Chapter Text
Benny picks up the phone to a panicked Dean.
“Benny,” Dean says, “You gotta get to Sam’s now. Right now.” Benny can hear him pacing.
“Alright, brother,” Benny says, grabbing his car keys. “You want to tell me why?”
“Party room got reserved,” Dean says. Benny hears a clatter, like Dean dropped a serving dish. “Eight p.m.”
“Okay?” Benny says. “And why does that require my being at the restaurant five hours earlier than usual?”
“Because,” Dean wheezes. “It’s not a normal reservation, Ben. We’re talking ‘this has to be the best food we’ve ever made in our lives.’”
“Okay,” Benny repeats. “I’ll ask again, Dean: why?”
“The reservation is for the fucking President of the United States,” Dean says. “Get here. Now.” The receiver clicks. Benny stares at it for a moment, waiting to see if Dean would call back. He doesn’t.
He doesn’t call during the fifteen minutes it takes Benny to drive to Sam’s Lunch , either. He pulls around back, parking next to the Impala. Garth, his sous chef, is standing outside the back door. His apron is already stained -- tomato soup, by the looks of it.
“Heya!” Garth says. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
“How bad is he?” Benny asks, grabbing his lunchbox out of the back.
“He’s worked himself into one hell of a tizzy,” Garth says. “Like a tornado in the eye of a hurricane.”
“And it really is Novak?” Benny asks. “Not just a prank?”
“Oh, it’s him, alright,” Garth says. “Charlie double-triple checked it. Dean’s called the aide probably a dozen times, too.”
The back door bangs open. Dean’s standing in the threshold, hair spiked up like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Saw your car pull around,” he says. “Get the hell inside.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Benny drawls, trying to put his friend at ease. “No need to panic.”
“No need?” Dean says. “Benny, it’s the President . He’s eating here. Tonight. We don’t -- we don’t have food. To serve him!” He throws his hands up, eyes wide.
“Dean, we’re a restaurant,” Benny says. “We have food.” He dumps his bag on a prep counter. Garth shuts the door behind them.
“We have, we have what,” Dean says, throwing open the walk-in door. “We have garlic bread. Garlic bread? Oh god,” he moans, “we’re going to serve the President of the United States garlic bread we took out of the closet.”
“Freezer,” Benny corrects. “And you don’t know that. He might not order it.”
“He’s the President,” Dean stresses.
“And that means he’ll eat garlic bread?” Garth asks. “What, like some reverse-vampire?”
“I don’t know!” Dean says. “We need a new menu. Something good. Something...executive.”
“Cher,” Benny says. “We don’t need a new menu. You sure as hell didn’t have to pull me in five hours early. He wouldn’t have made the reservation if he didn’t want to eat here.”
Garth nods. “We run a tight ship, Dean. You know our food’s good.”
Dean’s eyes dart between them. “Yeah, to the people of Lawrence, Kansas. This guy eats D.C. big-budget meals all the time. Do we have caviar? Can we get it?”
“Hey, now,” Garth says. “Don’t insult. Kansas is good people, you know that. Good food, too.”
“And no,” Benny says. “No caviar. Eighty-six cherries, though, from yesterday’s milkshakes. We could put those in a dish.”
Dean’s shoulders slump. “Fuck,” he says.
“What’s got you so stressed?” Benny asks. “And don’t say ‘he’s the President’ one more time. It ain’t that, brother. Something’s under your skin.”
“Nothing!” Dean says. “Nothing’s...under…”
“Uh-huh,” Benny says. He calls out, “Charlie!”
Charlie pops around the corner, like she was waiting just outside the kitchen. She probably was.
“What’s up?” She asks.
“Why’s Dean here forging a sword and falling on it every five seconds? He’s insulting my cooking.”
“Well,” Charlie says, her eyes glinting, “he’s not just worried about the food, you see. He’s a little worried about himself, too. Or so says the sword.” She brings her fist to her chest, like she’s been stabbed.
“Why’s that?”
“Novak’s not just coming to eat here,” Charlie says. “He’s coming to eat here with Dean.”
Garth’s eyes pop open. “You’re having dinner with the President?”
“I’m not -- it’s not --” Dean says, caught between looking sheepish and angry.
“Dean, how do you even know the President?” Benny asks.
“I don’t!” Dean squeaks. “I just...you know that camp I used to help out at? In Topeka?”
“Kids Cook?” Garth confirms.
“Yeah. Well, his kid used to go there.”
“Wait -- Claire or Jack?”
“Claire.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I don’t know,” Dean says, rubbing his neck. “I did this pie course and she really liked it, and I guess she mentioned it to her dad, the President, because he called Charlie about making a reservation here.”
“He specifically asked for the pie,” Charlie mentions. Dean glares at her again.
“So...why are you worried about garlic bread?” Garth teases. “Seems like you’ve already got a hot date squared away. Garlic’s no good for the breath.”
“I’m not going on a date with the President!” Dean says. “He might be a jerk! I don’t know!”
“So if he’s not a jerk, you will go on a date with him?” Benny asks.
“What? No! I mean, he lives in Washington D.C. I live in Kansas,” Dean says.
“He’s from Kansas,” Charlie offers. “And single.”
“His wife died,” Dean says. “He’s not even gay.”
“He could be bi,” Benny says. “Not like that’s never happened.” He gives Dean a pointed look. Dean flips him off.
“Listen, I don’t run this place like a military installation,” Dean says. “I’m sorry about the cooking thing, okay? I didn’t mean it. And you all can gossip as much as you want as long as you’re cooking.”
“Well, what would you like me to make?” Benny asks. “Given that it’s eleven a.m., and all.”
“Food!” Dean says. “I don’t know!”
“How about this,” Benny says. “And just know, cher, that I am offering more than an olive branch for your hilarity: I will make you a one-time, tonight only, tasting menu for two. Three courses, you do dessert. In and out.”
“Yeah?” Dean says. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, that’s good. That looks classy. I’ll make a pie.” He pushes through the swinging doors, heading to the pantry.
“My god,” Benny says. “He’s really cracking up.”
“He’s got a crush,” Charlie says.
“Hey,” Garth says. “If this works out, we could be the FROTUS.”
“FROTUS?” Benny asks.
“First Restaurant of the United States.”
“Eugh,” Charlie says. “If this goes well, I’m getting out. No way do I want to be serving Lindsey Graham. Unless it’s a subpoena. Or a lawsuit.”
Charlie sends Dean home at five-thirty with instructions to shower and change into something not stained in flour. Secret Service swept through the restaurant an hour ago, checking every corner and taking a full profile of every employee. Even the health inspections weren’t so thorough. But hey, e coli never collapsed the Western economy.
“Just take a breather. I’ll protect your precious pie,” Charlie says. “With my life.”
“I love you,” Dean says, kissing her cheek.
“Don’t say that,” Charlie says. “Novak might get jealous.”
Dean tries to smile, but it comes out like he’s baring his teeth. He passes through the main kitchen on his way out the door.
“How’s the menu?” He asks, peering over Benny’s saucepan.
“Not for you to know,” Benny says. “Get out of here, Dean.”
“Okay!” Dean says, throwing his hands up. “Fine!” He cranes his neck again. Benny elbows him back. Dean rolls his eyes and throws open the back door.
He gets to his car, settling into Baby’s front seat, when his phone rings.
“What’s wrong? Did he cancel?” Dean says, one foot already back on the pavement.
“What?” Sam asks. “Who?”
“Sam!” Dean says, flopping back into his seat. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Sam says. “What’s got you all worked up? Bruised apples? Zucchini too small?”
Dean can feel the joke crawling up the back of his throat. It doesn’t get there in time. “The President is coming for dinner,” he says.
The line is silent. Dean checks to make sure it hasn’t cut out. “Sammy?”
“I’m here,” Sam says. “Just making sure I heard you.”
“You did,” Dean says. “Castiel Novak. The President. Here. Tonight.”
“So I guess Eileen and I can’t get a table?”
“Hah!” Dean says. “You can get a table. You just have to get past the Secret Service detail.”
“Uh-huh. We’ll pass,” Sam says. “I mean, good luck, I guess.”
“Thanks,” Dean wheezes. “I’ll call you after.”
“Sure, Dean,” Sam says. He hangs up.
At seven forty-five, Dean’s dressed in black jeans and a chambray shirt layered over a plain tee. His hair is combed, his teeth brushed. His foot taps incessantly against the kitchen tile.
“Ooh, you look hot,” Jo, one of the waitresses, teases. “Big date?”
“Presidential,” Dean bites. He can feel the nerves swimming in his stomach.
“You’ll be fine, big guy,” she says, patting his shoulder.
“He’s the President, Jo,” Dean whines. “Like, the most important man in America. He’s like...like Moses. Or Batman. Or James Dean.”
“I think he might just be a guy,” Jo says. “And I think he might be here.”
Dean’s head whips around. Indeed, there’s a black car pulling around the back. They’d be taking Novak in through the staff entrance, away from prying eyes and clicking cameras. Dean heads toward the door, only for Charlie’s arm to fling out across his chest.
“Nope,” she says. “You wait in the back.”
“I’m the owner, Charlie,” he says. “Shouldn’t I greet, you know, the actual President?”
“No way,” Charlie says. “You’ll probably throw up on his shoes. You wait. I’ll greet. You’ll eat. And try not to panic.” She gives him a look that says go .
“Fine,” Dean grumbles. He leaves the kitchen, heading into the back room. It was originally built for up to twenty. Now, there’s a small table for it, already set for two. Secret Service would be eating at the booths right outside, able to watch everything from the windows. Someone lit a candle. Dean blames it on Garth.
He paces the room, waiting. Not more than five minutes pass, though, before the door slides open and a man walks in. He’s tall, though not as tall as Dean. His hair is wild, like he was just in the wind. But his eyes look the same; bright, piercing blue, the kind that Vanity Fair writes about when they cover him. The kind that won millions of votes with their sparkle. The kind that, if Dean’s being honest, makes his stomach flutter.
“Mister Winchester,” President Novak says, extending a hand. Behind him, a crew of eight Secret Service members shuffle into their seats. Dean doesn't even see them, eyes locked on Novak.
“Mister President,” he says, taking Novak’s hand. He’s got a good handshake. Of course he does. “Dean is fine.”
“Then Castiel is, too,” Castiel says. “Thank you for joining me for dinner. May I?” He nods toward his chair. Dean nods. They sit.
“You may not remember Claire,” Castiel says.
“I do,” Dean says. He snaps his jaw shut. Does interrupting the President qualify as treason? Or is that just a monarchy thing?
Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles. “I should’ve known,” he says. “She makes quite the impression. Not always a good one.”
“I liked her,” Dean says. “She wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.”
“She’s a politician’s daughter,” Castiel says. He winks. Dean’s stomach flip flops. “In any case, she hated most of that cooking camp. I do not see a future for her as a chef. But she liked your courses. Naturally, I wanted to taste your work in person.”
“She might come around to it,” Dean says, dodging the compliment. “I didn’t grow up wanting to be in the food business, either.”
“Really? What led you to it?”
The door opens. Kevin, with a straighter face than Dean’s ever seen, enters with a drink menu.
“Good evening,” he says. “We’re glad to be hosting you tonight, sir. You’ll find a full list of drinks here, and I’ll be right back with some water.” He darts out again.
Castiel barely glances at the menu. “What’ll you be drinking, Dean?”
“Me?” Dean asks. “I’m not very, uh, worldly. I usually tend toward Tallgrass beer. Heineken, if I’m feeling fancy.”
Kevin comes back with two water glasses.
“What’s your name?” Casitel asks.
“Uh, Kevin, sir,” Kevin says.
“Kevin,” Castiel smiles. “Good to meet you. I’m Castiel. Could you get us two Tallgrasses, please? Velvet Roosters.”
Kevin nods. “Sure thing, uh, Castiel,” he says, leaving again in a hurry.
“Not Raspberry Jams?” Dean asks. Castiel shakes his head.
“I find the Jams unsettling,” he says. “Now, please, you were telling me about the restauranting business. And how you found yourself in it.”
“Well, I always liked to bake,” Dean says. “That’s how I found myself at the camp, too. Thought about opening a bakery, but no one was making the kind of home-cooked meals I grew up on outside of dime and dollar diners. The pie was part of that, sure, but so were the burgers. So I started thinking about a restaurant. Met Benny years back, he had just come up from this bar in Louisiana, and we hit it off. He’s the chef now, but this is my baby.”
“And what about the name? Sam’s Lunch?”
“My baby brother,” Dean says. “I packed his lunch every day.”
“That’s wonderful, Dean,” Castiel says. Kevin scrambles back in, setting down the beers and taking off before Castiel can even finish thanking him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I think I’ve intimidated your staff.”
“Well, Cas, you’re an intimidating guy,” Dean says. Castiel’s brow raises. “Or, uh, sorry, I don’t mean --”
“You’re fine, Dean,” Castiel says. “You should feel comfortable. It’s me who’s intruding on your space.”
“Isn’t like, the soil your home?” Dean asks, eyes furrowing.
“What, because I’m the President?” Cas asks. “No, far from it. I’m a civil servant. You’re my boss.”
Dean chokes on his sip of beer.
“Unless you didn’t vote for me,” Cas adds. Dean stares at him a moment too long. “I’m only kidding,” Cas says, but his eyes dim a little.
“I voted for you,” Dean says. “I promise. First time, actually.”
“Ever?” Cas asks.
“Yeah. Charlie signed me up.”
“Then,” Cas says, raising his beer. “To participating in democracy.”
Dean clinks their glasses. He takes a big swallow.
“Did you ever worry about the restaurant?” Cas asks. “I know they’re notoriously hard to get off the ground.”
“Sooner or later it all comes down to faith,” Dean says. “We have that in spades. Besides, what about you? Do you ever worry when you’re meeting with, I don’t know, the prime minister of England?”
“Crowley?” Cas says, mouth twisting into a frown. “Please. Britain doesn’t worry me. But I like the political machine.”
“Really?” Dean asks. “I mean, I know you must, but still. There’s a four-letter word I’d use to describe politics --”
“Evil?” Cas suggests.
“Game,” Dean says. “Not one I’d like playing.”
“It’s not for everyone,” Cas says. “Not all games are. I, for one, don’t like baseball much.”
“But you’re the President,” Dean says.
“Mm,” Cas agrees. “And the best game I’ve ever seen was played by the Cartwright Twins. Minor league. Canadian, at that.”
“Oh my god,” Dean says. “We could impeach you over that.”
“Then I’ll have to trust my secret is safe with you,” Cas says. He winks.
“Sure, Cas,” Dean says. He realizes the nickname a second later. Cas doesn't seem worried by it.
Benny’s first course is mini cheesesteak sliders. He serves them on one large platter, placed between the two. Or, rather, Jo does, with a promise to Cas that he’ll “get addicted, and won’t want to leave.”
“I’m already enjoying this much more than a press dinner,” Cas says. “But another beer would make it even better.”
Once Cas’ drink is refilled Cas digs in, letting the juices and cheese stain his fingers. It’s a sharp contrast to the suit he’s wearing, tailored and pressed, with a sharply knotted blue tie. Dean’s cheeks heat up.
“So,” he says, distracting himself. “I don’t know if this is creepy to ask, but how are your kids?”
“It’s not creepy,” Cas says. “First, you already know Claire, and second, everyone knows everything about me. It’d be weirder if you said, ‘so, do you have any children’?” He leans back. “They’re alright. They like D.C., which is good. Moving during a school year is always hell. But they’re adapting.”
“I can’t imagine Claire having trouble,” Dean says. “Does Jack like the new house?”
“He does,” Cas says. “There’s this one hallway, it’s on an angle, so if you grab a cushion you can slide down it. He likes that a lot.”
“Very cool,” Dean agrees.
“You’ll have to see it, sometimes,” Cas adds, quieter. Dean stares at him. Cas blushes. “Just a thought.”
“I don’t make it to D.C. often,” Dean says. “Never, in fact.”
“Really?” Cas asks. “Not even an eighth-grade trip?”
“Uh, no,” Dean says. “School wasn’t, well, it wasn’t ‘regular’ for me. We moved a lot.”
“Army brat?” Cas asks. “I was.”
“Marines, but he was out,” Dean says. “Just...moved a lot. After our mom died.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Cas says. He gets quiet. “I think the move was good for Claire and Jack. After Kelly.”
“I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean says. He thinks back to the media coverage, to the headlines and paparazzi photos. Kelly died just after inauguration. It was tragic enough, without the Republicans asking if a single father could effectively lead the country.
“It’s alright,” Cas says. He leans forward, looks Dean dead in the eye. “Can I trust you, Dean?”
“What?” Dean asks.
“Trust,” Cas says. “It’s ridiculous, I know. I shouldn’t be asking. If my detail overheard, well...they’d probably evacuate me right this second.”
“Why are you asking, Cas?” Dean says.
“I’m lonely,” Cas says, dead serious. “And this food is delicious. No one’s at war right now, no one’s asking me to kiss a baby or pose for a photo. I’ve had two beers, which means I’m now a lightweight, because I can feel the buzz, and my best friend is either my ten-year-old son or my seventy-five-year-old VP.”
“Singer seems cool,” Dean says.
“You’d actually like him a lot,” Cas says. “I’ll introduce you.”
“If you can trust me, you mean,” Dean says.
“Regardless,” Cas says. “But I would like to trust you.”
“You can,” Dean says. “You can trust me.”
“Okay,” Cas says. “Thank you, Dean.”
Benny’s second course is an adaptation of one of Dean’s recipes: a smash burger with smoked gouda and thick, salted tomato.
“Do you serve food that’s not meat and cheese?” Cas asks, biting in.
Dean freezes. “We, uh, we have, uh, garlic bread,” he says. He clenches his jaw.
“I’m trying to make a joke, Dean,” Cas says. “I suppose it’s not going well?”
“Oh,” Dean says. “Sorry. Uh, very funny.”
“Dean,” Cas says, hard enough that Dean looks up. Looks into the blue. Cas looks back. Then he looks down. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You should go.”
“Huh?” Dean asks. “Why?”
“I recognize this was, I suppose, ‘an offer you couldn’t refuse,’” Cas says, framing the phrase in air-quotes. “I don’t mean to pressure you into giving up your evening.”
“You didn’t,” Dean says. Cas narrows his eyes. “Okay, yeah, well, you did,” he admits. “But I thought we were having a good time.”
“I’m very much enjoying the company,” Cas says. “But...I don’t want you to feel that...that you should show me some respect,” he drops his pitch, making the words even gravelier. “It really is a free country. You can’t be hanged for treason.”
Well, that solves that. “Okay,” Dean says. “Then yeah, you’re not very funny.”
Cas’ face cracks into a smile. “So I’ve been told,” he says. “Thank you for the honesty.”
“So, can I stay?” Dean asks.
“Dean,” Cas deadpans. “It’s your restaurant.”
Dean looks around, as if for the first time. “Huh,” he says. “Then I guess you’re the one stuck with me.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Oh yes.”
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists,” Cas says.
“Hey, that was funny!” Dean says. Cas beams.
“Third course coming soon,” Jo says, clearing their plates.
“Will it be more meat and cheese?” Cas teases.
“No, actually,” Dean says, “it’s pie. Strawberry-rhubarb.”
Cas smiles.
“You like?” Dean asks.
“I like it very much,” Cas says. “Everyone always tries to serve me apple.”
“Well, it’s all-American,” Dean says. “You simply have to.”
“You didn’t,” Cas points out.
“Yeah, well, I’m special,” Dean says.
“I think you might be,” Cas agrees.
Jo pushes back into the room. She’s only carrying one plate, with a double-wide slice and two forks.
“Enjoy, you two,” she says. She winks at Dean.
Cas looks between the two of them, watches Jo as she leaves.
“Is she your girlfriend?” He asks. Dean’s face twists into a frown. “Oh, I’m sorry, have I completely misread? Is she, god, is she your sister?”
“Uh, no and no,” Dean says. “But she’s as good as.”
“Which one? Girlfriend or sister?”
“Sister.”
“I see,” Cas says. “She’s comfortable around you. I feel the same when I visit my sister.”
“Your sister? Anna?” Dean asks.
“Yes. I don’t get to see her as much now, obviously, but it’s a breath of fresh air every time I do. She’s the one who convinced me to run.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean asks. “What made you hesitate?”
“Oh, plenty of things,” Cas says. “The pressure, the unlikeliness, uprooting my family, moving, threats of nuclear war, and of course the stress of keeping aliens secret for the rest of my life.” He smiles. “But Anna made me want to do it. She still believes I could change the world.”
“She’s not the only one,” Dean says. Cas meets his eye. “I really did vote for you.”
Cas laughs. “Thank you for your faith, Dean,” he says. He eats another forkful of pie. “And for your baking skills. Claire is right, this is truly excellent.”
“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says. “Glad you came by.”
“As am I.”
Dinner wraps at ten forty-five. Dean makes a mental note to give the kitchen staff a raise; they outdid themselves. Jo and Kevin, too, for keeping the meal going while staying out of his and Cas’ way. Hell, the whole restaurant deserves it.
“I had a wonderful meal,” Cas says, as Jo takes the dessert plate, leaving the check. “Please give my compliments to the chef.”
“You could meet him,” Dean offers.
“I did,” Cas says. “On the way in.”
“On the way out, then,” Dean says. “Meet him again.”
Something in Cas’ eyes twinkle. “I really must be going,” he says, “I’ve got to be in Boise in the morning.”
“Oh,” Dean says. His face falls slightly.
“But,” Cas says, “I’d like to meet you again. If you’d like.”
Dean’s jaw drops. It’s what he wanted, and it still feels surprising to get. “You mean, like…” he trails off.
Cas leans forward. “Remember when I asked if I could trust you?” He says. Dean nods. “I’m a private man,” Cas says. “I have to be. And for the next two years, I’ll continue to be. But I won’t be re-running,” he says. “That’s the first secret I’m asking you to keep. The second…” he trails off, biting his lip. “I’m bisexual, Dean.”
Dean’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “So --”
“I’m interested in you,” Cas clarifies. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not...I’m, no. No, I’m, uh, I’m comfortable. More than,” Dean rushes to say. Cas smiles.
“I’m not asking you to put your dating life on hold for two years. I can’t promise you’ll still be interested in me by the end of them, or I in you. But I’m interested now, and I’d like to get to know you better. As friends.”
“Alright,” Dean agrees. “I’d like to get to know you better, too.”
“Then it’s settled,” Cas says. He picks up the check.
“You don’t have to pay, Cas,” Dean mumbles.
“Dean,” Cas says. “I’m eating at your restaurant. I’m taking up your time. And I’m the one who’s asking you out. Is it not customary to pay for your date’s meal?” He takes out his wallet, sandwiching two hundred-dollar bills in the check envelope. Dean does some quick math. Their meal was $83.25.
“Big tip,” he says.
“Yes, well, I’d rather TMZ not lambast me for being cheap,” Cas says. He pulls something else out of his wallet. “I don’t have a cell phone,” he says. “Security risk, apparently. But you can reach me here.”
Dean scans the card. It’s an email, complex enough that it looks like a WiFi password.
“Sure, Cas,” he says.
“And if you do find yourself in D.C.,” Cas says, standing and putting on his coat, an oversized trench, “I’d be happy to give you a tour of the White House.”
“What, gonna show me the Lincoln Bedroom?” Dean asks, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I was thinking my private suite,” Cas says. “But I’m amenable.”
Dean’s jaw drops. Cas holds out his hand. Dean takes it, almost in a haze.
“It was good to meet you, Dean,” Cas says.
“You too, Cas,” Dean says.
Cas pulls his hand up, kissing Dean’s knuckles, before dropping it and walking out. Dean follows, but Secret Service has created a formation around Cas, shuttling him through the kitchen and out the back. From the threshold, Dean can barely see Cas waving through the tinted glass as the car pulls away.
“Oh my god,” he hears Charlie say behind him. “You’re going to be the First Gentleman.”
“I don’t know about that,” Dean says, but he can’t keep down the blush that crawls up his neck.
It takes three years, not two, but Cas comes back to Kansas. He’s out of the political game, now just part of the commencement-speech and ribbon-cutting machine. Bobby took over, something that makes Dean have incredible hope for the future.
“You want dessert?” He asks, loading the dishwasher.
“No thanks,” Claire says, “I’m going out.”
“Be safe,” Dean calls.
“Always!” She says, walking out.
“What about you, kid?” Dean asks.
“No, I’m okay,” Jack says. “It’s hard to eat and play Xbox.”
“I hear that,” Dean says, getting the last of the plates in the dishwasher. He closes it, turning to lean against the counter. “What about you?”
“What are you offering?” Cas asks, eyes crinkling.
“Well,” Dean says, “I’ve got leftover turnovers from Sam’s, some gingerbread cookies Eileen and Sam brought over for Samandriel and Bathazar on their protection shift, or…” he shifts forward, leaning across the island, nose almost touching Cas’, “I’ve got some strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
“Mm,” Cas hums. “All good options. But I’m partial,” he says, “only one was so sweet as to lead me to you, my sweet.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, alright, you’ve been reading too much Emmanuel Allen.”
“Jack Allen, Dean.”
“Whatever,” Dean says, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.