Chapter Text
From its highest rooftops, Maltese City was an uneven, gray-green checkerboard in the springtime. Old trees lined residential streets, spreading wide over the pavement and buckling sidewalks so that the inner rings of the city resembled an above-ground rabbit warren of gently paved hillocks fronting homes and apartments. Rooftop gardens scraped the sky - both planned and escaped, landscaping the birds-eye-view with pale green and brown, and vibrant purple and yellow sand flowers. The residents of Maltese had more or less given up trying to control its growth, putting efforts towards maintenance instead. City-employed gardeners dotted the occasional rooftop in the cooler morning hours, easily visible in their bright red uniforms and appearing like tracer dye moving through a vast organism.
Maltese was a magical city, after all, even if few dared to acknowledge it. By virtue of its charm, or a spell, or perhaps a collective will to both suffer magic and deny its existence at the same time, Maltese was a refuge from the wider world for the magically inclined.
A refuge, or a prison, caged in green.
Definitely a prison, Castiel thought, and tossed a shredded ball of little bluestem to plummet to the pavement below. He squinted at the rising sun. It was astonishing how malevolent a clear sky could be when he was in no mood to enjoy it.
Castiel was jarred from his meditative gloom by the rooftop door banging open behind him. Swiveling from his view of the city, he saw a slim redhead pushing through the door. Charlie. Thank god. Raising his arm high, he waved her over before turning back to the cityscape, letting her crunching footsteps close the distance between them.
His friend settled next to him with a gusty sigh. She stretched her legs out, letting her feet dangle next to his over the side of the building.
“It’s so early. There’d better be pie,” Charlie’s greeting brought a fleeting smile to Castiel’s face. He tapped the reused take-out tin between them with a sharp rat-a-tat. “Ah. You may live.” Charlie slumped like a collapsing balloon, and snatched the tin up into her lap. Carefully, she pried off the cracked plastic lid and pinned it under her knee so it wouldn’t blow away in the occasional gust scraping through Maltese. With the lid off, the once faint smell of chocolate, fig, and cinnamon swelled into full bloom. Charlie inhaled deeply, then plunked a finger deep into the center of the little palm-sized pie, pulling up a fingerful of fig-flecked chocolate custard. She licked the filling from her finger and moaned around it. “Oh. Oh yeah. This is a good one. You serving this today?”
Castiel dipped his chin in acknowledgement.
“Which one is it from?” Charlie asked, lifting the cinnamon-cracker crust to her lips and taking a healthy bite from the pie. Crumbs spilled down her lemon yellow sweatshirt, golden glitter in the rosy sunrise.
He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, edges worn from repeated folding. Castiel smoothed the paper open and handed her the poem. She read the first stanza aloud.
“Te recuerdo como eras en el último otoño.
Eras la boina gris y el corazón en calma.”
Charlie took another great, decidedly unromantic bite of pie. “Nice,” she declared around the mouthful. “More Neruda. Still stuck on his love poems?”
Castiel lifted one shoulder and rolled his eyes, perfectly aware of Charlie’s hidden question. You going to get out there, meet a man? Every few months Charlie lobbed that advice at him, apparently ever hopeful that it might stick. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the support, on some level, but there was a world of difference between enjoying the idea of romance and actual, messy relationships. Fire away, he thought, steeling himself for the ribbing that was sure to come.
Charlie rapped her knuckles playfully against his shoulder. “You old sap,” she said affectionately instead, and ate the rest of her pie in companionable silence as the sun rose between the taller buildings of Midtown. When she finished, she set the pie plate on the worn cement, wedged it between their bodies, and leveled a serious look at him. “So. Why’d you call me up here at the ass crack of dawn? Did you find out something new about the chick who cursed you?”
Castiel shook his head with a grimace, then pulled out his tablet. Rapidly, he looped his fingers on the keyboard, typing into his dictation app. A smooth, male voice emerged from its speakers. “I finally went to the Surly Cow last night. That bar you told me about?”
Charlie nodded. “That biker bar with all the ‘book clubs.’ Yeah. Total front for covens. So did you guys end up discussing Like Water for Chocolate or…””
With a grimace, Castiel wrote, “I barely made it past the door. I overheard someone talking about the ‘most powerful witch.’ I asked them about her.”
“Good! Finally.” Charlie nodded in satisfaction. “Were we right? Did they know her?” Her gaze flicked across his creased brow and the lines of tension draw around his mouth. The merriment faded from her eyes. Castiel looked away, back down at his tablet. He might not be able to speak his mind, but Charlie always was able to read volumes in his expressions. “Shit. What happened?”
“I almost got…” His thumbs hesitated over the keys, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Charlie’s eyes grew wider, a storm cloud of concern swelling across her features. Killed sounded incredibly dramatic and in the rational light of day, perhaps incorrect. He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll find any more leads at the Surly Cow. The regulars weren’t friendly.”
“Weren’t friendly as in?”
Castiel laid one palm against his abdomen and mimed a swift punch. He instantly regretted the motion, wincing as the purpling bruise twinged over his ribs.
“Oh. Cas.” Gently, Charlie wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Castiel let himself be drawn into her embrace, resting his cheek against her sun-warmed hair. “I should’ve gone with you. Strength in numbers? Though how they got past you… You’re fast, Cas. I’ve seen you fight.”
Castiel sighed audibly and his lips tasted abruptly like turned lemon. He shook his head before shifting upright again to write, “A couple rounds in the ring at the gym isn’t the same as real life. Besides, this isn’t your problem. I don’t want you involved.”
“Too damn bad,” Charlie spat. “You shouldn’t be heading to those places alone. Especially not with your…”
“Curse,” Castiel suggested with a sharp jab at the glass screen.
“Difference,” Charlie amended.
“I think,” Castiel wrote, the digital voice betraying none of the fear or longing that bound his chest in iron, “I should give up. I can’t…” He shook his head. “I don’t think she wants to be found.”
“Cas, you can’t just give up. We’re close! I know we are.”
“I shouldn’t have involved you,” Castiel said over her protests. “And I’m afraid…” He hesitated, searching for words, but there was too much to list. They’d hit him twice, hard, before chucking him out the door. But that had just been punctuation on their threat of dropping a load of dark magic down on his head if he tried to pursue the witch any further, much less resist their “escort” outside. He quelled a shiver that tried to rattle its way out, thinking about Charlie - pure-sunshine and innocent in all of this - in the grips of the people back at that bar. “It’s done,” he wrote. Printed in black and white on his screen, the words seemed final. “I’m done. Please.”
He turned to her, trying to convey his desperation and worry over his fate - over hers - through his expression. Her gaze flicked over him, searching for a hint of uncertainty, so Castiel focused on keeping his mouth steady and his eyes level before glancing down at his tablet to type one more time. “Please.” He clasped his hands for emphasis, knuckles white with tension.
Finally, Charlie deflated, wrapping her free hand around his. “You know I had your back the moment I learned your secret, okay? If you really want to stop looking for the witch who cursed you then I’ll…I’ll respect your wishes.” She sounded like the words had to be torn from her chest and Castiel sandwiched her hand in his own and squeezed. She tightened her other arm around him in response, pulling him close and whispering an apology in his ear.
Castiel closed his eyes and sighed into her shoulder, quietly this time, and there was no flavor in his silent exhale. Just the lavender scent of Charlie, his oldest friend in the city. Hell, maybe she was his only friend. He was still astonished by their friendship.
A few years ago, Charlie had taken a temporary security consulting gig at the commissary where he kept his food truck. The commissary, affectionately nicknamed the Comm by its clients, had needed new security cameras installed after the old system had failed to catch a family of raccoons from entering nightly and raiding supplies stored in lower cabinets.
Before Charlie joined the Comm staff, Castiel had prepared most of the food for his truck in the very early hours of the morning, when the commissary kitchens were otherwise abandoned. He would create half his food traditionally, and the other half magically. His curse was potent and highly specific. When he spoke out loud, pies fell from his lips out of nowhere, out of air. He’d been creating pies that way for so long by then that he’d gotten careless.
Charlie had caught Castiel on tape immediately. “I know magic when I see it,” Charlie had told a panicked Castiel the next day, in a private storage closet off the back hallway. “How did you do it?” When Castiel only gaped at her, his mind a static wash of fear, she’d shown him the footage as it replayed on her tablet. The new cameras recorded sound as well as visuals, and the correlation couldn’t be explained away now that the evidence was available in such high definition.
Another person might have dutifully reported his illegal magic use to the Comm owners and Castiel would have received a polite but firm retraction of his contract, or even a visit from law enforcement. Magic might be somewhat tolerated in the city, but using magic was still prosecuted frequently enough to incentivize hiding. Instead, Charlie had been full of eager curiosity and a surprising amount of gentle concern. Castiel must have looked ill, because the next thing he knew she was helping him sit on a stack of boxes and assuring him fervently that she would never tell his secrets. Instead, she offered to help him hide his magic.
Months later, when Castiel finally trusted her enough to tell her about the childhood curse behind his magic pies, she had even offered to help him find the witch who had done it. Finding the witch was the main reason he’d settled in Maltese instead of hiding away in some quiet, dull suburb on the other side of the country. Castiel had accepted her help with the same sense of constant surprise with which he embraced her friendship. With her help, he’d planned to find the witch, break his curse, and he could live a normal life at last.
But that dream was dead now.
Castiel clung to Charlie and squeezed his eyes shut. He was tired of the search, tired of the danger posed every time he tested Maltese’s turbulent magical waters in his hunt for the witch.
When Charlie finally pulled away, Castiel’s throat burned with tension and unshed tears of frustration. But he swallowed them down, smiled at her, and supposed he was grateful that he couldn’t speak so she wouldn’t hear what would surely be a quaver.
“So,” he wrote at last, “I guess our evening plans are cancelled?”
“Not cancelled. Just…pizza and movies like normal people. Right? No more magical espionage.” Charlie wrinkled her brow skeptically. “And you’re sure you’re fine?” Castiel nodded with more certainty than he felt. “Just like that, you’re okay with all of it?”
Castiel grimaced. Of course I’m not okay. “Accepting,” he typed instead, and she nodded at last, reluctantly.
“So long magical quest,” Charlie said at last with a rueful laugh. She deflated against him, half in support and half seeking it, and Castiel did the same.
Castiel’s food truck, Honey Pies, was painted butter-yellow and gold inside and out. It made the interior feel as warm as sunshine, even when the thick metal awning was still locked into the truck body, and all the doors and windows were closed to prying eyes.
Castiel hid inside his truck; he sat on his little folding stool with gloved hands held in a cradling position four inches from the cleft of his chin. He spoke clearly in the quiet truck, his voice deep and sure. Neruda’s words rolled off his tongue and formed substance.
A miniature pie appeared in the air, inches from his lips and fully formed. Castiel caught it neatly in his hands. Sugar crackled across its gleaming brown, perfect crust and the bottom of it was warm, as though fresh from the oven and just slightly cooled. Raspberry and chocolate with the barest hint of lemon thyme steamed from its vents, the thick scent mixing with the other cooling pies set on racks positioned along the wall. Castiel smiled in satisfaction and placed the pie on the wire shelf. Eleven more of these would make an even two dozen and then he could open up the truck and prepare for customers.
He yawned, cleared his throat, and took a quick sip of water so the words would come out clear and perfect. When the words were right and his mind centered, pies fell like careful-cut crystals from his lips. If his attention or mood wavered, the pies reflected that as well. Castiel took a slow breath then spoke deliberately. Another pie appeared and he caught it with the unerring accuracy of constant practice.
Just as the last, this pie was perfect. It would remain in this unblemished just-ready-to-eat state for hours yet before it would start to fall prey to the forces of the natural world, like heat, cold, or rot. In his darker times, Castiel found this lasting perfection deeply disheartening. He loved to bake; loved to lose himself in fine measurements, careful cuts, and intricate new flavor combinations. But even his most perfect hand-made pie never seemed to exceed the ones magicked from his lips.
But despair never stopped him from trying.
The refrigerated storage on the truck was nearly full of Castiel’s hand-baked pies in preparation for today’s event. The display window already held four kinds of sweet or savory miniature pie, as well as five types of cookies in a variety of flavors and decor. After his talk with Charlie on the Comm’s rooftop, he’d gone back downstairs to do the day’s baking in the shared kitchen. He’d made far more than was necessary for the evening, channeling his agony into wells of flour and spice.
Castiel carefully spoke the last pie into existence, tongue flicking out to lick the remnant flavor from his lower lip as he set the small pie to cool with the others. The truck was a raucous bouquet of sweet spice and dough, exacerbated by the closed space. Castiel inhaled deeply then stood, stripping off his plastic gloves. He rolled his shoulders a little, trying to ease the tension from them. The movement stretched his aching side and Castiel rummaged under the counter before shaking ibuprofen from a bottle he kept there, and swallowing them down.
The FutureTech party would start in a half hour. It was time to open up the truck.
He’d parked Honey Pies on the edge of the corporation’s rolling green lawn, neatly set between the spray-painted lot marks designated for the row of food carts contracted for the company’s annual picnic. Emerging from the side door, he saw that the grounds were now bustling with last minute preparations. An army of green t-shirt clad workers set up chairs and tables while the other carts and an adjacent flotilla of barbecues bustled, preparing for the party attendees’ imminent arrival.
Castiel walked around the side of his truck, mindlessly running his fingers along the gleaming honeycomb patterned side. She was an old truck, surviving at least two prior businesses and Castiel’s own cross country flight, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. He’d kept her tidy and hammered out her dents himself, buffed away the rust, and gotten professionals to do whatever he couldn’t. A cheerful outside begets a cheerful inside. Castiel frowned, and pushed away his mother’s words forcefully.
Right.
He unlocked the awning and lifted it high, the pneumatic pistons gasping as he drew it open and propped it up. Inside, his display case held an array of his most attractive products, cookies neatly arranged and pies gracing little plinths behind the plexiglass.
“Yo, Cas!” A brunette with a solar grin poked her head through her own truck window. Above her, an ice cream cone slowly whirled on a drunken axis. “Thought you’d never come out of there.”
Castiel grinned and waved to Alicia Banes then shrugged with a sheepish expression, as though he’d missed the passage of time, or didn’t have time to explain. Alicia waved away his mimed dismay with her own dismissive gesture. She balanced her elbows on her counter and continued, “You know what the worst thing about these paid events is? No tips. Oh, you got your standard gratuity-added clause but still.” She rubbed two fingers together. “Not the same, you know?”
Castiel groaned sympathetically, tasting cardamom. He raised himself onto his toes and reached over his own counter, fishing a paper sheet from the box near the register. He snagged a bright orange flower cookie, his signature sugar bee perched on a petal, and brought it over to Alicia. He presented it like a trophy.
Alicia grinned, plucked off the bee, and tossed it into her mouth. “Tip accepted,” she said, blowing him a kiss. Castiel flashed a two-fingered salute to her, proper as a Boy Scout, and then turned to survey the grounds.
Though it was still a little early, guests were beginning to filter onto the property, clad in jeans and button-down shirts, families in tow. He swiveled, flashed a thumbs up to Alicia for good luck, and returned to his truck. It would likely be a busy afternoon for both of them.
Castiel had earned a reputation in this city over the last couple of years, grateful to discover that his baking seemed to do the talking for him. Even with private events, like this one, there were usually at least one or two customers who had visited his food truck at least once before. Repeat customers often did Castiel’s proselytizing work for him, and as the attendance at today’s function swelled, Castiel found his truck’s patronage grew in proportion.
The afternoon blurred towards evening, a time sink of interaction and lull repeating as guests arrived, ate, then ate again. He was leaning over his counter, conversing with one of his regulars from the east side farmer’s market, when a beautiful man approached with a loping gait, fingers hooked casually in his belt loops and tugging enticingly at his waistband to reveal a thin sliver of skin between his jeans and the rucked-up hem of his shirt. The setting sun limned him in rose-gold and he wore a smile that ought to be illegal.
Castiel’s fingers faltered on his screen. Heat stole through him as he realized he was staring and he wrenched his gaze away and finished writing, looking at Kevin - and only Kevin - as the voice on his tablet recommended the lemon-mint medley, a new pie Castiel had perfected recently.
“I’ll try that, then,” Kevin said with a wry sideways smile, turning to greet the newcomer. “Dean Winchester! I figured you’d be camped here all day! This guy’s obsessed with pie,” he explained and Castiel tried to nod coolly while a traitorous part of him imagined an afternoon with this man settled in front of his truck all day.
The new customer, Dean, bent to examine the display of pies behind Castiel’s display case with all the gravitas of a building inspector. Castiel considered him for a breathless moment before retreating into the truck to pull Kevin’s request from the refrigerator. He settled it into a disposable pie plate and slid the pie across the counter.
It made Castiel smile, watching Kevin take in the new pie with a growing gleam of appreciation. He’d been rather proud of how they had turned out - the perfect mix of bright lemon yellow with vibrant green mint jelly swirls turning each pie into a small psychedelic whirlpool. It was so satisfying to create something beautiful and well-constructed, and to watch his customers drink in the small details. In the center of the whirlpool, he’d placed one of his sugar bees like a trapped fly.
“You should teach cooking classes, Cas,” Kevin said, peeling back the paper bowl to take a bite out of the side of the pie. “I’ll do the talking for you. You can pay me in pies.”
Castiel laughed and shook his head forcefully. The prospect of a public class was an alarming one and he let the proposal fade the same way he did with suggestions that he open his own restaurant, or author a cookbook. He ignored the suggestion entirely and directed his attention to whatever distraction presented itself. In this case, he looked meaningfully at Dean, hoping to catch his eye and deflect Kevin’s line of conversation.
Castiel’s querying look was lost on the man, who only seemed to have eyes for the display of pies. Fortunately, Kevin seemed to take the hint because he followed Castiel’s gaze and snorted. “You’re not defusing a bomb, man. Pick something so I can kick your ass in horseshoes.”
“Any day, Kevin. Any time,” the man said with overblown gusto, his voice smooth as polished wood. He straightened and grinned at Castiel again, blindingly brilliant and playful. “I love pie,” he told Castiel more soberly. “So this is a big decision for me.”
Oh, Castiel thought as he struggled to pull himself out of the deep well of Dean’s green eyes. This one’s trouble. He raised a brow in cool challenge and his finger looped a message with little thought, “You can have more than one. Though you’ve missed out on trying four different varieties, getting here so late.”
Dean’s eyes flew wide and he skimmed Castiel in a slow once over. “Oh!” he said, eyes fixed on Castiel’s tablet for a moment. He seemed to forget himself for a moment, mouth hanging open mid-sentence. Then he drew in a quick breath and made a terrible facsimile of a pout. “I had my nephew’s birthday party today! What kind of uncle do you take me for?”
“A very indecisive one,” Castiel remonstrated. He gestured to the green lawn at large, and the vast expanse of space between his truck and the rest of the party. “You’re keeping my many customers waiting.”
Dean looked around at Kevin, and only Kevin and then grimaced theatrically. “How rude of me. If I’d known there was pie I would’ve gotten away sooner.” He gestured at the perfect rosy sky ushering in the evening like he was waving away a gnat. “These all hand made?” he asked.
Castiel hesitated, then wrote in quick, swooping spirals, “I make them all myself.” He punctuated the statement with a nod. It was close enough to the truth.
Again, Dean’s gaze zeroed in on Castiel during their brief conversation and Castiel realized that he was watching his hand move over the keypad on his tablet. Apparently his pies were far less captivating than his assistive device. Castiel very carefully refrained from balling his hands into fists and hiding them behind the counter, forcing his fingers to appear relaxed. His palms began to sweat from the scrutiny.
Castiel was used to this moment, the sudden understanding when a customer realized he used a computer to speak. Sometimes he was met with curiosity, sometimes with discomfort. But he’d rarely been met with an almost clinically cutting stare, like the man was trying to dismantle a puzzle with nothing more than a look. He felt his face settle into stone. Emotional retreat was second nature to him, after all. Born and bred.
Dean shook his head, seemingly oblivious to Castiel’s discomfort. His expression turned on a dime into something strangely like childish delight. “Do you speak ASL?” he asked, hands swiftly moving with his words. “Because I’d love someone else to practice with.”
Castiel blinked at him, then blinked again at the man’s perfectly raised brow. Dean seemed to know that he'd surprised Castiel and this apparently pleased him. That proud look of achievement was about to be dashed, however. Castiel knew very little ASL; what he did know was gleaned from the schools and hospitals his parents had sent him to after he had been cursed. But he had only learned enough to dangle on the edge of his classmates’ conversations.
Screwing up his face, Castiel shook his head and tapped his throat, then flew his fingers outward. Anna used to call that move his “Little Mermaid”, which galled him. But that, paired with a regretful head shake, was usually enough to explain himself. I can’t speak, he thought sourly. A witch cursed me. Can’t you tell? Please don’t have follow up questions. He tapped out, “Sorry. I don’t speak asl.” The computer’s voice pronounced it ah-sill.
“Oh,” Dean said, staring again with those intense, curious eyes. He looked abashed now. “I’ve been taking night classes and the more people I have to talk to the easier it seems and…”
“I didn’t know you knew sign language.” Both of them turned to Kevin who, Castiel was ashamed to realize, he had completely forgotten about. Kevin’s glance between them seemed to indicate that he was perfectly aware of this, but his smile was easy as he asked, “Are you learning it for work?”
“Nah. It’s a bonus for work but...” Dean’s ears definitely appeared a little rosy at the attention. Castiel felt the stone within him melt as the man jammed his hands back into his pockets like a bit of denim was the only force in the universe that might contain them properly. “My brother and his wife speak it so, you know.” His mouth slid into a lopsided smile. “Family dinners are a lot more fun when you know what everyone’s saying.” He elbowed Kevin in a conspiratorial manner. “Now Sam can’t talk about me in front of my face. Mostly. And I can talk to Eileen behind his back, like, literally. Which is pretty friggin’ handy.” He looked back at Castiel with a steadier gaze, apparently less rattled now. “Sorry, I hope this isn’t too personal but… You can hear?” Castiel nodded. “But don’t speak?”
Castiel nodded and tapped his tablet meaningfully. Of course he could speak. Just...not out loud, without creating a pile of involuntary pies.
“Cool. That’s cool. Sorry,” Dean grimaced apologetically but the assessing gleam had returned to his eye. Castiel felt like an insect pinned to a board by it and discomfort shivered across the surface of his skin. Years of practice at introspection made him chase after the feeling and… Yes. That was it. He was being seen. And he didn’t like it. Except that he sort of did. There was something intense about the other man’s gaze that seemed to mark Castiel as special. As fascinating even. As they stared at each other, the other man swallowed hard and pushed the tip of his tongue out to wet his lips.
God.
Castiel plastered on a smile. Too much time had passed in silence. “Can I interest you in anything?” he wrote pointedly. Like me? a traitorous part of him wanted to ask. God, he’d been alone too long. His mouth twisted wryly and that simple movement seemed to be enough to spur Dean towards a decision.
“Oh! Yeah.” Dean bent toward the pies once more like he’d never given Castiel the third degree. “Strawberry pecan cream,” he said finally. “They all look awesome, though.” The last statement was delivered in a register of polite chit-chat. As Castiel watched him, a curtain of casual ease drew over Dean’s face.
Castiel smoothly turned, berating himself for the excitement that flared because Dean ordered one of his hand-made pies, rather than a magical variety. He pulled one out, settled it into a little paper pie plate, and handed it to him across the counter. He expected Dean to leave then, but instead he stood there under Kevin’s amused stare and inhaled the fragrance of the pie.
Dean moaned and - heaven help him - Castiel was not prepared for this. “Wow,” he said after a deep exhale. “Wow.” He raised the pie in one hand and peeled back the paper plate, rotating it in his hand like a junior restaurant critic vying for a byline.
Castiel instinctively retreated a step into the shelter of his truck while his traitorous mind committed every detail of Dean’s tongue swiping his lower lip to memory.
Dean took a bite of his pie.
Instantly he groaned, chewing slowly as crust crumbled onto his chin. He swiped the crumbs away and saluted Castiel with the pie. “Amazing,” he decreed. “So friggin’ good.”
“Thank you?” Castiel said, although the tablet delivered the line without any unusual inflection since he had failed to add any punctuation.
“Seriously, dude. You’re a genius.” Castiel shrugged and Dean tipped a terribly rakish smile in his direction. His cheek was full of pie, lending him the ridiculous air of a flirtatious chipmunk. “Your...girlfriend? Boyfriend? Has gotta be the luckiest…”
“Oh, I haven’t had a boyfriend in-- I’m not dating anyone.” Flustered, Castiel mustered up the facsimile of casual confidence and winked heavily. “If I accepted every proposal I ever got over my pies…” Castiel pretended to calculate an excessive number on his fingers.
“You saying I got competition?”
A smug smile seemed like the perfect response to that, and Dean laughed and held up his hand. “Alright. I see I’m gonna have to up my game.” He winked at Castiel in a move that seemed as easy and unplanned as breathing, before turning to Kevin. “You ready for me to kick your ass in horseshoes, Tran?”
Kevin rolled his eyes. “I’m ready for you to beg for mercy, yes.” He tossed a wave in Castiel’s direction. “See ya.”
Dean waved as well, allowing Kevin to route him away from Castiel’s cart towards the lawn games set out on the other side of the green.
Castiel waved his hand belatedly, watching the two men walk away. He focused on his breathing, finding his center in the same way he did when it came time to make pies. Well, that happened. He felt light, giddy even, as he replayed Dean’s carefree wink and casual jests. That Dean Winchester...he was an odd one to pin down. He wanted to sit him down and question him, drink the quirks of his mouth and his pooling gaze.
After a moment, Castiel shook himself, stepping back into the shadowed depths of the truck again. It was fine to feel these things, to let attraction swamp his senses for a few dumb moments. Because that’s all they were. Moments.
He let the air out of his lungs slowly, and settled himself to work the rest of the evening in relative peace, hidden behind his pies and his customer service smile.
By the end of the night, Castiel still had no idea exactly what FutureTech did, but he could say with certainty that their employees could party like they had dedicated their lives to the art of group fun. Honey Pies had been contracted until ten at night and Castiel had expected it to be bookended by dead lulls as guests filtered in or out. Instead, business was steady enough that Castiel considered pressing himself into a hidden corner of his truck to speak more pies into existence, rather than admit that he’d run out of too many varieties. The cold fear of discovery was enough to stop him; and the last time he’d tried to speak pies on the fly with a worried state of mind, the crusts had come out wobbly, the worst of them burnt.
The families had departed hours ago, but a cluster of partygoers coalesced in the middle of the green like a pulsing heart, cells breaking away to get food or to visit the open bar before returning to the crush.
Castiel should not have expected it, but a solid sense of inevitability settled over him when he watched Dean approach his truck again, a half hour before the official end of the food carts’ contracted time. Dean stalked across the lawn with greater purpose this time, an arrow shot straight to Castiel’s truck.
Castiel was ready this time too, armed with a professional smile and a typed greeting ready to go. “Welcome back,” he said and the man grinned.
“Couldn’t resist,” Dean announced with a flick of a glance that seemed to travel across Castiel and Castiel only.
What could he say to that? Castiel swallowed against the nerves trying to bubble up in his throat. He waited, silence stretching between them while Dean glanced between him and his pie display, like he was trying to find a conversational opening. Finally, Castiel broke and tapped a quick prompt into his tablet. “What can I interest you in now?”
“I would like…” Dean said slowly. “Pie.”
Castiel laughed at the simple statement, so haltingly delivered. It was awfully endearing. The sound filled his mouth with strawberry.
“That seemed obvious,” Castiel typed and Dean rolled his eyes upward, apparently inviting ridicule. Castiel resisted the temptation to tease him. “What are you in the mood for?”
Dean flicked his gaze upwards at that and met Castiel’s eye, intent yet unreadable. “They all look good,” he said at last. He shoved his hands in his pockets again, now clearly with discomfort. “Listen. I’m, uh, sorry about earlier. I realized I was grilling you about talking. That was crappy.”
Castiel’s mouth slid into an O of surprise. He couldn’t say it was okay. It had been discomfiting. And yet he'd contributed his fair share of awkwardness to the conversation. He looked at his tablet and then glanced up again to meet Dean’s gaze. What could he say? What should he say? He didn’t know, so instead he flapped a hand at Dean like he was swatting a fly. It’s fine, the gesture seemed to say. He followed it with a genuine, albeit small smile. He tapped the plexiglass display and raised his brow again.
“Yeah!” Dean said with a little shake, wrenching his gaze from Castiel to the pies. “Let’s see. Can I get a couple? You got a limit?”
Bemused, Castiel shook his head. A limit? How many pies can this man eat? “All for yourself?” he typed, and Dean laughed and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
“Not exactly? But mostly, yeah.” He raised a finger. “Two peach pies. One would be for me. The other’s to bribe my buddy Benny — he’s the DJ.” Dean pointed to a burly man frowning seriously at an equipment-laden table on the edge of the green. “Gotta get him to play something cooler than whatever party mix he promised corporate. And your tropical medley’s been on my mind for the last hour.” He looked up at Castiel through his eyelashes.
He’s flirting. Excitement, chased by the cold chill of fear flooded Castiel. His pounding heart drummed out a warning and Castiel stiffened in response, nodding and disappearing further into his truck than necessary to fetch the three pies.
Apparently unaware of the mood shift, Dean cheerily asked, “So a pie truck’s awesome. You sell these anywhere else? Got a restaurant?”
Castiel shook his head, sliding the three pies carefully into a line on the counter before typing quickly, “My schedule changes.” He pointed at the sheaf of business cards he kept in a plastic display by the napkin dispenser.
Dean plucked up a card and scanned it before pocketing it. “Cool,” he said, carefully gathering the pies into his hands. “Thanks. Nice meeting you. And, uh, have a good one,” he said, awkwardly hoisting the pies in Castiel’s direction before turning and walking back towards the party.
If Castiel spent a little too long watching his swaying departure, lost in a maze of regret and relief, nobody else needed to know.
That night Castiel dropped into bed, exhausted by his long day and aching from both his bruises and the hours spent on his feet. He had little energy to spare to hold onto the memory of the bright-eyed man at the party, but he still pictured Dean for a moment as his eyes slid shut. He had a blurry memory of green eyes and beautifully cut cheekbones, a sunny smile blinding when directed at him, gorgeous legs, hips, everything. Castiel pictured him, fuzzy as the memory was already, then he dropped it like a throwaway flier into a wastebin and slid into the blank sleep of the truly exhausted.