An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Cas! Are you cooking?”
Sam appeared at his elbow, the scent of sweet popcorn and sweeter egg nog on his breath.
“Yes,” said Castiel. “I am, in fact, baking, Sam.”
“Oh. I didn’t know you could bake. What are you making?”
“I'm baking a pie for Dean.”
“Really? I thought he baked up a storm yesterday - twelve pies of Christmas? Remember? I've got his stupid words to that song stuck in my head now. I can't remember the real ones.”
“I like Dean's version.” Castiel cleared his throat. “On the first day of Christmas my truelove gave to me, a pear pie in a pear tree.”
“Huh,” snorted Sam. “You’re not making pear pie are you?”
“No. I'm making an apple pie, because apple is Dean’s favourite.”
“For your true love?”
Sam's angular elbow nudged his side.
“Cas?” Another nudge. “Is Dean your true love?”
The human reaction - Dean’s reaction - would have been to blush and look down into the bowl of pastry crumbs. Or possibly elbow Sam back, triggering a fight which would have resulted in pastry spilled all over the kitchen floor.
Sometimes Castiel chose to take the human way. But sometimes he liked to be all angel. His hands stilled, the crumbs falling through his fingers. He turned his head slowly and let Sam have the full, wide blankness of his blue, blue eyes. They said the eyes were the window to the soul. Castiel didn't have a soul. But he had grace. And he had love, for Dean and for the world.
Sam's smirk faltered into a twitching ghost of a smile.
“Yes,” said Castiel, slowly and clearly, an angel who could see the light of his own personal heaven. “Dean is my one true love.”
“Oh,” said Sam. He ducked his head so a curtain of hair fell over his face, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay.”
He’s messing with ya, Sammy, Dean would have said. And he was. But it was true, nevertheless.