Chapter Text
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Cas ambled through the store, idly taking in the colorful packages of food vying for his attention. In keeping with his penchant for preparedness, he was shopping for groceries for his neice’s visit next month. It would be the first time she stayed with him by herself, and he wanted to make it perfect. He had picked out some canned fruits and vegetables, plus some cereals he knew Claire liked. He also ordered some of the meal plan frozen dinners she wanted to try, and remembered the hot dogs Amelia said she was fond of. The last he needed were some pancake mix and syrup. Ten year old Claire stated she learned to cook pancakes and wanted to show off her skills to her favorite uncle. He reached for the box of store brand pancake mix when he heard a voice beside him.
"You don't want that."
“What?” he questioned, his hand holding the box mix in mid-air, as he turned. He saw a broad-chested man in a black and blue flannel shirt smiling at him.
“You don't want that. That stuff's crap. Totally not worth the money,” the man said with a grin. “If you want to make pancakes, you need to get the good stuff.”
“I have used this before...” Cas’ voice trailed off as the man stepped forward. He gasped when the man took the box out of his hand and shoved it back on the shelf.
“Why would you want to have Spam when you can have prime rib?” The man grinned wide at him
Flabbergasted, Cas stared at the man not knowing what to do or say. “But Claire--”
“You're making them for your kid? Well, you definitely need the good stuff. You have to teach ‘em young or they'll end up eating crap their whole lives. Come on.” The man took hold of the front of Cas’ buggy and pulled him along.
“What are you--” Cas tried to protest, yet followed the man with his buggy.
“First you need flour. I get unbleached, but white’s fine,” the man said, all happy and quite excited, as he guided them to the selves with too many sacks of flour. He picked up a package with a large yellow and blue emblem on it. “Gold Medal is the best, in my opinion. See here?” The man pointed to the smaller print, his face serious. “You want All Purpose. Self Rising’s okay, but I like to control the mixture. If you do accidentally get Self Rising,” he pointed to another package, “just remember to omit the baking powder and soda." His grin returned.
“But--” started Cas, yet was cut off again.
"Now for the fluffiest pancakes ever," the man leaned in conspiratorially, whispering loudly, "sift the flour with your baking powder, baking soda, and salt.” The man winked at Cas and took a few steps over. “I'm betting you don’t own any baking powder or soda given that you were getting that crap in the box.” He pulled a red container off the shelf and showed it to Cas as if he was presenting him with the keys to the city. “Rumsford brand is great, but if you can’t get that, then Clabber Girl’s just as good.” He dropped the red cylinder into Cas’ buggy and bent over to grab a white box. “Now for the baking soda, you can go with the store brand. The quality is exactly the same, but cheaper.”
“I have that,” Cas said dumbly, in daze at the man talking basically non-stop, giving him so much information.
“Yeah, in your fridge, I bet?” He scoffed when Cas nodded. “You want fresh when cooking. The stuff in the fridge has absorbed all the odors of all the foods and funk. Trust me, I know what I am talking about." He winked again with a big grin and a nod of his head.
Cas noted he had bright green eyes that practically danced as he spoke. Cas protested when he began pilfering his groceries.
"What are you--"
"I see you have eggs and butter." He gave Cas a thumbs up. "Good, you got real butter." He made a disgusted face when he held up the store brand syrup. “Ugh, really? This is a nope in the first degree." He shook his head as if scolding a child. "You wouldn’t put ketchup on a steak, so let’s not ruin the best pancakes you'll ever make with junk like this. What you need is…” He looked around. "Back that way."
He pulled Cas’ buggy back down the aisle and found the syrups. “Here ya go: Real maple syrup. You see here?” The man shoved the bottle in Cas’ line of vision, pointing to the printed words. “Grade A, medium amber. It has a good flavor without being overpowering like dark amber, plus no burnt notes that Grade B tends to have. Believe me, I know.” He winked and nodded.
Dizzy, Cas just nodded along, wondering what was actually happening to him. He resisted the urge to touch the man's sandy blonde hair as he bent down again to rummage through Cas' groceries. I wonder what shampoo he uses? It looks so soft.
“This all the milk you have? No buttermilk?”
Cas felt bad, like he had disappointed this man in some way. He was not a big milk drinker, but Claire liked her cereal.
“I don’t know what butterm--” said Cas, trying to keep up, but was cut off by the man rolling his expressive green eyes, and grabbed the buggy again. He pulled Cas to the back of the store. Cas did not know what to do, this man was so enthusiastic. He thought for a moment that maybe he should be scared but the man was not being mean; forceful, yes, but not mean. Maybe he has a mental disability.
“Only the best pancakes are made with buttermilk,” the man winked at Cas again.
Cas felt himself blushing, captivated with how the man’s muscles moved in his back as he walked them back to the dairy aisle. This handsome man with a strong jaw, twinkling green eyes, and a bright smile had completely taken over his shopping.
“This is another instance where the store brand is good enough. Here,” he reached over and picked up a carton.
Cas averted his eyes when the man's shirt rode up, revealing skin.
“Cultured Buttermilk, this is what you need; don’t get Bulgarian. It’s fine, but I find the flavor is weird.” He placed the carton in Cas’ buggy. He seemed to think a bit before he pulled out his phone. He frowned at the display then looked back up at Cas, sighing. “My brother thinks I am lost.”
“Oh, do you need to--” Frustrated at not being able to finish a sentence, Cas frowned.
“No, no,” the man laughed. “He’s a worry wart. I told him I was running in for a few things and I've been longer than expected. Anyway, do you have a cookbook?”
“No,” Cas answered, embarrassed at his lack of reading materials, in the presence of this helpful and cheerful man.
“All good, not many men own them. Wait, are you married?" The man raised his eyebrows.
"No, I am si--"
"I'm sorry, dude, that was rude. I just assumed--" The man's face flushed pink, highlighting the smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. Clearing his throat, he continued, "What I suggest for you to do is go to the library.” The man's smile returned as they walked to the front of the store.
“I work at the library on Fifth,” Cas offered, hopefully.
Not believing it was possible, the man brightened more. “Great! Go to the cooking section and get you a Betty Crocker cookbook. That one has straightforward recipes without getting too fancy or complicated.”
“Thank you, for all your help?" Cas said as they approached the checkout.
“Hey, no problem man. I gotta grab some noodles. See you later,” the man said, turning to leave.
“I'm Cas, by the way,” he said, feeling a loss at the man's departure. It had been a whirlwind trip, full of information, and excitement. Nothing had ever happened to him like this before.
“Hey, nice to meet ya, Cas. Name’s Dean." He waved as he left.
“Nice to…” Cas’ voice trailed off as Dean disappeared down an aisle. “It was nice to meet you, Dean,” he whispered to himself.
When Cas got home and unpacked his groceries, he stood in wonder of it all.
Why did I let a stranger dictate what I purchased?
Because he was friendly and actually he spoke to you.
Shaking his head, he examined the items Dean picked out. He had never made anything homemade other than toast and eggs. He made a note to get a cookbook at work tomorrow.
I don't want to disappoint Dean, the friendly pancake man.
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