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Drabble Stew

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Dean shuffles into the kitchen intent on a cup of coffee at exactly 6:47. There’s no reason for him to be up, but Sam sets his alarm for 6:30 every day, and Dean hasn’t quite reached the point of wanting to murder him for the early morning wake up call. Yet.

Unseeingly, Dean acquires a plain white mug and pours himself a big cup of bitter life giving elixir. He holds it close to his face for a moment, breathing it in, before taking a sip. Another couple gulps later, Dean’s higher functions begin to come online and he is instantly met with the disaster zone next to the sink. Plates stacked high, empty plastic packaging wadded up, and something so viscous it’s solidified on it’s slow dripping path down the front of the counter.

With a grimace, Dean turns, fully intending to march down the hall and chew Sam out. The table - or rather, a jar of peanut butter on the table - stops him. The jar itself is nothing to look twice at, but the state it’s in… The plastic top is nowhere to be seen and a big glob of peanut butter is clinging desperately to the top of the jar and the thick, silver handle of a butter knife protrudes from the top.

Dean’s used to the mess. He lives with fucking animals. But this particular scene - an abandoned jar of peanut butter just waiting for a loaf of bread to come around - that is caused by a very specific animal. One that hasn’t been home for a while.

Invigorated, Dean very nearly jogs down the hallway to the common room (although he’d never admit, even held at gunpoint), stopping just outside to run reconnaissance. Sam is there, of course, sipping at his coffee and reading something. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just kitty corner to him however, is Cas, scowl on his face as he silently accuses the peanut butter sandwich in his hands of the most heinous of crimes.

Biting back a grin, Dean stomps into the room. Like his radar has just been pinged, Cas’ head swivels around and he smiles. Just a closed mouth, barely there thing, but a smile nonetheless.

“Hello Dean,” he says, practically ecstatic if the subtle lilt in his voice is anything to go by.

“You two are fucking slobs,” Dean announces. He’s grinning so wide, his face hurts.