Sweeter Than Roses

perlukafarinn:

happy holidays @galaxystiel​ from your @destielsecretsanta2020​ secret santa! sorry this is late but since i didn’t know i would have to pinch hit until a couple of days after posting date, this was the quickest turn-around i could manage. i hope you like it!

Dean loved the holiday season. Of course he did, he made about a quarter of his annual income in December. People liked to eat baked goods on Christmas, go figure.

But he hated the holiday season, too. Every single day was busy, every hour was rush hour. Sometimes he didn’t get the last orders done until an hour after closing. He had seasonal hires, of course, but in the three years since he opened Rolling Scones, he’d always ended up underestimated how much extra help he needed.

Thankfully, things quieted as soon as Christmas was over. The last week of the year, while still busy, was a calm oasis compared to what came before. This meant that for the first time all month, Dean wasn’t busy with twelve other customers when Cas dropped by.

Cas had been coming to Rolling Scones twice a week, like clockwork, ever since he took over the flower shop next door a few months ago. Dean had been sad to see Mildred, the previous owner, go but he’d been prepared to welcome his new neighbor. He’d even set aside a complimentary piece of pie for him, because who didn’t like pie?

The first time Cas had come by, Dean had been so dazed that he almost forgot not to charge him for the pie. Dean hadn’t even thought he had a type when it came to men but here Cas had been to prove him wrong, handsome and charming and weird in the exact right way to come across as endearing rather than awkward. 

He always came about half an hour before the lunch rush, ordering a cup of coffee and a new type of pastry every time. Then he hung around while he ate, talking with Dean if he wasn’t with another customer. 

And yeah, maybe Dean treasured those quiet moments with Cas, learning about flowers and their symbolic meaning and explaining to him how to make the perfectly flaky pie crust. Maybe he looked forward to the days Cas would come by the rest of the week. Maybe he’d added a few items to his menu since Cas started frequenting, just to give him the incentive to keep coming. 

It was called being a good business owner. 

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pantheonofdiscord:

“We should quit,” Dean says one day, a mostly-decapitated ghoul on the ground between them and apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Quit?” Cas asks. He’s not looking at Dean, instead focusing intently on the narsty grey ghoul guts skewered on his angel blade.

“Yeah. Quit.”

Cas still doesn’t look up at him, his mouth forming a rather adorable pout as he attempts to shake the stringy brain matter off the blade. “We just solved the case, Dean. What would we be quitting?”

Dean throws his eyes skyward. He should’ve known this wouldn’t be that easy. “No, I mean quit. Retire.”

That finally seems to get Cas’ attention. Slowly, he brings his head up, blinking wide, blue eyes, and nobody has the right to look that fucking cute with viscera in their hair. “You want to retire?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, swallowing. “Stop spending our time chopping up creepy-crawlies and be real people. We could get a house.”

Cas is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “You want to retire. And get a house.”

The dead ghoul smells like fresh, ripe ass. Dean probably could’ve picked a better spot for a sweeping romantic gesture. Or at least started with a coffee date, before jumping balls-deep into domesticity. “I mean, if you want. Or we can stay in the bunker. But I – I wanted…” The words are sort of barfing their way out of him now. “It’d maybe be nice. To have a place that’s ours. Y’know, now that you’re human again.”

Cas levels him with a squint so severe he might as well be closing his damn eyes. “The bunker is ours,” Cas says, slowly and patiently, like he’s talking to a four-year-old.

Son of a bitch. “No, not you-me-Sam ours,” Dean says. He casts his eyes around the cemetery for help, or willpower, or sanity, maybe, but all he finds is the slowly-rotting monster at his feet.

It has nothing helpful to contribute.

“I mean you-me ours.” Dean swallows, and looks back up.

“You want to stop hunting,” Cas says.

“Yeah.”  

“And buy a house.”

“Yeah.”

Cas drops his chin, like he’s trying to nod but forgot the second step. “With me.”

It’s like pulling friggin’ teeth. “Yes.”

There’s a long, long silence as Cas just stares at him. Then, just as Dean’s about to suggest they move this radically life-altering conversation to somewhere with fewer corpses, Cas asks, “Until when?”

Of all the things Dean had been expecting Cas to say, that doesn’t even crack the top hundred. “What d’you mean until when? I dunno, until we die, I guess?” Cas’ eyebrows shoot up, and Dean rolls his eyes. “And I mean, like, normal die. From, y’know… chronic oldness. Or well, probably fuckin’ cirrhosis of the liver, in my case,” he says, grimacing.

Now Cas looks completely lost. “But… what if –” He cuts himself off, eyes finally leaving Dean’s face to dart around awkwardly. “You might want a family some day, Dean,” he says quietly.

“Oh my god.” Dean can’t take it anymore, and starts marching towards him “You’re a friggin’ idiot,” he says, then grabs Cas’ face and plants a kiss on his lips.

It’s… it’s pretty gross, actually. They’re both covered in sweat and grave dirt and there’s definitely some blood happening. Dean tries not to think too hard about whose it is as he pulls away and opens his eyes.

Cas is back to looking at Dean like he’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

“That’ll get better,” Dean blurts. “Next time.”

Cas’ eyes widen a little. “Next time?” he asks, voice so rough it’s making Dean stupid. Stupider.

“Yeah. When we’re cleaned up. And not, y’know, all gross.” Dean drops his hands awkwardly.

There’s another stretch of silence and staring, then Cas nods once. “Okay.”

And he turns on his heel and starts off towards the car.

“Wait, what?” Dean asks, still rooted in place. “Was that an ‘okay’?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“Well, great!” That’s more than great, that’s fucking fantastic, but Cas is already halfway across the cemetery by now, not looking back. “Why the hell aren’t we celebrating, here? Where are you going?”

“We’re going back to the motel,” Cas calls over his shoulder. “To get cleaned up.”