"Cas!" Dean groans. "No! The flour goes in here!" He holds up a glass bowl, smaller than the one in the mixer.

"Why, though?" Castiel asks. "Aren't we just going to put it in the mixer bowl right after?"

Dean sighs in exasperation. "I can't believe you've never made cookies. This is ridiculous," he mutters. "No, okay, so you put the flower and salt and baking soda in this bowl and kinda sift it together..." He scoops out all the ingredients and dumps them in the small bowl, tossing it slightly to mix it up. "Like that. And then you dump some of it in here..." He sprinkles about a third of the flour mixture into the other bowl and turns the mixer back on to mix it all together. "And then you can start mixing."

Castiel just watches him. Finally, he asks, "Okay, but why?"

Dean shakes his head at the boy. "Because that's what the directions say, and if you want your cookies to turn out right, you follow the instructions. Capiche?"

"I capiche," Castiel replies, but he really doesn't capiche at all. He's not quite sure what's happening, but he's going to roll with it just because it's how Dean says it works, and Dean has apparently made a lot of cookies in his lifetime. Or maybe he's just good at reading instructions and doesn't question them. That would do it.

Dean mixes it all in, until the cookie batter is all one consistency. He lifts up the top of the mixer and knocks the largest clumps of batter off the beaters. He pulls them off and hands one to his boyfriend.

"Try it. It's delicious." To emphasize this, Dean runs a finger along it and gathers some of the batter, then licks his finger. He drops the beater in sink and washes his hands, because sanitary conditions are essential for good cookies.

"But there's raw egg in it," Castiel protests.

"Yes...?"

"And you could get salmonella." Chuck was always adamant that no one eat raw egg because of it.

"Man, I've had raw batter more times than I can count," Dean tells him, rolling his eyes. "I've never gotten salmonella before. You're fine."

Castiel just hands the beater back to him. "I'm not gonna take that chance. You're welcome to it, though. Just, like, don't die."

Dean chuckles. "I can assure you, I'm not going to die." He licks the beater, then adds, "Well, not today. Not from this."

"It'd be a great obituary, though," Castiel jokes.

"'Death by cookie dough.' Put that on my grave."

Dean mixes the chocolate chips into the batter and shows his boyfriend how to properly turn it into cookies. He gives an example of how large the clump of dough should be on the cookie sheet, and Castiel imitates it as best as he can on his own cookie sheet.

As they're preparing the cookies, Castiel says conversationally, "So, people seem a bit skeptical of you."

Dean nods, not seeming to pay much attention to that. "Mm hmm."

"You seem surprisingly indifferent to that," Castiel adds.

Dean shrugs. "I've got you and I've got football. Doesn't really matter to me what other people think. You done?" He takes the silence as a yes and grabs both cookie sheets to plop in the oven.

"And you really don't care?" Castiel asks skeptically. It's not just because Castiel can't imagine himself not caring about his reputation. Dean was arguably the most popular kid in high school. The fact that he doesn't care what people think of him at all now is surprising.

"Nope," Dean replies dismissively as he sets the timer for nine minutes. "I've got it pretty good right now. And it's not like I'm gonna get fired for not being a super friendly little angel like you."

Castiel doesn't bother pointing out how he can't be fired — or won't be, at least. He's a money machine when it comes to helping out his record label. As long as he's still spitting out hits, no one is going to get rid of him, even now that he's stopped being such an angel.

"Do your teammates care?" Castiel asks him.

Dean seems to figure out what he's hinting at, because he says, "This isn't some high school popularity contest. As long as I hold my own on the field, Patriots fans will like me, and everyone else will hate me, and that's that. It doesn't really matter how I present myself to the public or whatever — how any of us do. We just gotta give it our all on the field, and we'll get along great."

Judging by the fact that he mentioned high school, Castiel has to assume he understands what he was thinking, so he only feels slightly awkward bringing it up when he asks, "But it wasn't like that in high school, was it?"

"There are guys on my team that are fifteen, twenty years older than high schoolers," Dean tells him. "They may crack a few stupid jokes, but for the most part, they don't tolerate any of the high school bullshit — and it really was bullshit, and I knew it at the time, so that's nothing new. Hey, do you have more cookie sheets?"

"Yep, here." Castiel pulls out another pair of cookie sheets and hands one to Dean. As they prepare this duo for the oven, he asks, "So if you knew it was bullshit, why'd you act so high schooly?" High schooly is a word, right? Well, it is now.

"I just needed that scholarship," Dean explains. "And I was willing to do just about anything to get it. It's a good thing, too. I got pretty lucky. And I'm gonna get cookies, so I'm double winning."

Castiel chuckles at that. "Well, I'm here with you, so I think that alone means I have it better than you."

"Ah, yeah," Dean agrees. "You do have it better. You get to be with you all day long."

Castiel doesn't say anything at first. Finally, he whines, "Stop being cute! I'm not good at this! It's not fair!"

Dean gives him a hug from behind, resting his chin in his boyfriend's shoulder. "That's okay. You don't have to be good at this. You're always cute anyway."