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Sundays were always nice for Dean and Castiel. They usually started with the pair waking up, side by side, hair crazy, eyes half closed, naked limbs tangled in their light blue sheets. It took a lot to get them out of bed on Sunday mornings, but the routine promise of food, was enough.
Cas would pop on his slippers and shuffle around the house, tidying things up. Dean would slip on sweats and a jacket, pull on his boots (which made for a fine ensemble) and slipped out the back, lips grazing Cas’ as he shut the door.
Cas waved out the living room window as Dean heaved the garage door open and settled into the Impala. Her satisfying roar lingered in the air in the moments after she drove by. She and Dean were headed into town, windows down, radio up, the wind sending Dean’s short hair in all directions. He drove past fields of grass and farms with rows of plants. Dean would arrive at a tiny bakery nestled almost awkwardly off the side of the road. He got out, doors creaking, and stepped into the shop, the smell of fried dough and sugar engulfing him.
The old woman at the counter recognized him and greeted him by name. He replied with an equally excited “good morning, Ethel” as she prepared his usual Sunday morning donut order. He handed her a few bills in exchange for the box full of treats. Before he could leave, she’d take one of his hands in her soft, wrinkly ones, look him straight in the eye and tell him to have a wonderful day. Her farewells always made Dean slightly choked up, but he could never decide why.
The donuts would sit next to Dean in the Impala as he cruised back to Cas. Trees on the side of the road would periodically engulf the car in shadow before revealing her to the morning sun again. Dean would pull into the long drive and stop the car there. He’d put her back in the garage later.
He’d open the back door to be welcomed by the smell and sound of brewing coffee and a cozy-looking Cas waiting for his return. They’d share a quick peck before Dean sets the box of donuts on the counter, pulling plates out of the overhead cabinets.
Cas would pour two mugs. Dean’s black and Cas’ with plenty of sugar and creamer. He’d set one on the kitchen table to use a free hand to unlock and slide open the door to their small deck just off the kitchen. He’d place the mugs down on the small metal table and ease into a matching chair as Dean walked out with the plates, closing the door on tiptoe with his hip.
They’d eat in silence, watching the backyard. They could hear birds chirping. Sometimes a breeze would pick up and rustle the leaves on the old trees and sway the grass that needed a mowing. The sun would get higher in the sky and even when the donuts were gone and the mugs were nothing but stained, they would sit. Sometimes hand in hand. Sometimes arms around each other. Sometimes not touching at all, just enjoying the presence of each other.
Later, one of them would finally decide it was time to go inside where they would wash the plates and mugs together, small hums or whispers shared between the two of them. After everything was cleaned (and sometimes after Dean had another donut or two) they would wander back into the bedroom and snuggle under the blankets again, never wanting Sunday morning to end.