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[November 20th, 07:20 pm]
“Let's celebrate Christmas this year,” Dean says, all of a sudden, in the middle of a movie. They are sitting on their comfortable second-hand couch, cuddled in for warmth. It’s mostly Cas who needs the proximity if the goosebumps on his bare arms are anything to go by. His lips tremble a little when he pulls away just so he can look at his husband.
“We celebrate Christmas every year, Dean,” he points out. Dean just rolls his eyes.
“No, I mean, let's celebrate,” he says, moving his right hand around, as if pointing to the whole room. The same hand throws a blanket at Cas when he sees a shudder of cold again. “I swear, if you don't start putting some actual clothes on—”
“We're at home, I shouldn't have to wear layers at home.”
Dean simply levels Castiel down with a look. As many times before, it works like a charm. Cas grumbles, but covers himself with the blanket and lays his head back on Dean's shoulder.
“You were saying?” he mumbles.
Dean smiles. He places a soft kiss on the nest of Castiel's hair and leans his chin on the place soon after.
“Let's celebrate. And I mean the full Christmas experience. Cookies and milk. Gingerbread. Presents, maybe in stockings,“ he muses, with an absent-minded smile. ”No fake-ass tree. We deserve to christen this place with the smell of the forest. I want the real tree with you.”
Cas smiles. “I'd like the real tree. I like the green of it.”
Dean hums in agreement. “Last time I had a real tree on Christmas, it was before Sam went off to Stanford. Somehow, it didn't make sense to go to all that trouble if he weren't there...”
“But now...?”
Dean's eyes shine when he looks into Cas's.
“Now,” he says, minutely shaking his head. “Now it makes more sense than ever.”
❄
[Christmas morning, December 25th, 09:19 am]
Trust Santa not to eat his cookies. He didn't even drink the milk.
They're still there, set on the coffee table, waiting to be eaten. Cas isn't just going to let them go to waste, not when his stomach rumbles. It's the only part of his body that actually recognises when a new day starts.
The cookies were baked for Santa - Dean told him not to sneak even one crunchy chocolate goodie out of that plate.
He shouldn't, Cas thinks but still reaches for one of the cookies.
He can't.
He promised Dean not to...
Oh God, they taste orgasmic.
It's Dean's own fault for baking these and leaving them out in the open, just to mess with Cas, because surely he doesn't still believe in Santa Claus. Not when he doesn't trust the fictional man with getting them presents.
Cas smiles to himself, making sure that he’s truly alone in the room, and pulls out his Christmas gift for Dean from his secret hiding place. They've lived in this house for several weeks now but Dean still hasn't figured out that their couch's cushions unfold.
It’s good Santa isn’t responsible for their presents, Cas thinks as he quickly gets up and puts the gifts into a stocking he made especially for Dean. He’s not sure the man would do his present justice.
He tries not to look at the stocking next to Dean’s. Still, when he reaches for another chocolate chip cookie (and another, and another, God, what is Dean’s secret?), he can’t help noticing from the corner of his eye how full the stocking seems.
It’s the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing that pulls him out of his happy, chocolate-flavoured bubble.
Dean’s up.
❄
[November 28th, 06:38 pm]
“You’re ridiculous,” Dean states with a chuckle when Cas pulls out several balls of wool and a pair of crochet hooks that look suspiciously like the ones Dean’s mother owns.
Oh, but it’s not all.
Cas sets Dean’s laptop on the coffee table, opens it up, and pulls his rocking chair close. Dean’s amused eyes follow Cas’s movements as he wraps his favourite thick blanket around his body and flops down the chair. The wood creaks in protest, rocking back and forth until Cas stops it, leaning forward to the laptop. He double-clicks on a web browser and opens—
“YouTube?” Dean asks, raising one eyebrow. “Really?”
Cas just shrugs and types several words into the search bar. “I need to learn how to knit.”
“What for?”
“Stockings.”
Dean eyes the wool sitting now in Castiel’s lap, the usual Christmas red and green and white colours balled separately. Soft music starts to play from the speakers when Cas clicks on one video. He sits back quickly, eyes fixed on the laptop screen, not moving away even when his fingers can’t find the crochet hooks at first.
Dean can’t help but smile at the sight. “I thought you of all people knew how to knit.”
Cas simply shushes him, eyes widening, as if not to lose any secrets that the speaker in the video lets him in on.
Dean huffs a tiny chuckle and shakes his head. When he turns the TV on, he makes sure to lower the volume enough not to disturb his husband’s knitting session.
He has no heart to tell Cas that you don't usually knit Christmas stockings.
[December 6th, 03:56 pm]
Cas hums to himself as he lets his favourite chair rock him back and forth. If he weren't busy, the motion would surely lull him to sleep. He couldn’t let himself for that, though, not with the important task at hand. The yarn swirls in his lap. For the first time since they moved into their little cottage, Cas is actually glad they don’t have a cat. It’d surely have way too much fun with coming into Cas’s way with the wool.
The track on the CD player changes from a monotonous melody to a song he recognises in a heartbeat. Children choir, delicate piano music, echoing notes - it almost feels like Christmas again.
It hasn’t exactly been easy, the first several weeks of living together in this place. The cottage, even though small, requires much more housework and money than their old flat did. It’s them who need to worry about water or heating, or winter-proofing the house. It costs money, and with only one salary for now it’s not ideal. At least rent isn’t one of their worries any more.
The fire crackles in the fireplace, licking over the wood, but Cas pays it no mind. He knows all about the hazards of having a fireplace, but Dean secured the place himself. It’s enough to make him feel safe, even when Dean’s not there with him.
A flick of the wrist, and another one, and another one... It’s a task as soporific as the melody flowing around the tiny living room. Both are almost hypnotic, lulling both mind and fingers to sleep, but he just keeps on going, pouring his love into every stitch.
Castiel has never been good at coming up with ideas for gifts for his loved ones. This time, though—this time it was different. The moment Dean told him about wanting to celebrate Christmas, truly celebrate it, only the two of them - sure, he was at a loss as to what to give him. The idea came to him after some time, though.
A good idea, he hopes. The best idea.
When Dean gets back home, there’s half a dozen unfinished stockings by Castiel’s sock-covered feet; some are lopsided, some stitched too tight or too loose.
"What, no bees?" Dean asks with a crinkle near his eye, squatting close to the pile. Some stockings have mistletoe on them, some are decorated with soft stars that, he swears, look like they're twinkling. When the sound of crochet hooks hitting softly against each other stops, Dean looks up.
Castiel has stopped working. He's glaring at the other man now with a frown. "It's Christmas-themed, Dean," he grumbles. Slowly, but surely, his fingers start moving again. "Don't make fun of my bees."
The laughter Dean's desperately trying to hold in shakes his shoulders.
One abandoned stocking looks almost finished. Dean lifts it, smiling at the snowflake pattern knitted among the dark blue yarn. “What’s wrong with this one?”
Cas doesn't even look up. “The hole in the toe. It’s bigger than it’s supposed to.” He wills his hands to work on his current stocking. It’s bright red with little Christmas trees on it.
Dean shakes his head with a sigh, and gently lays the faulty stocking on the arm of their sofa. “It’s beautiful,” he says, brushing his fingers over the snowflakes. Neither of them looks the same.
Cas is still working on the new stocking, with his brows furrowed and a look of utter focus on his face. It’s the artist in him, ever the perfectionist.
He tried to teach Dean how to knit the moment he got the hang of it, but it didn’t turn well at all.
For an artist, dealing with other people’s incompetence and inexperience makes him incredibly impatient.
❄
[Christmas morning, December 25th, 09:30 am]
With a loud hiss, the coffee maker finally comes to life, starting its morning routine of making people's lives happy. It's Christmas, not even 10 am yet, Cas shouldn't be awake at this hour. Usually, it's Dean who makes him coffee and leaves it on his bedside table to make sure he'll leave the bed at all.
It's all his own fault that he had to get up first, Cas thinks bitterly as he munches on the last chocolate chip cookie. He should have filled Dean's stocking last night, like Dean did. Damn his anxiousness. There's nothing to be afraid of.
...right?
The smell of coffee starts to carry around, and it's enough to steal all Cas's thoughts. There are matters much more important than worrying, after all. Getting some caffeine in his system is a good example of it.
As soon as the coffee pot is full, Cas pours himself a cup, takes a sip, and pours another. God knows Dean is excited about their first Christmas spent at their own little house but he would never turn coffee down. With that thought, the man takes both mugs and goes back to the living room.
The water in the bathroom is still running, so he turns the CD player on and sits back in his chair, letting it rock him in time with the music.
The Christmas lights reflect brightly in the ceramic when Cas moves his cup closer to his lips again.
❄
[December 1st, 04:59 pm]
Christmas has never felt so important before.
Actually, scratch that. Nothing has ever felt as important as this, somehow. They go into it with their minds open and ready for work.
It's much more work than they expected.
The first thing they focus on is the tree, which turns out to be the biggest problems of them all. The Christmas tree yard they drive to is a huge one, yet—
“I don't like any of them,” Castiel mumbles behind the thick blue and orange scarf Dean's mother knitted for him. On anybody else it would look ridiculous but somehow Cas pulls it off just fine.
Dean looks around again, trying to see the trees through his husband’s eyes. An artist knows what they’re talking about, after all.
The tree closest to them seems perfect, but it’s not the right shade of green. The other ramps up too high. Another one is too short and lacks several twigs.
Too thin, too thick, loses way too many needles, looks almost grey, “We can do better, love”, and “I want the perfect tree. Our perfect tree.”
Dean gets it, because he wants the best tree they can find, too.
[December 16th, 07:37 pm]
Castiel is sitting in his chair again, but this time he's not knitting. The crochet hooks flirt with the wool, wrapping its delicate texture around their faulty fingers. Nothing worth praise ever comes to life under such aimless movements, he knows it too well to try with his sewing anymore.
The dinner sits cold on the table where he left it nearly two hours ago. He didn't even touch his portion, no matter how hungry he's been ever since he started to work on the dish.
Mac and cheese with chicken nuggets, all made from scratch. Dean's favourite.
He even made the damn table. The candles look beautiful in the wooden candlesticks Dean created himself. They're still lit, and for the third time this evening Cas plays with the thought of putting them out.
Everything is ready, everything is here but Dean.
The sound of the door opening and closing drags him out of his light doze.
It's Dean's car keys that jingle when he sways them once around his fingers and puts them into a small bowl in the hall. It's his jacket that rustles and wraps protectively over Cas' s own coat when Dean hangs it on the coat rack. The rush of cold air that falls into the room and invites the candle flame to dance carries Dean's scent. Dean's steps get louder and louder as he comes closer to the living room, only to come to an abrupt stop.
He must have noticed the dinner, Cas thinks.
Good.
"You're late."
It's all nearly tactile in the air, the tension and reproach all wrapped tight in the calm, unresponsive expression on Cas's face. Nothing needs to be said, everything is out in the open, but he's going to say it anyway.
Dean swallows, slowly. "I'm sorry."
It's so quiet and ashamed Cas would have surely missed it if his usual Christmas carols were playing in the background. They're not on tonight.
"You're sorry," he echoes, not as softly as he should, not as biting as he wishes to. The crochet hooks have stilled in his hands, stopping their ridiculous advances. "What could you be sorry for?"
Dean's clothes rustle as he walks to their couch.
"What do you mean?" he asks. He's frowning, Cas can tell just by the note of confusion in his voice. "I'm sorry for being late, Cas, I completely forgot. I had my hands full, I didn't even realise what time it was." He pauses then, and looks at the coffee table again. "You didn't eat?"
“Where have you been?”
Dean sighs, closing his eyes for a long moment before opening them. “At work.”
It’s only then that Cas finally looks at his husband, jaw tights. “You finished work four hours ago.”
“I told you, I didn’t—”
“Bullshit, Dean,” he says, growls almost. All of a sudden, he’s standing, one of his crochet hooks snapping under his clenching fingers. There it is, that dangerous spark that’s been building under his skin these last several days pumps anger in his veins. It mixes with his blood, colouring the world around him red. “You’re never home anymore. You get up in the morning, go out that door and leave me here for the whole day. Alone.”
Dean flinches but doesn’t look away. His Adam’s apple bobs with a heavy swallow. Chest rises, nostrils flare, he’s wetting his lips...
“I go to work,” he points out as calmly as he can, straightening his back. “To earn money. To pay for our food.”
“The food you don’t eat!”
Something flashes in Dean’s eyes. “What is this about?” he asks, letting the calm mask on his face crack a little. “I said I was sorry. If you feel lonely, why don’t you get out of the damn house? Why don’t you find yourself a job?”
Like a red rag to a bull.
“So I don’t contribute anything to our life, is that it? That’s what you mean?”
Dean frowns at that. “What? No, I—” he groans and runs his hands over his face, “I didn’t say that!”
“But you’re thinking that!” It’s like a dam has been lifted, all the sudden anger finally finding some release. Castiel’s voice is raising all on its own, uncontrollable. “You hold a grudge against me for not having a job! You think I’m not doing my best to search for it? To get employed? It’s Christmas time, everybody needs a job now, it’s not exactly easy to—”
“Exactly,” Dean cuts in, his calm abandoned. His arms fly into the air, hands straining painfully as he moves farther from Cas. “Exactly! Christmas, Cas, for God’s sake, Christmas costs! We need any chance to make more money we can get and if it means me staying past my working hours, so be it!”
“You work too much!”
“That’s because I do all the work!”
“I’d find a job sooner if I owned a car!”
“We can’t afford a second car!”
It ends with voices shouting and slamming door, and then, silence sets in.
[December 16th, 10:03 pm]
Dean’s out of breath when he finally reaches the house several hours later. The needles of the tree - the real tree, he’s finally found one that Cas is going to love - keep on trying to find their way to his ears or mouth or, oh God, even to his nose. He tries to keep it steady as he searches his pocket for keys and finally opens the front door.
“Cas!” He calls, pulling the tree into the corridor. As soon as the heat coming from the inside washes over him, the snow on his jacket and on the green of the tree starts to melt. “Damn it,” he mutters, securing the goddamn plant against one of the walls, and runs to the bathroom to get a rag so the water doesn’t destroy their beautiful wooden floor. “Cas, I could use a little help here!”
If it weren’t for the CD Cas loves so much playing in the living room, Dean would think his husband isn’t home. Just when Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas changes to Silent Night , Dean’s done with cleaning the floor and taking off his jacket and boots.
He smiles at the tree, excited, and rubs his hands to warm them up as he walks to the living room. “Cas, I found—”
There are more stockings on the floor than yesterday, maybe eight ones left to never be finished, and one dangling dangerously from Castiel’s unmoving hand. If it weren’t for the string of yarn, the stocking would have already joined its sisters on the floor.
The shadows of the dying flames in the fireplace dance over Castiel’s peaceful face, painting it in soft oranges and yellows, colouring it with dim light. Dean finds himself unable to look away.
His heart calms its beats, the excitement he’s felt so strongly not even a minute ago softening in intensity, because here and now there’s something so much more important to be felt.
Happiness and relief bubble somewhere inside the Winchester when he finally moves towards his sleeping husband. As delicately as he can, he untangles the sewing out of Castiel’s fingers and puts it on the empty coffee table, somewhere where it won’t get lost.
“Mhmno,” the man mumbles, fingers flexing softly on the blanket covering him when Dean carefully lifts him from the rocking chair.
“Shh,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Cas’s forehead. Cas is still asleep, Dean knows he’s not really aware of what’s happening around him, but it doesn’t stop him from soothing him some more. “I’m taking you to the bed.”
“Bed?”
Dean nods, smiling softly as he makes his way towards their bedroom. “Yeah, our bed. I swear, that chair is gonna kill your back someday.”
Cas only hums in reply. When Dean only lays him down on their bed, he rolls to his side and drifts deeper into his sleep.
Dean could dress the tree himself, sure, but that’s not the point. He finds a planter big enough to secure the tree in it and puts it in their small living room. It takes a little bit of redecorating, but he doubts they’re gonna use the TV much this Christmas, so he’s not sad to push it aside.
[December 17th, 05:10 am]
It's still one week till Christmas, but they light the Christmas lights right off. It's like a missing piece has been found and put in the right place. The room, as small as it is and as dark and dull as it seemed before, bursts in colours, dissipating the darkness with yellow, red, green and blue.
The tree isn't decorated yet, but it's as beautiful and impressive as Cas imagined it.
It's theirs.
❄
[Christmas morning, December 25th, 09:44 am]
The tree isn’t bare anymore. It has bracelets of colourful ribbons on, rings of gold and red Christmas balls and ridiculously shaped figures made of gingerbread. A gingerbread Impala sways minutely on one of the green twigs. Cas has to curl his fingers tighter around his coffee mug not to give in to the itch and steal that cookie, too. Dean made him promise not to touch that one and others on the Christmas tree until after they swap their presents. With Castiel’s newly developed sweet tooth, it’s a torture to look at the cookies and have to restrain from reaching for them.
Oh, how crunchy do they look...
“You still craving my Impala?” Dean asks with a smile as he walks into the room. The smell of the caramel apple and cinnamon shower gel they bought a week ago as another way of getting into Christmas spirit wafts over Cas when Dean walks by, stopping only for a moment to press a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head, like he always does.
“I’m hungry.”
“Is that so?” He reaches to their coffee table and lifts the plate with crumbs on it. He shows it to Cas. “I could have sworn there were cookies here last night.”
“Santa must have eaten all of them,” Cas says with a straight face, pretending not to notice how one of the corners of Dean’s mouth twitches in an involuntary smile.
“There was a full plate.”
“He worked all night, Dean, he must have been starving.”
They stare at each other, each trying to make the other give in and crack up, looking away.
It’s Dean who loses. He always does.
“Alright, Santa,” he says, pulling the mug out of Castiel’s hands and putting it on the coffee table. He pays no mind to his husband’s protests, pulling the man out of his rocking chair and onto the couch where they can sit close. “You think we’re ready to look into those stockings of ours?”
Cas hesitates for a moment, pulling his blanket closer to his chest. What if Dean won’t like his gift? It’s nothing expensive, not fancy at all. His heart thuds dully in his chest at the mere thought of seeing disappointment on Dean’s face.
He curses in his mind. He should have added something more to Dean’s stocking.
It’s then that Dean slowly breathes out, catching all of Cas’s attention. The stockings are no longer pinned above the fireplace - Dean must have brought them over because they’re resting in their hands now, each of the men holding the stocking they prepared for the other.
“Alright.” Dean rolls his shoulders back, trying to get his body to relax. He’s nervous, too, Cas realises not without a surprise. “I’ll show you yours if you show me mine.”
Castiel frowns a little. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t how the phrase goes.”
The chuckle he earns takes some of the weight off his chest. When Dean reaches for his stocking, Cas finds himself giving it willingly. In its place, he gets a stocking he knitted for himself. It’s significantly heavier than Dean’s.
He dares a look at his husband, and it’s all he needs to know that Dean’s not checking what’s inside his Christmas sock before Cas does.
Maybe it’s for the better?
He doesn’t need to pry the stocking open - it’s filled up to the brink. Just another reason to wish he could go back in time and buy something more to give Dean, Cas thinks as he pulls out a small green bag.
It smells like...
He smiles, looking up after glancing inside the bag. “Cookies?”
Dean’s eyes get that soft and yet amused look in them as he says, “I figured Santa wouldn’t want to share.” When Cas looks back to his stocking, trying to contain his chuckle, Dean nudges his knee. “That’s not all. Keep diggin’.”
So he does.
There’s a ball of bright yellow wool (“For your bees,” Dean helps with an explanation. “Now you can knit an entire blanket of them.”), several bonbons of Castiel’s favourite chocolate, a pair of brand new, wooden crochet hooks—
Cas pauses with the sticks in his hands. “Did you make them yourself?” he asks and looks at them closer. Right there, C. W. engraved in the wood is followed by a series of delicate, neat stars.
Dean’s cheeks seem aflame when Cas looks at him. It’s as good an answer as any.
“They’re gorgeous, love,” he assures, warmth flooding his heart and brushing all his worries away. Before he knows what’s happening, he’s leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Dean’s lips. Only then do Dean’s shoulders lose their tension.
“I’m glad,” Dean breathes when they part again.
There’s one last gift in the stocking, heavier than the others. When Cas shakes the fabric, the gift jingles.
Dean’s face doesn’t give him any clues as to what’s still hidden from his eyes, so he reaches into the stocking to see for himself. His eyes widen the moment his fingers curl around something cold and metal. He doesn’t wait any longer, nearly ripping the knitting as he pulls his gift out to look at it.
Car keys.
But they’re not Dean’s car keys, not Impala car keys, they’re—
“The car’s not here,” Dean breaks the moment, unable to hide his grin at his husband’s shocked reaction. “It’s waiting for you in Sammy’s backyard. I didn’t want you to see it, that would be no surprise.”
Only then does Cas look away from the keys. “But... It must have cost—”
“The price was okay,” Dean rushes, reaching for Cas’s hand to cover it with his own. “Besides, I didn’t take a dollar from our savings. That’s why, you know,” he adds, rubbing his thumb over Castiel’s palm, “that’s why I haven’t been home that often lately...”
Something rings in the back of Castiel’s mind. Something—something...
He blinks. “Oh.”
“What?”
It takes several seconds, but when Cas finally says, “We fought about it.” Dean’s mirrored look of confusion turns into a soft smile.
Leave it to them to have a fight and completely forget about it.
“You’re a dork,” Dean snorts in reply, the fondness in his voice setting a charm over Cas.
Before Castiel knows what’s happening, Dean’s turning his stocking upside down, letting all its contents fall onto his lap. Three foil-wrapped cupcake mini-pies fall out, each with a filling of a different flavour, all made by Cas the previous day, still fresh enough for Dean to enjoy them. A plastic card gets stuck in the stocking, but as soon as Dean pulls it out, another thing joins the pies, almost falling off Dean’s lap. The Winchester has an impressive reflex, though, and catches the bundle before it rolls over the edge.
Castiel doesn’t even realise he’s holding his breath. The plastic isn’t important at all, just a gift card to Dean’s favourite woodwork shop. It’s the small knitted stocking with a smiling bee wearing a Santa hat tin Dean's hand that’s gripping at his heart.
For a frightening minute, “That was such a bad idea”, is the only thought in Castiel's mind.
But then Dean’s eyes crinkle and he laughs, and lifts the stocking up to the level of his eyes. As green and gold inspect the careful weave, Cas finds himself breathing again.
“Since you seemed to miss the bees,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the stocking. Dean only looks at it, not into it.
Dean lets out a chuckle, shaking his head in wonder. “It’s so tiny.”
“It’s big enough,” Cas replies, voice starting to shake under the strength of his heart racing and racing, and beating fast against his chest when Dean glances at him and back at the little stocking, finally hooking a finger into it and turning it upside down, just like he’s done earlier with its bigger sister.
For one terrifying moment, everything goes completely silent. The track on the CD changes, giving the flames in the fireplace a chance to soothe the tension that is hanging in the air. But even the fire seems to be holding its breath, its orange eyes transfixed on the small green and red object that’s fallen out of Castiel’s knitted work.
Dean simply stares at the pacifier lying on his outstretched palm. “It’s...”
Cas bites his lip and reaches for Dean’s other hand, taking it between two of his own. He pulls it gently till Dean gets the idea and lets him direct his hand closer and closer, until it rests on Castiel’s stomach.
Castiel’s fingers flex softly on Dean’s skin, only calming at the feel of the smooth gold wedding band on Dean’s finger. He smiles, the small, warm gesture, and gives Dean’s hand a soft little squeeze. “Merry Christmas, Dean,” he whispers.
Dean’s eyes are glued to their joined hands but Cas knows it’s not them he’s looking at. “You—” Dean breathes, stopping as soon as the word leaves his mouth, and dares a glance up into Castiel’s delicate blue eyes. His shoulders sag a little, and he finishes with lightness in his voice, “are you...?”
Cas smiles the secret smile reserved only for his husband and nods. “Four weeks. Almost five.”
Dean mirrors the nod, and then again, swallowing past the sudden tight, quivering presence in his throat. His chest starts to rise faster along to the excited beat of his heart. Fingertips itching, he finally strokes them over Castiel’s pyjamas-covered stomach.
“Merry Christmas,” Cas says once again, voice hitched a note higher than normal, because there are tears in his husband’s eyes, spilling past his eyelashes and moving slowly down the freckled cheeks. If Cas cared for it in this moment, he’d stop and marvel at the tiny reflections of their Christmas lights in each little drop. He doesn’t care, though, not when Dean lets out a short, sharp little laugh and surges forward. Even the blinking lights freeze in the moment when their lips press together again.
The kiss is wet and sloppy, toothpaste-scented and coffee-flavoured and far, far from perfect. And yet, it goes on and on, neither of them wanting to stop it. It’s not until the last notes of Oh Holy Night sound around them that Dean presses his forehead against Castiel’s, grinning into the space between their lips.
“Next year,” Dean whispers, eyes shining with the last of tears that remain unshed, “we celebrate Christmas again.”
“I don’t know if I’ll beat this present.”
The man laughs, green eyes crinkling. “You won’t have to,” he promises. His hands reach down and slowly pull up the top of Castiel’s pyjamas.
Cas always gets cold when he’s uncovered like that, but he doesn’t resist, not even when he’s pulled down to lie on the couch. His face warms up a little when Dean fixes his eyes on his bare stomach, as if scanning his body for the tiny little person growing inside.
“They’re not even the size of the stocking yet,” Dean mumbles to himself, voice full of adoration. He leans in and nuzzles the flesh of Cas’s flat stomach. “Merry Christmas, darling,” he whispers.
This time, Cas knows it’s not meant for him.
It’s alright, though. He still replies for their child, knowing that next year he won’t need to.