Archive of Our Own

December 1

Cas is tired, and annoyed, and fully self-aware that he’s a mean one, Mr. Grinch. But really, it’s only December 1. Shouldn’t people still be sleeping off Thanksgiving dinner?

The drunken renditions of “Silent Night” that drift in from the street below seem to disagree, however. Cas stares sourly around his bare apartment, chastising himself once again for choosing an apartment just down the street from a dive bar. It happens every year. He should be used to it by now.

He’s thrown things at drunken carolers before. Never anything that would actually hurt, but he’s definitely lost his fair share of slippers over the years. Only problem is, he actually likes the slippers he currently has.

Usually, though, he can keep his cool. By this time of year, it’s often too cold for people to hang around outside for too long so they tend to pass quickly.

But these guys (it sounds like two or three) have been out there stumbling their way through the first verse of “Silent Night” for the last twenty minutes. Most of the other inhabitants on the street are probably asleep since it’s fucking two in the morning, and yet Cas has managed to find himself catching up on work again, because he’s far less studious about deadlines than he is about slipper maintenance.

He ignores it for as long as he can, but on their sixth garbling of holy infant, tender and mild (it sounds like they’re gargling mouthwash) Cas has to slam his pen down in defeat. It’s amazingly difficult to write bad greeting cards when assholes outside are singing even worse ones.

He ignores his slippers, but throws his coat and ridiculously fluffy hat on. He steps into his boots, shoves his keys into his pocket, and stomps down the stairs. He wonders if his heart is shrinking two sizes the further he descends.

Outside looks like a recently shaken snow globe, the streets far too covered in white for any cars to be driving until the city salts them in a couple hours. Cas sighs heavily as he catches sight of the two horrible singers through the glass front doors of the building. They’re both generously sized, and if they decide to throw a drunken swing at him, he’ll have to explain to his boss tomorrow morning why he’s got a black eye. It wouldn’t be the first time Cas has gotten hit in the face for being a buzzkiling asshole.

But he can still hear their embarrassingly off-key singing through the doors, and decides rather sardonically that this will be his Christmas present to himself this year.

He steps outside, and immediately feels the tip of his nose freeze. Last he checked, it was under twenty. He can fucking tell. The two men completely ignore him. Cas can tell from their postures they’re drunk as hell.

Bizarrely, right before he opens his mouth to chew them out, he finds a small flicker of sympathy catch in his chest. He’s completely thrown when he catches himself hoping they aren’t going to go home and find their fingers black with frostbite. The taller one isn’t wearing a hat but he has a lot of hair so Cas assumes his head at least fairly warm. The shorter one, however, is wearing a knit cap that’s fraying severely at the edges and a leather jacket that looks a hell of a lot colder than any jacket should look in this kind of weather.

Cas only realizes he’s been staring at the shorter one for at least half a minute when both men come to an awkward, slow stop with their singing and begin staring at him in response.

“I-” Cas clears his throat, losing his annoyance in the ensuing discomfort. “Can you guys just keep it down? It’s the middle of the night.”

Not his most impressive threat, but it’ll have to do.

The shorter one stares at him with wide, glassy eyes that are a disconcertingly bright green in this weather. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink with cold. Cas is pretty sure he didn’t hear a word he just said.    

“I like your hat, man,” he says, smiling widely, gesturing at his own head. “s’fluffy.”

Cas clamps his mouth shut. This guy’s face is lit up like a Christmas tree and it makes Cas feel like more of a dick with every second that ticks by.

“Thanks,” he manages stiffly, his neck burning despite the cold. “So, are you going to stop singing or what?”

The shorter one nudges the taller one in the side.

“I don’ think he likes our singin’, S’m.”

“That sounds like what he said,” the taller one- “S’m”- says. He doesn’t slur near as much as his companion. He looks at Cas apologetically. “Sorry, man,” he says, “We’ve had a few and were just goofing off. Didn’t realize how loud we were being.”

That effectively takes the wind out of Cas’ sails, and he even tries to offer them a slight smile, though it curdles in his stomach.

“It’s fine,” he says, already turning to make his way inside. “Oh. By the way,” he says over his shoulder, “it’s ‘holy infant, tender and mild’. Night.”

He hears the shorter one say, “I fuckin’ told you, Sam,” and Sam snap back, “You thought it was old tree elephant, fender trial, Dean.”

“Fuck you!”

Cas can’t help but chuckle as he stomps the snow off his boots in the lobby. He’s just at the foot of the stairs when he hears the door open behind him.

“Hey!”

Cas turns around to see Dean walking up to him, grin still in place.

“Um. Hello,” Cas says, trying to play down the question mark in his voice.

“What floor d’you live on?” Dean asks, starting up the stairs, leaving Cas trailing behind him kind of hopelessly.

“Fourth,” Cas says, “Although I don’t know why- wait. You live here?”

Dean stops on the first floor landing and badly winks, pointing a finger gun at Cas.

“Bingo,” he says.  

“I’ve never seen you.”

“Only been here ‘bout a month.”  Dean starts climbing again. “Sam’s m’brother.”

“That’s nice,” Cas says, because he’s not sure what else to say. Small talk has never been his strong suit, and his conversational partner being drunk only makes it worse. “Uh… How are you liking it?”

“Bar’s nice,” Dean chuckles to himself as they reach the third floor.

They reach the fourth floor in silence, and Cas is about to excuse himself when Dean stops him.

“Hey, so, you really like Christmas?” Dean asks, swaying slightly.

Cas feels his brow crease in confusion and is about to give the short version of why he actually hates Christmas when Dean beats him to the punch.

“Cause, y’know, you came outside in a snowstorm just to correct our lyrics.” The bottoms of Dean’s ears that aren’t covered by his hat are red too, and Cas can’t believe he actually finds it endearing.

“Uh…” he flounders. Dean looks like he’s legitimately (if mistakenly) touched by Cas’ gesture, and Cas doesn’t want to burst the happy drunk guy’s bubble.

“Are you going to be okay?” Cas asks instead. “You, uh, y’know, can remember where you live?”

Dean snorts.

“I’m drunk,” he says, as if that should explain it. “I’m only on five,” he explains. “Hopefully I can make it that far on my own.”

“Whatever you say,” Cas says, taking a step towards his apartment. For the second time tonight, however, he starts and then fails to leave, hesitating for a reason that probably has something to do with the way Dean is looking at him, if he’s being honest. Cas assumes it’s just the alcohol, but Dean’s staring at him so openly, and it’s only then Cas notices the freckles that dot his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It’s incredibly distracting.

“I’m Cas,” Cas blurts out. “By the way,” he tacks on awkwardly.

Dean grins at that.

“Nice to meetcha, Cas,” he says, foot on the first step towards the fifth floor. “And you’re welcome for walking you home.”

Cas watches Dean walk almost halfway up the stairs before coming to his senses and tearing himself away. Once he’s back in his apartment, he leaves his boots at the door and drops his coat and hat on the floor.  He surveys his decoration-less apartment again.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he mumbles.

December 2

Cas gets home from work at 5:30 exhausted, his brain wrung from churning out hokey and sappy greeting cards all day. He’ll always be grateful he’s not in the art department, at least- there’s only so many doe-eyed woodland creatures and quiet snowy scenes he could take before popping a gasket somewhere. He loves real animals and is, well, lukewarm on the snowy scenes, but attempting to commodify feelings has always made his gut squirm uncomfortably. He’ll have to remember to thank his English degree for this rewarding career path.

He drops his coat on the floor by the door as usual, kicking his boots off next to it. He flops down onto his old couch with a groan and stares balefully at the ceiling, his mind drifting to the occupants on the floor above.

Cas doesn’t actually know anyone on the fifth floor- well, excluding Dean, he amends- and yet in the past thirty-six hours he’s found himself utterly preoccupied with looking up. It’s ridiculous because Dean was supposed to be someone he was yelling at, not someone with bright eyes and freckles all over his nose who smiles like it’s going out of style.

Cas grinds his palms into his eyes until he sees whimsical colors, then opts for throwing an elbow across the upper half of his face instead.

It’s probably a good thing he has something other than the season to focus on. A harmless crush on a drunk guy who probably doesn’t even remember their conversation is a much more pleasant experience than dwelling on the absolute disdain he holds for everything Christmas.

Every year Cas will half-heartedly try to convince himself that this time, he’ll celebrate, even if it means going to Denny’s alone for Christmas dinner and hanging empty egg cartons as decorations. And every year, he promises he’ll start the next year. He’s been telling himself that for so long now he’s not sure if the lie has become more or less believable over time. Christmas is a season that breeds melancholy like local cemeteries breed ghost stories. Put that in a card, Cas thinks bitterly.

He wishes he didn’t feel like this, even if he is a self-proclaimed Bad Guy around the holidays. Not even the Bad Guys want to be Bad Guys during Christmas.   

A knock at the door interrupts his train of thought, and Cas is more than grateful for the sudden stop. There’s still plenty of December left to wallow in his own misery.

Thankfully, the person on the other side of the door is the exact opposite of miserable.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas greets, surprised.

Dean stands in the hallway looking surprisingly sheepish, and Cas can’t help but note the really ugly Christmas sweater he’s currently sporting.

“Hey,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, um, didn’t interrupt anything did I?”

As if anything ever goes on in this apartment that’s worth interrupting. Cas shakes his head, more than a little amused at the apparent shift of power that’s taken place seemingly overnight.

“Would you like to come in?” he asks.

“Ummm…” Dean trails off like he’s forgotten why he showed up in the first place. “Sure,” he finally decides, flashing Cas a quick, awkward grin as he enters the apartment.  He takes off his shoes and looks around for somewhere to put them, and Cas can’t help but chuckle. Dean’s eyes linger on Cas’ coat splayed out on the part of the floor Cas has dubbed “the closet”.

“You can just leave them there,” Cas tells him. “I’m not big on coat racks.”

“I can tell,” Dean says, following Cas into the living room. Cas takes a seat in the one armchair he owns, leaving the couch free for Dean. Dean sits awkwardly, twiddling his thumbs. Cas waits patiently for him to start talking.

“I didn’t realize you lived at the end of the hall,” Dean starts with, his mouth twitching at the corners. “I had to knock on three separate doors until someone knew which one was yours.”

Cas huffs laughter.

“I do keep to myself,” he says. “Let me guess, it was Ms. Mosley who told you?” At Dean’s nod, Cas continues, “Did you take her up on her offer for tea? I hope you did. She’ll give me shit if you said no.”

“I did say yes, actually,” Dean says, amused and thawing out a little bit. Cas watches his features relax, watches his elastic smile come and go at lightning speed and it leaves him just a little bit dizzy. “She talked you up pretty good, man. She also warned me what I was getting myself into.”

Cas raises his eyebrows.

“Really,” he says archly, “What did she say?”

“She said, and I quote, that you are a ‘fine young man who is wonderful with words and terrible with greeting cards.’”

“That last part is definitely true,” Cas agrees.

Dean laughs at that, crinkles forming at the corner of his eyes and Cas is completely, embarrassingly enraptured.    

They sit in silence for a moment and Dean gets that look on face again, right before blurting out, “Sorry about- um- the other night.”

Cas shrugs.

“It’s fine,” he says. “It happens every year. Actually,” he arches an eyebrow, “I’m surprised you remember. You were pretty…”

“Fucked up?” Dean laughs again, though there’s a bit of an uncomfortable edge to it. “Yeah. My brother is in town for the holidays, visiting his fiancée, and we kind of overdid it celebrating.” His face falls just the slightest bit. “I did, anyway.”

If he thought he had a right to know, he would ask, but Cas just smiles lightly back. It’s none of his business.   

“It happens to the best of us,” Cas assures him. “And actually, I have something I feel like I should mention. This may seem frivolous to you, but I just wanted to clarify that I didn’t come outside the other night to ‘correct your lyrics’,” he quotes, not being able to help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at the wording. “I wish I had had such good intentions.”

Dean seems faintly amused at that.

“What, were you gonna, like, come and Grinch us out?”

At Cas’ pointed silence, Dean bursts out laughing.

“Oh, shit,” he says, like he can’t quite believe it. “So Christmas isn’t your thing, huh? Or you just hate drunks singing in the streets in the middle of the night?”

“Can’t it be both?” Cas asks somewhat ruefully. At his tone, Dean meets his eyes.

“I’ve never actually met anyone who doesn’t like Christmas,” he says, almost in awe. It’s not said maliciously. It’s merely a statement, yet Cas feels a small spark of defensiveness in his tone when he replies.

“It’s just… Not my thing,” he lies.

Dean points a finger at him, faux suspiciously. “Are you one of those guys who claims that Christmas is something the stores cooked up to whip people into a shopping frenzy for two months straight?”

“Not exactly,” Cas says, “And I think you might be thinking of Valentine’s Day,” he adds.

Dean shrugs. “Probably.” He must sense Cas’ reluctance to talk about the subject, because he looks torn as he asks his next question.

“So… if you hate Christmas so much, how did you know the lyrics to ‘Silent Night’?” Dean asks.

Cas shifts slightly in his chair, gripping the arms a little tighter.

“I write greeting cards,” he explains, “Kind of in the job description.”

Which is true, but not actually the reason he knows.

“Oh,” Dean says, voice light and teasing, “So you’re the one actually selling people Christmas.”

“I just write the cards,” Cas clarifies, trying to play along. He’s deeply uncomfortable with this entire topic, but can’t think of a graceful way out of it. He doesn’t actually enjoy coming off like an asshole during the holidays, especially when he’s speaking to someone who obviously really enjoys the season.

Dean puts his hands up.

“Hey man, no judgement,” he says. “I buy into Christmas like nothing else. It’s actually kind of embarrassing. The stores must love suckers like me,” he laughs at himself.

“I’m… sure they appreciate your business,” Cas says awkwardly, not able to think of anything else to say.  

Dean looks like he’s about to say something else before he catches sight of the time on Cas’ cable box.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, “Is it 6 already? Shit.” He stands up abruptly. “Sorry,” he says apologetically, “I have to go help Sam put up Christmas lights at Jess’… I meant to just be in and out and then I was kind of completely up in your business. Sorry,” he repeats as Cas follows him to the door. “I get a little… antsy during the holidays.” He blinks, then shakes his head as if clearing a thought, and smiles. “And, uh, about the other night. Still my bad,” he says sheepishly.

“It’s fine,” Cas assures him. “Really. Have fun with your Christmas lights.”

“Have fun with your… greeting cards,” Dean says, and Cas actually laughs as he’s closing the door.

December 4

Cas is just getting back from the market, arms wrapped around a brown paper bag full of food, when he hears a crash and some very loud cursing from somewhere above him.

His hand falls from the door handle of the building and he takes a couple steps back, boots crunching in the snow and craning his neck upwards. It’s already dark out this late in the year, and Cas can just see a lit string of lights dangling listlessly off a fifth floor balcony as the cursing (loudly) continues.

“Dean?” Cas calls up, recognizing the voice. It may not be all smiles like the one Cas had met the other day, but there’s no way he could mistake the woodsmoked timbre.

A shadow abruptly appears over the rung of the small balcony.

“Cas?” Dean calls back.

“Are you all right?” Yelling at each other from five stories away isn’t exactly the most expeditious way of making sure Dean didn’t crack his head open from falling off what Cas assumes is a step ladder, so Cas corrects himself. “Hold on,” he yells up, hurrying into the building and up to the fifth floor.

Based on the location of Dean’s balcony, Cas hopes he’s got the right door as he knocks three times fast.

“Dean,” he says through the door. “Dean, it’s me-”

The door opens, and Dean’s standing on the other side, looking just fine.

“You didn’t tell me you were a doctor on the side,” he says, stepping aside to let Cas in.

“I just didn’t want you to die at the hands of a string of lig- oh.” He stops mid-word, his eyes going wide of their own volition. Dean’s apartment is laid out similar to his, but it looks like a Christmas bomb went off in here. Every available surface is decorated in some way, whether it’s a nice red and gold carpet runner on the floor in front of him or the mistletoe hanging over the entrance to the kitchen. There’s boughs of holly lining the tops of cupboards and nutcrackers standing tall beside the tv stand. The pillows and blankets on the couches are red, gold, green, and brown. It’s all very rustically done, making Cas feel like he’s in some sort of Lifetime Christmas special as opposed to in the middle of a crappy apartment building on the wrong-ish side of town.

“Wow,” he breathes.   

“Yeeeaahhhhhhh…” Dean drags the word out, half amused and half bashful as Cas actually moves past the threshold. “This place must be like anti- awesome for you.”

“It even smells like Christmas?” Cas asks, his mind boggling a little. Yeah, sure, Dean told him he liked Christmas but Cas sure as hell wasn’t expecting a miniature Pier 1 being assembled right above his head.

Dean shrugs like whatcanyado?

“Wow,” Cas says again. He blinks, remembering what he came here for.

“Are you alright?” he asks, refocusing. “Did you hit your head?”

“I am, and I did, actually,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his head self-consciously. “Luckily it was a short ladder.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cas asks, while mentally asking himself the same question. Dean’s a big boy, Cas is sure he can take care of himself.

Dean gives Cas a considering look.

“Do you want some hot chocolate?” he offers. “Unless you’ve got other things to do.” He nods at the bag of groceries Cas had forgotten he was holding.

Cas stares at his groceries for a second, mentally listing off the things he had bought and how long they can go without getting put in the fridge. He might slightly underestimate at least a few melting times, and Dean can probably see it in his creased brow because he takes the bag from Cas and through some incredible spacial recognition manages to fit the entire thing in his refrigerator.

Dean puts the kettle on the stove and turns to Cas, expression a tad guilty.

“Okay so I may have been pre-emptively bribing you…”

Cas raises an eyebrow.

“I may… need some help with the lights on the balcony,” Dean admits.

Cas nods. “You almost falling to your death kind of sold me on it,” he says dryly. “If you were to vacate the apartment who knows who’d move in in your place.”

That startles a laugh out of Dean.

“I can play my music pretty loud,” he warns as he leads Cas out onto the balcony. “And, well, you already know I’m prone to drunken shenanigans.”

“Yeah, well, a guy who used to live on the second floor bred tarantulas, and then accidentally knocked over their glass enclosure so,” Cas crosses his arms as they step back out into the cold, enjoying the look of pure horror on Dean’s face, “Perspective, I suppose.”

“Fuck. I don’t even know if I want to hear the rest of that story.” Dean sets the step ladder back up, this time double checking to make sure it’s secure. He turns to Cas with a slightly paler face. “They… uh. Rounded up all the spiders, I hope?”

“If you feel a tickle at night, best to just ignore it,” Cas advises sagely.

“Ha ha.”

Dean gathers the string of lights back over the edge of the balcony, pulling the plug out of the outdoors outlet so they go dark.

“So, I can do the ones on the railing just fine,” Dean explains, pointing. He unwraps the lights, handing one end to Cas. “It’s just getting this string around the frame of the doorway. If you could just…” Dean hooks the lights up on his side, then steps carefully down onto solid ground, pushing the step ladder towards Cas with his foot. “Then you just do the same thing on that side while I hold up my end, and we should be good.”

Silently, Cas hooks his foot around the ladder and pulls it right in front of him, stepping up and hooking up the lights just like Dean. It’s not a big deal, he tells himself. Just some simple, white lights. People hang lights for all kinds of occasions.

When he steps down, Dean plugs the cord back in, smiling when the lights come back on, framing the sliding door leading back into the apartment. Cas isn’t watching the lights, but instead watching Dean watch them. The warm white light is a good look on Dean. It softens him in a way that Cas can’t put his finger on, because Dean seems pretty damn soft already. Watching him from this angle, Cas is struck by just how long his eyelashes are. They’re mesmerising.

Dean turns to look at Cas, and he’s beaming.

“Thanks, man,” he says emphatically, and Cas doesn’t really know what to do with such naked emotion for helping with such a simple task. Instead, he gestures to the railing.

“I don’t mind,” he says.

Dean goes to grab another string of lights.

***

By the time they finish the railing and have the lights looking just how Dean wants them, the temperature has dropped at least ten degrees and Cas’ breath is frosting the air in front of him. His fingers are numb.

“Fuck,” Dean chatters as they hurry back into the apartment, toeing off boots and wrapping arms around themselves. Dean slides the door shut, and Cas has to admit, having a warm glow that comes from both inside and outside the apartment adds a nice touch.

“God I wish I had a fireplace,” Dean complains as he heads back into the kitchen to, Cas assumes, re-boil the water that’s most likely evaporated by now. He stands awkwardly in the living room area, glancing covetously at the couch that looks about ten times more comfortable than his own. Dean must notice his awkwardness, or even feel it from the kitchen, because he calls out, “You’re allowed to sit, you know.”

Cas sits gratefully.

“So,” Dean says from the kitchen, opening a cupboard and pulling two mugs- one Christmas themed, one a plain brown- out to set on the counter. He turns around to lean against the counter, palms curled around the lip. “I’ve been curious.”

“I’ve been curious as well,” Cas says.

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You go first,” he says.

“You went to go put up Christmas lights the other day,” Cas states.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says.

“And, just for my own peace of mind, how high were you off the ground?”

Dean’s brow furrows until he realizes what Cas is saying, and then- “Hey! That’s fucking neighborly of you.”

“There’s nothing more neighborly than making sure your neighbor doesn’t fall off more high things than absolutely necessary,” Cas says gravely.

Dean snorts. “You’re way saucier than I remember you.”

“I’m ‘letting my hair down’,” Cas says, finger quotes and all.

“Oh, brother,” Dean rolls his eyes as he turns the oven down and starts doling out chocolate powder into each of the mugs. “This is hot-chocolate lite, so, uh, sorry about that. Usually I’d make real cocoa but, well, being out of cocoa and all…”

Dean’s pouring the boiling water into the mugs when Cas says, “Then we’ll just have to do this again,” and Dean accidentally pours piping hot water onto his socked foot  but does nothing because he doesn’t want Cas to know what just happened, and Cas freezes in place because he’s just realized what he’s just said.  

That’s the thing people say, Cas thinks, panics. He writes greeting cards. He knows. That’s the thing people say when they want to go on another date, the implication being they’re currently on one.

He probably could’ve passed it off as a platonic friendly buddy-buddy “hey bro let’s hang out again” question if his voice hadn’t taken on this horribly implicating seductive (?) tone. What was that?

Dean walks with a slight limp coming out of the kitchen, putting both mugs down on the table and collapsing into his chair. He’s got a pleased look on his face that immediately makes Cas nervous.

“I have an idea,” he says dramatically.

“Okay,” Cas says warily.

“Okay.” Dean says. “So…” He seems to immediately lose his train of thought, or is at least searching for words. Awkwardness quickly ebbs up on him, and Cas vaguely wonders if it’s possible for two such awkward masses as themselves to ever ease up a little bit. “I was thinking about your face. Uh. When you saw all the Christmas stuff, I mean. I wasn’t just thinking about… your face… Anyway.” He course corrects quickly. “This might sound weird and I know we don’t even know each other that well but…” he chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I’m a writer,” he says it like a confession, like it’s something he’s ashamed of. “Not like, a real writer or anything. But I freelance, kinda, and I was looking for something to write a holiday piece on, and I think… if you’d be okay with it, I’d like that something- someone- to be you.”

Cas stares at him in silence, the steam from the mugs rising up between them only serving to italicize the silence.

“Uh,” Dean says, “Trust me, if you want to tell me to fuck off, I promise I will. But I mean, hear me out first, y’know, if you want.” He looks at Cas guardedly, hopefully.

“I don’t… enjoy the holidays.” Is all Cas manages to say. This is really weird.

“Okay, but that’s the point,” Dean emphasizes, getting caught up in his own idea for just a moment. “I don’t know why you don’t like Christmas, but I know there are a lot of people out there who also don’t like it, and I’m sure you’ve all got different reasons, but…” his face reddens a bit as he continues, and Cas basically knows by this point he’s going to say yes because Dean is wearing another Christmas sweater and Cas likes how his eyes light up when he’s talking about this idea. “I, um, try to help people in my articles,” he admits, the flush on his cheeks deepening. “I doubt they actually do much, but I figure I at least got to try, y’know? And it kind of makes me feel like shit that there are people out there who don’t like Christmas- people like you- who are weird and funny and definitely deserve to enjoy Christmas.” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I don’t want to guilt you into anything, I just figured I’d… y’know. Ask.”

He stares at Cas for about half a second before glancing out the window, and then as if he can’t help it, finds and holds Cas’ gaze again.

“Yeah,” Cas says simply, and when Dean realizes what he’s said and starts to smile, Cas thinks his heart melts just a little. “Sure.”

“Shit,” Dean says, delighted, relief washing over his features. “Thanks, man,” he says, smile now going at full wattage.

“Happy to help,” Cas says, not quite sure how to feel. Maybe it’s this, after all, that’ll be his Christmas present to himself this year.

“Could we… Could we start now?” Dean asks. “Would you mind?”

Cas considers for a very brief moment- because at the heart of him, there’s a permanent kernel of cynicism he’s not sure he’ll ever fully escape- just saying “forget it”, leaving this apartment that somehow smells spicy and sweet, going downstairs to his own cold place and just lying in the dark for a very long while, misering in his own misery.

“Go for it,” Cas says instead.

Dean glances at Cas, then down at the still untouched hot chocolates between them. He slowly slides the Christmas one- snowmen wearing Santa hats- towards Cas’ side of the table, keeping the plain one for himself.

Cas feels weird, and funny, and surprisingly good as he takes a sip of the hot chocolate lite. It’s- despite Dean’s modesty and lack of ingredients - perhaps the best hot chocolate he’s ever had. He tells Dean this, and marvels at the blush that creeps back into his cheeks even as he bats away the compliment.

“Just wait for the cocoa,” he promises, flustered, sweater green and cheeks red.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Cas says warmly, and Dean only meets his gaze for a second before looking away, but not before Cas catches the flash of smile.

He thinks about how simple it could be. How simple he wants it to be. A long time ago, this is what Christmas felt like to him. Warm. And good.   

“You never said what you were curious about,” Cas suddenly remembers. “I sidetracked you by being funny.”

It takes a second for what Cas is saying to sink in, and then, “It wasn’t funny,” Dean smirks, “But you did sidetrack me, I’ll give you that.” His face softens a little, and he taps his index finger on the rim of his mug. “If you hate Christmas, how do you write the Christmas cards?”

Cas sets his mug down.

“I want to say it’s complicated,” he explains, “But it’s really not. They’re just words on paper. They don’t mean anything.”

Dean looks like he’s mulling over Cas’ words carefully as he sips his hot chocolate. Cas can tell when he starts worrying the inside of his bottom lip.

“Yeah,” he finally says, faintly. “Maybe.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, and Cas congratulates himself on another successful buzzkilling. This’ll be a great opener for Dean’s article.

Dean seems to shake it off, however, and digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Here,” he hands it across the coffee table to Cas. “Put your info in there.” As Cas is typing out his name and number, Dean keeps talking, falling back into the voice that’s pretending it’s way less nervous than it is. “And, uh, look,” he says, meeting Cas’ gaze as Cas hands him the phone back. “If I’m coming on too strong- because I do that- you gotta tell me, okay? I mean, I want to write this article and I want you to maybe be able to at least not have a terrible holiday, but you’re in the driver’s seat here, okay?”

“Should we be coming up with a Christmas themed safe word or something?” Cas asks dryly, and Dean snorts. “I’m not against fun, Dean,” he clarifies, because by this point it probably needs clarifying, “I would very much like to enjoy Christmas, actually.”

“Well then,” Dean says, “You’re already making my job easier.”

***

December 6

Cas wakes up to a text on Saturday that reads: today @ 3 ok?

Cas: are safe words involved?

Dean: nope, just an axe and some wood

Cas: how could I say no

Dean: that’s the spirit. meet u at the sweet ass car in the parking lot.

Cas: which one?

Dean: theres only one sweet ass car in that parking lot. the black 67 impala.

Cas: is it wearing a santa hat

Dean: even I wouldnt do that to my car.

Cas: I look forward to meeting it

Cas rolls out of bed at a ridiculously late hour for someone who supposedly has their life together. Usually he’s grumpy as shit when he wakes up, but today he actually feels good. He glares at his phone, only because he knows it’s the source of his happiness and that makes him nervous. Texts that are halfway chummy shouldn’t make him feel this good.

In the time between coffee and meeting Dean, Cas doesn’t do much. He tries not to fret, and he definitely tries not to care about what to wear, but suddenly it’s ten to three and he can’t decide which sweater looks best.

It literally doesn’t matter, he tries to reason with himself. He’ll be wearing a coat the whole time anyway. Regardless, he takes another five minutes to choose a light blue sweater that he’s been told brings out his eyes, and spends the next five hurrying down to the parking lot and fighting with his perpetual bedhead all the while. 

The cold nips at his exposed skin as soon as he exits the building, and he shoves his hands into his pockets for his own good. He spots Dean immediately, leaning against the passenger side of what Cas assumes is the “sweet ass car” from their texts earlier. Dean’s still wearing that leather jacket that looks like it absorbs more cold than it repels.

“She,” is the first thing Dean says as Cas comes up to him.

“What?”

Dean pats the car reverently.

“Not an ‘it’,” he explains, “She’s a she.”

“My mistake,” Cas says, fighting off a smile. It doesn’t surprise him Dean would extend his vivacity to inanimate objects.

Dean smirks, pushing off the car and opening the door for Cas.

“After you,” he says.

The car is already running, the leather seats warm and all the windows defrosted. As Dean walks around the front of the car, Cas touches the tree shaped freshener that hangs from the rear-view mirror, infinitely amused. Someone’s dotted it with little red ornaments and some tinsel.

“I don’t usually keep one in the car,” Dean says, sliding behind the wheel. “But, ‘tis the season and all.”

“It’s… nice,” Cas says, letting it drop from his fingers and watching it sway back into place.

Dean laughs as he pulls out of the parking lot, turning the radio on low. Muted Christmas music surrounds them, and Cas bites his tongue.

“I can change it,” Dean offers, but Cas shakes his head.

“That’s the point of this whole thing, right?” he asks. “Anyway,” he changes topics, “I assume we’re going to get a Christmas tree? I didn’t bring my own axe, unfortunately.”

Dean pats him on the shoulder.

“I got your back, Jack,” he says. “There’s a couple axes in the trunk.”

“I mean, how many axes do you really want swinging around if we’re all going for the same tree?” Cas wonders, more to himself that Dean, even though Dean grants him with a chuckle anyway.

They drive out to the country, where the landscape is covered in untouched, unbroken snow, and the immediacy of it catches Cas off-guard, just like it always does with scenes like these. He spends too much time around mass produced landscapes.

“Y’know,” Dean says at one point, “Sometimes I think I would give anything to just pack up and move my entire life into a cabin in the woods.” Cas glances at him, and his face is reverent, dreamy. “It’s quiet, it smells good, and it would be a hell of an article to write,” he laughs at himself, “On a fucking typewriter, probably, because I’m just method like that.”

“Sent into the office by carrier pigeons?” Cas plays along.

“No,” Dean scoffs. Taps a hand on the steering wheel. “By cowboy on horseback.”

“There are more pigeons than cowboys in the Midwest.”

“Bullshit there are.”

“Pigeonshit there are.”

“Oh my god.”

A minute later, Cas says seriously, “You’d be good out there.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenges.

“You’re very… rustic.”

“Well gee, Cas, you sure know how to make a guy blush.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Cas muses, very very aware he and Dean don’t actually know each other that well and very very aware that he should be playing his cards closer to his chest. “It’s more a feeling than anything.”

“I’m ‘rustic’,” Dean says to himself, as if parsing it out. “Rustic,” he repeats.

“Homey,” Cas offers.

Dean’s expression changes at that.

“I like that one,” he admits. He slides his gaze over to Cas. “You think I’m homey?” he asks, and Cas doesn’t miss the small way Dean poses the question.

“I think so,” Cas says, the sides of his mouth tugging upwards of their own volition. “It’s nice.”

Dean smiles.

***

The Christmas tree lot is literally just a huge swath of snowy land dotted here and there with pine trees. Cas doesn’t know what he was expecting.

“Don’t they sell Christmas trees in boxes?” he asks as they trudge through the snow, Dean stopping to look at almost every tree. “Or out of church parking lots?”

“Yeah, but not everyone wants a fake tree or an easy tree,” Dean says. “I worked for this tree, dammit. It’s pretty gratifying.” He stops fondling a pine branch to turn to Cas, gaze speculative. “There’s a lot of trees here…” he hedges. “If you wanted one-”

“No.”

Dean puts his hands up, conceding quickly. “Alright…”

They walk in silence, Cas watching Dean commune with the trees or whatever. It’s quite a sight to see, actually. It’s not like he gets out measuring tape or anything, but Cas watches him size it all up with his eyes, as if he knows exactly how the tree will look and fit in his apartment.

Cas has always enjoyed nature, but often found it difficult to connect with it in any meaningful way. He often feels very cut off from the elements, and maybe it’s his job or maybe it’s his temperament or maybe it’s any number of things. Dean is solid and sturdy though. Dean looks like he could be a good tether.

“Is this a tradition for you?” Cas asks. “The getting-the-tree ritual?”

Dean snorts inelegantly.

“Hardly.”

He stares at the tree he’s standing in front of for another second before sighing and turning around, surveying Cas carefully.

“I’m not good at Christmas, Cas,” he states flatly.

Cas blanches.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “You’re the best at Christmas I’ve ever seen.”

Dean crosses his arms and leans against the tree, rapping his knuckles against it, literally knocking on wood.

“Yeah,” he says shortly, a little sour. “Well, that definitely wasn’t always the case.” He crosses his arms a little tighter, covers himself up a little bit more. “I had kind of a shitty childhood,” he admits. “Mom died when I was young, dad moved us around a lot after that. We didn’t have a lot of money or time for Christmas, and celebrating the holidays in halfway houses and motels was never really- we just never did it, minus a few gifts Sam and I could scrape together for each other, usually ones we stole from the local corner store.”

It starts to snow lightly, big fat soft flakes that feel more like a gentle touch than anything else. A couple flakes fall onto Dean’s lashes, and he blinks them away.

“My dad was kind of a shithead,” Dean says, “Died a couple years ago on the day before Thanksgiving. Heart attack.” It’s flat and unemotional, and Cas assumes it’s that way only because a single leak can lead to a whole pipe bursting in no time flat. He’s been there. Is still there sometimes. “Christmas had never been on my radar before that, but then that year, I fucking went Christmas wild. I bought garland, eggnog, gift wrap, ornaments. I baked, I decorated, I even sent a couple fucking Christmas cards.” He laughs hollowly, momentarily breaking the spell. “Who knows,” he says, “Some of them could have been yours.”

“I doubt it,” Cas says carefully.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says. “Stranger things have happened though, huh?”

“I’m sure they have,” Cas allows. He waits patiently for Dean to continue.

Dean swallows.

“This jacket was my dad’s,” he says, and a whole lot suddenly makes sense to Cas. “Christmas that first year he died was… honestly, it was incredible. Sam and his fiancée Jess were there and we had some family friends and neighbours over in the shitty house me and Sam were renting at the time. And then it was over, and everyone went back to their lives, and I didn’t think I could let go of that feeling.” He shrugs. “So I didn’t.”

“You feel guilty,” Cas guesses.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his eyes flash, but he nods.

“I guess,” he says. “It’s… just weird to think if my dad was still here I’d probably still be spending the holidays cleaning up after his messes.”

“I think we’re very good at turning grief into celebration,” Cas says meditatively. “Cards are given on occasions, both happy and tragic, and we do a booming business in the ‘sympathy’ and ‘get well soon’ sections. Death is an occasion just as a birthday or an anniversary is an occasion.”

“That’s bleak,” Dean says.

“You started it,” Cas deadpans, and Dean laughs.

“Touché.”

Cas steps up beside Dean, curious despite himself. The snow crunches underfoot as he reaches out and brushes his palms over one of the prickly pine branches. Dean’s eyes follow his hand.

“How do you know what you’re looking for?” Cas asks softly.

Dean shrugs, looking at Cas like he’s been caught out.

“I don’t,” he says honestly. “I just walk around until I see one that looks right.”

Cas takes in Dean’s broad stature, his beige work boots, his ripped jeans, and most definitely the plaid that sticks out from beneath his jacket.

“A true lumberjack,” he says stoically. “All that’s missing is the robust beard.”

“You don’t want to see me with a full beard,” Dean warns. “I look like a yeti.”

Cas squints suspiciously.

“I highly doubt that,” he says.

Dean grins cheekily.

“Hey, stick around till next Movember. I’ll prove it to you.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Cas says lightly, and however abstract the idea of twelve months later is to him, however new and undefined this thing is, he really is looking forward to it.

He also thinks Dean will look really great with a beard.

***

They continue to stroll through the pines, and Dean’s cheeks grow pink with cold. Cas very much notices.

Dean was right, he thinks. He’s very good at being “out here”. His eyes shine brightly in the brisk winter air, his mannerisms jubilant.  The cold strips of the early sunset that play on the planes of his face make Cas’ stomach twist in what he’s coming to realize is true adoration.

He should be surprised that he’s fallen for Dean so quickly, but all it takes is one glance for him to realize, no, actually, he shouldn’t be. Look at him. Of course he’d fall for him.

They find a tree just as the sun is dipping below the horizon, washing everything in an orange glow.

“What do you think?” Dean asks, arms out, face alight.

To Cas, it looks like every other tree they’ve walked past for the last hour and a half.

“It’s great,” he says, but Dean just laughs, seeing right through him.

They take turns with the axe, and soon enough, they’re both sweaty and dragging a tree back to the Impala. Dean apologizes to his car as he ties the tree to its roof with some rough twine. He walks off to go pay whoever’s in charge, and Cas stands awkwardly beside the tree, feeling absurdly betrayed, as if Dean’s abandoned him at a party where he doesn’t know anyone else.

“So,” Cas says conversationally, “Are you going to restore my faith in Christmas?”

The tree deigns not to answer.

Dean returns, and they hit the road. For the entire ride home, Cas is terrified the tree is going to go flying off the roof at the slightest provocation. Dean teases him about it, but even his face looks pained when they have to make a rather sudden stop when a deer runs out in front of them.

They make it home with both them and the tree in one piece, however, and manage to drag it up to Dean’s apartment with a minimum amount of swearing and a maximum of left behind pine needles.

“Uh,” Dean says, looking at the now-green stairs.

“I heard the landlord talking about how she wanted to redo the floors,” Cas offers.

 They drag the tree into the apartment and manage to wrestle it into the stand in the corner of Dean’s living room, right next to the door to the balcony.

“Okay,” Dean says, rummaging around in his closet for a moment. “Wait here.” He emerges with a handheld vacuum cleaner and leaves the apartment. In the distance, a whrring starts up.

Once again, Cas is left standing awkwardly next to a tree. He smiles faintly at it, mouth twitching.

“We meet again,” he says.

The tree doesn’t do anything.

“Come here often?” he tries.

Cas chews the inside of his cheek.

“I wish I liked Christmas,” he informs the tree. “I used to like Christmas,” he says. “A lot.”

He leans against the back of the nearest couch, crossing his arms and staring at the tree.

“Maybe I’ve just been doing it wrong,” he muses. “Maybe I’ve become a cog in the great machine of… the machine.” He grimaces. “I sell empty words, and people actually buy them. Figuratively, but also with real money.” He taps a finger on the back of the couch contemplatively. “I mean… they’re not really my words. No one actually owns words. But it doesn’t change the fact that these cards all express the same sentiment for $4.99, does it?”

The tree doesn’t move, but it projects a feeling of scorn, as if it knows Cas isn’t telling the whole truth.

“Yes, okay?” Cas snaps. “My existential greeting card crisis isn’t the biggest problem here, I know.”

Go on, says the tree.

“Well it’s just not fair, is it?” Cas asks. “It looks like Dean got the better deal out of this ‘terrible familial holidays’ thing than I ever did.” He rubs his forehead. “No,” he tells himself, “That’s not fair.” He sighs. “I don’t know. It’s been such a long time. I’m starting to think this whole thing is an excuse for staying miserable because it’s become routine, and routine is easy. Routine is writing the same greeting card fifty times with a thesaurus. Routine is the drunk carolers I yell at every year. Routine is the couch I lay face down on after work every day.”

He groans. He’s officially become the tortured greeting card writer. How embarrassing.

“Now that you know my secrets, I have to kill you,” Cas says dryly. He moves towards the tree, running his hand over the needles. “But thank you for listening.”

Dean chooses that moment to re-enter the apartment, and when he sees Cas touching the tree, he smirks.

“Am I interrupting?” he asks.

Cas steps back.

“I was having a heart to heart with your… Christmas tree,” he admits.

Dean laughs before stopping abruptly.

“Wait, was that a joke?”

“… No?”

Dean contemplates that for a moment, before shrugging.

“I hope it was a good listener,” is all he says as he opens the back compartment of the mini-vacuum and dumps the left-behind needles into the garbage. He tosses the vacuum back into the closet, and comes out dragging two large boxes.

“Ready to decorate?” he asks.

***

Dean’s ornaments have many stories. There’s a couple made by Sam in his elementary years, ranging from lightbulb reindeer to sunflower seed poinsettias. There’s a bunch of roughly welded sigils made from scrap metal, because apparently both Dean’s mother and father were really into that kind of stuff. There’s the shotgun shell his father brought home from Nam. (“You, uh, actually hang that up?” Cas asks, and Dean just shrugs noncommittally and puts it somewhere near the back of the tree.)

There’s more traditional fare as well, like the warm white lights they put on before anything else. They hang a set of golden balls and stick red bows between the branches.

“You’re an angel kind of guy?” Cas asks, of the somewhat well-worn tree topper he’s currently holding. She’s wearing a gold and white dress, light beige wings extending from her back and a halo above her head, attached with a small bit of wire.

Dean stares reverently at it.

“It was my mom’s,” he says quietly. “We had it on top of our tree every Christmas until she died. She always told me angels were watching over me as a kid, and I kind of-” he shrugs it off, attempting to play its importance down. “It’s ridiculous to keep something like this, I know. Overly sentimental and all.”

“I think it’s lovely,” Cas says quietly. He hands it to Dean and grabs the step stool they used the other day to put up the lights. Dean climbs it and arranges the angel in a way he likes before stepping back down and evaluating the angle. He fixes the angel at least three more times before being satisfied.

The tree isn’t perfect by any means, but it doesn’t stop something warm blooming in Cas’ chest as Dean plugs in the lights and it comes to life right in front of them. He grins over at Cas, and Cas silently wonders if he’ll ever get tired of that expression. Most likely not.

“We’ve done your balcony, and now your tree,” Cas observes. “Have you just been using me to decorate your apartment?” Cas teases.  “Is that your endgame here?”

Dean puts a hand over his heart, mock-offended. “Cas, I can’t believe you would accuse me of such a thing.” His expression slips into something more mischievous. “And if that was the case, well, I would hope you’d be okay with being paid in hot chocolate.”

Cas thinks of his own disturbingly empty kitchen and surreptitiously glances around Dean’s beautiful apartment.

“Your company is reward enough,” Cas says, and maybe it’s the warmth of the Christmas lights, or the smell of the tree, or the quiet, crackly records playing in the background, but his tone is so familiar, so warm. “We can consider any hot beverages as bonuses.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise as a slow smile slides into place, and he nudges Cas conspiratorially.

“That’s the true Christmas spirit,” he says approvingly.

***

December 7

Cas is woken up at 5:30 in the morning by a knock at the door. He practically rolls out of bed, still half asleep and probably not looking especially impressed when he opens the door with a squint, ruffled hair, and rumpled pajamas.

“Oh, motherfu-” he says when he sees Dean smiling at him, bright eyed and bushy tailed and wearing another terrible Christmas sweater, coffee in hand. “Dean,” he says flatly.

Dean thrusts the coffee at him.

“It’s baking day!” he exclaims.

“It’s Sunday,” Cas retorts. He briefly considers shutting the door in Dean’s face, but knows there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen.

Dean waggles his eyebrows.

“C’mon, Cas,” he needles. “I promise I make a mean Nanaimo bar.”

“What the hell is a Nanaimo bar?”

“If you don’t come and bake with me, you’ll never find out.”

Cas blinks slowly, trying not to fall back asleep on the spot.

“I can just google it,” he threatens.

“But you won’t,” Dean says, infuriatingly correct in that assumption.

Cas grumbles and drags himself back to his room to change.

“I’ll just wait here!” Dean calls cheerily from the doorway.

Cas honestly doesn’t think he’s been awake at 5am in at least a decade, and glares at the still dark sky outside his bedroom window as he pulls sweat pants on. Too bad there aren’t any, happy 5am, asshole! cards at his local card shop. He’d be sure to invest and fling them through Dean’s bedroom window every night for a week.

He brushes his teeth quickly and splashes some water on his face to wake himself up, and still manages to look like he’s just been awoken five hundred years in the future from his cryogenically frozen slumber.

He throws his slippers on and shuffles back towards Dean, who’s still somehow grinning in the doorway.

“Oh my god,” Cas complains blearily, barely remembering to hook his key ring over his finger before shutting the door behind him.

“C’maaahhhhhhn,” Dean cajoles, “It’s gonna be great, I promise.”

Even though he’s still in zombie mode, Cas is incredibly surprised when Dean grabs his hand, practically dragging him upstairs to his own apartment.

Cas (once again) probably shouldn’t be surprised that it already smells like a bakery in Dean’s apartment. He can smell it from the hallway.

“How long have you been baking?” he asks incredulously as Dean leads him inside and into the kitchen, notably not letting go of Cas’ hand.

“Since last night,” he says, like it’s no big deal.

Then Cas sees them. The trays. The trays and trays of Christmas-y baked goods, littered throughout the living room and the kitchen. There’s truffles and cookies and cupcakes and squares and macaroons and a ton of things Cas doesn’t even know the name of. He feels himself goggling, and takes a sip of coffee to distract his flabbergasted expression.

It doesn’t help much.

“What the hell?” he asks.

Dean makes a face and shrugs.

“It’s not all for me,” he defends himself. “Although may I just be the first to say I’m an awesome baker?”

Cas, now fully awake, is weirdly stressed out.

“Who do you give them to?” he asks, maybe a little aggressively for discussing baked goods, “Do you know the whole city or something? The whole state?”

Dean seems a little put off, and shrugs again.

“I do keep some,” he admits, scratching his forearm absently. “Some go to Sam and Jess, some to friends, to family…” he trails off, “The rest goes to homeless shelters, and, uh, I was hoping you’d take some as well.”

Cas is kind of freaking out, and Dean looks like he’s freaking out in response to Cas’ freaking out.

“This was too weird, wasn’t it?” Dean rushes out. “It’s fucking 5 in the morning and you were sleeping and I didn’t even ask beforehand-”

Cas swallows.

“Dean-” he interrupts.

“- and who even does that?” Dean continues, “knocking on doors at 5am and demanding baking help? What? I just- figured baking was such an important tradition for me and I thought, hey, maybe this is something Cas would be into, since making things for people I love is like, Christmas to me, and I don’t know, it makes me feel good, and I want you to feel good too, but I guess you would have felt better if you could actually slee-”

“Dean,” Cas repeats, leaving his coffee on the counter and stepping into Dean’s personal bubble. Dean shuts up and stares at him, blinking owlishly. Cas figures since there was hand holding a moment ago, he’s well within his rights to rest his hands on Dean’s cheeks.

“Maybe it is weird,” Cas says. “In fact, it probably is.”

Dean blinks.

“Thank you,” Cas says meaningfully, and steps back. “Shall we get to it?” he offers.

“Uh.” Dean says, like he’s the one who just woke up, “Yeah.”

***

It’s a good thing Dean is an excellent baker, because Cas is terrible. He doesn’t like working with specific quantities and wonders out loud more than once why they can’t just throw some butter into the mix or just this much sugar.

Dean has saved at least three dry mixes and one wet, and has even prevented at least a couple fires when Cas leaves dishtowels on very hot surfaces and that one time he tried to put tin foil in the microwave.

When they actually get to icing anything, Cas isn’t much better. There’s much less chance of a fire, but a very high chance anyone Dean gives these cookies to will probably think he not-so-secretly hates them. The icing goops and lumps and is generally uncooperative, and Dean thinks it’s the most hilarious thing ever.

Eventually, Cas flicks green icing at Dean to shut him up, misses his mark, and smacks him right in the eye with it.

Smooth, Cas thinks as he stands over the sink to make sure Dean’s managed to flush it all out properly.

Dean retaliates by shoving a pie into Cas’ face later, and even snaps a picture of it for posterity’s sake, claiming he looks like a melting snowman.

“A self-cannibalizing one,” Cas says critically. “I was eating it. It was very good.”

“That is so… weird.” Dean says, but he’s smiling as he says it.

By the time they’re done, it’s midday and Cas has managed to nicely ice exactly one cookie and successfully mix one batch of dough. It’s not much, but it’s one cookie and one batch of dough better than he’s ever done.

He and Dean stand back to admire their (Dean’s) work. They’re both absolutely covered in flour and icing and spices, and Dean has a smudge of cinnamon on his cheek that Cas has been eyeing for the past hour.

“Well,” Cas says, “That was a bracing seven hours.”

Dean rummages through a cupboard to find covers for all the Tupperware, and hands half of them to Cas.

“I find baking relaxing,” Dean says. “I mean, less so with icing being flung at me every couple minutes, but still.”

“There is a certain serenity to it,” Cas agrees, covering up some nice red and green cupcakes. “I seem to be less inclined to follow directions, but I can understand the comfort in solid numbers and soft powders.”

Dean chuckles.

“Sometimes I can really tell you write cards.”

“Because I’m corny?”

“Because you hardly ever talk like a normal person.”

“What does a normal person sound like?”

“… Normal.”

“Ah.”

They stack and label the containers, and Dean promises Cas he won’t make him come along on the delivery route.

“A couple of them are… a lot to handle at first,” Dean says. “Although,” he grabs one of the few boxes left unmarked. “I figured Ms. Mosley may want some. I saw some date squares in her kitchen last time I was in there so. Yeah. Any chance you could drop them off for me?”

Cas feels his chest constrict a little, and can barely muster up a smile and nod.

“Of course,” he says, again an unwilling victim of Dean’s Winchester’s kindness. It’s that same feeling he got on the night he first met Dean, only magnified. He never expected someone would be able to project a feeling like that so clearly.

Of course, that was before he met Dean.

He takes a moment to marvel that he hasn’t even known Dean for a week. He briefly considers that it’s been said that sometimes, when you meet that person, you just know. 

He glances at Dean, who’s now labelling the last couple containers that are getting delivered. He watches the way Dean holds the pen cap between his lips and the rough, broad strokes of his hand. Dean’s sweater today is a garish knit with a big Christmas tree covered in ornaments made of sequins, and Cas would be lying if he didn’t find it equal parts horrifying and endearing.

They end up sprawled on Dean’s couch, flipping idly through tv channels. Dean lays an arm across the back of the couch, and subsequently, behind Cas. Cas tries not to be too hyperaware of it.

Dean finds a marathon of The Simpsons Christmas specials, watches for about ten minutes, and promptly conks out onto Cas’ shoulder. Cas imagines his shoulder isn’t the most comfortable pillow, and tries to gently shake Dean awake so he can actually go and sleep in a bed. Dean, however, doesn’t seem interested in moving, so Cas attempts to do the maneuvering for them. He manages to get Dean’s arm back to his side, and grabs one of the pillows at the opposite end of the couch to give to Dean. He gently cradles Dean’s head as he attempts to slide a pillow between him and Dean, fumbles it, drops it into his lap, followed shortly by Dean, now using both the pillow and his lap as a cushion, and Cas gives up.

He hesitates, not sure what to do with his hands. He ends up keeping one on the remote, and gently lays his other one on Dean’s hair, running his fingers through the tresses. Dean sighs contentedly into the touch, so Cas keeps going, unable to keep the dopey, soft smile off his face. He must lull himself into some semblance of sleep, because the next things he knows, he’s waking up with Dean’s head on his chest and his hand lying across Dean’s lower back.

He squints blearily at the cable box, and can just make out the time. They’ve been asleep for a couple hours, The Simpsons still running its marathon.

It’s all very nice and tender, feeling Dean breathe alongside him, except Cas’ arm and right foot are incredibly asleep.

“Dean,” he murmurs, tapping Dean on the back, “No offense, but you’re crushing me.”

Dean stirs.

“Dean,” Cas repeats, rubbing his knuckles up and down the back of that hideous sweater. “C’mon.”

“Ugh,” Dean mumbles, pushing himself up and rubbing his eyes. “Y’okay?”

Cas sits up too, cradling his currently useless arm. “Once I get the feeling back in my appendages, yes.”

Dean yawns big, vigorously rubbing his face.

“Fuck,” he says. “Sorry for tapping out on you like that.”

“I’d imagine all night bake-a-thons would do that to you,” Cas acknowledges. “Besides, some asshole woke me up at five this morning so a nap’ll do me some good.”

Dean snorts laughter.

“Glad to be of service,” he says, standing up and stretching.

“I was the one who was the pillow,” Cas says dryly.

“And you did an excellent job,” Dean pats him bracingly on the knee before stepping into the kitchen.

“You never tried a Nanaimo bar,” he reminds Cas, holding up one of the containers of goods he’s keeping.

“You never told me what a Nanaimo bar was,” Cas retorts, following Dean into the kitchen.

“Okay, wait,” Dean says, and Cas stops just under the doorway, very aware of the mistletoe hanging directly above his head. “Close your eyes.”

“Dean,” Cas says.

“Open your mouth,” Dean says softly.

Cas obeys.

Dean holds the sweet up to his mouth.

“Okay, take a bite,” he instructs, and as soon as he does, an incredible sweetness flows over his tongue. It’s enough that he takes a step back and his eyes fly open, to a very amused Dean.

“Oh my god,” he says.

“Right?” Dean asks. “It’s good?”

“That was…a lot.” Cas says honestly. “Wow.”

“It’s not for everyone,” Dean admits. “I picked up the recipe when I roadtripped with Sam through British Columbia a couple years ago.”

 As the sweetness dissipates, Cas has the sudden craving for more.

“No, no, Dean, these are… very good,” Cas says. “I like these very much.”

Dean looks like he’s holding back laughter as he comes at Cas with the rest of the bar.

“Choo choo,” he says.

“Dean,” Cas admonishes.

Dean ends up feeding him the rest of the bar, and Cas pretends to be annoyed but betrays himself by moaning about how good it is.

***

December 10

Cas doesn’t see Dean at all on Monday or Tuesday- it’s the last big rush before the holidays, and he’s at work till seven or eight both nights, and basically passes out as soon as he gets home.

Dean sends him a couple texts, mostly bad Christmas jokes.

Dean: What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck?

Cas: Dean.

Dean: A christmas quacker

Cas: Dean.

Dean: What’s the best Christmas present in the world?

Cas: Dean.

Dean: a broken drum, u just cant beat it!

Cas: Dean.

Dean: ok ok heres one youll like. what do angry mice send to each other at christmas?

Cas: what, dean. what do they send each other.

Dean: CROSS MOUSE CARDS

Dean: get it. because u write xmas cards.

Dean: its funny.

Cas would never tell anyone this, but he only laughed at these jokes because Dean was the one who told them to him.

Cas is home for about five minutes on Wednesday night before there’s a knock on his door. When he opens it, no one’s there. When he steps out into the hallway to look, he runs into a knee-high box and accidentally kicks it into the door across from him.

“Oops.” He grabs the box and retreats back into his apartment before his neighbor can open the door and give him one of those weird looks he always seems to reserve for Cas.

It’s a gingerbread house kit. Attached is a note that reads: see you in an hour.

Cas sends Dean a text.

Cas: You’re on.

A couple minutes later, after Cas has already opened the box and found that his kick has broken one of the gingerbread walls, Dean texts back.

Dean: no cheating! kit materials only. winner is determined by me.

Cas: that sounds like cheating.

Dean: ill have u know im a very impartial judge.

Cas: you should stop texting me. youre distracting me from my masterpiece.

Dean: “masterpiece”. afraid of a little trash talk?

Cas uses the icing to glue his wall back together, although it’s a little crooked and is probably going to collapse at the slightest provocation. Undeterred, he holds his first two walls together with one hand while the icing dries and texts Dean with the other.

Cas: my gingerbread house is going to be better than yours. It will sell for more on the gingerbread house market and you will have a for sale sign stuck in your yard for months.

Cas manages to stick the rest of his walls together, although he eyes the broken one nervously the whole time. It’s held together so far but he’s not sure if it’ll hold long enough.

The roof is an absolute nightmare to put on, and it collapses on him twice before he actually manages to get everything into place.

He glances at his phone.

Dean: my gingerbread house brings all the gingerboys to the yard and they’re like ‘its better than yours’

Cas purses his lips to keep from laughing, and starts icing the roof. He doesn’t exactly have the most delicate hands in the world, as his shaky foundation can attest to, so he ends up with more of a smeared roof aesthetic than anything resembling the nice scalloped pattern on the box, but he drops some sprinkles onto it for decoration and decides that’s probably going to be as good as it gets.

As he surveys the front and the sides of the house, he realizes he probably should have decorated those first before attaching the roof.

Cas: I don’t think I would make a very good architect.

Dean: i would live in a house built by u

Dean is typing…

Dean: well on second thought maybe not. did u go to architect school.

Cas: I have an english degree

Dean: ok… well then I wouldnt. but its the thought that counts right??

Cas: you probably couldn’t fit into a gingerbread house anyway. no hard feelings.

Cas lays his candy options out in front of him, seeking the box for inspiration but ultimately just kind of sticking things where he thinks they’ll fit. According to his naked apartment, he’s not a very good interior decorator. According to his gingerbread house, he’s not a very good exterior decorator either.

He’s just sticking his last jujube into place when there’s a knock at the door. Cas has been concentrating so hard on sticking the jujube to the house that he starts, his knee knocks into the underside of his desk, and he watches with wide eyes as the entire house crumbles down, jujube still in hand.

“Oh,” he says.

He goes to answer the door, and of course, it’s Dean, with (of course) a perfect gingerbread house in hand.

“Let the judging begin?” Dean asks, sliding in and presenting his tray.

“Uh.” Cas glances at the mess on his desk. “We had some last minute technical difficulties.”

“Ohhhhh shit, dude,” Dean puts his own tray on the counter and goes to inspect Cas’ absolute mess. “I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t move in, huh?”

“I would have called the gingerbread fire department to fish you out,” Cas assures him, looking at Dean’s exceptionally well done house. It’s incredibly impressive. “You’re very good with your hands,” he observes, as he traces the perfectly scalloped edges of the roof.

Dean scoffs, but Cas raises his eyes to meet Dean’s.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Between this and the baking, you’re rock steady. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean blusters for a moment before making a face. “Me and Sam got busted up as kids a lot and dad was never around to take us to the hospital, so I was usually patching either me or him up on any given day. But, hey,” he says, bravado as fractured as Cas’ gingerbread house, “At least I can make perfect buttercream roses.”  

“I think it’s commendable,” Cas says quietly. “To take something like that and make something good out of it.”

He thinks about how Dean’s hands must have softened in the years since his father died, and with no stitches to stitch, how he found soft things to do with his hands, typing articles and baking and hanging decorations from Christmas trees.

Dean looks like he’s about to argue, but stops himself at the last minute. He swallows past whatever argument he was going to make, and just smiles tiredly and says “thanks, Cas.”

Dean decides Cas’ gingerbread house wins.

“Why?” Dean asks mischievously. He slings an arm around Cas’ shoulders and sloppily kisses him on the cheek. “Because it has character. And you always get bonus points for trying.”

***

December 15

Dean’s favorite Christmas movie is Die Hard, which, according to him is the Greatest Christmas Movie Ever. Cas has never seen it, so of course they end up watching it.

“That wasn’t very Christmas-y,” he comments when it’s over.

“The only thing more Christmas-y than Die Hard is Christmas itself,” Dean counters, and Cas leaves that be.

Dean breaks out a couple classic Christmas movies after that: It’s a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34^th Street, and White Christmas.

By the time White Christmas is ending, it’s almost midnight and Dean has an arm around Cas and Cas has a lump in his throat as the last musical number fades out to the Paramount Pictures logo. He viciously swallows past it, keeping his head down on Dean’s shoulder and trying to breathe steadily. Dean shuts the DVD player off and brushes his knuckles along Cas’ arm.

“Hey,” he says softly, murmuring into Cas’ hair, “You okay?”

Cas takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“I never told you why I don’t like Christmas,” he says in the semi-darkness. The only light in the room is coming from the Christmas tree, and Cas would rather keep it that way. He keeps his head on Dean’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look directly at him.

“Cas, you don’t have to,” Dean tells him.

Cas shakes his head.

“I think I should,” he says.

“Whatever you want,” Dean promises.

Cas swallows again, willing himself to calm down.

“The Christmas I was six, my father went to the corner store for milk- you know, those convenience stores that are open literally every day of the year- and he just never came back.” Cas shrugs. “It happens. It’s not about him, really. Looking back, it was pretty obvious he was going to go.” He reaches up to grab Dean’s hand that’s still around his shoulders, and Dean squeezes his fingers in encouragement.

“It was everything that happened after my father left,” Cas says. “We were a broken family from the start, and the only thing keeping us together was the notion that since we already looked the part, we may as well play it. But my father leaving was the-” Cas struggles for words, because there are a million sad ways to describe it, but for some reason he settles on- “There was this game we played, my siblings and I. It was called Kerplunk, and it was this purple plastic container shaped like an empty lava lamp. You stuck a bunch of plastic poles through the container, enough that they made a semi-solid surface, at least, and then dumped a bunch of marbles on top. One by one, you take turns pulling the poles out, and first one to let the marbles through loses.” He nestles his head into Dean’s shoulder, feeling like this is a worthless and overly long metaphor, but it helps to think about things like this, as if everything is just brightly colored plastic pieces that can just as easily roll under the couch to never be seen again as they can be put away where they belong. “The thing is, not all the marbles always fall out at once,” Cas continues. “There were probably already a few gone when my father left, and he definitely dropped a few more on his way out. After that, it was just a matter of time. My mother just couldn’t deal with it, with my father leaving or with all these kids she never really wanted in the first place. My two oldest brothers- twins, they were eighteen- basically took over the house and, uh, had an interesting way of running things. It was mostly a giant pissing contest between the two of them- leaving eighteen year old boys in charge of anything is hardly a good idea- and the marbles just kept dropping during those years. Michael and Lucifer were-”

“Wait, sorry,” Dean chimes in. “Lucifer?”

Cas nods ruefully. “Didn’t I tell you I come from an inordinately religious family?” he asks sardonically. “I mean, minus the absent father, incapable mother, and warring siblings, of course, we all loved Jesus very much.” He raises his eyebrows as he stares at the blank tv screen, Dean’s sweater scratchy against his cheek. “Weird. Wonder how that got left out of the brochure.”

“Our family’s named after a rifle,” Dean supplies thoughtfully, and Cas smiles wanly.

“Michael and Lucifer got into some, ah, things they shouldn’t have gotten into,” he says. “Their school got involved and pretty much shut everything down right before graduation, but not before the Novak name got some serious legacy attached. Michael and Lucifer graduated by the skin of their teeth, and basically took off in opposite directions, leaving figurative bodies behind them every step of the way, I’m sure.” He considers. “Maybe some literal. I try not to think about it. They actually offered for us to go with them, trying to get us to choose sides. I had no fucking clue, though, I was just a child. No one took them up on their offer, and they took off.

After that, Gabriel was in charge, and he meant well but he just didn’t care too much. He was big on schemes, and didn’t like to get his hands dirty like Mike and Luke, but he lived up to the Novak name. He stuck around longer than Mike or Luke- hung around until just before I started high school. I think he’s somewhere in New York now, or Miami, or maybe living on a beach in the Caribbean somewhere. Our family just kept dropping those marbles.

Anna’s my last sibling, and the one I’m closest to in age. She was a junior when Gabriel left, and cared about my well-being a lot. She also drove a motorcycle and smoked in the bathrooms and organized sit ins to protest the use of frogs for dissection in biology. She was rebellious in a way that was different from my brothers, in that she always felt the need to prove herself, to ‘stoke the true rebel flames in her heart’, is how she put it. Anna got kicked out of school in her last year, but she was kind enough to wait for me to graduate. We took off together, not looking back once, me holding onto her from the back of that fucking motorcycle scared out of my wits as we headed west. We ended up in Portland, and that’s where I was until a moved here a couple years later.”

“You split up after all that time?” Dean asks, obviously surprised. Cas imagines his reverence for his sister is still obvious in his voice.

“Those were the last marbles,” Cas says quietly. “I got offered a job here in Kansas, and couldn’t turn it down. She had a life in Oregon. It was amicable enough, my leaving. I had always sworn I was nothing like my family, but when I walked out the door that day all I could think about was everyone who had walked out before me, and it was the first time in my life I thought, yeah, I’m a Novak.”

He takes a long breath, trying to wet his lips after talking for so long and drying out his throat.

“So that’s my fucked up family drama, and why Christmas is terrible” Cas concludes, “All because of a carton of milk some twenty years ago. Like some kind of hellish game of Satan’s dominoes.”

“No mixing kid’s games comparisons,” Dean murmurs, lightly teasing. He kisses Cas’ temple.

“Life’s just one big game of Kerplunk, huh?” he continues, “I guess some lose all those marbles at once but for most of us, it’s just one, agonizingly slow marble at a time.”

Cas sighs.

“That’s a terrible way to think about life,” he laments.

Dean hmms, but doesn’t contradict him.

“What were you like in high school?” he asks, “You never said. There’s the fighters, the schemer, and the rebel. What were you?”

Cas quirks an eyebrow but grimaces.

“The loner,” he says. “As if that’s a surprise. It was pretty shitty to be associated with the name Novak after my much… zestier siblings had gone through the ranks.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Dean offers, “I thought I was way cooler than I was and was potentially the biggest jackass out of all seven high schools I went to.”

“I think you’re cool,” Cas says seriously. “You cook a mean Nanaimo bar.”

Dean huffs laughter, burying his face in Cas’ hair.

They sit quietly for a couple minutes in the almost-darkness, Cas feeling half relieved to finally tell Dean what his deal is and half exhausted at all the shit retelling this story is going bring back up.

“Sam and I kept with the tradition of doing an untraditional holiday,” Dean says, seemingly out of the blue. He sounds slightly nervous. “This year it’s going to be Christmas Eve and Christmas at my place with a couple friends and family, and they’ll probably just crash here overnight. We usually watch bad movies and drink bad alcohol and then have a big supper on Christmas and I dunno, it’s pretty great.”

“That does sound great,” Cas says.

“I was hoping you would come,” Dean says, and Cas can feel him looking at him now, his face suddenly growing hot.

“We all know family’s hard,” Dean says hastily, as if he’s trying to justify his invitation. “And most of the people who’re gonna be here on Christmas have some sort of thing or another. It’s nice to be around other people during the holidays, especially ones you--” he kind of chokes over his words here, recovers, and continues, “I just figured, y’know, if you were interested-”

“Yes,” Cas interrupts. “Yes, of course. I’d love to come.”

Dean smiles at him, huge and bright.

“D’you- Did you want to sleep here tonight?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Cas says again, mirroring his smile. “I really would.”

Cas borrows a pair of pajama pants from Dean and they climb into his bed, which he proudly informs Cas is “memory foam”.  Dean’s bedroom is sparse but warm, with dark brown walls and a brown comforter and a bunch of records perfectly organized under a bookshelf full of books about cars, writing, and Vonnegut. It’s not decorated nearly as much as the living room and kitchen, but there’s a couple boughs of holly on the dresser and a couple Christmas-y decorative pillows that Dean tosses off to the side.

As soon as they’re under the covers and the lights are out, Dean curls himself around Cas’ back like a comma, and throws an arm over him. The position is… a lot for Cas’ brain and body to interpret. There’s Dean’s fingers intertwined with his, the length of Dean’s body pressed up against his own, and perhaps most importantly, the soft and steady breathing of another body next to his.

“Thank you,” Cas says in the darkness, “For listening.”

“Thank you,” Dean murmurs against the back of his neck.

Before they inevitably get too warm and roll away in search of cooler sheets, Dean and Cas fall asleep in a room that smells like gingerbread and peppermint, holding each other against the storm outside and all the things that threaten to snow them in.

***

December 16

Cas manages to roll out of bed without waking Dean up, has to blunder around in a dark and unfamiliar room to find his pants, stubs his toe on the door frame, and hobbles out into the kitchen where at least he can see any and all threats to his remaining toes.

He scrawls a quick note to Dean and sticks it to the fridge, and is just inching the door open when he hears footsteps and, “Cas?”

Caught, Cas turns around to an incredibly sleepy Dean.

“Sorry,” he says, “I have to go to work and I didn’t want to wake you.” He indicates to the fridge. “I left a note.”

Dean plucks the note off the fridge.

“‘Sorry,’” he reads, “‘I have to go to work and I didn’t want to wake you.’”

He looks at Cas balefully.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, despite the fondness leaking into his tone.

Cas shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth even though smiling in the morning has never really been a thing for him. He hates mornings, and he hates waking up.

This morning, however, seems to be off to a pretty good start, toe stubbing excluded, and he has to admit, he didn’t hate waking up next to Dean.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, about to leave for the second time when Dean says, “Wait,” and Cas turns around only to find hands on his face and lips on his own.

They both probably have some unpleasant morning breath, but Cas one hundred percent doesn’t notice or care. Dean’s thumbs are stroking his cheeks and he keeps the kiss chaste enough that Cas won’t have to walk to his apartment with tighter pants than usual, but intense enough that it feels like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs.

Dean takes half a step back, eyes wide, and Cas is struck again by the vulnerability Dean always shows right before these pivotal moments, like he’s always expecting Cas to just walk away.

Cas, of course, has no intention of going anywhere.

“Okay,” he says, breathless, “I’ll definitely see you later.”

***

December 19

Dean convinces Cas to finally check out that dive bar at the end of the block. Cas doesn’t mention it, but part of the reason he says yes is because it reminds him of the night (not even three weeks ago) that they met. The other part of the reason he says yes is because Dean asked, and Cas has found out very quickly that there isn’t much he wouldn’t do so long as Dean asks.

Cas drinks terrible red and green concoctions while Dean laughs at him for it, and the less said about Dean dragging him up on stage for some special holiday themed karaoke, the better. (It was “Jingle Bell Rock”, and apparently Dean knows the whole Mean Girls dance to it. People threw their spare dollars onto the stage in approval, buying Dean and Cas their next round of drinks.)

They stagger home, laughing and wrapped around each other. Just before they get back to the apartment building, Cas makes a very silly drunk decision and grabs Dean’s jacket.

“Dean,” he says, suddenly feeling very serious.

Dean turns, swaying a little. “Cas.”

“M’gonna teach you the words,” Cas says. “The right words. All of ‘em.”

“Th’ right words to what?”

Cas isn’t a very good singer (“Jingle Bell Rock” can attest to that). His voice is really deep and gravelly and he can’t carry a tune to save his life, so he tries not to burn off too much body heat via embarrassment when he starts singing “Silent Night”.

It’s only three verses long, but it seems to take forever. It’s like time slows down. Dean is staring at him, startlingly similar to how he looked at him on that first night, and his mouth is hanging open, a little dumbfounded.

Cas finishes, his voice trailing off in the night, and he stares at Dean staring at him, feeling incredibly self-conscious.

Dean stares at him for another full ten seconds before surging forward and kissing Cas like his life depends on it. His mouth is hot against the chill of the air, and Cas responds with aplomb.

Dean breaks off the kiss and stares at Cas with big eyes.

“You been holdin’ out on me,” he says.

“I haven’t,” Cas promises, and Dean kisses him again.

It’s amazing how much better Cas feels about drunken Christmas carols when he’s the drunk one singing them, and getting amazing kisses for it to boot.

***

December 21

Dean and Cas go out for dinner at a semi-nice restaurant. Cas has to wear something that isn’t ugly and Dean has to wear something that isn’t an ugly Christmas sweater. Dean cleans up nicely, and Cas frets about his wayward hair until Dean tells him to chill, and only frets a little after that.

They go back to Dean’s place and fall asleep in front of the TV, under the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights.

***

December 24

Cas has been helping Dean set up all day, and they’ve got a couple hours of freedom before anyone gets here.

“Wait here a sec,” Dean says, and disappears down the hallway as Cas flips through one of the car magazines Dean leaves all over the place. He’s drawn Santa hats on all the cars in this one, and the first time Dean saw it he’d laughed for five minutes straight as he flipped through page after page of cars wearing Santa hats.

As Dean comes back into the room Cas tosses the magazine back on the table and glances at him, eyebrows raised. Dean’s face is just this side of sheepish. He’s got an envelope in his hand.

“I know we said no gifts,” he says, “and I mean, technically, it’s just a card, so…”

Cas reaches under the coffee table and pulls out a Christmas gift bag. As soon as Dean sees it, he glares.

“Oh, c’mon, Cas!”

Cas shrugs.

“You started it.”

Dean hops over the back of the couch so he’s sitting cross legged across from Cas, and rolls his eyes.

“You suck.”

He gives Cas the card.

“Thanks.”

Cas gives Dean the gift.   

“You go first,” Cas says.

Dean looks at the little card on the string and reads aloud, “To keep the yeti in check”. He looks at Cas.

“Cas…”

Cas just smiles serenely.

Dean pulls a tissue-wrapped box out of the bag. He carefully pulls a polished wooden box out of the paper.

“Open it,” Cas encourages.

Dean cracks open the box, and laughs. And laughs and laughs. And laughs.

Cas puts his best shit eating grin on and waits for Dean to calm down enough to speak.

“A beard maintenance kit,” he marvels, chuckling. He looks up at Cas.

“You are so-” he stops himself, like he’s trying to find the right words. He throws up his hands. “You’re fuckin’ amazing,” he says. “There’s no other way to describe it.”

“Hold on,” Cas says, but he’s smiling like a fool. “This gift comes with one caveat.”

“Yeah?”

“You need to start growing the beard now.”

“Fuck.” Dean scrubs a hand over his jaw. He looks between Cas and the kit, rolls his eyes one more time. “Deal.”

Cas leans across the couch to kiss him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Thank you,” Dean says, and kisses him again. He puts the kit on the table and gestures to the envelope in Cas’ hand. “Your turn.”

There’s nothing written on the envelope, so Cas unsticks the seal and pulls out a card he immediately recognizes. It’s a classic warm Christmas scene: tons of decorations, stockings hung over the fireplace, cookies and milk on the end table for Santa, a robustly decorated tree with a kind, smiling angel on top. There’s no text on the cover, but the mood it evokes is pretty obvious.

Cas knows, because he remembers congratulating Andy in the art department for doing such a great job on the card with his words in it.

Dean’s giving him his own card for Christmas.

He glances up at Dean, who’s looking at him expectantly.

“Open it,” he prompts.

Cas reads his own words out loud with a grimace. It’s certainly not his best work.

No matter the time of year,

Embrace the holiday cheer

For the sweet angel on top of your tree

Watching over us all is her decree

Beneath his own words, he finds Dean’s untidy scrawl.

Cas,

I made that joke about how maybe I’ve bought some of your cards before. Well, now it’s getting kinda creepy. This card was printed long before we met, and my mom talked about angels watching over me a long time before that. I know it’s kind of ridiculous to be making these connections- I’ve never been one for fate or destiny or all that crap.

But fuck, who knows? Maybe the universe has other plans.

- Dean

Cas puts the card down slowly, and this time he’s the one doing the staring.

“I’m in love with you,” he states. No frills. No pomp. He just is.

From the expression on his face, that wasn’t the reaction Dean had been expecting.

“Holy crap,” Dean says. Then, “Fuck, Cas, I love you.”  

They stare at each other.

“I’m glad we managed to sort that out,” Cas says, and Dean laughs, maybe a little hysterically. “I have to ask though, how did you know that was one of my cards?”

“I may have googled your company and then called them and asked to buy a copy of each card you’ve ever written.”

“Dean.”

“What? I was curious.”

Cas wrinkles his nose.

“Did you, uh, see the crocodile one,” he asks painfully.

“Oh I saw the crocodile one,” Dean says. “I thought it was cute.”

Cas holds a decorative pillow to his face for a while before bringing it back down to a more reasonable position.

“I want to read your article,” he says. “The Christmas one.”

Dean suddenly looks shifty.

“Uh,” he says. “I may have scrapped it.” At Cas’ look, he amends, “Not because you weren’t interesting or anything!” He swallows, “Actually, it was kind of the opposite. It just… started to feel too personal. Too much like a conflict of interest,” he admits.

“Are you kidding me? You got to read the crocodile card and I don’t even get to read the article that started it all?”

Dean twiddles his thumbs.

“I still wrote an article,” he says haltingly. “It’s actually due tonight for our ‘Christmas Feature’ tomorrow.”    

“So… can I read it?” Cas asks.

Dean sighs and grabs his laptop off the table, even though he seems more embarrassed than anything.

This is for the crocodile, Cas thinks.

Dean brings up the article and hands the laptop over to Cas.

“I’m gonna go make us some drinks,” he says, and Cas isn’t paying attention as Dean stands in the kitchen texting persons unknown instead of actually making any drinks.

The majority of Dean’s article is similar to what he told Cas that day at the Christmas Tree farm. He talks about growing up in motels and never celebrating Christmas properly until a few years ago. He talks about his brother and the people who’ve come into his life and made it a better one to live. In the last couple paragraphs, he talks about Cas:

Raise your hand if you don’t believe in love at first sight.

Fun fact, neither do I.

But I met someone at the beginning of December- let’s call him Silent Night for privacy reasons, since his name is pretty unique- and that was probably the first time in my life I’ve ever felt like that belief has been challenged (to be fair, I was drunk off my ass at the time, but in a startling change of events, I don’t think it mattered all that much). The next morning, after the hangover had passed, and I couldn’t even remember his name, I still somehow knew I was gone on him. It was weird as fuck, if I’m being honest.

So I asked him if I could write an article about him, because he hates Christmas and I wanted to try and change that. I definitely wasn’t going to argue against seeing him more often. (Another fun fact, this guy lives a floor below me in my apartment building. We’re fucking neighbors.)

This guy is hilarious. Like, I couldn’t explain this guy to you if I tried. I know it sounds cheesy as fuck, but I don’t give a shit, he makes me laugh like no one I’ve ever met. We chopped down a Christmas tree together. He made sure I didn’t die when he was helping me put the lights up on my balcony. I knocked on his door at 5:30 in the morning and dragged him upstairs to bake with me, and he flung icing into my eye. He trash talked me through a gingerbread house making competition and then proceeded to make the greatest gingerbread creation I’ve ever seen.

Silent Night hasn’t met my brother except for that one, brief time he can barely remember. (He was drunk, Silent Night was going to throw a slipper at us, etc.) He hasn’t met anyone in my social circle yet. But he’s part of the family. An old family friend, now long since passed away, once told me that family didn’t end with blood, and it’s taken me a long time to truly appreciate what he meant.

So this one goes out to my brother, my friends, and you, Silent Night.

Thanks for teaching me the lyrics to a song I should have known a long time ago.

And for you guys reading at home, if you’re having a terrible Christmas or holiday season or just life in general, I want you to know: family don’t end with blood.

You’ll be okay.

Cas puts the laptop back on the table, and Dean returns from the kitchen with three beers in hand.

Cas’ mouth is open, but he’s not sure what to say.

Dean grimaces, “Yeah, I know.”

“That’s not-” Cas begins, but he’s interrupted by a knock at the door. He looks to Dean, but Dean shows no signs of moving.

“Maybe you should get it,” Dean suggests.

“Uh. Okay.” Cas stands up and makes his way to the door. Before he opens it, he turns back to look at Dean.

“You brought three beers out,” he accuses. “You know who’s here?”

“Just answer the door, Cas.”

Cas frowns and opens the door.

“Hi, baby bro,” Anna says.

***

Cas immediately takes a step back, a storm of emotions knocking into him hard enough that he almost stumbles.

Anna looks more or less the same since the last time he saw her. Leather jacket, black jeans, fiery red hair.

“Hey Anna,” Dean’s moved from the living room to stand beside Cas. They shake hands. “Glad you found the place okay.”

“Glad you called me,” Anna says, stepping inside. She smiles up at Cas. “You gonna give me a hug or what?”

Cas is goggling between Dean and Anna.

“You?” he breathes, eyes on Dean.  

Dean shrugs.

“Your cards weren’t actually the first thing I googled.”

Cas turns to Anna, still somehow completely flummoxed.

“You?”

Obviously tired of waiting, Anna stands on her tiptoes to wrap Cas in a hug.

“Dean emailed me last week,” Anna whispers to her brother. “He said something about… marbles? And Kerplunk? You’re not still using goofy metaphors, are you?”

They break apart and Cas looks over to Dean, whose eyes are actually misty. He nods slightly, takes another sip of his beer, and slips out the door behind her.

“See you kids later,” he winks at Cas and closes the door behind himself.

Cas hugs his sister again.

***

December 24 (later)

Dean comes back with about an hour left until everyone else is supposed to arrive and starts bustling around, putting out plates of food and changing the record order every couple minutes. While Anna’s in the bathroom, Cas catches Dean by the wrist and pulls him into a hug.

“I don’t know what to say,” he mumbles into Dean’s shirt. “I have… absolutely no words for how much this all means to me. How much you mean to me.”

Dean fists his hands in the back of Cas’ shirt and hugs him tighter.

“You’re family,” Dean says simply. “It’s what families do.”

***

December 24 (even later-er)

Cas meets Sam properly. (“So this is the guy I’ve been splitting custody of my brother over?” Sam asks. He shakes Cas’ hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you again.”) He meets Jess and Charlie and Jody and Garth and Kevin and Ellen and Jo.  He shares a couple beers with his long and not so lost sister. He laughs at Dean’s terrible jokes.

About half past one in the morning, someone finally realizes it’s actually Christmas and Dean bellows, “MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE” and chugs the rest of his beer like a total dolt.

Cas loves every minute of it.  

Dean drags him under the mistletoe while everyone’s busy cramming around the TV trying to decide which terrible Christmas movie to watch.

“Merry Christmas,” Dean says, “And I love you.” He kisses Cas, a kiss that promises many, many future ones.

“I love you ,” Cas says. “And Merry Christmas.”