Dean walks into the kitchen one morning to find Cas making breakfast for himself. He’s spooning honey onto buttered toast and there’s a crease between his eyebrows and his hair is all pushed to one side. It’s so classically domestic, typical almost, but this is so atypical for Dean that all he can do is stare. He stares at Cas with his mouth hanging open.
“Better close that before you catch flies,” Cas says, looking up. He smiles a little and holds up the honey. “Or perhaps bees.”
Holy shit, Dean thinks. This is ridiculous. This can’t be his life.
“If I’d known you were up, I would have made you breakfast,” Cas says. He kisses Dean on the cheek as he passes by, hitching onto his tiptoes to reach. Dean can’t move, can’t respond.
This is it. Jesus Christ on a unicycle, this is it. All the planets must be aligned, or the stars, or something, he doesn’t remember how the saying goes. It can’t be the stars, anyway, because one of the stars is here, in his kitchen, eating toast with honey and butter. Cas is a star harnessed by human bones, tethered to this room, this home. Tethered by Dean.
What the fuck?
So Dean’s standing there in the kitchen thinking he must have hit his head or something. Dean doesn’t do domestic. That’s not– that’s not in his programming. But then, it probably wasn’t in Cas’s either, and here they are.
The planets must be aligned. Thousands of years of cogs and machines, angels and demons and heavenly plans, people living and dying and living and dying, and here they are. Dean’s standing in the kitchen thinking that he is in love.
Cas finishes his toast, brushes crumbs off his fingertips, and scrapes the chair back to stand. “Dean? Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, “yeah, I’m good.”
“You’ve got something on your mind.”
“I,” Dean says, and stops. He cannot explain to Cas what he is feeling. All of the things that have happened, all of the things that will happen, and this is the most important. Dean, standing in the kitchen; Cas, taking his hand.
“Dean, what’s wrong?”
He cannot explain to Cas what he is feeling, but he tries. “I love you,” he says.
“Oh,” Cas says, smiling, “that’s all?”
“Yeah.” Dean kisses him, tasting the honey and butter on his lips. “That’s all.”