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Chapter Text

1988

 

On Christmas Eve of 1988, an empty bottle of Pepsi jolted out of the cup dispenser, bounced, rolled, and got trapped under the gas pedal of a little blue car. The little blue car stalled in the middle of an intersection and a truck sped up to make it through the orange light instead of slowing down and the little blue car was hit hard and spun and crunched into a lamp-post. Dean Winchester was nine years old. He didn’t know any of these details, but he saw the police-cars turn up outside the house two over from the one across from theirs, and he and his little brothers pressed their faces excitedly against the cold glass of the downstairs window to watch the sirens flash.

 

“What duthit mean?”  asked Sammy, who was starting to lose his baby teeth and who lisped around the empty spaces.

 

“It means there’s been an accident, dumbo,” Dean told him, and tapped on the glass with his fingernail. “Look – the cops are taking their hats off. That means someone’s got hurt.”

 

That’s when Mary hushed them and shooed them away from the window, telling them to hurry upstairs and into their jammies. Dean turned back to look at her from the bottom of the stairs though, and she had replaced them at the window now, biting nervously at the skin around her thumb as she looked out across the street.

 

It turned out Dean was right, but, in the grander scheme of things, it meant that shortly after noon on Christmas Day, there was a tap at the door, and in came a thick-set balding man, followed shortly by the Novak kid.

 

Dean had seen him around sometimes, sitting on his porch and organising things in a big scrapbook with great focus, but he never came out to play in the street with the other kids, so Dean didn’t know too much about him. What he did know was this: he was the same age as Dean, he went to the uniformed Catholic school on the other side of town, he didn’t talk much, and his name was Castiel.

 

While the man – who Dean vaguely knew as Mrs. Novak’s brother – came inside and thanked Mary for her hospitality, the kid stood awkwardly in the doorway and fiddled with a loose button on his coat. He had a satchel slung over one shoulder which looked far heavier than he should be able to carry, being smaller than Dean and skinny, but he clung to it with his free hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright. There was snow in his hair.

 

“Hey,” Dean called him to him, and he flinched, but Dean was undeterred and waved him over. Castiel eyed him apprehensively for a second and then eventually made his way towards where Dean and Sam were sprawled all across the floor with their new presents. Dean sat up. “You’re Casteel, right?”

 

“Cast-iel.” He met Dean’s eyes uncertainly.

 

Dean smiled at him. “I’m Dean – this is Sammy.”

 

“Hello,” Sammy said.

 

Castiel shifted from one foot to the other and glanced back into the hallway, from where Mr. Novak had by now disappeared. Seeing that he couldn’t escape, he returned to the two boys on the floor in front of them and echoed a hello.

 

“You get any nice prethents?” Sammy asked, not understanding why that wasn't a good question to ask, but he shut up when Dean smacked him.

 

There was a long pause, silence interrupted only by the low, consolatory tones of Dean’s parents in the other room, and the excessively cheerful Christmas music tinkling from the radio.

 

Dean hesitated. “How’s your mom?”

 

Castiel’s hand tightened on the strap of his satchel and he looked at the floor. “Uncle Zachariah said there was nothing they could do.”

 

“Oh.” Dean felt Sammy’s hand tugging surreptitiously at his sleeve, trying to get him to explain what that meant, but Dean shook him off. Dean’s face scrunched up sympathetically, feeling sadness curl in his stomach at the very thought of it. “Sorry, dude.”

 

Castiel’s shoulders twitched, like he was going to shrug it off but gave up halfway. He didn’t look up from the floor. He was still wearing his coat and shoes, snowflakes melting onto the floorboards.

 

Dean told him that he wasn't supposed to wear his outdoor clothes indoors here, and took his stuff to the closet by the front door. Then he asked if he wanted to play with Dean and Sam’s presents, if he hadn’t unwrapped any of his own yet.

 

Sammy didn’t entirely understand what was happening, but he split his pack of crayons very neatly and gave half to Castiel, even though Castiel didn’t look all that interested in colouring. He sat with them, crayons loose in his hand, staring blankly at his sheet of paper, and Dean knew that he wasn’t thinking about what to draw.

 

“What’s in that book you always have?” Dean asked suddenly, startling Castiel out of his reverie.

 

“What?” Castiel’s hand drifted unconsciously towards his satchel. “What book?”

 

Dean grinned. “You got it with you? What, is it pictures of girls or something?”

 

Castiel squinted at him for a second, not sure whether to trust him. Then, at last, he said, “Coins.”

 

“For real?” Dean frowned. “Why?”

 

“I collect them.” Castiel’s mouth twisted nervously. His fingers played on the fabric of his satchel and, after a long pause, he asked haltingly, “Do you want to see?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Sammy promptly ditched his crayons, and together he and Dean crowded around Castiel as he pulled an enormous scrapbook out of his bag. Very carefully, he flipped through the waxed pages and showed them his coins – pointing out the wheat pennies, the buffalo nickels, the Roosevelt dimes, the Indian head pennies, and, last of all, his favourite, a Mercury dime. “It’s from 1943,” he told them proudly. “Designed by a guy called Adolph Weinman. My dad gave it to me.”

 

“Where’s your dad now?” Dean asked, brushing a finger over the top of the coin once Castiel told him he was allowed.

 

“I don’t know. He liked coins though.” Castiel looked at the Mercury dime. “I’m keeping it safe for when he comes back.”

 

“Cool.” Dean sat quietly for a while, looking at the shiny rows of coins as Castiel turned the pages, before an idea hit him. “Hey, wait a second.” He eased the scrapbook off of his knees, trying not to disturb it, and then got up to hurry across the room. He found the heap where he had stacked all his newly-unwrapped presents and he dug through in search of the envelope he had got from dad’s friend Bobby. Then, once he had found it, he tipped the four quarters it contained into his hand and hurried back to show them to Castiel. “Here – what about these?”

 

Castiel peered at them. “No, I’m sorry - those are just regular coins. But thank you.”

 

“Oh.” Dean frowned. “So it’s gotta be special? What, like baseball cards?”

 

For the first time that day, though, a faint smile turned Castiel’s lips. “Yeah. Just like baseball cards. Usually the older they are, the more special they are.”

 

“There’s a guy in my class who says his dad has the Willie Mays card,” Dean said absently, flipping back to the front of the book to see the wheat pennies again. “I’m not sure if I believe him though. So what’s the most special coin there is?”

 

Castiel considered this. “Well, there’s lots of special coins –if not many were minted in a certain year, or something like that. But the one I want is the standing liberty quarter, before it got edited in 1917. It got redesigned because a lot of people didn’t like it and thought it looked messy, so there aren’t many, but I want one. They’re like a million dollars though.”

 

“A million dollars for a coin?” Dean said incredulously.

 

Sam’s eyes widened. “That’s a lotta money.”

 

Castiel shrugged. “Well, one day I’m going to work in a museum so I might see one in there even if I can’t get one of my own,” he said contentedly. “That’d be okay.”

 

Dean told him that when he grew up he wanted to be a fireman, and Sammy contributed by saying that he wanted to be a chocolate cake, which Castiel commented was a very nice idea, and they were just about to all head upstairs to see if they still had all the pieces for Fireball Island when Mary called them through to help lay the table.

 

Castiel took a moment to make sure that his coin scrapbook was safely stowed away where it wouldn’t get damaged, and Dean grabbed his hand to pull him through to the kitchen. “Come on,” he urged excitedly. “If we do it fast then we get to help mom with arranging the plates and we can have bigger portions.”

 

Castiel didn’t seem convinced, but he hoisted his too-big pants higher up on his hips and followed Dean dutifully, their hands clasped together tight, and they didn’t let go until they had to.

 

 

1989

 

And so it started. Every year on Christmas Eve, Mr. Novak – who insisted that Dean and Sam call him Zachariah, even though that sort of familiarity made them a little uncomfortable, what with his narrow, toothy smile and tendency to hum Christmas carols just unsettlingly off-pitch – and his nephew came over for a feast and a party, and then stayed the night so that they could share their presents together in the morning. Zachariah took the guest room; Castiel stayed over in Dean’s room, and Sam knocked incessantly at the door to be let in so that he could hang out with them.

 

By this point, Castiel was a semi-permanent resident of the Winchester household. He never liked to say that he didn’t like being in his big, empty house all alone while Zachariah was at work, but Mary made sure that there were always cookies in a tray for him to eat when he turned up on their doorstep, and so he spent most of his waking hours in their living room, doing his homework, organising his coins, or generally enduring Dean’s endless taunts about his prim school uniform.

 

Dean figured out pretty quickly that he and Castiel didn’t have a lot in common. Castiel liked filing his schoolwork in colour-coded binders and reading books about archaeology and using thick pencils to trace his coins through white paper. Dean liked books about sad people and asking girls what their boobs felt like and watching old episodes of Star Trek over and over until he knew all the words. Castiel didn’t understand what a Spock was, or why Dean cringed when he said that, but he entered his school’s fifth-grade spelling bee and came fourth. Dean could never remember where the letter ‘u’went in ‘restaurant’, but he never mispronounced Castiel’s name again.

 

They fell into little traditions easily. They played games like charades where Sammy would shoutDarth Vader as the answer to every performance, and Twenty Questions where Castiel would pick historical figures that no-one had ever heard of and win every round. They danced around and around the living room to cheesy upbeat Christmas songs, John twirling Mary with all suave moves that he boasted had won her hand all those years ago, Sam bouncing in syncopated excitement when Dean grabbed his hands. Dean saw Castiel bobbing on the sidelines and he pulled him in by the waist in a move more intended to tickle and humiliate than sweep him off his feet, but he got a little bit of both as Castiel curled over gasping breathless with laughter and ended up clinging to Dean just to keep himself upright.

 

They ate until they were sore and then collapsed on the couch to watch whatever movie was being shown on TV – usually A Christmas Story – and then, once the movie was over, they got up to eat some more, picking at whatever remained of Mary’s traditional pre-Christmas lasagne. The adults drank a lot of alcohol and the kids ate a lot of salted peanuts until Sam drooped to fall asleep wherever he stayed still long enough, which was the signal that it was time to go to bed, and they were sent upstairs ‘to sleep, you hear me? No staying up talking or Santa won’t bring you anything!’

 

At that point, Castiel flopped onto the spare mattress dragged out from underneath Dean’s bed and they lay awake whispering until they fell asleep, and Christmas crept over them like a cold snow or the slow, dim wash  of brightening fairy-lights.

 

 

1990

 

The ice-rink in the park was only temporary, put up in late November and packed away almost as soon as New Year’s Day, but it was smooth and glossy and the sharp lines cut by skates into its surface seemed to beckon to kids from all over Lawrence – especially Sammy. He’d been begging Dean and offering all sorts of ridiculous bribes since the rink was first set up, but Dean had wrinkled his nose and told him that ice-skating was for girls and that he didn’t ‘want to take your stinky ass skating anyway so leave me alone’. But then, of course, Sammy had threatened to tell Mary that Dean had said ‘ass’ – she’d been so disappointed in him last week when he accidentally said ‘crap’ in front of her – and then there was no choice except for Dean to comply.

 

They grabbed their bikes and rode for Castiel’s house first, waiting patiently by the kerb as he checked and double-checked that his helmet was secure, and then they pedalled off for the park. The road was slushy with snow and meltwater, their tyres cutting through and leaving dark tracks; Dean showed off that he had finally mastered riding hands-free, and Sammy nearly fell off into the gutter when he tried to copy him. They pedalled fast; they breathed faster, the cold air leaving their lungs in whoops and squawks as they skidded on black ice and jolted over speed-bumps and careened wildly past random civilians jumping out of their way.

 

When summer had come and gone, bringing September and a new, terrifying maturity, Dean and Castiel had faced it together. The Catholic middle school in town didn’t have a very good reputation, so Zachariah had admitted defeat and enrolled his nephew instead in the other middle school. Eleven years old, Dean and Castiel walked to and from school together every day; they ate lunch together and swapped their snacks at break-times; they took mostly the same classes, with the exception that Castiel had taken orchestra while Dean had opted for technology, and they sat together if teachers didn’t try to split them up for being noisy. Castiel helped Dean with his maths in exchange for Dean’s endless patience with Castiel’s attempts to battle a cello, telling him when he hit a bum note, which wasn’t hard because he didn’t hit many good notes. Where they were once close, they were now inseparable.

 

They leaped off their bikes as they bumped up onto the kerb by the ice-rink and threw them down onto the frosted grass, letting them bounce as they rushed over to rent their skates. Well, Dean wasn’t rushing – he wasn’t excited – but somehow his feet were carrying him faster and faster and he was scooping pennies out of his pocket as fast as he could and scattering them all across the counter as he told the vendor his shoe size. It took them a while to find the right size ice-skates since Dean was in the middle of a growth spurt and so one foot was significantly bigger than the other, but eventually they managed to get laced up and ready. Dean quickly checked over one last time that Sammy’s ankles were supported – he’d sprained his ankle one time when they’d gone roller-skating– before they staggered clumsily to the rink’s edge and carefully stepped out onto it.

 

It’s early still, morning light glinting off every surface soft and amber-gold, and the rink was empty aside from a young couple twirling slowly at the far side. The ice had just been polished and was deathly slippery with a perfect silver sheen: no sooner than Dean had stepped out, his foot shot from underneath him and he would have landed on his ass had Castiel not lunged out and caught him – but then Dean slid further and Castiel was dragged along behind him and both of them ended up in a cold heap in the doorway. Sammy, meanwhile, stepped glibly over them and cackled to himself as he skated away without looking back.

 

Dean and Castiel climbed to their feet with difficulty, and then, as they continued to cling to each other, tentatively set out across the ice. Once Dean started moving, he found it wasn’t too difficult, but Castiel wobbled constantly and kept a death-grip on Dean’s elbow to keep himself upright. He was red-faced from exertion and the threadbare pom-pom on top of his hat bobbed with his movements as though it was laughing at his failures, but Dean held him steadily. They tried easy laps of the rink, skating faster as Castiel gained confidence – despite the way he flinched every time Sammy whizzed past them, crowing insults – until he felt brave enough to loosen his hand from Dean’s sleeve. His hand lingered by Dean’s elbow, ready to grab it again if he felt unsteady, but they moved easily and Castiel didn’t fall.

 

“Come on, Cas, s’easy!”” Sammy called, grinning as he caught sight of Castiel’s attempt to make it on his own. He swooped over to join them, and started skating backwards just in front of Castiel, which Dean wasn’t sure would be helpful that Sammy then held his hands , except out encouragingly for Castiel to come towards him. “C’mon, take my hands. You can do it!”

 

Snow was starting to fall lightly, and Castiel screwed his eyes up against the flakes as he watched Sammy nervously. For a second he looked like he was going to do it, but then his hand tightened on Dean’s arm and he shook his head. “No, I can’t do it,” he said. “I’ll fall down.”

 

“I bet you a dollar you won’t fall down,” Dean said with certainty, and Castiel looked over, surprised at this demonstration of faith in his abilities, and was so busy searching Dean’s face that he completely forgot to be scared. Then Dean let go.

 

“Dean!” Castiel threw his arms out for balance, eyes flying wide, and he flailed wildly as he tried to stop. “Dean, come back, come back, come back—”

 

“No.” Dean skated out in front of him with Sammy, and held out one gloved hand. “You come here.”

 

Castiel scowled, but he drew in a deep breath and pushed himself hesitantly forwards again. He held his arms out in front of him like a zombie, wobbling from side to side, but he was determined and undeterred by the way that Dean and Sammy skated slowly backwards away from him, coaxing him further and further with equal taunts and encouragement. Very slowly, he got more confident until he was skating quite fast; his movements were ungainly and he was anything but elegant, but he was upright and he was doing it on his own.

 

“You’re doing it, you’re doing it!” Sammy was yelling as Castiel’s face split into a wide smile, and then Dean slowed, arms out wide akimbo.

 

“Dean,” Castiel yelped, panicking as he realised that he still couldn’t really steer and Dean wasn’t moving anywhere anytime soon. “Get out of the way!”

 

With a grin, Dean let Castiel crash into him, but he pushed backwards to take the blow and keep them from falling. Together they glided clumsily, pressed together in a squirming imitation of a hug, Dean pushing at Castiel’s hair as he teased him that he owes Dean a dollar now. Castiel exhaled a short laugh, his breath fogging, but he didn’t argue, just swatted half-heartedly at Dean to let him go.

 

Sammy laughed at them, skating wide circles around them and wondering aloud whether he could do a fancy trick like they saw sometimes on TV – Dean dared him to do it, temporarily conflicted between whether to look out for Sammy’s safety or just revel in how hilarious it’d be if Sammy fell down – but Castiel seemed relieved to have someone to hold onto again. They spun together holding hands, skating ever closer, loops growing ever smaller, until their circles were spirals and the pale mist of their frosted breath mingled and twisted, the fog of one mouth indistinguishable from the other.

 

 

1991

 

By way of repaying the Winchesters for their kindness in inviting the Novaks over for Christmas dinner every year, Zachariah invited them to their church for midnight mass. From Dean and Sammy’s point of view, they would have done much better with simply a ‘thank you’, and if Zachariah was really insistent on doing something for them, he could have at least got them a GameBoy or something. However, he hadn’t, and here they were.

 

Dean would have rather been at home watching TV or crouching by the bottom of the Christmas tree with Sammy, shaking presents to try and work out what was inside them, but instead he stood in the pews, hands folded neatly in front of him, and he sang. He didn’t know any of the words, but Castiel stood close beside him so that they could share a hymn book, and sang loud enough that Dean could copy the tune off him.

 

The church was cold, all old stone and hard benches. Dim white candles cast flickering light up over the arches but gave off no heat; Dean was bundled up in a scarf and a coat, as Mary had demanded, but the real warmth came from the comforting press of Castiel’s arm against his.

 

Dean turned the page for the both of them, and let his eyes flick quickly over to look at Castiel to check that he was doing everything right. Castiel was too focused on the music to notice, his eyes lifted slightly heavenwards, but the next time Dean glanced at him was when the hymn was ending, and Castiel caught his eye with the faint lift of a smile on his lips. His cheeks were pink from the chill; his bobbly woollen hat was a little too big and fell down over his forehead. He held Dean’s eyes for a second, until something being said at the front elicited from him an, “Amen”, and he turned back to face the front. Dean quickly copied him, trying to do everything sensibly and correctly so that Mary would be impressed and would decide that they never had to come back to church again, ever.

 

However, Castiel suddenly nudged him with his hip – still dutifully facing the front, face impassive but for the hint of a smile – and, for a kid who went to church every Sunday without fail, he was surprisingly ready to put Dean first. The thumb-war Dean started then caused them to miss the next “and also with you”, and left them standing an awkward split-second after everyone else had sat down, but they didn’t quit until Zachariah caught on and threatened to throw them out. They agreed in whispers that it would have been worth it.

 

 

1992

 

It was the penultimate Friday night of the Michaelmas term, and the theme was cartoon characters. Castiel was sceptical as to why a Christmas dance would need a theme beyond that of Christmas, but apparently the social committee’s brains worked in mysterious ways. Dean was dressed as Batman, Castiel as the Joker, which was mostly just an excuse to wear his dad’s ugly purple corduroy jacket.

 

The gymnasium had been cleared of its usual equipment, now instead decorated with tinsel and tissue-paper snowflakes, a tacky disco-ball spinning lazily from one of the wall-mounted basketball hoops. One wall was lined with hard-backed school chairs where some bored-looking kids in capes and tights were already sitting; the other wall had buffet tables with bowls of potato chips and dinky pots of salsa. Clumps of mistletoe hung in awkward places, near which small groups of girls flitted nonchalantly; Castiel and Dean gave them a wide berth.

 

As the first of the cheesy Christmas songs started up, they staked out a position by the buffet table to watch their classmates come in. Dean wasted no time in starting on the snacks, taking chips in greedy handfuls, and let his eyes fall over the girls still coming into the gym. At his side, Castiel ran his tongue self-consciously over his new braces. They both felt more than a little uncertain and out-of-place, but, then again, so did everyone, it seemed.

 

There was a general air of awkwardness in the air, with no-one sure of the etiquette of when or how to dance. Girls bobbed and clutched at each other in varying states of giddiness and hysteria; boys slunk around the sides, making fun of the girls and complaining about the music. Dean and Castiel were soon joined by Pamela and Ash, who was wearing a conical party hat for reasons unspecified, and together set out on a journey to completely wipe the buffet table clean within the first hour. They succeeded.

 

For all the giggly nerves of the students, it wasn’t long before the dance was in full swing. They bounced and shouted tunelessly along when all of their whining requests to the DJ paid off and Smells Like Teen Spirit was played, albeit briefly; something fast-paced and jingly played, and a snowball dance was called into order, which Dean and his friends thought was dumb, but which they joined in nonetheless. It was idiotic – their stomachs fizzed with too much soda as they spun in ever-increasing circles and their palms slipped sweaty over each other’s fingers as they tried to hold on tight – but it was fun. Dean spun from Cassie Robinson to Pamela to a short, silly twirl with Ash and then to Castiel. Even though they were only dancing for a few seconds Dean accidentally stepped on Castiel’s feet at least three times, and the flush on Castiel’s cheeks didn’t go away even when Dean apologised.  The music drummed out another four-beat bar and Dean twisted away to his next partner. Castiel was left standing in the middle of the floor; he let out a slow breath between his teeth.

 

Then White Christmas came on, slow and jazzy, and some jerk from the PTA was crackling over the speakers insisting it was time for a slow-dance. There was jeering, one high wolf-whistle, and thus began the nervous sway of girls in nice dresses as they tried to attract the attention of a partner without actively seeking any out. It was Dean’s cue to leave the dance-floor and head back to the buffet table, and he is followed by Castiel, a few steps behind. However, before he reaches the safety of the bowl of salt-and-vinegar chips, an obstacle took the form of Jo Harvelle.

 

“Hey.” She stood squarely in front of Dean, hands deep in the pockets of her slacks. “You wanna dance?”

 

Dean blinked at her, surprised. “For real?” he said, dumbly, before he could stop himself. “I mean – now?”

 

“Yeah, now, idiot.” Jo rolled her eyes. “You want to or not?”

 

“Uh. Well, we were just gonna hang out here, I think...” Dean glanced at his friends. Castiel looked unhappy, but the shape of his mouth was pouty around his braces, unused to the new bulk, so it was hard to tell. As soon as they made eye contact, Castiel looked away and immediately started applying great focus to choosing a cheese cube. Dean hesitated. “But... sure.”

 

Satisfied, she gave a short nod and then, without waiting further, turned around and walked back into the swaying mass of eighth-graders. Dean pulled a face at his friends and went after her. He didn’t have a thing for Jo, but her hair smelled nice and she wore pants that made her butt look really good, so he wasn’t going to complain. She put his hands around his neck and he put his hands on her waist, and there, amongst all the other similarly-entangled couples, they started to rotate in slow, clunky four-step circles.

 

“This is nice,” Jo commented off-handedly after a minute or so of mindless, rhythmic turning, and she looked up at him.

 

Dean hummed a non-committal sound that could be an agreement, looking over her shoulder at their surroundings. Most of his classmates were doing the same as he and Jo were, elbows locked to keep a foot or so of distance between them, but a few are standing flush, arms hooked hand-to-forearm around the back of each other’s necks for a more intimate dance. There was Ava and Brady, who had been going steady for a whole week now, moving with slow, leisurely steps; Andy and Tracey were similarly entangled. Then Dean caught sight of a hideous purple jacket and he found Castiel and Pamela pressed close together.

 

Castiel’s back was turned, but, over his shoulder, Pamela saw Dean staring and winked cheekily at him before continuing to push her face into Castiel’s neck. Then Jo steered Dean around in a circle, turning slowly, and Castiel was momentarily lost.

 

Dean wondered if Castiel... you know. Like-liked Pamela. It was kind of hard to tell – Castiel never really seemed to want to spend any time with girls. He never really wanted to spend time with anyone, except for Dean.

 

Jo’s fingers twitched on one of Dean’s shoulders. “You’re not a bad dancer,” she told him.  She had a smudge of mascara underneath her left eye.

 

“Thanks.” Dean smiled at her. “Uh, you too.”

 

She said something else then, but Dean’s peripheral vision picked out a familiar flash of ugly corduroy and he was distracted. This time Pamela was just starting to turn her back to Dean, and at that moment, Castiel looked up past her and caught Dean’s eye.

 

For a second, Castiel just stared at him, eyebrows raised, as though trying to work out what Dean wanted, but then his mouth lifted in a small smile. Dean grinned back and wiggled his eyebrows, in response to which Castiel gave him a disapproving look, but his lips were pressed tight together like he was putting a lot of effort into not bursting out into giggles. Dean pulled a face, going cross-eyed, and Castiel buried his laugh into Pamela’s shoulder – a gesture which made Dean’s stomach all at once flutter and churn unpleasantly.

 

“Dean?”

 

His attention snapped back to Jo, who frowned up at him. “What? Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

 

Jo repeated her question – something mundane about whether he liked the music, what sort of bands he liked – and Dean did his best to answer. It was hard to focus on Jo under the circumstances. Pink and blue lights were glittering softly off the disco-ball, lighting up everyone’s faces pale and shimmering. Pamela had rest her head on Castiel’s shoulder in one of the most childishly romantic gestures Dean had ever seen in his whole time at middle-school, and still Castiel’s eyes were only on Dean.

 

 

1993

 

Dean washed; Castiel dried. Of course Dean got the more difficult chore, but while Mary was not averse to forcing her son’s friends into slavery, she wasn’t so cruel as to have made them do the actual hard work. They didn’t mind too much, since they could talk while they worked, and Dean would apparently never be too mature to flick soap suds at Castiel, and Castiel was apparently never above smacking him with the dish-towel until Dean’s arms were covered in dull red welts like he’d been in a fight with a red-hot poker. They were fourteen years old.

 

They went to separate high-schools now – Castiel had just finished his first semester in the fancy, uniformed private school just outside of town, as had Dean at the regular high school one block over from the town square – but it hadn’t changed anything. Castiel still came over to do his homework as Dean procrastinated, and then, later, to help Dean sort his life out as all his deadlines suddenly crashed down around him without him having done anything; they still played video games every weekend until the early hours of the morning when Zachariah would come wearily searching for his nephew; they still squabbled over which of them was going to wear the nice Christmas hat and which one of them was going to have to wear the itchy one. And, despite Mary’s best efforts to hide the leftover turkey, every year they still managed to find it and tear it apart with hungry fingers as the day progressed and their stomachs settled.

 

“Can’t believe she tried the bread-bin again,” Dean scoffed around his mouthful of turkey. “When has that ever worked?”

 

“Nowhere is safe,” Castiel said as he wiggled a finger underneath one of the wires that stretched between his braces’ brackets, trying to work out a piece of turkey that was stuck there.

 

"Damn straight – god, this is awesome.”

 

Castiel hummed in agreement, removed his finger from his mouth, and tore off another strip of chicken. “I don’t know how your mother does it.”

 

There was a clatter and a dim shuffle of footsteps from the hallway, and instantly Castiel and Dean both froze before leaping into action, shoving the turkey plate haphazardly back into the bread-bin and scrambling out of the kitchen. They nearly ran over Sammy in their escape, as he sat at the foot of the stairs trying to coax his slinky to bounce further down the steps, but all in all they got out clean, and they collapsed on the couch stifling laughter as they tried to play innocent. Castiel had a giveaway smear of turkey grease running down from his mouth to his chin; Dean leaned across quickly to wipe it away with his thumb. No evidence.

 

As the afternoon drew slowly into evening, the rest of the family joined them in the living room, squishing themselves into various armchairs to watch a movie. They watched Home Alone, as they had done every year since it first came out and they’d all piled into the movie theatre to watch it on the big screen, and laughed predictably at all the same parts. It never stopped being funny. When Macaulay Culkin scared the crap out of the pizza-man and lip-synced along with the cheesy gangster drawl – “keep the change, ya filthy animal” – Dean laughed into his knuckles and whispered to Castiel whether he thought Kevin would say the same thing to a visiting hooker. Unfortunately, Mary heard, and smacked his knee with a scandalised, “Dean!” but Castiel and Dean had already lapsed into uncontrollable giggles at the thought of it – that awkward Culkin kid, ordering a hooker, to do sex things. It was just ridiculous.

 

As credits rolled, they retrieved the name-cards that had been set up on the dining table to demarcate everyone’s seats – which was a little redundant since they had all been sitting in the same places since Castiel had first turned up, but which was beloved tradition all the same – and read aloud the various good-humoured cruelties that had been scribbled on them as they were passed around between courses.

 

On Dean’s was written that ‘you need to lose a million pounds to stop being so ugly’ in letters so carefully curliqued like Mary’s handwriting that it could only be Sammy, although Dean was horrified to see that his ever-loving father had cheerfully written underneath ‘maybe not altogether less ugly, but it’d be a start’, and, beneath that, in Castiel’s tidy script, ‘seconded’. Dean gave him a dead arm.

 

After they had had a snack supper of turkey sandwiches – or in Dean and Castiel’s case, plain bread, as this was the point at which Mary noticed the substantially decreased quantity of leftovers – Sammy snatched from his messy pile of presents and torn paper one new box of Monopoly and started diligently setting up the pieces.

 

For all his lack of involvement in sports, Castiel, it turned out, was fiercely competitive, and, using the bowler hat piece as his tool, proceeded to take over the best districts of the board with a tactical ferocity that could best be compared to a war general taking over innocent populations: with brute force and, here, incessant arguments with the banker.  It made everything a little more fun, though, especially when Dean and Sammy banded together to bring him down at literally any cost. Zachariah sat back in a nearby chair and drank brandy as he watched, not wanting to spoil their fun with his lack of knowledge of the game; Mary took photos of ‘her boys’ – all four of them, she said. That statement was the only thing that worked to distract Castiel from his reign of terror, as he looked up with a smile that could have split his face in half, and consequently didn’t notice both Sammy and John landing on the wealthiest of Castiel’s properties without paying a penny.

 

Mary and John let Dean and Castiel have one small glass of mulled wine each, while Sammy bounced around them and pleaded,  “please please please, s’not fair if I’m left-out”, until they agreed to the tiniest dribble of wine, diluted with lemonade, and he was knocked right out anyway. He fell fast asleep on the couch, sprawled inelegantly in every direction, but luckily he was only small and skinny at ten, and the others were able to arrange themselves around him as they laughed and poked at him. Dean mocked his brother’s inability to hold his liquor, but it was barely a half hour before he was struggling to prop himself up against the arm of the couch, Castiel lolling sleepily against him.

 

Dean didn’t want to fall asleep. He was in high school now; he was a big boy. He wasn’t supposed to fall asleep after one glass of wine, but Castiel was warm and comfortable against his chest and everything was as it was meant to be. As they drifted off together, Dean’s head tipped back to let out loud snores that provoked more mockery than Sammy’s sleepiness ever had, Mary took another photo and said softly, “My boys - I’m glad they found each other.”

Chapter Text

1994

 

“Hey, Cas!”

 

Castiel looked up to see what Dean wanted, just in time to be hit with a snowball. Luckily for him, Dean’s aim was a little off, and so it didn’t get him in the face, but rather clipped the top of his head and took his woollen hat off. Castiel’s eyes widened with surprise and then his face settled into a scowl.

 

“We’re supposed to be clearing the yard,” Castiel said crossly, stooping to retrieve his hat, “not making it worse, Dean.”

 

“I don’t know, man, I think it looks pretty good.” Dean planted his gloves-clad hands on his hips and surveyed the front lawn of Castiel’s house, which Zachariah had instructed them to clear of snow. They’d been working for twenty minutes or so, and there was no noticeable difference. “This is proper... award-worthy Christmas landscaping, I think.” And without waiting a moment longer, he ducked down and starting scooping up another snowball.

 

“Dean, no. No.” Castiel narrowed his eyes menacingly at him, as though daring Dean to just try throwing that snowball and see where it got him.

 

However, Dean was undeterred and he straightened up, packing the snowball tight in two hands, and he grinned.

 

“Dean. Dean – I’m warning you – don’t—”

 

The snowball hit him in the face. Castiel staggered back, shaking his head wildly and trying to clear the snow from his eyes, all while Dean rocked back with laughter, remorseless.

 

“You don’t aim for the face!” Castiel shouted, his voice cracking where it was starting to break, and he used the sleeve of his coat to clear the last of the snow out of his eyes.

 

“Why – are you too pretty for it?” Dean teased, already kneeling to compact the next one. “‘Fraid I might damage your cheekbones?”

 

“No,” Castiel said haughtily. “It just hurts, is all—”

 

“Aw, I’m sorry, Cas. I didn’t realise you were so delicate.”

 

“I’m not delicate!”

 

This time, Castiel was a little more prepared and so reacted ninja-fast to protect himself when Dean threw his snowball. He twisted the handle of the broom up in front of him and batted the snowball away, although it exploded and still sprinkled him with a fine white powder like icing sugar.

 

“Use the Force, Luke,” Dean said, changing his voice to mimic Obi Wan Kenobi’s low rumble. His mouth twisted up into a dumb lopsided grin.

 

“Trust me,” Castiel ducked from another incoming snowball, “if I had the Force, I would’ve used it to—” he smacked another away with the broom handle “—to strangle you, a long time ago!” Unfortunately, his determination to get the words out ended up being a disadvantage, as Dean took advantage of his distraction and threw two snowballs in quick succession, one hitting him in the chest, the other in the stomach. “Dean, stop it!”

 

Dean cocked his eyebrows. “Make me.”

 

“Ohh, no.” Castiel gave a short huff of laughter and slowly shook his head. “I am not going to stoop to your level.” He lifted his broom and brandished it semi-threateningly. “I am going to continue clearing the lawn, like we’re supposed to, and I’m not going to have any part in your stupid games.” With an indignant upwards tilt of his chin, Castiel turned away, readjusted his grip on his broom and returned to sweeping.

 

Dean pulled his arm back, muscles coiled tight, and threw a snowball as hard as he could at Castiel’s ass.

 

“Right.” Castiel threw the broom down onto the ground, where it hit the wooden edging of the flower bed and bounced once, and then he ducked to gather snow into his bare hands. “That is it.”

 

Dean laughed, compacting his next snowball in anticipation of the inevitable battle, and got ready to start running and dodging, because Castiel had really good aim – but when Castiel turned back around, he showed no inclination of wanting to throw his handful of snow. Instead, he advanced towards Dean, his expression set hard, less like a challenge and more like a promise.

 

Oh, crap.

 

“Cas, what’re you doing?” Dean asked, backing away. The cold of the snowball sitting in one hand was starting to seep through his glove, but he didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t know how to defend himself. “Cas—”

 

Then Castiel was suddenly upon him, grabbing a fistful of Dean’s jacket and yanking the material forwards to pull his collar away from his skin – “no, no, no!” Dean yelled as he realised what was happening, trying to escape – and then Castiel started to mercilessly stuff snow down Dean’s shirt.

 

It was an icy shock that made Dean howl out loud and writhe frantically to get away from Castiel’s grip, shoving at Castiel’s chest with his free hand, but Castiel was relentless, and so Dean had no choice but to bring up a hand and smush his snowball into Castiel’s face – Castiel yelped and jerked his head sideways to get away, but Dean’s other hand snatched at Castiel’s scarf to tug him back, grinding snow into his face. Castiel’s hat got pushed backwards off his head and fell to the ground somewhere, forgotten as Dean and Castiel scrabbled and fought.

 

“I’m gonna kill you—”

 

“You started this—”

 

All the snow was gone from Dean’s hand now but he kept shoving at Castiel’s face to try and push him away, pushing at Castiel’s nose until he yelled at Dean to quit it – Dean laughed near-maniacally, “Victory is mine!” – and then suddenly there was an ankle curling around the back of Dean’s heels and Castiel shoved forwards hard, and Dean toppled inelegantly backwards with a startled cry, except he still had a hand tangled into Castiel’s scarf and they went down together.

 

Castiel gave a hilariously high-pitched screech as he collapsed on top of Dean, but, even as Dean was busy rupturing an internal organ with how hard he was laughing, Castiel wasted no time in scrambling up to press one knee into Dean’s chest and hold him down as he grabbed loose handfuls of snow from nearby to continue assailing him. Dean took advantage of the momentary lapse in attention; he bucked upwards and threw Castiel off sideways, and as Castiel tumbled and got a faceful of snow, Dean rolled with him. Castiel ended up lying flat on his back, Dean pinning him down by sitting on his stomach, knees either side of Castiel’s chest, hands planted on his shoulders.

 

“Victory,” Dean repeated insistently. He grinned.

 

Castiel huffed, scowling. “You’re incorrigible.”

 

“I’m sorry, I think you mispronounced ‘the absolute best in the universe’. Do you want to try again? Repeat after m—”

 

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Just shut up and get off me,” he said, and he arched his back as though he was going to try to throw Dean off, but his hips had only so much as twitched upwards before he froze.

 

Something about that, and the way that Castiel’s expression changed then, stopped Dean short as well. Castiel’s eyes widened; his lips parted; he stopped breathing. Awareness came to Dean in a chilling rush, and he realised the compromising position they were in; the way that Castiel was completely pliant and submissive beneath him, his arms loose at his sides, the way that Castiel’s aborted movement had briefly lifted Castiel’s pelvis to press against the curve of Dean’s ass.

 

Neither spoke for the longest time.

 

Then, at last, Castiel said, “Dean.” His voice was hoarse. “Get off.”

 

Dean scrambled to his feet, almost made breathless by the sudden need to be as far from Castiel as possible. Silently, and without help, Castiel got up. He took a moment to shake the snow off his clothes, and then headed over to where he’d dropped his broom. Dean followed his lead, and, in a desperate attempt to fill the stifling hush that had abruptly fallen between them, he said, “I still won, though.” It was weak, and hollow, and Castiel didn’t answer.

 

 

1995

 

As long as he was sensible, Dean was allowed to have a Christmas party, although it wasn’t so much a party as it was a small gathering, and a small gathering in the grubby and slightly cold garage of the Winchester house at that, with his parents’ entertaining Zachariah Novak, Bobby Singer and Pamela Barnes in the living room and trying not to get in the way or embarrass their eldest son. Failing, admittedly, but they made an effort, and at least Mary let them have a couple packs of beer to mess around with, as long as they didn’t tell John. He invited Castiel, Ash, Victor, Tessa, Garth, Cassie, Adam, and Jo, and told Sam that under no circumstances was he allowed to hang out with them because they were going to be doing cool teenage things and Sam was only twelve so he wasn’t allowed yet. Sam sulked until Dean said he could play Megaman 5, and now he was somewhere upstairs, quite happy to not be invited.

 

They all came over at about eight PM, those with older siblings bringing extra beers with them, and crowded down into the garage where carpets and cushions had been set out around the broken couch that had been moved out here a few years ago but had never yet been repaired. They started out in that awkward phase where they sat around and talked about their classes and tried to think of fun activities to make the party more exciting, until Gordon decisively clicked the first beer open, and Tessa asked if Dean had any music. Dean got up and went to haul the cassette player, complete with his entire music collection, plus some of Sam’s, and set it up on top of the chest-freezer which Sam had always thought had dead bodies inside it. The first pack of beer was shared out between them, and they clinked cans and drank up, none of them particularly savouring the taste.

 

Victor introduced them to beer pong, something his cousin had shown him, and they set about trying to make it work, although Dean could only find tennis balls, rather than ping-pong balls, and thus the game had to be made more difficult by replacing the usual cups of beer with small measuring jugs. They divided into teams, girls versus boys, and the girls slaughtered the boys easily despite being outnumbered – Tessa was on the lacrosse team and Jo was just an unstoppable sports machine. Cassie seemed as though she was mostly just along for the ride, but that might have been because she kept making eye contact with Dean over the measuring jugs, her smile small and secretive like he was the only one supposed to see it.

 

They fell back into sitting around in a circle and bitching about their class-mates and their teachers and life in general, until Dean noticed that Castiel looked a little awkward as he’d left the school some years ago and was completely out of touch with everything now. They talked instead about movies that were coming out and new games and what music was in the charts at the moment, and they got into some arguments; Cassie always sided with Dean for some reason, and Dean winked at her and said, “You’ve always got my back, Cass,” and immediately felt strange about it.

 

They got out a pack of cards – Ash shuffled and dealt – and got to playing Bullshit, and even though at first none of them were that interested in it, they were soon playing with all the fervour and pure, unadulterated rage of a mob gang’s poker game.

 

Dean hid his card carefully from Castiel, who was sitting close to him, and placed it on the top of the pile. “Two of clubs.”

 

“Three of spades.” Castiel was carefully expressionless. His eyes flickered to Dean’s.

 

Dean raised his eyebrows.

 

Garth reached over. “Three of diamonds.”

 

“Two fours,” said Ash, setting his cards down on top of the pile.

 

Dean squinted at him, suspicious, but decided not to call him on it. The game moved on past him.

 

“Five of hearts.”

 

“Four of diamonds.”

 

“Three fives,” Jo said as she slapped her cards down.

 

“Bullshit!” Tessa called.

 

With a triumphant laugh, Jo reached across to flip up the cards she had lain down and showed that she had been telling the truth. “What you sayin’ to me?” she said, leaning over into Tessa’s space as though she wanted a fight. “Say that again, I’ll take you.”

 

Tessa snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”

 

“Oh, go on, then,” Jo said, still trying not to grin at the stupidity of it, and tilted in closer still to Tessa, her face hovering in front of her like a challenge. “Try and start something.”

 

Tessa snapped her fan of cards closed, set them down on the cold floor, and leaned forwards with arms spread akimbo. “Come on, let’s go.”

 

As they moved closer and closer, grinning as they spewed idiotic insults, everyone began to jeer and laugh, and Victor, spotting the symptoms first, started to call out, “Chicken, chicken, chicken—”

 

They swayed in closer and closer – Jo grinning, Tessa flicking her fringe out of her eyes – and then when their noses were about a hairsbreadth from touching, they giggled and both pulled away at more or less the same time. There was a long awwww from Ash and Gordon, and Jo flipped them off as she and Tessa settled back into their original places.

 

“So close, and yet so far,” Gordon said mournfully.

 

“You wish.” Jo smirked.

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

“Come on, Chicken is totally pointless,” Dean said.

 

Jo shot him a sly look. “You just say that because you know you’d suck at it.”

 

“No way,” Dean said.

 

She propped her hands out behind her and leaned back on them. She grinned. “So prove it.”

 

The others tittered into their cans of beer; Adam let out a mockingly high-pitched oooooh, which only reduced them all the further hysteria.

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to prove that I can kiss a dude.”

 

“The point isn’t to actually kiss them,” Garth pointed out, accompanying his statement with a dignified nod, and her addition to the argument was backed up by the murmured half-agreement of the others who wanted to see Dean humiliated but didn’t really want to get involved.

 

“So then what even is the point?” Dean said witheringly. “I mean, it’s not exactly bravery, is it?”

 

“I don’t know, it’s just fun!”

 

“It’s stupid, is what it is.”

 

“Fine.” Jo gave a haughty shrug, as though she was washing her hands of him. “If you’re too chicken.”

 

“I’m not chicken,” Dean retorted, immediate instinct out of years of similar conflicts with Sam, although never about this, admittedly.

 

“Sure,” Cassie jeered, and Dean looked over at her. She wore a small smile, eyes mischievous, and Dean knew a challenge when he saw one. He could feel heat surging up into his cheeks and he wondered if she was just making fun of him or if she genuinely wanted him to try it with someone. She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “We believe you.”

 

Dean let out a long breath, and said, “Well – like, who would I even do it with, anyway?” like it wasn’t a big deal and he was just concerned about whether anyone would want to play with him. He had only been kissed once before, in a similar silly teenage game at a party, and his heart was already beating fast at the thought of it.

 

“Shotgun not me,” Gordon said instantly. He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m chicken, I admit. No offense, Dean.”

 

They laughed along with him, and their giggles were just dying out into a hush, broken only by the hum of the chest-freezer, when Castiel said, “I’ll do it.”

 

Dean turned to Castiel, who was sitting beside him as usual, and raised his eyebrows as the others dissolved into laughter all over again. “You’re kidding.”

 

“Why? It’s not a big deal.” Castiel shrugged. He wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not chicken.”

 

Dean bristled. “Neither am I.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Alright.” Castiel twisted around so that he was facing Dean properly, adjusting his legs underneath him so that he could sit comfortably. “Alright.”

 

Dean mirrored him, and they both leaned forwards, both hands planted solidly on the floor. They looked straight at each other now, with the same hard-set expressions as when they rivalled each other on PlayStation or casual games of baseball down at the park. They ignored the jeering and wolf-whistling coming from the rest of the circle; they ignored the music blaring from the cassette player; they focused on each other. Dean made a show of cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s do it.”

 

“I hope you’re ready,” Castiel said. He lifted his weight from sitting back on his heels and shifted to kneel instead, bringing his face closer to Dean’s.

 

Dean grinned at him. “Please – I was born ready.” His eyes flickered over Castiel’s face – eyes to mouth and back again. He tilted his chin down, his mouth nearer now to Castiel’s. “How’re you doing?”

 

“Never better.” Castiel tipped his head down infinitesimally. He blinked several times at the proximity, eyelashes fluttering.

 

Dean inched closer. “You sure?” he said. His heartbeat was high in his throat. His mouth was coming up dry. “You can still give in, you know.”

 

“No, I’m alright.” Castiel’s voice was tight, like he was trying not to breathe. He pushed his face a little closer; if they’d changed the angle of their faces, their noses would’ve touched. He let his breath out in a long, slow exhalation, the warmth of it rushing over Dean’s mouth. “Why – do you want to stop?”

 

Dean’s throat constricted and he found himself unable to answer. Instead he just shook his head, and their noses bumped awkwardly.

 

Castiel pressed in closer. His eyes searched Dean’s, and for some reason, Dean saw a flash of something uncertain there – something a little like fear. They were breathing the same air. “Dean—”

 

“Chicken,” Dean interrupted to drown out whatever Castiel was about to say. He was hoarse; he licked his lips.  “You’re chicken. I can tell.”  He didn’t know what was happening, but Castiel’s eyes were wide and a little terrified, and Dean’s blood was thundering under his skin, and he knew that the point of the game wasn’t to actually kiss but he had never really thought about what would happen if neither of them gave in. “Chicken, chicken, chi—”

 

Castiel pushed their mouths together.

 

Amid the shrieks and laughter of their friends, they stayed perfectly still. Eyes still open. They didn’t breathe. Dean’s pulse was fast enough in his skull to make his head hurt. Castiel’s eyes were wide and blue and unblinking, and they stared. Several seconds passed before Dean’s lungs began to strain for oxygen, and he let out his breath through his nose, and then, inhaling again, he opened his mouth. “Chicken?” he mumbled, lips moving over Castiel’s, still pressed together.

 

“No,” Castiel said, his lips a dry catch and drag over Dean’s, and when his mouth pursed to close on the soft ‘o’ sound, there was a damp warmth there from the inside of his mouth that pulled Dean in; Dean nudged in closer, plastering his mouth unceremoniously over Castiel’s with greater insistence, and tried to ignore the beating ache in his stomach which called for something he didn’t quite understand. Castiel exhaled over Dean’s mouth, warm and sweet with the dim taste of alcohol, and said, “Why – are you?”

 

Dean shook his head, pushed harder, kissed more deliberately. Castiel was juddery and awkward – weird, considering he had a lot more experience with girls that Dean did – and when Dean opened his mouth again, dragging Castiel’s mouth open with him, he started breathing fast, short gasps between the carefully slow movement of their lips and a daring almost-press of tongue—

 

Castiel suddenly tore away backwards, scooting back so fast he almost fell flat on his back. “Chicken,” he burst out, eyes wide. “I’m chicken, you win.” His chest was heaving like he had been punched, and there was a hot flush all across his cheeks. He looked younger and more afraid than Dean had seen him in a long time.

 

Slowly Dean came to realise that the garage had fallen into silence. The cassette had run to the end and was quiet now except for the hum of the machine; his friends were no longer laughing along with them. Dean was breathing raggedly, his heart unsteady in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, back to front to flatten it, and cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “Okay,” he said. “Cool. See – I told you I wasn’t chicken.”

 

After a moment, Tessa gave a giggle and said, “You can say that again!”

 

The others laughed at this and the garage filled with sound again, if uncertainly. It was agreed that Dean and Castiel were reigning champions and there was no way that anyone else could try and knock them off their pedestal achievement. Dean didn’t know what that said about them; he glanced at Castiel, but he wasn’t looking.

 

“More beer, anyone?” Garth offered, holding up the last remaining pack, and at a general noise of approval, it was shared out. Dean passed a beer along from Victor along to the rest of the circle, including Cassie. She met his eyes only fleetingly and her smile was brittle.

 

They put on another cassette. Then they resumed their game of Bullshit, and everyone pretended that the atmosphere wasn’t a little thick with uncertainties. Dean made trips to the kitchen in search of more snacks, and flipped off Victor when he laughed at Dean tripping on the steps. They made cigarettes of liquorice sticks and smoke-sucked them down to greasy stumps. They contemplated putting on a movie but then couldn’t decide which one to watch and so nothing was done about it: just speculation. They tipped back their cans to their mouths, searching in vain for the last drops of beer, and stretched out languidly on the cold garage floor with no greater aim than just to chat and enjoy being here, now.

 

It was past midnight, and Ellen Harvelle rang the doorbell. Mary and Ellen came to the garage together to collect Jo, at which Dean loudly protested, “Mom, you’ve gotta knock! We could’ve been doing anything – like drugs or something!” and Mary merely gave him a look which clearly said that the very idea of Dean doing anything so unsavoury of his own free will was laughable.

 

Jo was the first to flit out of the door, but she sparked a trend in which the others came to realise that it was getting late and should probably start heading home. Some cleared up their own mess of cans and candy wrappers, while others, such as Gordon, left a sticky mess that Dean knew he would have to deal with himself. Cassie was one of the last to leave, and she hugged Dean, smelling of clean, flowery perfumes, but made no further move than that, in spite of all the overly warm looks she had been giving him earlier in the night. Dean’s shoulder sagged with disappointment as he watched her go and he wondered what he had done wrong.

 

As usual, Castiel stayed over after everyone else had left. He and Dean tidied up the garage together, flapping the dirt out of the sheets and rugs that had covered the cold concrete floor and laying them neatly over the couch, and once the place was relatively clean, aside from a few puddles where a badly-shaken can had sprayed, they headed upstairs. Dean led the way; Castiel followed behind, oddly quiet. They changed into their pyjamas with minimal conversation and brushed their teeth and washed their faces – Dean battling his unruly complexion with an assortment of potent soaps and chemicals – and where they would normally flick soap and toothpaste at each other, they kept neatly to their own sides of the sink today and wasted no time in getting through the task.

 

When they were both ready to go to sleep, Dean in his own bed, Castiel on the mattress laid out on the floor, they were both very aware of still being wide awake, breathing slowly and feeling the silence in the room heavy on their chests.

 

“Man, I was so drunk,” Dean said to fill the hush, a little awkwardly.

 

Castiel cleared his throat. “Yeah, me too.”

 

Dean’s nose scrunched up as he frowned. “Really?” he said – not that he was seriously debating whether it was truth, or what it would mean if it wasn’t. “I mean, I didn’t think you were so lightweight.”

 

“Yeah, I just—” Castiel said. His voice was strained. “You know, I hadn’t had much to eat beforehand, and I took some cough medicine before I came over, so – yeah. I don’t know.”

 

“Oh.” Dean stared up at the ceiling. “Okay.”

 

Neither of them spoke.

 

The steady tick of Dean’s wall-clock is deafening. Even their breathing sounds too loud in the small space.

 

Dean laughed suddenly, the sound high and nervous. “I still think I might be a little drunk now, actually!” he said and looked over at Castiel, although he wasn’t quite sure what he was implying by that.

 

Castiel laughed along with him, but it was hollow. “Yeah.” He didn’t say me too, this time.

 

They fell once again into silence, and this time it was not filled. They lay there quietly in the dark until sleep or morning came - whichever was first.

 

 

1996

 

That year, Crowley Coombehurst invited Castiel to his house for what was hailed at St Thomas’ Catholic High School as the Christmas party of a lifetime, and Castiel asked Dean to come as his plus-one. Dean wasn’t convinced of how exciting a Catholic party would be, but recently he and Castiel had been growing further and further apart as they buckled under their ever-increasing workloads and as Castiel started focusing all his time and energy on the SATs and his new friends, so Dean appreciated the gesture and he accepted. What he failed to understand, however, was that for all the strictness of their education, the button-bloused students of St Thomas’ were that much more into their loud music, cheap beer and illicit activities, and that Crowley Coombehurst was the king of all of the above.

 

1572 Gissing Close wasn’t so much a house as it was a small castle, whose unsettling Victorian air of solemnity was at odds with the low throb of music and laughter from indoors, but Castiel seemed perfectly at home ringing the buzzer mounted on the iron-wrought gate, so Dean just set about discreetly trying to wipe mud off his sneakers on the backs of his jeans.

 

A few seconds passed before they were buzzed through, and then once they had crossed the manicured stretch of lawn to the front door, it was opened by a heavy, dark-haired boy in a tailored suit. “’Evening,” he said.

 

“Hi, Crowley. This is Dean.”

 

Crowley appraised Dean with one eyebrow raised. “Enchanté.”

 

Castiel, by this point, had already stepped past Crowley into the house and was peering around to see who else was at the party. Left on his own, Dean shifted awkwardly and tried a smile. “Uh. Yeah. So, I brought, I don’t know, cupcakes. My mom made them. They’re festive. They’re lame, I mean, but we thought people might like them.”

 

“How kind.” Cr0wley held the door open, jigging impatiently as he waited for Dean to come in, and then unceremoniously slammed the door behind him as he had. Then, without waiting a moment longer, he disappeared.

 

Dean moved Mary’s jewel-encrusted Christmas bowl from one hand to the other and wandered uncertainly forwards, wondering where Castiel had gone to. “Cas?” He was about to start poking his head through varying doorways until Castiel came back, in the act of shedding his woollen coat to hang. “There you are!”

 

“Hello.” Castiel folded his coat over his arm and frowned. “Oh – those can go in the kitchen. I’ll show you. Sorry, Crowley’s a bit aloof.”

 

“Uh,” Dean said as he then followed Castiel down a narrow corridor of dark panelled wood. “I don’t know if maybe I’ve just been blinded by the general aura of wealth going on here, but was that guy wearing a tux?”

 

“Yeah, he does that,” Castiel said absently. Dean is suddenly very aware of Castiel’s usual nice Oxford shirt and pressed slacks, and of Dean’s comparative slovenliness in ragged jeans and an old Trek shirt so worn that the Starfleet insignia was faded almost to nothing. Castiel steered him through an enormous, glittering kitchen already laid out with food. “Here we go.”

 

Dean set the bowl of cupcakes down on the kitchen counter, but his mother’s chipped bowl, used year after year, looked grubby next to all the gold-plated platters of chips and nibbles already laid out. He tried to arrange the cakes artfully inside the bowl, but without great success. He swallowed.

 

“Come on,” Castiel said and he tugged on the collar of Dean’s winter coat to indicate that he should take it off. “There’s a coatroom back in the hall and then I can introduce you to my friends.”

 

Castiel’s friends were numerous, elegant, and more than a little patronising as they descended upon Dean to ask him if he was studying the same things as them (he wasn’t); if he found the workload easy at his school (he didn’t); if he agreed with this year’s Nobel Prize nominees (he blinked and tried to pretend that he had any idea who they were, but was quickly discovered to be lying). They were all friendly enough and they meant well, but not a single one of them understood his shirt, and they used fancy vocabulary in everyday conversation before quickly turning to him explain what it meant, and they made interested baby noises when he told them about his interest in mechanical engineering. Dean was by no means stupid, but that night he felt it.

 

They played loud music and danced a lot, and thankfully that was a language Dean understood. He wasn’t into the stuff on the charts but he recognised enough from the radio that he could bop along and get involved. The girls were into choreographed dancing in a big way, and they twisted and jumped with synchronised moves as the boys cheered them on, young and excited and a little in love with the smooth flash of the girls’ legs, skin burnt gold under the warm glow of Crowley’s parents’ mood lighting.

 

The parents in question were out for the weekend but according to Castiel, they paid no attention to Crowley’s behaviour anyway and let their precious English crumpet do whatever he wanted, as was evident from this house party. There were enough bottles of expensive foreign wine for everyone to have one each, and Gabriel Foreman and Michael Beethan were busy building a Christmas tree out of beer-cans, although it could never beat the real, eight-foot-tall pine majesty looming tastefully in one corner of the living room. There was a small paper bag of dubious contents being passed around, but Dean didn’t have anything from it – not even when pretty, auburn-haired Anna Milton tottered over to him in heels higher than she could gracefully walk in, and offered him one with the persuasive line, “You can’t spell Christmas Eve without Christmas E!”

 

“Right, I forgot about the other Three Wise Men who came bearing Class A drugs,” Dean said sarcastically to hide anxious churn of his stomach. “Sorry, I’m all out frankincense today, but I’ve got some crack if the Messiah has the funds for it.”

 

Anna gave him a dirty look and wobbled away again, popping one of her little white pills as she did. Past her, Dean spied Crowley tipping back a yard of ale to the soundtrack of encouraging screams by his guests. Dean was starting to get the feeling that he was out of his depth here.

 

They did shots, row upon row. Dean was seventeen and had never drunk straight liquor before, but Castiel was tossing them back like they were water, so how bad could it be?

 

Answer: pretty bad. Vodka first, imported from Russia – Dean choked and spat out half of it as his throat burned. Then whiskey, Crowley’s favourite. Then tequila. Dean didn’t even like lemons but he chewed through them viciously to ease the sting of the alcohol, and he spat the mangled rinds into the trash from a distance like he used to compete with Sam. Surprisingly, this was the first thing that Dean did which impressed Castiel’s friends.

 

They danced some more, limbs looser now, bodies rocking giddily closer now. Dean was yelling the lyrics to every song he knew, in between long swigs of cold beer, and Castiel joined him. Neither of them could dance, all flailing arms and curled fists, jumping, but there was something intoxicating about constantly over-balancing if they did it holding onto each other. Castiel beamed at him, glad that Dean was enjoying himself, and Dean liked the way his face lit up. For just a few minutes, it was like everything was back to normal – like Castiel had never stopped answering his calls and his texts and making bizarre, vague excuses that didn’t make any sense. Everything was perfect. They twined their hands clumsily together, pretending to waltz along to Common People even when the tempo was all wrong. However, as they drunkenly stepped and twirled and screeched with idiotic laughter, however, they became slowly aware of the others cackling. Finally, it was explained when Fate Atropos, a spectacled blonde in a sequined dress, skipped over to them, threw her arms around each of their necks, and stage-whispered, “Mistletoe, you goof-balls!”

 

She lifted one hand to point up above him, her forearm brushing against Castiel’s temple as she did, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on Dean, almost fearful. They had both fallen into silence, and Dean couldn’t be sure that they were breathing. He could feel his heartbeat in his mouth.

 

Laughter was still ringing out shrill around them, and just as the fizzy, alcohol-emboldened part of Dean’s brain thought that he might lean in and actually do it, audience be damned, Fate giggled and announced, “I’ll intervene – go on!” She pushed her head between them, grinning. Castiel and Dean dutifully kissed either cheek, to the jeers of those watching. Fate’s cheek was dry and powdery under Dean’s lips. Castiel’s kiss landed a little close to the corner of her mouth.

 

“Merry Christmas, boys!” she said coyly, using the arms around their necks to squeeze them in an awkward hug, and then rocked back laughing.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Castiel said to her, unlinking his hands from Dean’s. He didn’t mention what had just happened, at that moment, nor ever. He bestowed one of his tiny, demure smiles on Fate and asked her if she wanted to do another tequila slammer. She did, and she unhooked her arm from Dean, and together she and Castiel headed back to the drinks’ table. Dean tried to resume dancing, but the song had changed.

 

Some of the guys were playing a PlayStation and so Dean went to hover behind them and watch them annihilate each other, instead of continuing to jump over with false enthusiasm and determinedly ignoring the slurping, sloshing noises of Castiel and Fate drinking or kissing or whatever. Gabriel and Balthazar invited Dean to join them; Dean played a few rounds of Warhawk but discovered that the TV screen was swimming before his eyes, and no matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t get his thumbs to do what he wanted them to. He lost everyone round he played and eventually admitted defeat. He stood up to leave them to it, and tripped over the edge of the couch, only saving himself from falling on his face by grabbing some poor girl’s boob. “Sorry,” he said, but it slurred and somehow ended up sounding like ‘squidgy’. She gave him a disgusted look and shoved him away.

 

One whiny slow song morphed into another, and as complaints were made, calling for something a little faster, wolf-whistles and loud derogatory comments drew everyone’s attention to the fact that Castiel and Fate were now no longer slow-dancing, but merely swaying weirdly as they made out. Inias asked Dean if he wanted to do another round of shots – something stronger this time. Dean said yes.

 

Castiel shifted Fate across the room to a more secluded corner where they wouldn’t be bothered by their friends’ stupid comments. Dean was taught to shotgun a beer, badly. In the dark beside the Coombehurst’s monstrous Christmas tree, Fate slid her hand discreetly up Castiel’s shirt to skate over the warm skin of his stomach and let him mouth at her neck. Dean was starting to feel a little nauseous, but kept drinking. He looked across the room – his head spun violently and he had to wait a second for it to slow down again – and was just in time to see Castiel take his hand out from underneath Fate’s skirt as she said something to him. Castiel didn’t immediately respond; his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed, and one hand unconsciously drifted to hitch his too-big slacks higher up on his hips. Fate’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, and he glanced back over his shoulder. There he accidentally caught Dean’s gaze before tearing his eyes away, and that was when he made his decision. He let Fate lead him away, out the door and the down to the hallway in the direction of the stairs. Raphael asked Dean if he’d ever had absinthe.

 

The alcohol slipped down more easily now – Dean could barely taste the shots he tipped back to the urge and roars of Castiel’s friends, but his tongue tingled when he swallowed and the colours of the room swirled and blurred if he blinked too fast.

 

They started to sing. “We like to drink with Dean-o, ‘cause Dean-o is our mate, and when we drink with Dean-o, he downs it all in eight – seven – six – five—”

 

Dean coughed and spluttered and wondered if it was possible to drown in alcohol. His head was pounding. “Is this supposed to be fun?” he asked someone, far too loudly. “I feel kind of like I’ve been punched in the stomach.” No-one answered him.

 

There were awkward, odd creaks from the ceiling, slow and experimental. Dean thought it was hilarious, and pointed it out to three different people, but they must have had a weird sense of humour because they just frowned at him and walked away.

 

Dean didn’t know this song but he was dancing anyway. Left foot right foot something. His eyes were closed; he was in the zone. No-one else was dancing but Dean didn’t notice. His vision was swimming, his stomach rolling, and he had the feeling that if he didn’t keep dancing, he might do something stupid like kiss Anna Milton or cry.

 

In the end, he didn’t need to have worried because he did neither of these things. Instead he jerked over forwards and vomited onto the carpet.

 

“Oh my fucking god—”

 

“Jesus—”

 

Dean would have had the good grace to be embarrassed but he could feel his stomach turning again for round two and his legs were shaking so badly that he had to physically concentrate on not collapsing into his pile of vomit, and so he only had time to blurt out, “Christ,” before he threw up again. This was the point at which Inias decided it was time to grab Dean and steer him away from all of the Coombehurst’s expensive furnishings, and out to a bathroom or trashcan.

 

They found the bathroom first, the music fading behind them as Dean staggered and clutched feebly at his stomach. “Wow, where did that come from?” he tried to say, except he felt his stomach convulse again, and jerked a little in Inias’ arms, who firmly told him not to talk and pushed him into the bathroom. Dean barely got in before he vomited again.

 

“Shit,” Inias sighed from behind him. “I’ll get Cas.”

 

“No,” Dean managed, despite being curled sadly around the toilet bowel. “No – I’m fine – just a—” He retched so hard that he hit his head against the lid of the toilet bowl, and didn’t quit for several minutes. “Stomach bug,” he said wearily when he  finally paused long enough to speak. “I’m fine. Just leave me – I can – I’ll be okay. Really.” Inias seemed uncertain, but Dean drew a long, shuddery breath and lifted his head from the toilet bowl to give him a weak smile and a thumbs-up. “I swear.” And then he threw up.

 

The door clattered as Inias reluctantly left Dean alone, and Dean let his head fall forwards once more to rest against the lid, wondering how this had happened. He fumbled half-blindly for the handle on the cistern and flushed, but the toilet had not even finished swirling when he threw up again. It was just clear liquor in shameful quantities, burning even more on the way up than it had going down, and while his stomach felt a little better now, he didn’t feel any less dizzy and confused. Wait – no. His stomach didn’t feel b—

 

He vomited hard, didn’t quite make his target, and found himself on the verge of tears as he rolled up wads of toilet paper and tried to clean up where he’d missed and puked on the floor. He was so tired and dizzy, and he mumbled, “I don’t even… like…” as he groped across the floor to find the bowl again. “Don’t even feel good… what a shit… what a… I don’t—”

 

The floor tiles were so cold; they felt amazing against his feverish skin. He was so dizzy and hot, and the ceiling was painted beautiful colours that Dean thought would probably have a fancy name like duck-egg or taupe, and the tiles were so cold.


He was so cold.

 

The things Dean was conscious for after that point were fragmentary: “oh my god, I’m so sorry” – hands hauling him up, rubbing circles on his back as he threw up again – wiping the worst of the vomit off his face – “fucking hell, Dean” – and he was heaved up into a piggyback, and he pressed his mouth wetly against Castiel’s neck, too drunk to notice the faint bruises already swelling on his throat, and Castiel carried him all the way home.

Chapter Text

1997

 

The doorbell rang.

 

“Hey, asshat, what took you so long—” Dean’s words cut off as he yanked the door open, because there was Castiel, nose red with cold and dark hair flattened under the same dumb hat he’s been wearing every winter for the past eight years, but there was also a girl standing next to him. Dean stalled, staring at her. “Uh – hi.”

 

“Dean, this is Meg,” Castiel said awkwardly; the girl pressed closer into his side, her eyes flickering smoothly over Dean. “I’m sorry – your mother said it would be alright if she—”

 

“No, no, it’s fine!” Dean exclaimed, and there was another long moment where he just looked between Castiel and the pretty dark-haired girl nudging her shoulder under his arm, and then he realised that he was still standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the side of the door and blocking their way in. “Yeah, come in.”

 

It was the first year since Castiel had gone off to college. He was studying history and he was having a really great time without Dean, it seemed – not that Dean was jealous. Dean hadn’t yet worked out where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do, but he was filling the time working at his dad’s garage until he figured whether he really wanted to go through with a course in engineering, which is what he’d been considered for the past few years. It didn’t matter than Castiel was a million or so miles away; they called each other, sometimes, and they wrote each other letters, occasionally, and Castiel came home for a few days, once. It didn’t matter, because they were best friends and they always had been, always would be. Sure, things had been strained in their senior year as Castiel had studied hard to get into Brown and Dean had maybe resented it a little, but they were past that. Everything was fine.

 

This new life – the new jacket Castiel was wearing, those green shoes Dean had never seen before, this girl with the pink lipstick and low-cut shirt – was all fine. Castiel toed off his shoes and he still had a big hole in that pair of socks, so nothing had changed.

 

Mary was delighted when she saw them, wrapping Castiel in a big hug and dusting some of the snow affectionately off his hat, and she even quickly hugged Meg and said it was lovely to meet her. Dean watched the exchange from over the kitchen counter and mashed potatoes maybe a little more aggressively than might have been needed.

 

They ate dinner at the big table as always – Sam dashing to set an extra place before they all sit down – but Meg did not consign herself to the little extra stool that Sam brought out. She sat next to Castiel, where Dean usually sat, and Dean was relocated to the far end of the table. Meg cracked jokes throughout the meal, witty and caustic, and John thought she was hilarious; she sat back pleased, her mouth a witchy twist, and engaged everyone in conversation. She was smart, funny, and confident, and, meanly, Dean wondered where on earth Castiel had found her. However, when Castiel turned to settle her fuzzy Christmas hat over her forehead, she looked at him with genuine softness, and Dean figured Castiel couldn’t help making everyone fall in love with him. He speared a brussel sprout with his fork, hard, and stabbed it into his mouth.

 

When they gathered around the Christmas tree to exchange gifts, Meg fluttered and apologised that she hadn’t brought any presents because she hadn’t known anyone or what they would’ve liked; Castiel nudged her with his elbow as if to say, you know me, and Dean probably wasn’t supposed to have noticed Meg leaning against his shoulder and whispering, “you’re getting yours later.” He pretended he didn’t.

 

Castiel got Dean a thin parcel, which, when unwrapped, proved itself to be a children’s book: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Dean had heard of it, and vaguely remembered having been interested in seeing what all the fuss was about and why it was so popular, but he didn’t remember ever having mentioned it to Castiel. He thanked him nonetheless, and flipped through the pages to see the little drawings at the start of each chapter. Then it was Dean’s turn.

 

Feeling a little silly, Dean gave Castiel a tiny package and then sat back on his heels to wait. Castiel looked at him curiously, but he set about carefully unpeeling the paper, which then revealed a tiny cardboard box. At first, it looked a little like a proposal, which made Dean’s heart flutter uncomfortably in his chest, but then Castiel unpicked the tape seal with a fingernail and slid the cardboard box open.

 

He tipped the open end against his palm and into his hand fell a standing liberty quarter, minted 1915.

 

It hadn’t been a million dollars, in the end; Dean saved up and got it for just under two hundred. Watching Castiel, his stomach churned. He dug his fingers into his jeans and waited for Castiel to react.

 

For several seconds, Castiel did not move. He simply stared at it, and then he turned it over to look at the other side, and then he turned it back again, and then he closed his fist around it. Finally, he looked up at Dean, with an expression so devastatingly open and soft that it took all the air out of Dean’s lungs. There was the visible bob of Castiel’s Adam’s apple as he gulped, and then he looked down, opening his hand again to see the coin once more. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice so small it was barely audible, and sounding a little thick.

 

“Hey, what is that?” Meg plonked herself heavily down next to him, jostling him as she landed, and peered past his shoulder. “A coin? What, are you into that kind of stuff?”

 

Castiel started, like he had completely forgotten she was there, and then hastily tucked the coin back into its box, flushing red along the edge of his jaw. “Yeah, I guess,” he said, and then tucked it away behind him to see what presents everyone else was giving each other. He didn’t look at Dean for a good while.

 

They played all the same dumb games: charades, Pictionary, Twenty Questions, Monopoly. Meg and Castiel shared their board-game empire, working together, and so Castiel’s competitive aggression was reigned in, and he played nicely, not threatening to murder a single one of them throughout the duration of the game. As a result, the game was stilted and generally boring, and they didn’t play it all the way through. They told all the same jokes: why is Santa always so jolly? Because he knows where all the bad girls live! – and Mary slapped John’s arm for telling them, although her grin was as wide and radiant as everyone else’s. Castiel smiled politely. Something about the whole evening felt a little off.

 

They drank eggnog, cup after cup after lukewarm cup until the room was warm and fuzzy, and Dean and Castiel were curled into the same space on the two-man couch with Meg draped over Castiel’s other side, watching Home Alone. They could have recited it word-for-word, although they didn’t, and when Macaulay Culkin drawled, “Keep the change, ya filthy animal!”, Dean and Castiel glanced at each other with the half-starts of a smile, something about hookers in their minds, but neither of them made the joke. They switched over to The Grinch later, and Meg delighted in picking out all the technical flaws, all the reasons why it would have never worked.

 

At last, when it was nearly one in the morning, Mary woke up on the couch where she hadn’t realised she’d nodded off, and got up, clapping her hands, to insist that everyone heads off to bed. John was already fast asleep on the other couch, so Mary let him stay there, but she shepherded Sam, Dean, Meg and Castiel up the stairs by whipping at their butts with a loop of tinsel.

 

“Oh,” Mary placed a hand at the bottom of the banister, and leaned over the steps to stage-whisper up, “and Cas, sweetie, I’ve set up the guest room already so you don’t have to worry about pillows or anything!”

 

Dean paused halfway up the stairs and looked at Castiel. “What? I thought—” He didn’t finish his sentence, and Castiel didn’t answer, choosing instead to stare back at him with an expression that was completely unreadable.

 

From the bottom of the stairs, Mary tutted. “Dean, he can’t stay in your room, that’s ridiculous – he’s got a guest.”

 

Feeling heat flood his face at having had his own mom call him out on his childish rush of sentimentality, Dean swallowed. “Yeah, I know, I mean – I just. Yeah. Okay.” He turned away, and continued up the stairs. A few seconds passed of silence behind him before he heard Meg ask Castiel what he was standing around for, and then their footsteps followed.

 

Dean waved a hand dismissively at them in the corridor with a grunt that sounded enough likegoodnight or merry Christmas that it was passable, and then he disappeared into his own room. He didn’t mean to slam the door, but it happened.

 

The walls were thin in the Winchester house, and so for a good half-hour, Dean lay wide awake, flat on his back, listening to the sounds from the guest room next door – Meg’s idiotic giggling; low, unintelligible murmurs; the slow, grinding groan of the old metal bedstead, eventually settling into a rhythmic squeaking; the high, broken noises Castiel made towards the end, his breathing audible through the drywall as it broke up into gasps and slowed to a muffled groan.

 

Dean’s own breathing was shaky. He dug the heel of his hand hard against the bulge in his pyjama shorts to try and dispel the tension, a heated ache beating dully in his stomach which he swore was built on Meg’s round ass and low-cut shirt, and not the high, breathy sound his childhood best friend made when he came. Dean turned over onto his side then, pulled the covers over his head, and tried his hardest not to think.

 

 

1998

 

Castiel didn’t come over for Christmas; he apologised profusely, but he had been invited to meet Meg’s parents. Zachariah came over anyway, but he was on a lot of post-chemotherapy medication after his second relapse and so didn’t eat much. They had the same size turkey as they had every year, but less than half of it was eaten, even though Sam ate enormous portions to fuel his latest growth spurt. The leftover turkey was tucked away in the breadbin, but it went untouched.

 

They passed out the rest of the presents to be unwrapped, and all crowded in awe when John shelled his gift of its packaging and found a cell phone.

 

“Whoa,” Sam breathed, pressing in close to John’s shoulder. “How does it work?”

 

“It’s basically just like a walkie-talkie, except they’re full-duplex, so they use two separate frequencies so both people can talk at the same time,” Dean explained, proud of having had this discussion with some of the guys in the garage the other day. “And then cities are divided up into cells with their own base stations and antenna towers to identify the signal you transmit and pick out a frequency that both your phone and the phone you’re calling can work on - so that you can travel anywhere and still be able to transmit the signal.” When Dean finished, John lifted his eyebrows at Dean, impressed.

 

“I don’t see the point,” Zachariah said. “It’s just a normal phone, except you have to remember to haul it around everywhere with you.”

 

“I thought it’d be useful for when you’re working out of town,” Mary said, ignoring Zachariah’s negativity. She pushed a hand through John’s hair. “It’s a little over-the-top, maybe, but hey, it might be useful.”

 

“It’s wonderful.” John kissed her on the mouth, and Dean and Sam mocked them with excessively immature ew’s and the pretence of vomiting. John nudged Sam off the back of the couch with his elbow, and turned his attention back to his wife with an amused quirk of his eyebrow. “Thank you.”

 

Sam beamed with pride when he unwrapped a box containing his first razor, and Dean teased him that maybe now he could start shaving properly with his own damn razor, then he’d actually be able to ask out that Moore girl who sat behind him in English. Sam opened his mouth like he was going to make some comment in response, but seemed to think better of it, and instead punched him in the arm.

 

They had leftover turkey in sandwiches and tried to stuff themselves a little fuller, determined that no food be remaining by the end of the night. Dean made a valiant effort, but he didn’t really have any appetite.

 

Sam asked if they wanted to get the Monopoly board out, but was answered by non-committal shrugs and half-hearted choruses of “Yeah, okay”. They decided to play – they might as well – and they diligently went through all the motions. No-one picked the bowler hat.

 

Mary served out the boiling pot of mulled wine into glasses and passed them around, and they took to the couches in the living room for any Christmas entertainment available on TV. Home Alone was on, but Dean, who had control of the remote, skipped straight past. He chose A Christmas Carol, but left before it was over, tipping back the rest of his wine and returning the glass to the kitchen. He was tired, and the whole evening felt a little empty.

 

 

1999

 

Later he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why he did it, but at around nine-thirty on Christmas Day, Dean called Castiel.

 

In hindsight, it was a stupid thing to have done – they hadn’t seen each other in months, with the exception of a fleeting moment at Zachariah’s funeral the October just passed, and they hadn’t spoken properly in even longer. Castiel was deep in his final year of college on the other side of the country; Dean hadn’t yet even summoned the courage to apply, secretly terrified of being away from his brother and his parents and his stuffy old bedroom and the trees lining this street all the way down to the scrub-grass park where he’d broken his wrist on a swing-set in ’87. Castiel was a different person while Dean was the same goofy kid he’d been for the past ten years. It was only natural that they had grown apart, and since Castiel’s uncle had died, there was no reason for him to come back to this place and these people. It didn’t mean that Dean didn’t miss him like hell though.

 

The dial-tone was shrill like a warning, and Dean cringed, ready to hang up, but then there was a click as the other end picked up. Too late to run.

 

“Hello?”

 

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey, Cas, it’s me,” he said brightly, hating everything about the way he sounded.

 

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice was surprised, a little uncertain. “Hi – is everything alright?”

 

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Dean said, his stomach churning at Castiel’s assumption that Dean would only call if he needed something. He hesitated. “I just… you know, thought I’d see how you were. It’s been a while, is all, and – yeah, it’s Christmas, so. Yeah.”

 

“Oh, right. Of course.” Castiel didn’t sound entirely convinced, and in the awkward pause that ensued, Dean heard voices and music faintly in the distance.

 

“Sorry – have I called at a bad time?” Dean asked, heart sinking as he realised that he was probably intruding on some very cool student party. “Is there someone there with you or—”

 

“No, no, it’s just the TV,” Castiel said quickly, embarrassment colouring his tone in that way that made his voice slightly hoarse at the edges. “It’s… it’s Home Alone, actually.”

 

A short laugh found its way out of Dean’s mouth. “No way!”

 

“Yeah, I found it on tape and it’d been a while since I’d seen it… hang on.” There was a brief pause in which Dean could hear only shuffling and bumping, and then there was a near-deafening crackle – then – “keep the change, ya filthy animal!” Dean burst out with another laugh as he listened to Castiel shuffle around again. “Sorry, I don’t know if you heard that, the phone couldn’t quite reach far enough,” Castiel said, distractedly like he was still rearranging his furniture. “Could you—?”

 

“Yeah, I heard it.” Dean grinned. He twisted the phone cable absently around his thumb and leaned back against the arm of the couch, and at that point Sam came bounding into the living room, throwing himself down onto the couch and asking who Dean was talking to. Dean ignored him. “I can’t believe it was at exactly that moment. This feels like a set-up.”

 

“Maybe it’s destiny,” Castiel said, and then there was a long pause, like he regretted saying as much.

 

As Dean tried his hardest to pretend that Sam wasn’t there, Sam started trying to push Dean off the arm of the couch with his stinky bare feet. “Are you talking to a girl?” he teased. Dean smacked his ankles and tried to push him away.

 

In the wake of his awkward silence, Castiel quickly changed the topic. “So yeah, I’m just having Christmas on my own this year. I’m going out with some friends later but otherwise, it’s just me and my cold turkey sandwich.”

 

“Aw, man,” Dean said, turning away from Sam, and then, after a beat where he drew in a deep breath for courage, added, “You were welcome here, you know.”

 

Sam sat up. “Is that Cas? Can I talk to him?”

 

“Yeah, I know, I just…” Castiel was saying, something or other. Dean shoved at Sam’s face with his free hand. As far as poignant, meaningful conversations with his best friends went, this was going pretty badly, and it wasn’t helped by Sam being such an asshole.

 

“I want to speak to him!” Sam insisted, stretching out for the handset.

 

Dean covered the mouthpiece. “In a second, Jesus!” he snapped at him, and then got up and moved closer to the phone’s wall-mounting, coiling the cable around his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t get that – Sammy was being a moron.” He shot Sam a pointed look over his shoulder and returned his attention to Castiel. “What were you saying?”

 

“Oh.” Castiel paused again. “Right, okay, I just.” Pause. “I was saying that I didn’t go back for Christmas – well, because.” Pause. “I don’t know. I just… I didn’t want to—” Another pause. Dean wondered how he’d been planning to end that sentence. Didn’t want to intrude? Castiel knew he was as good as family. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to face his old empty house, now entirely his property after Zachariah’s death; maybe he hadn’t wanted to travel all the way from Rhode Island to Lawrence; both of those were perfectly reasonable answers, but Dean couldn’t help feeling that the truth lay closest that what Castiel had actually managed to say, finished or not.

 

“It’s okay,” Dean cut in to spare Castiel any further social clumsiness. “I mean, you had your reasons. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Castiel didn’t answer. Dean could hear him breathing on the other end of the line.

 

The silence dragged on from seconds to minutes to what seemed like a lifetime, and it wasn’t like Dean couldn’t think of anything to say – he had a million things whirling through his head, a million questions about how college was going and how his life was and whether he was happy – but it was rather that he couldn’t fight the feeling that Castiel would rather be anywhere but trapped in this conversation.

 

Nonetheless, Dean steeled himself and pulled Castiel into another topic, asking him rapid-fire questions about what he was doing at the moment, and if he’d made nice friends, and if he was planning to do anything cool for New Year, and if he’d been arrested yet because as far as he could tell, that was practically a collegiate rite of passage, and whether he had to do any weird hazing stuff like you see in movies, like setting fire to a goat or anything, and then, in a rush of idiotic sentimentality, he teased him about whether he was any closer that old coin museum curator dream. He flinched afterwards, feeling dumb -  Castiel didn’t even collect coins; Dean knew full-well that his old scrapbook was tucked away in cardboard boxes in the loft of the Novak house, along with everything else they’d shared – he’d changed, they both had, and it was stupid, stupid, stupid—

 

“Dean,” Castiel said, completely out of nowhere, “I’m bisexual.”

 

Thrown off track, Dean just gaped for a second. He didn’t know how to respond to that. “Okay,” he said slowly, at last. “Congratulations?”

 

Castiel took an audibly deep breath at the other end. “I haven’t been back to Lawrence because I didn’t want to see you.”

 

The words hit Dean like a punch to the gut; open-mouthed at the sheer cruelty of it, he struggled to think of a reasonable response, and, humiliatingly, he could feel a hot sting at the back of his eyes. “Wow,” he finally said, his voice a little choked, “Cas, really – don’t sugar-coat it or anything.”

 

“Look, I think it was obvious that there were points growing up where I was… more than a little in love with you.” Castiel spoke so quickly Dean could barely understand him, hardly even pausing for breath. “A lot of points – for a long time. I’m sorry about that, I am—”

 

“I don’t—” Dean tried to say, without any real understanding of what he was going to say even if Castiel would let him speak. Where Castiel’s previous declaration had made him feel as though he’d been thrown to the ground from a great height, he was now struck by the sensation of having the house and earth pulled out from underneath him, a sharp, confusing emptiness that he didn’t know how to fill or even approach.

 

Castiel was in love with him – once, or for a while – he loved him, and not in the stupid, drunken way, or the silly, sentimental way when one of them had just come back from a long trip away, but in the sort of way that John loved Mary and Sam loved thousand-island salad dressing on everything and Castiel’s dad loved never coming home. Dean found himself abruptly flashing back through their whole lives as though he was seeing everything for the first time: Castiel’s enviable romantic successes – getting kissed first, getting to third base first, losing his virginity first – and endless, short-lived conquests without any real feeling, while Dean fumbled awkwardly through painful crushes on girls who wouldn’t give him the time of day; the way they’d sleep over at each other’s houses, lie back on the bed, and Dean would whine about all of Castiel’s achievements while he couldn’t even get a girl to make out with him at a movie, and Castiel would shrug mutely and stare at the ceiling and give off the sense that either he was really very good at the whole serious-and-enigmatic thing, or he was just sort of going through the motions.

 

“—but I’ve moved past that,” Castiel was saying, his voice now tight and strained. “It doesn’t matter, really – in fact, I don’t know even know why I’m – but I feel like our time apart has been… beneficial. Obviously I can’t claim to know you feel, but I hardly think my absence would have had any great impact on your life, and perhaps in time, things can be amended, but for now—”

 

Dean spotted the tell-tale signs of a conversation-closer, and so somehow reared up through the fog of having his entire childhood tipped upside down to interrupt, “Wait, I don’t get it. Are you saying you’ll coming back, or are you saying goodbye?”

 

Castiel hesitated. “I don’t know.”

 

There was a pounding in Dean’s chest, but he could still see through all of Castiel’s bullshit after all this time. He remembered when Castiel had accidentally cracked the screen of Dean’s GameBoy and went to great lengths with Sam to cover it up while he got it fixed, telling Dean wild stories for weeks about how he wanted to borrow it to see if the graphics of Pokemon Yellow looked different on someone else’s screen. He remembered when Castiel turned up two hours late to Dean’s fourteenth birthday party because he realised he’d forgotten to get the apple pie and had to cycle all the way into town to get it, rather than turn up empty-handed. It never made any sense to Dean, the way that Castiel was always so scared of messing up, but he thought he understood now – the reality was just that Castiel never wanted to let Dean down.

 

Dean knew what Castiel’s answer would be before he asked, but did anyway, just to hear it from him. “Do you want to come back?”

 

Castiel exhaled: a long, slow sound. “I don’t know.”

 

There was only one truth left. Dean had feeling the loss of Castiel like a phantom limb for the past three years, if not longer, and reasons, plus ten years of being inseparable, had always told him that their being apart just didn’t make sense, and he’d never managed to wrap his head around why, then, it had happened.

 

Dean thought now he knew.

 

“Cas,” he said, his tongue so heavy in his mouth that he can barely form the words. “You’re not still… you know.” He swallowed. “Are you? In love with me, I mean.”

 

“What?” Sam’s voice, behind Dean, was thunderstruck. Dean ignored him and turned more absolutely to face the wall, worrying the phone cable with his thumb as he listened.

 

Down the line, meanwhile – a pause. “No.” Castiel’s voice was unsteady.

 

“Okay.” Dean wasn’t sure how to progress from this point; he hadn’t planned this far ahead in his confrontation. “Uh. Cool.”

 

“Yeah. Well.” Pause. Castiel cleared his throat. “It’s been good to hear from you,” said Castiel, and he sounded sincere, despite his tentativeness. “I’m glad you called.”

 

“Yeah, same here. I mean – I’m not glad I called, because, you know, I called. So. I mean.” Dean scratched the back of his head. “Yeah. Good to hear that you’re doing okay with all that brainy stuff.”

 

“Thank you. Please send your parents my best wishes. And Sam.”

 

“Best wishes to Sam, got it,” Dean repeated, knowing that Sam was still lurking somewhere behind him. “I’ll pre-emptively say that they wish it to you too. And I do, as well, obviously, but. Yeah.” He flushed red and wished he could magically make himself less of an imbecile.

 

Castiel gave a short laugh. “Alright. I’d better… go,” he said awkwardly, slow and uncertain. “I’ll see you – sometime, I guess.”

 

In that moment, Dean could just picture him, standing legs crossed in holey socks, fiddling uncertainly with the handset, one hand twisted into the pocket of his slacks, and it was to this image that Dean blurted out, “I wish you were here.”

 

For a moment, Castiel didn’t answer. “Merry Christmas, Dean,” he said quietly, then, and hung up.

 

“Bye,” Dean said, voice hollow, even though he knew that Castiel was already gone. He couldn’t face turning around to meet Sam’s inevitable questions, so for a few seconds he added into the silence, “Yeah, okay. Well, if you have to go, then – okay. You too. See you – bye.”

 

He pulled the phone away from his ear and moved to return it to the wall.

 

“Hey, what gives?” Sam exclaimed and leapt forwards with hands uselessly extended for the phone as Dean slotted it back into place. “I wanted to talk to him!”

 

“He had to go,” Dean lied. “Sorry.”

 

Sam’s face scrunched up sceptically. “Bullshit. What did you do, Dean?”

 

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean said, and as he walked past Sam in the direction of the kitchen, he tried not to consider if maybe that was the whole problem.

 

Sam ran after him, relentless. “Wait, so—” He caught the kitchen door where Dean tried to kick it closed behind him. “What exactly just happened?”

 

“None of your damn business,” Dean told him. “And quit eavesdropping. Christ.”

 

They stood either side of the peninsula where the kitchen counter jutted out to form the breakfast table. Sam grabbed a stool and slid down onto it, resting his elbows on the counter as he reached for the tray of Mary’s still-warm, as-of-yet undecorated gingerbread men. “Is in Cas in love with you?” he asked conversationally.

 

“What? No.” Dean yanked open the refrigerator and walked his fingers over the caps of the multiple cartons shelved inside the door. “Maybe.” He grabbed the carton of orange juice, shook it once, and then flicked the cap off. “I don’t know.” He drank from it in a lazy pull.

 

“That’s disgusting,” Sam said.

 

“You watch your mouth, Sammy. I’ll have you know I’m a hot piece of ass.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “I meant the juice – get a glass or mom’ll slaughter you and make it look like an accident. Although, with manners like that, I’m astonished anyone could find you attractive.”

 

“Shut up.” Slamming the juice back into the fridge, Dean realised he had once again been tricked into telling Sam everything. He rolled his eyes heavenwards, but knew that Sam only meant well, so he crossed to the counter, sat opposite Sam and helped him with the tray of cookies. Dean always bit off the gingerbread men’s arms and legs first; Sam went straight for the head. Thankfully, Sam could recognise a peace offering when he saw one, and so, in return for Dean playing nicely and not storming off to sulk in his room, Sam changed the topic.

 

That was where Mary found them, some twenty minutes later: deep into an argument as to whether Toy Story 2 was as good as the original, the tray of cookies between them nearly empty. Mary asked who had been on the phone earlier, as she had found herself unable to check her emails because of it, and before Dean could turn cold imagining all of Mary’s questions about how Castiel was doing and why he hadn’t come home this year – because, in Mary’s eyes, the Winchester house would always be home to Castiel – Sam quickly said, “I was calling Jess.”

 

He spun a slightly odd, but perfectly reasonable story about a conversation with Jessica Moore from his English class, with whom he had been on a grand total of two dates, and with whom he was hoping for a third. Mary seemed more than satisfied with this, and so, from the perspectives of all third-party persons, the incident with Castiel had never happened. Dean, however, didn’t forget, and spent the duration of Sam’s rambling in envy of Castiel’s certainty, and trying to pinpoint for himself exactly how long he’d been waiting to hear what Castiel had refused to say.

Chapter Text

2000

 

Dean was trying to shunt the dish of oiled vegetables into the oven for roasting when the doorbell rang. ‘Trying’ was the operative word, ‘failing’ being an adequate substitute: his hands were clumsy inside Mary’s floral oven gloves and the dish was slippery and dangerously close to just falling to the floor, and he had no idea what had happened to the rest of his family, who were supposed to be helping, or at the very least supervising, his first attempt to make the Christmas dinner. However, they were now nowhere to be seen.

 

The doorbell rang again, more insistently, and Dean yelled, “Hang on—” as he jerked the dish roughly into the right place. Then he raced out into the hall – tripped on a fallen dishtowel – shouted, “Can’t anyone else get the fu—” but cut himself off, as since he’d finally moved out into his own apartment on the other side of town, he’d taken to being more respectful in his parents’ house, which included swearing – except for the muttered, “Shit” that burst out when he found Jess’ giant faux-fur coat had fallen off the coat-rack and was blocking the doorway. The bell rang a third time.

 

“One second!” Dean gathered up the coat, shoved it haphazardly in the general direction of the coat-rack, mittens trailing limply after it, and threw the door open. “Sorry, I was just in the kitchen—” He stopped.

 

There, hands in his pockets, red-faced from cold, and still wearing the same stupid hat, was Castiel. Over one shoulder was his old satchel, now fraying at the seams; behind him stood the second-hand suitcase he’d sworn blind was burgundy but Dean still thought was purple. He looked a little lost.

 

“Cas,” Dean said. He became aware that he was wearing a fluffy Christmas hat, greasy floral oven mitts and an apron that declared to all who saw him that they should KISS THE CHEF, but it was too late to rearrange himself now. He swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Hi.”

 

“Hello,” Castiel said, seeming sheepish. “I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you had any room for me to stay for Christmas.”

 

Dean blinked. “Of course.”

 

“I brought cranberry sauce, if that helps.” Castiel lifted a small Tupperware box, the contents of which sloshed slowly. “Home-made, though, so I can’t promise its quality.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

 

“Oh – yeah, sorry.” Dean pulled off his oven mitts, tucked them into his armpit, and then did an awkward lunge past him to get Castiel’s suitcase before he shuffled back to allow him into the hallway. “God, it’s freezing out there,” he exclaimed as he wheeled Castiel’s suitcase out of the way and left it to stand at the entrance to the living room.

 

“Lawrence’s coldest since records began, I read.”

 

“Yeah, I saw that too! Sorry you had to wait out in it – I’m doing the dinner this year so you caught me mid-battle with some vegetables.” Dean held up his oven mitts as proof, and, with his free hand, took Castiel’s tub of cranberry sauce.

 

Having hesitated a second when he first came into the house, Castiel was now comfortably hanging up his coat and scarf like he’d been doing it all his life. “You’re cooking?” he asked from the coat-rack, looking around at all the changes in the house since he had last been there.

 

“Mom’s idea – to teach me valuable life skills now that I’m renting my own place,” Dean said.

 

Castiel turned away from the coat-rack, his hands slightly out by his sides as though he doesn’t know what to do with them. “If it’s not too much of an intrusion, I’d love to help.” He had a slight scrunch to his nose, waiting for Dean to refuse, and Dean could only look at him.

 

Castiel was taller now, only an inch or so shorter than Dean; he had lost some of his baby weight, leaving him slim-shouldered and narrow; his hair had grown out slightly shaggy. Otherwise, he looked much the same – blue eyes, furrowed brow, the scars of his teenage acne still around his mouth. He had changed incalculably and may or may not have been in love with Dean for most of their lives and here he was, standing snow-frosted on the Winchester’s doormat like the Prodigal Son.

 

“What are you doing here, Cas?” Dean asked.

 

Castiel stared at him, an embarrassed flush starting at his jawline. Eventually, he just said, “It’s Christmas.”

 

Dean didn’t know if that that things were back the way they’d always been, or if it meant that things were starting over anew, but he just agreed, “Yeah, it is,” and then suggested that Castiel announce himself to the rest of the family as he hurried back to the kitchen to check on the potatoes and find a nice bowl to put Castiel’s cranberry sauce in.

 

Castiel’s dulcet tones floated through the house – “HI EVERYONE”, so at least he hadn’t forgotten how to make a Winchester entrance – and Dean’s family emerged shortly from the various rooms that they were preparing for Christmas in order to say hello.  All of this gave Dean time alone in the kitchen to organise the dishes for serving and organise his thoughts, in general, as he half-listened to Mary’s exclamations as to how tall and handsome Castiel had become, and half-remarked it for himself.

 

The kitchen door crashed open to reveal Sam with an armful of dusty champagne glasses from the garage, Jess in tow with a leaning of tower of fine bone china. “Dean, you never said Cas was coming!” Sam said, and set down the glasses with an inelegant clatter.

 

“I didn’t know he was coming,” Dean said. He stepped aside to allow an apologetic Jess to retrieve a duster from the cupboard by his knees, with which she could clean the dishes that hadn’t seen the light of day since last Christmas. “He just kind of… turned up.”

 

“Sorry.” Castiel came through the door and, rolling up his sleeves, immediately headed for the sink to wash his hands and make himself useful. “I did provide cranberry sauce, though – that’s the most important part.”

 

“That’s the easy part,” Dean corrected. “You want important? Then you should have been here at five AM this morning stuffing bread and herbs up an anus.”

 

“My favourite past-time,” Castiel said lightly.

 

Dean’s hand slipped on the potato peeler and took off the tip of his thumb. Sam looked scandalised, Jess snorted with laughter, and all the while Dean was staggering around the kitchen with some paper wrapped around his thumb, swearing and looking for a box of band-aids.

 

They fell back into normality. Castiel made dry jokes in one second that it took Dean three seconds to process; Dean sang along tunelessly to the radio, regardless of whether or not he knew the words;  Sam and Jess danced around the dining table under the pretence of setting it; Mary swept it and out to leave titbits of culinary wisdom or to correct the way Dean was stirring the gravy or just to touch Castiel’s face; John came in to carve the turkey only to find a chunk of the skin around missing, and one guilty-looking Castiel trying to pass the blame off onto Jess, who hit him in the stomach.

 

Dinner was served with maximum stress and chaos, as it should be – Jess even upped the ante by forgetting to look where she was going and accidentally knocking the Campbell heirloom gravy boat into the doorframe and thus breaking the handle. However, the damage was assessed by John, who confidently declared that it was a clean break and nothing that a little super-glue couldn’t fix. “The play must go on,” he said dramatically, with a theatrical gesture towards the waiting dining room.

 

They sat down. Castiel was restored to his rightful place next to Dean – except that he was temporarily dethroned by Mary scolding him for not wearing a festive hat. “How is it possible,” she demanded, “that you’ve been under our roof for several hours without a hat? You’re hatless, you’re hopeless – Cas, sweetie, I’m sorry, but you’re a disgrace. There’s one left by the tree, I think. Go on!”

 

Castiel dutifully scurried away to the living room and then returned suitably hat-clad. The only red Santa-style hat left was the itchy one, and Dean couldn’t help grinning triumphantly at him.

 

They clinked drinks and drank. They dolled out turkey and potatoes and roast vegetables and Castiel’s cranberry sauce (which Dean vehemently denied was the best-tasting thing on offer) and the room felt that much warmer for having that extra person in it.

 

They told jokes: Castiel was quick, but Jessica was quicker, and even John was rendered helpless before their merciless teasing. John commented, “Sam really has his hands full with this one!”, to which Jess merely said with an airy smile, “Please. I’m the best thing ever to happen to Sam.” Looking at Jess, with her long blonde ponytail and neat, cotton dress, Dean couldn’t help but agree, and when she patted Sam on the shoulder with a radiant smile to let him know that she was only teasing, Sam lit up more brightly than the Christmas tree in the front room.

 

They told embarrassing stories, as they were still in the phase of slowly filtering Jess into the family. They told the one about the time little Sammy took his plastic tool-kit down to the builders working on a neighbour’s kitchen extension and very solemnly told them – not asked, told – that he was going to need to borrow their ladder to fix his space helicopter. They told the one about the time Sam got tipsy on liqueur chocolates and tripped over the doormat, split his head on the knocker, and needed ten stitches. Castiel then valiantly came to Sam’s defence by chipping in with the story about the time that Dean got so drunk at a Christmas party that he had to be piggybacked two miles home. Dean glowered at him, hot with humiliation as his family laughed, but Castiel put a consolatory hand on Dean’s thigh and offered him a teasing half-smile that lasted about two seconds before Castiel realised what he was doing. He pulled his hand back into his space as though he’d been burnt and looked away quickly to stare down at his plate. The feel of his palm tingled on Dean’s skin for a long time after.

 

They put on a CD of old Christmas hits on the condition that no-one was allowed to sing during the meal, as stipulated by Mary, having had entirely enough of her boys’ tone-deaf renditions of carols. From that point on, John tried his very best to drop at least one Christmas lyric into every sentence, a game immediately picked up on and joined by everyone else.

 

“Don’t be so selfish, Sam – you’ve gotta open your heart this Christmas,” said Dean severely.

 

“This time of year is for lovin’, you know.”

 

“Yeah – it’s not about you, Sam. It’s about Mary’s boy child Jesus Christ.”

 

“And if you don’t behave yourself, you’ll be having a very silent night,” John warned him. “So silent – it might even be a holy night.”

 

“Then you definitely won’t hear those sleigh bells jingling,” Dean said.

 

“Or ring-ting-tingling,” Castiel added.

 

Dean turned to Castiel, eyes wide with feigned horror. “That too?”

 

“You know, it really is lovely weather for a sleigh ride together,” Jess said pensively.

 

Sam made a noise of complaint. “But, baby, it’s cold outside!”

 

“Enough!” Mary said loudly, lifting her hands in surrender. “Enough, I say, I give up!”

 

Dean shot Castiel a grin and Castiel met it, eyes crinkling warmly under the rim of his silly Christmas hat. Dean itched to correct it, to push the fur back over Castiel’s forehead to leave his eyes clear, and Dean’s hand lifted halfway from the table before he could stop himself. He found Castiel staring at him, bewildered, and heat surged up into Dean’s ears from the sheer stupidity of it. He cleared his throat, and used the awkwardly-hovering hand to point at Castiel and told him that he had some sauce on his face. Castiel frowned.

 

“Someone – anyone – pass me the sprouts,” Mary said, providing a merciful distraction.

 

They were right in front of Dean, and Mary was only two seats away from him, but Castiel leaned over him to grab them – pushing his shoulder into Dean’s chest, his arm brushing over Dean’s hand, stretching close enough that he could probably feel Dean’s breath on the juncture of neck and jaw – and passed them on. Just before he pulled back, his eyes flicked over to meet Dean’s. Dean had no idea what he looked like, but something made Castiel sit back and say, “What?”, and had Dean been struck by lightning at that moment, he would have no more idea how to respond.

 

“I don’t – just – you didn’t need to have done that,” Dean finally said, mouth dry.

 

Castiel shrugged. “No need to over-complicate things.” He was watching Dean carefully. Dean looked away and served himself some more parsnip.

 

They had seconds and thirds and go-on-just-a-little-more-then’s until everything was gone, and then Mary declared it time for the desserts, at which everyone groaned but diligently said that they had room for another course. John refilled everyone’s wine glasses as they all carried the dirty dishes out into kitchen. They stacked their plates and cutlery on the counter, making repeat journeys to and from the table as Dean tried to organise the dishes into an order that would be easy to clean later. He was still running warm soapy water over the greasiest tins when the desserts were laid out on the table; Mary called through to him to hurry up.

 

“Just a second,” he yelled back, and grabbed a nearby dishtowel that didn’t look too filthy on which to dry his hands.

 

The door swung open again and Castiel came in, looking nonplussed. “Apparently I got the wrong flavour of ice-cream,” he said, lifting the offending tub for Dean to see.

 

Dean turned to face him and squinted at the tub being shown to him as he towelled the last of the soap from his fingers. “Uh, try the freezer. Bottom drawer, probably. Did she say what flavour?”

 

“I don’t know. Is there some kind of Christmas flavour?” Castiel said as he crouched and rummaged through the freezer. “Aha. Okay. This look festive enough for the job, I think.”

 

He straightened up, closing the freezer door. He held up a new tub for inspection with one hand while the other hand groped unconsciously for the belt-loops of his slacks to pull them higher up – goddamnit, Dean thought, could the guy never wear a freaking belt – and the movement was so steeped in his skinny childhood and lanky adolescence, so unabashedly awkward and so entirely Casthat Dean thought for the first time that maybe he’d never really been able to pinpoint falling in love with Castiel because he’d been in love with him all along.

 

Oblivious to any on-going epiphanies, Castiel looked up and pulled a face. “It’ll do. Is there anything else you want me to carr—”

 

Dean crossed the kitchen in three steps, fisted both hands into the front of Castiel’s sweater, and kissed him.

 

Instantly Castiel jerked like he’d been electrocuted, but then seemed to melt underneath Dean’s hands, back curving like he’s leaning back and dragging Dean in, sinking under the pressure of Dean’s mouth - arms held out crookedly at his sides, still clutching the tub of ice-cream - and when Dean pulled away with a wet sound and Castiel’s bottom lip captured a second longer, Castiel suddenly pushed forwards. He clutched at Dean’s face, one hand curling to the shape of his jaw, the other, still holding ice-cream, pressed coldly against his cheek, and he crushed their lips harder together, kissing back open-mouthed and hot and desperate like he was scared of letting go.

 

Then, out of nowhere, Castiel yanked away and broke from Dean’s mouth so suddenly that Dean’s head was dragged forwards by it, but doesn’t let go of his face. “What are you doing?” he asked hoarsely.

 

Dean stared at him, a little dizzy from the kiss and from the insistent press of Castiel’s fingertips against his jawline. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. He half-shrugged. “Something I maybe should have been doing for years, I think.”

 

“Don’t say that to me,” Castiel said, shaking his head; all his hair, grown out too long, fell over his face, and he was breathing fast, and his fingers were tightening reflexively on Dean’s face. “Don’t you—”

 

“Too late, asshole.” Dean kissed him again, and he was sweet and sharp with the taste of Christmas food, and his mouth was soft.

 

Castiel breathed in shaky gasps like he’d been running away from this for miles and miles, and maybe he had, and now that it’d caught up with him he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. He broke away several times to say, you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot – and one time, to mutter, Jesus, to which Dean cheekily replied, “You can call me Dean” - but he pressed in close and held on tight. Dean let go of Castiel’s sweater, settling his hands instead on his waist like an anchor; Castiel kept his hands on Dean’s face, frozen ice-cream and all, until Dean used one thumb to poke Castiel’s hip and grunted, “Move that goddamn tub.”

 

“Sorry, princess,” Castiel said sarcastically, lifting it out of harm’s way, and Dean shoved at him for that comment, and Castiel kissed him.

 

Then, from the other room, there came a clatter of dishes and one long shout, from Mary: “Are you two coming or not?”

 

They didn’t break apart then, but they did both start giggling. Castiel grinned, all crinkled and gummy, and Dean pulled back far enough to wink at him even though the joke’s implications made his stomach flip with giddy nervousness. Dean straightened Castiel’s sweater then, and Castiel reached up to flatten Dean’s hair, and thus organised, they returned to the dining room where dessert was waiting for them.

 

They cut the cake and lit the pudding and served out enough ice-cream to give everyone brain-freeze, plus heart-stopping quantities of chocolate syrup, but Castiel’s fingers were warm where they secretly curled around Dean’s beneath the table, and under the flickering brandy-orange light of the lit Christmas pudding, they were aglow.

 

 

2001

 

The ninety-nine cent string of lights from the local store clearly weren’t up to the sort of level of decorative acrobatics that Dean had expected from them, and while they did make it great loops and swirls from the Christmas tree to the curtain rail and back again, as soon as they were switched on, they exploded with a startling bang and a minor fire hazard.

 

“Never mind,” Castiel said as they stared in dismay at the slightly smoking strings of now-worthless Christmas lights. “At least they cover up the chip in the wall.”

 

That was true. This apartment had many good points – such as being cheap, pre-furnished, within walking distance of the college at which Dean was a mature student of mechanical engineering, and close enough to the bus stop that took Castiel into the city for his year-long internship at the Miller-Mazvyk museum – but it also came with physical damage, and a malfunctioning central heating unit that was better equipped to keep milk cool than to look after two adults. Nonetheless, it was adequate and it was theirs, so they just accepted the need to live six months of the year wearing extra sweaters and tried to brighten the place with an excess of tinsel.

 

They left the lights as they were – although they armed themselves pre-emptively with fire extinguishers, just in case – and went about business as usual preparing for Christmas. They were going to spend Boxing Day at the Winchesters’ in Lawrence, travelling by overnight bus on the eve of Christmas Day, but were for now having their first Christmas alone together in their new apartment. It was going nicely according to no plan whatsoever at the moment: there was a small chicken defrosting in the sink, but aside from that, everything was working on a gloriously spontaneous scheme of making-it-up-as-we-go.

 

They put on a CD of old Christmas songs, because Castiel liked Sinatra, and drank cheap wine which neither of them particularly liked or would have chosen had it not been a festive occasion. They danced a little, and Castiel tripped on the uneven carpet set down in the living room, and Dean caught him.  They didn’t have a fireplace, so they lit candles even though it was against the rules of their tenancy agreement and placed them near open windows to minimise the risk of setting of the fire detectors. They wore hats, as tradition insisted. It was Christmas Eve.

 

Outside their windows, snow was melting, having last fallen a few days ago and the sky having been clear ever since, but there was enough left of it that it sparkled in the dim wash of yellow light that fell in squares and slats from the apartment building. The cedars were heavy-limbed with it, casting long, irregular shadows over the park benches – empty, as even the resident homeless guy seemed to have found somewhere to go tonight. The apartment was filling with the warmth and smell of cooking spaghetti bolognaise. The typical Winchester Christmas Eve lasagne was too much effort and expense for them, but any meaty pasta substitute would do. They left it simmering and went to exchange presents.

 

“Just one,” Dean said, even though he was near-enough wriggling with excitement. “Okay? Just one, and we’ll give each other the rest tomorrow.”

 

“Wait.” Castiel feigned confusion. “Was I supposed to have got you more than one?”

 

Dean elbowed him in the kidney. “Funny.”

 

Castiel gave him the smug flash of a smile and, hoisting his pants up by the belt-loops, dropped down to sit cross-legged in front of their small, spindly and sparsely-decorated tree. There he tugged impatiently at the hem of Dean’s jeans for him to sit as well.

 

“Alright, calm down.” Dean knelt beside him and then leaned over to retrieve a parcel from under the tree. He knew the one he wanted – a long, thin, flat-ish one, with a small envelope attached.

 

Castiel squirmed a little in his seat and opened the envelope first. Inside, he found a sketchy home-made voucher which entitled him to ‘ONE PAIR OF PANTS OF YOUR CHOOSING THAT ACTUALLY GODDAMN FIT (Dean will pay)’.

 

“Or, failing that…” Dean said and gestured towards the rest of the package.

 

Castiel got to carefully picking apart the tape so that he could shell the present with the wrapping paper intact. Inside, he found a simple, brown leather belt. He lifted his head to look at Dean with a stupid grin which Dean found hideously cuter than should be legal, and then Castiel said, “Thank you,” and shuffled forwards on his knees to kiss Dean. In response to that, Dean lifted himself into to kneel up in front of Castiel and pulled him up by his belt-loops, and, grinning against his mouth, Dean slipped the new belt through the loops of Castiel’s pants – not without using the unbuckled ends to tug their hips flush before he fastened it.

 

"Now,” Dean said, “my turn.” He set his hands on Castiel’s shoulders and pushed him away, in the direction of the Christmas tree. “Go on, then.” He clapped his hands together in a childish parody of excitement, although it wasn’t too far from the truth.

 

Castiel sat back on his heels and did not move to retrieve anything, except his fingers went to the pocket of his pants and fidgeted with the stitching there. He opened his  mouth, hesitated, and then, after a moment, pushed ahead to say, “This isn’t really… a proper gift. You probably aren’t even going to be interested in having this, but I just – I want to give it to you anyway.”

 

Dean frowned. “Okay,” he said slowly, not entirely sure what was happening.

 

Castiel still didn’t move.

 

Dean reached out a hand to touch or reassure him and said, “Cas—”

 

However, Castiel then dug into his pocket, retrieved something small and wrapped in pale tissue paper, and dumped it unceremoniously into Dean’s outstretched hand, before he sat back on his heels with an outwards huff of breath as though a great weight had been lifted from his chest.

 

With a curious glance at Castiel, Dean focused his attention on what he’d been given and set about peeling away the flimsy tissue paper. Whatever it was, it was small, solid in his hand, and fairly heavy, and it glittered as it caught the light when the first strip of paper fell away – and then, at last, a 1943 Mercury dime fell into his palm.

 

For several seconds, Dean could only stare at his, his eyes tracing the familiar scuffs and marks he’d seen Castiel run his fingers over a thousand times back when they were kids. He knew every infinite detail about the background of this coin – the design, the minting, the recollection, when it was taken out of use, how much it meant to Castiel – and for more than a decade he had never been allowed to so much as pull back the waxed paper to look at it cleanly, let alone hold it in his hand. “Cas,” he at last said, his voice low, “what is this?” – even though he knew perfectly well what it was, and perhaps better than anyone, except for Castiel himself.

 

“It’s—” Castiel’s voice cut out, cracked a little. He cleared his throat; his hand moved to scratch at the back of his neck. “It’s my father’s old Mercury dime. You know – the first coin I collected.”

 

“Yeah, I know – I mean—” Dean couldn’t even figure out the words to express what he meant. Eventually, as he looked up at Castiel with his fingers closing around the coin, he settled for, “Cas, this is so important to you.”

 

Castiel shrugged and wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Yeah, well,” he said gruffly, his nose scrunching up as he frowned down at the carpeting, “so are you, so.” He twitched his shoulders again, another smaller half-shrug. “Yeah.”

 

With the Mercury dime still closed tightly in his fist, Dean pushed himself up onto his knees, leaned over the shredded remains of tissue and paper from demolishing their respective presents’ wrappings, and took Castiel’s face in his hands. He gently lifted Castiel’s chin, leaning forwards to catch his eyes, and only then, once Castiel was looking back at him with that uncertain crinkle to the edges of his eyes and the worried pucker between his eyebrows and his eyes all quiet like he’d never say how significant all this was, Dean kissed him.

 

Slowly, Castiel relented under the pressure of Dean’s mouth, and the defensive rigidity seeped from his shoulders, and when Dean pulled away, his face had instead given itself over to a warm flush of pink along his temples and jawline.

 

A grin broke out on Dean’s mouth, and he ticked the back of one his knuckles against Castiel’s chin. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I love it. And I’m not sure where I’ll keep it, since I don’t have a fancy book, but luckily for me I know a handy coin expert who might offer to help me look after it properly.”

 

Castiel squirmed a little where he sat, but the corners of his mouth twisted up in spite of trying not to smile. “I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help you,” he said. He pushed forwards into Dean’s hands and tilted his chin up to be kissed again, and Dean obliged him.

 

A shrill beeping from the kitchen alerted them a few moments later to the fact that they’d forgotten to take the spaghetti off the stove and the pan had boiled dry, and they had to leap up immediately to save their pasta before the local smoke detector set off the whole building’s fire alarm.

 

As Dean hurriedly tried to rescue what was left of their spaghetti, Castiel stood behind him and twined his arms around Dean’s stomach, pressing his face into the crook between Dean’s neck and shoulder, and so he didn’t have to look at Dean as he said into the cotton of his T-shirt, “I love you.” It wasn’t a big thing – it was nothing Dean didn’t already know, and nothing Dean hadn’t been saying himself for months, but it was the first time Castiel had said it with words in place of careful kisses and the late-night rock of hips together.

 

Dean turned down the heat on the stove and rested his wooden on the edge of the pan. He laid one hand over both of Castiel’s where they were entwined on his stomach, and let the other reach up to where Castiel’s head was burrowed into his shoulder, fingers pushing comfortingly through his hair. He twisted sideways, chin tucked down awkwardly, and kissed Castiel’s temple, and Castiel leaned into him.

 

“I love you,” Dean said into his hair, and hoped Castiel could feel him smiling. “Merry Christmas.”

 

The pan stuttered a little, oil spurting, and thin coils of smoke twisted upwards and dangerously close to the smoke detector. The kitchen window was foggy with steam, their breath too hot for the ice outside, but they were certain the snow would still be there tomorrow when they donned scarves and gloves to crunch through the park below and stuff ice down each other’s clothes. Dean would call his parents tomorrow, and he and Castiel would yell stupid Christmas greetings down the line before the promise that they wouldn’t be there too late this evening, and the teasing threat that a feast fit for the gods had better be waiting for them. The apartment was cold, their bodies were warm, and they had the sense they’d outridden the storm.

 

the end.