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He’s taken to nocturnal wandering lately so Dean doesn’t stir when Castiel presses a kiss to his temple and slips out of their bed and out of their room. The hallways in the bunker are lit with soft incandescent light (Sam’s been grumbling about how they should replace those lightbulbs with LEDs for years now) and his slippers whisper against the stained cement floors. Everyone is asleep both with and without help from the eggnog from Kevin “I got distracted and put in the whole bottle” Tran, and the place is quiet save for the distant hum of computers and the occasional clanking in the pipes. Castiel likes this little ritual of his. Wake up at three to do a few turns and have some time to himself where he can think without interruption.
He makes his way into the kitchen and grimaces. Clearly Dean had not been kidding when he’d told Castiel that he wouldn’t clean up after him anymore. There is still flour and intermittent patches of slightly tacky egg white coating the island, and the sink is full of mixing bowls and whisks and the trash can holds the remnants of the ancient electric beater that had sputtered out of existence halfway through the sixth batch of sugar cookies. Now Castiel is stuck doing things manually since Dean refuses to spring for a Kitchenaid, unless there happens to be one under the tree (if Castiel wheedles enough he generally gets his way).
Castiel likes the tree. It isn’t exactly what he’d wanted, because Dean had put his foot down after the fourth hour at the tree farm and insisted that Castiel just fucking choose one already, and there is a bald patch that Sam dressed up with tinsel to make it feel less bare, and it’s not as tall as Castiel had hoped, but it works. It’s beautiful in the dark living room, and Castiel leans against the jamb and stares at it. Kevin had asked for rainbow lights and despite Dean’s protestations that rainbow lights were kitschy, his request had been granted. A hodgepodge of ornaments that are really just artifacts from Castiel’s macrame and glitter periods had found homes amongst the boughs, but mostly it’s random bits of tinsel and popcorn garland (which is really mostly string - Dean had eaten most of the crafting supplies before they’d sat down to decorate). It’s cluttered and chaotic and kind of ugly but Castiel likes the tree. It reminds him of humanity, and he steadfastly ignores Dean’s complaints that they should have stuck with white lights and one box of tinsel.
Castiel moves into the room and settles cross-legged on the rug in front of the tree. He leans back on his hands and remembers.
He had been present at the birth of Christ. It had been early in the summer when the first cries of new life had rung out into the blackness. Castiel remembers how the world had seemed so close that night, how everything had been hushed and intimate, and how it had felt like every atom had held its breath for a few moments when the infant opened his eyes and blinked at his mother. Mary had been so young. What you don’t get from the iconography is the reality of a slight and unwashed preteen girl, road-weary and lying exhausted on bloody straw. The serene ceramic faces of the countless nativities around the world fail to capture the sheer terror and breathless adoration that spilled out of the girl’s eyes when as looked at her son, or the way that Joseph had swallowed hard and run a finger over the baby’s brow. You can’t understand how bad shepherds smell until you’re in a room full of them, and Castiel remembers the dirt-and-feces-caked men crowded into the small room with the little family and all of the animals and how their presence had felt so much more significant than that of the royalty who’d come a few days later.
Castiel reflects, as he always does this time of year, on how profoundly humble the whole affair had been. Nobody in Bethlehem had known about the goings-on in the stable: those chosen to bear witness to the event had occupied the very lowest rung of society, and the baby’s bedmate had been a particularly tenacious flea. Castiel smiles as he remembers how loud the Christ child had been, how the universe had endeavored so intensely to create a truly silent night only to have colicky wailing shatter the calm. After that initial stillness, the world had resumed its turning and Castiel remembers the carts that had rattled past and the wars that had continued with no regard to the new heart beating and the new lungs expanding and contracting with each furious breath.
Castiel studies a light on the tree that’s flickering and briefly entertains the thought that if he could find Jesus he could finally find God, but then decides that it doesn’t matter.
The absence of God does not diminish his existence, as he once thought it would. That his existential validation comes from other sources is nothing new, he’d figured that out long ago. Castiel thinks about Christmas and everything that goes along with it and he can’t help the smile that appears on his face. It turns gummy and he throws his head back and laughs because he thinks he’s finally got it.
The birth of Christ had been such remarkably ordinary thing, with no witnesses except a handful of livestock animals and a few men who for all intents and purposes had been homeless. It wasn’t until later that Herod had gotten wind of the potential threat to his reign, and nobody that night had cared about a young couple holding their perfectly formed and seriously pissed baby for the first time. It was so remarkably ordinary, and yet it wasn’t. There had been divinity in the ordinariness of it all, and this little revelation has Castiel clutching the stitch in his left side as he tries to control the laughter pouring out of him.
He wipes his eyes and pushes up off of the floor. He looks around at the room. It looks like six individual interior designers had come up with their own idea of what Christmas decorating meant and then given up halfway through. The tree isn’t perfect and it’s brown in patches because Kevin always forgets to water it and there is a set of muddy footprints in the corner that Dean refuses to clean because Castiel needs to learn how to do things on his own at some point and the presents are wrapped in newspaper and Castiel has a gash on his hand from when he’d tried to help Dean cut down the tree and he has a cold he can’t shake and his hair is a little greasy and it’s all so divine and it is all Castiel’s.
It’s been a three years since he’d powered down completely and moved into the bunker for good, two since Dean had told him to shut the fuck up and kissed him. The world is quieter now, angels returned to heaven if that’s what they’d wanted and Crowley working in the shoe department at Barneys. Their life is slower than it used to be. Dean is softer around the middle and Sam had a minor breakdown three weeks ago when he’d found his first grey. Castiel bakes too much and never cleans up after himself and Dean grouses at him for it and Kevin lights a candle for his mother once a week and it’s Christmas and Castiel feels humbled because he’s human and after all he’s done, he’s been given a family and and an ordinary life and it is divine in its ordinariness.
Divinity is in the way Sam smacks his lips a little when he eats. Divinity is in the way Charlie helped Kevin get into Princeton after all. Divinity is in the way everyone wears shoes in the kitchen because Sam spills his cornflakes every morning. Divinity is in the way Dean shows Castiel every day that he’s useful despite not having a heavenly purpose and graceful without needing grace. Divinity is in the way that Castiel is allowed to revel in every small smile and casual touch Dean sends his way, and divinity is in the way that Castiel, who used to be able to stand at the top of Mount Everest and be back across the world in a blink, now needs regular haircuts and knows how to snake a drain.
Castiel stretches his arms above his head and arches his back. He pads out of the room and down the hallway back into his bed. Dean has taken up the entire thing in his absence, so Castiel slips under the covers and curves himself around the sleeping hunter’s body. He buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck and inhales the warm and spicy sleep scent that, as always, holds its gunpowder and leather base and shushes Dean when he starts to stir.
“D’you go on a walk?” Dean slurs.
“Yes,” Castiel whispers back, “it was a good walk.”
Dean nods and his breathing begins to even out.
“Dean?” Castiel says quietly, running his fingers over the soft and spare hairs on Dean’s chest.
“Mmm?”
“I just wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Just everything. This life, for never giving up on me, for everything.”
“Uh, you’re welcome?”
“Shhhh. Go to sleep.” Dean inhales slowly, sleepily. “Okay. G’night, Cas. Merry Christmas.”
Castiel smiles into Dean’s neck and slips into sleep with him.