Chapter Text
Lebanon Grove had never seen the courthouse so full. Every seat was taken, every corner pressed with breathless bodies, the air dense with perfume, gossip, and the faint metallic hum of anticipation. Amara Stone’s arraignment had turned the quiet town into a stage, and everyone wanted a front-row view. Reporters filled the steps outside, shouting questions into the crisp air. Former friends and curious neighbors crowded the aisles, whispering behind hands that once waved at her from parade floats, murmuring about power, betrayal, and the strange price of charm.
Dean Winchester sat in the second row, bruises fading to a jaundiced yellow beneath rolled-up flannel sleeves. His head still ached from the blow at the cannery, but he didn’t flinch when the bailiff called Amara’s name. He watched her walk in flanked by two officers, posture straight, eyes unreadable, her hair perfect as if the world hadn’t burned around her. She wore dignity like armor, polished and deliberate, but Dean saw the cracks. Hairline fractures of rot beneath the gloss.
Castiel sat to his right, pressed into the same hard wooden bench. His suit was immaculate, his hands folded, his gaze unwavering. They hadn’t discussed what came next. Dean hadn’t asked him to stay, but he hadn’t let him leave either. The guest room above the bakery had become something else entirely, and the spare toothbrush in the bathroom wasn’t an accident anymore.
The judge read the charges. Amara’s attorney pleaded not guilty. Her composure didn’t falter when the gavel struck or when bail was denied. She didn’t glance at Dean, Sam, or Castiel, only stared ahead, jaw locked, as if detachment could save her from what she’d built and ruined.
Outside, the courthouse steps became a tide of noise. Rachel stood near the railing, arms crossed tightly around herself, her eyes rimmed in red but dry. Charlie hovered beside her with a paper cup of coffee, murmuring something low and steady. Bobby, blunt as always, gave the press a statement short enough to end questions: the council would be restructured, and new elections would follow. Lebanon Grove, gutted but breathing, would rebuild. Maybe that was enough.
Dean didn’t stay for the cameras. He walked the few blocks back to the bakery with Castiel beside him, boots scraping softly over cracked pavement. The air smelled faintly of rain and yeast from the shop next door. He unlocked the door with steady fingers.
Inside, the place was unchanged. The display case gleamed under its glass, empty but clean. The chalkboard still listed last week’s pies. Sunlight fell through the front windows like dusted gold, soft and forgiving. Dean took a long breath of it. The silence wasn’t hollow anymore.
He slipped behind the counter, flipped on the ovens, and rolled up his sleeves again. Castiel lingered near the doorway, tie loosened, arms folded. “Are you sure you’re ready for customers again?”
Dean cracked eggs into a bowl, his hands steady. “No. But if I don’t make pie soon, I’ll lose my mind.”
A faint smile touched Castiel’s mouth. “Would you like help?”
Dean paused. “You bake?”
“No,” Castiel admitted. “But I follow directions.”
Dean handed him a whisk. “We’ll test that theory.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of silence that came after storms, the kind that hummed with the relief of survival. Castiel cracked the wrong kind of eggs. Dean called him hopeless. Castiel splashed him with milk. Dean retaliated with a cloud of flour, laughing when Castiel sputtered and glared. The sound filled the bakery, fragile and warm. It had been a long time since laughter didn’t feel borrowed.
By midmorning, the bell above the door rang. People stepped in cautiously, as if entering sacred ground. Familiar faces, all carrying the same look of uncertainty that wavered into relief when Dean offered a smile and a slice of strawberry rhubarb. No one spoke of Amara or the bodies or the trial. They just ate pie, sipped coffee, and exhaled.
Charlie showed up around noon with a mismatched box of mugs and declared the café corner officially open. Sam came soon after, head still bandaged but his arms full of council paperwork and responsibility. Bobby followed with a case of whiskey, muttering about needing bribes for future favors. Even Max appeared near the back, cautious but free, his gaze moving over the room as if memorizing the sight of peace.
By closing time, the shop was quiet again, smelling of butter and cinnamon, and the last rays of daylight painted the countertops amber. Dean stepped outside to lock up. His apron was dusted in flour, his forearms tired and sore in a way that felt honest. Castiel joined him, leaning beside him against the rail, eyes on the horizon where the sun sank low behind the courthouse dome. “It’s not perfect,” Dean said quietly. “But it’s something.”
Castiel’s gaze lingered on the square, where people still milled, hesitant but hopeful. “It’s more than something,” he said. “It’s a start.”
Dean turned to look at him, really look at him, and felt the words settle somewhere deep. “So are you sticking around?”
“That depends.” Castiel’s voice softened. “Do you plan on finding another body behind your bakery?”
Dean smirked. “Nah. I think I’ve hit my murder quota for the decade.”
“Then yes,” Castiel said. “I’m staying.”
Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, small and worn from years of use. “For the apartment upstairs. The bedroom’s yours if you want it.”
Castiel took it without hesitation, his fingers brushing Dean’s in a brief, quiet promise.
A warm breeze carried the scent of sugar and spice through the air. Somewhere in the square, a bell rang faintly. Dean leaned his shoulder against Castiel’s, a comfortable weight, steady as breath. “Welcome to Lebanon Grove, Novak.”
Castiel’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “Thank you, Winchester.”
The town was healing, one piece at a time. Through elections, forgiveness, and flour-dusted hands. Justice had been served, but what lingered was quieter: belonging, maybe even love.
Dean glanced up at the sign above his door, its painted letters catching the fading light. He smiled, the kind that reached his eyes, and whispered to himself, soft enough for only the wind to hear. “Time for dessert.”
One Month Later:
The morning air carried the scent of apples and woodsmoke, and for the first time in what felt like years, Dean Winchester woke without a weight pressing on his chest. The bakery apartment above hummed with quiet warmth, the sheets tangled around his legs, and Castiel’s steady breathing at his back. Dean didn’t move for several long moments, content to simply exist in the soft, unfamiliar peace. It wasn’t that everything was fixed. The town still bore its scars, hearts still bruised, forgiveness still hesitant, but the storm had passed, and he and Cas had survived it. That was enough.
By the time he padded down the stairs barefoot, shirtless, with Castiel trailing in rumpled flannel and a hoodie, the bakery was already alive with the hum of ovens and the soft golden glow of morning. Dean started the coffee while Cas unlocked the front doors. Outside, Lebanon Grove was shaking off the last of autumn, trees aflame with one final blaze of gold before winter crept in. Children tramped to school wrapped in scarves, shopkeepers swept their stoops, and peace, at last, felt unthreatening, almost ordinary.
The bell above the door chimed, and Charlie burst in carrying a wrapped box, cheeks flushed with excitement. Sam followed more slowly, looking less polished than usual but somehow lighter, freer than Dean had seen him in months. “Morning, sunshine,” Charlie called, setting the box on the counter.
Dean narrowed his eyes. “What’s in the box?”
Charlie nudged it forward. “Open it.”
Inside was a golden plaque: Dean Winchester, Local Hero. Provider of Justice and Pastries.
Dean blinked. “Are you serious?”
Charlie grinned. “Mayor Rachel Jensen signed off herself.”
Sam leaned casually on the counter. “They want to name the new festival after you.”
Dean snorted, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”
“We thought you’d say that,” Castiel said softly, voice quiet but amused. “So the committee compromised.”
Dean turned to him. “Compromised how?”
Charlie handed over a second box. Dean lifted the lid to find a branded apron: Winchester’s Whodunit Pies, stitched in gold thread.
Dean groaned. “You’re all fired.”
“No one works for you,” Charlie said, unimpressed.
“Exactly.”
Despite his mock protests, Dean wore the apron for the rest of the day, moving behind the counter with a lazy pride. The shop filled gradually, familiar faces drifting back in: Mrs. Wilson inquired after a seasonal cranberry tart, Benny dropping off a side of venison with a wink, Gabriel Novak passing through around noon with his brother, their silent glance carrying a weighty message Dean understood perfectly. You got lucky. Don’t screw it up.
By sunset, the bakery had closed, but the windows glowed warmly against the creeping dark. Dean perched on the counter with a beer, Castiel standing between his knees, hands resting lightly on his hips. Words weren’t needed. Silence carried its own healing, found in flour-dusted hands, tired eyes, and the quiet knowledge that they were home. “You ever think we’d get here?” Dean finally asked.
Castiel shook his head. “Not once.”
Dean leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Still want to stay?”
“Yes,” Cas whispered. “With you.”
Dean kissed him then. Slow, deep, with the certainty of something earned. Not an ending, not a closure, but a settling into the life they’d fought for.
Outside, streetlamps flickered, a laugh echoed from a distant porch, and the town breathed on, still alive, still messy, still theirs. Dean slid from the counter, laced their fingers together, and flipped off the lights.
Tomorrow would bring new orders, gossip, experiments with pie fillings, and more errands. But tonight there was only this: warmth, quiet, and the hard-won sweetness of a life earned the long, bitter way. For once, it was enough. After all, pie is what you make it. It can be sweet, savory or even a gooey mess but if the crust isn't done just right, it can all fall to pieces. You can either make lemonade with lemons or bake it into a pie. Life is what you make it. Kind of like murder. You can have the perfect plan but if your chemistry is off even by a little, it can come crashing down.