"Dean! There's not going to be any pie left if you keep eating it all!" Mary Winchester admonished. Dean jumped. He had been trying to be subtle.

"Sorry, Mommy. It's just so good."

"I know, I know, but it'll be even better cooked." Mary smiled at him, absolutely radiant. Her hands were wrapped in oven mitts and an oversize apron covered her protruding stomach. She'd been having cravings for baked goods, and Dean was all too happy to help, or hinder, really.

"I love you, Mom," he said.

"Uh, Dean? You okay? you're crying." Dean woke up to Sam's concerned face. He blinked and looked around, taking in the ugly motel room. He was hit very suddenly with homesickness, wanting his mother back. He missed her terribly, more so than he would ever admit to anyone. The fact that most of his memories from that age had dissolved left him with an aching emptiness that he had learned to build up walls against. But when memories came back to him in his sleep, everything hurt anew.

He wanted his childhood back. He needed what had been ripped from him so carelessly...

He needed the presents from Santa to magically appear under the tree, bearing monster trucks and other wonders. Needed the Easter egg hunts, the homemade apple pies, needed to beg for a puppy and swing from a tire hung from a tree.

"Fine, just, uh, headache." Dean massaged his temples for effect.

"Uh, do you want me to question the girls by myself?" They were on the trail of a ghost that had killed five unfaithful boyfriends so far.

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great."

Dean watched his brother go, biting back the urge to sob into his pillow. He wondered briefly if Sam had it better, never having the experiences, but never knowing what it was like to have the comfort of a loving home ripped from him violently.

If it wasn't for him, you could have had all of it. A small voice in his head whispered to him, making him writhe in guilt.

"Azazel's fault, not Sam's. Azazel's fault." If he repeated it, it had to be true, right?

He got up slowly, lacking the energy to do anything properly. His body ached unbearably.

"Hey, uh, Cas, I dunno if you're listening, but I'm hurting pretty badly and it'd be nice if you'd-"

Whoosh.

"Hello, Dean." The hunter jumped, startled, and turned to face the hunter.

"Cas, uh, I hate to beg, but my entire body is killing me."

Castiel reached his hand out to Dean's forehead. he closed his eyes, waiting for relief, but none came.

"Dean, your pain is purely physiological. There is nothing my grace can heal." The angel shifted uncomfortably. "Unless you want to tell me why it is you're hurting so badly."

"I..." Dean didn't know how to describe the combination of pain and comfort brought on by his reverie.

"It's a memory, correct?"

'A memory' didn't do it justice; it was a thought of the only home Dean had ever known...

"Yeah."

"Okay, so what was it about?" Cas prompted softly.

"My mother. She was making some cake- or- or pie, or something..." Dean closed his eyes, immersed in the memory once again. "We were in our house in Lawrence, and she was pregnant, and she had flour on her apron..." He felt uncomfortably warm tears begin to escape from his eyes, and the angel's rough thumb brushing them away.

"Dean, I don't have much experience in these things, but I think it might help to cook something." Castiel's hand lingered gently on Dean's crying face, and the warm touch comforted him immensely.

"I- I can't do it alone," because it hurts too much. The unspoken words lingered in the air, and Cas seemed to understand. He knew he couldn't ask Sam, for parts of him that he was deeply ashamed of still blamed his younger brother for the unbearable loss.

The angel disappeared then, and Dean sat on the bed, hurt. He hadn't meant to scare Cas off, and now he was alone with the ghosts of his dream, alone with the pain that was flowing back stronger than ever. He closed his eyes, crying so hard that he almost didn't hear the rush of feathers that signified the angel's return.

"I thought we might need these." Cas held up a handful of shopping bags, filled with flour and sugar and baking powder and other necessities Clutched in his other hand was a cardboard box. Dean looked up at the angel, relieved beyond measure. He wiped his eyes and began to help Cas unload the ingredients. The motel they were in happened to be one with a mini kitchen, and soon the little table was laden with the supplies. Cas handed Dean the box.

"What's this, Cas?" He began to open the box, wondering what it could be, as they already had anything one could possibly need to bake.

"We needed a cookbook."

Dean gasped and dropped the box when he saw what was inside. Along with some bowls, measuring spoons and the like, there was a thick, leather-bound notebook that Dean hadn't thought of in decades.

His mother's cookbook.

"Cas, you- Where'd you get all this stuff?"

"In an attic during a house fire," he said simply.

"This is my mother's," said Dean, holding the notebook.

"There's a whole section on pies. I think it's hereditary."

"You have no idea how much this means to me, Cas."

"I think I do."

Thirty minutes later, and they had settled on a recipe, not of pie, but of cake. Pie would have been too much for Dean right now, but they had found an index card with Deanna Campbell's vanilla cake recipe tucked into a pocket. Cas was invaluable, running everything smoothly.

"You sure you aren't secretly, like, Cake Boss or something?" Dean joked, eyeing the angel's flour covered clothes.

"I don't think so." Cas furrowed his eyebrows, confused. Dean laughed at the expression, and the mood was lightened. He watched as the angel poured the batter into his mother's cake pans, completely focused on his task. Once the cake was in the oven, he spoke again.

"Cas, thanks so much for doing this with me." Castiel's expression softened, and Dean felt a surge of warmth flow through him. He fought the urge to kiss him, and instead dragged a finger through the batter left in the bowl. It tasted fantastic, but not good enough to distract him from his angel.

"Dean, I love- I mean, I enjoyed it," he stuttered. Dean felt his blue eyes on him, and the world felt good again. Without thinking, he took Castiel's hand in his own, enjoying the comfort and warmth that the angel brought him. Cas squeezed his hand lightly, smiling at Dean.

"Can I kiss you?" Dean blurted. Cas hunter kicked himself. iYou had to go and-i

"Yes."

Wait, what?

And the angel's lips met his. The hand not entwined with Dean's wove its way through his sandy blond hair. Dean's eyes opened wide, startled, but he relaxed into the kiss. Cas tasted as sunshine probably did, warm and comforting. They breathed each other in, and it was soon hard to tell where Cas ended and Dean began or vice versa. Finally, the hunter ran out of air, and he pulled back. The pain was completely gone now as he looked at his angel.

"Cas, I- I think I'm in love with you," he whispered. He took Castiel's other hand and led him to the bed, where they curled into each other and kissed tenderly.

"Me, too," the angel sighed.

"Oh my god, the cake looks incredible," exclaimed Dean, returning from a brief shower. Cas, wearing one of Dean's favorite shirts and a pair of his boxers, grinned at his handiwork. It looked like something from a French bakery. Dean walked over to Cas and kissed him again.

The angel rested his forehead against the hunter's.

"Dean?"

"Cas."

"I love you."

"Cas?"

"Dean?"

"Earlier I was thinking that I'd lost my home back in that house fire. But I've found a new one."

Dean took his angel's hand and placed it over his heart, and gazed into the eyes of his soul mate.

"You'll always be home in my heart, and I'll be home in yours."