Work Text:
Dean POV
When Dean wakes up the next morning, the first thing he notices is Castiel’s absence. His scent of rain and honey clings to the nest and to Dean’s skin, but he isn’t truly there. It’s faint… ethereal.
Fuck. He ran off again.
Predictable, after last night’s fight.
Dean is still completely covered and curled up among blankets and pillows. Mini-Baby clutched to his chest, and his brain running way too fast for someone who just woke up.
He mutters curses under his breath while he reaches blindly for his phone.
Five in the afternoon. Fuck! He slept for—what—fifteen hours?
Well… obviously.
He makes a grimace he definitely didn’t mean to make. After a night of wild sex and an entire day spent running away from Castiel around the bunker.
Castiel…
The whole alpha-macho-possessive meltdown really… disappointed him. And pissed him off.
He warned Cas. He literally said it during Sam’s damn lecture in the library. He’s not some puppet Omega! He isn’t submissive the way Alphas want him to be! And Cas said he was fine with that—fine with Dean the way he is, not the way others want him to be. And yet… the fucking Four C’s.
This time it was the angel who didn’t respect them.
Dean growls, furious and impulsive, the way only Dean Winchester can be.
He types a message to Sam and sends it without even rereading. Then he locks the phone. Sam will definitely call him like a worried mother the moment he reads it.
Dean gets up slowly, reluctantly. His muscles ache from… the overdose of attention and the absurd, acrobatic positions born from hormones in every corner of the bunker… He isn’t twenty anymore! And when your partner is an angel who never gets tired…
He drags himself to the bathroom, his back making sinister noises, and steps into a hot shower.
Sammy sealed the bunker before leaving, which means nothing gets in or out until he returns and unlocks everything with the key.
Which also means Castiel is stuck there: the Men of Letters spells reinforced by Sam won’t let him vanish. Not this time.
For this reason, Dean decides the shower can easily last another half hour.
He doesn’t want to fight with Cas. Not now that they finally found each other… but those words, that hard look…
When he runs out of excuses (and probably out of hot water) he gets dressed and forces himself toward the common area. He’s starving and he already skipped three meals yesterday!
He freezes in the map room and sniffs the air.
Sugar and batter…?
He follows the smell to the kitchen. Probably Sam came back early…
Instead, he finds Castiel with his back turned. The angel doesn’t even notice him, too busy… burning pancakes.
What the hell.
«Cas.»
It isn’t easy to take an angel by surprise. Even less so an Alpha.
But Dean does.
Castiel jumps and spins around, guilt written all over him, wearing Sam’s T-shirt smeared with flour and badly mixed batter.
«Dean… you’re awake.»
«Yeah…»
Dean scratches the back of his neck, deliberately avoiding Cas’s blue eyes.
«You said Sammy taught you how to make pancakes. These don’t look like pancakes.»
Castiel looks around, mortified. Burnt pancakes, badly cracked eggs, the floor a mess.
«I fear practice is much more complex than theory. When Samuel showed me the recipe and demonstrated the process, it seemed absolutely simple.»
Dean raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms.
«And yet here you are, covered in batter like I could cook you. Move, MasterChef angel. Let a professional handle this.»
He puts on the apron, washes his hands, and nudges Castiel aside.
«Jesus, Cas! You made a disaster!»
He grumbles while cleaning the stovetop and plates.
«I’m sorry, Dean. I wanted… to surprise you.»
Dean turns to him. His eyes finally meet Castiel’s.
In that sky-blue gaze, there is only guilt and failure. Even his scent is more earthy and apologetic, less celestial.
«A surprise.»
Dean’s voice is flat, measuring him.
«Yes. Because you love pancakes and because I wanted to take care of you.»
The Omega narrows his eyes, his scent of green apples sharpening.
«Take care… of me?!»
He growls lightly. But for once, Castiel realizes he chose the wrong words.
«Yes. For comfort. For apology. Not for… control.»
«Ah.»
Dean’s posture softens a little, but he stays guarded. He doesn’t let anyone, not even Sam, “take care of him.”
Not outside of the damn heat days.
«So?»
He prompts Cas to continue.
«I did not wish to hurt you. I can… understand… the importance Benny had in your life, but it is… difficult for me to accept.»
Before Dean can snap back—something he’s about to do, spatula raised—Castiel continues:
«But I swore to look after you. If you only want his shirt, that is acceptable to me. I want you to be at peace. I do not want you to look at me as you would have looked at your father.»
Dean freezes mid-air, struck by how human Cas suddenly sounds.
«Yeah… uh… okay.»
It’s all he manages.
«May I apologize and hug you?»
Dean nods, and Castiel approaches slowly, wrapping him in a gentle, careful embrace.
«Consent?»
Cas asks, almost timid.
«Yeah, consent. But don’t ever pull Alpha asshole shit on me again…»
Dean mumbles, hugging him back too tightly, hiding his face under the angel’s chin.
«All right, Dean. I promise.»
Cas murmurs, nuzzling his hair.
Dean doesn’t flee, but he doesn’t cling either. He steps away just enough, inhales, then spins toward the stove like it’s the only safe object in the room.
«Okay. Enough.»
He wipes his face. «If you really want to make it up to me… you’re gonna learn how to make pancakes.»
Castiel blinks.
«I… may participate? Actively?»
Dean tosses him a bowl without looking.
«Eggs. There. Break them. In the bowl. Without blowing up the kitchen.»
Dean grabs another bowl, cracks an egg with a clean hit. Then another. Flour. Milk. Sugar. Movement. Noise. Action. He needs to do something. Just like when he takes Baby apart piece by piece so he doesn’t think.
Castiel obeys. The first egg ends up half on the counter, half in the bowl.
«I have failed.»
«We are now officially in sync.»
Dean grabs the whisk and starts mixing vigorously. Arms tense. Jaw clenched. Hands busy so they don’t shake.
«Watch closely. Not too slow. Not too fast. You have to find the right point.»
«I understand. Like during se—»
«DON’T SAY IT!»
Dean glares at him. «Not. One. Word. About. That. Thing. Right now.»
Castiel nods immediately.
Silence. Only the sound of batter.
«You are trembling,» Cas observes.
«I’m cooking with a naked angel under my brother’s T-shirt in a kitchen that’s already seen too much bullshit,» Dean growls. «I’d say I’m calm.»
Cas tilts his head.
«According to Sam’s whiteboard, this falls under Defensive Passive-Aggressive Communication.»
Dean shoots him a death glare.
«Do not mention the whiteboard while I am armed with a spatula.»
Castiel takes a step back, officially threatened.
«Sorry.»
Another pancake comes out right.
Then Dean speaks. Dry. Sharp. Winchester.
«What you did yesterday… wasn’t just you misusing your Alpha voice.»
Castiel tenses.
«You talked like I was a damn thing.»
Dean doesn’t look at him.
«Like I was a prize in your nest. Like you could decide what gets to be on me and what doesn’t.»
Silence.
«I’m not a stupid doll.»
He mixes harder.
«I’m not something to be marked, moved, cleaned of scents you don’t like.»
Castiel lowers his gaze.
«I did not intend to reduce you to an object.»
«I know.»
Dean sighs, tired. «But you still did. And I don’t belong to anyone like a damn thing. Not even to you.»
Cas stays still.
«And yeah. That shirt stays. Because I don’t erase pieces of my life just because they bother you. Just like Sam’s blanket, Bobby’s and Garth’s pillows, or Charlie’s plushie. If you want me, you accept them. Period.»
«I choose you,» Castiel says softly. «I do not own you.»
Dean pours batter onto the griddle with a sharp gesture.
«Good.»
He pauses, glances at him briefly. «But you need to remember that better.»
Silence.
Castiel cracks another egg. This time perfectly.
«I felt jealousy,» he admits. «Not dominance. But the emotion is similar.»
Dean huffs.
«If the roles were reversed… if you walked into my nest wearing another Omega’s scent…»
A pause.
«I’d burn the whole place down. Because you’re mine.»
He swallows.
«I’m not better than you. I just make more noise when I’m messed up.»
Another pancake. This one crooked.
Castiel watches him.
«When you ran yesterday, naked…»
Dean stiffens immediately.
«Don’t start!»
«It was not a flight of fear.»
Cas is serious—too serious to stop now.
«It was trust. You knew I would catch you. And that is why you ran faster.»
Dean shuts his eyes for a second.
«Don’t talk about scents.»
«I won’t. I’ll talk about you.»
Dean opens his eyes. Looks at him.
«When you played with me in the hallways… when you let me pin you against walls and kiss you… when you climbed things to escape me…»
«CAS.»
«There was no shame in your body.»
Cas’s voice drops. «It was the same abandon you had while we had sex everywhere. Library. Map room. Workshop. Kitchen. Stairs. Walls—»
«CAS NO! JESUS!»
Castiel stops.
Then, softer. More human than usual:
«I wish you felt like that with me. Always.»
A short pause. «Free. Trusting. Mine by choice… not by instinct.»
Something twists in Dean’s stomach.
Because yes, damn it…
Castiel is his Alpha.
The right one.
The one who never really wanted to break him.
But being the right Alpha isn’t enough to deserve him.
And trust… trust isn’t taken by force.
It’s built.
One mistake at a time.
Just like a damn nest.
Then Dean throws flour at him.
«ENOUGH. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW YOU COUNTED!»
Castiel looks at the flour on his hands.
«It was difficult not to notice. You were very attractive. All seventeen times.»
«Shut your mouth!»
Dean points the whisk at him. «Or I swear the next thing I throw at your face won’t be flour.»
Silence.
A few pancakes survive. One is too pale, another looks already chewed.
Dean plates everything anyway.
«Sit. Before I start yelling again.»
They sit.
Dean stares at the plate like it’s a trap.
The pancakes are crooked. One too thick, one half crushed, one definitely… charcoal on one side.
«They’re ugly.»
Flat tone. Brutal judgment.
Castiel takes one, breaks it with his hands, tastes it carefully.
«But they taste good.»
Dean reluctantly imitates him. Chews. Grimaces. Then, unwillingly… a satisfied grunt.
«…Yeah. They taste like something.»
Then: «Don’t tell Sam they didn’t turn out right!»
Castiel tilts his head.
«They are imperfect.»
Dean nods slowly, staring at the plate.
«But improvable.»
A brief silence.
Dean lifts his eyes.
«Like us.»
Castiel smiles. Small. Real.
And for once, neither of them runs.
In Dean’s room, on his nightstand, the phone vibrates.
Seven messages.
Eleven missed calls.
Sam is in full alarm mode.
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