Chapter Text
“Okay, Kev,” Dean says into the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just call us as soon as you’ve got the second trial figured out.”
“I’ll do my best,” Kevin says. He sounds exhausted. “Goodbye, Dean.”
Dean ends the call and tosses the phone onto the table. He feels bad for the kid, but it would be great if he could work just a little faster. Anything else about the trials would be a huge help at this point, really.
“Reading the word of God isn’t exactly an exact science, Dean,” Sam says, as if he’s reading Dean’s thoughts and disapproves of what he sees. “I mean, he’s translating an unknown language entirely on his own. Give him a break, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles, moving away.
“Plus, it’s Christmas Eve,” Sam adds. “Go easy on him.”
Dean huffs. “Demons don’t care about Christmas.”
“Kevin does.”
“Since when did you?”
Sam sighs. “This isn’t about me, Dean.”
Dean grumbles under his breath and stalks out of the room. Sam’s right, he should be easier on Kevin. He knows the kid is working as hard as he can, and what he’s doing isn’t easy. But it’s Sam that’s hanging in the balance this time, and Dean can’t bring himself to let up the pressure.
He feels restless in the bunker, cooped up, but he doesn’t want to go out either. It’s Christmas, and everywhere the preparations and decorations are at a fever pitch. Shoppers rush to get their last-minute gift-buying done, Christmas tunes play in every conceivable area, and everywhere the televisions and radios blare at him that Christmas is a happy family time and perfect for spending with loved ones, doing ridiculous Christmas things like playing board games or sharing Christmas crackers, for fuck’s sake.
It would all be fine, actually, it would be more than fine – they have a permanent home this year, for the first time since Dean can remember – but every Christmas commercial with a happy family eating dinner together reminds him that most of his family is dead or missing.
A hunt would be nice to get his mind off Christmas, but any hunt is inevitably going to wind up being linked to the trials or the tablets in some way. With Sam weak from the first trial, and with no real idea of what they’re up against, Dean would much prefer not to jump back into that pool if they don’t have to. Especially with Cas still missing in action.
Worry about Cas has been a tight knot in Dean’s stomach for weeks. He’s gotten used to it, but it flares up sometimes into a full-blown dread, staggering and haunting him. The way Cas left, the way he killed Samandriel after going to such lengths to save him, had seemed very off. Something is wrong, and Cas hasn’t shown up at all since then, hasn’t been answering Dean’s prayers, although Dean is praying increasingly frequently now. He prays for Sam, prays for help with the trials, prays asking if Cas is okay. He never prays for himself.
He wants to, sometimes, wants to tell Cas to fly his stupid feathery ass back here for no reason other than Dean needs him.
Because Dean does need him. It hurts to have him gone this long. It hurts that he left again with no explanation. And he’s angry, really angry, that Cas thinks it’s okay to vanish like under such shady circumstances and make no contact of any kind.
He imagines, sometimes, that Cas actually does come back. He imagines the flutter of wings and the “Hello, Dean,” that he would never admit to missing. Sometimes he punches Cas. Sometimes he throws his arms around him, buries his face in his shoulder, preventing him from leaving ever again. Sometimes, Cas hugs him back.
This was what happened in Purgatory. There, Cas was staying away to try and keep Dean safe. Dean wonders if the same thing is happening again on Earth.
Or maybe Cas has finally decided that he doesn’t care.
Or maybe, says the persistent traitorous little voice in Dean’s head, maybe he’s not coming back because he can’t. Maybe he’s not answering because he can’t hear you. Maybe he’s dead and you’ll never know, you’ll never know—
Shut up.
Dean grabs his gun and pounds down the stairs to the shooting range. The targets are still and they don’t try to kill him, and with each shot he relaxes a little, driving the tension out of his body. Shut up. Cas is alive. Cas is okay. He changes where he’s aiming, the echoes ringing off the walls, loud even through the noise-reducing earmuffs. Cas is alive. He stops and lowers the gun, breaths out. On the target, the bullets are in tight clusters in the head and the heart. Cas is okay.
When he comes back upstairs later, Sam is sleeping, grabbing a nap before dinner. Dean is glad. Anything that will help him recover from the trial, get his strength back, is entirely welcome.
He spends the time continuing the search through the Men of Letters’ library in hopes of finding something that might help Sam get through the trials. He isn’t likely to find anything, but it’s worth a shot.
Sam appears again four volumes and the beginning of a pounding headache later.
“Hey,” he says, covering a giant yawn with his hand.
“Look who decided to rejoin the living,” Dean says, grinning, shutting the book in front of him.
“What’re you doing?”
“Just some research.” Dean stands and stretches. “Hey, do you want to go out for dinner?”
Sam laughs. “Where? It’s Christmas Eve, remember? Everywhere’s gonna be closed.”
“Something’ll be open,” Dean says. “Come on, I just want to get out of here.”
“Okay,” Sam says, pushing his hair out of his face, and heads back to his room to get his jacket.
Sam was right – 7:30 on Christmas Eve, and it’s almost like a ghost town. The candy canes and creepy Santa dolls stare from the windows of stores that are either closed or closing, and most restaurants are shut as well. There is a Biggerson’s that’s still open, but both Winchesters avoid that chain like the plague.
In the end, they find a burger joint that stays open late. Dean orders a burger and Sam orders a salad, and they roll their eyes at each other’s choices.
“Now this is heaven,” Dean says through a mouthful of burger.
Sam makes a face. “Gross, Dean.”
Dean tosses a French fry at him before noticing the waitress glaring at him. He ducks his head from her withering gaze, and Sam laughs at him, full and deep. Dean’s throat is suddenly tight. He hasn’t heard Sam laugh like that in a while. It makes him think of a time when they weren’t quite as old, weren’t quite as scarred, when the fate of the world didn’t rest on their shoulders.
He’s glad to be sitting in this dingy restaurant sharing a meal with his brother. He’s glad that Sam can still laugh like that.
As Christmases go, Dean thinks, this one isn’t so bad.
On the way back home, they stop at a gas station, because convenience store presents are pretty much a tradition at this point. Dean grabs Sam’s favorite kind of candy bar and a cheap-looking leather bracelet from a rack near the register, and quickly pays while Sam is on the other side of the store. He escapes outside to the Impala to shiver while the heater warms up so that Sam can buy whatever crappy present he chose.
Sam comes out a few minutes later and gets in the car, folding all his giant limbs into place, and they drive home. A Christmas carol starts playing on the radio, but Dean doesn’t change the station, even though it’s the sort of religious crap he never listens to. Instead, he hums along – in his head, so Sam won’t make fun of him.
“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
Fall on your knees, O hear the angels’ voices!”
Dean laughs at that. “If they could really hear the angels’ voices, I bet they wouldn’t be singing about them.”
Sam smiles. “Maybe back then the angels weren’t such dicks.”
Dean glances at him, surprised to hear Sam use his term for the winged douchebags. A smile grows on his face as he looks back at the road.
They pull up in front of the bunker and get out of the car. Sam heads for the front door, but Dean stops for a minute, looking up at the sky. The clouds from earlier have disappeared, and the sky is clear now. There’s a crescent moon surrounded by countless stars, brilliant points of light, and Dean breathes out into the cold, crisp air. The stars actually do twinkle as they shine down on him.
“Dean!” Sam yells suddenly, and Dean’s heart seizes in his chest, because Sam only uses that voice when something’s really wrong. He drops the plastic bag from the gas station, sprinting towards the front steps of the bunker, where he can see Sam’s dark form crouching down. Sam, is his first thought, Sam’s hurt, but then Sam gets up and runs down the steps to pull open the door to the bunker. Light spills out as Dean reaches the stop of the steps, and he stops short, pulling up so suddenly he can feel the excess momentum course through him like a wave.
Castiel is lying at an angle on the front steps, face up and unmoving, unconscious.
“Cas,” Dean gasps, and he’s moving again, darting to Cas’s side, touching his arm, his shoulder. “Cas, can you hear me?”
Cas doesn’t react, and Dean touches his throat, feeling for the pulse under his jaw.
“Shit, Sam, he’s really cold,” Dean says frantically. Cas’s skin is freezing. How long has he been out here? “C’mon, Cas, wake up,” Dean urges, slapping lightly at Cas’s face. He doesn’t look hurt, but that doesn’t mean anything.
“Is he breathing?” Sam asks, hovering anxiously.
“I can’t tell,” Dean says, voice tight. No no no no no, his brain is chanting, making it hard to think. He’s ready to do CPR when he feels the puff of breath against his hand, the weak pulse in Cas’s neck.
Thank God.
“He’s alive,” Dean sighs, sagging with the relief, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. That’s one fucked-up Christmas present, he thinks, slightly hysterical, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He clamps it down and looks up at Sam.
“What the hell happened to him?” Sam says softly, wondering.
Who the hell knows. “Help me get him inside,” Dean says.
Together they maneuver Cas’s limp form into the bunker. Cas is heavy and unwieldy and completely unhelpful, but somehow they manage to get him down the stairs and into a guest bedroom without any major mishaps.
“Okay,” Dean says, once they lay Cas down on the bed. Now that he has a chance to take a proper look at Cas, he can see that he’s unnaturally pale, the color drained from his face. His hair is stuck to his forehead where his skin is tacky from dried sweat. Something bad happened, something that made him run. Made him crash here.
In all of Dean’s thoughts about Cas returning, this was one situation he had never considered.
Dean takes a breath. The initial panic has given way to fear and desperation and a terrible sense of helplessness. Cas needs him right now, but Dean has no idea what to do for an unconscious angel.
“What do we do now?” Sam asks, reading Dean’s thoughts again.
Dean shakes his head. “Let him rest, I guess? Whatever happened must have fried him pretty bad. I’m sure he just needs to recharge and he’ll be okay.”
He’ll be okay.
Please, let him be okay.
It’s a prayer, a desperate plea to a god that he knows isn’t listening, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that praying is the same as begging; he is begging for Cas.
“Yeah, of course he’ll be okay,” Sam says, and Dean hears the false confidence in his voice. His stomach clenches. Sam is lying for his sake, trying to make him feel better. He doesn’t really believe that Cas will pull through.
Cas is just going to have to prove him wrong, then, because Dean isn’t going to let him die on them, not like this. And Cas doesn’t want to die – whatever decision he made before he passed out, he chose to come back. He wants help, wants a safe place.
In his last lucid moment, he wanted Dean.
Dean shakes his head and pushes that thought deep, deep down, where it will never see the light of day.
“One of us should probably stay with him,” Sam points out. “In case he wakes up.”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He half-smiles. “I’ll watch over him.”