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“Shouldn’t you nerds be watching football?”
Dean doesn’t remember the last time he did anything for this holiday that wasn’t stuffing his face with crappy convenience store pie. Now he’s got his sleeves rolled up and smears of cranberry sauce and turkey grease on his old T-shirt, two entire pies—ones he made his own damn self—waiting to go in the oven. It’s just the three of them, everyone else dead or unreachable. Or busy, living out their own fresh, fragile human lives.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be cramming something up a turkey’s butt?”
“Hey!” Dean grins, leaning his elbows on the back of the couch. Sam’s taking up most of the room with his monster sprawl, but Kevin’s tucked into one corner, keeper of the remote. “That happened a while ago, you lazy ignoramus.”
“We’re bettering ourselves,” Kevin says. There’s some kind of giant sea creature, maybe a whale, in unnecessarily extreme closeup on the screen, and a British narrator talking about how majestic it is.
“Like I said,” Dean says, and drops his voice to its most ominous register. “Nerds. Who aren’t gonna get any pie if I have anything to do with it.”
Back in the kitchen, he cracks open a cold beer and stares down the dark screen of his cell phone. Cas liked, likes nature stuff on TV, he remembers. He’d think that whale was the coolest thing, probably. Hell, maybe he knows the guy who came up with whales.
you working today? Dean types, and fires it off to Cas before he can convince himself it’s too dumb.
There’s food to work on, stuff to distract himself with. Kevin and Sam teamed up with their big shiny eyes and coerced Dean into agreeing to make some gross vegetarian stuffing, so Dean’s got about a million things to chop.
His phone buzzes just a minute or two later, the sound loud and harsh against the table where it’s sitting, and Dean’s real glad no one’s around to see him jump out of his skin.
The store is closed today, but Nora is still paying me.
Dean’s mouth pulls into a dopey grin without asking his brain first. He sucks down a long sip of beer.
Before he can think of a smooth way to answer, Cas texts him again. The holiday is making the streets here very empty.
Dean takes a slow breath and lets it out. Man, he wants to think that Cas found a place to stay, but it’s really easy to picture him huddled on a bench in the cold, trying to do his creepy people-watching thing, realizing Thanksgiving isn’t a great time for that, wandering around all lonely with nowhere to go.
get yourself some pie, dude, he answers, and then, dont you get an employee discount or something.
Dean stares down his phone for a couple minutes, but it doesn’t buzz.
Whatever. He’s gotta work on opening that cheap bottle of champagne Sam really wanted to buy. Dean doesn’t even like that stuff, but it feels good to pour the bubbles into the little row of fancy-ass glasses, remembering how he washed the dust out of those himself.
“Kev! Sammy!” he calls out toward the couch. “Get your butts in here and set the table.” When Kevin meets his eye and grins at him, Dean rolls his eyes and adds, “Especially you, Tran. You’ve really got to start earning your keep.”
Kevin laughs, and Sam smacks Dean on the shoulder as he lumbers past to grab silverware. Dean carries the turkey out to the table, carves it himself, drinks half his champagne before giving up and going back to beer, and he feels good.
He leaves his phone in the kitchen and makes himself hope Cas found something just as good to do with his holiday. Sam makes a Thanksgiving toast, to the Winchester family, blood and beyond, and Dean remembers the steady, sad look in Cas’ eyes the last time he drove away.
There are enough leftovers to feed them for the next goddamn year. Dean knew there would be a lot, made too much food on purpose, but… “Jesus Christ,” he mutters as he surveys the table. Three hungry dudes enacted serious carnage on all that, but it wasn’t enough.
“I’m going to buy a bunch of stock in Tupperware,” Sam says. He’s making himself useful ferrying dishes to the sink.
“Yeah, can’t wait for your star turn on Wall Street.” Dean’s spooning mashed potatoes into one container, drizzling gravy over them, and tucking in a couple slices of turkey, determined. He can fit a couple pieces of the pumpkin pie in another one of these things, right?
Sam stops what he’s doing, sets a heavy hand at Dean’s shoulder, wearing his I’m about to have emotions at you expression. Dean cringes.
“Next year, right?” Sam says.
“Yeah, sure,” Dean answers darkly, squirming away from under Sam’s platter-sized hands. The Tupperware lid makes a satisfying pop as he muscles it shut. “This year was good.”
Sam smiles. “There’s always room for improvement, huh? Your keys are behind the toaster, by the way.”
Dean leaves as soon as the last set of dishes is lined up on their drying rack, ’cause it’s gonna be a long drive, and sets the leftovers on the shotgun seat. The whole Impala smells awesome with them, and maybe that’ll help with the long expanse of road stretching out ahead of him. It’s already sort of late, and he didn’t think this through, and his hands shake against the wheel for a second as he pulls out of the bunker’s garage onto the highway.
He doesn’t stop to sleep.
hey I’m outside :)
Shit, maybe the emoticon’s too much. Why can’t you go back and edit a text after you send it? Dean scowls uselessly at his phone, which blinks 10:30 a.m. back at him, and tosses back the rest of his gritty coffee.
His view’s obscured by a stack of boxes, Pop-Tarts and Cheez-Its and Doritos, but through the window he can make out the shape of Castiel’s shoulders, perfectly squared, his hands as they count out a handful of coins that wink brightly against his fingers. Dean swallows.
The customers, a smiling couple knocking their hips together as they walk, make the bell above the shop door tinkle when they leave. Dean concentrates on not watching, waiting, as Cas pulls his phone from his pocket. He can’t see Cas’ face but he pictures the little crease between his eyebrows anyway.
Dean, I’m working.
The nervous thrum in Dean’s veins subsides some. He leans against the Impala and taps out an answer, how long? I brought you stuff
Maybe that makes Cas smile. Dean can’t tell for sure, but he can imagine.
I have a thirty-minute break for lunch at noon.
cool I can wait
The level of Candy Crush Saga he’s stuck on is totally killer anyway. Dean pulls the car into a spot that’s not so close to the doors, switches on the music, and waits like a normal person, and the hour and a half only drags a whole lot.
A gentle knock on the roof of the Impala has Dean scrambling out, smoothing his shirt down. Why didn’t he bring a change of clothes? Why didn’t he grab a motel room on the way, sneak in a couple hours of shuteye?
Castiel’s nametag still sports the name Steve, and there’s a thread fraying around the topmost button of his white button-down. It’s all Dean can do not to grab his upper arms and pull him into a hug, so he thinks he’s allowed the relief cracking his voice when he says, “Hey, Cas. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“The day after Thanksgiving,” Cas points out. His expression is warm, one of those tiny smiles it took Dean a while to recognize tugging at his mouth.
“Close enough,” Dean says. He should have come yesterday. He should have called instead of sending pointless texts like everything was normal. “Uh, did you do anything fun?”
Cas’ lips press together and his eyes are dark when they meet Dean’s. “This is what I do, and it wasn’t open.”
“No, I mean—” Dean’s a disaster, but he just pushes on forward. “Look, I brought you some—I made it myself,” he tries.
The corners of Cas’ mouth pull up again, barely, and Dean slaps on a grin. “Kinda old by now but they should still be good,” he says, and reaches through the passenger’s side window to offer the Tupperware full of turkey and potatoes to Cas. He holds it like he’s never seen one of these containers before, which Dean’s pretty sure isn’t true.
“Thank you,” Cas says. The words are rough, quiet like he’s suppressing a bigger reaction, and Dean’s heart is beating faster than this moment actually justifies.
“It was, uh.” What’s he gonna say, that it was awesome, the nice little family gathering that Cas missed because Dean kicked him out? “I think we’re gonna do it again next year,” he says instead.
“Dean.” Cas makes his name into an entire sentence of response, something heavy and meaningful.
“Don’t wear it out,” Dean says too brightly, and passes him the second Tupperware before Cas can say anything else. Pie and more pie.
Cas smiles, looking down so he’s not exactly making eye contact with Dean, but he takes the offering. “I appreciate this.”
“Hey, it’s supposed to be all about family and togetherness and whatever, so…” Dean shrugs. He’s watching the small shifts of Cas’ scuffed sneakers against the grimy pavement. He even moves like a human now.
“Family,” Cas murmurs.
“Which you are,” Dean says. “I mean, if you still… you are to me, anyway.”
“Togetherness,” Cas adds. Without so much as a courtesy warning, he’s directing his smile at Dean. All Dean’s blood drains out of his head and his heart does a stupid, stupid flip in his chest.
Dean clears his throat. “’s what I said.”
“I’ll be there next year.” Cas shuffles both Tupperwares into the crook of his elbow. Must be a damn pro at carrying boxes of crap around by now. It lets him step forward, his hand curling warmly around Dean’s shoulder and sliding down over his bicep. His palm feels hot, even through Dean’s layers.
“Yeah,” Dean manages, “yeah—”
Cas’ mouth cuts him short, dry lips pressed to his own. Just that, just for the longest second of Dean’s too-long life. Like a promise. Dean tastes mint, a synthetic chewing-gum kind of flavor.
“I’ll see you then,” Cas tells him.
Dean tries to answer. All he can do is stare at Cas’ mouth.
“Or,” Cas says, slipping back into solemnity, “sooner. If you want.” He sounds uncertain, afraid of rejection. Shit.
“Cas, I—”
“I need to get back. If I want to have time to eat this.”
Dean steps back in. They don’t make it all the way to a kiss, but their foreheads bump, their noses knock together awkwardly, and some of the fear settles down in the pit of Dean’s stomach when he catches the sound of Cas’ breath hitching and the minute twitch of his fingers against Dean’s jacket.
“Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving,” Cas says evenly, “and make a joyful noise unto him with psalms.”
“Yeah, okay, buddy.” Dean wants to kiss him again. Like they mean it, like they’re together, like he’s some guy kissing his Bible-thumping boyfriend goodbye in a parking lot and seeing him off to the rest of his day at work.
The corners of Cas’ eyes crinkle when he looks at Dean. “Next year, I want you to teach me and I’ll help you cook.”
Thinking that far in the future is stupid. It’s a jinx. They could all be dead by then; probably will be.
“Hell yeah,” Dean says. “I’m saddling you with potato-peeling duties, kitchen slave.”
Cas huffs out a muffled laugh and yeah, that. Dean files that away as he climbs back in the car, as he makes himself point her toward home, as he pulls into the dark garage and braces to face real life. Next year.