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Castiel has a plan. He starts in increments, by introducing boughs of holly to the bunker.
“It’s fascinating,” Cas says, when called on it, “the symbolism humans will imbue such ordinary things with. It’s pagan use is long standing, of course, but finding religious meaning in the shape of the leaves, the red of the berries— it’s endearing, I suppose. You all have such imaginative ways of considering the world.”
Sam pokes the sharped edge of one such leaf, and winces. “Yeah, I get that. Plus, y’know, there’s some lore that says holly helps prevent persecution. I think witches used to hang it on their doors to ward off evil spirits. Probably still do.”
Dean elbows him, leans in conspiratorially. He made fun earlier, but as he’s the driving force behind this sudden bout of holiday cheer, Cas suspects he was just envious that he didn’t think of it first. “Guess we can cross Scrooge off the guest list then, huh?”
“It should be a ghost-free celebration, yeah.”
“Sweet,” says Dean. “Do you think it’s too early for me to start cooking? Gonna have a lot of hungry hippos climbing these walls, I don’t wanna be the one telling Claire we’re out of roast beef.”
“We’ve got a week, Dean, I think we’re good.”
“Can never be too prepared,” Dean says, and clucks his tongue. To Cas, he adds; “Dad always tried to do Christmas, never really did anything bigger than a roast chicken from the gas station. This year it’s gonna be awesome.”
The second plant Cas decorates with is a bunch of poinsettias from the local gardening store. He likes the bright red bracts, and places the arrangement unselfconsciously over Russia on the map table. Dean pulls a face at it, but he doesn’t comment. The multi-coloured lights strung up from the banister paint the flowers in fractured reflections, bouncing up from the glass to colour the leaves in glowing spots. Dean suggests they get a disco ball.
The third plant Cas introduces is the mistletoe.
As the reason for the other two red-herrings, Cas considers the placement of this plant with more care. He eventually settles on hanging it from the doorway to the kitchen; it has reasonable flow, Dean will be in there often, and Cas can probably spin some small deception about the irony of placing something inedible around food. It’s the first addition to the bunker that makes Dean truly pause.
“Hey, buddy,” he says as Cas is towering up on a steel chair, stems held between his teeth as he attaches one of the stick-on hooks he got from the Walmart above the door. “Watcha got there?”
“Mistletoe,” Cas explains, muffled. He removes the plant to speak more clearly, but remains focused on his task. “It symbolises peace, friendship, and has also been said to prevent witches from entering abodes. I thought this was an appropriate place—I imagine you’d like your kitchen tampered with as little as possible by Rowena.”
He watches his own hands loop the string around the hook, securing it in a bunny knot so that the bunch of berries hangs just below the door frame. From below, Dean says, “Right.”
There’s the sound of fabric brushing against itself, the fumbling noise of Dean trying and failing to shove his hands in his pockets. “Uh. It symbolise anything else?”
Carefully, Cas looks away from the flower, and down at Dean’s head. He tilts his own to the side. “What do you mean?”
“It— nothing,” Dean says, debating with himself. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It looks great.”
It’s too early in the plan to feel disheartened— Cas has already accounted for this hiccup, and will address it shortly. For now he just blinks twice, and takes the offered assistance to step down from the chair. Dean’s eyes dart upward.
“Mistletoe,” he says, and drops Cas’ hand. “Well. Can’t deny we’re festive now.”
Cas isn’t sure what to say to that, so he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to seem overly eager, overly obvious in this small, self-indulgent little scheme he’s cooked up. But, if Cas were cataloguing his scheme, his one-person conspiracy, then he thinks he would mark phase one as complete.
*
By Christmas itself, the second hurdle has already been mastered with very little effort or difficulty on Cas’ own behalf. Eileen, who Cas has quickly discovered has all the subtlety of one of his siblings, has already kissed him under the mistletoe with great fanfare, helpfully when both Sam and Dean were also in the room. She was a very good kisser, but Cas appreciated her outlining the specifications of getting caught under the plant more than the specification itself, in this case.
The upside is, of course, that now everybody knows everybody else knows just what the mistletoe tradition entails, including Dean, who didn’t seem to want to enlighten Cas when he thought Cas believed otherwise. A small issue that has now been taken care of.
Although it’s early, Dean has already opened the kitchen up for business; his preparation work from yesterday is laid out neatly across the metal surfaces, various oven trays lined up and ready to be filled with cut and washed vegetables. The pumpkin, apple and rhubarb pies are still in the fridge, ready to go in at a moment’s notice. It’s all been meticulously planned. It’s only half past eight in the morning.
Dean is already running about like the place is haunted.
“Hello,” Cas says as he comes to a stop beside Sam, surveying the damage. Sam is leaning against the doorframe with his coffee in hand, a look of dawning dread starting to creep over his features.
“Hey,” Sam says. He seems to sense Cas’ apprehension to brave the warzone that has opened up in their kitchen (although Eileen is resolutely making her breakfast regardless, while Dean taps his foot hard enough to make a dent as he waits for her to make space), and offers up his own coffee cup. “Here.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says. He sips at Sam’s coffee and watches Dean, and contemplates his next move.
As an angel, he possesses no small skill at multi-tasking. He can double-check the ingredients list on a box of brownie mix and still, in a smaller corner of his mind, be fantasising about rescuing Dean from the clutches of a giant Gorilla. It’s not the intended purpose of the skill, but Cas rarely uses his skills for their intended purpose, anymore.
There’s an obstacle to the mistletoe operation that Cas hasn’t yet been able to overcome. Traditionally, he knows, it’s men and women who kiss under the mistletoe. Based off his knowledge of Dean and his upbringing, he suspects that the concept of two men or two women kissing beneath it may not have occurred to him. Therefore, if at some point Dean finds himself cornered under the doorway with Cas, he might not believe that a kiss is appropriate. It is imperative that Cas dissuades him of this belief.
“I should kiss you,” Cas says, loudly, and watches Sam’s face morph into surprise.
“Um,” Sam says, “What?”
The kitchen, Cas notices, is suddenly very still. Cas affects a frown, willing to be made a fool of in service of the greater good.
“Mistletoe,” he says, and points upward. He turns his gaze on Eileen and Dean, as if either of them will offer backup. “I thought that was the custom.”
“Oh,” says Sam, and shakes his head as if to clear it, relaxing. He laughs, a breathless thing. “Right, yeah, sure. A little warning next time, though, dude. Ease into it.”
“Oh,” Cas says. “Sam, I would like to wish you luck in the new year, and so I am going to kiss you, if that’s okay with you. And if Eileen is alright with it.”
He’s not sure if that’s the done thing, but he looks to her and she grins when he repeats the question, so he assumes the courtesy is appreciated. “Go for it, tiger,” she signs, winking, so Cas does. Sam laughs into it, pats Cas’ cheek clumsily with his palm.
“Alright, alright,” Sam says, a little flushed. Cas doesn’t look at Dean. “Geez, this ain’t gonna end badly at all.”
*
Cas is the first to admit that he’s not particularly up to date on the traditional celebrations of this holiday time, but it seems to him that there ought to be more fun and less, as Dean would put it, bitching.
“God, this is stupid, fuckin’ hell,” Dean is saying, clanging about in the kitchen cupboards (Cas is hovering by the door). He’s been markedly more uptight since Jody and the girls arrived, which happened to coincide with three different egg timers going off. “Goddammit, man, I told Sam to clean this after he used it.”
He sets the bowl on the counter violently. Music and the cheery sound of their family talking echoes down the bunker halls, right into this miserable spot that is the kitchen. Cas debates the merits of each room; mistletoe or no, the chances of Dean discovering it was him who failed to adequately clean the cooking pot seem higher if he stays.
“Hey,” Claire says, appearing at Cas’ elbow. “What’s happening?”
“Dean is worried about the potatoes,” Cas says, and Dean mutters something derogatory under his breath.
“Oh, are you doing them mashed?” asks Claire, peering about with interest. She rests her shoulder on the doorframe, languid, and drawls, “You know, my mom used to make the best garlic mashed potatoes. Do these ones have garlic?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Damn. You know, it’s just not Christmas if there’s no garlic mashed potatoes.”
He thinks she’s messing with them, but he’s not sure. And, if garlic mashed potatoes are better than usual mashed potatoes, Claire deserves to have them. Cas looks over at Dean.
“Dean? Are you doing garlic mashed potatoes?”
“No. They’re roasted or plain mashed with butter, take it or leave it.”
“But you have time,” Cas suggests, and Claire says; “Yeah, Dean. You only basically made me an orphan, I feel like adding garlic to a recipe isn’t that hard.”
“Jack doesn’t like garlic,” Cas tells her, and she scrunches up her face.
“Man, that kid’s weird. Has he had garlic bread?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m taking him to get garlic bread. Do you think anywhere’s open? Dean, can you add garlic bread to the menu?”
“Holy fuck,” Dean says, and the cutlery clatters as he gives up on whatever he was doing. “Fine, whatever.” He grabs a handful of garlic cloves from the bowl on the table, slams them on a chopping board and fishes out a knife from the block. “Do that and I’ll make your damn garlic potatoes, plus normal potatoes for Jack. And roast potatoes.” He adds, derisively; “Cas, you got any requests?”
“Actually—”
Dean glares at him. He looks angry, certainly, but also so desperately miserable that Cas takes pity and decides not to ask. It’s not as if changes the recipe will benefit him in any way. “Never mind.”
“Great,” Dean mutters. “Just peachy. Three sets of potatoes. You realise this means we won’t have enough, right?”
“I think there might be some extras stored in the panic room.”
“Oh, yeah, that’ll be swell.” Cas gets the sense that Dean isn’t even really talking to him. “Serve up some musty old bomb shelter potatoes from the sixties.” Without looking up, he points a knife in Cas’ direction. “If you tell me some weird fact about potatoes lasting forever, I’m throwing you outta this room.”
He and Claire trade looks. “Testy,” Claire mouths. Cas shrugs. She blows out her cheeks and meanders over to help out, sending him a little salute.
“I’ll find reinforcements,” offers Cas.
"You do that," says Dean, and Cas is saved from annoyance by the fake suicide that Claire plays out from behind Dean's back, which makes him wonder if she should have been an actress. It's very exaggerated, which he understands is a benefit on the stage.
Please don't hit him, he thinks in Claire's direction, and Claire sighs loudly and gets to work on crushing garlic.
*
“So is this… normal?” asks Jack, looking around at their friends. The desks in the library have been pushed together in the middle to form one large table, and since there’s no food yet, it seems the main attraction of choice has been to imbibe serious amounts of alcohol. Everyone is well on their way to being hammered. Donna is loudly telling Sam about her newest partner, Doug. This is amusing for a reason Cas hasn’t quite figured out.
“I’m— not sure,” Cas admits, frowning at the cracker that just exploded between Kaia and Patience in a burst of purple smoke. He suspects they’re Rowena’s handywork. “I suppose it is all a bit— loud.”
“Just a little,” says Jack, with a smile. “It’s good, though, everyone being here. Kaia and I thought we might go and walk in the snow later, if you want to come.”
Cas grins. “That sounds nice. Are you going to wear your new jacket?”
“Yeah!” As if reminded of it, Jack tugs at the sleeves to reposition them, beaming down at the blue and yellow fabric. “It’s super cool, Cas, thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Cas says, pleased, as if the way Jack hasn’t taken it off all day hadn’t already clued him in that it was a success. "If you want, I think Dean was after some help in the kitchen."
Jack scrunches up his nose. Cas sighs. "Yes, I thought that might be the case. Don't worry. I'll find somebody, I expect."
In the end he enlists Jody to help in the kitchen, to raucous and equal amounts of booing and offers to help. Cas suspects these are mostly made out of politeness rather than genuine willingness; everybody seemed willing to assist when they arrived, but Dean has created an atmosphere where everyone seems to agree it’s best to just let him get on with it. Still, the gesture is nice.
Using the electric beater on a bowl of cream and not giving it nearly as much the attention it deserves, Cas laments. He has spent, he calculates, approximately just over half of his morning in the general vicinity of the kitchen, and so far the day’s mission has been a dire failure. He has kissed Eileen twice, been kissed by Rowena once (very enthusiastically), but Dean seems to have a conviction not to cross the kitchen’s threshold when Cas is in the way, which means it is all worthless.
Well, it’s nice, sort of. He hadn’t given it much thought, but he supposes it’s somewhat reassuring that nobody has reacted with horror at the prospect just yet. In fact it’s been quite a hit— several kisses Cas hasn’t been parry to have taken place by now, some friendly and some to an onlooker’s wolf whistle, and he suspects the number will grow alongside the empty bottles. So far Dean has been involved in none of them.
He would worry about his scheme, that perhaps it is, in fact, too obvious, and that he’s been seen through, but it doesn’t seem like Dean’s avoiding him on purpose. It doesn’t even seem like he’s avoiding the mistletoe. He is, simply, a man on a mission to cook enough food to feed a small village.
“You weren’t kidding about the headless chook dance,” says Jody as she rearranges the fridge to cram in their newly made trifle, whipped cream and all. Dean is getting something from downstairs, hence the chance to gossip. Whiskey for the pudding, Cas thinks. He wasn’t paying attention.
“Yeah,” says Cas. “He says he wants to make up for all the, uh, crappy ones.”
Jody laughs. “All Christmases are crappy. That’s what makes them Christmas.”
“I see,” Cas says, although he doesn’t. “I should probably find him—everything is on a very tight schedule. I’m not sure if the beeping means to turn over or take out.”
“Yeah, I got no clue. He probably got swept up by Donna on his way back.” Jody has a pair of felt antlers on her head, and her cheeks are ruddy from the wine, but she looks delightful. Cas has been very glad to spend time with her. “I’ll go get him, send him back this way. You coming?”
“Yeah, I’m just getting more chips.”
“You want a hand?”
“I’ve got this.”
Jody shrugs and heads out; Cas bundles up the chips in his arms, tries to determine how long he should fuss with these so as to time his departure with Dean’s entrance. Waiting by the door seems too suspicious. He fumbles about until footsteps start to echo in his direction, and then he sweeps them up in his arms, heads for the door, and runs right into Charlie.
“Cas!” she giggles, a little loopily, and punches him in the arm. “Hey, there you are! I’ve been looking for my best bud. How are you, man?”
“Hello, Charlie,” Cas says. “I’m well, thank you. A little… overwhelmed by all the noise.”
Charlie pulls a face. “Yeah, I get that. Hey, what do you say that you, me and the kid duck outta here after food, huh? We’ll put Home Alone on in the Deancave, chill out a bit.”
“That sounds nice,” Cas says, shifting the packets of chips. “Although I don’t know that Dean—”
“Dude, doorways,” complains the man in question, having snuck up behind them. Not for the first time today, Cas wishes the place wasn’t so busy— he keeps losing track of Dean in the fray, which makes conspiring very inconvenient. “Charlie, shift it.”
“Okay, Grinch,” she says, but Cas doesn’t budge.
“What?” Dean snaps, looking over Cas’ shoulder at the oven. Cas can practically see his need to get back to the food vibrating under his skin, and it’s poor timing, certainly, but it’s also the only timing that has presented itself so far.
“You’re under the mistletoe,” Cas says, and points at it helpfully. Dean spares it a glance, blinking like he forgot it was there.
“Oh, right.” He’s got one foot in the kitchen already, his cheeks flushed pink and flustered, but for the briefest second he hesitates to plant a kiss on Charlie’s cheek. “There you go.”
He pushes past Cas and jogs off towards the stovetop, hitting the dial that stops the incessant beeping. Cas stares after him mournfully. He’d even go so far to class himself as despondent, like a dog waiting for scraps. It’s terrible. When he looks back at Charlie, her purple lipstick has migrated to her chin as a result of the way she’s pressed her lips together so tightly, and he pulls his shoulders back so violently that the chip packets crinkle.
“Charlie,” Cas says, stiffly. Charlie inclines her head.
“Castiel.”
“I’m going to take the chips to the party.”
“Of course,” Charlie says, seriously. Asmile breaks across her face, devious and teasing. “But not without a kiss, I hope! Dean! Come here and kiss Castiel!”
His wings flip, mortified, but maybe—
“Potatoes,” grunts Dean, and Cas sours. Charlie only just manages to hold in her laughter.
“You’re no fun,” she says. “I’ll kiss you, Cas.”
“That’s not necessary,” Cas says, but Charlie shushes him.
“What are friends for!” she says, and grabs his face with both hands, tugging until he’s hunched over enough for her to smack his lips with her own. “Et voila!” she giggles, and then, wincing, scrubs his mouth with her fingers. “Oh, sorry. At least purple’s your colour!”
“Thank you,” Cas says. He’s already past three strikes, now. No reason not to keep going.
*
When all three kinds of potatoes are, finally, laid on the table, Cas is persuaded into trying a mouthful of each. He finds that he agrees with Claire about the garlic, and Dean even lightens up enough to grin when Cas says so. There is food and laughter and love and smiles, so much of it that Cas feels overwhelmed all over again, for different reasons. He finds himself staring at each member of his family in turn, cataloguing and observing, wondering if it would be possible to keep all of them safe and shrouded for all eternity.
“It feels like glitter is exploding inside of you, right?” Charlie suggested earlier, and he supposes that’s adequate a description enough.
The movie that Charlie promised is turned into a group affair once it becomes known of, with all dozen or so of them traipsing into the Deancave. Cas gives up his typical recliner to Jack as Sam and Eileen pull in other chairs and pillows, the two beanbags that have been lying around recently. Donna brings in trays of what she declares her famous hot chocolate, piled high enough with whipped cream and marshmallows to give even Cas a cavity.
“There aren’t enough seats,” declares Dean, suddenly, and the startled rabbit look is back on his face.
“I’ll stand,” Cas offers, immediately, in the hopes of placating it. He won’t mind, it’s not very different to sitting. Still, Dean looks appalled at the prospect.
“Hey, no, no, I’ll find one.” He hands off his own mug to Sam. “Uh, you guys get started, I’ll just be a second. Wait here.”
There’s a chorus of objections that Dean waves off, his fingers twitching. “Seriously, I’ve seen it plenty, I know the score. Gimme five, Cas. I’ll fix it.”
It takes Dean a lot longer than five minutes. It’s not until the boy has been left home alone that Cas quietly excuses himself from the room; he misses Dean’s commentary, and privately thinks he would like the film better if Dean were next to him, nudging his arm and whispering in his ear as he tends to do. He pokes his head into various rooms, but finds Dean, as he should’ve expected, in the kitchen. His hands are curled into fists, pressing against his forehead where he curls over the counter.
“Dean?”
Dean looks up. “Shoulda known,” he says, with a weak smile. “Sorry. Just— needed a second, I guess.”
“It’s okay. Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, blowing out his breath. He scrubs at his eyes, slouching. “Yeah, just. I didn’t even think of the chairs, you know? Man. And, I mean, dammit, I just—now you’re not even watching the movie. Kinda fucked it up even worse, huh?”
“Of course not,” says Cas, indignant. “It’s been a good day, Dean.”
“Yeah?” His voice is small, uncertain.
“Yeah,” says Cas, and Dean nods.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Jesus. I just got in my head, I guess.”
“We all do,” says Cas, kindly, and Dean relaxes. He pushes himself up from the counter, nudging Cas towards the door.
“Let’s go find that chair, huh? Gotta have one lying around somewhere, I just know it. Maybe we can kick Alex off the recliner and, uh.”
“Dean?”
Dean hesitates; Cas feels himself similarly pulled to a stop. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Dean says. "It's just, uh."
He points upwards, head craning back. Cas does the same, even though it's not necessary.
“Oh," he says.
“Yeah." Dean's laugh is strained. “Right, well, uh. I won’t tell if you won’t?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, y’know,” says Dean. His cheeks are a little flushed from the eggnog or the stress, his mouth pink and shiny. Cas is, of course, willing to kiss him. He’s always willing to kiss him, but Dean gestures around at the deserted hall and kitchen. “No one’ll know if we skip tradition.”
Ah. Of course. Cas isn’t sure why he feels disappointed; it was, always, the most likely conclusion. Still—
“It’s bad luck,” he tries. Dean’s throat bobs as he deliberates. It doesn’t help. Cas wants to eat him.
“I— well, yeah, okay, fine, just a quickie. Lay it on me.”
Cas blinks. The plan (the foolish, terrible plan) was always for Dean to kiss him, not the other way around. It was a gift for Cas, not for Dean. Gifts are supposed to be things you want.
Still, though. Dean deserves affection, he deserves to be treated kindly and with love. He may not want it from Castiel, may not appreciate it in the same sense he might others, but perhaps it will not be a completely hopeless endeavour. Dean’s eyes are already closed, a slight frown in his brow as he waits. He’s very beautiful. Cas cradles his jaw and kisses him once, soft and quick as requested, before pulling back to survey Dean’s red face. They stare at each other.
“Happy Christmas,” Cas tries.
“Yeah,” says Dean, again. His voice cracks. “Well I’m gonna, uh. Get that chair.”
“Right,” Cas says, and thinks back to what Jody said to him earlier, about Christmases. Today has been wonderful, but perhaps she does have a slight point. Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair if they all went according to plan. The idea is very annoying.
It also, unfortunately, seems to have been declared right.
*
The problem, Cas decides late, was that he failed to account for Dean’s desire to impress. Next year, perhaps, if he can gather up enough self-pity to repeat the experiment, he may have to schedule it for the days prior to the party, when Dean won’t spend his day highly-strung and on edge, too preoccupied with preparing the perfect meal to be distracted by such flights of fancy as flower traditions.
It’s night time. Everyone is tucked away, safe, in their beds; the bunker hums with soul energy, a golden fizzle that puts Cas at ease enough that he considers rivalling them and attempting sleep himself. And yet, for some reason, he is sitting in the kitchen, and he is staring at the damn mistletoe.
He’s not miserable, exactly. He’s enjoying himself far too much for that. He thinks he might be in what Sam calls a sulk.
The kitchen is abruptly bathed in light, warm yellow where there was only black. Cas readjusts. “What the fuck,” says Dean’s voice.
“Hello, Dean.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Dean asks, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles as he shuffles in, his hot dog pyjama pants creasing around his thighs. He gets himself a glass of water, oblivious to the bout of lust Cas is suffering through. “Do you just sit in the dark at night like a freak?”
“I was hungry,” Cas says, after a pause. This is at least partially true. Dean brightens.
“Yeah? Help yourself to the leftovers, man, we got plenty. Next year I’m gonna have to go easy on the potatoes.”
Through years of practice, Cas doesn’t strangle him. Though he expects Dean to leave now that he has what he came for, he doesn't; he just orbits Castiel in comfortable silence, sipping at his water.
“Hey, look, I’m sorry about earlier, man,” says Dean quietly, after a moment. “It’s just been a weird day, you know? I got kind of wired.”
“I know,” Cas says. He looks over at him, soft. “It’s alright.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean says. “I mean, I thought about it, and who am I to deny you good luck, right? Like, we kinda need all we can get, in this household. So, uh."
He reaches out and tugs on Cas’ sleeve. When he doesn’t respond, Dean tugs more insistently. He supposes he’s meant to follow. Dazed, Cas follows him and his uncertain steps, falls into a habit he thought he trained himself out of long ago and ends up with his shoes nearly bumping Dean’s socked feet. Dean gives him a weak smile.
“Here,” Dean says, fingers still warm on Cas’ wrist, faint pulse beating against Cas’ skin. “Or, okay, no, wait—” He reaches out and hits the light switch, plunging them into darkness. “I dunno if this is weirder or not. Anyway.”
Something bumps against Cas’ left shoulder. It’s Dean’s other hand. “Yeah, right. Okay. Uh, Merry Christmas, or whatever,” Dean says, and before Cas can respond, he can't.
Dean kisses him like it’s an easy thing to do. It sort of is, Cas guesses. One moment there is no mouth on his, and then there is one. Easy.
The kiss is— if Cas had to describe it, he supposes he’d go with nice, though that doesn't seem right. He doesn’t know what else to call it in English, is not even sure he could scrounge up the words in Enochian. Perhaps if he had all the sunsets of the world at his disposal, but then perhaps that would be too grand. It’s the same feeling that welled him up at the dinner table, just happy. Just love.
“Thank you,” Cas says when they part, a little gravelly even by his standards. Dean gleams in the dark, lit up by moonlight even when there is none. Cas feels a little dizzy.
“Yeah,” Dean whispers. He clears his throat. Cas desperately wants to put his hand on it, to feel the vibration. “Um, y’know, that was kind of just a, uh. A do-over. For earlier. So now I gotta, y’know. For this time. ‘Cause of, you know, tradition.”
Cas does not know, but Dean puts his warm, gentle palm on Cas’ face, and he kisses him again, so it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t dare move until they part, and even then he only adjusts his weight a fraction. For a terrible, agonising set of seconds, Dean doesn’t move away, just stays close. Cas can feel his breath on his cheek, can feel himself breathing it in, taking what Dean gives him. Dean kisses him again, very slowly, enough that Cas feels himself pulled apart.
He wonders, when they're not kissing, whether it's possible he is asleep and dreaming.
“You gotta do it three times,” Dean explains roughly, his voice mere inches away. “For it to count as lucky. That’s the, uh. The rules.”
“I see,” Cas says, with great effort. Dean squeezes his wrist.
“Yeah.”
There is a long silence.
“I’ll have to remember that,” Cas says, for lack of anything else to. “For— next time.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, again. “I should, uh. I should go back to bed. Big day, or whatever.”
“Of course,” Cas says. His hands clench by his sides. “Goodnight, Dean.”
“Night, Cas.”
Cas stands in the kitchen for a long, long time. He touches his own mouth and finds that he is smiling.