I've never written for Supernatural before, although I simply adore the show. And I haven't written fanfiction in far too long so this is really, really bad. (Rated it T because apparently language is an issue. I didn't think so, but whatever XD)
Please don't hate me!
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Kripke, not me.
Dean seems to realize he's fallen in love with Castiel exactly two minutes and thirty four seconds after Sam decides it's already happened.
They're sitting in a diner when it hits (aren't they always, though?), dressed in their familiar we're-totally-FBI-except-we're-not attire. And they're eating, as always.
Except this time, Cas is eating too. He's got a burger in front of him, a sloppy thing that carries the distinct air of roadkill that's been spit on a few times, and he's staring at it with an intensity that's pretty much rendered Dean gobsmacked.
"Jesus, Cas," he grunts out from around his own burger, "It's not gonna kill you. Just try it, man."
Castiel's eyes don't leave the food as he answers, sounding just the tiniest bit injured. "Dean, you know I don't require sustenance. I don't understand why you ordered this for me. It seems like a waste."
"Well it won't be if you just try it. You liked it when Famine was running around the country, didn't you?"
"That was my vessel, Dean. Not me."
"Aw come on, Cas. Maybe you'll like it!" Dean reaches over and plucks a french fry from the plate, swooping it into the container of ketchup on the way. "Besides, it looks better if we all get something to eat."
"-Oh, forget it," Dean grumbles, reaching for another fry even as the first one disappears into his mouth, "Eat it, don't eat it, I don't care."
Sam can't help but raise an eyebrow at this (because he's Sam and he can raise an eyebrow better than anyone on this team so why shouldn't he whenever he can?). His eyes jump from the salad slowly drowning in its own dressing to Dean's face; his brother is chewing loudly, filling the space between burger bites with Cas's french fries.
But Dean's got plenty of fries of his own, and ketchup to boot.
Sam decides he's not going to think about this in a way he's not supposed to because it's just Dean being an asshole like always, and even if he does end up meeting Castiel's gaze and starting another –oh for God's sake.
Somewhere within the course of the past five seconds Dean's reached for another fry, three still stuck between his teeth (they're flimsy things anyways, no wonder they're not enough for him) and Cas's hand has gone and landed on his wrist and tightened imploringly.
"You should finish the ones in your mouth first, so you don't choke," he says seriously, and Sam suddenly feels very much in the way because as funny as Castiel's face is, it's nothing compared to Dean's. His brother's face has gone a little slack, potato sticks drooping in his mouth; he's staring back at Cas in that way he does, and Cas is staring right back and oh come on why can't Sam get a goddamn salad without these two fucking staring each other to death over a fucking french fry?!
So of course the moment lasts for way too long, Cas's hand still resting on Dean's sleeve and Dean making no attempt to pull away. Sam decides to stare at his salad and see how long it takes for a bit of lettuce to actually sink into the depths of the dressing so he doesn't have to play the third wheel for the millionth time. But maybe millionth is an understatement.
And it is at this point in time, while contemplating rescuing the scrap of lettuce from its imminent death, that Sam comes to a conclusion that shocks him just a little bit.
There's no way he's going to voice it, though. He'd prefer to keep all his teeth in his mouth.
So instead, Sam casts his gaze back up to the french fry lovers in time to see Dean's eyes dart down and up and back down again as he breaks the silence with a voice so gruff you could sand wood with it.
"Uh, Cas, I'm not going to choke on some freaking fries," he grunts. His lower lip juts out slightly, and without another glance at the angel he begins to work the food into his mouth with only his teeth. "Jesus."
Sam notes that his freckles are dashed with pink. He decides not to mention this, but he's not above casting his older brother one of his famous Dean-Winchester-there-is-no-way-in-hell-that-that-was-nothing looks; Dean visibly ignores it.
Castiel doesn't seem fazed, simply retracts his hand from Dean's wrist and blinks at him.
"As you wish," he rumbles distractedly, and Sam would like to swear on his completely-not-fake-FBI badge that Dean's cheeks flush the slightest bit.
Wow, he thinks. So I'm right.
Sam isn't surprised, of course –why wouldn't he be right? He'd like to think he knows his brother better than anyone, and if nothing else this has only proved just how adept he is at reading Dean's body language, his voice changes –everything that the average onlooker would miss, Sam's had pegged for as long as he can remember.
And this time, this knowledge has assured him that Dean Winchester, king of the appreciation of the female specimen, has gone and fallen in love with the last person he probably ever expected.
And he doesn't even know it yet.
Sam returns to his salad so that he won't have to watch Dean shoving fucking bits of burger into his mouth to hide his blush. He's pretty sure Cas hasn't realized anything; the angel is starting to fiddle with his burger for lack of anything better to do, pulling at the bun as though he's afraid it might explode. Pretty much normal.
He smiles. At least someone in this group knows what's going on, and he's pretty sure (when he sneaks another completely-nonchalant-and-not-even-the-littlest-bit-knowing glance up at his brother and the angel) that sooner or later Dean's gonna catch on too –it's only a matter of time.
Two minutes later, Dean orders a beer in the middle of the day and Sam knows it's clicked.