On Labor | 24k, E | read on ao3
Cas is back from the Empty, and Dean knows how to be grateful.
The thing is: Cas is a good guy. Dean’ll go to bat for him anytime, anywhere. He’d give him the shirt off his back — has done, more than once. Cas is the closest thing Dean’s got to family outside of Sam.
‘S just. Dean ain’t in love with the guy.
But hell, what’s— what’s the difference, anyhow? What’s the difference between Dean slinging an arm over Cas’s shoulder and Dean kissing his cheek? Not like he can’t defend himself, if anyone wanted to pick a fight over it. Shit, not like Cas couldn’t defend himself.
Cas walks in, opens the fridge door. Leans over and peers into it like it’ll have something different in it from the last three times he looked. Dean’s heart thumps. Cas is human now, and he’s— he’s in a sweater and shorts, those jersey shorts that come up just above the knee, and he’s squinting at the fridge like he’s looking for God.
“Not gonna be anything new in there—” Dean says, and then cuts himself short before he can say buddy. Cas doesn’t deserve that. Doesn’t need Dean rubbing it in, that Cas is— that Cas feels— and that Dean isn’t—
Cas eyes him over the fridge door. Drily, he says, “I’m deciding.”
“Well, decide before you spoil the milk,” Dean grumbles, feeling heated as he makes his way out of the kitchen. The back of his neck prickles, and he thinks— he thinks, you fucking caveman. Here he is, mad over nothing, just ‘cause Cas is who he is. ‘Cause Cas likes men— unless it’s just Dean, in which case, nothing can help the poor bastard.
Cas catches him by the elbow before Dean can leave. “I found some basil growing in an abandoned lot a few miles down,” he says, handing Dean a bundle of leaves. “I assume someone must have planted it and— let it roam free, I suppose.”
“Uh.” Dean tries not to react like a man is giving him flowers. “I love basil.” He’s an idiot.
Cas smiles, though, a little pleased, quiet and content. “I know Sam wanted to preserve some fresh basil for his spellwork,” Cas says, and Dean thinks, oh, it’s for a fucking spell, dumbass, but then Cas adds, “and I know you wanted to make a pizza tonight, too. So.”
Dean’s mouth goes dry. He says, quiet, “Thanks, Cas.” He puts the basil in a jar of water — he did just accept flowers from a man, Jesus fucking Christ — and lets Cas open and close the fridge door at will, while Dean goes to bang his head against the wall in the comfort of his own bedroom.
He passes by Sam on the way. Sam says, “Hey, did I hear Cas say he got basil—”
“No,” Dean says, speeding by. And then he stops, and says, “Yes,” because he knows Sam gets in his head about what he hears and doesn’t hear and what’s real and what isn’t, and then he grunts, “Shut up,” just to round out the pack. Yeah. Dean Winchester: catch of the fucking century.















