Sam and Cas are standing outside, waiting for Dean to finish arguing with the butcher.
Sam and Cas are not allowed to talk to anyone about food after the incident at the Farmer's Market.
"I like that," Cas says, and Sam looks up from his latte at the guy who just walked past them. It's a nice coat—a little Wall Street, but warm-looking.
"You'd look good in that coat," he says, nodding and handing Cas his green tea frappuccino, because Cas believes in cold drinks and whipped cream even in February, and Sam thinks that Cas probably shouldn't have caffeine.
"I would need the shoes, though," Cas adds after a beat, and Sam says,
"I think I have a pair, you can borrow them if you want."
Cas smiles at him and takes a sip of his frappuccino.
"I just feel like—those ones taste red, and these ones taste like strawberry," Sam explains, looking at the gummy bears.
"Red is a color," Cas points out.
"Yeah, but like, you know the Icees? How there's blue and red?"
"I think that's supposed to be cherry."
"It's red," Sam says, and hands Cas all the red gummy bears because he doesn't really like to taste colors.
"Oh my god, shut up," Dean says, turning the music up.
"And then she said that the dog was fine, it was just a cough—which, okay, I didn't know dogs get coughs," Sam says, and Cas makes an encouraging sound from the bed. Dean is snoring on the other bed, and Sam and Cas both pause when he starts coughing. It subsides though, and Cas flops back down on the bed and Sam slumps at the foot.
"Okay, but then, right, then she asked me if I had ever been to Wyoming, which was—like, she didn't explain where that was coming from and like a few days and I don't know—"
"You should do the voices," Cas says. "It's easier for me to follow this when you do the voices."
Cas hates the sounds of truck stops. Dean never notices, already headed out to take a piss, and Cas is slumped in the back seat, rubbing his eyes and glaring at the sounds of squealing breaks. Sam hands him his iPod.
Cas puts the earbuds in and listens for a little while.
"Is this Taylor Swift?"
"Yes," Sam says.
"I like it," Cas says, closing his eyes. "You're right, the new album is better."
"Sometimes I think I'd like a house like this," Sam says. Cas looks at him, then up at the wind-beaten old house, shutters faded by the sea and sun.
"It's nice here," Cas offers. "Now that we'e gotten rid of that poltergeist."
"You and Dean could buy the one next door," Sam says. He also kind of likes that 'next door' is a good long walk down the beach. Close enough not to panic, but far enough not to be on top of each other all the time.
"I would rather have black shutters," Cas agrees. "Maine is nice."
"We don't get a lot of calls on the east coast," Sam says, curling his toes in the sand.
"What the fuck," Dean says.
"Doesn't that drive you crazy?" Sam asks. Cas looks up from his phone, and Sam's kind of impressed that he unerringly looks across the room at Dean, who's being pawed at by an heiress and her brother—though Sam would bet good money Dean has no idea that brother is interested. Sam's pretty sure the only reason Dean got the message about Cas was that Cas bent Dean over and fucked him. Not that Sam wanted to know that, he just happened to be, you know. Sharing that room. Walked in.
Whatever, they don't talk about it.
"No," Cas says.
They stare at Dean.
"Thirty seconds," Sam says.
"Two minutes," Cas disagrees, and Sam sets the stopwatch on his phone. They stand there, in their uncomfortable suits, staring intensely at Dean.
Two minutes and ten seconds later, Dean pauses in the middle of fake laughing to scratch the side of his face with his middle finger.
"Damnit," Sam says, and hands over the standard ten dollars.
"These are so good," Sam groans. Dean made cookies, and Sam needed a midnight snack but found Cas already in the kitchen with cookie jar hugged to his chest. "I hate that I know this about your sex life, but I love that the consequence is cookies."
"These would be even better with peanut butter," Cas says, and Sam stares at him.
"Oh my god," he breathes.
They're even better with peanut butter.
"I don't understand what's happening," Dean says, frowning at them.
"Oh my god," Charlie says.
"Shut up," Sam says, waving his hands, because Cas hasn't ever seen When Harry Met Sally and Billy Crystal is running through New York because he wants the rest of his life to start right now, and nobody is going to ruin that for Cas.
He shifts lower on the couch, pulling the afghan back up. Beside him, Cas exhales shakily, eyes rapt on the TV.
"Oh my god," Charlie repeats.
"I'm just going to—" Sam says, slurring only a little. It was just a teeny bottle of jack. And it was like, a quarter of it. It's fine. He cradles his phone in his hands, looking at Amelia's smiling face.
"No," Cas says, taking the phone away from him.
"That's my phone—you can't tell me no. You're not my dad."
"No, because that would be incestuous," Cas agrees. "You're not texting her."
"I'm a grown man!" he says, chasing Cas around the couch and Dean's recliner. Angels are unfairly fast and it's not great.
"You should love yourself."
"I—do, love myself but it's hard when I have to look at, you know, you guys being happy."
"Amelia is not the answer."
"You are—" Sam starts, twisting around to try to grab his phone back.
"Right, I am absolutely right," Cas says.
"—freakishly strong, dude, what the fuck." Cas is sitting on his back. What the fuck, all Sam wanted to do was reach out and make a connection.
"No, you can't open a tinder account either," Cas says. Sam huffs into the couch cushion.
Sam is a grown ass man. He can cut his own hair.
"You should let Dean do this," Cas says.
"I can cut my own hair," Sam says, frowning into the mirror. "I watched a youtube tutorial."
Cas stares at Sam's reflection, then at the scissors in his hand.
"You should let Dean do this."
Sam snorts and lifts the scissors up to his bangs.
"I should let Dean do this," he says after a minute. Cas takes the scissors away with the same care he used on that bomb last week.
"I got stood up," Sam says morosely. "You didn't have to come get me."
"I know," Cas says, sitting down. "Did you order?"
"Good, Dean said they have really good salmon and wants us to bring some back."
"You're a really good friend, Cas."
"Do I like shellfish?"
"Someday, you know. When we're old. I think Dean should open a diner," Sam says. Cas takes another bite of the half-destroyed apple pie that's sitting on the coffee table between them.
"Dean would hate being in charge of a diner," Cas says, which is probably fair. Dean doesn't mind being the boss, and their whole childhood consisted of Dean running logistics and he probably could do inventory and file taxes and everything, but that's not the part he'd like.
"Well, I could run it," Sam allows. "But he should cook."
"Mm," Cas agrees, adding a dollop of whipped cream to Sam's piece when Sam holds out his plate.
"I just think he'd be good at it. A little diner up in Maine, it'd be cool."
"When will you be old?" Cas asks after a pause.
"I don't know. Dad did this until he was in his fifties, and Bobby was sixty-two when he died."
"You should retire before then. Ten years, maybe."
"I don't think I'm the one who's going to need convincing," Sam points out. "Where is he, by the way?"
"Sleeping," Cas says, smug, and Sam sighs and takes another bite of pie.