pieces (Destiel)

Pie

They had worked together for a year when Castiel ordered a slice of pecan pie for Dean.

Dean was occupied in the diner’s bathroom. It was a Tuesday in Wellington, roughly forty miles outside of Cleveland. Sam was still asleep. Castiel was uncertain why Dean had called him, but Dean had let Sam rest, jutted his head toward the window where the Impala was visible, and drove the short distance to the diner where Castiel now sat.

The table between them was well-worn, dark brown and sticky. The silverware was rolled in thin paper napkins, the plates set on white paper placemats with a Greek key trim. The air was cloying and sweet with a stench of cigarette smoke. Outside, the rain turned the dirt parking lot to murky puddles.

Dean scratched his chin. He didn’t ask why Castiel had ordered the pie. Castiel didn’t know himself, precisely, but its very presence appeared to make Dean happy. That, Castiel decided, was reason enough. He recalled a time on Earth when pie was served as a meal and consisted of heavily spiced meat. This pie contained little nutritional value, but the smell of cinnamon and toasted tree nuts appealed to Castiel’s vessel. Dean stared at the pie with a partially open mouth and tongued the inside of his cheek.

“Pie’s usually something you eat for dessert,” he commented. He looked from his plate to Castiel, who pulled up into his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I’m not up-to-date on breakfast protocol. I know pie is something you enjoy.”

“Grab a fork,” Dean instructed, motioning to the unrolled silverware two inches from Castiel’s joined hands.

“I’d rather watch you eat it.”

“Whatever gets your rocks off,” Dean said.

When Dean brought the first forkful of pie to his lips, Castiel was fascinated. Dean ate noisily and purposefully, as if the pie might disappear if he didn’t consume it within a designated timeframe. Sure enough, in under a minute, Dean stabbed the last bite.

“You sure?” he asked, holding it up like an offering. It would be simple for Castiel to lean across the table and accept it.

“I ordered it for you,” Castiel said instead and watched with interest as Dean’s mouth closed around the fork. His mouth twisted as he chewed. Dean wiped away crumbs with the back of his right hand; just before he did, Castiel detected the genesis of a smile.

Dean didn’t smile often. He carried the weight of Hell with him. It would never fully leave him, just as Castiel’s handprint on Dean’s shoulder would never completely vanish. It would fade with time, as Dean’s memories of Hell dulled, but it would always be a part of him, just under his skin, like a brand. God could have pulled Dean from Hell but had assigned the feat to Castiel. It had not been his first passage to Hell; it would not be his last. Dean was destined for a greater purpose than most humans. He was a Righteous Man. It had been an honor to raise him. God could have assigned an archangel, but He selected Castiel’s garrison. Now it was Castiel’s charge to watch over Sam and Dean, until they had fulfilled their purpose, according to God’s plan.

Dean swallowed and drank the remainder of his coffee. He checked the time on his cellular phone, sat back, and scratched his groin. He regarded the waitress by sweeping his eyes from mid-thigh to her face, then winking. Castiel observed all of this quietly, content to sit in this diner in the rain and watch Dean drink coffee.

“You coming with us on the next one?” Dean asked, meeting Castiel’s eyes. Dean’s were brown and they were green. His stare was intense and scrutinizing. Outside, the rain fell harder.

“I’ll come when you call me,” Castiel said. His own voice through his vessel was low and gravelly. He wondered how it sounded to Dean, why it mattered.