Day Fourteen: Fruitcake

Ao3

The bell above the door jingles and Dean looks up from where he had been going over inventory. Only to be met with the hottest man he has ever seen. The guy’s got the bluest eyes to ever blue and dark tousled hair that looks like he just had the wildest sex ever.

While Dean was thinking very inappropriate thoughts, the guy had moved over to where he was standing. The guy clearing his throat brings Dean back to the present.

“Hello…” the guy takes a moment to look down at Dean’s nametag, “... Dean. I would like to order around ten fruitcakes, if you make them?”

“Um, I guess that would be possible? Depends on when you are going to need them for? Are you having a party or you just a fan of fruitcake?” Dean asks. Finally gathering enough brain capacity and getting down to business.

“It’s actually for my brother. He’s a big fan of it, he’s got a really big sweet tooth. I try to get him some every Christmas.” The guy explains.

Dean gets out an order sheet and starts to put down all the information that he already has.

“You said you wanted ten, right?” When the guy doesn’t answer, Dean looks up from where he is bent over the desk, pen caught between his lips.

The guy startles a bit. “Oh, uh, sorry. Yes, ten would be perfect.”

“And when will you be needing them by?”

The guy contemplates that for a second before answering, “probably the twenty second? Gabe will get here on the twenty first. I could give it to him a bit early and hopefully he won’t eat all of it on the first day and still have some left over for the actual holidays.”

Dean writes down the date. Okay he’ll have eight days to actually prepare for making the fruitcakes, that works perfectly fine for him.

“Finally, I just need a name and number,” Dean says.

“You can put it down for Castiel Novak.”

Dean writes the name down and then looks up again, only to find the guy halfway across the room.

“What about your number?!” Dean shouts after Castiel.

Cas just turns around and points at the counter. Dean glances down at the counter, to find a napkin with a number scribbled on it.

“Call me and we’ll work out a day that works for the both of us.” Cas says and winks at Dean, before turning back around and walking out the door.

Dammit Castiel is a smooth motherfucker. Or, oh, did he think Dean had asked him out? By asking for his number? Well at least he seemed to reciprocate Dean’s feelings. He’ll totally have to call Cas tonight and set up a date.

For now Dean just writes down the number on the order sheet. And if for the rest of the day, Dean is moving around with a pep in his step and whistling joyfully. Then that’s nothing Sammy has to know about, who keeps asking him about it incessantly.

I wanted to warn you this ended up having a brief mention of John Winchester’s A+ Parenting. Am I misremembering that you’re actually kind of a John fan? Sorry about that...it’s largely incidental, fwiw. Also, this got kinda long, and I’m not sorry.

Also, mentions of drug use, and a mildly dub con kiss (there’s not explicit consent before hand)

*

Fuck, but it had been a long day. Exhausted, Dean finished consolidating all the garbages into one ginormous bag, hefted it over his shoulder, and carried it out the back door. The alley behind his bakery was as repulsive as always: reeking, with puddles best left unexamined, and a handful of rats skittering into the shadows. Ignoring them - but making sure the door was shut behind him - Dean strode to the dumpster and swung the bag atop it. An explosion of fetor burst outward as the new weight atop the garbage forced air from the bags beneath.

Ugh.

This bullshit was why Dean always saved taking the garbage out for last. He didn’t want to touch a single damn thing in his bakery after interacting with the alley. Heck, he didn’t even want to walk on his floor - that’s why he mopped before he closed and before he opened.

Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Grumbling under his breath, Dean stomped back toward his door. Something squished underfoot, and before Dean could look - before Dean could convince himself not to look under any fucking circumstances - and aggrieved voice protested, “Watch where you’re stepping, dickfuck.”

“Sorry,” said Dean, sincere, as he realized that the squishy thing was an arm, belonging to a scruffy homeless dude who’d been sleeping in what Dean had mistaken for a pile of recycling. “What’s a dickfuck, anyway?”

“You are,” the man said sourly. “No screw off and let me sleep.” He was filthy, his face covered in dirt, his hair matted, his clothing in rags that didn’t conceal his emaciated figure.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Dean replied. The man glowered and tugged a dilapidated box over his face. “Sleep well, asshole.” 

And Dean went back into the bakery.

He wiped his feet on the entry mat.

He washed his hands in the sink.

He looked with contentment at everything he’d built, shut down for the night after another successful, if exhausting day.

His wandering gaze spotted the basket of “day olds” that he’d repackaged to sell at half-price the next morning. 

An image of the gaunt, dirty man sleeping in the alley floated through his memory.

Selling his excess at a discount helped him keep the business afloat and meant he didn’t waste ingredients; that said, it also weirdly cost him money, because the customers who checked the “day olds” would, if they found nothing to their taste, usually opt for a pastry at full price instead.

So...if it wouldn’t really cost him much, if anything, to give the baked goods to someone in need.

Nodding as he made up his mind, Dean took up the entire basket - a half-dozen cookies, a loaf of bed, and two scones, not the most nutritious selection but when the alternative was “no food,” well, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Not that alley dude had begged.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t hungry. He sure as fuck had looked hungry. Heading out the front door, Dean locked up and carried the basket around the block with him, returning to the back alley. The pile of boxes still looked like recycling, but alley dude’s fingers still poked out. Setting the basket down beside him, Dean lifted the limp hand and set it on the baked goods. No need to wake the guy up again. He could find the bounty later, and do with it as he would.

Chest glowing with that Good Samaritan feel, Dean headed home with a bounce in his step.

Maybe he should make this a regular thing - stop selling his “day olds” and donate them instead...

*

Dean hoisted the day’s garbage into the dumpster, turned to walk back to his back door, and stopped. Alley guy sat amidst his boxes, looking like some weird cardboard golem. Dean’s basket was sitting on the back stoop. Embarrassed, Dean looked away and scowled. He’d not given the food expecting thanks. Alley guy had never been there before; Dean had assumed he’d never be there again. Fuck, but seeing the dude was just awkward. Ignoring him as best he could, Dean walked by, took up his basket, opened his door, and--

“Hey, dickfuck - I’m allergic to dairy,” grumbled alley guy. “So, thanks for nothing, I guess.”

Opting not to turn around, Dean shrugged and said to his graffitied door, “eh, it’s not like you asked for that shit. You weren’t obligated to thank me, or to eat it. Hope you paid it forward, though.”

“Oh, yeah...cause I got so many friends or some shit. But yeah, the rats loved the crumbs. You dickfuck.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean walked back into the business. That’s what he got for trying to do a good deed. What a goddamn waste.

Still, the charity he’d e-mailed about donations hadn’t gotten back to him yet, and he had a baguette in the resale bin...grabbing it, Dean used a red pen to emphatically circled the ingredient list, went to the cooler and took a bottle of water, and poked his head back into the alley.

“Hey,” he said. Alley guy jerked around to stare at him. “Dairy free, asshole.” Dean threw the two toward alley guy, who snatched them from the air with surprising dexterity. “Any other allergies you wanna warn me about?”

“Manners,” alley guy replied flatly. “That gonna be a problem?”

“Pfft, like I care what the fuck you say or do,” Dean scoffed. “But if you die back here, I’m the one who’s gonna have to deal with the cops. Like I wanna talk to those SOBs over your mangy ass? No way. So, eat up.”

And before alley guy could reply, Dean went back inside, locking the door behind him.

*

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any hummus in there?”

“Buy your own.”

Over the days that followed, Dean and alley guy developed a weird rapport.

“You know your food is garbage.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Alley guy was abrasive, sardonic, and irreverent. In any other circumstances, Dean would want to deck him in the face, but his perpetual rudeness despite his dire circumstances was weirdly...endearing. It seemed a bizarre form of self-preservation, a show of strength that the man would sass him. Dean was willing to bet, oh, a fuckton, that his thinking so was a sign of his own stereotypes about the homeless - it’s not like losing their houses reduced them to personality-less manikins or some shit - but still, alley guy’s bullshit, and that Dean could give back as good as he got after kowtowing to all the crap that customers pulled on the daily, was refreshing.

“...did you figure out a dairy free quiche recipe just for me?”

“Why the fuck would I do that? New recipes are for paying customers.”

Dean totally expanded his knowledge of dairy-free cooking for alley guy’s sake.

“Ya know, you really don’t have to keep feeding me...”

“You leave, I stop.”

And despite his expectations that alley guy would leave...he never did. And occasionally, when Dean looked back, it would be to see yellowed teeth revealed as pink lips spread in a broad grin, and blue eyes sparkling, and an expression rife with all the appreciation that alley guy couldn’t express and Dean didn’t want to hear anyway.

Alley guy’s cheeks had some flesh on them again, too.

Seeing him - smiling, and appreciative, and douchey, and healthier - felt good.

Dean was gonna buy him a fucking toothbrush.

*

“Hey dickfuck - I’m not your charity case, you know,” grumbled alley guy, sniffing suspiciously at the crisco-crust pie Dean had brought out, along with a plastic fork and bottle of water.

“No fucking duh,” said Dean, rolling his eyes. “You’re a strong, independent man who can leave anytime you wanted.”

“...no, I’m a useless, broke, jobless, homeless drifter with PTSD and not even enough money for a dime bag...and I could leave anytime I want.”

“Well, glad we sorted that out.”

“Yeah.”

“My name is Dean, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“Not dickfuck.”

“Bullshit,” retorted alley guy. “Your mama absolutely took one look at your dick face and wrote ‘dickfuck’ on your birth certificate.”

Flinching despite himself, Dean grimaced. He should let it roll off his back. There’s no way that alley guy could know he’d poked a sore spot, and no reason alley guy would care if he did know. And yet...some jokes hurt, and somehow Dean couldn’t escape the feeling that alley guy wouldn’t want Dean to actually be upset. Maybe that was reading way too much into their pseudo-relationship, but... 

“Hey, yo, call me whatever the fuck you want, but don’t diss my mama, okay?”

“Aww, yas, gotta love the whiff of toxic masculinity that comes out when someone shits on mom.”

“She died when I was 4.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Channeling his upset into a glare - I will not cry in front of alley guy, not gonna do it, not gonna do it - Dean headed back to his back door. “Oh. Thanks for the shitty memories, asswipe.”

Throwing the door open, he stepped in, expecting at any moment for alley guy to say something even more dickish, but there was only silence, until--

“I’m Cas,” alley guy called.

Catching the door a moment before it shut behind him, Dean tossed it open wide, stepped into the opening, and caught it with a hand. Alley guy was eating the cupcake, frosting smeared over his lips, and he offered Dean a disgusting, crumby smile.

“Sorry I’m a fuckwad.”

“No, you’re not,” grumbled Dean.

“...yeah, okay, usually you’re right. Usually, I’m not even a little sorry I’m a fuckwad. But I am sorry about your mom, dickfuck. Dean. If I’d known it was a sensitive topic I’d have made fun of your dad, instead.”

“You do that,” Dean said, quirking his lips in a half-smile. “Dad’s an alcoholic son of a bitch - with all possible insult to my grandma intended - and if he’d a known I’d grow up to be some pansy-ass baker, he’d have named me dickfuck, not that ma woulda let him.”

“Your dad’s a fucker,” said alley guy...Cas...solemnly.

“Cheers to that,” agreed Dean. “See you tomorrow?”

Dean expected a quick riposte, a nasty reply, a joke and a shrug to break the seriousness they’d unexpectedly descended into. Instead, Cas gave him a funny look, and said in an equally odd tone of voice, “yeah...yeah, I guess you will.”

Shaking his head, Dean retreated into his business.

What a weird fucking guy.

*

“Dean, I was wondering...you give me all this shit...is there anything I could do for you in return? Odd jobs? Mobsters you need driven from the premises? I’m handy with a screw driver and an every weapon in the US arsenal.”

“Really? Every single one? Even the black ops shit?”

“Especially the black ops shit. But I’m being serious.”

“That you’ll shut the mafia for me?”

“That I want to help. I know I seem like an ungrateful sod...that’s because I am an ungrateful sod...but I could, I don’t fucking know, sweep your stoop, or snake the pipes, or wipe your counters, or...” 

“...just so I’m absolutely clear, you’re not offering me a blow job or an assfuck in exchanged for baked goods, right?”

“...would you accept a blow job or an assfuck in lieu of payment?”

“From someone with your skank-ass breath and gingivitis? Fuck no.”

“I don’t have gingivitis on my cock, Dean.”

“And honestly...if you don’t take a goddamn shower, I’m not even letting you on the premises. But--”

“But you appreciate the offer, you don’t mind giving me baguettes, it’s definitely not a no homo thing, blah blah blah, I get it, I--”

“--but I got a shower stall in the basement.”

“...oh.”

“So, get your ass cleaned up - and no, I don’t mean sexually, I’m not a homo but I am bi as fuck, but like, just no, the levels of squicky in the homeless dude I’ve been feeding paying me back in sexual favors is just all kinds of nope - and then if you want to help, I could use an extra set of hands with the dishes. But if you do, I’m fucking paying you. Okay?”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, and I’m not offering it. Heck, you’re in this alley every fucking day - that already makes you about a billion times more reliable than the last dumbass I hired as a kitchen boy.”

“You want me to be your...kitchen boy?”

“Do you want to be my kitchen boy?”

“...we’re still not talking about sex?”

“Just get your ass in here and take a fucking shower. And I’ve got a bag of clothes I’ve outgrown - before you say it, I mean that I’ve got too fucking chubby to fit into, thank you very much for fucking noticing - and I’ve been figuring out how to give them to you anyway, so you can change into those.”

“You wanted to give me clothes.”

“It was you or Salvation Army.”

“They’re a bunch of fucking transphobes, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I opted for you. I assumed you weren’t a bunch of fucking transphobes.”

“What if I’m one fucking transphobe?”

“Look, you want to take a shower or not?”

“...yeah. Yeah, that would be nice, Dean.”

“Good. Get your utterly non-sexual ass into my place of business. You’re hired.”

“What’s your fraternization policy?”

“Shut up, Cas.”

“That’s an oddly specific policy.”

“Shut up, Cas.”

“...make me?”

“Shower. Now.”

“Yes, Dean.”

*

A distinctive musky, skunky smell wafted through the kitchen, so strong it over-powered the mouthwatering scents of proofing croissants and caramelizing sugar. Wrinkling his nose, Dean stuck his head into the dining area, expecting to see some stoners with the munchies buying him out of cookies, but the scent terminated at the door. If it wasn’t a customer, it might be one of his neighbors...but the other businesses around were closed on the weekend...or someone who lived in the building above...but that should drift up, not down...or from the alley outside...but the handful of small windows in the kitchen area were nailed shut to prevent exactly that kind of problem...so where...?

Grimacing, Dean returned to the kitchen.

“Heya, Dean,” Cas drawled.

Cas.

On his third day of work.

Late.

Dressed in Dean’s hand-me-downs.

Shaved.

Surprisingly hot, now that he had some flesh on his bones and some color to his skin.

Pupils dilated.

High out of his fucking gourd.

“Out,” snapped Dean.

“Oh...did I blow it?” Cas broke into a lazy smile, not a hint of surprise in his voice. “Shocking.”

“For fuck’s sake, dude - no, you didn’t blow it, but you do not show up in my place of business reeking. You get your ass to the shower, clean up, change into some fresh clothes, and then wash the goddamn dishes like we discussed.”

“And if I don’t?” There was something bizarre about Cas’ expression. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think it was...affronted? Insulted? Put out?

What, because I didn’t fire him?

Over some goddamn pot?

Who the fuck does he think I am?

“Then you can go right back out to that alley, bury yourselves in those ratty, stinking boxes again, and I’ll bring you some bread tonight,” replied Dean with a shrug. “No skin off my back either way. You’re here because you fuckin’ offered, man, not because I insisted or nothing. Anyway, you want to afford more weed, you need money, so...dunno why you’re acting like a dickfuck about this, but seems to me that from your point of view, it’s a lose-lose, and from mine, it’s whatever. Capish?”

Silent, Cas stared at Dean.

Sending a silent what the fuck skyward, Dean turned to check on the croissants.

Cas stared at him.

Ignoring him, Dean glanced through glass front of the stove to see if they were up to temperature.

Cas stared at him.

Running through his mental task list, Dean checked his stocks of frozen cookie dough - and Cas stared - and gathered the ingredients for Sally Lunn rolls - and Cas stared - and tossed some tart shells in the oven to blind-bake - and Cas stared - and set some butter on the counter to warm to room temperature...

...and Cas stared, and said, “You’re right,” with solemn conviction. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, ready to work.”

“Awesome. You do that.” Dean offered him a half-smile, and Cas startled and shook out his arms as though a spell had been broken.

“And Dean...thank you.” He smiled. “But I’m not a dickfuck. You are.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Dean smiled back; the genuine grateful pleasure on Cas’ face was irresistible. “Get out of here and come back when you smell better.”

“Yes, Dean.”

*

There was a knock on the door of the closet that Dean liked to pretend was his office. Looking up from his account books, Dean frowned. “Come in.”

The door opened slowly, hesitantly, and Cas stepped into view, stopping framed by the rectangle of brighter light that emanated from the kitchen. A year had done wonders for Cas; he’d gone from sleeping in the alley and showering in the basement and working odd hours to being a full time employee, with an apartment, and time off, and clothes of his own, and a permanent 5 o’clock shadow. If the occasional whiff of patchouli drifted about him, well, it meant he cared enough to mask the pot stink, and that too was a vast improvement. How he spent his extra money and leisure time was his own damn business.

Even if, sometimes, Dean wished it was his own business.

But nope. Cas is off limits. Given our relationship - as benefactor and benefactee, as employer and employee, as...fuck, I don’t even know, but it’s awkward - there’s no way in fuck-all I can tell him that I think he’s gorgeous and hardworking and totally spank bank material.

Being the boss blows sometimes.

And Cas was still standing in the doorway, still watching Dean in that peculiar, steady way he had, and still silent.

“Look, these books don’t balance themselves. So unless you got an accounting associates you haven’t told me about, spill it and then kindly fuck off.”

“God, you’re an asshole,” grumbled Cas, rolling his eyes.

“Yet here you are,” Dean replied with an ingenuous smile.

“Yeah, well, not for long.” Something in Cas tone made Dean really look up, really look at him, and he was surprised to find Cas serious, troubled, and focused. Blinking at him, Dean set his pen down, closed his book, and tried not to worry. “I, um.” Cas was hesitant. Cas was tongue tied. Cas was never anything but brash and confident and full of amazing douchiness.

“Hey - dude...” Dean rose, and shimmied to the side to initiate getting through the teeny path beside his teeny desk, but Cas arrested him with an upheld hand. “...whatever it is, you know it’s okay, right? I trust you.” Cas laughed hollowly and Dean’s concern intensified. “If shit’s going down, you don’t have to face that shit alone any more, ya know?”

“Yeah...” said Cas bitterly. “Yeah, I know.” Cas took a deep breath, let it out as he squeezed his eyes shut, and said in a rush, “I quit.”

“What?” exclaimed Dean.

Cas opened his eyes, deep blue obscured as they narrowed with uncertainty, and nodded slowly for no obvious reason. “I said, I quit.”

“Why?!” Shock, worry, and disappointment collided within Dean. If Cas quit, would he end up on the streets again? If Cas quit, would Dean get to see him any longer? If Cas quit--?

“Because as long as I work here, I can’t do this,” Cas replied, and as Dean watched as though time had dilated, Cas lunged forward, knocked into the desk, grabbed the loose sides of Dean’s apron, and pulled him into a rough kiss. Stubble tickled at Dean’s cheeks. Lips applied amazing pressure to his own. Cas’ face was so close that his two eyes seemed four until Dean’s eyes slipped shut and he leaned in, deepening the kiss, teasing at Cas’ lips with his tongue.

Cas jerked away from him with a gasp, chest heaving, and for a split second Dean thought he’d somehow misunderstood everything.

If he doesn’t want tongue...is there something, anything, else that kissing me out of the blue could mean??

“Cas?” Dean asked weakly.

“Yeah, dickfuck?” replied Cas with a mysterious smile. His tongue flicked out and ghosted over his lips, and Dean swallowed a surge of arousal. 

“What the fuck was that?”

“It was the kiss I’ve been wanting to give you for a goddamn year,” Cas explained contentedly. “Whaddaya think?”

“What do I think?” Eyeing him, Dean took a deep breath and let it go, raising two fingers and brushing them over his mouth. The way Cas stared at every movement was more delicious than Dean’s special, patented, best-in-the-tristate-area apple pie. “I think I want to do it again.”

“Good,” said Cas, his hunger as obvious as the growing bulge in his pants. He reached out...and Dean stopped him with a hand.

“After I finish the books, and seriously, anywhere more comfortable than in here, okay?”

“In the kitchen?” Cas suggested with a lascivious wink.

“Ew. No! Unhygienic. Do you know how much trouble I’d get into if the health department found out?”

“...aren’t I worth it?”

“Okay...look...just to be clear...we are talking about sex, right?”

“For once...god, I hope we are,” said Cas fervently. “Because if not, this is, hands down, the most confusing conversation I’ve ever had with you - and that’s saying something.”

“What?! I’m not confusing,” Dean exclaimed. “You’re fucking baffling.”

“I’m easy,” disagreed Cas. “In every sense of the word.”

“I call bullshit. If you were easy, it wouldn’t have taken me a year to get in my pants.”

Cas raised a finger. “You were trying to get in my pants?” 

“No! Of course not!” Dean spluttered. “I’m your boss, that’d be wrong on so many levels!”

“That’s about what I figured,” agreed Cas with a hum. “But you’re not my boss any longer.”

“That’s why you quit.”

“So if we can’t fuck in the kitchen, how about in the shower?”

Catching his lip between his teeth, Dean barely quelled a hysteric laugh. He wanted to - fuck, how he wanted to - but... “Ok. Here’s what’s going to happen. First, you’re rehired. There’s no fucking way I can close up for the night alone before at least eleven, unless I’ve got help. Payroll is due, and this shit won’t balance, and I can’t go anywhere until it’s done. So, you do closing shit, and I’ll do fucking math, and then, when once all that is set...we can talk. Okay?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a control freak?” smirked Cas.

“Has anyone ever told you I don’t give a fuck?” Dean retorted.

“Don’t worry.” Cas’ smile went gentle, and Dean’s heart fricken melted. “I love it.”

“You--”

“I’ll go wash the dishes now, sir,” Cas interrupted, grin going saucy. “Come fire me whenever you’re ready...”

Dean’s mouth worked around a reply, but no words would come; Cas, looking eminently proud of himself, turned and sauntered from the room, ass wiggling.

“I will,” Dean called after him as the door swung shut. He sounded strained, and high pitched, and he’d have been mortified if he wasn’t so damn excited and horny.

Guess no good deed goes unpunished...

The gorgeous sound of Cas’ rich laughter echoed loudly enough that Dean could savor it despite the door separating them.

...and man, is the punishment for this good deed going to be a goddamn blast.

*Now complete*

Chapters: 13/13 Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sarah Blake/Sam Winchester, Referenced: - Relationship, Madison (Supernatural: Heart)/Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Gabriel (Supernatural), Charlie Bradbury, Meg Masters, Benny Lafitte, Missouri Moseley, Linda Tran, Kevin Tran, Ellen Harvelle, Jo Harvelle, others - Character, OKC (Original Kitten Character) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baker Dean Winchester, Reluctant Kitten Owner Dean Winchester, Formerly Wealthy Castiel, Cat Rescuer Castiel, Coffee Shop Manager Castiel, Almost a Two Broke Girls AU, Plus Kitten(s), Baking class, So Many Desserts, don't read if hungry, online meeting, online flirting, are you ready for this?, TWO PERSON LOVE TRIANGLE!!!, Confidently Bi Dean, Openly Gay Castiel, And a Seriously Cute Kitten, The boys are softer than the kitten, mentions of past canonical character death, Fluff and Angst, Mostly fluff though, Happy Ending, and, Pining, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Let me say that again, Sloooooow Burn, No kittens come to harm in this story, Frottage, Gosh I wish you could rearrange the order of tags, Masturbation, handkink Summary:

Dean Winchester is not a cat guy. But one softhearted Sasquatch brother and a mad dash to the pet store later, Dean somehow finds himself the sole caregiver for an abandoned baby kitten. It's a good thing that quirky pet store girl gave him the Twitter handle for her cat rescue buddy, CJ. Dean doesn't know about the kitten, but he sure as hell could use some rescuing right about now.

Castiel Novak is not a baker. But one interfering best friend and some dismal Yelp reviews for his brother's coffee shop later, Castiel somehow finds himself standing in front of a cook top in his very first baking class, his non-existent baking aspirations literally going up in smoke around him. It's a good thing his gorgeous, green-eyed classmate is there to rescue him...

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Rating: Mature Warnings: None Additional Tags: Cupid Castiel (Supernatural), Baker Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Falling In Love, Gratuitous Pies Words: 15919

Summary:

One moment, Castiel is flying. The sky is lit only by the soft light of the crescent moon and the distant stars. Beneath him, the earth is mostly dark. The town, whichever one it may be, is sleeping—not that he pays it much mind. He has a job to complete, and a timeline to do it in. Destinies must be set in motion.

And then his peace is shattered. Something dense hits him from above, striking right between his wings. It jolts him, snapping him out of the idle thoughts he tends to settle into while on duty. Thankfully, he only loses a few feet of altitude before he recovers. He twists in the air, trying to catch a glimpse of his assailant, but all he sees is a flash of white feathers before he’s hit again, this time by an arrow skewering through one of his wings. Now, there’s no recovering.

One moment, Castiel is flying. The next, he’s falling.