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It starts with the bacon socks.
They’re on a case. Dean sits across from the witness in her living room, asking the usual questions. Cas, still on hunter probation, is next to him, nodding intently. Dean’s attention is focused on her answers, her crying, on keeping his body language unthreatening. But then Cas shifts to cross his legs, and his ankle is visible.
Dean loses his train of thought. He sputters, corrects himself, and smiles at the witness. He makes a mental note to ask Cas about it later.
-
“Hey,” Dean says as he sets a plate in front of Cas. It’s Tuesday, and Tuesday is taco night.
“Hey,” Cas says, smiling. He loves Tuesdays.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Dean.”
“Your socks,” Dean starts, but then hesitates. He’s not sure why this seems like such a personal question. “Why were you wearing socks with bacon on them?”
Cas looks thoughtful as he chews. “When I was traveling,” he begins, then pauses to take another bite. Dean isn’t sure if he’s stalling. “I didn’t have much. Most of the people I met didn’t. Having more than one pair of socks was a luxury.”
“What do you mean?” Dean thinks he knows, but he wants to hear Cas’ explanation, the specific words he chooses.
“Well, it means that you had to be very careful about getting them wet or too dirty before you were able to get into a shelter for the night. If you didn’t, and you weren’t picked in the raffle for a while, you could go a very long time with dirty socks. It’s not very comfortable,” Cas concludes.
“So now you have bacon socks?”
“I have many pairs,” Cas says soberly. He starts in on his second taco while Dean laughs a little.
“I’m glad.”
--
“Hey, so,” Sam says, a full three days before Christmas, “what do you think we should get Cas?”
“We?” Dean asks. “Dude, I’m done with my Christmas shopping. Get your shit together.”
“You already have a gift for Cas? What did you get him?”
“Socks,” Dean says, without thinking.
“Seriously?” Sam asks, scoffing. “Socks? Wow. Good thinking, mom.”
Dean opens his mouth to protest, but then reconsiders. Cas’ story seems private, somehow. Like it isn’t his to share. He shrugs instead.
Sam rolls his eyes. “I guess it’s up to me to make sure Santa gets him something good,” he says, grabbing Dean’s keys. He’s out the door before Dean can object.
--
They have a Christmas morning like none of them ever had growing up.
When Sam, fulfilling his duty as younger sibling, comes bounding into their room at the crack of dawn, Dean can smell cinnamon pecan coffee and something suspiciously reminiscent of french toast.
“Come on, guys! Presents!” Cas groans at Sam’s excitement and burrows further under his pillow, but Dean is up and excited despite himself. He takes Cas’ pillow and throws it across the room.
“Get up, dork.”
“No,” is all Cas says as he mummifies himself in the sheets.
“Yes,” Dean says. “Don’t you fuckin’ burrito on me.” He gets his hand under Cas’ hip and pulls at the sheet, unraveling him. Cas glares for a moment but sits up.
A few minutes later, Sam has managed to get them on the couch and is bringing them cups of coffee. Cas still looks bedraggled and less than thrilled to be awake before noon, but Dean’s stomach feels like one of those things kids have, the weird little nets where they raise caterpillars into butterflies, and he’s at the part where the chrysalises crack. Chrysalides, he muses. Cas had been telling him last night about how some plural words were correct with both Greek and Latin suffixes. Dean spent fifteen minutes denying the propriety of “octopodes.”
“Dean,” Sam says insistently, “Dean, you listening?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Open your presents!” Sam is practically bouncing in his seat, two small packages in his lap. His fingers are twitching as he toys with the edges of the wrapping paper.
“Go ahead and open yours, sasquatch,” Dean says. Sam smiles broadly and obliges, ripping the snowman-covered paper off the first present.
“A CSA membership?” Sam laughs, pulling a card out of the small box and continuing to smile as he examines it.
“You win. I concede. Have your damn vegetables,” Dean says over his coffee mug. “You’re gonna need a new ID, though. I enrolled you as Han Solo.” He ducks just in time, barely dodging the pillow flying in his direction, and emerges from the protective cover of his arms just in time to see the paper come off of Sam’s second gift.
“Wow, Cas,” Sams says, flipping through the small book he’s cradling in his hands. “How’d you get all these?”
“The Supernatural books are all available online, you know. Neither they nor the people in them are that hard to find,” Cas says.
“What is it?” Dean leans toward Sam as he asks.
“It’s--it’s notes. From people. That we’ve helped,” Sam’s voice is quiet, reverent.
“Oh,” Dean looks at Cas. “That’s amazing.” Cas shrugs and one corner of his mouth quirks up a little.
“Your job shouldn’t be thankless. Not entirely. Now, Dean. It’s your turn.”
Dean’s first gift chokes him up. He hadn’t noticed when Sam had taken the photo of him and Mary that he kept by the bed, but apparently he had, because now Dean is holding a framed copy, enlarged and missing decades’ worth of damage.
“Thanks, Sammy,” he says. The glass is smooth against his skin as he rubs his thumb lovingly over the picture.
“You’re welcome. You’ve still got Cas’ gift, though.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “What’d you get me, ya dirty bastard?”
“Something I will enjoy seeing you in,” Cas says, seriously.
When Dean opens the gift to find a gorgeous green sweater, he raises an eyebrow. “You’re excited to see me fully clothed? Not that this isn’t a freaking sweet sweater,” he says, lifting it from the box. As soon as the sweater is dangling from his hands, though, he sees something peeking from beneath it. Something small and pink and lacy and definitely not anything that will constitute him being fully clothed. He slams the sweater back into the box hastily.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Dean says.
“Yes,” Cas says, sipping his coffee, “he was.”
“Right,” Sam says. “I’m not even going to ask. Anyway,” he continues, pointedly fixing his gaze on Cas. “Your turn.”
Cas opens Sam’s meticulously wrapped gift to find a custom photo album. On the front cover is a picture of Sam, Dean, and Cas decked out in LARP gear, taken by Charlie on one of their visits. Underneath the picture is a single word: Family.
Cas opens the book carefully, his smile broadening as he looks at the pictures. Dean leans over to watch as Cas flips through pages and pages of photographs, some of which he didn’t even realize Sam had been taking. There are pictures Sam snapped randomly, one with Cas and Sam standing outside the bunker, Sam’s free arm slung around Cas’ shoulder, Cas covered in dirt but smiling broadly after a day spent outside in the garden; another of Cas holding a little girl, singing softly to her to comfort her after a close encounter with an angry spirit. There are melodramatic selfies with Sam’s face looming huge in the foreground, eyes rolled way up into his head or lips turned down into a huge frown, and in the background Cas and Dean can be seen with their heads on the other’s shoulder, or Cas sitting with his feet propped in Dean’s lap in the library. Others are simply candid photos of Dean and Cas: asleep curled up on the couch, sitting on the hood of the Impala watching the sunrise, staring at each other over dinner in some random diner.
Cas looks through the entire album then and there, giving each picture the time it deserves. When he finally reaches the back cover, he closes it gently, smiling and sincere as he says, “Thank you, Sam.”
Cas unwraps Dean’s present next. He picks up the not-quite-perfectly wrapped box and shakes it gently, listening dutifully for hints regarding its contents just like Sam and Dean taught him. He unwraps it carefully, smiling softly the entire time, and when he finally discards the paper and ribbon and opens the top, his mouth falls open and he pauses.
Cas pulls out the socks Dean has shoved into the small box one by one, examining each pair before setting them in a careful pile on his lap. There are cheesy Christmas socks galore: reindeer socks with pom pom noses, socks with strings of lights twining around the ankles, socks with cute santas, with nativity scenes, with candy canes, with Christmas trees, with gingerbread men, socks that look like Dean stole them from one of Santa’s own elves. But mixed in are other socks, not tacky holiday-themed ones but really nice pairs, thick and warm and comfy ones that Dean hopes Cas will wear around the bunker to shield his skin from the bare floors. Socks that Dean hopes will will be cozy enough that Cas’ feet will never be cold again.
The way Cas looked at Sam is nothing compared to the way he looks at Dean, like maybe Dean gave him the damn sun wrapped in shiny paper and poorly tied ribbon. Dean swears there’s legitimate awe in Cas’ voice when he whispers, “Dean, I...thank you. Thank you.”
Sam looks back and forth between them, gears obviously turning. “I’m missing something here,” he announces, redundantly. “Either that or you guys are just weirdos with a sock fetish.”
“You’re just jealous of Cas’ kickass collection,” Dean quips, to cover the fact that he’s blushing like crazy.
Truth is, Dean is watching his best friend pull on a pair of knee-high socks with literal jingle bells sewn around the top and realizing how in love he is. Ridiculous.
--
The socks with the bells are pretty great, as it turns out. Cas is usually so damn quiet as he shuffles around the bunker that Dean is pleased to be able to finally hear him coming.
It’s even better when Cas wears them during sex, though.
Jingle all the way.
--
Recording Cas’ facts becomes somewhat of a game, after that. Dean makes a habit of listening intently to everything Cas says. Not that he wasn’t listening intently before, but it seems more important, now, somehow. Because of socks. Whatever, he doesn’t owe anyone a damn explanation.
So anyway, Dean secretly files away everything Cas tells him for future reference. He keeps little lists of the weird shit Cas says, random facts he’ll throw out over dinner, in the car, while washing the dishes. Dean will be gathering up his clothes to do the laundry and pieces of paper will fall out, scraps of napkins from restaurants, grocery receipts from corner stores, crumpled dollar bills, and written on them in his uneven handwriting will be things like “Bee alarm pheromones are used in the manufacture of artificial banana and pear flavoring.”
North Dakota produces the most honey annually, as it turns out. Dean wonders how many pairs of bee socks they produce each year. Or maybe those are made in China and shipped over. Whatever.
The point is, Dean is pretty sure the little shop in Gackle, North Dakota contains more socks than the town does people. He picks out a pair with chubby bumblebees happily bzz-ing across a sky blue background.
Cas is wearing them when Dean wanders into the kitchen the following morning. He looks up from his cereal blearily at first, but when he spies Dean, his face lights up. Cas smiles as he wiggles his toes enthusiastically.
Yep, he’s definitely in love.
--
“I saw these and thought of you,” Dean says as he tosses a pair of still-packaged socks at Cas. They land on top of the book in Cas’ lap and he frowns slightly as he picks them up.
“They say ‘nerd’,” Cas says suspiciously.
“Yup,” Dean says, voice already fading down the hall.
--
Socks with little wings, with kites, with hamburgers; organic bamboo cotton blend socks where 100% of the profits go to ending world hunger. Dean finds them on hunts, in Love’s gas stations, in various local equivalents of Cracker Barrel. He saves them until they get back to the bunker, usually, when they can be in their own space and he can have Cas’ smile all to himself.
On Easter he gives Cas a pair with multicolored fuzzy baubles and three dimensional rabbit ears.
“I’ve never totally understood what rabbits had to do with Jesus, but these looked like you,” Dean grins. Cas smiles and runs the small ears between his fingers, gently squeezes the baubles.
“You know, Dean, the word ‘estrogen’ comes from the goddess Eostre, the goddess of spring and fertility from whom we derive the name for Easter.”
“Just shut up and take the socks,” Dean laughs, and leans down to kiss him.
--
In Alabama, Dean buys several pairs of pink socks that say “good job” and “congrats” and “superstar” in yellow comic book script.
“What are these for?” Cas asks. Deep lines form across his forehead as he concentrates, trying to recall what he might’ve missed. “It isn’t a special occasion.”
“Oh, but last night definitely was,” Dean says, winking.
Cas blushes a deep, pleasing shade of pink. Dean immediately holds a pair of the socks up next to Cas’ face.
“Perfect match,” he declares.
--
Every October is particularly busy, and this one is no exception. After three days outside of Baton Rouge hunting down a shapeshifter, all of them are exhausted. They barely make it inside before Cas and Dean are splayed on the couch, groaning and popping various joints.
“I’m gonna crash,” Sam says within five minutes of their arrival. “I’m done being alive for a few days.” Dean manages a grunt in response and Cas barely flops his hand in Sam’s general direction.
They doze for a few minutes, or Cas does, because Dean is too preoccupied with the socks he’d found on this trip. He had been planning to give them to Cas at a special moment, a special place, but he doesn’t think his nerve will last that long. So he slides off the couch and pulls his bag toward him.
“Take your shoes off,” he says. He has to shake Cas by the ankle for a second and repeat himself once before he gets a response.
“What?” Cas asks sleepily. Dean rolls his eyes.
“Just trust me on this.”
“Fine,” Cas says and leans his head back, decidedly not untying his shoes. Dean tries whacking Cas’ foot a couple of times, but when he doesn’t budge, Dean starts to untie them himself. Cas is in boots, and it takes long enough for Dean to untie the first one that by the time he begins trying to wrench it off his foot, Cas is looking down at him with a bemused expression.
“Help me out,” Dean grumbles. Cas tries to help kick off the boot, but it’s easier to let Dean manhandle him, so he does. When he finally manages to liberate Cas’ right foot, Dean moves on to his left. He unties the double knot, feels the rough cotton of the laces between his fingers, and wrestles with Cas again.
“I’m sorry if my feet smell,” Cas says, wiggling his toes. Dean smiles, even though Cas’ feet do smell like three days of swamp and sweat, and peels the green socks covered in tiny koi fish off of Cas’ feet, tossing them on top of the discarded boots.
Once Dean is done he has to take a moment, reclining back on his palms. For a moment he feels nearly hysterical; he can’t believe he just stripped an angel, an ex-angel, whatever, of his shoes and socks, that he’s sitting at the man’s feet as if this is where he would always end up. He takes a few breaths to calm himself and he smiles, because of course he would end up here, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. So he kneels, searches his bag for the new pair of socks. He finds them relatively quickly but pauses once he has them in hand. His mind races, and the fabric feels strangely heavy in his hands. He rips the cardstock off the top, pulls the socks apart until the plastic hanger between them breaks. He takes the first one and slides it over Cas’ toes, then up his ankle, and repeats the process with the second one. He rocks back on his knees and surveys his handiwork, then looks up at Cas.
Cas’ head tilts a little to one side as he tries to read the upside-down text. “‘A+ husband?’ Dean, are you proposing to me?”
“I want to spend the rest of my life buying you dumb socks,” Dean says with a lopsided grin.
Cas takes Dean’s hand and pulls him up next to him on the couch.
“I think we would make a wonderful matched set.”
That’s settled, then.
--
Bonus round
The day they’re approved for the adoption, Dean buys Cas socks. Obviously.
There are socks covered in hearts, socks with storks, socks with baby rattles, socks with books and baby bottles. But the best, in Dean’s opinion, are the socks that say, in big letters, “World’s Greatest Father.”
“I got these for you,” Dean says, “to commemorate the occasion.”
“I’m...I’m touched,” Cas says earnestly.
Dean grins. “Hi, touched. I’m dad.”