Too Bad
Castiel just can't help the goofy smile on his face; he has been wearing it lovingly ever since he had the idea last night. Why he didn't think of it before three in the morning—is beyond him. The excitement coursing through his body, however, seems to be keeping the exhaustion at bay.
Pie
Sweet, flaky, perfectly, golden brown pie! Dean loves pie. Cas has heard the rants countless times: Dean would kill for pie. Dean would "blow" someone for pie—whatever that means. Dean has even said that if a pie and his mother were trapped in a fire, he would save the pie first. "Nobody likes burnt pie!" Dean exclaimed. Cas thought the scenario was unrealistic and distasteful. He hopes now, that that wasn't one of those "differences in morals" that could hinder any possibility of him and Dean getting along.
Cas has already rolled out the dough and finished the filling; fresh cherries mixed with a drop of honey mixed into an almost sickeningly-sweet syrup. Now, he just needs to put everything together and bake it. The lattice top comes out perfectly and Cas is quite pleased with how well he has executed this new project.
The hour of baking seems to span the length of twelve. It takes all of Cas's self-control not to keep peeking into the oven. By the last beep of the timer, Cas is already in the kitchen—whipping open the oven door while grinning ear to ear. It looks perfect. Dean is going to love it; he has to.
The scene plays for the hundredth time in his mind. He will show up to Dean's door, pie in hand. Dean will be surprised, a little weary at first but soon, ecstatic when he smells the perfect pastry Cas has prepared. They will sit and talk and eat—clearing things up once and for all. Cas hopes that Dean will be open to exploring new possibilities for their friendship- maybe making it into something else; but, he prepares himself for the opposite outcome, just in case. He practices how he will react if Dean tells him it was all a big misunderstanding. Cas knows it will hurt, but the idea of sitting in this house one second longer without getting his words out to Dean, is pure torture.
The pie cools for another thirty minutes, giving Cas just enough time to send a detailed e-mail to his boss. He explains how personal matters have come up and he feels he will need to rest of the week to tie up the loose ends. Castiel doesn't like skirting his responsibilities but if he does not at least try to figure things out with Dean, he may as well quit his job and become a-hermit. What good is life without friends and loyalty?
The pie is soon packed away in a large, plastic container and tightly barricaded in passenger seat of his car. With the precious cargo set, Cas climbs in, gripping the wheel and nodding to himself in the mirror just before turning over the engine. "You can do this, Castiel" he chants to himself. "You have to do this right!"
The drive to Dean's is much slower than the drive home yesterday. Every light is red, every crosswalk is full. Cas keeps serving concerned looks to the container next to him—as if it will rot in the extra ten minutes added to his trip. As he finally pulls up, he wonders if he should have called first; he knows Dean doesn't like surprises—then again, Dean apparently didn't like homosexual interaction but has attempted it twice now with Castiel. He supposes that people can change . . . hopefully.
After a shaky walk to the door, Castiel leaves three short, forceful knocks on the green painted door. He hears the shuffle of feet, a gentle slow swipe across the carpet and jeans rustling against skin. The door handle swivels and clicks just before a crack appears between it and the frame. Dean's emerald eyes peek through, making him panic when he finds he can hardly breathe.
"Oh. Cas, I—I wasn't expecting you . . . here." Dean opens the door wider, but not completely, just enough so that he can lean the front of his body against the frame, letting his head hang through. Cas begins to fidget, thinking that Dean looks far more hesitant than he had in his imagination.
"I'm sorry for dropping in without notice, Dean. I just thought that you might like this." Cas says, eagerly holding up the boxed pie, like a child presenting his crayon scribbles to his parent. Dean reaches out his arm through the narrow opening and cautiously takes the container.
"It's pie. I made it myself." Cas yips, becoming embarrassed of just how trivial he is sounding.
"Oh, um, thanks man. It looks good." Dean says without looking inside.
The two men stand in silence. Cas looks on helplessly as his intended friendship-saving, miracle pastry gets only a fraction of the attention it deserves. Dean's eyes just dance back and forth from Cas's face to some unknown spot across the street. After another painful few seconds, Dean lets out an uncomfortable cough, breaking the aching quiet.
"Do-do you want to come in?" Dean asks, sounding about as enthusiastic as he did over the pie.
"May I?" Cas responds quickly, determined to say what he has come here to say, awkward or not.
Dean backs up, opening the door wide, stepping far off to the edge, as if Cas was a toxic thing making his way into his house. Cas slides inside and turns to face Dean, hoping that he will take it upon himself to make Cas feel comfortable—that is what Dean used to do anyway. Castiel couldn't be in the man's house for more than a second without already having a drink in hand and a soft cushion beneath him. Now he just stands, motionless, waiting to be told what to do and where to go. Dean looks terrified to even open his mouth. Castiel sighs, realizing the talking is going to be up to him—ironic.
"Should I slice a piece of that for you?" Cas asks finally, gesturing towards the box in Dean's white-knuckle grip.
"Oh, uh, sure." Dean says, jerking the box forward, making Cas wince as he hears his perfect crust, crumble against the side of the container.
Cas takes it gingerly in his hands before shuffling into the kitchen and gathering a knife and two small plates. He cuts into his slightly disheveled creation, careful not to do any further damage. Once the perfect triangles are placed in place, he sighs- praying that the rest of this goes according to plan. He returns to the living room, noticing Dean, still stuck beside the front door. Cas places the plates down on the coffee table, side by side—an orientation that he was accustomed to in Dean's home. He sits down on the couch in front of the setting, forks in hand, eventually separating them and holding one out to Dean across the room. Dean watches him, something unsure in his eyes- eventually sighing as he inches towards the suspended utensil.
Gripping the silverware at the prongs, he slides it from Castiel's fingers. Cas's knotted stomach tumbles as Dean picks up his plate and steps a few inches back, making it apparent that the spot Castiel has reserved beside himself on the couch would remain empty. What is wrong? He can't understand it. He didn't kiss Dean, he didn't start this this time! Why is the man acting this way? He's acting like a child! Cas drops his fork onto the table, letting it clank dramatically on the edge of the plate.
"Dean, we really should talk about what happened yesterday." Cas says, his voice, raspy and low with every form of frustration.
Dean stabs at his pie, keeping his eyes on his plate, not saying a word.
"You know we have to talk about it. I know I have to. It was a very . . . confusing experience, Dean!" Cas leans forward with his words, bracing his hands on his knees, wanting to show the stoic man just how serious he is. "Will you talk about this with me, Dean? Please?"
Stillness overcomes the room once more before Dean finally lets out an exacerbated sigh. He sets his mutilated pie back down on the coffee table, with not a morsel ever gracing his lips.
"I really don't know what to say, Cas." Dean whispers, straightening himself and shoving his hands in the pockets of his old, faded jeans. "I am kinda confused by the whole thing too."
Cas relaxes his spine, letting the sound of Dean's mutual unrest ease his rigid muscles.
"I just want to know . . . why you did it? Why did you kiss me?"
The disgust that flashes across Dean's face was like anther punch to his jaw.
"Ah, c'mon man. I can't talk about this!" Dean throws his hands up in the air as he turns his back to Castiel.
Cas feels every muscle solidify. He knew Dean might be a little reluctant to this discussion but it seems as if he could care less that their long-time friendship hangs in the balance.
"Too bad Dean!" his frustration boils over. "You are going to talk about it! I need you to!" Cas feels himself rear up from the couch. He marches around the side of the table until he is just a breath away from Dean's side.
The taller man looks at Cas from the corner of his eye—the new proximity making his chest expand and fear quake in his green, shrinking irises
"Cas, I really don't know what to say about it." Dean whispers again, leaning back slightly as Cas leans into his words.
"Well, that isn't good enough Dean. You started all of this after all. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for your drinking and your spontaneity." Cas doesn't notice that the growl in his voice is booming louder and louder. "You pushed me against that wall, Dean. You kissed me in the hallway. You did these things and then kicked me out, apparently, without a care of how it would affect me; without a care of how it would affect our friendship!"
Castiel frightens himself with his fury, not really sure exactly where its been buried all this time. He watches as Dean's posture straightens. The green eyed man hardens his face, pulling back his ears and knitting his eyebrows together in a ball.
"Is that what you think? You think I don't care about any of that?" Dean hunches his shoulders, almost looming over Castiel. "That is all I care about! That is all I have left to care about, Cas! I haven't slept because I keep thinking that I just fucked everything up again. I keep thinking that I pushed away my best friend and that Sammy will give up on me once and for all if he ever finds out what . . . what I did to you!" Dean steps into the final spaces between him and Castiel.
"Cas," Dean's open hand sways in the little air between them, "this is all I care about."