he don't know why he's doing this. ‎ ‎somehow, in castiel's mind, he had to— wanted to—not by any means to please you but just to make you smile. oh dear. well, it all started with a cook's magazine, you browsing through it. then, suddenly, you snorted, shaking your head in sort of disbelief and amusement. ‎ ‎of what? a sunny egg. ‎ ‎the angel of the lord, curious then, asked why's that reaction, only to earn answers mixed with 'as if', 'can't be possible', and 'probably edited'. then that one part that rent in his mind: that if someone, anyone at all, could do that, you'll give them mad respect and probably befriend them for it. ‎ ‎and yep. ‎ ‎he took that seriously. ‎ ‎the last hours before day, the angel had ‎slowly sneaked multiple glances over his shoulder, making certain sam, dean, nor you hadn't rouse from the bubbling and crackling of the egg whites in the hot oil. and when he ran out of eggs again or oil, he would saunter over dean's duffle for his comrade's wallet and took out some money from there and go out. stealing is bad, yes, but he will explain it later, with pie to decrease the financial blow, atleast. ‎ ‎and he kept on trying. he tried and tried. over and over. piled sunny side ups over the other failures since he have to save a plate for the main egg and also cause the plates in the motel room is limited— and oh, father. this is hard. the whites are too stubborn; and the yolks either burst from beneath whenever he scoop them off the pan. or the edges got burnt and the back got burnt, or not cooked at all. he even tried flipping it over to try to cook the top as well— but it doesn't look like the visual he was looking for and many more problems. ‎ ‎too greasy, too salty, or not salty enough. sticks to the pan, got obliterated, doesn't look like an egg anymore. the shape is off. the yolk is too big, too small. the white are too much, too little. too much bubble. the edges aren't smooth enough— the edges are too tattered. the corners are shit, and many more issues. ‎ ‎cracking the 65th egg, letting its insides land on the hot oil—he intently watches the thing cook, his baby blues squinting and widening in a slightest, surprisingly expressional and he didn't even realize that as he patiently tilts the pan, pokes the edges of the whites to make sure it would have that doodly shape, adjusts the heat by carefully twisting the stove switch with his mind. but then— ‎ ‎a soft frown settles in, mingling with the tranquil forbearance on his face in worry seeing little eggie looked nothing like the one in the magazine, again. blinking and thinking for a moment, he goes to scoop it off the hot pan, mumbling enochian in disappointment when he suddenly hear some footsteps. ‎ ‎oh no.