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Dean looks the evil Christmas tree up and down. It’s a real doozy: just a little bit taller than any tree grown on a Christmas tree farm should be, and so green and fragrant that there’s the very real temptation to just let it swallow you up.
Which is the whole problem.
For twenty-four people so far this month, that temptation was irresistible. Now their souls are the tree’s prisoners, and the tree is getting stronger, and come Christmas Day, AKA tomorrow, it’s gonna rampage through town, devouring everything in its wake.
That’s why, on this snowy night in Nowheresville, Pennsylvania, they’re hanging out in a Christmas tree lot, about to buy the first Christmas tree Dean’s had since he was in footie pajamas. And then scorch it straight to hell with the lighter they've infused with special evil-tree-killing magics. It's the most wonderful time of the year.
As far as undercover gigs go, it’s not bad. He tossed a red-and-green knitted scarf around Cas’s shoulders before they left and called it good. Alias: normal people at Christmastime.
“I mean, there’s no denying it,” Dean says cheerfully, for the sake of the people around them. “This right here, this tree is the one, huh, buddy?”
“Yes,” Cas says. In a slightly lower--but not low enough--voice, he adds, “You can tell, because of the screaming.”
Dean looks at all the normal people swarming around the Christmas tree lot.
“It’s inaudible to the human ear,” Cas explains. “But very obvious to mine.”
A kid trailing after his parents stops and stares at them suspiciously.
“Ahaha,” Dean says, pointing at Cas, “he’s a crack-up, this guy. But his sense of humor, it’s not for everyone.”
“I’m edgy,” Cas agrees blandly.
The kid shrugs and keeps walking.
They stare at the Christmas tree, appraising their enemy. It’s weird, man. First evil wreaths, now this? Raging pagan entities have got to chill out about this holiday. Aren’t they supposed to be the hippies?
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” asks a middle-aged lady dressed like Mrs. Claus, a cheerful smile on her face as she bustles over to them.
“We’ll take it,” Dean says, gesturing to the evil tree.
And kill it with fire, but, well. Better leave out that part.
“Ah-ah-ah,” says Mrs. Claus. “This is our loveliest tree this season. An absolute triumph, as you can see. We aren’t comfortable selling it to just anyone.”
“You aren’t?” Dean looks around. “At your … Christmas Tree sale?”
“We hope to send this tree home with a more discerning owner. Does your living room have space to accommodate it?”
“Oh, sure,” Dean says.
Mrs. Claus looks at Cas. Cas stares evenly back.
Man. It’s like that FBI agent undercover practice was for nothing. And don’t even get Dean started on the brothel visit that wasn’t.
Finally, Dean stomps on his toes.
“Ample space,” Cas says.
“And we want to make sure that this tree’s holly-jolly energy blesses just the right family,” Mrs. Claus goes on.
Cas frowns. Probably because he can hear the spirits trapped in the tree screaming louder, and knows that time is running out.
“What is this, a frickin’ dog adoption?” Dean snaps. And then: “No offense. Obviously trees are just as alive as dogs.”
“In this case, yes,” says Cas. “Possibly moreso.”
Dean shoots him a ‘Cool it, angel of the lord’ look.
“Let me be clear,” Mrs. Claus goes on, narrowing her eyes. “This isn’t a tree suitable for a wanton bachelor lifestyle. It wasn’t made for a mancave.”
If Dean didn’t know any better about how this thing operates (which is to say, with total hatred of and scorn for all humankind), he’d think this lady was in on it. As it is, she’s just being a holly jolly pain in his ass. He can’t tell if ‘bachelor’ is homophobic code or she’s just a hater of fun, but either way, he makes an abrupt decision on how to play this.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” he says, and slings an arm around Cas’s trenchcoated shoulders. “Because that’s not how we roll, right, honey?”
“Right, Dean,” Cas says, easily accepting that Dean’s just decided it’s apocalypse-fighting-buddy cuddle time.
“He’s always calling me that,” Dean says, forcing a chuckle. “You know how sometimes the name your parents gave you is the most intimate pet name of all?”
“I’m sorry, sugarpuss,” Cas says. “I didn’t know we were doing pet names right now.”
Dean prays to the evil pagan entity trapping souls in the tree to just friggin’ eat him.
No luck.
Monsters really can be monsters sometimes.
“We really want to make this Christmas sparkle,” Dean presses on, trying not to think about how apparently, he’s sugarpuss now, “since we’ve had a pretty rough year. I, uh, got attacked by a dog, and my fella here, he nearly died from a gas leak, our whole house exploded -- and we’re finally getting back on our feet. And I’m sure our little Sammy will be over the moon about a tree like this.”
“He’s our … child,” Cas says, eyeing Dean. “Who we conceived--”
“Adopted!” Dean jumps in like a god damn pole vaulter.
“Adopted,” Cas agrees.
“But it’s like we conceived the little bastard,” Dean invents, “we love him so much. Um. Not that you have to conceive your kids to love ‘em. And by ‘bastard’, I mean--”
“Child born out of wedlock,” Cas explains, “but no less cherished for that.”
Dean watches Mrs. Claus, not sure if she’ll call security on them. (Is that a thing? Christmas tree lot security? Knowing his luck, probably.)
Then her face splits into a joyful smile.
“Oh, how wonderful! What a sweet gesture for your little boy after so much suffering. And I can tell just by the way you two stand next to each other that you’re madly in love.”
Dean can’t quite hold back his ‘Uh, what?’ face as he looks over at Cas.
Cas stares back at him, his blue eyes guileless.
Dean swallows.
Dumbass angel with his dumbass face and his dumbass lack of understanding about social norms.
“Um, yep,” Dean says, squeezing Cas’s shoulder and hoping it conveys a sense of, You don’t have to stare at me like that, it’s just me, dumbass, “we just can’t get enough of each other, me and the mister.”
Cas turns, suddenly really in Dean’s space.
“What’re you doing?” Dean asks, panicked.
“Kissing you,” Cas says, like it’s obvious.
“Right,” Dean says. “Uh. Okay.”
He presses his lips quickly to Cas’s, careful not to notice anything about it or wonder what it’s like for Cas to kiss someone--probably the only someone he’s ever kissed, unless there’s something he’s not telling Dean. This is business. Evil-fighting business. Sometimes, you have to make sacrifices for the good of mankind. Thank God Sam’s on find-a-giant-truck-to-lug-the-evil-tree-away duty this time around.
Not that kissing Cas is so different from, ugh, Sam.
It’s just, you know. Probably don’t want to be sucking face with a blood relative when you can avoid it.
Cas, he is definitely not a blood relative.
Not that Dean’s ever thought about him in the not-a-blood-relative sense. What are you, crazy? Dude’s an angel. An angel wearing a guy wearing a trenchcoat -- who, yeah, sure, could be considered objectively good-looking, maybe even fascinating in a way that had totally disappeared the second that body became Jimmy Novak again, but it’s not like that’s such a big deal. He’s no Dr. Sexy.
And then Cas presses his hand lightly to Dean’s face, and Dean pulls away, shocked.
There’s the tiniest hint of ‘Did I do something wrong?’ in Cas’s sharp eyes; not in a hurt way, just in a ‘Did we play this right?’, tactical way, the exact same way he’d look at Dean if he’d screwed up a move in a fight. (If that’s possible. Terrifying electric son of a bitch.)
Meanwhile, Mrs. Claus presses a hand to her heart. “Bless you two.”
“Thank you,” says Cas.
“Let me just get the paperwork.”
“Oh, there’s paperwork,” Dean manages. “Swell.”
As soon as Mrs. Claus disappears, Cas comes closer to Dean.
“It’s not worth waiting for Sam,” he mutters. “You’d better burn it now. Do you have the lighter? Dean?”
“Oh,” Dean says, “um, yeah, here--”
He drops the lighter, and it falls onto the packed-down snow.
He swears under his breath and dips down to get it.
Cas kneels too in one smooth motion and hands the lighter to him. His cold fingers brush Dean’s, the same hand that briefly cupped Dean’s face. The same hand that pulled Dean out of hell, if you can work out the logistics of how the hell that’s possible. There’s something that jumps to life in Dean’s chest whenever Cas touches him, but quiets too -- it’s been that way ever since Cas put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him out of his mother’s shitty nightmare past -- and Dean wonders sometimes if that’s it. Some kind of recognition that he only remembers by touch.
Cas is staring right at him now, because no one’s ever told Cas that staring at someone, anyone like that just isn’t something you do, and every time Dean means to, he somehow forgets to get the words out.
But now, now’s a good time for some words.
“Hey,” Dean says, “while we’re down here, let’s chat.”
“Okay,” says Cas.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to kill the tree and save the innocent souls trapped within it.”
“And that’s very noble of you. But I think we coulda sold our cover story without the kiss, man.”
“You emphasized the importance of kissing, back when we went to the brothel, and said that face-touching conveyed extra tenderness. It was an efficient way to make her believe the cover story.”
Dean thinks about Cas listening to him ramble on about how important it is to take the time to really kiss a girl to make her feel special before you do anything else. He’s torn between liking the idea of his words sticking with Cas like that and wanting to set himself on fire instead of the damn tree.
“Sure,” he says bluntly. “Fine. Great listening skills. But how about Sammy? Who we conceived?”
“I don’t spend my time thinking about the minute details of human reproduction. I forgot a female is required.”
Dean stares up into the snowy night sky. “Okay. I’ll let that one go too. But Cas.” He allows his horror to come fully out to play on his face. “Sugarpuss?”
“You said my undercover technique last time left something to be desired. I was making an effort.”
“Yeah, well--”
Cas stares at him some more.
Dean caves. “Nice work. You did good.” He claps Cas on the shoulder. “Let’s go light us up a Christmas tree.”
“Deck the halls with the blood of the ancients.” Off Dean’s look, Cas says, “What? It was a joke.”
“Yeah, you’re getting real hilarious,” Dean grumbles, standing up. “You be Carrie, I’ll distract Mrs. Claus.”
“Who’s Carrie?”
“Sorry. Set the tree on fire.”
Cas nods.
“We’re so watching Carrie, by the way.”
“Why? Does she need a babysitter?”
Dean chuckles, then realizes that in a way he just made a date with his most recent makeout partner, then gladly turns his attention back to Mrs. Claus, who’s coming back with an alarmingly thick stack of papers.
“So that’ll be eight hundred and ninety-nine,” she tells him, like that’s a totally normal price.
“Good,” Dean says, fishing out his credit card. “I hoped I’d get to spend almost a grand on a Christmas tree today.”
Meanwhile, Cas must not waste any time, because right before Dean’s sealed the deal, the whole tree erupts into flames.
Everybody wandering the Christmas tree lot starts shrieking.
“Man!” Dean says. “Would you look at that?”
“The tree!” cries Mrs. Claus. “It’s--it’s bleeding!”
She’s right. Gross.
“I swear, sometimes it seems like we’re cursed,” Dean replies, chipper.
Mrs. Claus, screaming her head off, goes running for help.
Dean takes a moment to stand and appreciate a job well done. He couldn’t hear the spirits screaming in the tree in the first place, but he gets the sense somehow that they’re not screaming anymore.
He takes a few steps back to avoid the blood flow, then savors the toasty warmth on a cold night.
“This is nice,” Cas remarks.
“It ain’t bad,” Dean agrees.
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”
“Merry Christmas, sugarpuss.”
+
When Sam runs up to them ten minutes later, it’s to find the fire department swarming around, the ground covered in blood that everybody has decided is strangely-colored tree sap for their own sanity, and the tree burned black.
“I’m too late,” he realizes, panting.
“Yeah, you are, Sammy,” Dean says. “You’re lucky me and Cas can improvise.”
“This is Sammy?”
They turn to see Mrs. Claus, silver emergency blanket around her shoulders, staring at them in bafflement.
Yeah. This feels about right.
“He sure is,” Dean says. “You’re never too old to find your forever home.”
“Hello, son,” Cas adds, putting his hand solemnly on Sam’s shoulder.
Sam stares at them.
“He’s younger than he looks,” Dean invents. “Still in his teens. It’s that rapid-aging disease. You know, like Robin Williams.”
“Who’s Robin Williams?” asks Cas.
“Oh,” says Dean, “we are in for a good time. Sammy, we’re stopping at Blockbuster. Jumanji-Carrie double feature.”
“Yay?” says Sam.
Mrs. Claus seems to have decided she accepts their gigantic son. “Your fathers had such a lovely surprise planned for you, young …” She cranes her neck to actually be able to see Sam’s face, “... man. If our finest tree hadn’t caught fire and spilled that funny sap everywhere, it would have been the absolute highlight of your holiday season.”
“Um,” Sam says, “cool.”
“Of course,” she adds, “it’s probably for the best that you weren’t here back before it burned. No one wants to watch their parents kissing, hmm?”
“Kissing?” says Sam, his eyebrows shooting up.
Dean feels the distinct urge to turn around and whistle nonchalantly. He sneaks a glance at Cas, who is, of course, totally unbothered.
“Merry Christmas, dears,” says Mrs. Claus fondly. “Please, take one of the other trees home with you free of charge. I insist.”
“We don’t require any of these trees,” Cas says.
“Sure, we’ll take one,” says Dean, who decides he needs to teach this guy a thing or two about the holiday spirit.
“God bless us, everyone,” Sam throws in for good measure.
“That’s a complicated statement in these times,” Cas remarks, furrowing his brow.
“No,” Dean interrupts, before Mrs. Claus can get too bummed out. “Nuh uh. Just let the spirit of the season wash over you, candycane.” He tugs on the end of Cas’s festive seasonal scarf.
(Hey. If they’re a couple until they walk out of this Christmas tree lot, they’re a couple until they walk out of this Christmas tree lot. And Dean deserved justice for “sugarpuss.”)
“Fine,” Cas sighs. “Eggnog-face.”
Sam snickers.
“It’s like watching a Hallmark movie,” Mrs. Claus effuses, dabbing her eye with the corner of the emergency blanket.
+
As they lug the useless tree back to the Impala--no way is that thing going anywhere near Baby’s paint job-- Sam says, “Okay, you two aren’t allowed to have adventures on your own anymore. It always gets out of hand.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” mutters Dean.
“The kissing was fine,” says Cas dispassionately from where he walks alongside them. “I’ve suffered much worse in the fight against evil.”
Sam snorts.
“Haven’t you?” Cas asks, eyeing Dean.
“Yeah, I guess,” Dean grumbles.
Sam is, of course, tickled as hell. “Better keep an eye out for mistletoe. ‘Tis the season. You don’t want this to turn into a habit.”
“Ha ha, jackass,” Dean says, and lets go of his side of the tree.
Sam gasps as he’s suddenly tripping into a face full of Christmas tree.
Dean notices Cas smiling at him, his face bright with amusement, and feels a surge of pure, uncomplicated goodness.
He grins back. Apocalypse or not, everyone’s entitled to some holiday warm ‘n fuzzies.