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Dean grumbles a little, pulling yet another mistletoe down from where it's hanging above the door. Man, Sam's really going overboard with this mistletoe thing, Dean needs to have a word with him. He gets that Sam thinks it's oh so funny, to try and get Dean and Cas to kiss under the mistletoe, but, newsflash? It's not actually fucking funny. And just to be crystal clear, Dean not finding it funny has nothing to do with supposed feelings he's supposedly feeling for his best friend. Because he totally isn't. Feeling those feelings, that is.
Throwing the mistletoe on the counter, he meets the disapproving stare of Charlie, who's currently busy baking something with Kevin. Itìs sweet how easily they bonded, really. Except, of course, for the tiny little detail that they totally decided to team up with Sam, against Dean. Which is completely unacceptable, if you ask Dean. He put a roof over their heads, he feeds them awesome burgers, even went to buy prune juice when Kev was feeling a little backed up... and this is the kind of thank you he gets.
“Dean, stop messing up Sam's work, or no dessert for you tonight,” Charlie says.
Dean scowls. See? Ungrateful.
“Yeah, Dean,” Kevin agrees, the dirty traitor he is.“We like the mistletoe. It's festive. And it took Sam ages to put it all up.”
Rude. Dean is pretty sure this is Kevin's way of getting back at him for buying him toy trucks. Which are totally great as presents, okay? Kevin might think he's all grown up by now, but he isn't. He's a kid. And Dean will make damn sure he stays a kid for as long as humanly possible, thank you very much. At least one of them should get to be a kid.
Charlie, well. He doesn't know what the deal with her is. But he can imagine it's got something to do with that tumblr and shipping and fanfiction business in her internet history. He supposes he should be relieved she isn't into that whole Sam-slash-Dean-as-in-together thing because that's still the weirdest shit that ever happened in his life. And that's including his and Crowley's shared flickr album. Which he's not going to think about now or ever.
“Sam will have to deal with it,” Dean grumbles, openly glaring at the mistletoe sitting innocently on the table. Yeah, innocently his ass. “Besides, I'm almost one hundred percent sure Sam is doing something shady here. All this mistletoe is not normal.”
“Paranoid,” Kevin says just as Charlie says, “Grinch.”
And then they fist-bump.
Assholes.
Dean rolls his eyes and grabs a beer from the fridge.
“Whatever,” he says grumpily, walking out of the kitchen, leaving Charlie and Kevin to their baking. And gossiping.
“You know, you could just make it easier on everyone and just kiss your little angel already.”
Dean jumps and turns around, his frown only deepening when he sees Crowley standing behind him, munching on a cookie.
“Mind your own business,” he says, taking a swig of his beer, feeling his stomach grumble slightly. The cookie looks and smells delicious. “Where does that come from anyway?”
“What, this?” Crowley asks, holding up his cookie. Dear God it's shaped like the anti-possession sigil. Someone's being a smartass. Dean can definitely dig that. “Charlie and Kevin gave it to me.”
...
What.
“What?!” Dean gasps, outraged. “They never offered me a cookie!”
Assholes. Offering a cookie to the freaking King of Hell and not to him! Dean definitely does not dig that.
Crowley, the bastard, smirks.
“Why don't you try to stop getting on everyone's nerves with your angel and your unresolved sexual tension?”
“Why don't you mind your own fucking business, for once in your life?” Dean snaps, openly glaring at Crowley, who just snickers.
That's it, someone's definitely not getting the bottle of Scottish malt whisky Dean so generously bought. That'll teach him.
“And by the way, how come are you even here at all? I should be trying to kill you,” Dean adds, pointing an accusing finger.
“Rude,” Crowley says, completely unfazed as he takes another bite of his cookie.
“No killing or maiming, Deano! You know the rules! It's Christmas!” yells a cheerful voice.
Dean sighs deeply, wondering when this became his life.
“No one asked you, Gabriel,” he says, frowning deeply at the archangel gleefully walking towards him, eating a cookie of his very own.
Kings of Hell, archangels... Dean is starting to wonder when Dick fucking Roman is going to make an appearance, because judging by the sheer number and variety of supernatural beings currently in the bunker? A Leviathan is definitely missing. Hell, Dean should probably send an email to Cain and the Alpha vampire, see if they wanna fucking join the party.
“Rude,” Gabriel says, echoing Crowley's words. “Someone should do a little less pouting and a lot more kissing.”
“Oh my God!” Dean all but yells, throwing his hands in the air – and perhaps he's a tad dramatic, so sue him. He's having a really frustrating day. And no cookies.
Dean walks away, and Crowley and Gabriel honest to God snigger as they watched him walk away.
Bastards.
Dean frowns as he walks back towards his room, his stomach loudly demanding a cookie, but there's no way in hell he's going to go back to the kitchen. He walks by the room that has become their unofficial common room for movie nights, and rolls his eyes at how Sam and Ruby hide more mistletoe behind their backs when they see him – and by the way, Ruby? How did that even happen? Whatever, Dean is not even going to question it anymore. This Christmas is weird, the whole world hates him, and if half of the supernatural creatures they met in their lives want to move into the bunker for the holidays, whatever. Dean's washing his hands of it.
He does, however, notice the small tray of cookies on the coffee table. Even Ruby gets more cookies than him! Ruby! The universe clearly hates him.
Dean stalks back to his own room, and he's totally not about to throw a hissy fit and dramatically flop on his bed when a soft voice calls his name.
“Dean? Do you want a cookie?”
Dean freezes in the doorway of his room and turns around – and there, right Cas, his knight in a shining armor, is standing with a tray full of those delicious cookies in his hands.
Bless him.
God fucking bless him.
May God come back from wherever he's fucking hiding specifically so he can bless him.
“Cas,” he breathes, and dear God, it's a little pathetic how hungry he is. He blindly reaches behind himself to put the now empty bottle of beer on the desk that's by the door, his eyes never leaving the cookies. “Yeah, thanks. You're an angel.”
Cas looks at him funny, and Dean flushes slightly when he realizes exactly why what he said is really, really stupid.
“You know what I mean,” he grumbles, and a quick glance at Cas' very much amused blue eyes confirms that yes, Cas knows. “God, I'm starving, come here with those cookies.”
Cas goes, and stops in the doorway, right in front of Dean, and Dean is completely fucking shameless in the way he grabs the tray and attacks the cookies.
They're glorious.
Privately, Dean thinks the exasperated, yet fond look Cas gives him is even better.
Then a small frown appears on Cas' brow as he looks up, tilting his head to the side.
“What's that?” he asks.
Dean follows his gaze until – fuck. Fuck fucking fuckity fuck. Fuck. That fucking stupid plant again.
Sam.
Dean was going to murder him.
“Dean?” Cas says softly, and Dean can feel a hint of concern as his angel – and by the way Dean totally doesn't think about Cas as his angel – looks at him.
Dean sighs, swallowing the rest of his third cookie.
“That's mistletoe. Sam's been hanging it everywhere, don't worry about it.”
Cas still looks a little confused as he looks between Dean and the mistletoe.
“Why is Sam hanging mistletoe everywhere?”
“It's just a stupid human thing,” Dean explains with another sigh. “It's a Christmas thing. People use it to decorate their homes, and when people are under the mistletoe, they gotta kiss.”
Dean tries to say all this very, very nonchalantly. Considering the way Cas' eyes widen, he's not exactly sure he manages.
“Kiss?” he repeates. “So... if we're standing under the mistletoe together... we should kiss?”
“Pretty much,” Dean says with a shrug that probably looks more like a nervous twitch. “But-”
But, he doesn't get to say anything else, because suddenly warm hands are on his face, and Cas is pressing their lips together.
Dean lets out a surprised sound and gasps, and when Cas takes that as encouragement to deepen the kiss, the tray falls from Dean's hands.
And honestly, Dean doesn't even care that now all those delicious cookies are on the floor, and ruined. Screw the delicious cookies. Cas is a fucking incredible kisser – the things he can do with his tongue give Dean many, many interesting ideas that leave him a little hard just thinking about it, and very weak in the knees.
By the time Cas breaks the kiss, Dean is completely breathless, and he's never been so thoroughly kissed in his life. His lips are tingling, and he misses the feeling of Cas' mouth, misses his taste and that tongue, and he's just starting to quietly panic that this might be the one and only time he's ever allowed to try this and...
...and then, Cas smiles. Cas smiles, and his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bluer and brighter than Dean has ever seen them, and Dean feels his heart fluttering in his chest.
Fucking hell.
Okay, maybe he wasn't going to murder Sam, after all.
Dean returns Cas' smile and wraps his arms around him, and Cas looks so goddamn happy, and Dean is pretty sure his heart is going to explode from that sight alone.
Slowly, he leans in for another kiss, his eyes fluttering close, and his lips brush against Cas' – and any moment now, Dean is going to pull his angel – his angel! – closer, and...
...and suddenly, a very, very loud chorus of whistles and catcalls erupt from Dean's left, almost giving him a fucking heart attack.
Dean looks up, and of course.
Of fucking course.
Everyone is there, right fucking there, clapping, and cheering, and staring at them – and are those confetti in Charlie's hands? Dear God, they're glittery.
Dean feels himself flush – he's pretty sure his face is completely scarlet, and he's still trying to process all of this – and suddenly, a shiver runs down his spine, the lights flicker, and a familiar figure appears leisurely lying on Dean's bed, a Tori Spelling book in his hands and his back propped against the headboard.
“About time, you idjits.”