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Dean worries his tooth with his tongue. Despite the eggnog and candy, he can still kinda taste the unforgiving metal of the wrench. Slightly acidic, metallic, sour, and coated lightly in lubricating oil. He can feel the phantom of it, pressing his mouth open, stretching the corners of his lips. The way it almost gagged him. His tongue fluttering, bumping against it over and over. Saliva gathered in his mouth and carried the wrench’s flavor down to his gut. He remembers the grip of the ribbed metal pincers clamping around his molar. The sound of it maybe something only he could hear, eerie and nauseating and wrong . The awful feeling of the scrape of the wrench on his tooth. The beginning of the yank.
His whole body was tense, anticipating the pull and the pain. The way that even his resistance would make it worse, would help rip the tooth free.
He remembers the doorbell, cutting through the terror. Dean’s never put much faith at all in God, Christmas, the stories in the carols the Carrigan’s were invited to sing. But. There was a little bit of savior-arriving in that doorbell chime. Small in scope as not-having-a-tooth-pulled-when-you’re-already-bleeding-and-tied-up may be.
Of course when Mr-fake-Carrigan-pagan-God grabbed the wrench (“Sweet Peter on a popsicle stick I forgot the tooth”), Dean knew it had to be for him. Had to make it be. A fingernail will grow back. But he wasn’t gonna let Sam get a tooth pulled this young. Had his whole life stretching before him. Long time to miss a tooth.
And four months missing a tooth – that’s hardly any time at all.
Sam’s snoring softly across the room, open mouth the way he always is after he drinks. Full set of teeth.
Dean knows he’s imagining it when he thinks his tongue feels little indents left on his tooth from the wrench. But he still feels them. Runs his tongue over and over.
It’s late. Really late. The eggnog’s effect has worn off by now and Dean lies awake and wishes he hadn’t spent the last few days talking about how this was his last Christmas cause it was and now it’s over and all he can think about is –
Maybe it was stupid to worry about losing a tooth when he’s about to – Not gonna be much left of him soon anyway. What, worms are gonna chat to each other about how this skull’s one tooth short? Or whatever’s left after the pyre – no one’s gonna be keeping track. And it would have only been a moment of pain anyway. He could hack it. Always has. Nah, it really wouldn’t have been so bad. Not long, anyway.
Dean clenches his jaw. Teeth nesting all together. Yeah, four months is hardly –
~~~
The kids are asleep. Wiped out and happy. Full of food and love. Dean hopes.
The door to his and Cas’ room closes with the soft sound of worn hinges and homemade carpentry.
Dean had kind of expected Cas to be asleep since he was up first with the kids but he’s still awake, propped up against the headboard with several pillows and Braiding Sweetgrass. His brow is furrowed perfectly and Dean just watches for a moment as Cas’ eyes scan the pages.
Dean brushes his teeth with their bathroom door open so he can lean against the frame and look back into their room at Cas.
The minty flavor of the paste clears away the creamy sweet of the eggnog – without rum this time. Dean does a final pass over his teeth, runs his tongue around to make sure he doesn’t feel like he’s missed a spot, spits, gargles, and smiles at Cas when the noise lifts his eyes from his book.
Dean’s shuffling his jeans off before he’s fully back in the bedroom, tossing them aside for what will undoubtedly be a day of cleaning tomorrow. Cas giggles, again, at the mistletoe boxers. Dean pulls his shirt off so he matches Cas’ bare torso. So when he slides into bed next to Cas, he can feel heat and skin and softness. The way their bodies almost feel magnetic like this.
“Socks,” Cas grumbles softly as Dean’s feet find his under the covers.
“You gave me these socks,” Dean argues softly against Cas’ neck. The socks are thick, green, woolen, and Dean thinks his feet have maybe never actually been warm before he slipped them on this morning, laughing as wrapping papers fell off his lap onto the floor. He might never take them off.
Cas sleeps barefoot. And often slips his chilly toes between Dean’s calves – not that Dean’s complaining.
Cas slips his bookmark in and lays the book down on the bedside table. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s wonderful.” His voice trembles slightly.
“You’re crying,” Dean says, softly, worried.
“It’s moving writing,” Cas says. “The opening story is especially…But good. Thank you.”
Dean nestles closer. “Do you think the kids had a good day?”
“Yes,” Cas chuckles. He must catch the genuine concern in Dean’s voice because he wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulder, reassuring. “Yes, Dean. I am sure they did.”
“Good, good,” Dean says, nodding into Cas’ side. Dean breathes, “Wanna – wanna give them – never had this kind of thing when we were…” he trails off.
Cas hums in that low, sympathetic way he does. He knows what Dean means. This isn’t the first time a holiday has brought up this kind of stuff. Sometimes Dean’s surprised himself with how much he wants to talk about it – to talk to Cas about it. But not right now. He doesn’t have much he wants to say. Cas’ warm body and reassuring arm and the memory of the kids’ grins is enough. More than enough.
“You gave them a wonderful day,” Cas says, “I like this – the making traditions with you – with them.”
“Don’t ‘spose you did much Christmas celebrating before either,” Dean says. “Heaven can’t have been all that on board with Pagan calendars and Santa Claus.”
“No,” Cas says softly. “Though they did always use it as a time to remind us of the Story – Christ and Salvation and…” he waves his hand through the air and sighs. “Indoctrination requires ritual.”
Dean nods. Runs his hand across Cas’ chest, letting the weight of it show his care, his anger at what Cas went through.
“It was all a lie,” Cas sighs. “I mean, that story.” He sinks a little lower into the bed, a little deeper into Dean’s arms. “He loved that story,” Cas says. The way he says “he,” means Chuck. The rage that will never go away, stays smoldering. The pain that cracks in Cas’s throat just a little.
Dean wraps Cas close. Listens.
“Sending an infant into the world to save it,” Cas scoffs. “To die…. And, of course, He said it was just the one time. Just the one sacrifice. But… he just kept doing it. The only way is for them to die over and over. He –” Cas’ breathing is heavy. Dean can feel him tensed under his hands.
Dean thinks of Cas’ own son – their son. About Chuck’s solution to save the world – Kill Jack. Chuck’s lie.
“It was almost the same, right, with Jack? That’s what you’re saying? Kid is a god before he’s born so he barely gets to be a kid. Then boom, somehow the solution’s for him to die?” Dean says. “He should have never done that to Jack.” Dean grabs Cas’ fisted hand, squeezes his fingers into it. “He should never have done that.”
“Yes,” Cas says, weighty and full, “Yes and he should not have done it to you.”
Dean’s shocked enough he almost lets go. He’s up on his elbow going, “Come on, Cas.” Then, softly. “I – it wasn’t…”
But Cas has caught Dean in his eyes and Dean doesn’t know how to argue.
“Yes. Yes, it was,” Cas says. “And He shouldn’t have.”
Dean doesn’t know what to do. To say. He folds back down under Cas’ arms. He holds on and lets Cas squeeze him close. Cas’ voice plays over in his head, “He should not have done it to you.”
After a little while, Cas says, firm, “That’s not how you save the world.”
Dean nuzzles into Cas’ chest. He’s tired. One kind of tiredness is from the day. From giggling children and cooking and eating and phone calls to folks across state lines. The other kind is older, longer. But, while it’s still there, and probably will be for a while, Dean is resting. He knows he is.
“How do you save the world?” Dean says, quietly, circling a finger through the soft hairs of Cas’ stomach.
“Homosexuality, apparently,” Cas says.
And then they’re laughing. Cas’ grin broad and pleased and Dean, delighted and in love. And so, when they kiss, their smiles are still so full and wide that their teeth bump, just a little.