting out of his shoulders. "Sam says thanks again for dinner and for, you know, giving him a chance."

"Who's Sam?" Gabe asked, either unaware or unashamed that he was intruding on a private moment. With Gabe it was probably a little of both.

"My brother," Dean said shortly.

"Oooh. Are we at the meet-the-family stage already?"

Castiel ignored this. "Naomi wants to go over the menu before opening."

Dean grimaced. He still hadn't forgiven Naomi for trying to make Castiel break up with him, and things had been very chilly (figuratively speaking anyway) whenever the two of them were in the kitchen at the same time. She wasn't stupid. She had to know why he was giving her the cold shoulder, but she hadn't confronted him about it or made any more attempts to drive the two men apart, confining herself to sour looks whenever they showed the least sign of affection in her presence.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Winchester," she said tartly when they entered her office together.

Dean just smiled at her. It was the complete opposite of the smiles he gave Castiel. All charm, no sincerity.

They went over the new menu piece by piece. This was always a tedious process, and made more so by the fact that Naomi pretended to know more about food than she actually did, but Castiel could have sworn that this time she was being more difficult than usual, and the dishes she argued about most stubbornly were all Dean's suggestions.

"Shepherd's pie? Are we running a diner?"

This was actually one they'd developed together, a fancier version of the recipe Castiel had made for Christmas, using the highest quality ingredients they could get their hands on but still preserving the simple, wholesome comfort food feel of the dish. Castiel explained this as patiently as he could, just as he had explained the thought process behind the bacon and wild mushroom roulade and the spicy French-Moroccan inspired beef stew. He was getting a little annoyed with Dean who just sat there in silence.

"A little help would have been nice," he grumbled when they were finally allowed to return to the kitchen. "Those were your ideas I was defending in there."

"I know," Dean said quietly. He pulled out a cutting board and tested the edge of a knife. "She was arguing with them because they were my ideas, Cas. If I'd gotten involved, she would have dug in her heels even more." He began chopping carrots as though each one had insulted his parentage.

For the first time Castiel noticed the simmering anger beneath Dean's seemingly apathetic silence, the same anger he had seen when Dean said, I really hate being manipulated. "Dean." He put a calming hand on the other man's arm, feeling the muscles jump with every movement of the knife. "Dean, stop for a minute."

The knife went still.

"Look at me."

Dean met his eyes, but Castiel couldn't interpret the emotions swirling in those green depths.

"Tell me what you're thinking." It was soft, gentle, the request of a lover, not the demand of a boss. He lifted his hand to cup Dean's cheek, stroking lightly over the bone with his thumb. "Please?"

"My …" Dean's voice faltered in a way Castiel had only heard a few times before. "My dad used to do that," he said, barely above a whisper. "When he was pissed at me for whatever reason, he'd start … criticizing everything I did. It always made me feel like shit even when I knew he was just being an ass and it wasn't my fault. Thought I was past all that insecure bullshit, but apparently not because for just a second back there I thought maybe she was right. Maybe all my ideas were stupid."

"Oh, Dean." Castiel leaned in and pressed their lips together, not caring for the moment about professionalism or anything other than the quickest way to erase the bitter unhappiness from Dean's eyes. "That's not true," he murmured against Dean's mouth. "You are a brilliant chef, and your ideas deserve to be on that menu. Naomi is just being spiteful. I honestly don't know why she's so against our relationship, but it is not your fault."

Dean smiled and rested his forehead against Castiel's. "I know that, babe. But thanks for saying it anyway."

As they reluctantly drew away from each other and got back to work, Castiel noticed more than a few people quickly hiding bemused smiles, but Naomi was nowhere to be seen, and clearly no one else thought that Castiel kissing his sous chef in the middle of the kitchen was a problem. Gabe winked at him as he grabbed a plate off the pick up counter, and Castiel smiled back.