Raisin D’être

starsinursa:

A/N: I bet you thought I was done with horrible, fluffy, food-based ficlets, but YOU WERE WRONG! SO, SO WRONG!

So this one is inspired by a cracky conversation I had with @sunshine-hunters, in which we decided that Cas is probably a picky eater who does ridiculous things like pick raisins out of his food, and this is now my new favorite headcanon.

Naturally, I had to write it, and then it turned disgustingly fluffy. I’m so sorry.

Ao3

---

 

“Hey, Cas, gimme your opinion on this,” Dean says,
handing him a cookie.

Castiel takes it gently, reverently. It’s still warm from the
oven, the rest of the batch cooling on top of the stove, and the kitchen smells delightful. It’s not often that Dean bakes – he prefers to whip up burgers or
steaks, or the odd hearty stew or casserole – but occasionally Dean will get in a “mood” and
decide to use up some of the flour sitting in the bunker’s pantry, and
then he’ll bake and bake until Sam laughingly tells him they’re all going to get fat. It was fudge brownies last time, and apple pies the time
before that.

This time, apparently, it’s cookies.

“It smells very good, Dean,” Castiel says earnestly, and Dean flashes him a grin before turning back to the oven.

Castiel brings the cookie closer and
inhales again. A discerning sense of smell is just one of his angelic perks, and he enjoys smelling Dean’s
cookies much more than smelling dead bodies. He recognizes just a waft of vanilla, and brown sugar, and a
hint of nutmeg, and –

“Raisins?” he asks, looking up. “There’s raisins in
this?”

Dean glances over. “Uh, yeah, Cas, that’s where they’re
called ‘oatmeal raisin cookies’.”

Castiel squints at the cookie, anticipation ebbing away, and now he feels a little… well, cheated. 

Dean watches him for a
moment, then turns to face him and leans back against the
counter.

“What’s wrong with raisins? I mean, they’re no chocolate chips, but they’re all right.”

Castiel grumbles. “I don’t like raisins.”

“Huh. You’ve tried raisins before?”

“…no.”

“What? Then how the hell do you
know you don’t like them?”

“I just do,” Castiel says primly.

Dean makes a face. “That’s not an answer.”

“I can tell. By their smell.”

“Raisins have a smell? That’s…well, kinda gross. But not everything tastes the way it
smells, Cas, some things are misleading and – hey! Stop picking out the
raisins, you fucking heathen!”

Castiel freezes guiltily with a raisin pinched between
his fingers. Dean levels a finger at him and
glares.

“Leave the raisins alone, Cas, they’re in there for a reason. It won’t taste the same without them.”

“Good,” Castiel mutters.

“Cas. Take a bite of the damn cookie.”

Castiel sighs and shoots him a mutinous look, too quickly for Dean to see, but
dutifully raises the cookie to his mouth and takes a slow bite. Dean’s eyes are
fixated on him, scrutinizing, watching him chew with an intensity usually
reserved for working a case or watching one of his soap operas.

“Good, yeah?” Dean finally prompts.

Castiel nods slowly, but he doesn’t open his mouth to respond. His mouth is still full of cookie that he refuses to swallow.

“You still have it in your mouth, don’t
you?”

Castiel hesitates, then nods again. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you big baby,” Dean sighs, but he doesn’t actually sound angry. “Fine, just spit it out then – not on the table! What the fuck is wrong with you, I just wiped that down! I meant in the trashcan! Christ – here –“

He thrusts his open hand in front of Castiel, palm
up. It’s obvious what Dean is indicating – the gesture is unmistakable – so Castiel spits out the bite of cookie into Dean’s
waiting hand.

Dean makes a face, wrinkling his nose in disgust, but stalks over
to the trashcan and throws away the bite of cookie. He immediately goes to the
sink and flips on the faucet, starting to wash his hands.

“You are so lucky I love you, Cas,” he gripes,
scrubbing his hands together vigorously. “Do you know how many people I’ve let
spit food into my hands? Two. Sammy when he was little, and Ben. Two kids, not grown-ass adult angels.” He turns off the faucet and snatches up a paper towel, drying his hands as he turns back around. “I mean, at least it wasn’t fucking gum – there is nothing worse than carrying around chewed gum – but raisins
are a close second – “

Castiel is staring at him. He knows he’s staring, but
he can’t help it. The cookie is still grasped in his hand, forgotten, horrible
raisins and all.

Dean stops, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“You said you love me.”

Both eyebrows shoot up this time, in a way that looks
distinctly panicked. “What?” Dean repeats. It’s the same word, but an entirely different tone of voice.

“You said -” He raises his empty hand so he can add air-quotes, “- ‘you
are so lucky I love you -‘”

Dean splutters. Throws the paper towel at the trashcan. Misses. “That was – Jesus, Cas, that’s just a turn of phrase, you know I didn’t – you’ve been
around humans long enough to – “

“I love you too.”

Dean sucks in a breath like someone just
punched him in the stomach. “What?” he says, a third time.

Castiel sets down the cookie on the table, brushing
off his fingers on his coat, and stands up. “I love you too.” He moves
around the table towards Dean, who’s standing frozen against the counter looking
remarkably like ‘a deer in the headlights’, as he’s heard people say. “I’ve loved
you for a long time. When I first cupped your soul in my hands and lifted you
out of Hell. When you fought me and raged against me and refused Heaven. When I spent every day in Purgatory trying to stay one step ahead of
you.”

It doesn’t look like Dean is even breathing. Castiel is starting to become a little concerned, but he needs to finish saying these things now that he’s started, or he might never take the chance again.

“I love the way you sing along to the radio, and the way you always make
the hard choices even though you hate them, and the way you say my name. I love how a successful hunt makes you happy, but so does baking. Although,” he adds, because he feels like he needs to be entirely honest here,
even if it hurts Dean’s feelings, “I do not like your oatmeal raisin cookies.”

That does it, finally, and Dean bursts into a startled
laugh, some of the tension ebbing out of his shoulders. He laughs until he snorts, and
then he raises a hand and rubs it across his face. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Covers his eyes. “Jesus, Cas – “

And then Dean kisses him, both hands coming forward to cup Castiel’s
jaw and curl his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

It feels like he’s waited millennia for this, and Castiel kisses him
back.

Even if he does taste like raisins.