Baby Blues with a Chocolate Chip Muffin

"He's here."

Dean's eyes flew to the door for the fourth time that morning, and for the fourth time again, Sam burst into laughter. Dean glared at his little brother, unimpressed and a little red in the face, and threw his rag at him.

"Dude, you've gotta relax!" Sam chuckled after the cloth hit him square in the face. He handed it back to his brother who continued to clean the counter. "He'll be here. He always is."

Dean's flush grew and he kept his eyes fixed on his hands. "Shut up, Sammy. Besides, don't you have homework to do for that fancy school of yours?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but turned his attention back to the book in front of him. He was on summer break before his last year at Stanford, and although Dean told him to stay home and study, Sam had said he'd rather spend his holidays in Kansas and help out at the coffee shop. Dean, for the life of him, had no idea why his brother would want to do that, but appreciated it nonetheless. He had set up shop a little over a year ago and was doing perfectly well on his own, but he was glad he had Sam with him. They hadn't seen much of each other since Sam had left for Stanford, and things were always easier for Dean when the former was around. He could keep an eye on him and didn't have to worry constantly. Not that he'd ever admit that.

Dean threw the rag to the side and picked up the coffee jug to his left. Leaving his spot at the counter, he made his way to the farthest table at the back where a young man he had come to know as Chuck sat.

Chuck was a writer, evident from the stack of notes and papers he barricaded himself with and a laptop which was open 24/7. And equally evident from his two-day, scruffy beard and rumpled clothes, not a very successful one.

The brunet's fingers flew across the keypad as Dean jiggled the jug in his hand.

"Need a refill?" he asked.

Chuck jumped slightly at the intrusion and looked up. "Oh, sure. Thanks."

Sam was chewing on the tip of his pencil when Dean came back, his eyes following the lines intently. The other huffed and was about to comment on his brother's hair when he heard the door open. He looked up so fast he was half-worried he had snapped his neck accidentally. However, he was sorely disappointed when the familiar face he was waiting for did not turn up.

He smiled at the red haired girl, and she grinned back, pulling her headphones onto her neck.

"The usual, Charlie?" Dean asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Yep," came her cheery reply.

Dean turned around and started on the café mocha while listening to Charlie and Sam make small talk.

"Has he shown up yet?" he heard the girl stage whisper.

"Is Dean blushing like a virgin?" Sam returned.

Charlie laughed in response and Dean snapped, "I can hear you!" He finished up, handing Charlie her order. "Come on, shoo."

"You gonna ask him out today?" she wanted to know, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Shoo!" Dean repeated, but couldn't stop the grin working it's way onto his face.

She offered a salute before putting her headphones back on and taking her mocha. And as Dean watched her take a seat by the window, he finally saw him.

Striking blue eyes, disheveled hair and tan trenchcoat. Dean had had a crush on him for a little over a month now, ever since he walked in that one cloudless Thursday and ordered a chocolate chip muffin and a cappuccino. That was all Dean thought it was; just a small crush. He thought it would blow over after a few days. But he kept coming back again and again, and soon Dean was full on obsessed with the guy (Sam called it 'obsessed', Dean preferred the term 'committed'.)

The order was ready by the time he walked up to the counter. It had always been the same cappuccino- although the chocolate chip muffin varied depending on his mood.

"Will it be with or without the muffin today?" Dean asked.

The man paused for a moment. "With."

Dean picked out the biggest muffin on display and set it on a small plate. "Here you go."

And there it was. The one thing Dean looked forward to each day. An angelic smile graced the man's lips, and he murmured, "Thank you," in that deep, gravelly voice which drove Dean insane.

Dean felt blood rush into his cheeks and the tip of his ears, and gave a small grin in return.

And that was it. That was all that ever happened. Dean was too scared of saying anything else, too scared of risking it and driving him away forever. He didn't even know his name. It was pathetic.

Sam rounded on his brother the minute the man left to sit down. "You were looking at his mouth again."

"For Christ's sake, Sam, I will send you back to Stanford," Dean warned. "If you're not gonna study, then go clean a table."

Sam sighed, but stepped around the counter, tray and cloth in hand. As he wiped down the table top, he gave a wide grin in greeting to the man who had set foot inside.

Ash gave a nod and a brief, "Heya, Sam," before stopping in front of Dean.

Ash was another one of Dean's regulars. He came by every morning to pick up coffees for himself as well as his boss Ellen and her daughter Jo. Ellen owned the bar called The Roadhouse which was right across from Dean's coffeeshop, and so convenient for Ash to carry out his daily pickups.

Dean wasted no time in preparing the three coffees to go. "Hey, Ash. How's it going?"

"Ellen's in a bad mood. Found one of the guys she kicked out last night camped out front. He demanded a free round or somethin' for his 'loyalty'," Ash explained.

"She kick his ass?" Dean asked.

"Oh, yeah."

Dean chuckled.

"Say, could you throw in one of your black and white cookies? Maybe it'll cheer her up," Ash told him as an afterthought.

"You got it," Dean replied.

Once Ash payed and managed to get a steady balance on the cup holder, he was out the door with a cheery, "See ya!"

Dean recognized his next customer. A blond with an impeccable British accent; the guy always walked through the door at 8:15 on the dot. Wearing his usual, obscenely large V-neck, he approached the counter as his eyes trailed the text on his smartphone.

Dean greeted him with a smirk and asked, "Americano?"

The blond chuckled in return, pocketing his phone. "When is it anything else?"

The Winchester watched as the man picked up the cup and took his customary seat across Dean's hopeless crush. And that was probably what bugged Dean the most. The two were incredibly close, and Dean's mind constantly switched between tagging them as 'long-time friends' or 'boyfriends'. He didn't have anything against the British man, he really didn't; the guy was reasonably friendly and tipped well. But Dean couldn't ignore the gnawing ache, the envy in his gut that came whenever the blond made the other smile (however rare that may have been).

Dean didn't even notice his little brother appear next to him. "Dude, this isn't healthy," Sam told him.

Dean scowled at him, but sighed defeatedly. "I know, man, I know. It's just-" He glanced back at the two men sitting in the corner.

"What?" Sam urged, looking in the same direction.

Dean opened and closed his mouth like a fish, debating how to phrase his next sentence. He settled for, "Do you think they're dating?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and guffawed. "What, Trenchcoat and Blond and British? You're kidding, right?" he asked incredulously.

"Come on, he's too hot to be single," Dean countered, and although he didn't specify, Sam knew exactly which man his brother was talking about.

"OK, Dean. Whatever you say," he returned.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean's tone was defensive, as if Sam's remark on Trenchcoat's attractiveness personally offended him.

"Dean, do you really think Blond and British is his type?" Sam questioned.

"Oh, please tell me what you think his type is," Dean bit back sarcastically.

"Well-" Sam shrugged. "Guys like you."

A tomato couldn't even compare to the redness of Dean's face. "That's not funny, Sam."

"I'm serious," Sam defended his words.

Luckily for Dean, his attention was needed elsewhere when a new customer popped in front of the counter. As he took the order, Dean was glad to see Sam roll his eyes and leave to serve Chuck more coffee. This suited Dean perfectly because now he could look at Trenchcoat now and again without his brother breathing down his neck. And it carried on like that. As Dean worked around several different orders, he'd sneak a peek at the man he was so hopelessly mooning over.

And once 8:30 rolled around, Dean watched as the two picked up their belongings and stood. Blond and British gave a brief wave of his hand in the direction of the counter, while Trenchcoat offered his familiar, quiet, "Thank you," and held Dean's gaze a little longer than needed. Dean liked to think he saw a hint of a smile in his eyes.

Dean was eventually left to his daydreaming, eagerly waiting for tomorrow, when the ritual would begin again.

Sam cornered his brother on Friday just as Dean was handing a woman her change back. "Dean, we're out of sugar."

Dean had to do a double take before Sam's words sunk in. "What do you mean, we're out of sugar?" When Sam fixed him with one of his bitchfaces, he frowned and returned, "OK, I'll check the back for spares. Hold down the fort."

With that, he pushed away from his spot behind the counter and headed to the storage. After quickly wading through a myriad of cleaning supplies and toilet rolls, he came across a fat, lumpy pack of sugar. It was the shitty white kind, but it would have to do for now, at least until the orders came in next week or one of them popped down to the store.

He reappeared by his brother's side in the blink of an eye. "We've only got white, so I'll head to the store later-"

His words died in his throat once he saw Sam hunched over one of his books, scribbling in his notebook. And right across him sat-

"Oh, hey, Dean. Castiel is just helping me out with some homework."

Piercing blue eyes pinned him to the spot as Dean barely managed to breathe. "Castiel," he repeated, voice soft.

The cerulean eyes crinkled. "Hello, Dean."

Dean blinked away his daze and asked, his cheeks tinged, "Cappuccino?"

"Yes, please," Castiel replied.

"Muffin?" he added with a point towards the display.

He was given the same response.

Dean got straight to work, all the while aware that Sam was smiling smugly at him. Once he finished and gave Castiel his change, he nodded towards Sam's book, "So, you study law too?"

"No, actually," Castiel replied, and man, Dean could totally get used to listening to that husky voice all day. "But my brother did, so I picked up a few things."

"Well, if you're not a lawyer, what are you?" Dean wanted to know, not wondering once if he was invading his privacy.

Castiel didn't seem to think so, and he answered simply, "Tax accountant."

Dean nodded in return, glancing at his watch. 8:18. "Your friend not coming in today?"

Castiel looked up from the textbook. "No, Balthazar is currently dealing with the aftermath of a hangover. He says he's feeling too ill to leave his apartment today." He picked up his cup and sipped tentatively, remaining in his seat at the counter, much to Dean's surprise (and joy).

He continued to help Sam with his questions, and whenever the latter didn't need his help, he turned to Dean for conversation. Dean didn't mind the slightest, it gave him something to do while he worked. The two covered various themes; Dean told Castiel about the coffee shop, Castiel discussed his three brothers and himself in general.

Dean felt as if he was dreaming. Maybe it would all disappear suddenly, and he was going to wake up and realize it wasn't real. Castiel certainly didn't seem real. Dean never met a person who was so serious, and yet enjoyed such simple things like chocolate chip muffins and Star Wars.

But all good things had to end at one point or another. When the clock suddenly found it's hands on 8:30, Castiel had to finish up his cappuccino and leave for work.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you for your company," he said.

"Hey, no problem. Thanks for your help," Sam returned.

Castiel's eyes met Dean's, and a smile adorned his lips. "Good bye."

"See ya, Cas," came Dean's reply.

Castiel's beam grew at the nickname before he turned on his heel and left. Dean watched him leave, feeling giddy and lightheaded. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sam making overdramatized kissy faces, and graced him with a cloth towel to the face.

Saturday, for Dean, meant seeing Castiel at a later time, but for a longer while. He would come in at nine, accompanied by Blond and British, and stay well after ten. This of course, suited Dean perfectly.

Which was why he slightly began panicking when the clock read 9:15.

"Maybe there's traffic," Sam suggested.

"Maybe his car broke down," Charlie offered.

"It's a sauna out there, no one's hurrying to go outside, and you've seen the guy. He never comes with a car," Dean pointed out. "Wait a sec, what are you doing behind the counter?" he added to the redhead.

"Well, someone was too busy freaking out over nothing and forgot to give me my extra dollop of cream." She fixed Dean with a pointed look.

The Winchester sighed. "Sorry, Charlie."

"Look, I'll get the cream," Sam chimed in. "Besides Dean, Charlie's right. There's probably a perfectly normal reason for why Castiel is late."

As if on cue, the door sounded and all three pairs of eyes flew to the entrance. Dean felt his breath hitch in his throat, which was ridiculous because Dean Winchester was not some teenage girl. But that was just the effect Castiel had on him. Dean wasn't sure if he was happy about it or not.

The blue-eyed man walked in along with Blond and British ("Balthazar," Dean remembered), and another man he hadn't seen before. He was glancing around the coffee shop, his arm around Castiel's shoulder.

A sudden bucket of ice dunked over his head didn't do justice to the feeling Dean felt in the pit of his stomach.

Dean didn't have too much time to read into it because the next thing he knew, he was face to face with Balthazar.

The British man smiled and rubbed his temple, squinting slightly. "I'll have an americano, a cappuccino, a chocolate chip muffin and something chocolate for the incredibly annoying, ridiculously childish sod over there." He nodded in the direction of the stranger.

"Heard that!" came the reply from said man.

Balthazar raised his eyebrows at Dean as if to urge him, seemingly ignoring his friend.

"Well, there's the café mocha," Dean returned. "And we've got hot chocolate."

"Give him the hot chocolate," Balthazar said.

"Ooh, and a black and white cookie," the man added.

"And a black and white cookie," the Brit confirmed.

"OK, americano, cappuccino, hot chocolate, one muffin and one cookie," Dean repeated. "That all?"

"Yeah, thanks, mate," Balthazar answered.

After they left to sit and Dean finished up the order, he jabbed his brother's ribs. "Hey, go drop this off, will you?" he told him.

Sam completed the sentence he was writing and met his brother's eyes. "Yeah. Got it."

Not five minutes passed after Sam came back to the counter when there was an overdramatic cry of, "Oh, my God! Clumsy me!"

Sam looked away from his book and Dean from the wall he had been glaring holes into.

The stranger was holding his mug up, but the entire contents somehow ended up on Castiel's shirt in stead of the former's mouth. Poor Cas was blinking at the stain on his shirt while Balthazar was having a hard time smothering his chuckles into his americano.

Sam and Dean shared a quick glance before the elder Winchester grabbed the nearest cloth and hurried to the table.

"I'm so sorry, baby bro. I don't know what came over me! Had a sudden spasm or something," the culprit was saying, and Dean almost dropped his rag.

He wasn't sure what he was happier about; the fact that the two weren't dating or that Castiel looked absolutely adorable when blushing.

"You're such an idiot, Gabriel." Balthazar managed to snort, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

The guy, Gabriel, smirked a little too mischievously as he bit into his black and white cookie.

Castiel picked at his ruined button-up as Dean rid the table of any signs of hot chocolate. As he watched him scowl at both Gabriel and Balthazar and helplessly clean his shirt, Dean had no idea what compelled to say the next phrase.

"I've got a spare shirt, if you want."

He felt the three gazes boring into him, but he only focused on Cas, and with sudden horror he realized that his own cheeks had flushed.

"No, it's fine. I don't need-" Castiel began.

"Seriously, my apartment's right upstairs. It's not a problem," Dean insisted.

"I- All right." He tilted his head slightly. "Thank you, I appreciate it."

Dean was pretty sure he set some sort of new record when he returned downstairs some forty five seconds later. He had picked out the smallest shirt he had which granted, wasn't very small. When Castiel returned from the restroom, stained button-up tucked under his arm, Dean could barely suppress a smile at the sight of him wearing his shirt. As he had predicted, it was too big for Cas and fit badly, particularly at the shoulders. But Castiel gave him a sheepish smile and a mumbled, "Thank you," so he figured he'd count this one as a win.

Sunday morning found Dean a little confused. Sam was more restless than usual, and every time Dean turned his back he had a feeling that his brother's eyes were on him. When he'd turn around though, it was business as usual. Sam's nose was buried in his book, pencil tapping away on his chin. He looked deep in thought, concentrated on his thinking- but then again, Sam was always thinking. Nevertheless, it threw Dean off-edge up until the point when he just couldn't take it anymore.

He cornered his brother when he was washing the dishes in the kitchen.

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and furrowed his brow. "Dude, what is up with you today?"

Sam looked startled for a moment before he set down the clean plate and turned the faucet off. "Nothing. Just thinking," he answered with what Dean guessed was supposed to be a nonchalant shrug.

"Yeah? Well, what are you thinking about that makes you so antsy?" Dean asked.

Sam sighed, admitting defeat. "Well, it's just..."

Dean raised his eyebrows expectantly in attempt to prompt his brother.

The question came so quickly that Dean almost didn't catch it. "When are you gonna ask Cas out?"

"Jeez, Sam, not this again." Dean groaned.

"Dean, I'm being serious," Sam persisted. "When was the last time you were this into someone?"

"OK, calm down, Samantha. You make it sound like we're in high school!" Dean sniped.

"Come on, you like this guy. What's the harm in taking him out to dinner?" Sam wanted to know.

Well, how about this for starters: Castiel might not even feel the same way. Dean might freak him out and then what? He'd never come back. Dean would never see him again. And that wasn't exactly something Dean had on his bucket list.

Slightly worrying whether his Y chromosome had taken an unexpected vacation, Dean settled for a short, "Look, we don't even know if the guy swings that way."

The only response this evoked from Sam was a snort and a bitchface saying, Nice try.

When it was evident Dean wasn't going to continue the conversation, Sam said finally, "All I'm saying is, you'll never know if you don't try. If you seriously like the guy, you should ask him out. It could turn into something good."

Dean busied himself by drying one of the washed mugs, and pretended he didn't hear Sam at all.

"Stubborn jerk," he heard his brother mutter.

"Annoying bitch," Dean countered, setting down the cup.

Sam left to deal with the queue out front, meaning that Dean was left alone to his thoughts.

Maybe Sam had a point. It had been a while since he was attracted to someone as much as he was to Castiel. And it wasn't just because of his looks (seriously, the guy was gorgeous), Cas was genuinely a nice guy. Besides, he'd never really know how he felt if he didn't ask him. Maybe it wouldn't hurt if he took him out.

It could turn into something good. His brother's last sentence rang in his head, almost to the point where it became unbearable.

Before he could draw up a conclusive decision though, Sam's floppy head appeared at the door.

"Cas is here," he told Dean.

The latter attempted to seem unphased (and failing epically) and replied, "OK. Great."

"Dean, he wants to see you," Sam said with an inward groan.

The plate in Dean's hands almost slipped out. He gaped at his brother. "You serious?"

"Yes, now get your ass out here!" the other hissed.

Dean stopped what he was doing and, wiping his hands against his trousers, stepped out behind the counter.

"Hey, Cas," he greeted, his voice calmer than his insides actually felt.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel greeted. He then pulled up a small bag and placed it on the counter. "I wanted to thank you for borrowing me your shirt. I'm very grateful."

"Well, couldn't let you walk around with a stain, could I?" Dean teased as he took the bag. After peeking inside, he realized it was, in fact, the very same shirt he had given Cas. It was neatly folded so no edges were crumpled, pristine and completely free of wrinkles.

"I got it dry-cleaned. It was the least I could do."

Dean's grin felt as if it was cracking his face. "You didn't have to, man."

Castiel offered his reserved smile in return.

Dean finally got down to business, preparing Cas' cappuccino, accompanied by the always-present, brief, "Muffin or no muffin?"

When Castiel confirmed the treat, Dean accepted his money and gave back the change. It was just as Cas turned to go that Dean's chest convulsed uncomfortably.

Sam's words crawled by into his mind and nagged at his brain, daring him to disregard them.

Before Dean even knew what he was doing, he suddenly heard himself say, "Hey, Cas. Wait a sec."

Castiel turned around, his eyes causing Dean's stomach to squirm pleasantly. Yeah, that Y chromosome was long gone.

"Could I take you out to dinner sometime, if you want?" Dean didn't even feel the himself speak. He didn't feel his tongue move over the syllables, or his lips form the words. But it was his own voice that thrummed in his ears, assuring him that it wasn't a dream (or in a sudden horrible turn of events, a nightmare).

Cas' eyes lit up like lightning grazing the night sky, and his lips melded into a genuine smile.

Body humming with excitement and happiness, Dean knew the answer even before Castiel returned, "I'd love to, Dean."

Dean was finishing up the delivery schedule for the next day when Sam leant over the counter, instantly creating a shadow over Dean's clipboard.

"You ready?" Sam asked as the other pushed his head to the side.

"Been ready like an hour ago, Sammy," Dean returned, eyes still trailing the papers in front of him.

"Nervous?"

The glare Dean sent him effectively shut the other up.

Sam pushed away from the counter and raised his hands in surrender. He looked around the darkened coffee shop. "Place looks good," he commented.

Dean raised his head again. "Yeah."

Sam had insisted that they should dim the lights, and the only reason Dean listened was because he had that switch for ages now and never once used it (what was the point of having the stupid thing if it didn't serve it's purpose at least once?). The chairs were placed upside down on the tables like always before closing, but this time, most of the tables were pushed aside, leaving just the one closest to the counter set up. A clean, white table cloth was draped over, and they brought down some of Dean's fancier plates and cutlery. Sam initially wanted to put a flower too, but Dean drew the line there, refusing to let the evening turn any more girlier than it already had.

Sam clapped his hands decisively. "OK, I'll just leave you to it then," he announced. "Hey, will it be safe to come home or should I just sleep in The Roadhouse?"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean retorted, suddenly glad about the dim lights because there was no way his brother was gonna see him flush like a beetroot.

Sam smiled cheekily as he hooked his fingers around the door knob. "I'll just crash at Garth's tonight."

Dean attempted to throw the nearest thing he had at his little brother (which was his pen), but the door had already clicked shut. He headed back to the kitchen for one last check up- it was almost eight and Cas would be here soon.

The spaghetti he had left in the oven to keep warm was the same as when he previously checked on it fifteen minutes ago. The dessert was still cooling on top of the stove, with no obvious alterations. Everything was fine. So why was his stomach feeling so uneasy? As he hovered over the sink, Dean got to thinking and all his previous fears snuck back into his brain.

He'd been mooning over Cas for over a month. A whole freaking month. He had gotten used to seeing his face and hearing his voice every day. What if it all changed? What if the date didn't work out? The prospect of never seeing Castiel again was a shitty one, to say the least.

The wheels in Dean's mind suddenly stopped when the sound of the bell tinkling echoed in the kitchen. The Winchester tilted his head, peeked out of the doorway, and his damn breath actually caught in his throat.

Castiel stood in the centre of the coffee shop, the rays from the wall bouncing off his unruly curls. Even his skin looked paler that usual; almost white, illuminated by the faint light. He was the sight of an Angel.

The ever-present, tan trenchcoat wasn't slung around his small frame, and neither was his blue tie. Instead, he wore an ebony suit jacket, matched with equally dark trousers. Underneath was a plain white dress shirt with the topmost buttons left undone, leaving a trail of creamy white flesh visible.

And if Dean's heartbeat flew off the chart at the sight of him, he'd blame it on his absent Y chromosome.

"Dean?" the familiar gravelly voice broke the silence.

"Hey, Cas," Dean greeted, stepping out of the kitchen. He couldn't stop himself from looking up and down Cas' figure again, taking in just how tall and lean he was without that lumpy trenchcoat. Licking his lip absently and nodding towards the table, he said, "Sit down, I'll be right there."

Without waiting for a reply, he zipped back into the kitchen and carefully pulled out the carbonara from the oven, glad to see it was still pretty hot. By the time he brought it back out, Castiel was already pouring the wine that had been set out earlier.

After he sat down, Dean wordlessly gestured for Cas to bring his plate closer. Castiel returned a murmured, "Thank you," and a prefect, white smile.

OK, so far so good, Winchester. Keep it up.

Dean opened his mouth to speak but remained speechless when a moan rumbled from the back of Castiel's throat. The Winchester was compelled to bite down on his lip hard as he tried to keep his mind blissfully blank of any inappropriate thoughts.

Castiel blinked up at him while he finished chewing. He swallowed and said sheepishly, "I'm sorry. This is delicious. Did you make it yourself?"

"Er, yeah," Dean answered, voice a little strained. Clearing his throat, he had to shift in his seat. "Thanks," he added. In attempt to clear his thoughts, he asked the first thing that came into mind, "What about you? You, uh, cook?"

Slapping himself mentally, Dean watched Cas' lips quirk into an amused smile. "Rarely. I don't remember when was the last time I made any breakfast, I've been coming here every morning."

This made Dean grin widely.

"And as for lunch, Balthazar and I usually order in at the office. There's not enough time to cook an actual meal," he explained.

"You should take a muffin with you or something. Ordering in isn't healthy," Dean teased.

"And muffins are?" Cas countered with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Touché."

Lucily, the conversation continued pleasantly throughout the evening. Dean honestly couldn't remember having so much fun on a date. Being around Castiel made him calmer, more relaxed. He didn't have to worry about picking an interesting subject to talk about. Cas seemed perfectly content with listening to whatever Dean had to say. He had interesting opinions and was a strong opponent for debating.

Finally, they found their plates empty and wine almost finished. Dean stood up from his seat and smirked.

"You ready for dessert?" he asked.

"Depends." Castiel tilted his head as he spoke. "Is it chocolate chip muffins?"

"Better," Dean replied, and Cas quirked a bemused eyebrow. "Pie."

It didn't take long for Dean to return from the kitchen with two slices of apple pie and set one plate down in front of Castiel. He watched him expectantly as the other took the first bite. Unsurprisingly, watching Cas' tongue flick out and lick his lower lip soon became Dean's favourite pastime ever. When his Adam's apple bobbed after he swallowed, Dean smiled.

"Good? Bad?" he wanted to know.

"Dean, it's perfect," Castiel replied.

Dean flushed from the praise, his lips growing into a grin. "Awesome."

There wasn't much talk while they ate the pie which didn't bother Dean in the slightest. It was only after Castiel wiped his mouth with his napkin that Dean spoke again.

"Dude, you've got a crumb over here," he told him, gesturing at his own upper lip.

To say that Dean wasn't prepared for Cas running his tongue over his lip was an understatement.

"Gone?" Castiel asked, seemingly unaware of what he was doing to Dean.

"No. Right here," Dean repeated. He placed a finger on his mouth again. "Here."

When Castiel's tongue missed again, Dean briefly wondered if the former was doing this on purpose.

"No, man, there- Look, hold up."

The Winchester leant over the table and cupped Castiel's cheek lightly. Suddenly very self-conscious, he brushed his thumb along the pink, plump tissue, chewing on the inside of his own cheek as he did so. After he flicked the damn crumb off, Dean looked up to meet Cas' blue gaze.

Their visions locked for a moment, before Dean pulled Castiel closer and tilted his head slightly. Their lips grazed so softly that Dean wasn't actually sure if he even kissed him. Castiel was obviously thinking along the same lines too, because he wrapped his fingers around the nape of Dean's neck and slotted their mouths together again.

Dean could still make out the pie and wine on Cas' lips, and he pushed deeper for a better taste. The latter was more than happy to indulge him, leaning his head and opening his mouth with ease.

It was cheesy, and probably the oldest trick in the book. But all Dean could think about at that moment was, Why hadn't he done this sooner?