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It’s not that weird.
That’s what Dean keeps telling himself, anyway, even though it’s not, objectively, that weird. A little clingy, sad, pathetic and desperate, sure, but weird? Dean eats weird for breakfast. This isn’t that weird.
He has to plan it, obviously. He’s not an idiot, he’s not just gonna rush into this half-cocked and expect it to all work out. As far as he can tell, he and Sam have been a little lax when it comes to getting Cas up to speed on earthly traditions, especially those vis a vie excuses to kiss your best friend. Dean was foolish enough to nearly let the mistletoe thing slip through his grasp, he is not going to make the same mistake this time.
So, first things first— he has to make sure Cas knows what he’s getting into. Honestly, that’s kind of the best part of the whole thing; Dean sets them up in the Deancave with snacks and When Harry Met Sally on the DVR, ready to spend the night leaning into Cas’ space and explaining pieces of trivia to him, taking any and all excuses to bump elbows. It sounds sleazy, but. Okay, well, maybe it is. Dean’s been doing it for going on a decade, though, so he’s kind of outta luck on the redemption score.
Maybe that can be his resolution for the year— stop goggling Cas. Because his life’s deserving of even less pleasures.
“I don’t understand this premise,” Cas says, almost as soon as it gets started. It’s said sort of conversationally, a bit like he’s trying to goad Dean into opening up about it. That’s the thing about Cas; he doesn’t really know any better, so he thinks movies are supposed to have audience participation because that’s what Dean’s taught him. If he found it annoying, though, he probably wouldn’t toss out so many prompts, and he sure as hell doesn’t seem to find anyone else’s insights quite as exciting. Dean has to tuck his smile away behind his hand, aiming for casual and landing on gleeful.
“Yeah? Which bit?”
“Plenty of men and women are friends with each other without sexual interest becoming a problem. To say they can’t be friends seems like a dramatization.”
“Yeah, well, that’s how these films go. They set up the couple at the beginning, make it like they kinda don’t like each other even though everyone knows they’re gonna fall in love by the end. It’s the playbook.”
Cas squints at the TV. “I think he’s cynical.”
He takes a bite of his liquorice strip (Dean glanced over to see if he had anything else to add and then got stuck waiting to see his reaction to the snack, okay, it’s not weird, he’s just making notes on what to get next time), and promptly screws up his face. He blinks a couple of times when he catches Dean looking, somehow managing to make swallowing look apologetic.
“I don’t like this,” he admits, disappointed. Dean blows out his cheeks in a raspberry, hamming it up.
“You and Sam, man, crazy people. It’s the best. Give it here.”
Cas passes the remains over, and Dean sticks it in his mouth. “Classic,” he adds, tearing off a bite. “Oh, hey, look, Carrie Fisher. You remember her from Star Wars, right? Princess Leia.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“I dunno if she really did much stuff after that. This is like, the one movie I can think of that she’s in. Kinda cool to see her doing stuff not as Leia, y’know?”
“I suppose.” Cas slumps a little further down in the couch. It’s new, and leather, and sweet as. Dean picked it up off Craigslist two days ago, someone having a new year clear-out. Honestly, he doesn’t know why he didn’t do it before. They needed the extra seats, and this way, if he’s careful about it, by the end of the movie he might have slouched over just enough that his shoulder will be touching Cas’. “Perhaps if I was more aware of her cultural significance.”
“You think bears are culturally significant,” says Dean. “Pass us another liquorice, would you?”
Cas has a whole bag, but he takes out an individual piece (an allsort, this time), and puts it in Dean’s hand. Dean’s pretty sure he got about half a pound’s worth, which has gotta be, what, twenty pieces? If Cas sticks to dolling them out one by one, that’s one liquorice every five minutes for the duration of the movie. That’s more hand brushing in a night than Dean usually gets in a month.
Jesus fucking Christ, he’s insane.
When Harry Met Sally is kind of a bad choice, honestly. It gets him every time, for starters, but also he can’t help thinking that maybe Cas’ll piece it together. Like the penny will drop in his brain and he’ll realise, huh. That’s what it looks like when one friend is into the other. And then he’ll line that up with a whole couple dozen instances of Dean looking at him like a lovestruck fool. That’d be a kicker.
“I don’t— are they in love yet?” Cas asks, at one point. It’s before the charades scene, right after the double date with Marie and what’s-his-name (Dean is literally watching the movie, he should know that. Maybe he’s not paying very good attention). Dean shrugs. He also shifts a little bit closer to the middle of the couch, but that’s neither here nor there.
“I mean, I guess,” Dean says. “It’s kind of why it’s a good movie, I think. You don’t really know when they fall for each other. Gotta read their faces to figure it out, and that’s not exactly an exact science. You just know that by the end they have.”
Cas presses his lips together. “That’s a nice thought,” he says. “I suppose emotions are hard to pinpoint.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, wiggling around a bit. He wiggles a bit too much, and his knee bumps into Cas’ thigh. After so long, you’d think that it wouldn’t make his brain freeze, think that he wouldn’t immediately be figuring out how to keep it there as long as possible. The point of contact is hot. Body heat always turns out to be hotter that Dean expects. God, he needs to get laid.
Thankfully, Dean doesn’t have to explain the new year’s kiss. Cas points that out all by himself, confusion in his voice.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “Is this another tradition?”
“Yeah.” Dean folds his arms across his chest and doesn’t look at him. “For good luck. You kiss whoever you get stuck next to when the ball drops.”
“I see,” says Cas, and luckily he doesn’t say anything else, because Sinatra starts playing and Dean is a chick-flick fan, so that’s guaranteed to get him. And if he gets a bit teary-eyed over the speech, that’s his business. Cas is just the same.
“It only took three months,” Harry says, and Sally says: “Well, twelve years and three months.”
“Right, right. That’s what I said.”
Then, after, the best bit: Cas giving Dean his review of the film, bringing up the weirdest, most irrelevant factoids that he’s got rattling around in his brain, at a time when they’ve both migrated into the middle of the couch so their sides are all pressed together and Dean can’t look directly at him out of fear he’d do something stupid. He sees Cas up closes and his brain pretty much turns to mush, with an internal monologue he has to make damn sure he keeps buttoned up.
But, this is good. He’s laid the groundwork. Now he just has to try and stop himself from going stir crazy as New Year’s Eve gets relabelled as ‘Kiss Cas (Again!) Day’ in his mind. But that should be fine. He’s got it all handled, and he’s pretty sure he can write off any jitters as a post-Christmas comedown.
They’re traipsing up to Jody’s this time around, for drinks and fireworks and maybe a sparkler or two. He knows they’re going a bit overboard with it, trying to shove in way too many cliches to make the holiday season practical, but hell. It’s the first time Cas and the kid are really around to experience it, and it’s not like the rest of them couldn’t use a breather as well. Dean wants it all to measure up.
At Jody’s party, throughout which Dean has been solidly and resolutely calm, he’s beginning to think he should just toss his watch over the fence before he gets a wrist sprain. He’s been checking the damn thing like crazy ever since they got here, like midnight’s going to sneak up on him without a huge, shouted countdown.
Dean is suddenly struck by a horrible thought, and almost chokes on his damn drink. Sam snickers at him.
“You good?”
Dean mops himself up, scowling. “Yeah, yeah, I just—wrong pipe. What were you saying?”
Sam starts talking again, about witches and the black grimoire and some slight alteration in the Celtic that Dean might find interesting if his brain wasn’t so caught up with other stuff. They should’ve made a no shop-talk rule for tonight, but then he guesses him and Sam might not’ve had anything to talk about.
“Hey,” Dean says, and oh, he’s going for it, apparently. Jesus. “Who are you, you know. Kissing. At midnight.”
“Uh,” Sam says, as the witch talk falters out. He goes a bit pink. “I mean, I don’t wanna assume, it’s not like you plan these things out, and—and no one should have to kiss anyone they don’t want to—”
“So, Eileen,” Dean says, and nods to himself; people are kissing, that’s good. Can’t have him and Cas being the only ones sucking face in the spirit of tradition. “Right, good. Cool.”
“Ye-ah,” Sam says, drawn out. “Anyways, like I was saying—"
Considering Dean saw all these people a week ago, it doesn’t seem right that they’d still all have so much to talk about. He guesses he’s a little less neurotic than he was last time; he has more fun today, actually, than he has in a long time, finds himself laughing loud enough that he’s almost embarrassed by it, thrilled by Donna’s story about her latest boyfriend (another Doug) and taking important, step-dad and step-son bonding time by teaching Jack how to play beer pong. He catches eyes with Cas across the room and has the crazy thought that Cas might not even mind locking lips with him later, if that stupid soft look on his face is any indication.
Midnight creeps closer, dragging on and on until Dean thinks about maybe just shoving Cas into Jody’s pantry and claiming it’s better to get it over and done with before the clock actually tips over. Whoever came up with the whole ‘a watched pot never boils’ idiom is probably laughing at him from beyond, right now, so Dean tugs his sleeve over his watch and vows not to look at it any longer.
When they all finally start trudging outside to light Jody’s illegal fireworks (“Who’re they gonna call?” she jokes, with a tipsy wink, “The Sheriff?”), Dean’s stuck in conversation with Claire, which is more than fine. She’s had a little too much to drink, is telling him about this vampire she killed a couple weeks ago while Dean tries to make sure she doesn’t accidentally trip.
“No, no, Dean,” she says, hanging off his arm, big grin on her face, “I said, ‘cause then I said, y’know, ‘heads up’, and then just— krrrrk. Just like that. Get it? ‘Cause I chopped off it’s head. But I made a pun. Like Buffy.”
Dean grins at her. “Hell yeah, kid. Where are you up to in that, anyway?”
Claire puts her hand on her face. “Oh, my god. No, seriously, because like, I just finished season two, and she’s all like—‘I love you’, to Angel, and then she freakin’—she stabbed him, Dean! Dean! Holy shit.”
Dean laughs at her, craning his neck around. They’ve huddled down at the end of Jody’s yard, in the pitch black, and there’s enough people that someone could disappear in the throng if one wasn’t paying attention. His left wrist starts to twitch.
“God,” Claire says, shaking her head. “It sucked so bad.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He finally gives in and glances at his watch, left leg bouncing something crazy with pent up energy, because he can’t find— “Hey, look, Claire, I gotta—just gimme a sec, okay?”
“Yeah, you’re good. I gotta find my girl anyway,” she says, and slips past Patience in search of Kaia, he guesses. Which is totally fine. Dean’s left towering over everyone and looking around like an idiot.
Jesus, where the hell is Cas? This only works if they, by accident, happen to be standing next to each other at midnight, and like hell is Dean letting that accident happen accidentally. Why are there so many people? He knows, logically, that there isn’t, but it feels like it, it feels like he’s at a bar or a damn club and where in the hell is Cas?
He’s starting to panic, mouth dry, when he thinks to look behind him. And there, a couple yards behind and lit up by the porchlight, is Cas, shining like a beacon.
“Cas,” Dean thinks, relieved, and he knows that’s what the smile on his face is saying. He guesses that’s kind of how they greet each other, now, which is weird. Like, oh, finally. There you are. A similar sort of panic melts off Cas’ face, like maybe he was searching for him too.
“Dean,” his face says, so clearly that Dean’s not convinced he doesn’t actually hear it, somewhere down deep in his bones. Dean peels himself away from the fray as casually as he can, meeting Cas halfway so they’re right at the back. Good. Dean doesn’t wanna do this with an audience.
“I was just getting a drink,” Cas explains, with empty hands. Dean doesn’t say anything, just watches Cas tuck said empty hands into his pockets, watches the way a slice of gold light drapes itself along his neck.
“Yeah, sure.” He might have overestimated the time. Jody sounds like she’s having trouble getting the fireworks started; there’s an increase in chatter that tells Dean he should offer to help, but instead he just steps a little closer into Cas’ space. He’d feel like an idiot, but Cas steps closer too. Always following Dean’s lead.
It feels big. Dean’s not an idiot, he’s well aware that he’s using this as an excuse to do something selfish. But Cas’ Christmas antics are sticking in his mind, and he doesn’t think—well, it’d be crazy, right? To think that Cas might— want that. But. It feels big. It feels new, and different, and shy. And Dean knows what he has to try and hide, and he knows he’s letting it down a little, just to see if Cas does the same. And, horror of all horrors, it kind of feels like he is.
“Jody!” shriek the girls, as Sam starts using his giant, bellowing voice to count down from thirty. With what little Dean can see, he thinks Rowena’s help might have been enlisted. That or someone’s got a purple flashlight.
“So,” Dean says, looking at his feet. “Anything to say to this year before it’s gone?”
“I don’t think so,” Cas says. “Why, do you?”
He shakes his head. Glances at Cas. Grins. “No.”
Cas grins too. They face forwards again, smiling in the dark like a couple of loons. Dean brushes his arm up against Cas’, pretends his heart isn’t somersaulting when Cas shifts ever closer. The countdown hits ten. Then nine, then eight, then seven, and Dean thinks: holy fuck, I am the stupidest person alive. This is a terrible goddamn plan.
But he’s here now, so. The fireworks go off, bang bang bang, and him and Cas dance around who’s going to turn inward first, and it could all end so badly, but for once Dean’s gut is telling him that maybe it might not, and— okay, well, honestly, that’s its own kind of scary, but oh, hell. He’s gonna kiss Cas.
“Happy new year, buddy,” Dean says, biting the bullet and twisting his head. Everyone else is cheering, but somehow it feels like they’re in a bubble. Cas smiles back at him, and yeah, Dean loves him. He leans in and kisses him real soft, like a gentleman, and hangs about there for far too long like a scoundrel. Cas’ hand comes up and curls around his jacket, stays there even after Dean pulls back.
“You said,” starts Cas, a little hoarse, and Dean’s riveted. He tries again twice more after that, speaking to Dean’s neck before he manages to get more than a couple words out, eyes wide and nervous and weirdly determined. “You said three times for luck.”
And Dean would, almost, brush it off. He really would; he’d blame Cas’ lack of knowledge, he’d blame Cas’ bizarre misunderstanding of the things you say and don’t say, he’d blame anything rather than admit that sometimes good things happen. And if anyone’s gonna prove Dean wrong—
“I made that up,” Dean says, right as someone starts up a rendition of Auld Lang Syne. He chokes it out, more like. Cas’ eyes snap up, and aw, hell. What’s Dean got to lose? It’s not like Dean hasn’t done and said plenty of stupider things to him. “I just wanted to keep kissing you.”
He shrugs, glances down. Looks back up at Cas like well, there you go. That’s all I’ve got.
Cas says, “Oh. I see. Well, it— there is some lore, on the number three. Some, uh, ancient cultures believed that the number had magical properties. It’s quite possible that the repetition of the idiom has given it some small merit of true power, similar to the creation of a tulpa.”
“We tulpa-ed a bunch of words?” Dean says, in disbelief, and only when Cas glares at him do things fall into place, and Dean’s knees give their two weeks’ notice. Jesus Christ, thinks Dean, faintly. Cas is flirting. Cas is flirting with him. And he’s horrible at it.
“In a sense,” Cas says, and Dean gives up and kisses him again, grabbing the lapels of his coat and pulling him in way harder than necessary. Cas kisses back.
“Well, there’s two,” says Dean, breathless. Cas’ eyes shine.
“Third time’s the charm,” he rumbles, and he catches Dean’s laughter (faint, delirious) with another kiss. He tucks his head into Cas’ neck, hugs him tight, and he thinks: Yeah, okay. Maybe When Harry Met Sally had a point. Just a small one.