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That Sweet, Smoky Smell

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Castiel takes the seat across from Dean reluctantly, casting a slow, assessing glance around the crowded diner and the people talking amiably amongst themselves as the waitress that seated them lays two place-mats out on the table. A myriad of smells permeate the air, all of which he can name at once, but only some he recognizes; the lighting is bright and steady in places and a tempered, flickering yellow in others, their table exempt from this electrical anomaly only because of the window they're in front of and the sunlight filtering in through the foggy glass. It isn't dirty, but he has seen cleaner establishments during his brief time on Earth.

"I'm afraid I don't understand our purpose here," Castiel says, his eyes falling on the waitress as she offers Dean a menu.

"I told you," Dean says, "We're meetin' Sam."

He takes the offered menu with a broad smile that the waitress returns when she asks, "So what can I get you boys to drink?" She offers Castiel a menu, next, but he doesn't move to take it. He's watching Dean turn his own menu over - a quick, fluttering motion that he hardly devotes any time to.

"How 'bout a beer?" Dean asks as he hands the menu right back, and then glances across the table, "Cas?"

Castiel knots his brow, perplexed, and shakes his head.

"No, you know I don't -"

"Y'know what," Dean interjects, beaming at their waitress, "Make that two beers. And we'll have two Specials, if you don't mind."

The waitress tucks the menus under her arm.

"You got it," she says, bobbing her head in assent.

She moves away between the other booths and Dean turns his head, briefly, to watch her retreat, his elbows propped against the table. Intrigued, Castiel cranes out of his seat, as well, wondering what it is the man finds so fascinating from this peculiar vantage point; he doesn't see anything noteworthy, his gaze shifting from the waitress' backside as she disappears around the counter to Dean when the latter straightens up. Dean looks somewhat pleased until he turns around and spots Cas leaning out into the aisle.

He bats his hand in an agitated manner, grimacing, and Castiel rights himself slowly.

"Stop that," Dean hisses, in that gruff undertone, "What're you doin'?"

"What were you doing?" Castiel asks, completely dumbfounded, because Dean is once again failing to explain himself properly, "You said we came here to meet Sam, but we were much closer to where he is when we were at the motel. He will have to travel twenty minutes out of his way to meet us here."

Dean shrugs his broad shoulders, leaning back in his seat.

"So, I was hungry," he says, and starts rummaging in the basket on the table that houses an assortment of packages and bottles, "Smite me. And I know you gotta be, too, so no complaints. You've been up my ass all day, I haven't seen you eat a thing."

"I don't require -"

"Look, don't gimme that crap, okay" Dean says, sounding annoyed, "C'mon. Come up here."

He sits upright, elbows on the table again, and beckons Castiel forward with an impatient wave of both hands. His ring glints in the light, his bracelet slipping down his wrist. When Castiel leans forward over the table, his hands resting in his lap, he is very close to Dean, though Dean doesn't seem to notice this time - or if he does, he doesn't comment. Perhaps it's alright because Dean was the one to initiate it. Instead, he takes a slow, deep breath through his nose and then asks, expectant, "Y'smell that?"

"...There's a particular aroma you're directing my attention to," Castiel guesses after a pause.

Dean slaps his palms against the tabletop.

"Barbeque, Cas."

The word means nothing to Castiel, but before he can say as much, Dean elaborates, in a low, mesmerizing tone, "That sweet, smoky smell, Cas. Kinda tangy? Makes your mouth water? That's barbeque." Castiel takes a moment to process this new information, breathing in through his nose.

"What is barbeque?" he asks.

It is a simple question - fundamentally, he knows what barbeque is, but Dean has used the term vaguely. Apparently it only triggers the alarm for some form of social blunder on his part. Dean rocks back into his seat with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, pulling a deep breath into his lungs. He lays his arm over the back of the chair, just shaking his head as he watches Castiel sink back into his own seat with much more composure.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," Dean says, as if he truly doesn't believe he's having this conversation. His disbelief only baffles Castiel, who further doesn't understand his need to iterate, "What is barbeque? It's pork, Cas! It's a sandwich, it's friggen delicious!"

"Is that what you ordered?" Castiel asks, slowly putting the pieces together.

"Of course that's what I ordered! You come into a barbeque joint, you don't order a friggen pizza!"

"And you intend to eat without Sam?"

"If the food gets here before he does. And, what with his twenty minute detour, my money's on yeah, I'm eatin' without Sam."

"Isn't it customary to partake in a meal only when every member of the group is present?"

"Sammy's a big boy, Cas. He can order his own barbeque if he wants -"

"You don't find it ironic, then, that you ordered for me as well as for yourself, despite my protests?"

This inquiry seems to catch Dean off-guard, because he opens his mouth and nothing comes out, though he moves his hand, palm up, as if to gesture with the words that aren't there. He does that often, Castiel notes (the gesturing, of course - the not-speaking is actually quite uncommon), his eyes going immediately to said hand as Dean's ring glints again in the light. He shifts his gaze to the waitress, next, as she leans in between them, smiling and setting a beer down on each place-mat.

"Your drinks, boys," she says, hefting a large serving tray over her shoulder, "Specials'll be a couple more minutes, though."

Dean clears his throat, recovers quickly as he reaches for the bottle.

"Yeah, sure," he says, "No rush."

The waitress nods her head, beams at Castiel, then Dean, before totting the heavily-laden tray across the dining room. Dean doesn't turn to follow her progress this time. Castiel does, only because his previous diner experiences with Dean dictate that there is a certain necessity in observing which patrons or co-workers the server visits next. His focus, however, remains on Dean as the other tips back his beer bottle and stares pointedly out the window.

Castiel wonders what changed in the short space of time.

The bottle clinks against the table when Dean finally sets it down, and his hand comes up in the same gesture as before. He seems to have discovered what he wanted to say - though a simple yes or no would have been more than sufficient - and Castiel inclines his head, prepared to listen.

"C'mon, man," Dean says, sounding agitated, now, though Castiel can't fathom why, "You're sittin' right there!"

Castiel's brow furrows at that, as he squints around the diner again.

Most of the surrounding booths are occupied.

"Where was I expected to sit?" he asks, looking up at Dean, thinking he has missed something.

Dean rolls his eyes, rubs his forehead.

"What I mean is," he says, as if the words cost him great patience, "I'm not gonna sit here and eat with you sittin' there watchin' me eat. It's creepy! We talked about you bein' creepy, Cas, remember? The not blinking when you look at people, the weird comments, the issues with personal space -" He counts them off with his fingers, pinky first, holding his hand aloft as a visual aid, though Castiel recalls every moment he has been reprimanded for his worldly inexperience. They were informative, yet exasperating, much as this one is. "Besides, there is clearly somethin' wrong with a guy who's never had barbeque before. And I won't stand for it."

His hand falls to the tabletop, still with his silence.

Dean's convictions are always strange ones, and Castiel turns his attention to the rest of the dining room as he considers this.

His first survey was only general, to ascertain whether or not Dean's questionable choice of meeting places was truly a safe one; his second an exercise in proper social conduct. Now, Castiel scans the people seated at the neighboring tables more closely, looking over their faces, their postures, and - more importantly - their orders. It's true that there isn't much variation. Everyone appears to be eating the same type of dark, loose meat with thick sauce, most commonly in sandwich form.

This, upon observation, does not seem like a wise decision on the part of the proprietor, because it looks unnecessarily messy. There are a lot of smeared faces and saucy fingers, and the compact structure of the sandwich doesn't seem very stable considering it has a high risk of falling apart, into one's lap if the plate or table doesn't catch it first. If nothing else, Castiel at least fully understands the purpose of the place-mats. He turns back to Dean, who is giving him what Castiel can only assume is his dude, you're staring, we just talked about this look - because he has been staring, and they did just speak about it.

"...I don't see the appeal," Castiel says, honestly.

The clack of heels announces the waitress' arrival, and this time Castiel barely glances at her because Dean cracks a smile, leaning back in his seat.

"Well, maybe you can taste it, then." Puzzled, Castiel opens his mouth - and Dean's hand jumps up from the table, pointed at Cas, as if he's going to strike. The smile is gone when he says, "I don't wanna hear your smartass feathery bullshit! Shut up and eat your barbeque."

"Conflict of interest, boys?" the waitress asks lightly, smiling, setting a hot plate down in front of Dean.

"Lack of interest," Dean clarifies, with apparent hopelessness, turning his head up to share a look with the waitress. He plucks an onion ring from the huge pile on his plate, pointing with it at Castiel, who frowns back at him as he moves his untouched beer aside, against the window and the basket in front of it (the same way he has seen Dean and Sam both do when the food is brought to the table). "Poor bastard's never had barbeque."

"Is that so?" the waitress asks, raising her eyebrows at Castiel, "I guess this'll be an enlightening experience, then, huh?"

She sets the plate down in front of him, and Cas looks it over carefully, his curiosity pique - partly because of her comment, and partly because of Dean's fervent insistence. His plate is exactly the same as Dean's - arranged the same with equal portions, from the absurdly large sandwich with red meat sliding out the sides, to the onion rings piled on top of a thick piece of toast. The smell is enticing, now that it's right under his nose and he can be certain he's identified the correct one through Dean's simple description.

Sweet and tangy are accurate enough - Castiel knows Dean can't smell the tomato-based sauce, the bourbon and brown sugar, directly and he doesn't bring them up, though he finds the combination an interesting one. He returns his attention to the waitress, as she straightens and tucks the empty tray under her arm.

"It's unlikely that I will find Enlightenment in something so simple as an ill-constructed sandwich," he says, then adds, slowly, because Dean is still grinning, stuffing another onion ring into his mouth to stifle the silent laughter, as if something is incredibly funny, "...But I have been surprised before."

The waitress opens her mouth and looks as if she might say something, but apparently changes her mind. She breaks into a smile, lets out a little laugh, instead, and shakes her head as she steps away, saying, "Okay - well - fingers crossed, then." She does cross her fingers, holding her free hand up as a clear indication, and Cas tilts his head slightly, wondering why. "Enjoy your meal, guys, let me know if you need anything."

"Yeah, we will, thanks," Dean calls after her, turning his head, but his attention doesn't follow her down the aisle this time, either.

It stays focused on whatever it is he's found so amusing, his eyes on his plate. Dean rubs his jaw with one hand, smile still in place, his shoulders moving with silent mirth as his other hand digs through his onion rings, fishing out the piece of toast and setting it aside on the table. It's likely Castiel has missed or inadvertently made a joke of some kind. Rather than feel exasperation, as he generally does, at being the brunt of Dean's amusement, Castiel finds it oddly endearing, so he asks, "What is it?"

Dean shakes his head, reaching for a red glass bottle and twisting off the metal cap.

"Nothin'," he says, but Castiel can still see the laughter in his eyes, in his posture when he moves.

Dean tosses the cap onto the table, where it clatters noisily in a small circle. Castiel watches it until it stills, then turns his eyes back to Dean, watching as he nudges the onion rings aside - popping more than one into his mouth - to make room for the large pool of ketchup he shakes out of the uncooperative bottle. He uses a knife for this process, though Castiel is quite sure that's not what the utensil is for. Dean dunks a ring into the ketchup this time, before it goes in his mouth whole, and Dean makes an appreciative noise, nodding his head, as he turns his plate a little, scooting the bottle out of the way with the back of his hand.

In the process of chewing, Dean notices Cas staring and his expression changes to that of annoyance.

He gestures with the hand that isn't busy picking up his barbeque sandwich.

"Would you quit starin' at me and eat that already," he insists around the mouthful, ducks his head and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

Ignoring the vulgarity, Cas drops his gaze to his untouched plate, his eyebrows knitting together. He supposes there's no harm in trying it. Dean did go through the trouble of ordering it, a chef of some caliber took the time to prepare it, and the waitress, though a bit disillusioned, was kind enough to bring it to the table. It seems rude, from a more social standpoint, to let those efforts to go to waste. Dean is already three bites in, wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth with his thumb, when Cas finally lifts his sandwich from the plate. It feels awkward in his hands, ready to fall apart, and Castiel suspects it's structural integrity won't last long at all.

Dean's seems to be holding up much better in comparison, but he's more well-practiced in the care that apparently goes into handling such an unstable source of nourishment. Cas turns the sandwich over gingerly, wondering where to start, if there's a certain protocol that should be followed. When he looks up to see if he can take any silent cues from Dean without having to ask outright, Dean seems to sense his gaze and glances up, as well, his brow knotting in that unmistakable look when he catches Castiel's eyes.

Not wanting to be reprimanded a third time for the same offense, Castiel quickly looks away, decides that Dean will only tell him he is over thinking this. He misjudges the first bite he takes. It's too big, and for every bit of meat, bread, and sauce he gets in his mouth, equal measures squish out the sides of the bun. The warm wetness slides down his chin, his thumbs and wrists, hits the cuffs of his coat sleeve, drops to the plate and disrupts the onion rings. It's a complete disaster. Cas makes a small, disgruntled noise as he pulls back, eyeing the now-dented sandwich with trepidation, his lips pressed together because his mouth is so full.

He's still trying to process the taste on his tongue when the sound of Dean laughing comes to his attention. Castiel looks up, because it isn't a single, deep-chested chuckle, but full laughter, and he can't recall having heard that from Dean yet. That broad smile has returned, Dean's eyes wrinkling in the corners as he drops his own sandwich, reaching behind the basket and grabbing a fistful of napkins out of the compact box that Castiel had overlooked before. He tries to pass these to Castiel, who moves his hands to take them before realizing his sandwich is still occupying them. Castiel sets it gingerly back on the plate, not wanting to create a bigger mess than he already has, and he takes the napkins.

When Dean's hand is free he points at Castiel's face, still grinning, half-laughing when he asks, "Y'gonna chew that or just hold it in there the whole time?" Castiel doesn't understand what he's talking about until it occurs to him that his mouth is too full to speak - and then he feels foolish, reluctantly moving his jaw. It's a few seconds before he can swallow, and the sweet amalgam of flavors linger in his mouth.

"This is unnecessarily messy," he says, voicing his earlier thoughts as he wipes the excess sauce from the side of his wrist and his sleeve.

Castiel moves his tongue to lick his bottom lip, gets the tang of sauce again - and Dean opens his mouth to speak, drawing in a breath, but he doesn't say anything. His eyes move back up to Castiel's when Cas tilts his head slightly in inquiry, folding the napkins in his hands. Dean closes his mouth, clears his throat behind his fist and shifts in his chair, his hands dropping underneath the table to rub his thighs before one jumps back up.

"Good, though, right?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Dean busies his hands, dunking another onion ring in the ketchup, his eyes darting up to Castiel's when he doesn't answer right away. Castiel watches the hopeful amusement still tugging up Dean's lips, glinting in his eyes, and after a few seconds he inclines his head, offering up a small smile.

"It does have an interesting taste," he says, and Dean grins.

"Yeah? I told you - try this."

The dipped onion ring between his fingers is an impromptu offering, Dean's arm stretching across the table and the small space between them half-way through the motion of moving the ring to his mouth. Castiel takes it after a brief hesitation, and the sharp taste of salt makes him salivate when he puts the onion ring whole in his mouth, as Dean had. It's crunchier than he expects and requires more chewing, the texture entirely different from the barbeque, and Castiel knows immediately which he prefers.

Dean must be able to tell from the look on his face, because he laughs again, "Not an onion ring guy?" Castiel makes a small noise in response, still busy chewing, and Dean seems pleased, regardless, shrugging up his shoulders. "Barbeque's the important part, anyway."

He's nearly depleted his own stock of onion rings, so he simply starts raiding Castiel's. Castiel turns the plate so Dean will have better access to them, as he has seen Sam do when he's too busy with his laptop to guard his fries properly. Dean attempts to wrestle more ketchup from the bottle, rattling the knife until Castiel tires of the noise and takes the bottle from him. It's a childish use of his Grace - one he would never have fathomed before meeting Dean Winchester - but Dean chuckles again when the ketchup on his plate seems to refresh itself, his booted foot moving underneath the table and bumping against the inside of Jimmy Novak's polished work shoes.

The slight bump jars Castiel's leg, makes him look up at Dean again to see if he should move his foot out of Dean's way. He's reminded of earlier, when Dean invited him into his space to start the conversation about barbeque - perhaps this is like that, and it's alright, because Dean either hasn't noticed the small contact, or he doesn't care. So Castiel leaves his foot where it is, Dean's ankle a steady weight as it leans against Castiel's, and he picks up his sandwich again.

Castiel's attempts to finish the sandwich is decidedly more problematic than his first bite was. The barbeque to bread ratio is alarmingly off balance, and every time he bites into it more barbeque winds up on his plate than in his mouth. Dean eventually passes him a fork, goes on to talk about different types of barbeque from the different places he's been, which are the best and worst, the blends of sauce he likes best. He's in a strangely talkative mood all of a sudden, and Castiel listens without interrupting.

He absorbs the information, however asinine he finds it, because it interests Dean and he knows, from their brief but intimate history, that this is a rare occurrence for the Righteous Man, to be so enthusiastic and light-hearted in the midst of the world falling apart around them all.

Castiel can't decide which he finds more remarkable.

That Dean has managed to put his worries and angers aside for the moment, over this small, simple thing - or that he himself wishes it happened more often.

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(A/n) AGES AGO Wendy asked for Dean introducing Cas to barbeque so - here we are, almost a year later! I tried for Season 5, got hung up with regrets half-way through for not setting it in Season 8, and maybe it's come out as a strange amalgamation of the two, but I'm pleased with it, regardless, and that's what matters. I was gonna wait until I had more oneshots and things to post it, but at the rate I'm finishing lately that seemed lame as hell so - I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews are appreciated! C:

-Motcn