Title: Have Your Cake and Eat It Too
Genre/Pairings: Dean/Castiel, Humor
Word Count: ~870
Disclaimer: Author does not own characters or situations that otherwise belong to Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Mauling of birthday cake?
Summary: It's Dean's birthday and Castiel knows what he would like to do. He fails, only not.
A/N: A gift for stellamaris99 , just 'cause. :D
Castiel starts asking Sam about cakes just after the New Year. Sam just smiles fondly and takes Castiel to a bakery. They spend several hours exploring flavors of cake and the differences between buttercream and fondant.
They are halfway between trying the chocolate fudge and double chocolate chip when Castiel asks him a more specific question. Sam chokes on the bite of chocolate cake he had half-swallowed. His eyes are watering and his face is red when he finally gapes up at Castiel. “What?”
“I know what you asked!” Sam scrambles to slap both his hands over Castiel’s mouth, and it isn’t lost on him that he only manages to stifle the angel’s words because Castiel allows him to. Sam swivels his head frantically to the left then the right, making sure that the old ladies at the register and the family with twin girls leaning over the display hadn’t heard. No one seems alarmed, so Sam slowly releases Castiel and steps back. He shakes himself visibly, trying to loosen the shock and tension from his shoulders. “Cas, why didn’t you just ask that to begin with?”
Castiel’s brow furrows, and he stares at Sam in confusion. “I thought I did.”
Sam sighs to himself. The fond indulgent feeling he had been experiencing earlier is now equal parts amusement and irritation. “Okay. We need to go. There are other places... I’ll explain on the way.”
Castiel inclines his head in silent assent. Sam makes a mental note to smother Dean in his sleep.
Dean wakes up around noon on his birthday. He thinks he has the right, it being his birthday and all. He is disappointed to find an empty room and a note stuck to his forehead. He groans a curse as he peels it off his forehead to squint at it.
I hate you so hard. You owe me.
We’re doing our thing tonight. Please be decent.
Happy birthday, jerk.
What crawled up his ass and died? Dean wonders vaguely, then sits up to stretch and sees a huge problem.
Well. Not a problem, exactly.
Mostly because it appears to be a huge-ass cake, the top tier of which is actually what appears to be a huge-ass pie. Except that half the cake is collapsed outward and spilled onto the floor.
Not to mention there’s a pouting angel crouched on the floor beside it, wearing nothing but an icing-smeared trench coat and crumbs of angel food cake in his mussed hair.
Castiel grunts in response, forehead leaning into his entwined fingers. Dean scrambles out of bed, not bothering to pull on the jeans slung across the floor where he’d let them fall the night before. He crouches down by Castiel, recognizing moping when he sees it.
“Cas, hey.” Dean squeezes Castiel’s shoulder once, waiting until those wide blue eyes finally rise to his before he asks, “What’s wrong, buddy?”
Castiel sighs, and gestures with one hand at the cake. “A patroness in an establishment I visited that specialized in birthdays told me that this was something nice to do for one’s lover,” he explains, and Dean tries to stifle a laugh at the sort of establishment Castiel must have visited. Then he wonders about the whole den of iniquity thing, and wonders if Cas dislodged that stick from his ass just for Dean’s birthday.
“So you decided to jump out of a cake for me,” Dean surmises, letting his eyes drag slowly over the expanse of alabaster skin bared by the opened coat. Yeah, Cas isn’t wearing anything under that ugly ass thing. “That’s, uh. Pretty awesome, actually.” Dean clears his dry throat and wets his lips. “Still doesn’t tell me what happened, though.”
Castiel flexes one shoulder, and Dean hears the dusty shuffle of feathers sifting through air. Ah. “Wings got in the way?” he guesses sympathetically. Usually Cas can keep his feathery appendages under control and off the physical plane, but there are times when the force and weight of them shift through.
Castiel remains still, but there is just no denying the pouting going on under that effective guise of broodiness.
Dean looks at the cake, then the undamaged pie sitting atop it, then his icing-smeared angel. He smirks playfully. “C’mon, angel, lighten up. This isn’t the worst thing that could have happened. It’s actually pretty sweet.”
Castiel glances up at him from under his obscenely long lashes, blue eyes questioning.
Dean grins. “I’ve got all day to clean up your mess.” Castiel looks mildly confused until Dean leans in to lick a dollop of icing from the hollow at his throat.
Somewhere in the flurry of clothing and cake and sweat and pleasurable humming, Castiel murmurs against heat-flushed skin, “Happy birthday, Dean.”
Dean smiles against the shell of his angel’s ear.
Sam slams the door closed and turns back to the Impala with a fierce glare on his face. He can still hear Dean laughing through the door.
That settles it. Next year, Sam’s making Cas study Brahmacharya.