#ty cool kids table for teaching me how to do the readmore thingie <3

[cowboyadjacent]

Being human is... challenging, to say the least. It’s strange, and unsettling, and he can’t shake the feeling of his body being too big for him, the small space he used to have to cram himself into suddenly too large. Empty.

Eating turns out to be a silver lining, however. No matter how skeptical Dean is about that, considering Cas’ eating habits.

He sits there now, his own plate forgotten as he stares at Cas picking the diced onions out of his soup one by one.

He stares.

And stares.

And stares.

Cas doesn’t say anything to put him out of his misery.

Eventually, he clears his throat. Cas raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, Dean?”

Dean gestures to his plate, brows forrowed. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, dude”

Cas sighs, indulgent. It’s this again, then.

“I know, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t look too convinced.

Cas watches Dean watch him, patient.

“And you know i can just not put onions in stuff if you don’t like it, yeah?”

Cas shrugs, looks at Dean for a moment. At the set of his shoulders, the nervous drumming of his fingers.

“it tastes better with them.”

Dean looks pointedly at the small pile of onion Cas has managed to pick out.

“Uh, you sure about that?”

“Yes, i prefer it like this,” Cas pauses, considering. “It’s how you make it.”

Dean’s face flares red, and he looks away for the first time, rubs his hands together.

“I could also make it the way you like it” he says quietly

Cas smiles at him, strangely comforted.

“Thank you, but i think it tastes perfect like this” he says, and watches in satisfaction as Dean tries to hide away his grin.

Cas catches a cold a few weeks later (he should’ve expected it at some point, in hindsight, but that doesn’t make it sting any less)

He lies there, with his stuffy nose and slightly blurry vision, convinced this is what death feels like. Dean keeps making this very specific noise every time he mentions that, Cas is starting to suspect he’s trying not to laugh

He hears Dean come in, but opening his eyes would be a clear invitation for a headache. Hears Dean approach carefully and place something on the dresser next to his bed, listens to the footsteps as he leaves

(seven to approach, and exactly ten to leave, his brain counts dutifully even while he’s dying, Dean).

Dean’s long gone when Cas finally forces himself to open his eyes and look at what’s been left for him.

He blinks a couple of times, the room slowly shifting into focus, and when his gaze finally falls to the dresser he feels like someone took his heart out and squeezed it tight.

There it is, sitting next to his bed. a piece of bread (freshly baked, most likely, and isn’t that, just. Something), a bowl of tomato soup. and right next to it, on a small paper towel, a pile of diced onions.

meticulously picked out, one by one.

Cas stares at it for what feels like hours

He doesn’t even notice he’s still smiling until much, much later.