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There’s a little red tin in the glove compartment of the impala, and when Cas picks it up, he can feel the way it’s scratched and dented with age.
“What’s this?”
Dean glances over, and something unreadable passes across his face. It reminds Cas of how he looks when Sam talks about their childhood, nostalgic and complicated – not happiness, but something close. “Where’d you find that?”
“It was just in here with your Dad’s old phone, under the map,” Cas replies, turning it over interestedly in his hands. There’s a faded image on the front he can’t quite make out, worn green and silver and gold. The colours of Dean’s eyes, as he looks at Cas in the half-light of the unfolding road. “What is it?”
“It used to have peppermints in it,” Dean says, looking back to the road. There’s a wistful kind of sadness in his gaze, but a slight smile playing across his mouth. “Sammy begged Dad to buy it at some gas station when he was, I don’t know, maybe four. He didn’t even like peppermints, he just liked the Christmas tree on the front of the tin, wouldn’t shut up about it. It was filled with those red and white striped candy canes, you know the ones?”
Cas nods, watches the moving December colours play across Dean’s features.
“Well, that year we were stuck in here all Christmas day while Dad was wrapping up a hunt. Sammy was old enough to know it was Christmas, so it kind of sucked. But I got Sammy singing Christmas songs and we drew stupid snowmen cartoons on the windows, and it was okay, we passed the time. Dad was gone so long we ended up eating most of the candy canes while we were waiting, but Sammy insisted on saving the last one for Dad. He still hero-worshipped Dad at that point, even though Dad was barely a father to him – was barely even there, to see Sammy growing up” Dean breaks off momentarily, shakes his head like he’s trying to surface from deep water. Cas notes the set of Dean’s jaw, the way his knuckles are white around the wheel, resists the urge to reach out, soften them.
“Sam knows how much you did now, Dean,” he says, instead, into the quiet.
Dean makes a dismissive sound, carries on as though Cas hasn’t spoken at all, but the tension in his hands is less strained; “Anyway, when Dad finally came back that night he was only a little beat up, in a good mood for once. He tried to take us for some real food, but everywhere was closed by that time so we just sat in here together and Dad broke the last candy cane into three for us to share,” Dean glances at the box Cas is still holding. It feels warm in Cas’s hands now, the mental heating up in his palms as he listens to the story, as though it’s slowly coming alive. “It was one of the better Christmases, actually. Dad refilled the box with them each December, handed them out to me and Sammy when we’d been driving all night. It was one of the few traditions we ever had,” he shrugs, adjusts his grip self-consciously on the wheel, “Stupid, really,” he adds, in that way he has of diminishing anything personal he says, “It’s probably empty now.”
Obligingly, Cas opens the box. It is empty, save a couple of crumpled silver wrappers, but it smells of ghostly peppermint. Cas sniffs, imagines little Dean and Sam sitting in the impala alone on Christmas day. His chest aches at the thought of Dean trying to distract Sam, keep him happy and amused while Dean was probably afraid. “I’ve never tried peppermint,” he tells Dean, inhaling again and trying to figure out the scent. It’s sharp, clean, a little powdery. Like dusty snow. “What’s it like?” he asks, curiously.
“Hard to describe to anyone who hasn’t tasted it,” Dean says, “Like most things. It’s – sweet. Kind of makes the inside of your mouth feel cold when you inhale.”
Cas looks at him, watches the lights of the road reflect in his green gaze.
“Hey, we can get some, if you want,” Dean says, nodding towards the road, “There’s a gas station just up ahead, I wouldn’t mind stopping to stretch my legs anyway.”
“I would like that,” Cas smiles at the thought of getting to taste a little piece of Dean’s history, watches as the lights get brighter and the car slows, pulling into the empty gas station.
Outside, it’s cold, the dark biting at Cas’s skin as he waits for Dean to return from the kiosk. He leans against the cool, smooth metal of the impala, stares skywards for a while. It’s cloudy, the sky is swollen with snow. Cas likes not being able to see the heavens, sometimes. On days like this, earth is full enough of wonder all by itself. The greasy spill of gas station lights on frozen concrete, a little metal box of memories in his pocket, Dean’s footsteps echoing through the quiet towards him. The lights of heaven could never compare.
“Here,” Dean’s nose is pink from the cold, eyes bright as he leans back against the car beside Cas, hands him a paper packet. “Peppermint candy canes. Go on, knock yourself out.” He sticks his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and stares up at the sky, like Cas had been moments before. Cas wonders whether Dean is comforted by the blankness too, or if he aches for the far-distant twinkling lights and their warmth, so long absent from his own life.
“Will you have one too?” Cas asks, peering into the bag and tentatively drawing out one of the striped candies before handing it back to Dean.
“Why not?” Dean’s fingers are warm against Cas’s for a moment, rough with calluses, and then there’s nothing again. He pulls out a candy and stuffs the paper bag into his pocket, begins unwrapping the little umbrella-shaped stick. “I can’t remember the last time I had one of these, you know. Probably the Christmas before Sam went off to college.” He puts the candy between his lips, sucks. Cas suddenly has to catch his breath, cold and startling in his lungs. “Hey, what are you waiting for?” Dean is looking at Cas, lips red and plump around the candy, eyes bright in the cold air.
“Oh,” Cas looks down at his own untouched candy, brings it up to his mouth and sucks experimentally. “It’s like… toothpaste,” he frowns at Dean, letting the cool, clean taste fill his mouth. He sucks again, slower, trying to get a sense of the flavour. “It’s quite nice.”
Dean’s cheeks are pink with the cold now too. “Uh – yeah, it is, I guess.” He’s looking at Cas intently in the muted lights of the deserted gas station, with an expression that is familiar yet unreadable and makes Cas feel warm even in the cold.
“This is what Christmas tasted like to you?” Cas sucks the candy again, looks at Dean.
“Once, I suppose so,” Dean sounds distracted, but his tone doesn’t match the intent focus in his gaze as he looks at Cas. The cold has made his cheeks flush darker still, and the light is muted enough that only an arc of green is visible around the black of his pupils.
“It does make my mouth feel cold,” Cas observes, with interest. He sucks the candy further into his mouth and pulls it out with a pop, feeling the cool cleanness of the air being pulled between his lips. Dean clears his throat slightly. “I haven’t encountered any other food that has this effect,” Cas licks slowly at the tip of the candy, and is aware of Dean inhaling sharply, “Do you know what causes it?”
“I don’t,” Dean’s voice is slightly hoarser than usual.
“Very interesting,” Cas contemplates, licking the tip of the candy again with a swirl of his tongue. Dean makes a stifled sound, and Cas looks up with a frown. “Don’t you want yours?” he asks, eyeing Dean’s uneaten candy, “Or do you only enjoy them when you can eat them with Sam? I’m sorry, I know I can’t provide that part of the tradition for you.”
“Sam isn’t the only person I can have good memories with, Cas. This can be a new tradition, okay?” Dean says, and he’s glowing, so beautiful here in the cold all lit up. “But,” he pauses, swallowing, “You’re right, I’m not sure I want mine.”
“You don’t?” Cas frowns, worriedly. He pulls his own candy away from his mouth.
The colour is high on Dean’s cheeks as he shakes his head, “No. I think I’d rather have yours, actually.” And before Cas can say anything, Dean’s lips are suddenly on his, soft and warm, so warm in the cold air. Cas feels as though he’s been holding his breath for years and is suddenly able to breathe. It’s wonderful, the heat of Dean’s mouth against his, the slick of his tongue twining with Cas’s, tasting of peppermint and making something hot curl deep in Cas’s stomach. His hands are cupping Cas’s face, rough skin, tender touch. Cas is breathing hard when Dean pulls back, both of their breath clouding the December air between them. “Tastes better on you,” Dean grins, and it’s a beautiful thing, tentative and free here in the cold without heaven watching.
Cas reaches out and grabs the lapels of Dean’s leather jacket, pulls him in again. This time it’s harder, urgent, Dean’s breath coming in stifled gasps into Cas’s mouth as Cas presses him back against the impala, sinks into the heat of Dean’s mouth, the warm, hard line of Dean’s body, pliant under him. He can taste the desperation on Dean’s tongue along with the peppermint, and he chases it, deepening the kiss until Dean is groaning against him, clutching at Cas’s coat. Cas thinks he might be making noises too, but he can’t think about anything except Dean, here at last in all the ways he should be, warm and real. Oblivion.
In his coat pocket, he can feel the outline of the little peppermint tin where their heartbeats edge closer to each other. He smiles against Dean’s mouth, loves that he’ll never be able to taste peppermint without remembering this; the shine of Dean’s eyes in the muted December lights, the heat of their bodies pressed together, the sky frozen and empty overhead, a blank canvas for their own stars.