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“Dean, please. Listen to me. It’s fine.”
“No, Cas. It’s really not,” he snarls back.
“Dean—”
“Don’t ‘Dean’ me. This is just—it’s a little fucking unacceptable, is what it is.”
“I really don’t—”
“No, Cas, no,” he insists, face heating up from frustration. “It’s inconsiderate,” he ticks one finger off, “it’s thoughtless,” he ticks off another, “and overall, it’s just shitty, alright?”
Sam sighs dramatically. Dean turns dagger eyes onto him. “Something to say?”
“You’re overreacting,” Sam replies, somehow bored and exasperated at the same time.
“Of course you’d say that,” Dean snaps, “you’re the one that screwed up.”
“Dean, for god’s sake, it’s one stupid tree bauble!” Sam cries, his calm drilled too far. It erupts with his hands being thrown in the air and him turning to roll his eyes pointedly about Dean at Eileen.
She’s smirking like she finds the whole thing pretty amusing and that makes Dean narrow his eyes at her.
“What’s so goddamn funny?”
“Hey, don’t talk to her like that,” Sam says without any heat, but weary.
“Why? Isn’t that what we’re doing? Treating each other’s partner’s like they aren’t even family?” Dean demands, belligerent.
“No. I suppose this is classic Winchester tradition though. Snapping at each other about something stupid on Christmas Eve,” Sam says, smiling slightly, like he’s joining Eileen now in finding this all very ludicrous.
“Yeah, okay. Yeah. Then don’t tell me not to talk to her like that,” Dean responds, stilted and a bit dumb.
“Fine. Why don’t you tell her to fuck off too just to seal the deal?”
“Er—”
“Hey, Dean,” Eileen says, head cocked, smirking at him. She doesn’t say the next bit, but she signs it.
One of the first things Dean had asked Sam to teach him in sign were crude words, so he knows this one. She could have just flipped him off, to be honest—but, Dean guesses, this is more satisfying for her.
Dean is struck silent. His mouth open and shut dumbly like a guppy.
Sam and Eileen share a giggle.
Cas starts to laughs with them.
Once Dean crosses his arms and flares up his furious expression, glare intensified, the three assholes purse their lips simultaneously, stifling their laughter
“So,” Dean starts, when it’s obvious no one else is going to risk saying something because they may burst out laughing. “We gonna talk about this or what?”
“About…the bauble?” Sam asks, coughing to cover up his bubbling laughter.
“Yeah. Why does Eileen get one and Cas doesn’t?” Dean asks pettily. “Is this because we’re a gay couple?” He knows that last bit is unnecessary and even gratuitous. As soon as he says it, he feels shitty and knows he went a step too far. Obviously, it’s not that. He just wanted to strike a nerve with these tee-hee idiots.
Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, it doesn’t seem to upset anyone. It makes them all crack into another set of tittering convulsions.
He waits as patiently as he can for them to calm down, tapping his foot aggressively on the bunker’s living room floor. “Well?”
Sam reaches something close to stability first. “Dean,” he says, one gigantic hand covering the side of his mouth as his shoulders shake. “It’s because Castiel is not a…very common name.”
“Understandably, I’d imagine it would be quite difficult to find any ornament with the name Castiel decorated on it,” Cas tacks on, lips quirked. “It is somewhat niche.”
“Well—then—” Dean flounders, “none of us should have one with our name on it! We shouldn’t be leaving Cas out like this—or—” he glares at Sam again for good measure, “when you were getting them, why didn’t you just special order one with his name on it? They do shit like that now. Internet—and shit.”
“I picked them up at a convenience store on a whim, like, yesterday, Dean,” Sam explains, still sporting that irritating shit-eating grin, like all of this is so goddamn farcical, “if I had special ordered one, it wouldn’t have arrived in time.”
“It’s bullshit! Eileen’s name was on one? Really? I’ve never seen her name spelt out like that in my entire life! I’ve also never met another Dean, by the way!” Dean yells, though he’s starting to deflate in his ire.
It’s difficult to keep up this energy when everyone around him is looking at him so fondly and with a disgusting amount of amusement.
“We could paint Cas’ name onto one,” Eileen suggests. “That could be fun.”
“What, painting one stupid ornament?” Dean retorts, then his shoulders sink, “it wouldn’t even look the same as the rest of ours.”
Cas reaches for his bicep and squeezes. He puts a quick kiss onto Dean’s cheek, and it calms him immediately. He finds himself struggling not to smile.
“Honey, it’s fine.”
“Cas, we said we weren’t gonna call each other that in public,” Dean mumbles automatically, though he doesn’t really care right now.
Cas smiles at him. “You told me not to ‘Dean’ you.”
“I guess we could do that, paint a name on one,” Dean continues in a small voice, staring at the scuff on his shoes, “since Cas was an angel and all. He’s a bit different, but the same. Special, but family and shit.”
“Exactly,” Eileen agrees, offering him an encouraging smile. It’s softer now. Dean sighs.
“Okay, yeah. Yeah. Sorry for—um—overreacting, I guess. Let’s just do that.”
“It would probably only take a minute, Dean, and one person. Not really a team effort on this one,” Sam says.
“Well, obviously, I’m gonna be the one that does it,” Dean responds, huffing, “now where do we keep the paint here?”
Sam and Eileen trade startled looks. It quickly turns into lips thinning out and eyes widening.
“What?” Dean asks.
“Um—” Sam looks to Eileen for help.
She shakes her head and plucks a Christmas cookie from the tin of goods Cas had prepared for them this morning. Dean loves the fact that he bakes.
While Dean fondly twines his fingers with Cas’, Sam glares at Eileen’s lowered head as she nibbles on her cookie silently. Wen she glances back up, she offers him an impish look that makes his body sag because—yeah, Dean knows that feeling—Sammy’s already given up on the pretence of being mad at her.
“We don’t have any paint here,” Sam says, rushed, glancing upwards at the ceiling to avoid Dean.
Dean sighs and leans into Cas. “Fine,” he agrees dryly, “just—fine. Okay.”
“Sorry, man,” Sam says awkwardly.
“Sorry about what?” Dean snipes, already hooking his arm with Cas’ and ushering them off the couch and towards the direction of their room. “We’re gonna grab our coats and we’re gonna go for a drive to get some paint. Exciting adventures. Better than hunting monsters! Hunting for paint on Christmas Eve, awesome,” he cries with theatrical joy.
There’s a small spark in him that is actually excited for such an absurd supply run.
“You could just use a sharpie—”
“Isn’t as permanent, Sammy,” Dean declares with a casual tip of the head, already halfway down the hallway with a dumbfounded Cas on his arm.
“Dean, this is silly.”
“What happened to ‘honey’?”
Cas hums, taps on Baby’s dashboard absentmindedly. “I don’t mind not having a bauble.”
“Yeah, well, I do,” Dean replies, clipped. Cas doesn’t answer so he heaves a regretful breath. “I just mean, it’s our first proper Christmas in…in a really long time. I want us all to be a family. Even the weird and dysfunctional one that we have right now. I don’t want anyone left out—and I—I’d like to hang my stupid fucking bauble next to yours, okay? Dean and Cas—or Dean and Castiel. It’s—”
“Nice,” Cas finishes, smiling off into the distance as he stares out the window. He traces sundry lines across the condensation. “Nice and human,” he repeats quietly, probably to himself.
They’re at the point now where they don’t pretend like they don’t hear each other so Dean agrees, “yeah.”
“I think we will, however, struggle to find a store that sells paint on Christmas Eve. Any open store, stocking anything, in fact.”
“Meh,” Dean shrugs. One hand remains on the steering wheel while the other blindly reaches for Cas’. It’s met instantly and Dean laces their fingers together.
They hold hands a lot now.
It anchors something inside Dean, tethers him to his boyfriend, to the fact that he even has a boyfriend instead of the girlfriend. The pressure of Cas’ palm against his makes it feel okay.
“If we can’t find paint, then I’ll just do it in blood,” Dean continues on to joke morbidly. “Always happy to bleed for Castiel, Angel of the Lord.”
“That’s dark.”
“It’s like ten in the evening, so yeah.”
“Dean.”
“Castiel.”
Cas makes a discomfited noise. “It’s Cas.”
“Alright. Cas.”
“Or you could also call me something akin to a sugared and mucilaginous nectar made of bees. I like bees.”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah. I know, babe.”
“I don’t understand that one. I am not a human fledgling, Dean.”
“I’m not a sugared and mucil—whatever either.”
“You’re so annoying,” Cas sighs, squeezing Dean’s hand even as he rolls his eyes.
Dean smirks, because Cas rolling his eyes is cute. Cas looking dryly exasperated in such a ‘Cas’ kind of way is always something that tugs at Dean’s heartstrings.
“Hey,” he murmurs as they turn a corner. Still no lit-up stores. They’re very unlikely, Dean knows, to find an open establishment at this day and time. Jesus. Establishment. Even his inner musings are embellishing every bit of Cas that it can.
“You know,” he continues, once he sees Cas from his periphery curving his neck Dean’s way. “You know, I really love you.”
“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, grinning. “The sentiment is very much returned.”
Dean turns momentarily to lift a brow at Cas. “You’ve gotta say it,” he says.
“I’m sorry, say…?”
“Oh my god, you dumbass.”
“Oh.” Cas straightens. “I love you too.”
Dean sniggers. “You’re so stupid.”
Cas bristles, squeezes Dean’s hand again, but with indignation now. “I don’t appreciate you deriding my intelligence, Dean, as I am definitely not—”
“Cas.”
“Oh,” Cas repeats, stilling. He blushes. “You’re stupid too,” he goads back, but mumbles it.
“I love you,” Dean sings saccharinely.
“Even I think this is sickening,” Cas says wryly, “and we aren’t going to find paint,” he adds, frowning out the window.
“We will,” Dean asserts, even though he’s pretty sure they aren’t either.
“How long are we driving for?”
“Until we find paint.”
“This is stupid.”
“Yeah, but so are we,” Dean says. “We’ll just do this until—”
Until now. An open Gas-n-Sip. Dean chortles. “Un-friggin’-believable,” he says as he clenches on the brakes and moves Baby towards a very empty parking space.
“They won’t have paint.”
“We’ve been through enough shit, be a little optimistic, will you?” Dean says, poking Cas in the arm with the edge of his elbow. “They’ll have some kind of paint.”
“That guy sucked. I’m glad he’s working on Christmas Eve. What an asshole. Do you think he was so shitty because it was obvious we were a couple? Probably a homophobe.”
“I think it was because he was working on Christmas Eve,” Cas explains reasonably as he stuffs the packet of multicoloured chalks into his trench-coat pocket. “Don’t be mean.”
“Hey, I’m Dean, I’m a bit of a dick. Sorry, have we not met?” Dean snorts. “Makes what we’ve been doing together kinda shady, bit slutty.”
“I feel sympathy for him,” Cas says as they reach Baby. “It must be lonely. I’ve been lonely. It isn’t…”
“Nice,” Dean finishes numbly. “Did you have to work Christmas Eve when you were—you know—when I didn’t let you stay,” he forces the words out, revelling in the punishing punch to his gut. He definitely deserves to be as miserable as that rude cashier on a night like this, not cosy in his chest with the love of his life next to him.
“Does it matter?” Cas asks lightly. “I don’t think so.”
“Of—of course it does, I—”
Cas opens the car seat and settles inside, cuts Dean off, pulls the seatbelt around him and then nags at Dean to do the same.
They don’t say anything for awhile, and Dean thinks, shit, he shouldn’t have said anything.
Then, a minute or two into their drive back, Cas murmurs, “it doesn’t matter, Dean.”
Dean grits his teeth. “Yes, it does.”
“No,” Cas says gently, “it doesn’t because we’re here now. We just drove for over an hour to get some paint for my bauble. I think we’re very much past what happened that many years ago when you couldn’t even admit your feelings for me.”
“We didn’t even get paint,” Dean scowls, “we got stupid fucking chalks. They rub off in, like, a few seconds.”
“It’s the sentiment that matters,” Cas assures, “and we have sharpies at home.”
“Failed you again, sorry,” Dean mutters, clicking his fingers, tap-tap at the wheel. He digs his thumbs into the leather. “You must be sick of hearing that.”
“Not as much as saying it myself.” It’s quiet and, not exactly uncomfortable, but Dean feels nauseous until Cas comes up with, “I’m pretty sure felt writing instruments are more permanent than paint anyways. Paint chips.”
Dean laughs.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I was just being stubborn and stupid. Should have just stayed home.”
“You aren’t stupid. I had a nice time,” Cas says firmly, “I always enjoy our times together.”
It’s a small smile but it crawls onto Dean’s face all the same. “Yeah. I do too.”
“If Sam and Eileen aren’t asleep when we return, we can drink some hot chocolate and watch Christmas movies. Perhaps only one tonight, but then we can wake early tomorrow and view another before Christmas breakfast. Or is it lunch?”
“Lunch,” Dean says, “Brunch, or whatever. We’ll have cheese and crackers as a morning snack.”
“Brie, Dean.”
“Since when did you get into all this French crap? First, the pancakes, now—”
“We have Belgian chocolates too. It’s not all French. I’m expanding my horizons, Dean.”
Sam and Eileen are awake when they get back. They watch Elf, Cas giggles throughout it like a dumbshit, and they end up putting the baubles away for next year, when Sam can special order one with Cas’ name on it.
Instead, they pick pinecones that are assorted in size, unique to each one of them. Sam, with childish jeers from others, ends up with the smallest one.
“So you know how it feels to be towered over in size for a change,” Dean taunts as he chews noisily and merrily on Cas’ pretty damn delicious cookies.
“We have everything but mistletoe,” Eileen announces sleepily before they all lumber towards their bedrooms.
“We have Santa hats,” Sam adds, “festive enough. I don’t think we don’t need an excuse to kiss who we want,” Sam consoles her, rubbing his eyes with the hilt of his palm. “We’ll see you two in the morning—”
“Christmas,” Cas says happily, even though it’s past midnight and already, technically, Christmas.
“Like any of those hats would fit on your big, fat head, Sammy,” Dean jokes and Cas snorts, then covers his mouth with widened eyes.
“Sam, I didn’t mean to laugh—”
“Whatever, assholes,” Sam waves a hand, then takes the same hand to rest on Eileen’s waist who sags tiredly onto him. “Merry—whatever.”
“Mm,” Eileen murmurs, eyes drooping.
“Why did we buy the chalk?” Cas grumbles, “we should have gotten slushies instead. They we”
“Okay,” Dean calls, “bedtime. My boyfriend’s—well, look at him.”
Cas’ head is slumped on Dean’s shoulder and he’s smacking his lips together like he wants to say something, then gives up along with his eyes as soon as they fall shut.
“Shit, we’re just gonna stay here. He’s done. I’m not moving him.”
Sam’s not listening, but he nods along anyway as he shuffles himself and Eileen away.
Dean strokes a few fallen strands of hair from Cas’ eyes, noting dreamily that he needs haircut soon.