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When Castiel appeared in Bobby’s living room, the Winchesters were watching television. This was unusual. Generally Sam would be walled up behind a tower of books while Dean looked at naked people on the internet and insisted he was doing research. A knit blanket with a seasonal pattern that Castiel was fairly certain most human standards would consider hideous was stretched out over their legs, and Dean was currently hoarding a bowl of soggy popcorn.
Castiel moved to stand in front of a screen, earning a glare from Dean that he found totally unwarranted.
“Sam, Dean,” Castiel said. “There are a few minor points of business we should discuss—”
The brothers mutually ignored him, craning their necks to see the screen behind him. Sam, at least, had the decency to look chagrined. Castiel started again.
“I believe we should go over the most recent pattern of omens again. There was a 3% increase in rain in at least three states of the Midwest—”
“Cas,” Dean said irritably, “Is someone going to die if we put this on hold for another half an hour?”
Castiel glanced around in confusion. “No.”
“Then sit your ass down and shut up,” Dean said, pushing Sam over so that Cas would have room on the couch. Baffled, he sank down onto the worn upholstery between them and looked from Sam to Dean. Dean glanced back at him and smiled obnoxiously, throwing part of the blanket over Castiel’s legs before turning his attention back to the television. Not sure what else to do, Castiel followed their league.
The screen was showing some sort of gathering between a moose, a cynical snowman and a very short person with a grotesquely enlarged head, all of which were made out of clay. That seemed like an appropriate threshold to abandon his disbelief, so Castiel just watched.
It appear that, for some unknown and undisclosed reason, the trio of mal-formed creatures were discussing a popular American holiday tradition. They claimed that it was in danger of being cancelled, and the only solution was a machine powered by a magical crystal of some kind. Castiel was beginning to wonder whether all of humanity was this crazy, or whether the Winchesters merely attracted insanity.
"What is this?" Castiel asked. Dean shrugged, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth and chewing it loudly.
"Some kid's Christmas special. It's not that bad, for a shitty knock off."
Castiel frowned in confusion. It wasn't that he didn't understand things; before he had started to Fall, he had access to enough raw information about humanity to make an average person's head implode. There was a difference between having that knowledge, though, and being able to piece it together in a way that made sense in context. Especially now that he was cut off from Heaven, a lot of things just didn't make sense anymore.
"Can you explain it to me?" Castiel asked, burying his frustration at needing to be pandered to. Dean glanced over at him, his eyes creased with the faintest hint of worry, but he didn't comment.
"Sure, Cas," he said kindly, leaning forward to inspect the screen. "So the reindeer, the elf, and the snow man all live in Christmasville, which is really just Christmastown with the serial number filed off."
"You don't need to worry about that, though," Sam chimed in from Dean's other side. Castiel nodded. Sometimes he wondered how humans were capable of having so many colloquialisms and vernacular ticks on file. He understood English and every variation of it through all of history perfectly, but humans had taken it and mashed it into different shapes until it suited them, constantly upgrading and rearranging and finding new uses for old words. It was fascinating, really, like watching a living organism evolve through the ages. Which Castiel had also done. But as marvelous as humanity's grasp of language was, it made communicating with them infinitely more complicated.
"So anyways," Dean was saying. "Everyone is sad because the Scrounge- that's the big hairy blue dude- is going to turn off the present machine or whatever and cancel Christmas. So the three main guys are teaming up to try and get Christmas back on track by powering the machine with a magic crystal."
"I see," Castiel lied, because he didn't like the Winchesters to see him flounder. "I would not have expected you to enjoy children's entertainment, Dean."
Dean looked pissy at that. "There's nothing else on," he groused.
"Actually Dean, I'm pretty sure I saw a Die Hard marathon a few channels back, if you want me to..." Sam said reasonably, grinning even wider at the glare Dean shot his way.
"Shut up, Sammy," Dean muttered, shoving a huge handful of popcorn into his mouth to avoid further conversation. Castiel liked watching Dean eat, although he knew that he was expected to be watching the television screen instead. The reindeer was making a list of the supposed ingredients they would need to properly celebrate Christmas.
"Why can't fixing the world be as easy as all that?" Dean complained, lifting his feet up onto the coffee table and kicking off his boots.
"Because we don't live in a claymation Christmas Special, Dean," Sam explained patiently, leaning over to steal a handful of popcorn.
"The ritual of Christmas was originally a pagan festival to bring the sun back from the winter," Castiel chimed in. "It was usually marked by ritual dancing, followed by the sacrifice of animals or virgins."
Dean shook his head. "So much for putting the 'Christ' back in Christmas," he muttered. Sam just looked intrigued.
"Were you there, Cas?" he asked eagerly. Castiel cocked his head in thought.
"Yes and no. I wasn't stationed on Earth at the time, but occasionally I would watch from heaven for a decade or so. Things were very different back then."
"Well obviously, they hadn't invented the bacon cheeseburger yet," Dean said. "Greatest miracle of modern science."
"The hamburger was invented in 1885," Castiel said. It seemed relevant to the conversation.
Dean stared at him fondly. "I'm surrounded by nerds," he said, turning his attention back to the screen. Eventually Castiel did the same.
The movie ended with the protagonists creating some kind of Christmas ray-gun to beam the spirit of the season around the world, which according to Dean was "bullshit". Castiel was inclined to agree. If the creators of the program had really felt it necessary to include advanced particle physics, they really should have done more research into the stability of continuous spacial energy circuits. Long after the screen faded over into an eternity of product advertisements Sam and Dean still sat beside him, arguing about realism in children's cartoons.
"Cas, back me up here," Dean called, twisting back around to look at him. "Wasn't it a little too convenient that the magic crystal they needed to focus the ray gun was the piece of ice in Frosty's heart?"
Castiel thought about the question. "I believe it was supposed to be a metaphor," he says eventually. Dean's eyebrows raise curiously and encourage Castiel on. "Only by letting go of our own negative emotions can we make the people around us happy."
Sam looked impressed. Dean smiled wryly. "Wow, Cas. That was deep."
Cas recognized the colloquialism, but forged ahead anyways. "Depth is irrelevant to this topic," he said, completely straight faced. That got him a laugh out of Dean, which inevitably spread to Sam.
"Look what you've done, Sam. You've taught the angel sarcasm."
"Oh, you are not going to try and pin this on me," Sam shot back. "You're the one who keeps trying to feed him french fries and pie. Talk about a bad influence."
"I tell you, we're going to raise this boy right!" Dean bellowed, throwing a protective arm around Castiel's shoulders. He smiled at the joke or the contact, it didn’t matter which, because for now he could just enjoy the motion of Dean's laugh vibrating in his chest, and the press of his fingers on Cas's shoulder through his coat. These were the moments that reminded him why he left heaven in the first place. Why it was still worth it.
“Getting back on the road tomorrow,” Dean said. “We’re meeting up with a psychic who thinks she may be able to point us in the direction of the next horseman$. Can we count on you to drop by, Cas?”
Castiel nodded immediately. “You can count on me.”
Dean met his gaze, his eyes dipping into Castiel’s a fraction of a second longer than what he had come to consider normal, but to Castiel it felt like forever. Turning back to his brother, Dean re-entered the argument about the practicality of seasonal rayguns and Castiel realized that he didn’t want to butt in with his trivial news about Zachariah anymore. Shifting back against the cushions of the couch, he just let himself sit there and listen to the boys’ good natured argument, enjoying the warmth and the comfort and the utter laziness of it all. This was the first time in a long time he could remember spending time with the Winchesters that wasn’t dedicated to trying to save the world. It felt good.
And that was the moment when it all started.
---
Castiel had been sitting in the booth of the diner for twenty minutes, never once shifting his gaze.
This wouldn’t exactly have been out of the ordinary, especially by Dean’s standards. After all, the angel’s eyes were practically glued onto his face at all times. Which was weird, but that was Cas for you. Not like Dean minded, either. And in this case, it wasn’t the intricacies of Dean Winchester’s face that Castiel seemed intent upon studying. No, Dean had apparently been replaced by an animatronic Santa that burst into dance and tinny Christmas music every time someone walked past it. Dean resisted the urge to say something about Castiel’s shift in attentions. Where he put his eyeballs were his own damn business. Besides, he didn’t want to scare the guy off. It wasn’t every day that the angel joined them for breakfast without the pretense of the world coming to an end.
“The holiday season is approaching,” Cas said slowly after another long moment of silence. Sam and Dean exchanged a look, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Gotta love Christmas,” Dean said heartily. “Best time of the year. Wait, hang on,” Dean leaned forward. “There’s not some kind of crazy demon ritual thing that can only be done on Jesus’s birthday, is there?”
“Actually, there are hundreds,” Castiel replied absently. “But that was not the matter to which I was referring.” Finally his eyes slid back onto the Winchesters, flicking between Sam and Dean with the kind of intensity that normal people only used$ before sex or murder.
“I am not very familiar with human customs, but…it is traditional to hold some sort of festival in honor of the winter equinox, correct?” Castiel glanced from one face to another, the words coming hesitantly. Dean swallowed a gulp of beer. He should have seen this coming after they showed Cas that Christmas Special. The guy never could let things go just at that.
“That’s right, Cas,” Sam said slowly. “People get together with their families, trade presents, decorate a tree. Why do you ask?”
“I was merely curious as to what our plans were for the festivities,” Cas said. Dean shot Sam another glance, one that could best be described as “the fuck?” Castiel didn’t miss it, and his face was wiped of any emotion on it like a computer booting down.
“I did not mean to imply that I would be invited,” he said, his tone stiff with formality. “It is of course only natural that you would want to spend the days with your family.”
“Cas, shut the hell up,” Dean said simply, taking another swig of beer. Cas had the decency to look surprised. “You know if we were going to have some stupid Christmas party that you’d be at the top of the very short list of people we know who are still alive. But we’re not going to, so that’s that.”
One of Cas’s trademark frowns dimpled the skin between his eyebrows. “But from what I understand, it is expected that people will mark the occasion in some way.”
“For normal people, sure,” Sam said, a bitter smile tugging at his lips a she stared into the soggy tangle of French fries on his plate. “But with the apocalypse coming…” He shrugged. “What’s the point?”
“I would have thought that the potential end of the world would make enjoying earthly rituals that much more important,” Castiel argued.
“Yeah, well, we decided against it,” Sam replied, mashing one of his French fries into a puddle of ketchup with a sense of finality. Castiel didn’t catch the vibe, though.
“But—”
Dean slammed his beer onto the table, making the plates rattle. “Cas, this is not up for discussion,” he snapped, setting his jaw against the flicker of resentment that passed over the angel’s face. A second later there was a rustle of movement, and Sam was alone on the other side of the booth, his eyebrows raised skeptically.
“Way to go, Bruce Banner,” he muttered sarcastically, abandoning his French fries for a side salad. Dean ground his teeth and shook his head, picking up one of the ketchup-drenched fries and flicking it at Sam’s chest.
“You’ve got ketchup on your shirt,” he said snidely, sliding out of the booth and heading to the bathroom while Sam swore and pawed at his clothes with a napkin. He wasn’t going to sulk. Brooding sounded much better, so he went with that.
---
A few hours later Sam and Dean were just settling into the latest in a series of extra-shitty motel rooms that they’d been working their way through for the past few weeks. Sam was taking a shower, or at least was trying to based on the series of metallic squeals, splurts of water, and quiet yelps. Bobby’s place wasn’t exactly a four star hotel, but it sure gave you an appreciation for a shower that could deliver a steady stream of lukewarm water without spontaneously hitting arctic temperatures.
Dean reclined on his bed, flipping idly through one of the travel brochures they’d shoved at him at the front desk claiming to offer one of the largest balls of yarn in the state (not to be confused with the largest ball of twine, which they had seen two towns back. Seriously, who had decided that the primary tourism industry should be various types of string?). He was just getting to the good parts about the exact dimensions of said cat toy when he heard the familiar sound of a certain angel landing in the room.
Dean took his time in acknowledging him, re-reading the last paragraph three times before crumpling the brochure into a ball and flinging it across the room. Castiel was sitting on the edge of the other bed, his shoulder slumped in a kind of weariness that Dean had never really seen on the angel before. When Castiel’s eyes met his they were tired and apologetic. Dean was suddenly filled with the feeling that he’d just kicked a puppy.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled, immediately regretting the fact that he could find nothing to say that wasn’t still hard or cruel. The look on Castiel’s face didn’t change.
“I did not mean to intrude into your personal business, Dean,” he said, and Dean caught the hint of an edge there. The insinuation that Dean’s personal business wasn’t automatically out of Cas’s jurisdiction. It was Dean’s inclination to tell him off, and say that it would be nice if the angels could keep their pointy little noses out of Dean’s life for five minutes. But he didn’t. As annoying as the guy can be, Dean didn’t want Cas out of his life. And he wasn’t going to analyze it any further than that.
“It’s not your fault,” he found himself saying instead. “It’s just that… well, Cas, we have our reasons, okay?”
“What reasons?” The guy never could let anything go. Cas tilted his head ever so slightly in what had become his trademark gesture. Dean had a feeling that at this point it was largely for show.
“Why is this such a big deal to you? So Sam and I are skipping Christmas this year. Big whoop. We haven’t done it in a while.”
“Yet in previous years you were not facing down the apocalypse,” Castiel pointed out, ever so reasonable. “I believe such a situation tends to lend a sense of urgency to things.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean said shortly. “Not this time.”
Castiel was quiet for a long time, and that was never a good sign. Sure enough, when the angel opened his mouth next Dean could already tell he wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
“Dean…” Castiel began. “If the reason you are so hesitant to dedicate your time to the holiday is because you are afraid it will be your last…”
“Or maybe I just genuinely don’t care. Did you ever think about that, Cas?” Dean spat in return. He knew he was being petty, taking things out on Castiel that weren’t his fault. That didn’t stop him. “Christmas, no Christmas, you know what difference it makes? None. So I’m just not going to deal with it.”
“Oh, I see,” and now Castiel’s voice was raising to match his. “You feel that happy memories will only turn bitter in the end, and so your solution is to avoid having any at all. Am I wrong?”
“And what makes you think you know what can make me happy?” Dean demanded. “Huh? Why do you think you can just make everything okay? You hardly even have any juice left. You’re just as screwed as Sam and me.”
If Dean expected Cas to look hurt, he was sorely disappointed. It was like all the emotion was sucked off of Cas’s face and replaced with cold, calculated anger. The hair on Dean’s arms stood on end, like an electric charge was gathering in the air. For a moment he thought that Castiel might actually attack. But then, with a clenching in his jaw, Castiel stood up and disappeared into the air, leaving nothing but a fluttering of wings in his wake. His sudden absence hit Dean like a punch to the gut as he replayed what he had said. Was he even capable of being anything other than a raging asshole?
“Cas, wait,” he said to the empty room, not sure if the angel was still listening or not. “Look, I’m—I’m sorry, okay? Just…” He ran his hands over his face and gave up on whatever it was he had been trying to say. Cas was probably on the other side of the world by now, and had better things to do than listening to Dean Winchester whine.
With a sigh, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a few more tiresome minutes before climbing out of bed to retrieve the only feasible form of entertainment crumpled up on the motel floor.
“It’s a wonderful life,” Dean muttered bitterly to himself as he opened the pamphlet again.
---
Castiel spent the next three hours standing outside the front window a Best Buy, watching reruns of various Holiday specials through the glass. A couple times people had asked him if he was alright, and he stared at them until they left him alone. Once an employee tried to first get him to leave and then buy whatever substance he seemed to think Castiel had been abusing, but when both of those failed Castiel found himself alone again.
He was still trying to understand why this situation with Dean was so upsetting. He could have accepted it if the Winchesters had wished to celebrate without him; it would have hurt, yes. It would have hurt a lot. But he would have understood, or said that he did, and moved on.
This was different. For some reason, this made Castiel afraid. There was something in Sam and Dean’s eyes when they talked about Christmas. It made Castiel think that, piece by piece, the Winchesters were giving up. That maybe they’d been giving up for a long time now. And Castiel wasn’t about to let that happen. He just didn’t know how to stop it.
As if in answer, the screens flickered to something familiar: the opening sequence of “Rodorf’s Holiday Surprise”. Suddenly Castiel had an idea. He would be the first to admit that it was likely a terrible idea, but for the next hour and a half he stood with his nose a fraction of an inch away from the glass as he watched the movie play out. By the end, he had a full-fledged and no less ridiculous plan in mind.
Castiel did not pretend to be an expert on holiday tradition. There were aspects of it that seemed vague and nebulous, some unspoken ingredient that catalyzed everything into the Christmas spirit. He wasn’t about to start making deep inquiries into the philosophical nature of human seasonal festivals, though. So he focused on the one thing he did have; a list of the ingredients of Christmas courtesy of Rodorf’s Holiday Surprise.
1. Tree
2. Decorations
3. Presents
4. Snow
5. Family
Sam and Dean may not have thought that Christmas mattered anymore, but Castiel was going to show them differently. Because if spiteful Christmas decorations couldn’t prove a point, then Castiel didn’t know what would.
The first item on the list shouldn’t have been too difficult. There were approximately 400 billion trees on planet Earth, less if you only counted the evergreens that humans seemed to prefer. Castiel only needed one. Therein lay the problem.
He materialized in the middle of a forest about 300 miles north of Yakutsk, Russia. There were no human settlements for hundreds of miles around. Everything was silent in a way that Castiel was not used to experiencing, more keenly attuned to his vessels ears ever since he began to Fall. The snow hung lush and deep on every available surface, weighing down the boughs until they melded with the ground. It was quite peaceful.
Before arriving there he had assumed that all he would need to do was find a tree of appropriate size and then transport it back to the Winchesters. But staring at the sprawling thicket of green and white around him, he suddenly realized that there had to be more to it than that. The film had stressed the importance of picking the best tree, not the biggest or the prettiest but the one that somehow felt right. Castiel hated these vague emotional cues that he was now expected to pick up on. When he stared at a tree, all he felt was the ponderous creep of its cells multiplying.
He set off down a natural corridor, breathing in deep the smell of pine and water. It had been a long while since the air he was breathing had passed through human lungs. He wondered if the Winchesters had ever tasted anything like it. For a brief moment he considered bringing them here in person, to smell the air and make them pick out a tree in person. But not only was the air clean, it was also bitterly cold; cold enough that the brothers would freeze to death in minutes, so cold that even Castiel was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Usually the sensory data from his vessel’s skin was meaningless until focused on interpreting it. Ever since he had been becoming closer and closer to human, he found himself experiencing sensation without trying to. The experience was slightly terrifying.
He glared at a squat, bulbous tree, a sudden pang of anger springing up from his chest. He didn’t want to deal with all of these pointless human things, like feeling cold and feeling trees and knowing what to do with all of it. In a swirl of motion he flung out his wings, their true form scorching the air and shattering it like glass. He scraped them across the treetops, the feeling raw and sharp like pressing a frozen knife to his tongue. There was a white-hot flash, and when his wings settled back into his body the snow had been blown off of all the trees in a circle around him.
Castiel let his shoulders slump, slightly ashamed at his outburst. If any humans had been around he could have burned their eyes out. As he surveyed the damage, however, something caught his eyes from the shadow of a gigantic pine.
A tough, scraggly sapling had forced its way out of the ground between two of the larger trees, fighting through the competing branches for every spec of sunlight it could gather. The latest fall of snow had covered it completely until Castiel had blasted it away, but it still refused to die. It was more brown than green in places, gnarled and ugly. Cas knelt down beside it, gently pinching one of its branches between his fingers. He could feel the soft, yielding flesh of the needles. This one would do. The Winchesters appreciated stubbornness.
He appeared back in the motel room a few minutes later, cradling the small tree by the clod of dirt around its roots. Sam glanced up from his computer in surprise, Dean releasing a curse.
“What the hell, Cas?” Dean asked, springing to his feet with a frown. “What is this?”
“It’s a Christmas tree,” Castiel said, suddenly nervous. “I know you expressed no desire to mark the season this year, but I hoped you might accept some small token of the holiday.” He awkwardly extended the tree towards him. “I believe tinsel and ornaments are appropriate.”
Dean stared at it blankly, his eyes flicking from Castiel’s face to the tree, which was feeling more and more inadequate by the second. Just when Cas was about to whirl around and head straight back to the forest, Dean shook his head and pulled it out of his grasp.
“You’re getting dirt everywhere,” he groused, glaring at the floor. “Not like they’ll let us keep this thing anyways. I’m just going to have to throw it out tomorrow.”
“I understand,” Castiel said, surprised that he didn’t feel disappointment. As disgruntled as Dean pretended to be, there was a brief spark of something in his eyes that could almost have been happiness before Dean shoved it back down. Castiel liked it. He wanted to see it more.
He left the brothers alone that night, but when he stopped in the next morning he saw that someone had put the tree in a small pot and shoved some shiny candy wrappers between the branches. Dean made no comment, but a smile worked its way out of his stiff face when he caught Castiel staring at it.
----
Theoretically, buying decorations that could come from a store not twenty minutes away from the motel should have been easier than travelling halfway across the country to dig up a sapling. Standing on a street corner outside of Walmart, though, Castiel would rather have gone to the moon.
There was a time when he would have been able to reach in and pull out whatever he needed without any effort at all, but travelling across the world and back had taken a lot out of him. He needed to save his strength, and if that meant he had to do things the human way, well. How hard could it be?
He’d had a stern and somewhat baffled conversation with an ATM earlier that day, which had resulted in an indeterminate amount of paper bills which he could only hope would be enough. A crowd of people was steadily bustling in and out of the store, everyone seeming to be very confident in what they were doing. Perhaps the key was to look competent, and figure it out as he went.
Forgetting for a moment that he didn’t have to breathe, Castiel took a steadying breath. The automatic doors slid open for him as he stepped into the manufactured heat of the superstore. He kept a close watch on the people around him, but immediately there was a division. Some of them went for carts, while others walked directly into the main body of the store. Castiel wavered uncertainly, buffered by a continuous stream of people shuffling past him before forgoing the cart and set off in the first direction that came to mind.
Lines and lines of shelves slid past him as he walked, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light at the signs above the isles. Castiel knew that humans required a lot of material supplements, but this was overwhelming. And no matter where he looked, he saw an infinite number of advertisements but no actual decorations. He wandered around for what felt like an indefinite amount of time, to the point where he probably could have mapped out the entire contents of the store except for the Christmas section. He was just receiving incorrect directions from yet another apathetic salesperson when he heard someone calling his name.
“Cas?” Sam strode up to him, a baffled expression on his face and a basket full of oranges in his hand. “What are you doing here?”
“Um.” Castiel gestured vaguely at the shelves around them—he seemed to have wandered into the frozen foods section again. “I was just…buying a microwaveable lean pocket meal,” he says, spouting out the first label he sees. The incredulous look on Sam’s face was enough to tell him that his lie has missed the mark.
“Okay, one: if you’re going to try human food, please at least eat something that looks like it shouldn't come out of an easy bake oven,” Sam groused. “But really, Cas, why are you here?”
Castiel squirmed in his metaphorical boots, but he wasn’t seeing much of a way out of it this time. “I was shopping for Christmas decorations,” he admitted. “I was hoping to keep it a secret.”
“Until you showed up at the motel room and dumped them on us, you mean,” Sam said, but there was no malice in his voice. He just looked at Castiel with a funny expression on his face, fingers tapping on the plastic of his basket.
“This Christmas thing is important to you, isn’t it?”
Castiel nodded. Sam shook his head with a rueful smile. Instead he just grabbed Castiel’s shoulder and guided him out of the freezer department, passing racks of clothes and shelves full of dog food until they reached a section of the store decked out in green and red lights.
Castiel scanned the shelves before looking back at Sam. “I have no idea what I am supposed to get,” he said helplessly. Sam grinned and set off down the aisle, squinting at price tags and pushing boxes into Castiel’s arms. He picked out tinsel and a set of cheap plastic ornaments, as well as a fake wreath. Castiel reaches out to take a box of white Christmas lights down from the shelf.
“We can’t get those,” Sam said, moving to take them back. “The tree was one thing, but they won’t let us waste the electricity.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Castiel said as he hugged them tighter to his chest. Sam looked like he was about to argue but seemed to decide otherwise.
As they headed towards the checkout line, they passed a small table covered in sprigs of a small plant with white berries. A woman in a fuzzy red hat smiled aggressively at them as they passed by.
“We have fresh mistletoe right here, dears,” she called out after them. “Free samples!”
Castiel looked at Sam in askance. The movie had not covered this. With a look that could only have been described as wily, Sam accepted a small sprig and tossed it into the cart. Castiel decided not to comment.
After avoiding disaster at the checkout lane Castiel rode back with Sam to the motel, and for once he found himself enjoying the rocking motion of the car. When they pulled back into the motel parking lot and Sam killed the engine, he sat there for a moment just staring out the windshield.
“I know why you’re doing this,” he said eventually, his eyes meeting Castiel’s. “And I just wanted to say that I think it’s a good idea. If there’s one thing we could use right now—well, maybe it’s not Christmas, but I’m pretty sure it would help.”
Castiel bobbed his head in acknowledgement. It helped to know that he had Sam’s support. Dean was clearly going to make things as difficult as possible.
He helped Sam unload the boxes, carrying them up to the motel room where Dean was currently in the shower. Castiel sat on the floor and began spreading the decorations out around him so he could regard them all thoughtfully. Sam went straight for the mini-fridge and popped open a beer, and after a moment’s thought he offered Castiel one too. The glass felt cold and damp in his hand; he passed it under his nose and sniffed it delicately, and his stomach churned hungrily in response. That was new. Castiel took a sip, the liquid slightly bitter on his tongue in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. He set it within an easy arm’s reach and began opening the various decorations and laying them out around him.
The water turned off with a screech of rusty metal and a splutter, and a moment later Dean stepped out wearing a towel and nothing more.
“Oh hey Sam, you’re back…” his voice trailed off as he noticed the explosion of wires and lights surrounding Castiel. A frown creased his brows. “The hell is all this?”
“Just a few decorations,” Sam said innocently. “Cas picked them up. Since we’re going to be spending our Christmas here, I thought they might cheer up the place a bit.”
“You know they won’t let us keep them up,” Dean said, shaking his head as he went to root through his duffle bag for some clothes. Castiel’s eyes ran over the muscles in his back as he leaned down to pick some up. He remembered sculpting those muscles himself. Dean turned back to him with his arms full of clothes and tilted his head to the door.
“You should get rid of them,” he said, before stomping back off into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Sam sighed and ran his hands through his hair as Castiel continued fidgeting with the cords. If Sam told him to put it all away, he would have to give this up. But when they made eye contact, Sam smiled and shook his head slightly.
Castiel left before Dean came out of the bathroom again, but left the room entwined with lights and tinsel in his wake.
The next item on Castiel’s list was one of the most important, if commercial America was to be believed. According to the movie, presents had to be tailored perfectly to the recipient’s personality and needs. That shouldn’t have been a problem. On a first glance neither Winchester was an especially complicated individual. When he first met them Castiel had thought he could know everything about them from the moment they met. But the more time he spent with them, the more he came to understand that there was so much more to the boys than hunting and family. There were layers to them that went deeper than bone, folds of habit and memory that Castiel could only glimpse.
And so Castiel went looking for the one person who knew the brothers best.
---
When Bobby opened his door and found a goddamn angel of the Lord standing on his threshold without the boys in tow, his immediate thought was that the devil had finally caught up with them. Castiel must have seen it in his face or done some kind of mind-reading mojo because he started shaking his head vehemently.
“Sam and Dean are fine,” he said, his voice as gravelly-low as ever. “I just had a few questions.”
Bobby looked him up and down suspiciously. “I don’t know that I like the sounds of that much better,” he grumbled, but propped the door open and wheeled himself back to let the other man, or whatever he was, inside. Figuring out how to operate the door with his legs in the chair had been an exercise in frustration for the first few weeks, but he had the process down pretty well by now.
Castiel bobbed his head in silent thanks and stepped into the foyer, glancing around with an observant eye. Bobby recognized that look. It was the automatic instinct of a solider scouting new ground, recording everything to memory in case it came in handy. Only ever having seen Castiel wearing a scruffy tax accountant, it was easy to forget that his primary function was a weapon.
At this current moment, though, he looked more like a lost kid in a supermarket. As Bobby shut the door behind him and wheeled around to face him, Castiel stared at him with a sort of helplessness, refusing to speak first. Bobby gritted his teeth and waited it out. Almost everyone he knew was emotionally constipated in one way or another, so he’d had plenty of practice being a stubborn bastard.
Sure enough, Castiel broke first. He heaved a long and very human sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“I’m really not sure how to go about asking this,” he admitted, blue eyes darting up into Bobby’s own.
“You can start by spitting it out, boy,” Bobby said in his usual irritable tone. “You sound like you’re about to ask me out to the goddamn prom.”
Castiel squirmed like a toddler caught in the cookie jar. Bobby swore, for being a being of ancient and unimaginable wisdom, angels could be a bunch of kids.
"I want Dean to celebrate Christmas," Castiel finally said. "He is...resisting the idea."
Bobby raised an eyebrow. "If Dean don't want to do it, then why are you pressing the issue?"
Castiel sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, a strikingly human gesture. "He believes that there is nothing but pain to be had from such an experience," the angel explained. "The last time he and Sam marked the occasion was the year before Dean went to Hell. They do not cherish the idea of repeating such an ordeal."
"Well, Cas, if that's what they want then maybe you should just let them do it."
"But it does not have to be that way!" Castiel exploded, his frustration boiling over. "If Sam and Dean insist on the attitude that they will be casualties in this war, then they are that much closer to making it a reality. I don't understand how they don't see that..."
Bobby stared Castiel down, watching as the angel worked himself back into a state resembling composure. Pressing a firm hand to his shoulder, Bobby guided him into the living room and pushed him into a chair. The angel folded obediently and Bobby sat across from him, lacing his hands in front of him.
"Cas, you do understand that our chances of coming through this alive are not looking too hot."
Castiel nodded.
Bobby raised his eyebrows. "So why are you so pissed that the boys are acting accordingly?"
"Because they aren't going to die," Castiel said simply. "All evidence points towards it. Sam and Dean have faced death many times before, sometimes even succumbing to it. Yet here they stand. Statistically speaking, Dean and Sam are somewhat immortal."
Bobby snorted in spite of himself. "Cas, the real world isn't a math problem. It doesn't matter how many times you give death the slip, sooner or later he's going to catch up to you. And be all the more pissed for the wait."
"I believe that Death as an entity is ambivalent to the passage of time," Castiel said absently, picking at the splintered wood on the corner of the desk. Bobby was stuck by the sudden feeling that he was telling a kid that Santa wasn't real. Which he hoped to God Castiel already knew.
"Dean won't die," Cas was saying. "I will not allow him to."
Bobby sighed and leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his knees and treating the angel to his no-bullshit stare. "Cas, is there something you want to tell me?" Castiel looked at him uncomprehendingly. "About Dean?" Bobby prodded.
"What would I have to tell you about Dean?" Castiel asked. "There is little about him that you do not already know."
"I mean about you and him," Bobby said from behind gritted teeth, hardly able to believe he was playing Doctor Phil with a frickin' angel. Good thing he was used to teasing emotions out of those emotionally stunted Winchesters.
"Me and him," Castiel said slowly, turning the words over on his tongue like they were foreign objects.
"About how you feel about him!" Bobby said in exasperation.
"My feelings towards Dean are nothing but cordial in nature," Castiel said, suddenly careful. Bobby smiled grimly. He knew when he was onto something.
"Alright, alright, I'm not going to make you say it. But let me tell you something about Dean that you might not know." Bobby paused for effect, watching Castiel hang on his words with a vague sense of satisfaction before proclaiming, "He's a total idjit."
Castiel looked disappointed, but Bobby wasn't done. "As soon as Dean realizes that he wants something, his first instinct is to deny himself. He don't think he deserves a whole lot right now. But that doesn't mean he shouldn't have it. Do you get my meaning?"
Castiel frowned. "You think I should go ahead with my Christmas ideas."
Bobby could have slapped him upside the head, but settled for a disparaging sigh. "Yes, Cas. That's exactly what I meant." Idjit. No wonder the boys liked him, he was just as stunted as they were.
Castiel nodded, a quiet smile fluttering across his lips. "Thank you, Bobby. Your support in this is important to me." He paused, his smile faltering. "...I don't suppose you could give me some direction on what gifts to present Sam and Dean on Christmas day?" he asked helplessly. "I wish to get them something satisfactory, but I believe it is custom not to simply ask." Bobby was going to have a good laugh about this situation between himself and a bottle of Scotch later on, but for now he racked his brain.
"You're not going to want to spend a lot of money on them," Bobby said thoughtfully. "Neither of them will appreciate that." Something occurred to Bobby. "Hold on, do you even have any money?"
"I can get some," Castiel said sheepishly. Bobby decided not dig too deeply into that.
"Alright, so aim for something cheap and useful. But I gotta tell you, Cas, I think it will mean something just that it comes from you."
"Perhaps. But it will also mean something if Sam and Dean actually enjoy it,” Castiel pointed out.
Bobby smiled gruffly. “Tearing your hair out over finding the right gift is just another part of the Christmas season, Cas. I’d say that if you’re feeling frustrated, you’re on the right track. Buying gifts is always hard. You gotta just pick what feels right.”
“So people keep saying,” Cas said darkly. Bobby realized how impossibly frustrating it must be to be cut off from the vast amounts of knowledge he had had before, and then be forced to try and understand the vague things humans did within a few months.
“I apologize,” Castiel said, seeing Bobby’s expression. “I am not being very appreciative of your hospitality. Your advice has been very helpful. I have no doubt that it will make my choice the better one.”
Bobby nodded his head. “Glad to help.” The angel climbed to his feet, smoothing his hands down the front of his trench coat and staring around the room aimlessly. Bobby was about to ask if he needed to call a cab when the angel disappeared.
He shook his head. Getting an angel of the Lord involved in this brand of commercialized Christmas was probably a bad idea, but Bobby couldn’t help but hope that it worked out in the end.
Castiel spent the remainder of the day hanging around the Winchester’s motel room, pretending alternately to help Sam with research or hover at Dean’s shoulder as he cleaned his guns. In the Christmas movie the protagonist always came up with the perfect gift, something that tied up all the conflicts and made for a happy ending. Then again, in the movie snow was animated and capable of higher thought, and everyone was made out of clay. But the idea was something Castiel couldn’t seem to get out of his head, and although he sat with a book in his hands for the greater part of the hour he didn’t once turn the page.
“How’s it coming, Cas?” Sam’s voice interrupted his inner thoughts. The younger Winchester was staring at him with an expression of concern, and Castiel realized that his vessel’s face must have been subconsciously portraying his preoccupation.
Castiel hoisted a polite smile and flipped to another section of the book. “I have yet to discern anything useful from this volume,” he said solemnly, returning his eyes to the page. He doubted that would dispel the worry from Sam’s mind—the boy was infuriatingly persistent. Normally he would welcome his help, but of course secrecy was also an important component of gift-giving.
He couldn’t imagine anything that the Winchesters needed that they didn’t already have, or that he was capable of giving them. His powers were taking longer and longer to recharge with every use, and lessening with every cycle. Soon he would be little more than human, and then he would have nothing to offer them at all. He resolved that if he could do nothing more to stop the apocalypse, he would at least do all he could to make them happy while he still could.
After a brief nap on one of the motel beds while the boys worked, Castiel set out to collecting what he would need for his gifts.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
---
Castiel perched on the roof of the motel, watching the stars. They were problematic. If all had gone according to plan then the sky should have been hung thick with clouds. Instead the night sky remained stubbornly clear.
For some reason, snow seemed extremely significant to Christmas traditions. Originally he imagined it was symbolic of purity, cleansing for a new beginning. There were multiple songs depicting a “white Christmas”, and while the atmospheric content of frozen water was overall meaningless to Castiel at this point he was done questioning traditions.
As he understood it, the idea was to fall asleep the night before anticipating snow, and then to wake up the next morning with that wish fulfilled. He stared down at his vessel’s—his hands, feeling the weak currents of grace running through them. He ought to save his strength. He had wasted too much energy on such a frivolous endeavor already. But he didn’t leave.
“Cas?” Dean’s voice called up from the walkway below. Cas kicked his heels against the side of the building aimlessly.
“I’m up here.”
“I can see that.” Dean’s hands appeared at the top of the ladder that Castiel had used to get up himself, the rest of his body soon following. He rubbed his hands together and blew through his fingers with a shivery curse.
“It’s cold as fuck out here. What are you doing?”
“Admiring the stars.” Dean glanced up at the sky, hardly sparing them a second before returning his eyes to Castiel.
“Couldn’t you just look at them through the window, where you’re less likely to freeze to death?”
“I believe that would be missing the point of stargazing. Besides, my grace is not yet so impaired that the elements pose a threat.”
Dean must have heard the bitter edge in his voice, because he sat down beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you good, man?” Castiel wrenched his gaze away from the stars and turned to look at Dean. He looked concerned. Castiel supposed that his behavior lately had been slightly out of the ordinary, but the same could be said for either of them.
“I am fine.” If the Winchesters had taught him anything, it was never say how you really feel. He still had a lot to learn about lying, though. Dean was obviously unconvinced, but he turned away.
“I’m sorry, by the way. You losing your powers, being cut off from the big ole’ spirit in the sky; I know a lot of it is my fault. So, uh.” He coughed. “How much power do you have left, anyways?”
“It comes and it goes. Each time I use it my powers eventually regenerate, but every time I get a little less back. I believe it will be less than a year before I am rendered essentially human.”
Dean smiled bitterly. “Wow. Glad to hear that I can add corrupting an angel to my resume.”
Castiel stared at him. “I didn’t fall just for your sake, Dean. I left heaven because I believed it was the right thing to do. This was my decision, and its consequences rest with me.” He paused. “Although I will not deny, having you here has made the process much easier.”
“Alright, alright, you know what I say about chick flick moments.”
Castiel smiled ruefully. “For having such an aversion to emotions, you certainly feel them strongly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Considering your history, you have a remarkable capacity for love and devotion.” Castiel’s mouth twisted. “And you seem very devout in your belief that Christmas should not be celebrated this year.”
“Hey, I’m fine if other people want to do it,” Dean said. “Doesn’t mean I want to get in on it.”
Castiel was quiet for a moment. “Snow was originally a symbol of purity and cleansing,” he commented. “It was made to consecrate the year and prepare it for a new beginning.”
Dean rubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. “Just let it go, Cas. Please.”
Castiel fell silent. “This is important to me, Dean.”
Dean shook his head. “I don’t understand why.”
"In the past two years, I have come to consider you my friend. You understand why those are a valuable commodity to me. Now that I am becoming human, I must start adjusting to a human lifestyle. But all I know right now is war."
Dean snorted derisively. "And you think a little pine and presents are going to change that? Look, Cas," he rubbed the back of his neck, "I don't mean to be an asshole. But we have to face the facts. Chances are, none of us are going to survive this. I mean, you, me, and Sam against the devil? What do we possibly have going for us?"
"You should have more faith," Castiel said sharply. "There is a way to defeat Lucifer. There must be."
"There I agree with you. But don't try and tell me that it's anything but a suicide mission." Dean shook his head. "Look, Cas, I'm sorry. That's just the way I see it. You can believe whatever you want. Just don’t try to tell me that by putting on a happy face and drinking some eggnog, things are magically going to get better for us."
With a creak of shingles Dean climbed to his feet, rubbing his hands together and blowing through his fingers for warmth. He looked like he was about to say something, towering over Cas like that, but he just turned and climbed back down, leaving Castiel alone.
Castiel stared at the spot he had left, an empty pit opening up in his stomach. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. He wasn't a fool. He knew their chances of surviving this were not good. He knew that they could not count on God to do anything but watch the world crumble. He knew that he was falling faster and faster every day, and each iota of power he lost was making him that much more useless in the fight. He knew that the more Dean believed they were going to die in action, the more likely it was to come true. And he knew the difference between fiction and reality, that life didn't work the same way it did in the movies, and that just because a children's special claimed that Christmas had the power to bring about a new beginning didn't mean it would actually do anything. But Castiel figured it was worth a try, no matter what Dean said. If it helped Sam and Dean, anything was worth it.
He stood up with a new sense of purpose and stared at the sky. There would be no clouds tonight, but he didn't need them. Castiel spread his wings; the cold air wavered slightly when they moved, starlight tingling on his feathers. He couldn't really imagine what it would be like to live without wings, but he supposed that soon enough he wouldn't have to try. He took off, travelling not in any way that humans could understand, slipping through planes and vortexes and theoreticals until he found his way to the North Pole. It seemed fitting that it should be there. Standing in the middle of a snowfield, he flexed his grace. There was work to be done.
---
On the morning of Christmas Day, Castiel waited outside the boy's hotel room. He was knee deep in a plain of snow that stretched out as far as the motel parking lot before stopping. The manager had spent a long time that morning convinced that aliens were communicating with him. Castiel thought it better not to correct him.
The packages in Castiel's hands felt heavy in his hands. Technically a red suit and a chimney should have been involved for this, but the motel was lacking in the fireplace department and Castiel did not enjoy the idea of trying to dress himself again. So he stood outside and waited for them to wake. He was there for hours, earning himself some strange looks from people going on their way, but no one questioned him. He could sense that the Winchesters were sleeping well; he didn't want to wake them up early.
Finally he felt Sam begin to stir; using the back of his knuckles just as he had seen Dean do, he rapped gently on the wood of the door. The sound of shifting blankets came from inside the room, as well as the click of a gun being loaded. Castiel wondered when the last time they had answered a door without a deadly weapon had been.
Sam opened the door, his eyes still squinted with sleep.
"Cas?" he asked tiredly, glancing between him and the snow in incomprehension.
Castiel hoisted the presents with a nervous smile. "Merry Christmas," he said.
Suddenly Sam looked panicked. "Oh, Cas, I, uh..."
"What's going on?" Dean appeared in the door behind him, his day clothes rumpled from sleep. His hair was sticking up at odd angles in a way that made Castiel want to smooth it down.
"Dean. Good morning." Dean stared back at him blankly. Castiel was beginning to feel a tingle of fear in his stomach. "May I come in?"
Sam looked away, but Dean stepped aside to let Castiel inside. He stepped out of the cold, but something colder was welling up inside of him.
Everything was gone. The decorations, the lights, the tree. Castiel stood in the middle of a bare motel room, turning to Sam and Dean with a confused expression.
"I don't understand. What happened to the—"
"I threw it out," Dean said. Sam looked like he was about ready to combust, but Dean's face was completely expressionless. Castiel focused on him.
"Why?" he kept the anger out of his voice, but was alarmed to hear something else. Something brittle and cracked.
Dean glared at him. "Cas, you can't try and make people do something they don't want to do."
Cas tightened his jaw in response. "I only wanted to help. Why are you fighting me?"
Dean shot Sam a look. "Sammy, can you give us a moment?"
From the speed at which Sam disappeared Castiel would have thought him an angel. Dean turned back to Castiel, his face closed off. "You want to know why I don't want to do the whole Christmas thing, Cas?"
Castiel nodded slowly.
"The last time I celebrated Christmas was the year before I went to Hell. And you know what? It did help. I felt better about things. I thought maybe it might all work out somehow. That Sammy would be okay. That I would—” He cut himself short, taking a short, harsh breath. “But you know what? It wasn't. Everything went to shit anyways, and all the good feelings in the world just made it suck even more in the long run. Being happy just makes you weak."
"That is not true," Castiel snarled, striding forward until he was right in Dean's personal space. "If you continue insisting on lowering your expectations to the point where they will never be denied, then one day you will discover that there is no bar low enough. You will sink deeper and deeper, lose more and more, and every time you will make yourself start wanting less. And then you will have nothing at all."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to end up with nothing anyways, Cas. Might as well try to stop feeling bad about it."
Castiel wanted to argue. He would have liked nothing more than to stand there shouting at Dean about how he would never have nothing, how Castiel would do anything to keep him and Sam safe, how sometimes good things did happen. But he didn't. Instead he threw the wrapped boxes onto the bed without a word and turned to fly away.
Nothing happened. He had wasted too much energy getting the snow. Hunching his shoulders in shame, Castiel stormed out the front door, surprising Sam on the way out, and made for the highway. He didn't care where he was going, just that he wouldn't have to see that look on Dean's face again. No one tried to stop him.
Other than Heaven and the Winchesters, Castiel didn't really have anywhere else to go. He toyed with the idea of going back to Bobby, but he squashed that idea immediately. Bobby had enough troubles without listening to Castiel's own, and besides, he had warned him this would happen. So instead Castiel walked along the side of the road, feeling the wind from speeding cars swirl around his jacket.
After a while he began to sense the Winchesters nearby, the familiar pulse of the Impala’s engine thrumming behind him. Using what little energy he had left, he cloaked himself from sight; the sleek black car sped by him on the road, kicking up a trail of dust in her wake. Castiel wondered if they were even looking for him, or just had somewhere to be.
He walked all night. His feet ached in their shoes, the muscles in his legs stiff and sore, but he refused to give in to his body’s complaints. He was still an angel. Exhaustion was below him.
The sun was just coming up again when Castiel felt a strange sensation in his grace, like there was something he knew he was forgetting and was trying to remember. He frowned as the sensation became more of a tug, something pulling him. He recognized the feeling of a summoning spell, and he had some idea of who was attempting it. Stubbornly he refused to bulge, planting his feet on the ground like it would make a difference. The tug became a yank, which turned into a long, persistent pull like a continuous blast of wind. Eventually Castiel couldn't hold off any longer, and he let the spell carry him back.
He was deposited, to his surprise, at Bobby's house. The old hunter looked as gruff as ever, but his eyes were slightly softer. Sam and Dean stood at his shoulders. Dean was pointedly avoiding his gaze.
Castiel couldn't work up the energy to glare. Instead he just gritted his teeth. "I assume this is apocalypse business."
Dean coughed. Bobby elbowed him pointedly.
"No, uh, actually," Dean said, stepping aside for Castiel to see. Behind him was a tree; the same tree that Castiel had found for them. It looked slightly squashed from being shoved into a dumpster, but otherwise it was intact. Someone had broken out Bobby's stash of Christmas ornaments and hung them on the branches, and perched at the top was a little plaster angel. Castiel looked back at Dean, a confused frown on his face.
Dean shuffled his feet anxiously. “I figured we could do a little something to mark the season,” he said gruffly. “If you like.”
Castiel glanced out of the window, where the world was still in an early-morning darkness. "It's not Christmas anymore," he pointed out.
Sam grinned. "It's still Christmas in Japan," he said. "What do you say, Cas? Want some eggnog?"
The three men waited for his answer, trying to hide their restlessness. Castiel understood the gesture that was being made. With a small smile he nodded.
“I would love to try some, thank you,” he said, and the tension in the room seemed to relax like the air being let out of a balloon. Bobby wheeled into the kitchen muttering about idjits, and Sam pushed a glass into his hand as everyone settled onto the couches and chairs in the living room. The television was playing yet another Christmas movie, but no one seemed to be paying attention to it; the boys laughed and argued and joked, Bobby smiled into his beard and occasionally broke in to set them straight, and before long Cas was telling them about Russia and the North Pole and laughing along with them. He noticed there was still something painful in Dean’s face, but at the same time he looked happier than Cas had seen him in a long time. It crossed his mind that by ending up at Bobby's house, they had fufilled the last item on Castiel's list: Family. It seemed ironic that his ultimate success should be a direct result of his previous failure.
After Cas had finished his story about his time trapped in Walmart, Dean scooped up a collection of boxes from under the tree and distributed them to each person. Castiel received a light, flat package that had been sloppily wrapped with tissue paper and duct tape. Bobby immediately reached into the bag he had received and pulled out a bottle of alcohol; with a curt nod of approval, he wheeled back towards the kitchen under the pretense of getting glasses, but Castiel suspected that in reality he wanted to avoid the sentimental atmosphere that opening presents seemed to foster.
"C'mon, Cas," Sam said, patting the spot in between them. Cas did as he was told, and Dean produced the pair of presents that Castiel had left in the motel room.
"I thought we could open these now," Dean said sheepishly. "If you still want us to.”
Castiel stared at the presents for a moment before nodding. With a grin the boys shredded the paper.
Sam's face lit up as the box revealed a small black book whose pages were covered in symbols.
"It's an Enochian dictionary," Castiel explained. "I inscribed it myself. It details many important wards, as well as a basic understanding of the language itself."
"Oh wow, Cas..." Sam said, his eyes bright. A second later he was lost in his reading.
Dean was still struggling with his wrappings, Castiel watching his face and feeling a familiar thrill of nervousness flutter through him. When the paper fell away, Dean was left holding a sleek, short piece of metal that glinted and warped the light around it. He cradled it in his palms with a look of reverence.
“An angel sword,” he said softly, his eyes flicking to Castiel’s face.
“It’s mine,” Castiel clarified. “I want you to carry it.”
“Cas…” Dean said, his fingers running lightly over the flat of the blade. “I can’t accept this. If you ever get into trouble—”
“E—Then I will manifest it for my own use,” Castiel said. “It will come to me if I call it. But otherwise, I want you to keep it safe. You do seem to have a certain habit of getting on the angels’ bad sides. I only hope you never have to use it.” It’s probably too much to hope for, but that doesn’t stop him. Dean looks like he’s about to argue, but the words seem to crumble on his tongue. With a nod, he hefts it in his hand.
“Angel-killing dagger, demon-killing dagger,” he said thoughtfully, eyeing Ruby’s knife in a sheath at Sam’s belt. “Does have a nice parallel to it.” He smiled and reached out to clasp Castiel’s shoulder. “Thank you, Cas. Really. I know what this means.”
Castiel bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement and said no more. He knew how Dean felt about sharing feelings.
---
Later that night, after Bobby and Sam had both slunk off to their respective beds full of eggnog and store-bought gingerbread, Dean stepped out to find Castiel sitting on the back porch. Dean lingered nervously in the background, probably debating whether to disturb him or not before clearing his throat and stepping forward.
“Watching the stars again?” he asked with forced lightness. Castiel smiled.
“No. This time I am merely thinking.”
“Oh yeah?” Dean’s weight slid down beside him on the step with a thud and setting a mug of something warm and sweet-smelling beside him. “What about?”
Castiel shrugged. “Thank you for doing this, Dean. You know you didn’t have to.”
“Please don’t thank me. I was being a total asshole before. This was the least I could do.”
Castiel smiled wryly. “You’ve seen my family. I’ve dealt with much worse.”
Dean fidgeted nervously. “So what did you think about your first ever Christmas with us? Meet your expectations?”
“Most certainly.”
Dean’s hand strayed onto Castiel’s, an almost unconscious gesture, and he looked down in surprise.
“Dude, your hands are like ice cubes. We need to get you inside.”
“I am fine,” Castiel started to say, but Dean was bundling him back through the door frame and his protests died in his mouth.
Dean kept his arm around Castiel’s shoulders as he guided them back into the living room and sat him down on the couch. Suddenly his face lit up.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, getting up to kneel by the base of the tree and retrieve a small, flat package wrapped in tissue paper and duct tape. He trust it towards Castiel with a sheepish smile.
“Your present,” he said. Castiel raised his eyebrows.
“Dean, you didn’t have to—”
“Yes I did,” Dean interrupted. “You wanted the full Christmas experience, right? Can’t have that without presents.” Castiel smiled faintly and started tearing at the wrappings. He could feel Dean’s gaze on him, anxiously watching him as he opened it.
“It’s nothing special,” he said as Castiel lifted it free of its paper. It was a small block of paper with pictures and dates—a calendar for the next year, he realized.
“I figured it might come in handy,” Dean said simply. Castiel looked up at him, a painful bubble of happiness inflating his chest.
“I see you’ve found a new sense of optimism regarding our chances at surviving the apocalypse,” Castiel said, his voice soft. Dean smiled.
“Yeah, well. Maybe a little optimism is just what we need around here.”
Castiel ran his fingers over the cheap plastic cover like it was worth more than gold. To him, it was. It was a promise that Dean hadn’t given up after all, and Castiel wouldn’t trade that for anything. “Thank you, Dean. It’s perfect.”
“Alright, alright,” Dean said, clearing his throat and climbing to his feet. “Let’s not get too sappy here. How about we have ourselves one more celebratory drink, and then call it a night?” He climbed to his feet and headed to the kitchen.
Dean returned a moment later with a couple small glasses of eggnog as Cas walked out to meet him, pressing it into Castiel’s hand and clicking the rims together with a smile.
“Merry Christmas, Cas,” he said. “And uh, thanks for helping make that the case.” He downed most of the contents in a gulp. Castiel followed his example, throwing his head back and feeling the liquid slide down his throat. As he did, his eyes settled on a small, green sprig pinned up in the doorframe.
“What is that?” Castiel gestured at it vaguely. Dean followed his gaze then looked away equally as quickly, his cheeks turning red.
“Oh, uh, that’s… that’s just—”
“Mistletoe.” Castiel interrupted Dean’s fumbling with a slight smile. “Sam and I bought it at Walmart.”
“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” Dean said with a quiet laugh, staring at Castiel like he was really seeing him. The smile lingered on his lips, vague and slightly surprised. Castiel reached behind himself to set his glass on the edge of a nearby table, his eyes never leaving Dean’s.
“It’s okay to be happy, Dean,” he said quietly, taking a step closer until he was right up in Dean’s space. He knew now what to do, what this had been leading up to. “It’s okay to want things.”
He dug his fingers into the front of Dean’s shirt and pulled him into a kiss, feeling him tense in surprise before slowly relaxing, his arms winding around to press into Castiel’s back. It was slow, and tender, and lazy in all the ways that Castiel had ever let himself imagine. Dean’s hands dug into Castiel’s jacket as he pushed closer, walking him backwards until Cas’s back was pressed against the doorframe.
Castiel was quickly becoming aware of other sensations; the scrape of Dean’s stubble on his face, the pounding of his heart, the slow painful gasp of his lungs that forced him to pull away too soon. Dean paused for a moment, pressing their foreheads together and closing his eyes, his own breathing rough and ragged.
“Thank you, Cas,” he whispered, his thumb dragging across Castiel’s lower lip. “Thank you for everything.” Castiel just pressed their lips back together in response. This level of physical entanglement was something he could never have imagined before he had met Dean and Fallen. But thinking of the calendar lying on the tattered sofa cushions behind them, Castiel thought that perhaps the future didn’t always have to be bleak. If Dean could find happiness, then maybe Cas could too.