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Chapter Text

The air carried a faint smell of wet pavement and the delicate promise of blooming flowers, the kind of spring day that felt caught between seasons. Castiel walked briskly along the uneven pavement, his phone pressed tightly to his ear. His dark hair fell in messy waves around his face, unkempt from yet another sleepless night, and his tote bag swung awkwardly at his side as he navigated around clusters of pedestrians. The dial tone in his ear broke with a crisp, familiar voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” Castiel began, his voice tinged with dry humour. “Guess who just bombed another job interview?” There was a pause, and then Balthazar’s voice came through, smooth and just a touch mocking. 

“Oh no, really?”

“Yeah,” Castiel muttered, weaving through the small shops that lined the street. He glanced at a display of fresh bread in a bakery window, the golden crusts catching the sunlight. “Apparently, ‘no experience’ actually means ‘no chance.’ How am I supposed to break into the property market if no one will give me a chance to start? I mean, I know I haven’t been the best roommate lately, but…” He hesitated, his reflection flickering in a nearby café window. His face looked worn, his dark eyes shadowed from too much thinking and too little sleep. The weight of the last few months sat heavy in the curve of his shoulders. He exhaled, reluctant to say the next part but knowing he had no choice. “…can you pay this month’s rent a…gain?” Castiel’s words trailed off as something caught his eye further down the street. He stopped mid-step. His gaze locked on the window of a small, nondescript restaurant. The name ‘Gribshunden’ was painted in faded white script above the door, and through the slightly grimy glass, Castiel could make out a clutter of mismatched chairs and tables inside. Taped to the window was a simple piece of paper, its edges curling slightly. The bold letters read:

‘NOW HIRING. NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.’

Castiel froze, staring at the sign as if it were some kind of mirage. The faint clinking of dishes came from inside, barely audible through the pane of glass. His fingers tightened slightly around his phone as he read the sign again, just to make sure he hadn’t imagined it.

“Castiel?” Balthazar’s voice was sharp in his ear. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Castiel said slowly, his tone distracted. “Sorry. I think I just found something.” As he stepped closer to the window, a voice interrupted him.

“You don’t want to work there.” Castiel turned sharply to see an older man standing just beside him. He hadn’t noticed the man before, but now he stood close enough that Castiel could see the frayed cuffs of his coat and the faint pallor of his skin. His eyes, sharp and watchful, locked onto Castiel’s with an unsettling intensity.

“Why not?” Castiel asked, trying to sound casual, though the man’s presence left him on edge. The man stepped closer and placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. The gesture was unexpected, and something about it felt… strange. Not quite threatening, but not comforting either.

“Their appliances are a nightmare,” the man said, his voice low and steady. “Always breaking down.” Castiel blinked, unsure what to say, but the man wasn’t finished. His tone dropped further, almost to a whisper. “And the chef?” he added, his mouth curling into a grim line. “He’s only hiring because someone froze to death in the freezer a few weeks ago.” The words hit Castiel like a splash of cold water. 

“What?” But the man was already moving away, his hand slipping from Castiel’s shoulder as he shuffled down the street. Castiel stood there, dumbfounded, watching him disappear into the crowd.

“Thanks?” he called after the man, though his voice was more of a question than genuine gratitude.

For a moment, he lingered, his eyes flicking back to the sign in the window. The unease from the man’s words prickled at the edges of his thoughts, but he couldn’t ignore the opportunity staring him in the face. With a small sigh, he reached up and carefully peeled the paper from the glass. The edges of the paper curled slightly in his hands as he folded it neatly, sliding it into his tote bag alongside a worn notebook and an old paperback. He glanced back once at the restaurant, its faded sign and cluttered interior offering no hint of the sinister tale the man had shared. As he stepped back onto the pavement and continued walking, the spring air felt just a little cooler, and the bustling street seemed quieter than before. Castiel shook his head, trying to push away the lingering discomfort. Opportunities were rare enough—he couldn’t afford to let one slip away because of a stranger’s odd warning.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled of rosemary and garlic, a warm, earthy fragrance that mingled with the faint scent of fresh rain coming through the cracked window. Castiel stood at the stove, methodically stirring a pot of broth. Steam curled upwards, fogging his glasses momentarily before he pushed them higher up his nose with the back of his hand. A few sprigs of thyme and parsley sat on the cutting board nearby, alongside a well-worn cookbook opened to a page filled with sprawling handwritten notes in the margins. Behind him, Balthazar lounged at the small kitchen table. His laptop cast a faint blue glow onto his face, and his fingers tapped lightly on the keyboard as he searched. Balthazar always had a kind of unbothered elegance to him, even while sprawled in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that still somehow looked expensive. He tilted his head, squinting at the screen before breaking the silence.

“Well,” he began, his tone tinged with mock incredulity, “it seems to be true. Someone actually froze to death there.” Castiel sighed, the spoon in his hand pausing mid-stir. He turned his head just enough to glance at Balthazar, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Just because it happened once doesn’t mean it’ll happen again,” he replied, the words laced with both dismissal and a hint of amusement. “Can you read some reviews instead of digging for urban legends?” Balthazar let out a small chuckle but obliged, clicking over to a different tab. 

“Fine, fine. Let’s see what the people have to say about your little death-trap diner.” As Balthazar navigated to their website, Castiel returned to the pot, adding a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper. The rhythmic sound of the spoon against the pot filled the room, a calming cadence that contrasted with Balthazar’s sarcastic commentary.

“Everyone seems to agree the food is good,” Balthazar remarked after a moment, scrolling through a page of reviews, “but it’s… outdated. Like, seriously retro. The kind of retro that feels like it’s trying too hard.” Castiel turned from the stove, wiping his hands on a towel draped over his shoulder. His brow furrowed slightly as he moved toward the table. 

“Outdated how?” he asked, his curiosity piqued despite himself. Balthazar smirked, swiveling the laptop toward him. The screen displayed images of overly ornate plates garnished with sprigs of parsley that looked more decorative than edible. Castiel leaned in, resting one hand on the back of Balthazar’s chair as he scanned the reviews. Words like ‘dated presentation’ and ‘charming but uninspired’ jumped out at him. The pictures showed dishes drowning in thick, glossy sauces, the kind his mother used to make when she wanted to impress guests.

“Hey, Cassie,” Balthazar said, looking up at him with a raised brow, “are you sure about this? Their food doesn’t exactly scream ‘you.’ I mean, you’re more… artisanal sourdough and organic herbs. This is giving frozen pot pie.” Castiel let out a short laugh, his fingers brushing through his hair in a distracted motion. He studied the images for a moment longer, his lips pressing into a thoughtful line. 

“I don’t need it to scream ‘me.’ I just need them to hire me.” Balthazar leaned back in his chair, watching Castiel carefully. 

“I get that, but—”

“No ‘but,’” Castiel interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. He straightened, crossing his arms as if solidifying his resolve. “Look, I don’t have the luxury of being picky right now. Besides, maybe this place just needs a little… revitalizing.”

“Revitalizing,” Balthazar repeated, dragging the word out with a flourish as if tasting it for the first time. “How very noble of you, Chef Castiel.” He closed the laptop with a snap and stood, stretching languidly. “If anyone can turn a sinking ship into something Michelin-worthy, it’s you. But, if you get locked in the freezer, I reserve the right to say I told you so.” Castiel rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that followed. He turned back to the stove, stirring the pot again, the steam warming his face. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said over his shoulder, though his thoughts lingered on the restaurant’s name. Gribshunden. The word had an odd weight to it, as though it carried a story he couldn’t quite place. Behind him, Balthazar sighed dramatically and pulled a bottle of wine from the counter. 

“If you insist on risking your life for outdated coq au vin, the least I can do is pour you a glass of courage.” As Castiel chuckled softly, he couldn’t shake the lingering memory of the man on the street and his strange warning. His words had felt like a splinter, small but persistent. He brushed the thought away with a decisive shake of his head. He had more pressing concerns—like making sure this soup didn’t burn.

The early morning air held a crispness that bit gently at Castiel’s skin as he adjusted his scarf and stepped out of the apartment building. The city seemed softer in the morning light, the muted hum of distant traffic mingling with the chirps of sparrows perched on rooftops. Balthazar leaned lazily against the doorframe, a mug of coffee in one hand and an arched brow aimed at Castiel.

“Off to your inevitable doom, then?” Balthazar said, his voice laced with teasing melodrama. Castiel rolled his eyes but smiled faintly. 

“I’d appreciate a little less confidence in my failure, thanks.”

“Just don’t forget,” Balthazar warned, wagging his mug in emphasis, “the freezer situation. If you’re not back by lunch, I’ll assume you’ve been turned into a popsicle and alert the authorities.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Castiel replied dryly before turning on his heel and heading down the street. As he approached Gribshunden, his steps slowed. The window where the hiring sign had been taped was bare now, the paper gone as if it had never been there at all. For a brief moment, unease flickered in the back of his mind—the stranger’s ominous words about the freezer came rushing back. But Castiel took a deep breath, letting the crisp air ground him, and stepped toward the door. The brass handle felt cold under his hand as he paused, staring at the faint scratches around the edges of the wood. His heart gave a single, uncertain beat, but he pushed the door open.

The door creaked as Castiel stepped inside, greeted by the faint aroma of onions caramelizing somewhere in the distance. The dining area was dimly lit, its charm slightly faded by wear: scratched tabletops, uneven chair legs, and a dusty chandelier that hung precariously above. The sound of raised voices carried from the kitchen, drawing him toward a pair of saloon-style doors with circular windows fogged with condensation. Through the windows, Castiel could see a small group of people clustered around a counter. Among them, a man stood out. His presence commanding, gestured animatedly with a plate of limp broccoli in one hand.

“This,” the man said, his voice sharp and cutting, “was served yesterday. Yesterday! Don’t you have any standards left? The texture, the flavours—everything is gone!” He slammed the plate down, the clang reverberating through the kitchen, startling one of the younger chefs. The man’s brow furrowed deeper as he leaned over the counter, his voice dropping into a growl. 

“You do remember that critic, Mister Crowley, is coming month week, right? Or should I expect this garbage to grace his table too?” As if sensing a shift in the room, the man’s gaze lifted, locking onto Castiel standing uncertainly on the other side of the doors. For a moment, the room fell silent, save for the faint sizzling of something on the stovetop. The man straightened, his piercing eyes scanning Castiel with open scrutiny. 

“Can I help you?” Castiel cleared his throat and stepped forward, the saloon doors swinging shut behind him. 

“I saw you were hiring?”

The man’s gaze narrowed, but he nodded slightly. “Did you bring a CV?” Wordlessly, Castiel reached into his tote bag and handed over a neatly folded sheet of paper. The man unfolded it and scanned the contents briefly.

“Follow me,” the man said briskly, motioning for Castiel to walk with him. They passed through the kitchen, where chefs were busy chopping vegetables and prepping dough. The clatter of knives and the hiss of steam filled the air. Castiel felt a dozen pairs of eyes flick toward him, curiosity briefly interrupting their focus. The dining area was quieter now, the morning light filtering through the windows in dusty rays. The man slid into a chair at one of the tables and gestured for Castiel to do the same. He spread the CV on the table, his fingers tracing the lines of text as he read.

“No previous experience?” the man asked, his voice flat but not unkind.

“Not professionally, no,” Castiel admitted. “But I cook a lot at home.” The man arched a brow. 

“Cooking for yourself and cooking for a restaurant are two different things.”

“I know,” Castiel said, shifting slightly in his seat. “But I learn quickly. Give me a recipe, and I’ll make it work.” The man leaned back, studying him for a long moment. 

“To get hired here, you’ll need to pass a practical test. One of our recipes, cooked in our kitchen. I’ll decide if you’ve got what it takes.” Castiel nodded, determination flickering in his chest despite the nerves. 

“When would the test be?” The man’s lips curved into a faint, challenging smirk. 

“You can take it now if you’d like.”

The kitchen felt warmer now, the air thick with the scent of garlic and simmering stock. Castiel stood at a counter, flipping through a stack of handwritten recipes bound loosely together. His fingers paused on a recipe for saffron omelette, the ingredients simple yet precise. It felt manageable. He gathered his ingredients methodically, pulling eggs, herbs, and a small glass jar of saffron tablets from their places on the shelves. Cracking the eggs into a bowl, he whisked them with steady precision, the golden yolks swirling into a creamy blend. He dissolved a few saffron tablets in warm water, the vibrant yellow bleeding into the liquid like ink. The stove burner was temperamental, the heat uneven and finicky. Castiel rotated the pan constantly, tilting it to ensure the mixture cooked evenly. The faint hiss of butter and the soft scent of saffron filled the air as he worked, his focus unwavering.

When the omelette was perfectly set, he slid it onto a plate and sprinkled it with chopped chives for a final touch. The bright green flecks stood out against the golden surface, a pop of freshness.

The man approached the counter, his expression unreadable as he lifted the plate and inspected the dish. He cut a small piece with his fork, tasting it with deliberate care. For a moment, there was silence, the kind that stretched too long. Finally, the man’s lips twitched into a small, almost reluctant smile. 

“Not bad,” he said, his voice carrying a note of approval. Castiel exhaled, relief flooding him as he leaned slightly against the counter. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the first step toward something new. The kitchen buzzed with a low hum of activity as Castiel stood near the counter, hands resting loosely at his sides. The relief from the man’s faint smile still lingered in his chest, but before he could fully process it, a voice chimed in behind him.

“Don’t let that smile fool you,” a red-haired woman said, leaning casually against the doorway. Her grin was mischievous, her tone teasing. “Dean’s not easily impressed.” Castiel turned, catching the glint of playfulness in her eyes. She pushed off the doorframe and strolled closer, her presence radiating an easy confidence. Dean rolled his eyes, setting the plate back on the counter with a soft clink. 

“Charlie,” the man, Dean, said, his tone halfway between exasperation and amusement, “you’re making me sound worse than I am.” Charlie shrugged, unbothered. 

“I only speak the truth,” she replied with a mock-solemn nod, her grin widening. Castiel smirked faintly, the exchange tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his lingering nerves. Dean turned back to him, brushing a hand over the edge of the counter before meeting Castiel’s gaze.

“You can start tomorrow,” Dean said, his tone direct but not unkind. For a moment, the words hung in the air, heavier than Castiel had expected. He nodded, trying to keep his expression steady, but the flicker of satisfaction in his chest was undeniable.

“Okay,” he said simply, his voice steady, though a spark of determination gleamed in his eyes. Charlie leaned closer, her grin still firmly in place. 

“Guess you’re not a total lost cause,” she teased, before sauntering off with a wave. Castiel watched her go, then glanced back at Dean, who was already turning toward the next task with his usual air of efficiency. Maybe, just maybe, it was leading somewhere worthwhile.

That evening the apartment was bathed in the soft amber glow of a single lamp, the kind of light that felt both intimate and subdued. Castiel sat cross-legged on the sofa, the cushions slightly lopsided beneath him. Around him, a flurry of recipes lay scattered, their handwritten scrawls and printed fonts painting the image of chaotic determination. His tote bag rested on the floor beside the coffee table, its contents partially visible—the crisp white of a folded chef’s coat standing out against the darker fabric. He held one recipe in his hand, the paper slightly creased from where his fingers had worried at the edges. His eyes flicked over the measurements and instructions, his brow furrowing as he tried to mentally piece together the steps. A soft sigh escaped his lips, a mix of focus and quiet frustration. The door clicked open, and Balthazar breezed in, his tailored coat slung casually over one shoulder. The faint scent of cologne lingered as he stepped inside, taking in the scene with a raised brow. 

“Well, don’t you look industrious,” he remarked, setting his coat on the back of a chair. Castiel glanced up briefly, then returned his gaze to the recipe. 

“I start tomorrow,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact but carrying an undercurrent of apprehension. Balthazar strolled closer, his movements fluid, and perched on the arm of the sofa. He reached for one of the recipes, holding it between his fingers like it was some kind of foreign artifact. 

“And they already gave you homework?” he teased, though there was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.

“No,” Castiel replied, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “This is self-assigned. I want to be prepared.” He gestured toward the scattered papers. “They’ve got this whole... retro thing going on. I need to figure out how to make that work without losing my sanity.” Balthazar snorted softly, leaning back and letting the recipe dangle lazily between his fingers. 

“You’re going to be fine. I mean, you’ve managed to survive my cooking, haven’t you? Surely that’s preparation enough.”

“Barely,” Castiel quipped, finally letting his eyes lift from the paper to meet Balthazar’s. There was a flicker of amusement there, though it was tempered by something quieter. He unfolded his legs, reaching into his bag to pull out the chef’s coat. The fabric felt oddly official in his hands, the pristine white almost too clean, too new. He ran his thumb along the collar, his expression momentarily thoughtful.

“You’re taking this seriously,” Balthazar observed, his tone softer now.

“I have to,” Castiel admitted, his voice quieter. He smoothed the coat over his lap, the simple act grounding him. “It’s not just about making food. It’s... more than that.” He paused, glancing toward the recipes spread across the table. “I need to prove to myself that I can do this.” Balthazar studied him for a moment, his teasing demeanor giving way to something more sincere. 

“Well,” he said, standing and ruffling Castiel’s hair in a gesture both affectionate and exasperating, “if anyone can pull off turning Gribshunden into something halfway decent, it’s you.” Castiel batted his hand away, but a small smile crept onto his face despite himself. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You’ll owe me dinner once you’ve conquered this place,” Balthazar added, strolling toward the kitchen with a languid wave of his hand. “And none of that retro nonsense. I want something that screams ‘Castiel.’”

“Deal,” Castiel called after him, his smile lingering as he turned back to the recipe in his hand. For the first time all evening, the instructions felt a little less daunting. The lamp’s glow wrapped around him, softening the edges of his thoughts as he began to imagine what tomorrow might bring.

Chapter Text

The kitchen hummed with early morning energy, a symphony of knives against cutting boards, the hiss of water boiling, and the rhythmic thud of footsteps across tiled floors. The air was warm, laced with the mingling aromas of garlic, simmering stock, and freshly baked bread cooling on a rack by the wall. Dean entered with an air of quiet authority, his stride purposeful and his eyes scanning the room like a conductor overseeing his orchestra. His black chef’s coat was immaculately pressed, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms dusted faintly with flour—a testament to years of hands-on work.

“Morning, everyone,” he called, his voice cutting through the noise without needing to rise above it. The staff paused momentarily to nod or murmur their greetings before returning to their tasks. Dean’s presence was unspoken but understood; he didn’t need to raise his voice to command respect. Behind him, Castiel followed, clutching his pristine white chef’s coat in one hand and his bag in the other. His gaze darted around the bustling kitchen, taking in the stainless steel counters, the neatly labeled spice racks, and the industrial-sized appliances that hummed and clattered with life. It was a controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless, and it made his pulse quicken. Dean glanced over his shoulder, noting Castiel’s hesitation. 

“Keep up,” he said simply, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head as he led Castiel further into the heart of the kitchen. They stopped at a workstation near the center of the room. The counter was polished to a shine, and neatly arranged tools lay within arm’s reach: knives of varying sizes, a set of mixing bowls, and a cutting board that bore faint scars from years of use.

“This is yours,” Dean said, motioning to the space. He turned to face Castiel fully, crossing his arms as he looked him over. “You’ll prep here. Everything you need should already be within reach. If you can’t find something, ask before wasting time looking.” Castiel nodded, his hands gripping the strap of his bag a little tighter.

“Got it,” he said, though his voice was quieter than he intended. Dean studied him for a beat longer, then unfolded his arms and tapped the edge of the counter with his knuckles. 

“Good. And one more thing—” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for only Castiel to hear. “This isn’t about showing off. It’s about keeping up. Understand?” Castiel met his gaze, the hint of a challenge in Dean’s tone lighting a small spark of determination in his chest. 

“Understood,” he replied, his voice steadier now. Dean nodded once, satisfied, and stepped back. He gestured toward a petite woman at a nearby station who was busy slicing onions with precision. Her fiery red hair was tied into a loose bun, and her green eyes flicked toward Castiel as Dean spoke.

“Charlie,” Dean said, “this is Castiel. He’s starting today. Make sure he doesn’t burn the place down.” Charlie smirked, her knife pausing mid-slice. 

“No promises,” she quipped, her tone light but sharp. She turned to Castiel, her smile widening. “Welcome to the circus.”

“Thanks,” Castiel said, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Dean clapped his hands together, the sound snapping the kitchen back into its full rhythm. 

“Alright, let’s get moving. Prep stations ready in twenty.” With that, he turned on his heel and moved to another part of the kitchen, his voice blending seamlessly with the cacophony as he gave instructions to the other staff. Castiel slipped on his chef’s coat, the crisp fabric a reassuring contrast to the whirlwind of activity around him. He adjusted the collar, squared his shoulders, and set his bag down beneath the workstation.

“First day jitters?” Charlie asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Not exactly,” Castiel replied, his hands brushing over the tools on the counter as he began to familiarize himself with his station. He glanced at her, his lips curving into a faint grin. “But if I burn something, I’ll make sure it’s spectacular.” Charlie chuckled, shaking her head as she returned to her onions. 

“You’ll fit right in.” As Castiel reached for a knife and began his first task, he felt the kitchen’s energy seep into him, its rhythm steadying his thoughts. He wasn’t sure what the day would bring, but he knew one thing: he’d make it through, one slice at a time.

Soon the dining area hummed with a subdued energy, the kind that clung to quiet, unhurried afternoons. A few elderly patrons occupied the mismatched wooden tables, their conversations low and steady. The pale sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting faint golden patterns across the worn floorboards. Plates clinked faintly as servers moved between tables, their smiles patient but practiced. Castiel lingered near the edge of the dining area, his hands brushing nervously against the hem of his crisp chef’s coat as he looked out the small window. From where he stood, he could hear the faint murmur of the dining room despite the sharper, more chaotic kitchen. His chest tightened slightly as he glanced at the handful of customers. 

“They’re just people,” he reminded himself, though the weight of expectation gnawed at him. “It’s just food. You’ve done this before—just not here.”

“Castiel,” Dean’s voice called from the kitchen, low but commanding, cutting through his thoughts. He straightened, taking a breath before stepping back to his station. The kitchen was alive with motion. Pans hissed on the stovetops, knives clattered rhythmically against cutting boards, and the faint scent of thyme and seared meat filled the air. Castiel returned to his workstation, where a row of half-prepped vegetables and a small pile of hand-written orders waited for him. He stared at the chaos around him, his mind racing. His lack of experience felt glaringly obvious now, and every sound seemed magnified: the thud of a ladle against a pot, the sharp scrape of a spatula. He gripped the handle of his knife tightly, trying to steady his breathing.

“Focus,” he muttered under his breath, glancing at the ticket clipped to the counter. A simple order: roasted chicken breast with sautéed vegetables. It wasn’t rocket science. ‘You can do this,’ he thought, grounding himself in the familiar rhythm of chopping, seasoning, and arranging ingredients. As he worked, the initial panic ebbed, replaced by a cautious determination. The sounds around him began to blend into a single rhythm, a hum of energy that guided his movements. The knife moved faster now, the vegetables neatly sliced into uniform pieces. The heat of the stove became a reassuring presence instead of a looming threat. 

Just as Castiel started to find his pace, a sharp yelp cut through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of a pan clattering to the floor. The sous-chef, a wiry man with a perpetual frown, stumbled back from the stove clutching his hand. A splash of oil glistened on his reddening skin, and the acrid smell of something burning wafted up.

“Dammit!” he hissed, biting back a louder curse. Dean was across the kitchen in seconds, his sharp eyes scanning the situation. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice calm but firm. The sous-chef waved him off, grimacing. 

“I need to rinse this—just give me a minute.” He turned toward the sink, leaving the stove unattended. Without thinking, Castiel stepped forward. His hand shot out to grab the pan, shifting it off the heat before the contents could burn further. The scent of garlic and shallots filled the air as he quickly assessed the dish—a half-finished risotto. He glanced at the open recipe book on the counter, its pages slightly stained, and found the instructions midway through.

“I’ve got it,” Castiel said, his voice steady despite the flicker of doubt in his chest. He added a splash of stock to the pan, the liquid hissing as it hit the heat. With quick, precise movements, he stirred the rice, letting it absorb the liquid. Dean watched him from the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. The rest of the kitchen had barely paused, the chaos continuing unabated as Castiel worked. 

When the sous-chef returned, his hand wrapped in a damp towel, he paused beside Castiel, his brows raising slightly. Castiel stepped back, gesturing to the finished risotto with a faint shrug.

“Thanks,” the sous-chef muttered, his tone begrudging but not unkind. Dean’s gaze lingered on Castiel for a moment longer before he turned back to his own station. 

As the service went on the dining room’s quiet hum began to show cracks. A couple near the window murmured to each other, their expressions shifting from pleasant to faintly annoyed as they glanced at the clock. A server hurried past with a tray of dishes, one of which teetered precariously on the edge. At another table, an elderly man poked at his plate of braised pork with a frown. 

“It’s overcooked,” he muttered to his companion, who nodded sympathetically while sipping her tea. From the kitchen, Dean stepped into the dining area briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the room. His jaw tightened slightly as he noted the discontent brewing among the patrons. Behind the saloon doors, Castiel leaned against his workstation, catching his breath. The adrenaline from earlier still buzzed faintly in his veins, but now a different tension began to creep in. He could hear the servers’ hurried footsteps, their clipped voices as they reported complaints back to the kitchen.

“Not every dish is perfect,” Charlie muttered as she passed by, setting a plate on the counter. “First day blues. It happens.” Castiel nodded absently, his mind replaying every step he’d taken in the last hour. The risotto, the chicken, the sautéed vegetables—had he been too slow? Too cautious? From across the kitchen, Dean’s voice rang out. 

“Keep moving, everyone. No time to dwell.” Castiel straightened, his fingers brushing against the knife handle on his counter. Dean’s words weren’t particularly kind, but they were grounding in their own way. 

Keep moving.

He picked up the next ticket and focused on the task ahead, determined to prove he could keep pace with the relentless rhythm of the kitchen. Every sound —the rhythmic chopping of knives, the hiss of pans, the occasional clang of pots— was a note in a symphony that demanded precision. Castiel stood at his workstation, his grip tightening around a knife as he prepared to face the next ticket.

“Roast duck with orange glaze,” Charlie called out, sliding the slip onto the edge of his counter. Castiel exhaled slowly, letting the nerves melt into something steadier. He reached for the duck breast in the cold storage drawer beneath his station, its cool, smooth surface grounding him. He seasoned it methodically, sprinkling salt and pepper with even precision, then scored the skin in neat diagonal lines. He set the pan on the burner, letting it heat until the faint shimmer of oil told him it was ready. When he placed the duck skin-side down, the sizzle that followed felt like reassurance.

“Hot behind,” a voice called as one of the line cooks passed with a tray. Castiel stepped aside instinctively, his focus returning to the duck. He pressed lightly with a spatula, watching as the skin turned a crisp, golden brown. The movements came easier now, his mind quieter. The chaos around him no longer felt overwhelming but instead like a current he was beginning to swim with. He tilted the pan, spooning the rendered fat over the meat, the rich scent of duck filling the air.

“Don’t forget the glaze,” Charlie reminded, her tone sharp but not unkind as she passed.

“I know,” Castiel replied, already reaching for the saucepan of orange reduction he’d prepared earlier. He drizzled it over the duck, the citrusy aroma cutting through the richness, and slid the pan into the oven to finish cooking. Behind him, Dean moved through the kitchen with an air of quiet authority. His eyes swept over the staff, catching small mistakes and correcting them with curt but precise instructions. When he reached Castiel’s station, he paused, watching as Castiel plated the duck. The dish came together with surprising elegance. The duck, sliced thin and fanned out, gleamed under the glaze, and the roasted vegetables were arranged with careful attention to detail. Castiel wiped the edge of the plate with a cloth before sliding it onto the pass. Dean didn’t say anything at first, his gaze lingering on the plate. Finally, he nodded once, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

“Keep it up,” was all he said before moving on, but the words settled in Castiel’s chest like a small ember of pride. The next ticket came almost immediately: lamb chops with a rosemary crust. Castiel dove into the task, his confidence building with each dish. His hands moved with more certainty now, his knife slicing through the meat with clean precision. The rosemary, fragrant and sharp, mixed with breadcrumbs under his fingers as he pressed the crust onto the lamb. By the time the afternoon rush began to ebb, Castiel found himself moving almost instinctively. The chaos of the kitchen had become a rhythm, and he was learning how to follow it.

“Nice save earlier,” Charlie said as she passed, her knife flashing in the light as she diced onions.

“Thanks,” Castiel replied, glancing up briefly.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she added with a smirk, but there was a glimmer of approval in her tone. As the last few orders trickled in, Castiel caught Dean’s gaze from across the room. Dean didn’t smile, but there was a faint nod of acknowledgment, a silent recognition of Castiel’s progress. The tension in Castiel’s shoulders began to ease, replaced by a cautious sense of accomplishment. For the first time that day, he felt like he belonged, like he was more than just someone playing at being a chef. The kitchen noise softened as service wound down, but Castiel stayed busy, wiping down his station and organizing his tools. The faint scent of citrus and rosemary clung to his hands, a reminder of the dishes he’d sent out. As the last ticket was cleared, Charlie leaned against the counter, a grin tugging at her lips. 

“Well, rookie,” she said, tossing a towel over her shoulder, “looks like you survived your first lunch service.”

“Barely,” Castiel replied, but there was a smile in his voice. Dean’s voice cut through the lingering noise as he stepped back into the center of the kitchen. 

“Good work today, everyone. Back in thirty for prep.”

The staff began to disperse, their chatter light and easy now that the rush had passed. Castiel stayed at his station a moment longer, his fingers brushing the edge of the counter. His mind replayed the rhythm of the day, each small success and challenge threading together into something almost satisfying. As he turned to leave, he caught Dean’s gaze once more. This time, there was a faint curve to the chef’s lips—a quiet acknowledgment of a job well done. Castiel’s chest lifted slightly, and he allowed himself the smallest smile in return. He wasn’t sure what dinner service would bring, but for now, he felt like he’d earned his place in the kitchen.

The clatter and hum of the kitchen during lunch had quieted, replaced by the steady rhythm of knives on cutting boards as the staff prepped for the dinner service. Castiel wiped down his station, his movements unhurried as he tried to process the whirlwind of his first lunch shift. Across the room, Charlie worked on a pile of carrots, her knife moving with an almost hypnotic efficiency.

“Hey,” Castiel said, breaking the silence as he stacked freshly cleaned bowls. “So… Dean doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d own a place like this. No offense.” Charlie snorted softly, pausing her chopping to glance at him. 

“That’s because he didn’t plan to,” she replied, her voice light but tinged with something deeper. Castiel’s brow furrowed. 

“What do you mean?” Charlie tossed the last of the carrots into a bowl and wiped her hands on her apron. 

“This place used to belong to his uncle, Bobby,” she said, leaning against the counter. “Dean inherited it after Bobby passed away. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do, but…” She trailed off, her green eyes flicking toward the saloon doors that led to the dining area. 

“Dean’s not the kind of guy who walks away from responsibility. Especially when it comes to family.” Castiel leaned slightly against his own counter, crossing his arms as he absorbed the information. 

“So, he runs this place for his family?”

“Pretty much,” Charlie said, nodding. “He’s been busting his ass to keep it afloat ever since. And it’s not just about the restaurant. He’s got a little brother, Sam, who’s in college right now. Dean’s basically paying for everything the scholarships don’t cover to make sure Sam doesn’t have to worry about anything but his studies.” Castiel blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. His mind flashed back to Dean’s sharp, commanding presence in the kitchen, the way he seemed to carry the entire room’s energy on his shoulders without faltering.

“That’s… a lot,” Castiel said softly. Charlie shrugged, her expression lightening with a small, fond smile. 

“It is, but that’s Dean. He’s stubborn as hell, but he’s got a good heart. Just doesn’t like to let people see it too much.” Castiel’s lips twitched into a faint smile of his own. 

“He hides it well.”

“Oh, trust me,” Charlie said, her grin widening. “Stick around long enough, and you’ll see it. He can be a hard-ass, but he’s not as scary as he likes to pretend.” Before Castiel could respond, the saloon doors swung open, and Dean stepped in, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. His presence immediately shifted the atmosphere, bringing a renewed focus to the space.

“Dinner service starts in ten minutes,” Dean called, his voice firm but not harsh. “Let’s get back to it.” Charlie shot Castiel a quick wink before grabbing her bowl of carrots and heading toward her station. Castiel turned back to his own workspace, his hands busy but his thoughts lingering. As he prepped the last for the next shift, he couldn’t help but view Dean in a new light. The sharp edges of his demeanor now felt less intimidating, softened by the knowledge of the responsibility he carried. Castiel found himself wondering what other layers might lie beneath the surface of the man who had handed him his first real chance.

As dinner service started the kitchen roared to life once more, the quiet lull of the afternoon replaced by the rhythmic chaos of dinner service. Orders came in rapid succession, each ticket clipped to the pass with a sharp snap. The air was thick with heat and the mingling aromas of seared meat, roasted garlic, and the faint tang of citrus. Castiel stood at his station, his focus honed in a way that felt both unfamiliar and exhilarating. His hands moved with confidence now, slicing vegetables into even ribbons and plating dishes with a precision he hadn’t known he possessed. He’d learned to tune out the noise around him—not completely, but enough to let the rhythm of the kitchen guide him.

“Table five needs the duck special,” Charlie called as she swept past, balancing a tray of dishes with ease.

“On it,” Castiel replied, already reaching for the duck breast in the cold storage drawer. The familiarity of the task steadied him, and he moved quickly, scoring the skin and seasoning it with practiced efficiency. The stove hissed as the duck hit the pan, the scent of rendered fat wafting up. Castiel pressed lightly with a spatula, watching the skin turn golden and crisp. He glanced at the timer he’d set, ensuring the roast vegetables in the oven were perfectly timed with the duck. Across the kitchen, Dean moved through the chaos with an ease that spoke of years in the trade. His sharp eyes scanned the room, catching every detail—the angle of a knife in one cook’s hand, the too-bright flame under a pan. He adjusted without a word, a flick of his wrist or a pointed glance enough to keep the team in sync. When his gaze landed on Castiel, he paused, just for a moment. The rookie was different now from the nervous, stiff figure that had fumbled through lunch service. Castiel moved with a confidence that wasn’t quite polished but was undeniably there. He flipped the duck breast with a clean motion, spooning the rendered fat over it like he’d been doing it for years. His shoulders, once hunched with uncertainty, now held a quiet determination. Dean didn’t say anything, but his lips curved ever so slightly at the corners before he turned back to the pass.

“Charlie,” Dean called, motioning her over. “Check the plating on table two’s risotto before it goes out.”

“Got it, boss,” Charlie replied, shooting Castiel a quick thumbs-up as she passed. The timer on Castiel’s oven dinged, and he moved to pull out the tray of roasted vegetables. The scent of caramelized onions and charred peppers filled the air as he carefully arranged them on the plate. He placed the duck breast beside them, finishing with a drizzle of orange reduction and a sprinkle of fresh thyme.

“Duck special up!” he called, sliding the plate onto the pass with a sense of satisfaction. Dean glanced at the plate, his sharp eyes inspecting every detail. He didn’t say a word, simply nodding to the server who whisked it away. The service continued, each dish flowing from the kitchen with a rhythm that felt almost organic. Castiel’s confidence grew with each completed order, the initial nerves replaced by a sense of purpose. At one point, Charlie sidled up to him, a playful grin on her face. 

“Look at you, rookie. Not bad for day one.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Castiel replied, but there was a flicker of a smile in his eyes.

As the evening wore on, the kitchen began to settle into a slower pace. The rush of tickets dwindled, and the noise softened to the steady clatter of cleanup. Castiel wiped down his station, the scent of citrus and rosemary lingering on his hands. Dean passed by on his way to the office, his steps slowing briefly as he glanced at Castiel’s station. The counter was spotless, the tools neatly organized—a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier.

“Not bad,” Dean said finally, his tone almost casual but carrying an edge of approval. He didn’t wait for a response, continuing on without looking back. Castiel blinked, the words settling over him like a warm ember. It wasn’t much, but coming from Dean, it felt significant.

As he finished wiping down the last of his tools, Castiel allowed himself a small smile. The day had been long, challenging, and far from perfect, but it felt like the beginning of something. The kitchen, with all its chaos and noise, was starting to feel a little like home.

The door creaked when Castiel stepped out, now dressed in faded jeans and a loose sweater that looked as if it had seen better days. His hair, freed from the confines of his chef’s coat and hat, fell in unruly waves around his face. He carried himself with the weariness of someone who had just finished a long shift but with a quiet spark of accomplishment in his eyes. The evening air was cool and carried the faint aroma of the day’s last meals drifting from the restaurant vents. The street outside the restaurant was quiet, with only the occasional car rumbling past or the soft murmur of distant voices. Dean leaned against the brick wall near the back entrance, a cigarette perched between his fingers, its ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling upward and dissolving into the dusk. Dean glanced at him over his shoulder before tossing the cigarette to the ground and snuffing it out with the toe of his boot. Straightening, he turned fully to face Castiel.

“You’re adapting well,” he said, his voice calm but carrying a note of sincerity that wasn’t often there. Castiel blinked, surprised by the comment. His lips quirked into a small, self-deprecating smile. 

“Ha, thanks,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just doing my best to keep up.” Dean studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he asked something that caught Castiel off guard.

“Would you be interested in taking on more responsibility?” The question hung in the air. Castiel frowned slightly, his brows knitting together as he tried to gauge whether Dean was serious. 

“More responsibility?” he echoed. Dean nodded, his hands settling on his hips. 

“You’ve got good instincts. What you lack in experience, you make up for with a good sense of taste and attention to detail. Besides,” he continued, his gaze shifting momentarily toward the street, “I need help. Our sous-chef is out, and there’s a critic coming soon.” Castiel tilted his head, his mind racing. The idea of stepping into a role as demanding as sous-chef, even temporarily, was daunting. But there was something in Dean’s tone —a mix of confidence and necessity— that made him pause.

“Are you sure?” Castiel asked, his voice cautious but not unwilling. “I mean, it’s only my first day. What if I screw something up?” Dean’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile Castiel had seen from him all day. 

“Everyone screws up,” he said simply. “It’s how you fix it that matters.” Castiel looked down at the cracked pavement beneath his sneakers, his thoughts tumbling over one another. The shift today had pushed him to his limits, but somehow, he’d managed. The chaos, the heat, the constant pressure—it had all begun to feel less foreign and more like a challenge he could face. He met Dean’s gaze again, the uncertainty in his expression giving way to a flicker of determination. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll do it.” Dean nodded once, as if he’d already expected the answer. 

“Good. We’ll start tomorrow.” He turned back toward the restaurant door but paused just before stepping inside. “Get some rest tonight. It’s only going to get busier from here.”

With that, he disappeared back into the building, leaving Castiel standing alone on the quiet street. Castiel leaned against the wall, letting the cool air brush against his face as he processed what had just happened. The offer had been unexpected, and the responsibility felt immense, but something about it felt right. A challenge, yes, but one he was beginning to think he could rise to. He glanced up at the faint glow of the streetlights overhead, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he was on the edge of something new—something worth pursuing. 

The streets were quiet now, the hum of the city softened under the blanket of night. Castiel walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, the cool breeze brushing against his face. The rhythm of his footsteps echoed faintly, mingling with the occasional distant rumble of a car. His thoughts churned as he replayed the events of the day, each small moment stitching itself together in a way that left him both exhilarated and overwhelmed. Dean’s words lingered in his mind: ‘You’ve got good instincts.’ It wasn’t high praise, not really, but coming from someone as exacting as Dean, it might as well have been a standing ovation. Castiel’s lips quirked into a faint smile at the thought. By the time he reached his apartment, the weariness of the day was beginning to settle into his bones. He climbed the stairs, each creak of the steps feeling louder in the stillness, and unlocked the door.

The warm, familiar scent of Balthazar’s cologne greeted him as he stepped inside. The living room light was on, casting a soft glow over the cluttered space. Balthazar was sprawled on the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, scrolling through his phone with an air of effortless indifference. As Castiel shut the door behind him, Balthazar glanced up. A slow grin spread across his face, the kind that promised trouble.

“Well, well,” Balthazar drawled, setting his phone down on the coffee table. “Look who’s back from his grand culinary adventure.” Castiel sighed, kicking off his sneakers and dropping his bag by the door. 

“Don’t start,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone. But Balthazar was already sitting up, his eyes narrowing playfully as he studied Castiel’s face. 

“Oh no, I have to start,” he said, leaning forward with exaggerated interest. “What’s that look you’ve got? All dreamy-eyed and lost in thought. Don’t tell me you’re already smitten with your boss.” Castiel froze mid-step, turning to glare at him. 

“What? No!” he snapped, though the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him. Balthazar let out a bark of laughter, his head tilting back as he reveled in Castiel’s reaction. “Oh, this is too good,” he said, wiping at an imaginary tear.

 “Day one, and you’re already falling for the chef who, let’s not forget, apparently freezes people to death. Really, Castiel? That’s your type now?”

“Will you shut up?” Castiel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face as he moved toward the kitchen. “He doesn’t freeze people. That’s just—never mind.” Balthazar stood, following him with the kind of persistence that only came from knowing exactly how to get under Castiel’s skin. 

“I’m serious, though,” he continued, grinning as he leaned against the kitchen doorway. “You’ve got the look. The one that says, ‘Oh no, I hate him, but also, he’s kind of hot, and also, maybe I respect him, and oh no, what am I feeling?’” Castiel grabbed a glass from the cupboard, trying to ignore him as he filled it with water. 

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered before taking a long sip.

“And you’re deflecting,” Balthazar shot back, his grin widening. Castiel set the glass down with a little more force than necessary, finally turning to face him. 

“It’s not like that,” he insisted, though the flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded. “He’s… he’s intense, okay? And kind of terrifying. But also, he gave me a chance when no one else would, so maybe I’m just… grateful.”

“Grateful,” Balthazar repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Sure. Let’s call it that.” Castiel rolled his eyes, grabbing an apple from the counter and biting into it with more aggression than required. 

“Go bother someone else, Balthazar,” he said around a mouthful of fruit.

“Gladly,” Balthazar replied, turning back toward the living room. “But if you do end up frozen in the walk-in freezer, just know I’ll be the first to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because i mean it.”

Castiel groaned, flopping onto the couch once Balthazar had disappeared. He stared up at the ceiling, the day’s events still tumbling through his mind. Despite Balthazar’s teasing, Castiel couldn’t deny the faint tug of something —respect, intrigue, maybe even admiration— when he thought about Dean. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, determined to push the thoughts aside. Tomorrow would bring enough challenges of its own. For now, all he needed was sleep.

Chapter Text

The following week unfolded in a blur of tasks and instructions, each more precise and demanding than the last. Castiel arrived early each day, the faint chill of the morning air still clinging to his jacket as he stepped into the warm chaos of the kitchen. Dean was already there each time, sleeves rolled to his elbows, clipboard in hand, his sharp eyes scanning the kitchen like a general surveying his troops. From the very first morning, Dean wasted no time.

“Being a sous-chef isn’t just about cooking,” he said as he led Castiel through the storage room, the faint scent of dried herbs and flour hanging in the air. “It’s about making sure everything runs smoothly. That means inventory management.” He stopped in front of a shelf lined with jars, boxes, and bags, all meticulously labeled. “If we run out of something mid-service, that’s on you to catch beforehand. Check inventory daily, and keep track of what we need to order. Suppliers can’t read your mind.” Dean handed Castiel a clipboard with a sheet full of columns and rows. “Start here,” he said, gesturing to a list of ingredients. “Cross-check what we have with what’s listed. If you don’t recognize something, ask.”

Castiel nodded, his fingers curling around the clipboard as he scanned the list. Half the ingredients were familiar—flour, salt, rosemary—but some were foreign, their names as unfamiliar as the intricate labels on the jars.

“Shiso?” Castiel asked, tilting the clipboard toward Dean.

“Japanese herb. Tastes kind of like a mix of mint and basil,” Dean replied without missing a beat, pulling a jar from a nearby shelf and holding it up. “We use it in some of the fusion dishes. Smell it.” Castiel unscrewed the lid, the bright, peppery aroma hitting his senses immediately. He nodded, filing the information away as Dean moved on.

By midweek, Dean shifted focus to the rhythm of service.

“You’re the second set of eyes,” Dean said as they stood by the pass, where plates of risotto and duck specials waited for servers to take them to the dining room. “That means you check every plate before it leaves the kitchen. No smudged sauces, no sloppy plating. If it doesn’t look good, send it back.” Castiel watched as Dean adjusted a garnish on a plate of lamb chops, the small tweak transforming the dish from passable to refined. “It’s about presentation,” Dean continued, handing the plate to a server. “The critic coming next week isn’t just going to taste the food; they’re going to look at it first.”

When it was Castiel’s turn to inspect plates, he hesitated. His eyes scanned the dish in front of him—a salmon fillet resting on a bed of roasted fennel. The sauce looked slightly uneven, pooling more on one side of the plate.

“Fix it,” Dean said, his tone neutral but expectant.

Castiel grabbed a spoon and carefully redistributed the sauce, his hand steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. When he looked up, Dean gave a small nod of approval.

By Thursday, Dean introduced Castiel to the art of managing people.

“Everyone in here has a role,” Dean said as the kitchen buzzed around them. “Your job is to make sure they’re doing theirs. If someone’s falling behind, you step in and help, but you also make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Charlie, who had been eavesdropping nearby, smirked. 

“He means you get to boss us around, rookie. Don’t let it go to your head.” Dean shot her a glance but didn’t deny it. 

“Keep it professional,” he added. “Respect goes both ways. You’ll earn it if you work for it.” Later that night, Castiel found himself stepping in for one of the line cooks who was overwhelmed with a backlog of pasta orders. He worked alongside her, their movements syncing as they prepped dishes together. When the orders were finally cleared, she gave him a grateful nod, and Castiel felt a flicker of confidence.

By the end of the week, Dean focused on timing.

“Cooking isn’t just about technique,” he said as they worked side by side. “It’s about timing. You need to know when each dish needs to hit the pass so everything goes out together. If one plate is ready and the rest aren’t, the whole table suffers.” Dean showed him how to read the tickets, tracking which dishes were ordered together and coordinating the kitchen to ensure everything aligned. It was a delicate balance, and Castiel’s head swam with the complexity of it. When the first dinner rush hit, Castiel took over calling orders to the line. 

“Table twelve needs the duck and the pasta special,” he called, his voice firm despite the knot in his stomach. Dean stayed close, observing but not interfering. As the night progressed, Castiel found his rhythm, his voice growing steadier with each order. By the time the rush died down, the knot in his stomach had loosened, replaced by a faint glow of accomplishment.

As the kitchen quieted and the staff began cleaning up, Dean approached Castiel at his station. His face was unreadable as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

“You’ve picked up a lot this week,” Dean said after a moment, his tone even. “Not perfect, but you’re getting there.” Castiel blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. 

“Thanks,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. Dean nodded, straightening. 

“Get some rest. Next week’s going to be even busier.”

As Dean walked away, Castiel allowed himself a small smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to carry him through. The kitchen had quieted, the once-chaotic symphony of clanging pots, sizzling pans, and shouted orders replaced by the soft scrape of steel against tile as someone swept the floor. Castiel stood at his station, carefully organizing his tools and wiping down the counters. The warm glow of the overhead lights softened the space, making the stainless steel surfaces gleam. He moved methodically, letting the familiar rhythm of cleanup ease the tension in his shoulders.

“You know,” Charlie’s voice broke through the stillness, light and teasing, “if you weren’t so oblivious, you might notice how much Dean likes you.” Castiel froze mid-wipe, his grip on the cloth tightening slightly. He glanced at Charlie, who stood leaning casually against the counter, her arms crossed and a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone guarded but laced with curiosity. Charlie snorted, pushing off the counter and sauntering closer. 

“Oh, come on, Castiel,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You’ve been here, what? A week? And you’re already training to be sous-chef. That doesn’t just happen. Most people start by chopping onions for months before anyone even notices them.”

“He’s just desperate,” Castiel replied quickly, returning his attention to the counter and scrubbing a particularly stubborn spot. “The sous-chef is out, and there’s a critic coming. It’s not about me. It’s about the restaurant.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said, her tone dripping with skepticism. She leaned on the edge of the counter, propping her chin on her hand. “And you think he’s just handing over responsibility to the first random rookie who walks through the door? Face it, Dean sees something in you. A little spark, maybe. A little—”

“Stop,” Castiel cut in, his face warming as he straightened and met her gaze. “He doesn’t ‘see something.’ He sees someone who can do the job. That’s it.” Charlie raised a brow, her grin widening. 

“You keep telling yourself that, rookie. But I’ve worked with Dean a lot longer than you have. He doesn’t just hand out chances like this. He’s picky. Really picky.” Castiel frowned, her words sinking in despite his best efforts to brush them off. 

“Maybe he’s just... trying something different,” he said finally, though even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

“Sure,” Charlie said, dragging the word out as if it tasted sweet on her tongue. She grabbed a clean towel from a nearby rack and began folding it, her movements slow and deliberate. “Or maybe he’s giving you a shot because he actually believes in you. Crazy thought, huh?” Castiel shook his head, focusing on putting his tools away. 

“You’re reading too much into it,” he muttered. “Dean’s practical. He needs someone to fill the gap, and I happen to be here.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Charlie said, her voice lilting with amusement. She tossed the folded towel onto a stack and stepped back, her grin softening into something almost fond. “But for what it’s worth, you’re doing a good job. Better than most would in your shoes.”

“Thanks,” Castiel said, his voice quiet. He glanced at her briefly, offering a small smile before returning to his work. Charlie didn’t push further, but her words lingered in the air long after she’d walked away. Castiel’s movements slowed as he replayed the week in his mind, each moment of Dean’s attention, his measured instructions, the subtle nods of approval.

“It’s not personal,” Castiel told himself firmly. “It’s about the job. That’s all.” But even as he tried to dismiss the thought, a flicker of doubt remained, curling at the edges of his resolve like smoke.

When he got home Castiel kicked off his shoes near the door, his body aching from the long day, but there was a hum of satisfaction beneath the exhaustion. The apartment was dimly lit, the soft golden glow of a lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of lavender lingered faintly in the air, likely from one of Balthazar’s overpriced candles. He dropped his bag onto the couch, rubbing the back of his neck as he took in the quiet.

“Ah, there you are,” Balthazar drawled from the armchair in the corner, his voice cutting through the silence like a lazy knife. He was sprawled in his usual dramatic fashion, a glass of red wine in one hand and a book balanced on his knee. He set the book down as his sharp blue eyes flicked toward Castiel. “You’re becoming a stranger, darling,” Balthazar continued, a faint pout tugging at his lips. “I never see you anymore.” Castiel sighed, making his way to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. 

“I’ve been busy,” he replied simply, the words clipped but not unkind.

“Busy, hmm?” Balthazar stood, gliding over to lean casually against the counter. He sipped his wine, watching Castiel with a grin that was far too knowing. “He’s working you to the bone, isn’t he? Or maybe just with one?” Castiel froze mid-sip, his fingers tightening around the glass. He turned to glare at Balthazar, but the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him. 

“Gross,” he muttered, setting the glass down with a clink. Balthazar’s grin widened, his head tilting slightly as he studied Castiel’s reaction. 

“I’m just saying,” he teased, “you’ve got that look about you. A certain... glow. I’m beginning to think your esteemed chef has more to do with it than sautéed onions.”

“Stop,” Castiel said, his voice firm, though the flush on his cheeks deepened.

“Admit it,” Balthazar pressed, his tone lilting as he leaned in just slightly. Castiel rolled his eyes and turned away, grabbing a banana from the counter if only to have something to focus on. 

“I respect him,” he said pointedly. “He’s talented, focused, and he’s given me an opportunity when no one else would. That’s it.”

“Oh, darling,” Balthazar sighed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you’ll even believe it.” Castiel peeled the banana with a little more force than necessary, the motion silencing him for a moment as he tried to calm the flicker of irritation —and something else— rising in his chest.

“Why are you so interested in my life all of a sudden?” Castiel asked, his tone sharper than he intended. Balthazar raised a brow, but his expression softened just slightly.

“Because,” he said simply, swirling his wine, “I haven’t seen you like this in... well, ever. It’s interesting.”

“I’m just working,” Castiel replied, his voice quieter now. “That’s all.”

“Hmm,” Balthazar murmured, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push further. He sipped his wine again, his gaze still lingering on Castiel. “Well, just promise me one thing, will you?”

“What?” Castiel asked, finally meeting his gaze.

“Don’t let this chef of yours freeze you out. Or into a freezer, for that matter,” Balthazar said with a smirk, raising his glass in mock solemnity. Castiel groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he turned toward the living room. 

“Goodnight, Balthazar,” he muttered, though there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“Goodnight, Cassie,” Balthazar called after him, his voice warm despite the teasing edge. As Castiel settled into his room, the quiet enveloping him once more, he allowed himself a moment to breathe. The day had been long, and Balthazar’s relentless prodding hadn’t helped, but there was truth buried in his words that Castiel couldn’t quite ignore. Dean’s presence lingered in his thoughts, unbidden but persistent. 

Respect. 

Admiration. 

Curiosity. 

Castiel shook his head, brushing the thoughts aside as he sank into bed. Whatever it was, it could wait until tomorrow. For now, he needed rest.

The next week greeted Castiel with an unrelenting sense of urgency. The kitchen came alive earlier each day, its energy building like a symphony that had no intention of slowing. The air was always warm now, scented with a mix of freshly baked bread, simmering sauces, and the faint metallic tang of the industrial stoves. Dean had warned him it would get harder, and now Castiel understood what he meant.

“Keep it tight today,” Dean said on Monday morning, his voice low but sharp as he moved through the kitchen. His eyes flicked over the stations, checking every detail. “We’re getting a steady stream of reservations for the week, and if anything goes wrong, the critic will notice.”

Castiel nodded, standing at his station as he carefully sliced radishes paper-thin, their crisp texture echoing faintly under his knife. Each movement felt calculated, purposeful. He had no room for mistakes—not now.

By midweek, the pace of the kitchen had shifted into something almost frantic. Orders flew in and out, the tickets clipped to the pass in a constant flurry. Castiel’s hands moved quickly, his fingers working with a precision that he hadn’t realized he was capable of until now.

“Table four needs the lamb!” Charlie called, her voice cutting through the chaos.

“Two minutes,” Castiel replied, his tone steady despite the heat of the stove that flushed his face. He flipped the lamb chops in the pan, their crust sizzling as the rosemary-infused oil bubbled beneath them. A quick glance at the clock told him he was right on schedule, and the satisfaction of keeping up added a flicker of confidence to his otherwise harried thoughts. Dean moved behind him, quiet and observant. He didn’t interfere, but his presence was palpable, like a shadow cast across Castiel’s movements.

“You’re keeping pace,” Dean said, his voice low enough that only Castiel could hear. “But don’t get comfortable. You need to be faster for Friday’s service.”

“Yes, Chef,” Castiel replied automatically, his focus never wavering from the lamb.

By Friday evening, the kitchen buzzed with a frenetic energy, every corner alive with motion. The clatter of pans, the sharp hiss of steam, and the shouted calls of orders blended into a chaotic symphony that kept everyone moving in perfect, if frantic, harmony. Castiel worked at the prep station beside Dean, their movements fluid and synchronized despite the whirlwind around them.

“Lamb chops for table twelve,” Dean called, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise.

“On it,” Castiel replied, already reaching for the seasoned meat. He set the pan on the stove, the heat rising in shimmering waves as he added a touch of oil. Dean moved beside him, assembling the elements for a risotto with practiced ease. The faint scent of white wine and Parmesan mingled with the rosemary Castiel was using, creating a fragrant blend that wrapped around them like a subtle reminder of the magic they were creating.

“Watch your timing,” Dean said, his eyes flicking to the pan where the lamb sizzled.

“I’ve got it,” Castiel replied, flipping the chops with a deft motion. His movements were sure now, confident in a way they hadn’t been when he started. He had learned the rhythm of this place, the give and take of its demands. They worked in silence for a few moments, the energy between them easy yet charged. Castiel could feel Dean’s presence beside him, the subtle shift of air whenever he moved, the steady intensity of his focus. As he plated the lamb, arranging the vegetables with careful precision, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up, his hands pausing mid-motion, and found Dean watching him. The look wasn’t sharp or critical as Castiel might have expected. Instead, Dean’s gaze held something softer, quieter—a thoughtful curiosity that lingered a moment too long. Their eyes met briefly, and Castiel felt his breath hitch, the noise of the kitchen dimming for just a heartbeat. Dean blinked, his expression shifting back to something more neutral, and turned his attention to the pass. 

“Plate looks good,” he said, his tone even but carrying an undertone that Castiel couldn’t quite place.

“Thanks,” Castiel replied, his voice quieter than usual. He returned his focus to his station, finishing the garnish on the plate before sliding it onto the pass with a steady hand. The moment stayed with him, though, a small ripple beneath the surface of the service. He couldn’t decide if it was the exhaustion playing tricks on his mind or if there had been something more in the way Dean had looked at him. Either way, Castiel pushed the thought aside, letting the rhythm of the kitchen pull him back into its relentless flow. As the service continued, the electric hum of the restaurant carried them forward, each moment a blur of movement, heat, and focus. Yet somewhere in the back of Castiel’s mind, the memory of that glance lingered, soft and unspoken, a quiet thread woven into the chaos of the evening.

The kitchen roared around them, a cacophony of shouted orders, sizzling pans, and the metallic clatter of utensils. Castiel worked with a steady focus, the movements of his hands precise as he finished plating a dish. The heat of the stove warmed his face, and the scent of caramelized onions mingled with rosemary hung heavy in the air.

“Table nine needs that salmon,” Charlie called, her voice sharp as she balanced a tray of steaming plates.

“Coming up!” Castiel replied, quickly garnishing the dish with a sprig of dill before sliding it onto the pass. The rhythm of the service felt almost seamless until the crackle of the fryer interrupted it, louder and sharper than it should have been. Castiel’s head snapped toward the source, spotting one of the line cooks struggling with the fryer basket. A faint plume of smoke curled upward, the scent of burnt oil cutting through the air.

“Damn it,” the cook muttered, pulling the basket free to reveal a batch of fries too dark to salvage. The fryer sputtered, small flecks of oil bubbling over the edge. Dean was across the room in an instant, his voice calm but commanding. 

“Kill the heat,” he ordered. “Now.” The cook fumbled with the controls, his hands shaking as he tried to shut the fryer off. Castiel stepped forward without hesitation, his movements smooth and confident as he reached for the controls.

“I’ve got it,” Castiel said, flipping the switch and cutting the fryer’s power. He grabbed a nearby towel, carefully placing it over the rim to contain the splatter. “It’s fine,” he said to the cook, his tone steady. “Just get another batch started. I’ll clean this up.” Dean stood nearby, watching the scene unfold. His jaw tightened as his gaze lingered on Castiel, who wiped the edges of the fryer with quick, efficient movements. The air around Dean felt charged, his usual composure slipping for just a moment as he bit his lip and looked away.

“Good work,” Dean said finally, his voice quieter than usual. He turned toward the pass, his shoulders stiff as though trying to shake something off. Castiel barely registered the comment, too focused on the task at hand. He reset the station quickly, ensuring the fryer was ready to be used again before stepping back to his own station. The incident passed like a ripple in the current, the kitchen’s rhythm resuming almost immediately.

By the time the last order was sent out, the kitchen had begun to quiet. The clatter of pans had given way to the softer sounds of cleaning, and the faint hum of the refrigerator filled the spaces between voices. Castiel wiped down his station, the lingering scent of citrus and thyme clinging to his hands.

“Castiel,” Dean’s voice cut through the air, low and even. Castiel turned, catching Dean’s gaze from across the room. Dean’s expression was unreadable, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Can I see you when you’re done?” Dean asked, his tone calm but carrying an edge of something Castiel couldn’t quite place.

“Yeah, sure,” Castiel replied, blinking in mild confusion. 

Dean nodded once before disappearing into his office, leaving Castiel to finish his tasks with a faint unease curling at the edge of his thoughts. What could Dean possibly want to talk about? Castiel shook his head, brushing the question aside as he focused on cleaning. Castiel got a raised eyebrow from Charlie but he shrugged and went back to cleaning. 

The office was small but tidy, the faint scent of paper and ink mingling with the last traces of the kitchen’s aromas. Castiel stepped inside hesitantly, his hands still slightly damp from scrubbing pots. Dean sat behind the desk, his fingers drumming lightly against the wood.

“Close the door,” Dean said, his voice quiet but firm. Castiel obeyed, stepping further into the room. The air between them felt charged, the silence stretching just a little too long before Dean finally spoke. “You handled that fryer situation well,” Dean said, his gaze steady. “Quick thinking under pressure. Most people would’ve panicked.”

“Thanks,” Castiel replied, shifting slightly where he stood. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It was,” Dean countered, his voice firm. “Service could’ve gone off the rails if you hadn’t stepped in. I noticed.” Something in Dean’s tone caught Castiel off guard, but he couldn’t place it. He nodded, unsure of how to respond. Dean leaned back in his chair, his expression softening just slightly. 

“I just wanted to say... you’re doing a good job,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Better than I expected.” Castiel blinked, the rare compliment settling over him like an unfamiliar warmth. 

“Thanks,” he said again, his voice steadier this time. Dean held his gaze for a moment longer, something unspoken flickering in his eyes before he glanced down at the papers on his desk. 

“That’s all,” he said, his tone shifting back to something more neutral.

Castiel nodded, turning toward the door. As he stepped out into the quiet hallway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more Dean had wanted to say. The thought lingered, small and persistent, as he made his way back into the empty kitchen to gather his things.

The crisp night air hit Castiel as he stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the lingering heat of the kitchen. The street was quiet, save for the occasional hum of a passing car or the distant murmur of voices from a nearby bar. He exhaled slowly, the tension from the day still buzzing faintly in his chest. Leaning casually against the wall beside the door, Charlie waited, her arms crossed and a knowing grin tugging at her lips. Her red hair caught the faint glow of the streetlights, giving her an almost mischievous edge.

“Fancy seeing you out here,” she teased, pushing off the wall as Castiel approached. “Where are you off to?”

“That way,” Castiel replied, his tone even but a little tired. He adjusted the strap of his bag and gave her a sidelong glance. “Why are you still here?” Charlie fell into step beside him, her grin widening. 

“Same way, apparently. I can keep you company.” Castiel raised a brow but didn’t protest, his steps slowing slightly to match hers.

“So,” Charlie began, her tone far too casual to be innocent, “what did Dean want?”

“Just wanted to talk about the fryer situation,” Castiel replied, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “Nothing big.” Charlie’s eyes narrowed, her grin shifting into a smirk. 

“Uh-huh. Sure. Dean pulled you into his office after service for just that? Not buying it, rookie.” Castiel sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

“That’s what it was about, Charlie. The fryer. He wanted to talk about how I handled it.”

“Right,” Charlie said, drawing the word out with a dramatic flourish. “And let me guess, he also told you how good you’re doing and gave you one of those looks he thinks no one notices.” Castiel stopped mid-step, turning to glare at her. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, though the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed his irritation. Charlie shrugged, clearly enjoying herself. 

“I’m just saying, it’s not every day Dean pulls someone aside to personally praise them. You’re special, Castiel. Apparently, in more ways than one.” He groaned, resuming his pace as he tried to ignore her. 

“He’s our boss. He’s just being thorough. Besides,” he added, shooting her a pointed look, “if anyone needs a warning, it’s about that fryer. I came here worried about freezing to death, not getting doused in boiling oil every other day.” Charlie barked out a laugh, throwing her head back. 

“Fair point,” she admitted. “But don’t think for a second that means I’m letting this go. Dean doesn’t just hand out compliments. And the way he looks at you sometimes? Yeah, I’m keeping an eye on this.”

“Charlie,” Castiel said, exasperation clear in his voice, “it’s not like that.”

“Whatever you say, rookie,” she replied, her grin never faltering. They walked in silence for a few moments, the faint crunch of their footsteps on the pavement filling the space between them. Castiel’s mind churned despite his attempts to push the conversation aside. Charlie’s teasing was harmless, but her words echoed uncomfortably in the back of his thoughts. As they reached the corner where their paths split, Charlie gave him a playful nudge. 

“See you monday, Cas. Try not to let Dean distract you too much, yeah?”

“Goodnight, Charlie,” Castiel muttered, shaking his head but unable to stop a small smile from tugging at his lips.

As he continued down the street, the cool air brushing against his skin, he found himself replaying the events of the night. Dean’s words, the brief moments of unspoken tension, Charlie’s relentless teasing—it all lingered, weaving itself into a thread he wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

Chapter Text

The faint scent of popcorn floated in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of Balthazar’s cologne and the warm, rich smell of Gabriel’s expensive leather shoes, which he’d kicked off by the door as if he owned the place. The curtains were drawn against the summer sun, leaving the living room bathed in the soft glow of the television screen, which displayed a paused movie menu waiting for someone to hit play.

“Honestly, Castiel,” Gabriel said from where he lounged on the couch, a half-empty glass of wine balanced precariously on his knee, “you’ve turned into a ghost. You’re either at that restaurant or asleep. Do you even remember what daylight looks like?” Balthazar, sprawled across the armchair with his legs draped over one side, smirked as he popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth. 

“He probably doesn’t,” he drawled. “I mean, when was the last time you sat here with us and did something pointless? Hmm? Exactly.” Castiel, perched on the floor by the coffee table, shot them both a weary look. 

“I’ve been busy,” he said simply, reaching for the remote to start the movie. Gabriel snatched the remote from his hand with a flourish, wagging it like a scolding finger. 

“Oh no, little brother, you don’t get to avoid this intervention. You’ve been working yourself into an early grave, and for what? Some sweaty kitchen job with a chef who can’t even tell you how he feels?”

“That’s not what’s happening,” Castiel said firmly, though his voice carried an edge of exhaustion. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the couch.

“Isn’t it?” Gabriel pressed, his grin sharp and knowing. “You work harder than anyone else there, you take on more responsibility than half the staff, and don’t think I haven’t heard about the glances. Honestly, Castiel, it’s a little tragic.”

“I told you,” Castiel said, his patience wearing thin. “It’s not like that. Dean’s my boss. That’s it.” Balthazar snorted, tossing a piece of popcorn at Castiel’s head. 

“Sure, Cassie,” he said with mock sympathy. “Keep saying it. Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

“Why am I friends with either of you?” Castiel muttered, brushing the popcorn off his shoulder.

“Because we’re delightful,” Balthazar replied, grinning. He grabbed the remote from Gabriel, ignoring his protests, and hit play. The room filled with the opening notes of a classic thriller, the familiar theme music washing over them.

Soon the coffee table was cluttered with empty glasses, crumpled napkins, and the remnants of takeout containers. The marathon had stretched into its third movie, and Castiel found himself slowly relaxing into the soft chaos of the afternoon. Gabriel had moved to the floor at some point, gesturing dramatically at the screen as he dissected the plot’s supposed holes. 

“I mean, really? Who doesn’t check behind the door? It’s like these characters want to be murdered.”

“You’ve clearly never been in a horror movie situation,” Balthazar quipped, his eyes half-lidded as he lounged deeper into the armchair. “Door-checking is for people with time to think. Adrenaline makes fools of us all.”

“Adrenaline or stupidity?” Gabriel countered, taking a sip of his wine.

“Both,” Castiel interjected, unable to stop the faint smile tugging at his lips. The banter continued, ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of the movie’s plot twists and reveals. Castiel watched them, his gaze softening as a sense of familiarity wrapped around him like a warm blanket. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed this—the effortless camaraderie, the way Gabriel’s over-the-top commentary blended with Balthazar’s sardonic humor to create a kind of chaotic harmony.

“You’re smiling,” Balthazar said suddenly, breaking Castiel from his thoughts. “I knew it. You missed us.”

“I didn’t say that,” Castiel replied quickly, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Your face says it for you,” Gabriel chimed in, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“Fine,” Castiel said with a resigned sigh, leaning back against the couch. “I missed this. A little.”

“A little?” Gabriel echoed, feigning outrage. “We’re your family, Castiel. You should be groveling with how much you’ve neglected us.”

“I’m not groveling,” Castiel said, but the faint smile returned. Balthazar smirked, tossing another piece of popcorn at him. 

“We’ll take what we can get, darling.” As the movie played on, Castiel allowed himself to sink further into the moment, the tension of the past week melting away. Whatever awaited him at the restaurant could wait for tomorrow. For now, he was home.

The movie marathon rolled on, the screen flickering with the muted tones of a suspenseful thriller. The living room had settled into a comfortable hum of shared silence, broken only by Gabriel’s occasional commentary and Balthazar’s lazy quips. Castiel sat on the floor, his back resting against the base of the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. He let himself sink into the moment, the glow of the television casting faint shadows across the room. The warmth of his brother’s presence and Balthazar’s familiar antics wrapped around him like a forgotten comfort. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this—the ease of being surrounded by people who knew him so completely. Then his phone buzzed against the table. Castiel glanced down, the faint glow of the screen catching his attention. He picked it up, his brow furrowing as he saw the message.

Unknown: Is this Castiel?

His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he typed back.

Castiel: Yes. Who’s this?

The response came almost immediately, the name attached to the next message making him blink.

Dean: It’s Dean.

Castiel straightened slightly, the room around him fading into the background as he stared at the screen. Why was Dean texting him? The thought buzzed in his mind as he quickly typed back.

Castiel: How did you get my number?

Before Dean could respond, a shadow loomed over him.

“Who are you texting?” Balthazar asked, his voice lilting with curiosity as he leaned over Castiel’s shoulder.

“None of your business,” Castiel replied, pulling the phone closer to his chest.

“Oh, it’s very much my business,” Balthazar teased, making a grab for the phone. Castiel twisted away, holding the phone out of reach as Balthazar leaned in, his laughter ringing through the room. 

“You’re being suspicious, darling,” Balthazar said, his grin widening. As Castiel fended off Balthazar’s attempts to snatch the phone, he failed to notice Gabriel until it was too late.

“Got it!” Gabriel announced triumphantly, snatching the phone from Castiel’s hand while his attention was diverted.

“Gabriel, give it back!” Castiel said, scrambling to his feet, but Gabriel had already stepped back, holding the phone just out of reach.

“What do we have here?” Gabriel mused, his grin sharp as he scrolled through the recent messages.

“Gabriel!” Castiel’s voice was a mix of frustration and embarrassment as he lunged for the phone.

“Oh, this is good,” Gabriel said, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he read aloud. “Is this Castiel? Oh, it’s Dean!” He shot Castiel a look, his smirk widening. “Your chef is texting you? What is this, some forbidden workplace romance?”

“Gabriel, stop,” Castiel said, his face flushing as he grabbed for the phone again. Balthazar leaned against the armchair, grinning. 

“Oh, this is better than the movie,” he said, clearly delighted.

“Give it back,” Castiel demanded, finally managing to snatch the phone from Gabriel’s hand. He quickly turned away, his heart pounding as he checked the screen.

Dean’s next message had arrived:

Dean: Got it from the staff contact sheet. Hope that’s okay.

Castiel exhaled slowly, his fingers hesitating over the keyboard as he tried to ignore the amused stares from his companions.

“Come on, Cassie,” Gabriel said, his tone smug. “We’re dying to know—what’s your mysterious chef want? A late-night recipe consultation? Or something… spicier?”

“Enough,” Castiel snapped, though his voice lacked bite. He could feel his cheeks burning as he typed back quickly.

Castiel: It’s fine. Why are you texting me?

“Why indeed?” Balthazar added, leaning closer with an exaggerated look of intrigue.

“Both of you, stop,” Castiel muttered, clutching the phone tightly as he waited for Dean’s reply.

The phone buzzed again, and Castiel glanced at the screen.

Dean: Wanted to thank you again for handling the fryer situation so well. You really stepped up.

For a moment, Castiel’s irritation melted into something softer. He stared at the message, his lips twitching into a faint smile despite himself.

“Uh-oh,” Gabriel said, catching the change in Castiel’s expression. “He’s smiling. It’s worse than I thought.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel warned, though his voice lacked the force to be convincing.

“Oh, Cassie,” Balthazar said with a sigh, draping himself across the armrest. “This is the beginning of a beautiful disaster, and I, for one, am here for it.”

Ignoring them both, Castiel quickly typed back.

Castiel: Just doing my job. Thanks for noticing.

The phone buzzed almost immediately with Dean’s response.

Dean: You do more than just your job, Castiel. See you Monday.

Castiel stared at the screen, the words sinking in. For a moment, he forgot about Gabriel’s teasing and Balthazar’s grinning commentary. All he could think about was the faint, persistent warmth in his chest as he read the message again.

“See you Monday,” Balthazar mimicked in a sing-song voice, and Castiel groaned, shoving the phone into his pocket as he turned back to the television.

“Let it go,” he muttered, though he couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. The movie played on, a flicker of action sequences and muffled dialogue filling the background as Castiel’s focus stayed firmly on his phone. His heart thudded faintly in his chest, a small, steady rhythm that contrasted the chaos around him.

His phone buzzed again, and he glanced down.

Dean: Actually, I do have a question.

Castiel blinked, his brows knitting slightly as he quickly typed a response.

Castiel: Yes?

A pause, then another buzz.

Dean: Can you meet tomorrow?

The words made Castiel’s chest tighten slightly. Meet tomorrow? For what? His thumb hovered over the keyboard, a dozen possible scenarios flashing through his mind. Was it about the restaurant? A last-minute meeting to go over preparations for the week? Or something else entirely? Just as he began typing his reply, Gabriel’s voice cut through the air.

“Oh no, he’s at it again,” Gabriel said, his tone dripping with theatrical exasperation. “First the shy little smiles, and now the brooding silence. What did he say this time? ‘Castiel, you’re the only one who understands the art of seasoning?’” Balthazar, sprawled lazily across the armchair, tilted his head with a smirk. 

“Or maybe, ‘Castiel, meet me tomorrow so we can discuss why I can’t stop staring at you in the kitchen.’”

“Will you two stop?” Castiel snapped, his face flushing as he turned his back to them.

“Oh, we’re just getting started, darling,” Balthazar said with a chuckle. “This is far too entertaining to ignore.” Gabriel leaned over the back of the couch, peering over Castiel’s shoulder. 

“Let me see,” he demanded, making a grab for the phone.

“No,” Castiel said firmly, holding it out of reach. But while he fended off Gabriel, Balthazar seized his moment, slipping off the armchair with surprising agility. Before Castiel could react, Balthazar snatched the phone from his hand, retreating a few steps with a triumphant grin.

“Balthazar!” Castiel’s voice rose, sharp with frustration as he lunged toward him.

“Let’s see what the chef has to say,” Balthazar teased, holding the phone just out of reach as Castiel advanced. Gabriel leaned against the back of the couch, laughing at the unfolding chaos.

“Give it back,” Castiel demanded, his voice firm but tinged with exasperation. Balthazar raised the phone, squinting at the screen. 

“‘Can you meet tomorrow?’” he read aloud, his voice dripping with mock intrigue. He looked up at Castiel with a wicked grin. “Oh, this is good. What do you think he wants, Gabriel?” Gabriel tapped his chin, his expression turning mock-serious. 

“I’m guessing a confession of undying love,” he said with a shrug. “Or maybe a private cooking lesson. Either way, this is better than the movie.” Castiel groaned, running a hand through his hair as he tried to snatch the phone back. 

“You two are the worst,” he muttered, his tone caught between annoyance and reluctant amusement. Balthazar finally relented, tossing the phone back to Castiel with a flourish. 

“There you go, darling. Don’t say we never gave you anything.” Castiel caught the phone, his cheeks still warm as he quickly typed out a response.

Castiel: Sure. When and where?

He hit send and pocketed the phone before either of them could snatch it again. Gabriel and Balthazar exchanged a knowing glance, their grins far too satisfied for Castiel’s liking.

“Just so you know,” Gabriel said, settling back onto the couch, “we’re rooting for you. You and your brooding chef. It’s almost romantic.”

“Almost tragic,” Balthazar added, smirking as he grabbed another handful of popcorn.

“Goodnight,” Castiel said firmly, making his way toward his room before they could say anything else. As he closed the door behind him, the muffled sound of their laughter followed him. He leaned against the door, exhaling slowly. His phone buzzed again, and he pulled it out, his chest tightening as he read the reply.

Dean: 2 p.m. at Gribshunden?

Castiel stared at the message for a moment, his mind racing with possibilities. What does he want? The question lingered, tugging at the edges of his thoughts as he placed the phone on his bedside table. Whatever it was, he would find out tomorrow. For now, he needed to calm the faint flutter of nerves in his chest and get some sleep.

Castiel: Yeah, sure.

Castiel crossed his arms, his expression a mix of exasperation and resignation. Gabriel lounged on the couch, his wine glass dangling from one hand, while Balthazar perched on the armrest, tossing another piece of popcorn into his mouth like it was the most casual interrogation in the world.

“You two are ridiculous,” Castiel said, his voice dry and tired. “You haven’t even met him.” Gabriel’s grin spread slowly, a mischievous glint lighting his eyes. He swirled the wine in his glass with an air of mock sophistication. 

“In real life? No,” he admitted, the words drawn out as though he were savoring them. Then, with a dramatic pause, he added, “Stalked him online? Very much so.”

“What?” Castiel’s eyes widened, his hands dropping to his sides.

“Oh, come on, Castiel,” Gabriel said, sitting up straighter and fixing him with a look that was equal parts smug and incredulous. “It’s the twenty-first century. A quick Google search and a peek at his social media? That’s child’s play.”

“More like a public service,” Balthazar chimed in, smirking. “You work for him. We had to make sure he wasn’t secretly some axe-wielding maniac. And let me tell you, darling, those biceps are anything but secret.”

“Stop,” Castiel groaned, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. Gabriel leaned forward, setting his wine glass on the table as he spoke. 

“Relax, little brother. It’s not like we uncovered anything scandalous. He’s just your typical brooding perfectionist with an unexpected soft spot for rescue dogs. You could do worse.”

“Much worse,” Balthazar added, his grin widening. “We could’ve found a collection of creepy clown art. Or an un-ironic fondness for cargo shorts.” Castiel groaned again, louder this time, his cheeks warming as he tried to block out their commentary. 

“You two are impossible.”

“And you’re avoiding the topic,” Gabriel shot back, his grin sharpening. “Dean texting you outside of work hours? Asking to meet? If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone’s got a crush.”

“It’s not like that,” Castiel said firmly, though the blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of the restaurant’s AC filtered into the office, muffled by the thick oak door. Dean sat at his desk, papers spread across the surface in a haphazard manner that didn’t quite match his otherwise meticulous nature. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the faint smudges of ink on his forearms where his pen had betrayed him. A small lamp illuminated the space, casting warm light on the collection of handwritten recipes scattered before him. Dean leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen absently against his bottom lip. His mind churned, trying to find that elusive spark—the idea that would elevate their menu before the critic’s visit. The faint knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called, his voice carrying a calm authority that masked the swirl of thoughts beneath. The door creaked open, and Castiel stepped inside, the late afternoon light framing him in the doorway before he closed it behind him. He looked slightly hesitant, his hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jeans, but there was a familiar spark of determination in his dark eyes.

“You wanted to see me?” Castiel asked, stepping closer to the desk. Dean gestured toward the chair opposite him.

“Sit. I need your thoughts on something.” Castiel sat down, his gaze flicking over the mess of papers on the desk. Recipes, notes, and scribbled ideas overlapped, forming a chaotic tapestry of Dean’s brainstorming. He picked up one of the pages, scanning the neat script with mild curiosity. “We need to come up with something unique,” Dean began, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. His fingers intertwined, his brows knitting together in concentration. “Something that leaves a lasting impression. A flavour that lingers... something that critic won’t forget.” Castiel tilted his head, his expression thoughtful as he set the paper back down. 

“Maybe the focus shouldn’t just be on the flavours,” he said slowly, his voice soft but steady. “What if it’s about the memories the dishes can awaken? Isn’t it nostalgia that creates the best meals?” Dean blinked, the pen in his hand stilling as he considered Castiel’s words. 

“Nostalgia,” he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue as if he were tasting it. His gaze lifted to meet Castiel’s, and for a moment, something warm and quiet passed between them. “You might be onto something.” The corner of Castiel’s lips twitched into a faint smile, and he leaned back slightly, his arms crossing over his chest. 

“Think about it. What’s the meal you remember most? Not the fanciest, but the one that stays with you.” Dean’s mind immediately conjured an image of his uncle Bobby’s kitchen, the scent of slow-cooked stew mingling with the faint aroma of sawdust from the workshop outside. He could almost hear Bobby’s gruff laugh, the way he’d ruffle Dean’s hair and call him ‘kid’ no matter how old he got.

“Stew,” Dean said after a moment, his voice quieter. “My uncle used to make it. Simple, but...” He trailed off, shaking his head as if brushing away the vulnerability that threatened to surface. “You’re right. It’s the memories that matter.” Castiel’s smile softened, his gaze lingering on Dean. There was something almost reverent in the way Dean spoke when he let his guard down, as though the layers of his sharp, commanding presence hid a quieter, more thoughtful man beneath.

“Maybe we can play with that,” Castiel offered. “Take a simple dish like that and refine it. Keep the heart of it but elevate the presentation and the flavours.” Dean nodded, his mind already racing with possibilities. 

“We’ll need to workshop it. A dish like that has to hit the right notes without losing what makes it comforting.” Their conversation drifted into brainstorming, the space between them growing warmer as they exchanged ideas. Dean found himself watching Castiel more than he meant to—the way his hands moved as he gestured, the faint furrow of his brow when he thought deeply, the quiet confidence in his voice.

It unsettled him, this growing awareness of Castiel. The way his presence filled the room, grounding and steady, yet somehow stirring something unfamiliar in Dean’s chest. He told himself it was admiration—respect for Castiel’s instincts and determination. But even as the thought crossed his mind, it felt too simple, too shallow to explain the flutter of something deeper when Castiel smiled.

‘Get a grip,’ he thought. ‘You’re his boss, not some lovestruck idiot.’ But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept drifting back to Castiel—the quiet conviction in his voice, the way his eyes lit up when an idea sparked. Dean shook his head, silently cursing himself for letting his guard down.

Dean wanted to die. 

Or drink. 

Maybe both.

It wasn’t enough that Castiel had somehow wormed his way into the kitchen like he belonged there, catching on to rhythms and instincts Dean had taken years to hone. No, now he was in Dean’s office, sitting across from him like this was the most natural thing in the world, talking about nostalgia and memory as if he hadn’t completely derailed Dean’s ability to think straight. Dean barely resisted the urge to run a hand down his face, the pen in his fingers still tapping rhythmically against the desk. It had been a mistake to leave the front door unlocked earlier in the day, all because he didn’t want to run into Castiel outright. The man had a way of looking at him —steady and thoughtful— that made Dean feel seen in ways he wasn’t sure he liked. And now? Now Castiel was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, talking about stew and memory like this wasn’t driving Dean to distraction.

“It’s the warmth of it,” Castiel was saying, his voice calm and measured. His dark eyes flicked between Dean and the papers scattered across the desk. “Stew isn’t just food; it’s comfort. It’s the kind of dish that makes you feel safe, like the world can’t touch you for a little while.” Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry. Castiel’s words made him think of Bobby’s kitchen all over again, the solid presence of his uncle and the safety Dean had always felt there. He wanted to nod, to agree, but his tongue felt thick in his mouth. Instead, he cleared his throat and tried to focus. 

“So... you’re saying we keep it simple. Familiar.” Castiel nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Exactly. Refined enough to stand out but rooted in something people already know. Nostalgia doesn’t have to be fancy; it just has to feel real.” Dean stared at him for a moment, caught off guard by how easily the words seemed to flow from him. Castiel’s hair was slightly mussed, his shirt rumpled in a way that suggested he hadn’t stopped moving all day. There was a light dusting of flour on his sleeve, probably from earlier, and Dean’s gaze lingered on it for a beat too long. What was it about this man that turned Dean into a complete idiot? He’d built his reputation on precision, on control, and now all of that was slipping through his fingers because of one damn sous-chef-in-training.

“Dean?” Dean blinked, realizing Castiel was watching him with a curious tilt of his head. “Yeah,” he said quickly, snapping himself out of it. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He picked up one of the recipes on the desk, holding it up as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Castiel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. 

“Are you sure? You seemed a little… distracted.”

“Not distracted,” Dean lied, his grip tightening on the paper. “Just thinking.”

“Right.” Castiel’s smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with faint amusement. He reached forward, plucking the recipe from Dean’s hand and glancing at it. “This could work,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “Maybe add a twist with the seasoning—something unexpected but subtle.” Dean watched the way Castiel’s fingers traced the edge of the paper, his mind wandering despite himself. He thought about the way Castiel moved in the kitchen, the quiet confidence he carried even when he didn’t realize he had it.

‘Get it together,’ Dean told himself firmly. ‘ He’s your employee, not some… ’ But his thoughts trailed off as Castiel glanced up at him, his expression soft and open.

“You sure you’re okay?” Castiel asked, his voice quieter now. Dean wanted to lie, to brush it off with some gruff remark, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he nodded, his jaw tightening. 

“Fine,” he said finally, though it sounded far less convincing than he’d hoped. Castiel didn’t press, but his gaze lingered a moment longer before he leaned back again, his attention returning to the recipe in his hands. Dean let out a slow breath, grateful for the momentary reprieve, though the tension in his chest refused to ease. The rest of the conversation blurred together, Castiel’s voice weaving through Dean’s thoughts like a thread he couldn’t quite untangle. By the time they wrapped up, Dean felt drained—not from the work, but from the sheer effort it took to keep himself together. As Castiel stood to leave, his movements unhurried, Dean’s gaze followed him. He told himself it was just professional—watching his sous-chef-in-training walk out of the room. But when the door clicked shut behind him, Dean let his head fall into his hands, the papers on the desk crinkling beneath his elbows.

“I’m screwed,” he muttered, the words muffled against his palms. For the first time in years, Dean didn’t know what to do. Drink? Avoid Castiel entirely? None of it felt like enough. He sighed, leaning back in his chair as he stared up at the ceiling. Castiel had walked into his restaurant and, somehow, into his head. And no matter how much Dean tried to push it away, the truth lingered, quiet but undeniable.

He didn’t just admire Castiel. He was falling for him.

After a sleepless night the soft hum of the early kitchen filled the air, a mix of knife-on-board rhythms and the faint hiss of simmering stock welcomed Dean like an old friend. Soon, Castiel and Dean stood shoulder to shoulder at the prep station, a comfortable silence settling between them as they reviewed the notes from the previous evening. Dean’s sharp green eyes scanned the paper, his focus unwavering as he dissected each word they’d scribbled down in their brainstorming session. He held the notes loosely, but his grip tightened slightly whenever his gaze flicked toward Castiel. Castiel, oblivious or simply unbothered, had already begun preparing the ingredients. His movements were precise, each chop and slice falling into a rhythm that seemed to anchor the space. The bright scent of lemons being zested mingled with the earthy aroma of fresh thyme, the combination grounding and invigorating.Dean watched out of the corner of his eye as Castiel worked, his focus entirely on the task at hand. The crisp white of his chef’s coat fit him perfectly, accentuating the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate from him this morning. Dean felt the heat creep up his neck and mentally cursed himself. ‘ Get it together,’ he thought, dragging his attention back to the notes.

The dining room carried a quiet elegance, its polished wooden tables gleaming softly in the midday light streaming through the windows. The soft murmur of conversation created a pleasant buzz, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the occasional laughter from a nearby table.

The maître d’ stepped forward as the door swung open, revealing an elderly man with grey-streaked hair dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. Mister Crowley moved with an air of quiet authority, his sharp eyes scanning the room as though assessing every detail.

“This way, sir,” the maître d’ said, leading him to a table near the center of the room. Crowley sat down smoothly, his movements deliberate, and pulled a sleek notepad from his inner pocket. His pen hovered over the page as his gaze dropped to the menu. Dean watched from the edge of the kitchen, his posture stiff as he observed the critic from a distance. Crowley’s face remained impassive as he flipped through the menu, pausing briefly on the daily specials before jotting down notes with quick, decisive strokes. The kitchen buzzed with controlled energy, the staff moving efficiently as orders began to roll in. Castiel, now fully in his element, worked beside Dean, his coat pristine despite the heat of the room. He adjusted the seasoning on a sauce, the spoon held delicately between his fingers as he tasted it.

“Remember,” Castiel said softly, glancing toward Dean, “it’s not just about the food. It’s about the story we tell.” Dean nodded, his jaw tightening as he glanced back toward the dining area. The image of Crowley sitting at the table, pen poised like a weapon, lingered in his mind. Dean turned back to the kitchen, his voice firm. 

“Let’s make sure that story’s worth telling.”

As the service hit its stride, the kitchen felt alive with movement and purpose. Castiel moved through the space with a confidence that seemed to have grown overnight. He called out orders with steady authority, his voice calm but clear, and his hands worked with a precision that made even the most complex tasks look effortless. Dean couldn’t help but notice the shift. Castiel wasn’t just following instructions anymore—he was taking charge, making decisions with an ease that felt natural. They worked together seamlessly, their movements synchronizing without a word as they plated dish after dish.

“Duck special, table six,” Castiel called, sliding the plate onto the pass. Dean inspected it quickly, his sharp eyes catching every detail. 

“Looks good,” he said, his voice carrying a note of approval. Castiel flashed a quick smile before turning back to his station, his focus already shifting to the next dish. Dean’s chest tightened at the sight, the faint warmth in Castiel’s expression stirring something he couldn’t quite name. Dean found himself drawn to Castiel’s side more often than necessary, the pull inexplicable but undeniable. They worked together in silence, the heat of the kitchen and the pressure of the service fading into the background as their focus narrowed on the dishes before them. Every now and then, Dean’s gaze would drift to Castiel—his determined expression, the way his hands moved with practiced ease, the faint flush of heat on his cheeks. It was infuriating, how effortlessly Castiel seemed to draw him in without even trying.

Dean shook his head, silently berating himself as he turned back to his own tasks. There was no room for distraction—not today. Not with Crowley in the dining room, his pen poised to critique every detail. But even as Dean pushed himself to stay focused, a quiet thought lingered at the edge of his mind: The kitchen was starting to feel different... better. And he couldn’t deny that Castiel had everything to do with it. The clatter of pans and the rhythmic chop of knives filling the air like a symphony. Orders poured in, clipped to the pass in quick succession, and Castiel stood at the center of it all. His voice rang out, firm and steady, cutting through the noise with practiced precision.

“Table seven, duck and risotto!” he called, scanning the tickets. “Table twelve, two pasta specials, one salmon!” The line cooks responded with efficiency, their hands moving in perfect rhythm as they plated dishes and sent them to the pass. Castiel worked alongside them, checking plates, adjusting garnishes, and stepping in wherever needed. The kitchen hummed with an energy that felt almost alive, each person a piece of a larger machine. At one point, a server returned with a plate of chicken, the meat slightly dry and the sauce separating at the edges. Castiel didn’t flinch.

“Redo this,” he said firmly, handing the plate back to the cook. His voice carried no malice, only the assurance of someone who knew exactly what needed to be done. “And watch your heat on the sauce pan next time.” Dean caught the exchange from the corner of his eye as he finished plating a dish. His lips pressed into a thin line, and while his face remained impassive, there was a flicker of approval in his gaze. Castiel was adapting. More than that—he was thriving.

But there was no time to linger. The orders kept coming, the demands of the kitchen pulling them both into the relentless rhythm of service.

From the pass, Dean caught glimpses of the dining room as servers moved efficiently between tables. Crowley sat with his notepad in hand, his face unreadable as a server placed the appetizer special before him. Dean watched as the critic cut into the dish, his movements precise. Crowley took a bite, chewing slowly before jotting something down. Dean’s stomach twisted as he turned away, forcing himself to focus. The dining room buzzed with quiet conversation, the soft hum of activity almost soothing compared to the controlled chaos of the kitchen. But all Dean could see was the centre of it—or at least the centre of Dean’s world in that moment: Mister Crowley, his sharp eyes scanning the room as he waited for his main dish. When it arrived, the server placed it before him with a subtle bow. The dish was an elegant reinterpretation of a stew that had thanks to Castiel been elevated into a work of art. Thin layers of potato, anchovy, and cream were arranged with meticulous care, the golden crust glistening under the warm light. Crowley picked up his fork, inspecting the dish with an expression that betrayed nothing. He cut into it, the crust giving way with a satisfying crack, and lifted the first bite to his mouth.

He paused.

His pen was in his hand a moment later, moving furiously across the page of his notepad as his expression shifted into something almost contemplative. He beckoned the maître d’ with a subtle gesture. The maître d’ approached quickly, leaning in as Crowley whispered something. He nodded, his face carefully neutral, and walked away, heading toward the kitchen.

The tension in the kitchen spiked as the maître d’ entered, his presence cutting through the noise like a knife. Dean turned to him immediately, his posture straightening.

“Mister Crowley wants to speak with you,” the maître d’ said, his tone measured. Dean nodded, wiping his hands on a towel before tossing it onto the counter. He glanced at Castiel, who was watching from his station, his brow furrowed with curiosity and concern.

“Keep things moving,” Dean said to the staff before stepping out of the kitchen. Dean’s heart thudded in his chest as he approached Crowley’s table. The critic’s expression was unreadable, his notepad resting closed beside his glass of water. The dining room felt quieter as Dean arrived, every step toward the table deliberate and steady.

“Chef,” Crowley said, his voice smooth and carrying a faint edge of intrigue. He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Please, sit.” Dean hesitated for only a moment before lowering himself into the chair. Crowley’s sharp gaze fixed on him, studying him as though he were an extension of the dish. “This,” Crowley began, gesturing toward the plate before him, “is truly fascinating. I haven’t tasted anything like it in a long time.” Dean exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly. 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice steady. “A great deal of time was spent selecting the ingredients and refining the recipe.” Crowley leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. 

“Tell me, Chef, what inspired this dish?” Dean’s gaze flicked briefly to the saloon doors, where he could just make out Castiel’s silhouette through the small round window. His lips curved into a faint smile as he looked back at Crowley.

“For us at Gribshunden,” Dean said, his tone confident but warm, “cooking isn’t just about making food taste good. It’s about sharing experiences and creating memories. This dish is meant to evoke nostalgia —comfort, familiarity— but with a refinement that makes it unforgettable.” Crowley nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. 

“If that was your goal, you’ve succeeded admirably. The balance of flavours is remarkable.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, then added, “If you’re interested, I’d love for you to meet the person who helped create today’s specials.” He gestured toward the saloon doors. Castiel’s silhouette froze, and after a brief pause, the younger man stepped forward hesitantly, pushing the doors open. Castiel approached the table, his steps measured as his hands fidgeted at his sides. He caught Dean’s gaze briefly, and something in the older chef’s expression steadied him. “This is Castiel,” Dean said, his voice carrying a note of pride that Castiel didn’t expect. “He’s been instrumental in shaping our menu this week.” Crowley’s sharp eyes turned to Castiel, appraising him with the same scrutiny he’d given the dish. 

“Castiel,” he said, his tone even, “you’ve done well. This dish is more than just food—it’s a story. One worth telling.” 

Castiel blinked, his lips parting slightly as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, he nodded, a small, genuine smile breaking across his face. Dean’s chest tightened as he watched the exchange. He wanted to say more —to express the depth of Castiel’s contribution— but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he let the moment speak for itself, the quiet acknowledgment between Castiel and Crowley filling the space with something unspoken but profound.

The lunch rush continued, but for Dean, the memory of that moment lingered, softening the chaos of the day and the constant hum of activity that usually consumed Dean’s thoughts entirely. But not today. Today, even as he moved through the kitchen, checking plates and coordinating the team, his mind kept circling back to Castiel. Dean stole glances at him whenever he could—quick, fleeting looks that he hoped no one noticed. Castiel moved with a quiet confidence, his focus unshakable as he worked. There was a precision in his movements now, a steadiness that hadn’t been there when he’d first walked into the kitchen. Dean felt a swell of pride each time he watched Castiel handle a situation or adjust a dish with the ease of someone far more experienced. He tried to push the feeling aside, to bury it beneath the demands of the lunch rush. But it refused to be silenced. Every time Dean looked at Castiel, he felt it again—that quiet, persistent warmth that made his chest feel too small for his heart. At one point, as Castiel leaned over a station to adjust the garnish on a plate, Dean caught himself smiling. The realization startled him, and he quickly turned away, pretending to inspect a row of pans on the rack.

“Focus,” he told himself, gripping the edge of the counter as if the physical sensation might anchor him. But the memory of Castiel’s smile as he spoke to Crowley lingered, vivid and unshakable. By mid-afternoon, the rush had slowed, the kitchen settling into a steady hum. Castiel stood at his station, wiping down the counter with smooth, methodical movements. Dean approached under the guise of checking the pass, though his gaze drifted to Castiel before he could stop himself.

“You handled yourself well today,” Dean said, his voice low but sincere. Castiel looked up, his expression softening with surprise. 

“Thanks,” he said simply, though a faint blush crept up his neck. Dean nodded, clearing his throat as he turned back to the pass. 

“Keep it up. You’re doing good work.” The words felt inadequate, too small to encompass everything Dean wanted to say. But he couldn’t bring himself to say more, not when the kitchen was still alive with movement and sound. Instead, he focused on the plates in front of him, trying to ignore the way Castiel’s quiet presence seemed to fill the space between them.

As the afternoon wore on, Dean found himself replaying moments from the day—the way Castiel’s voice had carried across the kitchen, firm and steady as he called orders; the way his hands moved with surety as he plated dishes. Most of all, the way Crowley had looked at Castiel, his praise quiet but undeniable. Dean didn’t often feel proud of himself. The pressure of running the restaurant, the constant struggle to meet expectations—it left little room for anything but survival. But seeing Castiel step into his own, watching him grow into someone who belonged in the kitchen, filled Dean with a pride that was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just that Castiel was good at what he did. It was the way he carried himself, the quiet determination that set him apart. Dean found himself wondering how he’d gotten so lucky to have Castiel on his team, and the thought made his chest tighten with something that felt dangerously close to affection.

By the time the kitchen began to wind down for the evening, the weight of the day hung in the air, but Dean’s mind was still on Castiel. As the younger man cleaned his station, his movements unhurried, Dean lingered nearby, pretending to check inventory.

“Long day,” Dean said casually, glancing at Castiel out of the corner of his eye. Castiel looked up, his lips curving into a faint smile. 

“Yeah, but it went well.”

“It did,” Dean agreed, his voice quieter now. He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the clipboard in his hand. “You should be proud of yourself. Today wasn’t easy, and you handled it better than most would.” Castiel’s smile widened slightly, and for a moment, Dean thought he might say something in return. But instead, he nodded, his gaze meeting Dean’s briefly before returning to his work. Dean turned away, his chest feeling both full and inexplicably hollow. The kitchen was quiet now, the hum of the refrigerators the only sound. And yet, Dean couldn’t shake the thought that Castiel had brought something into his life that he hadn’t realized was missing—a sense of hope, of possibility. As Dean closed for the night and stepped into the cool evening air, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. For the first time in a long while, the future felt a little brighter. And Castiel was the reason why.

The evening air carried the scent of rain, the kind that teased the edges of the horizon but never quite fell. The streets were quiet, the usual hum of traffic softened to a distant murmur. Castiel and Dean stood side by side outside the restaurant, the soft glow of the overhead lamp casting their shadows onto the cracked pavement. Dean pulled a cigarette from the battered pack in his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate as he lit it. The flame flickered briefly, illuminating the faint lines of exhaustion on his face before disappearing into the night. He took a long drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled upward and dissolved into the cool air.

“We did it,” Dean said, his voice low and steady. Castiel turned to him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His hair was slightly mussed do to the long day and there was a quiet energy in his posture, a blend of relief and anticipation that hadn’t fully settled yet.

“So,” Castiel said, his tone light but curious, “what happens now?” Dean glanced at him, his green eyes catching the faint glimmer of the streetlights. He considered the question for a moment, the weight of the day still pressing against his chest but mingling now with something lighter—something hopeful.

“What do you say,” Dean began, his lips quirking into a faint smile, “shall we keep working together? Are you ready for this, chef?” The word ‘chef’ hung in the air between them, carrying with it a sense of camaraderie and promise that made Castiel’s smile widen. There was a spark in his eyes now, a glimmer of excitement that chased away the last traces of doubt.

“Absolutely,” Castiel replied, his voice steady but tinged with enthusiasm. “Chef.”

Dean took another drag of his cigarette, nodding slightly as he exhaled. He turned his gaze toward the street, watching the faint shimmer of headlights in the distance. His chest felt lighter than it had in weeks, as though the knot of tension he’d been carrying had finally loosened. The pride he felt for Castiel lingered, steady and insistent, like a low flame that refused to be extinguished. He’d seen potential in Castiel from the beginning, but watching him grow into his role —watching him thrive under pressure— had been something else entirely. Dean wasn’t the type to hope for much. Life had taught him to temper his expectations, to keep his head down and push forward without looking for anything more. But standing there beside Castiel, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, he’d stumbled onto something worth holding onto. As the cigarette burned down to its filter Dean dropped it to the ground and crushed it under his boot. He turned back to Castiel, who was still watching him with that quiet, unwavering gaze.

“Alright then,” Dean said, his voice softer now. “Let’s make this work.”

The faintest breeze rustled the leaves of the trees lining the street, carrying with it the promise of something new.