Entry tags:
.fic: Breakfast for Dinner; or Other Entries in the Liber miraculorum (Dean/Castiel) PG
Breakfast for Dinner; or Other Entries in the Liber miraculorum (Dean/Castiel) PG) | ~2,220
Just a ridiculous bit of nothing much I doodled out for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unamaga a while ago in AIM, polished because insight2 reminded me of the merits of happy endings, and I really need a break from the angst and gloom and pain. As such, there's not much in the way of spoilers... call it part of some soonish, but not-quite-so-bleak future.
Breakfast for Dinner; or Other Entries in the Liber miraculorum
Some smartass, somewhere, said that no good deed goes unpunished.
Dean isn’t entirely sure if planning to introduce Castiel to the miracle that is breakfast for dinner (seriously, bacon and egg sandwich at seven at night? Heaven can't possibly trump that) counts as a good deed in some circles. Mostly he just thinks it’s awesome that Cas has progressed past sidling into diners or bars or laundromats like he’s doing something smiteworthy. Maybe he is, Dean thinks, and he just doesn’t care.
Either way, good deed or tarnish-the-angel-halo sin, Dean figures he’ll always get it in the end, because just now, ten seconds before the waitress comes to take their order, three angels have manifested themselves at his and Cas’s booth.
"Uh," Dean says. This is, pretty much, the only possible thing to say. He's pretty sure he doesn't need the hushed flap of wings or sudden appearance to peg them as anything other than what they are; they have that dickish arrogance and power Dean's come to associate with them. Well, he amends, most of them.
"You going to introduce me?" he asks, when it becomes clear none of the newcomers is much better than Cas in the social graces department.
"Israfel, Abdiel, and Judith," Castiel says, nodding at each angel in turn. Israfel is tall and slender, Abdiel pale, bald; he'd be forgettable if not for the fact that Dean knows exactly what he is. Judith's smile looks unsettlingly like Ruby's. For his part, Castiel actually looks a little annoyed as he makes introductions. Dean is gratified, yet worried by this.
He's also annoyed when Judith steals his coffee mug. It's not like she's Sam and he can kick her in the ankle. She gives him a look like she knows what he's thinking, and she probably does.
"Why," Castiel asks frigidly, "are you here?"
"Business," Israfel says, and lights a cigarette like there aren't a million Don't Fucking Smoke in Here, Assclown signs all over the place. He has a movie-star look, fancy clothes and manicured hands, and really doesn't belong here at all.
"Crucial," Abdiel adds, tugging at his suit jacket. It's grey polyester, anonymous like the rest of the vessel. Castiel frowns at him, but sighs and nods. Abdiel smirks.
The angels start talking in their super-secret angel language, which sounds like a bunch of cicadas with the volume turned down. Dean smiles awkwardly at the waitress--who blinks in surprise at the three new customers she hadn't even heard come in--and mouths that they'll just need a few minutes. Mutely, the waitress departs, and Dean gives thanks that his smile still gets him out of trouble.
Whatever the angels are saying, it results in faces that have Dean remembering an old school in Kansas, with diagrams still on the walls to tell you what to do if a tornado came through. He'd always thought the pictures meant "Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye," because that was pretty much the best you could do with only a plywood desk between you and ending up in Oz. Anyway, that's what the four angels remind him of, with their tornado-warning expressions and Cas well on his way past being irritated.
Cas says something emphatic that makes their water glasses chime. Israfel glowers and extinguishes his cigarette by looking at it.
After a few minutes the angels fall silent, Israfel and Abdiel glaring at Castiel, who frowns back at them, and Judith sipping Dean's coffee and smirking at all of them. Dean motions the waitress back over, because now he needs a bacon/egg sandwich and more coffee to deal with all of this. The waitress approaches cautiously--Dean can understand this—and, with her pen at the ready, asks in a very quiet, conciliatory voice, if anyone would like anything.
Dean opens his mouth to ask for coffee, black, no cream--and Castiel comes out with, at the top of his fucking borrowed lungs, "If you must know, Judith, I have come to cherish and love the time I spend alone with Dean."
Dean tries to sink into the formica of the tabletop. It doesn't work, even though his face feels hot enough to melt right through it. Castiel's words engrave themselves in the air, like the Ten Commandments on stone, on Dean's brain. There's no way, no way in hell, Dean thinks, that the ten other people in Landry's Tap didn't just hear that. Probably they heard it down the street; the entire world seems to ring with it.
He hears, through the roaring flames of his embarrassment, the waitress timidly asking if anyone would like appetizers. Judith asks for cheese sticks, Abdiel and Israfel decline. Castiel says, "I believe Dean was interested in... breakfast for dinner. Dean?"
Dean nods weakly, and the waitress -- who's clearly regretting that she took Dean for the sane one earlier -- asks him, very kindly, "you want something to eat, honey?" At this point, Dean discovers that sharing a booth with four socially-stunted angels is enough to crush even his appetite.
"I believe he mentioned a bacon and egg sandwich," Castiel tells the waitress. "And he'll need more coffee." There's a significant pause, then Castiel adds, "I will have the same, and these three..." He glares at Israfel, Abdiel, and Judith in turn, "... will be leaving."
Thunder shakes the diner, and the lights flicker. Dean knows without having to check that the waitress is looking out the window at the perfectly clear sky.
"Oh, very well," Abdiel grumbles. "We're leaving." He gets up -- thank god, Dean thinks, he doesn't just vanish -- and Israfel stands as well. Judith makes indignant sounds about her cheese sticks, but when thunder rumbles hard enough to make the salt shaker jitter across the table, she sighs and joins her compatriots.
"We shall leave you alone with your most-beloved," she says, very loudly, and the grin she slides at Dean is evil enough to kill. Alastair would be jealous of it.
Castiel, of course, does not appear embarrassed in the least, but that's okay, because Dean has plenty of embarrassment for the both of them.
(Still... most-beloved. Dean can't figure out of he likes that or if that freaks him right the hell out. Probably a bit of both, but he'll have to decide when he's not busy dying.)
The angels leave, finally, thank god, and Dean thinks about leaving too, especially because the waitress gives him extremely intrigued, yet worried, looks along with his cup of coffee. Castiel, though, seems determined to stay, even going so far as to take a small sip from his mug before setting it down and wrapping his hands around it. Next to the thunder and mini-earthquake, the humanness of that gesture makes Dean pause.
Dean lets The Question sit while they wait for their food, trying to figure out a way to ask that doesn't sound lame or needy or totally pussy. When the food comes, he's happy to wait while Castiel regards his sandwich with interest and then while Castiel dismantles it, which Dean tells him defeats the whole purpose of a bacon and egg sandwich.
"It's like... it's like portable breakfast," he says as softly as he can. (He has the feeling the waitress is eavesdropping; she probably hasn't had a freak show like this on her shift in years. "Also, it's ten times more awesome when it's between two pieces of bread. And is it true?"
"Is what true?" Castiel asks. He stacks the bacon on top of the eggs, which are disintegrating, and puts half the English muffin back on top. "You know." Dean lowers his voice even more--and really, why does he have to say it? Isn't Castiel telepathic? "Am I your... you know."
"My most-beloved?" Castiel looks up at him, all big dark serious eyes. "Yes, you are."
Castiel says it like it's absolute, the way he's used to talking about the will of God. Probably, Dean thinks, not even Sammy's super-computer brain could process this, not what Castiel's just said and definitey not the conviction with which he's said it. He starts at a sudden splash of heat on his hand--coffee spilled from the mug he'd lifted and forgotten about. Quickly, he sets it down.
Of course, Castiel's watching; Dean has the sense he's always watching, has always been watching, back when Dean was a fucked up teenager and when Dean was five and when Dean wasn't even around. Absently, he licks at the coffee on his hand, skin sore from the slight burn there.
Most-beloved. Jesus.
Dean takes a bite of his sandwich, and it's halfway to being cold, the grease congealing and the muffin a bit gummy.
"I approve of breakfast for dinner," Castiel says, like he hasn't just dropped the bomb to end all bombs right in the middle of a diner, like the waitress hasn't just seated more people in the booths on either side of them, so she can keep eavesdropping. Cas has got that expression that manages to be a million miles away and intent at the same time; he's polished off his sandwich -- Cas can really pack away the food, when he wants -- and is sipping from his coffee, and is watching. When he's not drinking, his hands wrap back around his cup, and Dean realizes with a start that steam still rises out of the mug, and that Cas is using his divine powers for purposes of keeping his coffee hot.
"You mind?" he asks gruffly, pointing to his own mug, which has gone cold and clammy like his sandwich. Most-beloved. He's not entirely sure if he'll ever get his mind around that, because Dean Winchester doesn't do the most-beloveding.
"Well?" he points again, and this time Castiel catches on, reaching across the table to press two fingers to the ceramic of Dean's cup. The mug heats under Dean's own hand, and steam breathes warmth across his chin.
"It is true, Dean," Castiel tells him, still leaning over the table, resting his weight on one arm. His voice is low and sincere, and it's not the kind of voice you disbelieve, not coming from a person you trust. And Cas... Dean trusts him, in a way and to a depth he's never really thought about.
"Do you boys want anything else?" The waitress gazes at them, misty-eyed. The smile she bestows on Dean is almost dewy in its softness. "Dessert? More coffee?"
"Apple pie, please," Castiel says, stupid mind-reader that he is. "To go, if possible."
Dean pays--of course he pays, even though he thinks they should freaking get that on the house, all the entertainment they've provided--and the waitress comes back with two boxes of pie and their change. She tells them to have a good night now, and Castiel gravely, robotically returns the courtesy, which makes her laugh. Probably it's supposed to be a aren't you a sweet young man? laugh, like the kind Sam gets all the damn time, and not a I know what you're going to get up to tonight laugh, but it makes Dean's face heat up all over again.
"We should go," Cas says. It's by far the most sensible, understandable thing that's been said all night.
When he stands, Dean's head goes momentarily blank, like all the blood that's gone to his face has suddenly remembered gravity and has plummeted back down to his feet, and he needs a moment to get himself reoriented. Castiel's hand on his arm, warm and firm through his jacket, helps and doesn't help, pulling him back to earth and pulling him to all sorts of thoughts that need to wait for a motel room and maybe a thousand years to process.
On the way to the Impala, he makes Castiel carry the pie. Cas doesn't seem to mind.
"So," Dean says as he slides in, "are we in Heaven's gossip mag or something?"
By way of answer, Castiel vanishes. Son of a bitch has only just begun to form in Dean's brain, though, when he reappears in the Impala's passenger seat.
"Mag?" Castiel asks, peering around the Impala's interior with interest.
"Yeah, you know… The holy water cooler." Castiel does the befuddled pigeon head-tilt. Dean sighs. "Do other angels talk about the… you know. What you said." He says the last part very fast. "And how do they know? I mean, you ain't exactly the most sharing and caring person I've ever met." He remembers Judith's way-too-knowing smile and shudders. "Did they torture that out of you too?"
"No, Dean," Castiel says placidly. His face is almost the calm, quiet mask it always is, but Dean's learned and Dean can see, the brightness of Cas being honest and trying to be human. "Some things cannot be hidden."
"Oh," Dean says. His heart goes all weird again, and he thinks about breakfast for dinner and dreamtime fishing trips that keep happening, and disobedience. "Yeah, I get that."
"Of course you do," Castiel says, like it's nowhere near as extraordinary as it is, what Dean's just discovered and what Cas has found out about himself, and he smiles so Dean, who can't quite make himself look right at him, can see its brilliant reflection in the windshield.
-end-
Please to comment here? (I'll leave up the commenting option for DW, but I prefer having comments all in one place ♥
Just a ridiculous bit of nothing much I doodled out for
unamaga a while ago in AIM, polished because insight2 reminded me of the merits of happy endings, and I really need a break from the angst and gloom and pain. As such, there's not much in the way of spoilers... call it part of some soonish, but not-quite-so-bleak future. Breakfast for Dinner; or Other Entries in the Liber miraculorum
Some smartass, somewhere, said that no good deed goes unpunished.
Dean isn’t entirely sure if planning to introduce Castiel to the miracle that is breakfast for dinner (seriously, bacon and egg sandwich at seven at night? Heaven can't possibly trump that) counts as a good deed in some circles. Mostly he just thinks it’s awesome that Cas has progressed past sidling into diners or bars or laundromats like he’s doing something smiteworthy. Maybe he is, Dean thinks, and he just doesn’t care.
Either way, good deed or tarnish-the-angel-halo sin, Dean figures he’ll always get it in the end, because just now, ten seconds before the waitress comes to take their order, three angels have manifested themselves at his and Cas’s booth.
"Uh," Dean says. This is, pretty much, the only possible thing to say. He's pretty sure he doesn't need the hushed flap of wings or sudden appearance to peg them as anything other than what they are; they have that dickish arrogance and power Dean's come to associate with them. Well, he amends, most of them.
"You going to introduce me?" he asks, when it becomes clear none of the newcomers is much better than Cas in the social graces department.
"Israfel, Abdiel, and Judith," Castiel says, nodding at each angel in turn. Israfel is tall and slender, Abdiel pale, bald; he'd be forgettable if not for the fact that Dean knows exactly what he is. Judith's smile looks unsettlingly like Ruby's. For his part, Castiel actually looks a little annoyed as he makes introductions. Dean is gratified, yet worried by this.
He's also annoyed when Judith steals his coffee mug. It's not like she's Sam and he can kick her in the ankle. She gives him a look like she knows what he's thinking, and she probably does.
"Why," Castiel asks frigidly, "are you here?"
"Business," Israfel says, and lights a cigarette like there aren't a million Don't Fucking Smoke in Here, Assclown signs all over the place. He has a movie-star look, fancy clothes and manicured hands, and really doesn't belong here at all.
"Crucial," Abdiel adds, tugging at his suit jacket. It's grey polyester, anonymous like the rest of the vessel. Castiel frowns at him, but sighs and nods. Abdiel smirks.
The angels start talking in their super-secret angel language, which sounds like a bunch of cicadas with the volume turned down. Dean smiles awkwardly at the waitress--who blinks in surprise at the three new customers she hadn't even heard come in--and mouths that they'll just need a few minutes. Mutely, the waitress departs, and Dean gives thanks that his smile still gets him out of trouble.
Whatever the angels are saying, it results in faces that have Dean remembering an old school in Kansas, with diagrams still on the walls to tell you what to do if a tornado came through. He'd always thought the pictures meant "Put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye," because that was pretty much the best you could do with only a plywood desk between you and ending up in Oz. Anyway, that's what the four angels remind him of, with their tornado-warning expressions and Cas well on his way past being irritated.
Cas says something emphatic that makes their water glasses chime. Israfel glowers and extinguishes his cigarette by looking at it.
After a few minutes the angels fall silent, Israfel and Abdiel glaring at Castiel, who frowns back at them, and Judith sipping Dean's coffee and smirking at all of them. Dean motions the waitress back over, because now he needs a bacon/egg sandwich and more coffee to deal with all of this. The waitress approaches cautiously--Dean can understand this—and, with her pen at the ready, asks in a very quiet, conciliatory voice, if anyone would like anything.
Dean opens his mouth to ask for coffee, black, no cream--and Castiel comes out with, at the top of his fucking borrowed lungs, "If you must know, Judith, I have come to cherish and love the time I spend alone with Dean."
Dean tries to sink into the formica of the tabletop. It doesn't work, even though his face feels hot enough to melt right through it. Castiel's words engrave themselves in the air, like the Ten Commandments on stone, on Dean's brain. There's no way, no way in hell, Dean thinks, that the ten other people in Landry's Tap didn't just hear that. Probably they heard it down the street; the entire world seems to ring with it.
He hears, through the roaring flames of his embarrassment, the waitress timidly asking if anyone would like appetizers. Judith asks for cheese sticks, Abdiel and Israfel decline. Castiel says, "I believe Dean was interested in... breakfast for dinner. Dean?"
Dean nods weakly, and the waitress -- who's clearly regretting that she took Dean for the sane one earlier -- asks him, very kindly, "you want something to eat, honey?" At this point, Dean discovers that sharing a booth with four socially-stunted angels is enough to crush even his appetite.
"I believe he mentioned a bacon and egg sandwich," Castiel tells the waitress. "And he'll need more coffee." There's a significant pause, then Castiel adds, "I will have the same, and these three..." He glares at Israfel, Abdiel, and Judith in turn, "... will be leaving."
Thunder shakes the diner, and the lights flicker. Dean knows without having to check that the waitress is looking out the window at the perfectly clear sky.
"Oh, very well," Abdiel grumbles. "We're leaving." He gets up -- thank god, Dean thinks, he doesn't just vanish -- and Israfel stands as well. Judith makes indignant sounds about her cheese sticks, but when thunder rumbles hard enough to make the salt shaker jitter across the table, she sighs and joins her compatriots.
"We shall leave you alone with your most-beloved," she says, very loudly, and the grin she slides at Dean is evil enough to kill. Alastair would be jealous of it.
Castiel, of course, does not appear embarrassed in the least, but that's okay, because Dean has plenty of embarrassment for the both of them.
(Still... most-beloved. Dean can't figure out of he likes that or if that freaks him right the hell out. Probably a bit of both, but he'll have to decide when he's not busy dying.)
The angels leave, finally, thank god, and Dean thinks about leaving too, especially because the waitress gives him extremely intrigued, yet worried, looks along with his cup of coffee. Castiel, though, seems determined to stay, even going so far as to take a small sip from his mug before setting it down and wrapping his hands around it. Next to the thunder and mini-earthquake, the humanness of that gesture makes Dean pause.
Dean lets The Question sit while they wait for their food, trying to figure out a way to ask that doesn't sound lame or needy or totally pussy. When the food comes, he's happy to wait while Castiel regards his sandwich with interest and then while Castiel dismantles it, which Dean tells him defeats the whole purpose of a bacon and egg sandwich.
"It's like... it's like portable breakfast," he says as softly as he can. (He has the feeling the waitress is eavesdropping; she probably hasn't had a freak show like this on her shift in years. "Also, it's ten times more awesome when it's between two pieces of bread. And is it true?"
"Is what true?" Castiel asks. He stacks the bacon on top of the eggs, which are disintegrating, and puts half the English muffin back on top. "You know." Dean lowers his voice even more--and really, why does he have to say it? Isn't Castiel telepathic? "Am I your... you know."
"My most-beloved?" Castiel looks up at him, all big dark serious eyes. "Yes, you are."
Castiel says it like it's absolute, the way he's used to talking about the will of God. Probably, Dean thinks, not even Sammy's super-computer brain could process this, not what Castiel's just said and definitey not the conviction with which he's said it. He starts at a sudden splash of heat on his hand--coffee spilled from the mug he'd lifted and forgotten about. Quickly, he sets it down.
Of course, Castiel's watching; Dean has the sense he's always watching, has always been watching, back when Dean was a fucked up teenager and when Dean was five and when Dean wasn't even around. Absently, he licks at the coffee on his hand, skin sore from the slight burn there.
Most-beloved. Jesus.
Dean takes a bite of his sandwich, and it's halfway to being cold, the grease congealing and the muffin a bit gummy.
"I approve of breakfast for dinner," Castiel says, like he hasn't just dropped the bomb to end all bombs right in the middle of a diner, like the waitress hasn't just seated more people in the booths on either side of them, so she can keep eavesdropping. Cas has got that expression that manages to be a million miles away and intent at the same time; he's polished off his sandwich -- Cas can really pack away the food, when he wants -- and is sipping from his coffee, and is watching. When he's not drinking, his hands wrap back around his cup, and Dean realizes with a start that steam still rises out of the mug, and that Cas is using his divine powers for purposes of keeping his coffee hot.
"You mind?" he asks gruffly, pointing to his own mug, which has gone cold and clammy like his sandwich. Most-beloved. He's not entirely sure if he'll ever get his mind around that, because Dean Winchester doesn't do the most-beloveding.
"Well?" he points again, and this time Castiel catches on, reaching across the table to press two fingers to the ceramic of Dean's cup. The mug heats under Dean's own hand, and steam breathes warmth across his chin.
"It is true, Dean," Castiel tells him, still leaning over the table, resting his weight on one arm. His voice is low and sincere, and it's not the kind of voice you disbelieve, not coming from a person you trust. And Cas... Dean trusts him, in a way and to a depth he's never really thought about.
"Do you boys want anything else?" The waitress gazes at them, misty-eyed. The smile she bestows on Dean is almost dewy in its softness. "Dessert? More coffee?"
"Apple pie, please," Castiel says, stupid mind-reader that he is. "To go, if possible."
Dean pays--of course he pays, even though he thinks they should freaking get that on the house, all the entertainment they've provided--and the waitress comes back with two boxes of pie and their change. She tells them to have a good night now, and Castiel gravely, robotically returns the courtesy, which makes her laugh. Probably it's supposed to be a aren't you a sweet young man? laugh, like the kind Sam gets all the damn time, and not a I know what you're going to get up to tonight laugh, but it makes Dean's face heat up all over again.
"We should go," Cas says. It's by far the most sensible, understandable thing that's been said all night.
When he stands, Dean's head goes momentarily blank, like all the blood that's gone to his face has suddenly remembered gravity and has plummeted back down to his feet, and he needs a moment to get himself reoriented. Castiel's hand on his arm, warm and firm through his jacket, helps and doesn't help, pulling him back to earth and pulling him to all sorts of thoughts that need to wait for a motel room and maybe a thousand years to process.
On the way to the Impala, he makes Castiel carry the pie. Cas doesn't seem to mind.
"So," Dean says as he slides in, "are we in Heaven's gossip mag or something?"
By way of answer, Castiel vanishes. Son of a bitch has only just begun to form in Dean's brain, though, when he reappears in the Impala's passenger seat.
"Mag?" Castiel asks, peering around the Impala's interior with interest.
"Yeah, you know… The holy water cooler." Castiel does the befuddled pigeon head-tilt. Dean sighs. "Do other angels talk about the… you know. What you said." He says the last part very fast. "And how do they know? I mean, you ain't exactly the most sharing and caring person I've ever met." He remembers Judith's way-too-knowing smile and shudders. "Did they torture that out of you too?"
"No, Dean," Castiel says placidly. His face is almost the calm, quiet mask it always is, but Dean's learned and Dean can see, the brightness of Cas being honest and trying to be human. "Some things cannot be hidden."
"Oh," Dean says. His heart goes all weird again, and he thinks about breakfast for dinner and dreamtime fishing trips that keep happening, and disobedience. "Yeah, I get that."
"Of course you do," Castiel says, like it's nowhere near as extraordinary as it is, what Dean's just discovered and what Cas has found out about himself, and he smiles so Dean, who can't quite make himself look right at him, can see its brilliant reflection in the windshield.
-end-
Please to comment here? (I'll leave up the commenting option for DW, but I prefer having comments all in one place ♥