Title: Black Coffee and Burned Eggs
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Length: 794
Content Notes: hurt/comfort, a bit of angst, a bit of schmoop

Summary: Set sometime in the near future. Castiel's a bit clumsy with the kitchen knife, but only because he knows Dean will make it all better.


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Castiel hissed. The knife clattered against the cutting board.

Dean was at his side in a second, coffee and morning paper abandoned on the small kitchen table. "Okay, Cas?" he asked, looking over Castiel's shoulder at the mess of diced onion and blood on the countertop. On the stove a pair of eggs sizzled in a large frying pan. A tray of thick cut bacon sat nearby, waiting its turn.

From his chair, Sam leaned across the table and stole Dean's paper. After a second of contemplation, he stole Dean's coffee as well.

"It's fine," Castiel murmured, moving the cutting board to the sink and scooping the bloodied onion bits into the garbage disposal. "We have another onion. I'll start over."

Dean frowned. "Not asking about the food, Cas," he said, grabbing Castiel's hand.

"It's just a scratch," Castiel sighed, but he didn't protest when Dean turned his hand palm up, probing the long cut with his thumb. His fingers were warm and gentle where they touched, hard calluses and closely trimmed nails brushing carefully over Castiel's skin.

Castiel watched, blue eyes bright under the buzzing fluorescents as Dean pulled them both towards the sink. The water was cold on Castiel's palm and blood ran freely over their fingers, bits of onion following it down the drain.

"It'll heal," Castiel said, voice low. Their shoulders bumped as he leaned towards Dean, forehead nudging against Dean's temple.

"I know," Dean returned, just as quiet. He licked his lips, thumb rubbing softly over Castiel's palm as the wound grew smaller, smaller, skin knitting itself back together. "I just." He pursed his lips as Castiel pressed closer, the tip of his nose cool where it touched Dean's cheek.

Castiel waited, but Dean shrugged and didn't say anything else.

Castiel was an angel again, had been for sometime now. He was himself again. But the memories were still fresh, memories of when he wasn't, of when he was less, of when he was human and susceptible to all the numerous dangers that tiny word entailed.

There had been abrasions and bruises, gunshot wounds and fractured ribs, fevers and flus and Castiel had been driven nearly mad with the monotony of pain and sickness and suffering.

But after every long night, after every bad day, there was Dean. Putting him back together again. Keeping him whole. Urging him up out of bed and onto the next case, onto the next fight.

Even now, full of his own grace for the first time in what felt like eons, Dean was still there with bandages he didn't need and threats that did little more than make Castiel smile.

Dean was a natural caretaker, had been his whole life. It was a hard habit to break, even with an angel.

It was one of the thousand reasons Castiel loved him.

He watched as Dean inspected his hand, turning it this way and that under the running water. His skin was pink with cold but otherwise intact. Nodding to himself, Dean shut off the tap and reached for a towel. "There," he declared, patting Castiel's hand dry. "All better."

Castiel's mouth twitched, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Thank you, Dean," he said.

Dean's cheeks colored a little at the open fondness in Castiel's voice and he dropped the towel on the counter, staring down into the sink. The onion still sat in a pile atop the cutting board, soggy and browning around the edges. "Silly, isn't it," he said.

"No," Castiel said, moving closer. "I appreciate your concern."

Dean sighed through his nose, tilting his head to catch Castiel's eye. "Gotta be more careful, Cas," he said.

Castiel's gaze fell to Dean's mouth, lips pink and plush, and he lifted his hand to place a cold thumb there. "I will," he promised, words serious and sincere.

Dean's lips parted, eyes hooded, and his fingers circled Castiel's wrist, pulling his hand out of the way, pulling him closer at the same time. He dipped his head to meet Castiel's.

"Eggs are burning," Sam said from behind his paper.

Dean growled low in his throat as Castiel sidestepped him and lifted the frying pan off the burner, dumping the eggs down the sink with the rest of their breakfast. "Don't worry," Castiel said, pecking a light kiss to Dean's cheek. "We have more eggs, too."

"By the time we eat breakfast we'll have to call it lunch," Dean grumbled, but he dropped a hand to squeeze Castiel's hip before heading back to the table.

Castiel pulled the fridge open, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the door as he glanced through their supplies.

"The hell'd my coffee go?" Dean muttered. Sam cleared his throat and the newspaper rustled.

Castiel smiled and reached for the carton of eggs.

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End.