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pickledpascal · 8 months ago

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Meat & Candy

Chapter Two

Warnings: mentions of child neglect and starvation, some innuendos (?)

Word Count: 3.1k

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Dean had been fussing over his appearance for what seemed like hours. Swapping out his shirt, his pants, anything that didn't seem right. Eventually, he settled on what he usually wore to his restaurant. A black chef's jacket, dark-washed jeans, boots, and a green bandana tied around his neck.

“Hey Dad!” Emma greeted between bites of leftover egg salad that she slathered onto some toast. “You excited?” She asked with a smirk.

Dean maneuvered into the kitchen and decided he might as well have the same thing as Emma. “Sam told ya, huh?” He pursed his lips as he popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and started up the coffee machine.

Emma shrugged bashfully but didn't deny it. Dean was glad Sam and Emma talked a lot without him needing to be there but sometimes it was the bane of his existence.

Dean had never been interviewed before. Especially not about his food. Sure there was that one time back in the 90s but that was years ago and it had nothing to do with him, it had everything to do with Bobby and Ellen and how so many locals loved that place. He was on his own now. Well, as ‘on his own’ as he could be with more than half the staff at his restaurant being friends he made years ago.

Needless to say, Dean wanted this interview to go well. He wanted good press—which was what Sam and Benny told him would happen. He wanted people to like him. And his food.

Cooking was Dean's favorite pastime. His labor of love. He partly blamed his cooking for how well Emma turned out so far. It was something they could do together when he came home at night, or sometimes in the morning, they could make breakfast together. Even when she was little, Dean had Emma wash vegetables and haphazardly chop them for preparation.

Dean took a few bites from his toast and hummed. “You wanna come to the restaurant after school? See the masters at work?” He asked teasingly.

Emma didn't grow up with Dean in Michelin star restaurants so she was excited to truly see him at work. The thousand-dollar stoves and ovens, the array of different pots and pans, the tile floor Emma helped pick out—yeah, Dean designed the entire restaurant from top to bottom. He did have help. A lot of help from Benny and he called in a few friends of Bobby's to make sure the restaurant was everything he wanted and more. Emma was happy for her father.

Nothing was quite like seeing his reaction to the finished product. Or even when he made the first menu for the place.

She knew that growing up, her father didn't have a lot. He had to scrape up money just to have food for the night. But that was before Grandpa Bobby came in. Life was still hard but it got easier. Dean was able to be himself, be the man he always knew himself to be. Even when Emma came into the world and messed with his plans a bit, his resolve never wavered. He just sort of…. Rolled with it.

“Maybe. But I have homework.” Emma set her plate in the sink. “And I love you, Dad, but you kinda distract me when you start singing when you clean the counters.”

Dean rolled his eyes affectionately. “You like it, kiddo.” He took another bite of his breakfast, careful to eat it over the plate to not get any crumbs on his jacket. It was freshly ironed and cleaned, he didn't need to get it dirtied. Especially before an interview.

Emma tilted her head slightly, lips forming a lop-sided grin. She didn't need to answer, Dean already knew the truth.

She leaned up on her tip-toes and kissed his cheek. “I'll see you later, Dad.” She smiled as he squeezed her shoulder in return. She grabbed her backpack from its chair, waved goodbye, and left through the front door.

Dean smiled fondly as Emma left for the day. He poured his coffee once the machine stopped, prepared it how he liked��three sugars, a healthy pour of cream—and took a sip. Like most people in the world, Dean had to have coffee in the morning or else the rest of his day would be out of order. He'd mess up dishes, send out the wrong plate, call out the wrong order—he’d be a mess.

He arrived at his restaurant a few hours before the interview, just to get his nerves under control. And to meet up with Sam and Benny.

Sam ran the front of house so he was usually there just to take reservations while it wasn't busy and no one else was there. Dean didn't know the extent of the reservations but he knew there were a lot. More than he expected at first.

It was exciting. And nerve-wracking.

Culinary school prepared him for a lot of things and, try as they might, nothing quite compared to actually opening up his own restaurant. It was happening. The reality of it. He couldn't believe it sometimes.

And Benny, his sous chef, was there partly for moral support and partly to do some inventory on non-perishable items. Dean prided himself on using fresh ingredients, as would any chef, but some things couldn't be worked around.

“Hey, Sammy, what can ya tell me about this interviewer?” Dean said as he slipped into the booth Sam was working at.

Sam glanced at Dean from his laptop and stopped typing. “Nothing. I just talked with Crowley and he said he'd give us his best writer. I didn't ask who it was and he didn't say a name.” Dean pursed his lips as he tapped his fingers on the table. “It's alright to say you're nervous.” Sam cocked an eyebrow at his brother.

“Me? Nervous?” Dean laughed as convincingly as he could, “Ha! Have you met me? I don't get cold feet, Sammy! I mean, hell, if anything, I'm the most confident son of a bitch you'll ever meet. Ego the size of the Sears Tower. Nerves of steel, me. Definitely,” He took a breath. “Not nervous. At all. Uh-huh.”

Sam stared at him.

Dean let out a puff of air, knowing his cheeks were red as he looked down at a grain in the table. He didn't meet Sam's eyes knowing he'd been caught even if he was too prideful to admit it. At first.

Dean relented. “Look, man, I haven't done anything like this before. I'm gonna be in a fucking newspaper. That's fucking weird. ”

“Better get used to it with the way things are going.” Sam pointed out softly. He took a breath, “Look, you're not alone here, Dean. We're all going through this. You think I'm not nervous at all? I'm the one handling all the calls about this place. Charlie's tryna make sure all the desserts are, in her words, superb. I'm pretty sure the powdered sugar fumes are starting to mess with her head. And Benny, god, I swear he's looked over your menu a million times at this point. Jo has washed the wine glasses so many times, I think her hands might prune.”

Dean got the point. But he couldn't help but feel the weight on his shoulders. It was his restaurant. His and his alone. He didn't co-own it with Benny or Sam. No, it was Dean's name on the lease. It was Dean who picked out the Prussian Blue paint on the walls. It was Dean who put the first chestnut piece of wood on the floor. It was Dean who hand-printed the menus.

The restaurant wouldn't be his if he didn't have a hand on everything that came into it. He even got a few splinters.

———

Getting to Crossroads was easier said than done. Cas had to find parking somewhere. Seeing as the restaurant was on one of the busiest streets of Chicago and Cas wasn't much of a walker, he came straight from his house, not the Tribune building.

He was pleasantly surprised with how the restaurant looked. With sweeping windows to peek inside and a sign he could see from miles away—if there weren't buildings in the way. Dean Winchester must've taken a few notes from the Roadhouse.

He could see a bit of movement in the otherwise empty restaurant as he walked up to the door. He gave it a light knock.

A man he didn't recognize opened it for Castiel. He had shoulder-length hair and kind, deep brown eyes. “Hello. You must be the interviewer.” He bowed his head like he was trying to make himself look smaller. The man was tall. “I'm Sam, Dean's brother and I run the front of house.” He stuck out his hand to shake.

Castiel remembered reading something about Dean having a brother but he didn't put it down in his notes. “I'm… Castiel. Castiel Novak. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester.” He shook the man's hand, trying to recall what it was like to have to interact with people for the first time.

Sam let out a small chuckle, causing Castiel to tilt his head. “No one calls me Mr. Winchester. Just call me Sam.” Cas nodded as he followed Sam into the dining room.

Castiel swore the world stopped.

Dean Winchester had changed.

His hair darkened to a nice warm brown—it was a little longer too, curving around his ear and the nape of his neck—his body seemed to fill out his clothes properly, and he grew out some nice facial hair that Castiel wouldn't mind feeling on his skin. And, fuck, his tattoos. His arms weren't exactly covered in them but he had quite a few, the ones he noticed first were on his fingers. In traditional script, his right said “Dead” while his left said, “Alive.” He could see some resemblance in the brothers.

Castiel quickly collected himself and jutted out his hand. “I'm Castiel Novak, it's nice to meet you, Chef Winchester.” He barely took in his surroundings, a little distracted by the handsome man in front of him.

“Nice to meet ya too. Just call me Dean.” The man smiled as Sam retreated to a spot with a computer. God, the curve of his lips. Castiel would be content he was struck by lightning and Dean was the last thing he saw on Earth. Dean motioned to the table he was sitting at. “I'm sure you'd like to sit for this, huh? Parking can be a bitch.” It was set up with cups and a water pitcher. The glass across Castiel's place was full.

Castiel squinted at his choice of words. “Yes. However, I was able to find a spot a few blocks away. Not too bad.” He set his leather bag on the floor next to him and took out his notebook. His throat felt parched. He took a long sip from his water. “Well, uh,” He coughed as he took out his phone. “My phone is going to record this conversation if that's okay. I'm only doing this because I'm not the best at writing as people speak and I don't want you to have to repeat yourself.”

Dean nodded and gave him a patient smile. “That's alright. I mean, I don't know how interviews work so,” He waved his hand and tilted his head slightly, “You have free reign here.”

Castiel didn't want to think too hard about what that could mean in other circumstances. “Right,” He turned the audio recorder on. “Interview with Chef Dean Winchester at Crossroads.” He cleared his throat. “Chef Winchester, thanks for taking the time to meet. From what I hear, you'll be quite busy in a few days.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged bashfully as a beautiful shade of pink graced his cheeks. “I just hope me and the staff can live up to the hype. Knowing my staff, they will. Me? Not so sure.”

Castiel cocked his head at Dean. He immediately caught onto his self-diminishing tendencies. To some, it might come across as humility but Cas knew better. “Well, would you like to tell me a little bit about yourself to begin?”

“Sure, uh,” Dean coughed slightly. “I used to live in Naperville when I was young. Until I turned ten, if I remember correctly, then I moved into the city when I got adopted by my, now, parents.”

“Bobby and Ellen?”

Dean looked visibly taken aback. “Yeah.” He quickly adjusted his expression to be more neutral. “They let me work at their restaurant a while back. I wouldn't be here without them.” There was a fondness in his eyes when he talked about them.

Then again, Castiel hoped that would happen when a child talked about their parents. However, he wasn’t oblivious to the things that went on in the world.

“Has food always been a passion of yours?”

Dean let out a breathy chuckle. “Not exactly. Food and I had… an interesting relationship growing up.” Castiel nodded for him to continue. Dean took a breath as he shifted in his seat. “My dad, my biological one, wasn’t the best. My mom died when I was four and he sort of just stopped caring—meaning I had to take care of Sam, some nights I’d go as far as to starve myself just to make sure he had something to eat. When we did have enough for the both of us, I’d gorge myself on it 'cause I never knew when I’d have something like that again.”

“What made that change?” Castiel’s lips pursed as a crease formed between his brows. He wasn’t quite prepared for this but he appreciated Dean’s honesty and openness.

“The fact I had a stable home. Bobby and Ellen weren’t rich but they always had food on the table, no matter what.” Dean admitted as his fingers drummed against the table. “That’s why I started to cook, turned out I had such a knack for it that they hired me at their bar. People loved my food,” His eyes sparkled with passion. Castiel loved seeing him like this. “It’s so… nice to know people like your food, y’know? I put my heart into every dish I make, it’s nourishment, and I want people to feel full when they walk out that door.”

“Is that why you opened Crossroads?” Castiel hadn’t even registered that his voice softened.

Dean spoke so passionately, so fondly, Castiel felt it. Maybe Dean wasn’t the most eloquent speaker but Castiel was sure the man could convince him of anything if he spoke that way to him.

“Some of the reason, yeah.” Dean looked flustered again. “Maybe it’s a bit selfish. I was fortunate enough to go to culinary school,” That answered one of the questions on Castiel’s mind. “And half the people there thought they were destined to share their art with the world. Me? Not so much. Like I said earlier, I just want people to eat my food and be happy with it. I have nothing to prove. Besides, maybe this place could be successful.”

Castiel wet his lips. “Why name the restaurant Crossroads anyway?”

“It’s partly because the kind of food we serve here. Culinary school taught me French techniques but I grew up mainly making American cuisine. We serve a mix here.” Just when Castiel thought he was done, Dean continued. “But it’s also just… The story of my life. I couldn’t count the number of times I felt like I was at a crossroads on both hands.” Castiel was intrigued but didn’t push. He had only just met the man after all.

“Why open your own restaurant? The way you’re talking about them, Bobby and Ellen would have been content to give you their bar.”

Dean shook his head with a light laugh. “I could never touch the Roadhouse. It’s perfect the way it is. But,” He paused, eyes flicking over the table. “I want something I can call mine. Solely mine. Which is nerve-wracking but,” He breathed but forced a smile on his face, “Nothing’s ever easy, I’ve come to learn—and I’m prepared for it not to be.”

Castiel quickly looked back down at his notes, noticing the light scarring on Dean’s hands and arms. “What do you hope to accomplish from this?”

The question seemed to surprise Dean. His lips pursed as he thought for a while. “There is the short-term gratification of being a successful restaurant that doesn’t have to close down after six months,” He tried to joke. “But there’s also security in that. The security of a proper, flowing income will make sure my kid never has to go through what I went through. She’s part of the reason I did this.” He motioned to their surroundings. “She wants me to be happy. I want her to be happy. It’s a cycle at this point.” He chuckled.

“Alright,” Castiel said reluctantly, “I think that’s all the questions I have.” He turned off the recorder and pocketed his phone. He gathered his things and stood. “It was nice talking with you.” And he meant it. Every single word.

Dean quickly stood as well. “You too,” He averted his eyes for a moment too long that Castiel thought he might’ve done something to offend the man. “Would you, uh, like to come back tomorrow? So you can see me work and put it in your article or something?”

A warm feeling washed over Castiel. He couldn’t help the smile that graced his lips. “That sounds wonderful.”

Spending more time with Dean was more than what Castiel could ask for. Not only that, but it would help to see Dean’s process. To witness the amount of love and care he put into each dish. He didn’t doubt Dean’s words but it was an entirely different thing to see and perhaps taste the compassion, the dusting of his heart, the careful composition from his hands.

His hands. When Castiel shook hands with Dean, he could feel the roughness of them. But he could also tell they were used to delicately place a garnish on top of a dish. Dean had gone through so much that he knew the strength of being gentle. How much it took to be gentle. How much it mattered.

God, Castiel needed to use that thought as a line in his article.

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