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Santa had a chip in his toothy smile, visible even through the tangled white beard.
Dean Winchester knelt down by the two-foot figurine and rubbed his thumb over the porcelain molar. The chip was probably a momento left behind by the pack of roving children -- temporarily feral kids -- whose mothers were filling baskets with half-price Christmas ornaments.
His own mother -- who enthusiastically wanted to fill her basket with those same ornaments -- had asked him to spend the day with her and then had requested that they “swing by the Christmas Shoppe for a minute.” Her strategy had been impeccable. They’d enjoyed a perfect lunch on the heated porch of a burger joint with homemade barbecue sauce, and she had let him dump malt vinegar on their fries. He had been warm, content, and full when Mary had smiled, sipped her coke, and conned him into visiting the biggest Christmas shop within driving distance of her Kansas suburb.
Now everywhere he looked, he saw red, green, glitter, tinsel, and a total lack of holiday restraint. It wasn’t that he disliked Christmas. Sure, ever since his dad had that heart attack six months ago, the thought of the holidays made his stomach ache, but before that, he had great memories of driving all night to get back home and pulling his beloved car up to kiss the curb in front of a house lit up like a Vegas brothel.
Now the house wouldn’t have any Christmas lights until he got there and got on a ladder to hang them up.
“Look at these little elves!” Mary caught his arm. She held up two twinkling ornaments that not only glittered but lit up. They were hideously tacky. “They’re perfect for the mantel.”
“If you like them, get them,” Dean replied indulgently. As she got older and grayer, he found himself feeling more like her parent than the other way around. Neither of them had much money, but his income wasn’t fixed, so he knew he would pick this little outing up on his credit card at the counter, just as he had with their lunch.
Suddenly the phone in his cargo jacket pocket began to ring. He fished it out.
“It’s your favorite son. You keep shopping. I’m going to step outside and take this.”
Dean hustled toward the front of the store, through the seven levels of the Candy Cane Forest and past the sea of swirly-twirly gum drops, and slid his finger to answer the call right before it stopped ringing.
“Hey Sammy.”
“Hey. I’m just calling to see how your day with Mom is going. Did she talk you into going Christmas shopping with her?”
“You son of a bitch!” Dean blurted. An angry hiss from his side made him realize that a mother with twin toddlers at her ankles was on her way into the store; she had not appreciated his profanity. He offered an apologetic grimace. “You knew.”
“Yeah.” Sam was laughing. “She asked me to go with her last week, and I told her to wait for you because I have to do all that kind of stuff with Ruby and you’re single and only get to do it with her.”
“And then you just flew your ass home to sunny California and left me in Twinkle Town.” Dean leaned against a column as he continued chatting with Sam. He tried to ignore the irritation bubbling on his tongue every time Sam mentioned his girlfriend, a nurse whose hair wasn’t the only dark thing about her.
“Speaking of Ruby,” he cut back in, “Is she coming for Christmas?”
“Got her ticket all ready to go. She’s excited.”
“I bet,” Dean muttered but immediately appreciated Sam being gracious enough to pretend not to hear. They said their goodbyes, carefully avoided anything too sentimental, and hung up the phone.
Dean watched yet another woman with kids come out of the store, laden with a full red Christmas Shoppe bag and a massive purse. He slid past her back into the building just in time to hear Eartha Kitt launch into “Santa Baby.” Was there any testosterone within a fifteen mile radius of this place? He could practically feel his balls shriveling up and hiding when a husky voice rang out. It floated under the music, a full octave under Dean’s own voice.
“You don’t look like you’re about to sing ‘Winter Wonderland’ at any moment.”
The voice came from somewhere above, and he looked up to see a man descending steps from the second floor. Dean’s first impression was a rush of warmth that felt surprisingly like holiday cheer. The other man was tall with messy dark hair and a flat-line mouth that seemed to convey friendliness without smiling. His sweater — a green cardigan with a frazzled, haloed cartoon figure on it — said “Hark! The Harried Angel Sings.”
“I’m more into Metallica myself.” Dean felt the corner of his mouth flip up.
“There’s a Christmas Metallica cover album.” The dark-haired stranger did not smile, even as his voice did.
“I didn’t buy it.”
They regarded each other for a few long seconds as the Christmas-lover closed the gap between them and extended his hand.
“My name is Cas Novak. I own this shop.”
Dean accepted it and tried to pretend he didn’t feel a surge of electricity. “Dean Winchester. I hate this shop.”
To his credit, Cas kept a pleasantly neutral expression as Dean took a shot at his livelihood, and Dean took a moment to observe him too closely. In Cas’s solid face, severity and levity mixed inexplicably. His blue eyes, bright and beautiful, held the softness the carved jaw and solid mouth denied. The touch of stubble blurred the marble perfection and kept it human, but… damn, Cas Novak was too gorgeous anyway. Every man or woman who met him probably felt the electricity while Cas himself remained pleasantly untouched.
“Why are you here then?” Cas asked.
“Why is anyone with balls in this shop?” Dean countered. His eyes unwillingly dropped to the other man’s groin. “Besides you.”
“A woman,” Cas admitted. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Wife or girlfriend?”
“Mother.” The correction stood between them, making itself clear without further words, and Dean accepted the impossibility of Cas not feeling the sparks. The shift in the air around them put Dean back on the balls of his feet, made him instantly comfortable. Flirting was his game, the bread and butter of his social interactions. He flirted with cops who pulled him over, lushes who drank too much in bars, and college students way too young for him. Weird tingles of electricity, flashes of This is something vibrating on his skin, were uncomfortable, but flirting was just conversation.
Cas nodded. “It’s not all gingerbread men and jingle bells in here, Dean.”
Dean waited for him to continue, the serious tone suggesting that he was about to explain a deeper purpose. Children’s charity, spreading joy… something impressive.
Cas continued, “Upstairs, we have a rather extensive Halloween collection on display.”
This time, Cas’s mouth did break into a genuine smile. It suited his features so perfectly that Dean couldn’t even judge the corny delivery. He was grinning back like a starstruck teenager when his mother walked over and laid her hand against his arm.
“Hey there. I just checked out. You weren’t there to stop me, so I bought an inflatable snowman for the front yard.” Her eyes darkened for an instant. “It’ll be easier for us than all those lights.”
Dean wrapped an arm around her shoulders, ignoring the sudden hollow in his stomach. “I’ll do the lights, Mom.”
As if reading the situation perfectly, Cas offered Mary the same handshake and introduction he had peddled earlier, a perfect distraction. She looked at him, observant as always, and brightened. Dean recognized her facial expression and braced himself for the inevitable.
“Mr. Novak, I’m so glad you came over to talk to my boy. He was simply miserable in here with just me.” To a layperson, her voice sounded like an older woman being friendly, all Midwestern twang and sweetness, but Dean knew her too well. This was the woman who did the Sunday crossword puzzle in pen. “See, I had to drag him Christmas shopping because his dad died earlier this year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cas replied politely, a little stunned, eyes widening. Mary’s words would have hurt except that Dean knew they were bullshit. John Winchester never set foot in a place like this in all their years of marriage. She was pulling a con of some sort.
“We’ve all had a rough year, you know?” Mary wisely chose a question Castiel had to nod along with, subtly putting them in agreement, building a positive connection. “Plus his brother moved out to California with this absolute witch he’s been living with. So he’s fortunate to have had the stroke of luck of meeting you.”
“Me?” Those blue eyes widened even further.
“Mom…” Dean growled out a warning, but she pretended not to hear.
“Yes, Mr. Novak. A good-looking young business owner like you. You’re just Dean’s type.”
Dean looked up at the ceiling as if it could deliver him from this situation.
Mary pretended to look worried. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if you’re not…”
“I’m gay, Mrs. Winchester.” Cas’s politeness was unshakable.
“See, Dean?” She turned up to look at him, eyes sparkling up a storm. He couldn’t believe that he had been feeling sorry for her when they first entered this winter wonderland. Any thoughts about her becoming slower or grayer were gone now. “You can ask him out to dinner while you’re in town. It really is a stroke of luck.”
Dean turned to give Cas a patented “I’m sorry this woman is crazy” look, complete with raised eyebrows and irritation, but when he looked at that handsome, off-guard face, flushed across the cheekbones, lips parted with surprise, he couldn’t do it. Instead he turned on the charm.
“We can’t let my mom down. Like she said, she’s had a rough year.” Dean grinned. “Let me take you out tomorrow night?”
Both Winchesters stared at Cas, waiting.
When Cas shrugged and offered up a semi-defeated yes, Dean took it as a victory, hot excitement flooding his chest.
It might be a Holly Jolly Christmas, after all.
Castiel dreamed about those stupid green eyes and that smug, flirty mouth, and when he got the text from 866-907-3235 saying still on for 6?, his stomach flipped itself into an array of crazy knots. As the last customer filed out -- a handmade Lawrence, Kansas ornament lovingly wrapped and bagged in her hand -- he actually flipped the sign to Closed ten minutes early. He never did that. He didn’t end up paying all his bills as owner of a Christmas store by closing early.
He also didn’t end up being quasi-successful by letting patrons sweet-talk him into dates. He blamed that one on con artist, Mary Winchester, who had blossomed into a brazenly upfront woman the instant she got her way.
“Well, you two have a lot of logistics to work out.” She had breezed out the door. “Dean, I’ll wait in the car.”
Cas slipped into his office and peeled off today’s holiday attire, a sweater vest whose embroidered dog proclaimed “Bah hum pug!” in sequins. He had packed clothes this morning before he knew anything about their outing: two different shirts, a tie, and a pair of jeans. Now he should have had more information, but all Dean had said was look nice in a quick midday text message. He opted for a plain white shirt and a simple blue tie. He left on the black pants he had worn all day and then grabbed his coat from the back of the office chair.
The wall clock boasted 5:58. He wiled away the next two minutes pretending he was not hoping this was a real date.
Then he heard an honest-to-God honk from the parking lot. Dean Winchester was summoning him like a rebellious teenager picking up a date whose parents disapproved.
Castiel slipped his arms into his coat and walked out into the brisk December air. Dean stood beside a sleek old black sports car, wearing a faded red flannel button-down and jeans whose holes came from hard work, not fashionable retailers. Comparatively he may have been underdressed, but Dean still looked like a featured “Everyday Bachelor” from a women’s magazine.
“Damn. When I said ‘look nice,’ I was thinking no tee shirts. Not…” Dean motioned up and down from head to toe.
“Hello Dean,” Castiel cut in. “Where are we going?”
“Jesus, Cas. What about the niceties?” Dean tossed his hands up. “You know, I look at you and tell you that you’re a 10 out of 10 in that trenchcoat, and you blush and go all weak at the knees and tell me I look good too. Haven’t you ever been on a date?”
Castiel frowned. “This isn’t really a date.”
It was an ironic statement considering the way he’d had himself tied up in knots about this outing all day.
“What?” Dean’s face changed from brash confidence to something softer, a flicker of something almost like vulnerability crossing his features. “Are you telling me I put on my good pants for nothing?”
Castiel resisted the urge to point out that Dean had been wearing holeless pants yesterday.
“I know you had to ask me out because of your mom.”
“Listen, Cas. You don’t know me, so you don’t know how stupid that sounds. I don’t do much of anything I don’t want to do. I’d have shut her down faster than Rocky took out Creed if I didn’t want to take you out.” The sincerity melted quickly, ice cream on a hot summer sidewalk, and became heated confidence again. “Actually I wouldn’t normally ask someone out in front of my mom. Must have been because you’re devastatingly handsome.”
The quirk of his mouth put just enough spin on it to make Cas laugh. “A 10 out of 10?”
“You got it, buddy. So let’s go.”
Never one to care about cars, Castiel had to admit Dean’s car ran well in spite of its age, purring beneath them with all the promise of a well-oiled machine. The tape deck quietly hummed out Johnny Cash. Cas had to resist the temptation to point out that the Man in Black also sang the most popular rendition of “Blue Christmas.” He wasn’t quite ready to broach the quiet between the two of them. Dean drove with focus, in spite of all his bravado and flirting outside of the car. An interior space had its own intimacy, and for right now, it seemed they were both going to respect that. Castiel occupied himself by admiring Dean’s hands: strong, lean, sturdy. Cas could imagine those hands steadying those who tripped, touching faces softly before a kiss, cranking wrenches on stubborn devices.
Those little warm, delicious images kept him company in the quiet of the car.
Dean had chosen an interesting place for their date, a barbecue joint equal parts upscale and dive. They ordered their food at a counter, staring up at handwritten chalk menu, but then moved to polished cherrywood picnic tables in a dining area with a parquet dance floor and a recessed area where a live band crooned folksy hits. Tremendously overdressed, Castiel shed his tie and cuffed his sleeves before sitting down.
It felt like a date.
Honestly, it had been too long since Castiel had gone out, and he had almost forgotten the fun of learning a new person. Dean spoke comfortably on the usual array of topics, not skittering away from any of them and sending up red flags. He told funny stories about growing up, and by the end of a tale of his kid brother breaking his arm and then being toted to the hospital on Dean’s handlebars, Cas had laughed out loud and felt like he knew little Sammy Winchester. Castiel shared his own normal, well-adjusted childhood stories. He appreciate Dean laughing even though Cas didn’t share his storytelling flair.
By the time the waitress dropped off their orders at the table, he had forgotten he was hungry.
Their food oozed down-home charm -- twin sandwiches with tender beef brisket and tangy sauce, buttery sweet corn still on the cob, and sweet and russet potato fries straight out of the fryer. Since Cas barely knew how to make a grilled cheese sandwich, his mouth was watering within seconds. Dean wolfed his down but commented several times on cooking techniques and mused on spices.
“I could burn water,” Cas said.
“I like to cook,” Dean replied with a shrug as he popped two fries into his mouth.
“And fix cars and do woodworking. You like to make things.”
Dean tilted his head and nodded approvingly. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Castiel warmed under that gaze, pleased that he had read between the lines and come to a conclusion matching Dean’s self-reflection. They dove into conversation again, and Cas enjoyed explaining his reasons for owning The Christmas Shoppe. Telling Dean about his crazy whim after college took him back to that whirlwind time. His parents had lamented his risky choice, his mother so nervous her hands shook the entire week of the Grand Opening. At the end of year two, when he had downgraded his personal life to the bare bones and was living upstairs in his business, he had considered throwing in the towel.
But finally, in year three, a group of mommy bloggers had gotten interested in his little shop after reading about his hiring policies. Though he considered hiring those with disabilities to be easy practice, the decision had earned him modest publicity and a loyal following. From there, he had been able to start making the numbers work. Signing himself a paycheck every week boosted his mood, no matter how much he had heard himself say it wasn’t about the money.
Four beers in for Dean, two for Castiel, the evening had taken on that pleasant blur. Ordinarily, alcohol would have made his date’s eyes a little greener, his shoulders a little broader, his voice a little deeper, but Dean didn’t need improving. Cas just used the alcohol as an excuse to admire him more openly. The admiration vibrated over his skin, a physical jolt of lust, but also below it, an intellectual attraction buzzing into being.
“Hey all you guys and gals, listen up!”
The lead singer of the band made one of those cheesy generic calls for couples in love to make their way onto the dance floor. Cas watched the push and pull of reactions around the crowded dining room. At one table, a man rose to his feet, tugging a laughing woman out onto the floor. At another, a pair of sisters, no older than ten, giggled their way out as their parents shook their heads fondly.
Castiel looked over at Dean.
“Don’t even think about it.” Dean raised both eyebrows. “I don’t dance.”
The opening notes of “Wagon Wheel” began to play, an instrumental interlude sparking all of the dancers to grin and follow in happy recognition. Castiel’s stomach flipped an eager loop as he looked out at them and then back over at Dean.
“When you go on a date to a place with live music, you are supposed to ask your date to dance,” Castiel pointed out. Dean shook his head.
“Nope.”
Castiel sighed. There went the best excuse to touch each other.
But as the chorus kicked on, Dean reached over and folded Castiel’s hand in his, smoothly, without fuss, without fanfare. The casual way Dean slid his thumb along the webbing between Cas’s thumb and forefinger… it made his insides so fluttery he had to look at the guitar player instead of the potential energy sparking in Dean’s eyes.
“Damn, this music is better than ‘Jingle Bells,’” Dean observed. Cas could hear the smile in his voice but turned to look at him anyway, wanting to be dazzled. The big, genuine shit-eating grin did not disappoint.
“You’re a jerk.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Stick with me, Dean, and I’ll have you singing ‘Feliz Navidad’ by December 12.”
“You asking me out, Novak?”
“I’m saying you’d better ask me out. Happy people don’t hate Christmas.”
“You plan to make me happy?”
Their jokes bumbled into seriousness, Dean’s question hanging between them waiting for a real answer, his eyes cloudy with unnamed emotion. Castiel pulled the pieces of the Dean Winchester puzzle together in his mind: brother in California, aging mother, recent loss of his father, single in his late thirties. All those grins couldn’t mask everything.
“I’d like to try,” Cas said, his voice softer than he intended. Even to him, it sounded like a promise.
It was a promise he wanted to keep.