Chapter Text
The kitchen is loud and busy, like every other restaurant kitchen he’s ever worked in, and he loves and hates it with equal measure. Loves it because it keeps him busy and on his feet, doing the thing he loves – In front of him drizzles a pan with perfectly cut and beautifully marbled rump steaks while he moves the excess fat around, dripping it over the beef over and over again to make it as perfect as he can in a new kitchen with new equipment he barely worked with before.
Behind him comes a loud yell of “Where is the damn salmon, Max? Everything is ready for table 14 except for the god damn fish!” and he’s never been more grateful for the old man that is Bobby Singer hacking away at his station and yelling at the other chefs he’s been working with for over a decade now. While Dean was away getting culinary education and working his way up the kitchen chain of command in one of the best restaurants in the damn country. While his dad was still running this place, which is a fixture in this city, where people come from all over to taste some of John Winchesters famous Steaks, Pork rinds and perfectly arranged ensembles of fish and veggies, sautéed with his homemade sauce that was made to die for – until he decided to wrap himself around a tree, half drunk on the anniversary of Mary Winchesters death. And left Dean the restaurant.
He takes a quick glance around – he and Bobby decided that Bobby takes on the heavy load for his first few days, perks of having a Sous Chef that is also practically family, so he has some time to get adjusted to the climate and the ecosystem that is “The Beef”. Donna is slaving away in her corner, having done the majority of the pre dish work during the day and is now prepping the desserts, while occasionally throwing in a new badge of bread that can be served as a starter or on the side. Dean knows she spent the morning in the kitchen working on her Donuts – a skill she is still trying to master to perfection in her spare time. Max finally has the salmon ready for table 14, garnishing it with herbs and spices like his mother taught him – an impressive woman that John used to work with before he opened The Beef and whom has a taste for herbs and spices like no other in Kansas, maybe the US, before she decided to retire. Alicia, Max twin sister is concentrating on browning a large badge of onions for her side dish creation she came up with on the fly, when some of the veggies they had ordered weren’t as usable as they had hoped for and had to come up with an alternative. Dean is grateful for the people working here and their talent. His sole responsibility today is the meat and steaks he can do in his sleep. It gives him a breather on the first days of reopening after the funeral. On his first days here in the kitchen.
Dean sights silently, focusing on the task at hand. It feels foreign and he wishes he had more time to prepare, find his way around the kitchen, test the equipment properly. Not that hat didn’t bring some of his own – his favorite knife for example, one of the best kitchen knives there is, which he had gifted himself for getting his Culinary Arts degree. A degree which he struggled through, but finished with decent enough grades in the end. But there wasn’t enough time because once he realized how much money is burned keeping a restaurant closed while still having to pay wages and bills, he couldn’t justify leaving the place closed for longer. Even though his dad owned the place, Dean never really set foot inside the kitchen before. Not that he didn’t want to, but his dad didn’t let him.
Because I wasn’t good enough.
Thinking about his dad now brings another wave of sadness, laced with resentment and dread over him so he pushes it away. In a kitchen you always have to compartmentalize, he learned that the hard way. Most food is unforgiving and doesn’t allow much room for mistakes. Even though, right at this moment, the restaurant is basically crumbling under him because of his neglect for proper management and administrative work so far. The paper piles in the office are a mess he’s been trying to sort for weeks now.
Out of the corner of his eyes he sees a black mop of hair. The only new person here next to him. When he met with the crew a week earlier to meet everyone and introduce himself, he had to make a cut. Gordon Walker was obnoxious and loud, didn’t respect him in the slightest (and showed it) and mocked him first thing when he arrived at the scene. The moment Dean saw him he knew, he couldn’t work with that guy even if his life depended on it. So he cut him loose.
Which meant finding a replacement short notice without much time for interviews or proper test cooking. Castiel Novak was basically hired on the spot and Dean desperately has to figure out his deal. Castiels resume made it clear, that he was one of the Novaks – probably the youngest. Dean had met his brother Gabriel on a few occasions and liked him enough. He owns one of the most famous restaurants in Kansas City, with few dishes and main focus on Desserts – sweets, pie, you name it – while their brothers Michael and Lucifer (and who the hell had come up with these Names?) owned two three-star-Restaurants in New York, located next to each other and working together in tandem. Deans been there once during his time in New York and hated the place immediately. It was posh, fancy and everything he detested. While The Beef was famous on its own it was still a down to earth restaurant with proper Midwestern dishes that catered everyone equally. They weren’t posh and they weren’t fancy and that was exactly the type of kitchen he wanted for himself.
What Castiel wanted in this joint – he didn’t know but the man was good. Currently the frown on his forehead probably comes from the blue cheese sauce he is stirring, adding spices here and there, tasting, and frowning even more. Castiel had been to the Culinary Arts Academy in freaking Switzerland (of course) and probably had been trained enough at home. The last year he had spent with his brother Gabriel and Dean had thought about putting him on Dessert Duty (If he was half as good as his brother Dean wanted a piece of his pies) but the position is filled and Donna is damn good at what she does. Also, Castiel had applied for the Station Chef position focused on Sauces and Soups so he knew what he was getting into.
“Let me taste that” Dean says loud enough for Castiel to hear and when the boy looks up at Deans approach he is reminded why that name is slightly unfair. Castiel is 26, but there is nothing youthful about his expression. His eyes are a piercing shade of blue, bordering on cold and they remind Dean of the ocean. At least he thinks that’s what the ocean looks like, not like he’s ever been. Probably grew up spoiled in a family where almost everyone is either a star owning chef or a famous food critique for the New York Times, aka his mother, Naomi Novak.
“Sure” the boy answers, grabbing a Spoon from the shelf and handing it to him.
The thing is – he never would have hired Castiel if he had had the chance to meet with him properly beforehand. Not because of his skills but because of the tension as he started calling it in his head. As it was there weren’t many alternatives so short notice in freaking Lawrence of all places, so he had no choice.
It’s been three days and it is getting worse by the hour. Castiel has a calm presence, he radiates self-confidence and has a sureness to his movements Dean is in awe of but ultimately just reminds him that this boy had a good life growing up, famous family, rich all the way through. It doesn’t help that the boy looks unfairly good either and Dean can’t help but be drawn to it, as much as he tries to despise him. Not that the deep growling voice he hear of him over the phone hadn’t been a clear sign that this boy would check some of his boxes. That he’d check almost all of them is just… unfortunate.
Also, Castiel stares. Or observes, maybe. Intensely. Blue eyes follow the Head Chefs hand, dipping in the spoon and bringing it to his mouth – he can feel Castiels eyes on him, as always, on his lips, his mouth, when he licks the spoon clean, waiting for a reaction.
Suck it up, Winchester. You’re a professional after all.
Even though dad didn’t think so.
Well, that thought definitely makes unwanted boners easy to handle.
“Acid.”
Castiel tilts his head to the side. “What?”
“Acid. It needs more acid.” With that Dean turns around, back to the steaks drizzling in the pan, taking a deep breath.
---
“Fuck, I’m exhausted already.” He takes the mug his brother hands him and drowns half the coffee in one go. Thank god for Sam and his ability to show up at the exact right time with breakfast and the patience of a saint while Dean bitches about being woken up too early, being exhausted, being decaffeinated and the general state of his father’s apartment, which he now lives in. He packed few things when he heard the news of his father’s death, his mind too preoccupied, barely managed to inform his boss that he wasn’t going to show up again anytime soon (“No worries, Winchester, just stay in rural America where you belong” had been the reply, which wasn’t a surprise but still stung), and living in his father’s remains hadn’t lightened his mood. Thankfully Sam had already packed a lot of shit up, so the guest bedroom was made and the kitchen usable.
Although it looked barely used – his father had spent most his time at the restaurant anyway. Only the liquor cabinet was fully stocked with half emptied bottles of Single Malt and Scotch and Dean did wander how his father had managed to drink so much and still run a semi-successful business. Going through the books he learned it wasn’t as successful as he always imagined it to be, though. They were known, yes, and a decent amount of patrons frequented the place regularly, but the number had been dwindling over the last few years. What really put a dent in it were the weeks after his fathers death with no money coming in but a lot going out, even though it were only a little over two weeks. It got to the point that it was barely keeping afloat. Fuck his life.
He had debated selling, while lying in bed at night and at one point even mentioning it to Sam. He decided against it in the end, Sam saying he would back him either way. It was his father’s legacy and, truth be told, it was his dream to work there when he was little. Until his father made it very clear that he didn’t want him in that damn kitchen and Dean did the only thing he could think of in response – make it even better. Become better. Make his father proud. So he applied to the Institute of Culinary Education, moved to New York, worked under Alastair, the 3 star Chef who made his life a living hell and worked his way up the Kitchen hierarchy. Now John Winchester is dead and whether he was proud of Dean or not remains a mystery.
As if.
“Jesus, Dean. You’ve been at The Beef for 3 days and you’re already this exhausted? Do you even sleep?” Sam puts a breakfast burrito in front of him, his face lined with honest to god worry.
“Ah, you know me, Sammy. Getting my solid 4 hours. I’m still trying to figure the place out, earn the respect of the crew, getting a feel for the ecosystem. You know.” He says around a mouthful of food.
Sam rolls his eyes. “I see, being a good chef doesn’t automatically apply table manners. How is it going? How is the new guy? Novak, right?”
Dean almost chokes on his food, heat rising in his cheeks, which gets him a raised eyebrow in response.
“Good. He’s good. I haven’t really… figured him out yet.”
Smooth, Winchester. Good answer.
“Uhuh. Sounds… interesting.” Sam says sheepishly over the rim of his coffee mug.
“He’s just a boy, Sammy. He’s doing his job fine, I don’t think the Novaks are plotting to take over The Beef, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not, I’m worried about you, actually. And is that what got you so flustered? That there’s a big plot going on?”
“Flustered? Who’s flustered?” he asks, sounding as nonchalant as possible which probably amounts to a nonchalance of zero. “How is that beautiful fiancé of yours doing, by the way?”
Sam puts his cup down and looks at him with a look that says ‘don’t fuck with me’. “We will get back to this but I will let the change of topic flow for now. You’re running yourself to the ground if you keep this up. I have no intention of getting your body from the morgue, too.”
“Jesus, Sammy. I’m not planning on dying here, I promise.”
“Good. Just making sure. Eileen’s good btw. We’re planning on coming over to the restaurant this weekend, see how it goes?”
---
A folder. Castiel printed a damn folder and handed it to him when the evening rush was over, stating “I have a few ideas you should consider, you’re burning money here and leave good business laying outside in the dirt”.
Dean was too dumbfounded to say anything, instead gave him a look that could kill and ushered him out with a not so friendly “don’t you have a station to clean?”. Good boss qualities are hard to come by and though some people say it’s instinctual and people are just born with natural leadership abilities that’s a lot of horse shit. Some people may be more prone to be good at it but leadership doesn’t come easy and is more (emotional) work than people give it credit for. Dean isn’t one of those people, in his opinion.
So, the folder. He takes it home, too wired to sleep anyway, grabs a smoke (sue him – kitchen work is stressful work and since his father wrapped himself around a tree drunk he’s barely had a whiskey or two. He has to soothe his nerves somehow) and reads through it. It’s a freaking Bachelor thesis, with charts, graphs, too much text and freaking Literature citation. It takes him roughly five cigarettes and at some point he relents and gets himself two fingers of whiskey to sip on the side to read through it all.
It opens up a lot of questions for him.
One, when did Castiel have time to do this? Should Dean put more work on him? Does he sleep at all?
Two, when did he manage to get such a thorough look into the workings of the restaurant? Deans basically grew up here (No, you didn’t, your dad made sure of that his brain unhelpful replies) and he doesn’t know some of the things in here.
Third and most importantly who does this guy think he is? This boy, barely half his age (Exaggerating much? He’s only 6 years younger than you), thinks he can tell Dean what to do with his own freaking restaurant (that you’ve owned for less than 4 weeks)?
After working around this guy for a week this is what he gets. A Thesis. And what a week it’s been. He’s been the victim of his stares. He’s been trying to be helpful, because the sauce really did need Acid and to his slight surprise Castiel complied, worked it out and thanked Dean for his suggestion. He took in his complaints, as Dean likes to call them (one could argue they're more like suggestions), “Dean, if you don’t mind, I really think we should cut some of the side dishes and concentrate on the ones with recurring ingredients. It's too much prep work this way.” - “Dean, do you really think it’s smart to only buy organic? I am all for it but some of this stuff is just as good from the regular wholesale and there’s more consistency in the quality you’re getting”.
Hell yes, he minds. He did the education, he did the work, he made his way in one of the most famous kitchens in the world, he took over his dads damn restaurant – and he will run it as he sees fit. Castiel can take his punk ass home and sulk on his big brothers couches, slaving away in their kitchens if he’s tired of organic foods and side dishes.
He should fire him. Not only does the guy put his teeth on edge with his piercing stare and otherworldly blue eyes but also he’s obviously cocky and just not a good fit to work with him. He will be a bitch to replace but they’ll manage.
He’s also hot as fuck and the cause of unwanted boners.
He takes his phone in hand and unlocks it. He should send Cas a text, that he should come in early tomorrow. So Dean can fire him.
He takes another drag from his smoke, stares at his phone screen for another second, then pushes the power button. The screen goes black and he stumps out his cigarette.
---
“Fuck this shit!” He thinks about doing the melodramatic move to throw all the papers he has in hand into the air and let them down on him to accompany his outburst but really, who’s going to clean it up? Him. So he doesn’t, instead shakes them dramatically to show his annoyance.
Sam sights next to him, back to the wall, surrounded by more papers and folders. Two empty coffee cups can be found somewhere beneath this pile, both having been refilled numerous times throughout the day and by hour 5 have been switched for bottles of beer. “How did he even manage to keep this place running?”
Dean throws another look towards the papers in his hand and the ones on his legs. “I have no fucking clue.” He lets the invoices from two years ago slide from his fingers, pulls up his legs not caring about the payment records laying across his lab, puts his elbows on his knees, lets his head fall onto his arms and groans. He’s so tired, he can’t think straight.
“Didn’t think this would be this exhausting.” Sam shifts, obviously trying to get up and be graceful about it.
As graceful as you can be with 6’ 4” and being surrounded by invoices and order receipts and payment reports, some of them having been collecting dust for nearly a decade now. Because their father decided it was a good idea to keep those and just stuff it all in some boxes, unlabeled and unorganized.
Thanks for nothing, dad.
Dean only hums in confirmation.
He can hear Sam rustling about, trying to walk among the debris of their fathers nonexistent filing system and leaving the small office.
Dean just breathes into his forearms. This is a mess. He always wondered how his dad managed to… well, manage the place. Judging by this, he didn’t, although nothing particularly bad has turned up - jet.
Nothing good either. Just… nothing. They tried going through all of it before reopening and while the restaurant was still closed Dean had a spend a few days and nights here, falling asleep on the uncomfortable chair, head on the desk.
Something cool touches his forehead and when he looks up, Sam holds a cold bottle of beer to his face. Dean lifts his head up and takes it. “Thanks, Sammy.”
“It’s Sam.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Dean takes a few gulps, feeling the cool liquid run down his insides. “Thanks for… you know, being here.” he says.
Sam doesn’t sit back down, instead leans on the window still, also covered in receipts and small pieces of paper with notes and recipes on it. “Sure. We should have down this earlier. We won’t finish today.”
“Yeah. No, we won’t.”
“Dean, seriously though. Don’t do this to yourself”. Sam swings his arm holding the bottle around in a wide movement, motioning to all the crap that’s piled on every available surface in the room. “Get someone to do it. This is… a mess. And you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
He snorts, taking another swig and leans his head against the cupboard behind him. “Thanks. It’s always nice to be complimented.” He digs his fingernails underneath the label on the bottle, peeling it off.
“Don’t do this, Dean.”
“What?”
“Don’t think you have to do all this, because dad did it. Or didn’t, judging by the looks of it. I love that you took over, I do, but I don’t want to see you break apart in the process of keeping it afloat.” Sam looks at him with an expression that leaves no argument. It makes something go warm and fuzzy on his insights, having his brother be worried about him, caring for him, and at the same time Dean wants to hurl, fells the skin at the back of his neck prickle.
Dad did it. He managed, somehow. Why can’t I do it?
He starts to squirm under the attention, so he empties the bottle and says “Don’t worry about it, Sam.”