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"Jesus was actually born in late September, not December," Cas says dubiously as Dean hauls an almost comically large pine tree through the door of the bunker with some difficulty.
"That's not—," Dean stops, struggles to fit the widest part of the tree through the door frame, and then continues when it pops through. "The point isn't actually some guy's birthday, Cas. It's more about, y'know, the spirit of it all." He can almost hear Cas's confusion as he inches down the stairs and into the map room, and though his vision is mostly obscured by the large green branches of his new Christmas tree, he can picture Cas's bemused squint with perfect clarity.
"...I see," he hears Cas say, in that tone of voice that means he very much does not see but has decided to accept whatever it is as another unknowable human quirk.
"The point is," Dean cranes his neck to the side to survey the room for a suitable spot to place his new botanical baby. "We deserve to do something like normal people for a change. Sing some carols, drink some eggnog that's preferably heavily spiked."
Cas is hovering awkwardly by the doorway, watching Dean struggle with little to no feeling. He thinks for a moment as Dean moves this way and that, assessing the tree from various angles and then nudging it until it sits just so in the corner of the room. "Does Sam like participating in the rituals of the Christmas holiday?"
Dean's mind jumps to that case years ago in Michigan with Mr. and Mrs. Evil-Claus and Sam's vehement rejection of any and all things Christmas. He decides not to disclose that information lest his baby brother's Grinchiness infects Cas. "Yeah, uh, Sammy loves Christmas. Real jolly, that guy." He dusts off his hands, finally satisfied with the placement of his tree. His fingers smell strongly of pine and stick a little when he tries to wipe them on his jeans, tacky with fresh sap. When he glances up at Cas, he sees the angel deep in thought, brow furrowed and lips pursed slightly into a pout.
"Well, if it makes you happy," is what Cas says eventually, seemingly having accepted the Christmas season as another thread in the infinite and illogical fabric of human nature.
"That's the spirit," says Dean happily, clapping a hand to Cas's solid shoulder as he brushes past him to go wash the stickiness from his palms.
Cas, Dean has recently discovered, is like a clingy cat. His comfort level seems to correlate directly with his closeness to Dean at all times—the further into Dean's personal space bubble Cas is, the calmer he appears to be. This is a phenomenon that has made itself increasingly known in the past couple of weeks, and if Dean took more than twelve seconds to think about it, he might realize that it has something to do with trauma, what with how often all of them used to get into life-threatening situations, and a whole lot more psychobabble that Sam would have a field day with. However, he's too busy permeating the bunker with festive cheer for all that rumination.
Today, he is out Christmas shopping. True to form, Cas had requested to tag along in that monotonous, matter-of-fact way that Dean has grown to expect from him. Dean's even learned to pick up on the little nuances in Cas's tone that tell him what the angel is really feeling, which he's more than a little proud of. It comes in handy, too, such as when he needs Cas's opinion on which fluffy Christmas-themed throw blanket to put in the cart.
"I favor the rabbits wearing festive hats," Cas tells him with an air of a war general deciding what country upon which to declare war.
"Awesome," grins Dean, and drops it into the shopping cart.
Cas peers inside, cataloging their loot. "What else do we need?"
"Only the most important thing ever," Dean says, brightening. "Cookie cutters!"
Cas nods gravely and follows Dean to the baking supplies aisle, where he continues to provide important feedback each time Dean holds up two products. Cas doesn't complain about how long Dean is taking in the store, or about how much money they will inevitably spend. He doesn't even protest when Dean grabs a candy-cane patterned scarf and wraps it around his neck straight from the shelf, pressing ice-cold fingers against the warm, sensitive skin of his neck.
They finally finish browsing—or rather, Dean decides they're done and Cas trails wordlessly after him—after two hours. The cashier, a young blonde girl who looks to be in her early twenties, smiles at them as she bags their items, and Dean thinks she looks suspiciously giddy about something. It reminds him of when Claire had spotted a small puppy at a park once, that teenage-girl intensity that honestly intimidates him a little, but there's no puppies or other small animals in their immediate vicinity, so Dean chalks it up to adolescent hormones.
Then, right as she's handing them their last bag of holiday goodies, she squeals in a rush, "I just want you guys to know that you are so cute together and I hope you have a great Christmas! Or, uh, holiday season!" Face flushed, she grins widely at them and waves, clearly dismissing them, before calling out for the next customer. Dazed, Dean allows himself to be ushered towards the door. Cas follows, arms laden with plastic shopping bags.
As they're making their way across the parking lot to Baby, Dean clears his throat. "Um, was that weird? Because I think that was kind of weird."
Cas hums in a way that means elaborate.
"I mean, did you hear her say—did she say we were—cute together?" Dean flushes violently just recounting the words.
"I believe so, yes," Cas replies mildly.
"But we aren't—," Dean splutters. "Like, together? Did she mean—?"
Cas squints at him as he goes to open the trunk. "We are together. We were in the store together as well."
Dean opens his mouth to correct Cas—no, like together-together, like dating—but thinks better of it and closes his mouth. No need to prolong his own embarrassment.
He lets the incident slip out of his mind on the drive home, instead turning his attention to teaching Cas the lyrics to his top ten Zeppelin songs.
"Hey, Cas," calls Dean, balancing precariously on a rusty stepladder he'd dragged from the recesses of the bunker.
"Yes, Dean?"
"A little help here?"
There's a faint rustling and then two steadying hands on Dean's hips (and he is not blushing at all, thank you very much), warm and solid even through the two shirts he's wearing. Dean swallows in a very normal and casual way and hooks the string of lights he'd been struggling with over a finicky bough of the tree. "Alright, we're good."
The hands remain at his waist. "Um, Cas?"
"Yes?"
"You can let go of me now."
"Ah." The warmth leaves and Dean resolutely does not miss it. He descends the ladder back down to the floor and steps back, admiring his handiwork. Cas stands beside him, observing the scene quietly.
"Whaddya think?" asks Dean, nudging Cas with his shoulder. Cas turns his piercing blue gaze on Dean, and it makes him feel warm and cold at the same time, which is a normal way to feel.
"It's very beautiful," says Cas solemnly. "It reminds me of the stars."
Dean swallows. Sometimes Cas's genuineness feels like standing too close to a fire on a bone-cold night: too much but also so incredibly essential. He wants to turn to Cas and tell him, beg him never to change, to keep burning Dean with his sincerity forever. Instead, he clears his throat and says, "Yeah. Real pretty. You wanna help with the ornaments?"
Once Cas hooks the last ornament delicately onto the tree, Dean drags Sam from where he’d been holed up in his room to show him the finished product.
“I know you’ve made it your life’s work to be the real-life Grinch,” he says as he ushers Sam into the hallway, “but even you won’t be able to find fault with this beauty.” Sam snorts, unimpressed, but lets himself be led to Dean's new pride and joy without further complaint.
When they reach the map room, Dean spreads his arms out and spins to face Sam proudly. "Ta-da!"
Personally, he thinks he and Cas did a bang-up job. The tree is strung with warm lights and almost every branch is decked out with ornaments of every size, shape, and color—Dean privately admits that he may have gone overboard when shopping, not that he'll be saying that out loud anytime soon—bringing life to the otherwise subdued room.
There's a moment of silence, and then, inexplicably, Sam is smiling softly. "Yeah, it's nice, Dean," he says, and this is so unexpected that Dean is speechless for a second or two.
"Thanks. Uh, Cas helped," Dean supplies when he gets his voice back. It's the first thing that comes to mind to say, and he latches onto it.
"Hello, Sam," Cas greets. He's fiddling with one of the ornaments behind the tree. Dean had tried to tell him those didn't matter, since no one was going to be seeing them anyway, but Cas had insisted on positioning them perfectly, and Dean didn't see a point in fighting him on it. To each their own. "We've decorated a Christmas tree."
"I can see that," Sam nods, amused. "Real festive. But uh, where's the topper?"
"The what?" Cas emerges from behind the tree, hair somehow more tousled than usual and one side of his coat collar standing up. There's pine needles on his shoulders and Dean feels a strange, sweet ache somewhere north of his sternum at the sight.
"The topper," Sam repeats, oblivious to Dean's sudden ailment. "You know, like the star. Or–hey, maybe we should put Cas on the tree," he jokes, turning to Dean.
Cas does the little head-tilt-and-squint combo that always makes Dean feel weirdly like he wants to scream into a pillow. "Why would you put me on the tree?"
Dean clears his throat, shaking himself out of his own head, and replies without thinking. "'Cause you're my angel," he says, at the same time Sam clarifies, "Because you're an angel."
A beat of silence.
Dean's heart drops into his stomach. What did I just say, he thinks wildly.
"What?" Sam's eyebrow is inching its way up his forehead like an evil woolly worm.
"Um," Dean says eloquently, palms sweating. What the fuck. He did not survive dying multiple times just to go out like this. He can picture his tombstone now: DEAN WINCHESTER. 1979-2015. Cause of death: zero brain-to-mouth filter. Jesus Christ on a fucking cracker. “I mean, uh. You’re an angel?” This last part comes out less certain that it really should, it being a fact and all.
Cas blinks. “...Yes.”
“Like, the angel on the top of the tree,” Dean explains weakly. He can tell it’s not going to work and forges ahead anyway, because that’s been his philosophy for thirty-six long years, and things always seemed to find a way to resolve themselves. “And you’re an angel, and…” He can see Sam hiding a smile out of the corner of his eye and fights the urge to whack his little brother upside the head. There is absolutely nothing funny about the situation–can’t he see Dean is fighting for his life right now?
“Your angel,” Cas repeats back to him curiously. Dean prays vaguely to whatever entity that he and Sam haven’t killed yet for the ground to open up and swallow him whole immediately.
“Well, I meant that in the sense of…you know.” Dean trails off weakly. “Not like that, you know, I mean, of course you’re your own person–or, angel, I guess? I mean, definitely. Not I guess. What am I saying? The point is—,”
“But I am yours, Dean,” Cas interrupts his babbling, brow furrowed, voice soft and definitive. Dean’s world slows to a halt.
…What?
“...What?”
Sam clears his throat awkwardly. “Go away, Sammy,” Dean hisses, eyes not leaving Cas.
“Yes. Okay. Leaving now,” mutters Sam, and then he’s gone, thank god.
Silence fills the room in his wake. Dean can’t tear his eyes off of Cas’s blue gaze, even though it feels like it’s tearing him open clean down his front and picking through his raw insides piece by piece, flaying his scarred, disfigured heart open for examination.
“What—what do you mean by that?” Dean ventures hesitantly.
“Dean,” says Cas again, and the way his name falls out of Cas’s mouth makes it sound like a prayer, reverent and hushed, soft around the edges.
“Cas,” Dean echoes helplessly. He can’t tell if it’s a warning or a plea.
Cas steps closer. Dean feels rooted in place as the angel nears him, like there’s an electric current locking his bones and muscles into position. Cas crowds in until there’s less than a foot of space between their faces, until Dean can see the flecks of silver in his irises, which are thin rings around his pupils. “I have been yours since the moment I first laid a hand on you in Hell,” he says, quiet but firm. “I was yours from the moment I made you whole again and you have been mine.” He raises a hand, ghosts it along Dean’s shoulder, where the handprint-shaped scar burns hot under Dean’s sleeve. Dean can’t get enough air into his lungs. “Do you understand?”
“Jesus,” he croaks. “God—goddamnit, Cas.”
And then Cas kisses him, or maybe he kisses Cas, he can’t tell, and it doesn’t really matter because they’re kissing and holy fucking shit, Cas’s lips are chapped and Dean really needs to put him on the wonderful creation that is chapstick and also they’re kissing.
It’s relatively chaste, but when Cas pulls back Dean’s head is spinning like it hasn’t since his first real makeout session behind the bleachers in high school with some girl he can’t remember the name of. His chest heaves and he stares at Cas, whose lips are slightly reddened and curled up in a hint of a smile.
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” he says in that warm honey-and-gravel voice of his. This might be the best Christmas ever, Dean thinks giddily. Might even beat the beer can wreath.
“Shut up,” he breathes, and puts his hands on Cas’s face to pull him back against his mouth.