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“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”
Castiel says nothing, blank expression unchanged as he blinks at Dean. In return, Dean scoffs, more bemused than irritated. If he thinks about it, it’s kind of checking out — emphasis on kind of. It’s still quite ridiculous, though.
“I mean, I guess angels aren’t known for partying hard, but seriously?”
“Human traditions are vastly different from ours,” Castiel confirms, which earns him yet another huffed chuckle.
“Sure, but it’s Christmas, man,” Dean hums, hand gesticulating wildly as though his claim is supposed to make any more sense that way. “Isn’t that the most important holiday in Christianity? Are you trying to tell me an angel of the Lord does not know how to throw a mean birthday party for God’s son?”
The teasing backfires immediately, prompting Castiel to educate his partner.
“Technically, Eastern bears much more meaning,” the angel trails off. “And the modern ‘Christmas’ your kind celebrates has little to do with the Birth of Christ, which would not have been in December, but—”
Dean waves him off, shushing the lecture on religion. He did not start this conversation to discuss the lore and accuracies of the Bible, much less to ruffle the angel’s feathers. Christmas, to him, is much more than a religious holiday. This year, more than ever, because this year he apparently has a chance to introduce Cas to all the whimsical festivities surrounding Christmas.
“So you never cut down a tree and dragged it back home, with your hands full of splinters and your fingers feeling like they’re going to break off from the cold snow, only to struggle with putting the string lights around the branches?” Dean blathers fervently, “You never went shopping last minute to find a good present and then forgot to ask the cashier to wrap it up for you, because you suck at it, and now it looks like a lump of coal with a bow around it? Or, I don’t know, roasting a nice turkey and then it burns?”
Castiel blinks again, more slowly this time. Then, he tilts his head and squints. What Dean is describing to him sounds less than a time of joy and peace, and a lot more like torture. Is that really what Christmas is about for humans?
“No,” he replies bluntly. “Have you?”
Dean’s smile twitches into a grin. “Fuck no,” he snorts, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. His grin softens again. Into something mellow. Into something bordering on sad and nostalgic — nostalgic for a time he never had the luxury of experiencing. Sad and nostalgic, were it not for the hopeful glimmer in his eyes. “Not in my childhood, anyway. But, you know… I’d like to catch up on it.”
The angel regards the hunter with silence and compassion, offering little more than a nod. Knowing about Dean’s past, he can only assume what the holidays were like for the Winchesters. Well, that, and the fact that he never cared to learn about what it is humans even do during Christmas. Not until now, anyway.
“How do Sam and you usually spend Christmas?”
Green eyes stare at him as though they did not expect such curiosity.
Dean shrugs, shaking his head a little at the memories stirring to life.
“Nothing special,” he mumbles meekly, though he can’t prevent the nostalgic smile twitching on his lips all the same. “When we were kids, Dad was usually out hunting. He dropped us off at Bobby’s sometimes. We tried making the best of it. One year, I broke into this rich family’s mansion, stole the biggest present I could carry for Sammy. Turned out to be a Malibu Barbie Dreamcar, neon pink. His expression was priceless.”
It wasn’t all bad, even if Sam would probably disagree.
No mother that would read carols for them under the lit-up Christmas tree, an absent father prioritizing hunting over spending the holidays with his sons, no peers to boast to about their hefty present hauls, no hefty present hauls to begin with. Their whole childhood was the farthest from normal it could get, so why should the holidays have been any different?
Still, that didn’t mean they couldn’t use the chances they have now. Better late than never, right?
Castiel just listens, hanging onto Dean’s lips as if they were preaching holy gospel.
Dean, suddenly very aware of his audience’s interest, clears his throat before he continues: “We didn’t really have a home to decorate. But now we do, I guess. The Bunker is as good a place as any to put a big ass tree in, don’t you think?”
“I still fail to see the purpose of this tradition, especially since it is of Wiccan origin,” Castiel replies.
Dean groans, though the smile on his lips never fades. “Alright, Grinch, stop crushing the spirit of Christmas.”
Castiel squints, unsure if he should be offended or amused by the comparison. He does not know what a Grinch is. A monster, perhaps? A monster that kills spirits? No, that doesn’t sound right. He’s not given a chance to ask either way.
“Anyway, that was basically our Christmas,” Dean concludes. “Stingy motel rooms, snatched presents… Oh! And those cookies, of course! Santa’s Delights, or whatever. Dude, it’s been a while since I had those. I don’t even know if the brand still exists.”
He stops for a second, pondering, before suddenly wrapping an arm around Castiel’s shoulder. His smile widens into something else. Something mischievous this time. Without further explanation, he nudges Cas along and towards the garage.
“Where are we going?”
“On a scavenger hunt,” Dean answers vaguely and slides into the driver’s seat, expectantly grinning up at Cas.
The angel reluctantly slips into the passenger seat, his trench coat rustling against the leather in familiar fashion. It occurs to him then that for a celestial being, he travels per automobile an awful lot lately. Not that he minds. On the contrary — compared to his wings, the Impala may be slow, but patience is a virtue, the experience of which is rewarding in itself.
When he glances towards Dean, who lets Baby’s engine roar to life, he’s reminded of looking into the sun. The hunter is practically beaming, a cheerful “Santa’s Delights, here we come!” falling from those curled lips in a way that makes the angel’s heart beat faster.
‘This year, to save me from tears, I’ll give it to someone special,’ sings the voice from the stereo.
Before he knew Dean, he wasn’t even really aware of what a heart did — whether angels had one. Humans have it, so his vessel has one, too. He used to think that was all there was to it. A simple organ pumping blood to keep a body alive.
How clueless he used to be in terms of what it truly means to be alive. To feel warm rays of light shine upon you — whether it was the sun’s or Dean’s — and relishing the tingle under your skin.
“So,” Castiel interludes, the gruff in his voice barely audible with George Michael singing about last year’s Christmas. “We are going grocery shopping?”
“Well, yeah. But again, it’s more like going on a treasure hunt,” Dean nods, his fingers drumming along to the song.
“For cookies? While listening to… Wham!, is it?”
“Not just for any cookies, for Santa’s Delights! And this…” Dean turns the volume even louder. “…This is a classic. On the right occasion.”
The wheels rumble smoothly across the pavement, which, during this time of the year, is covered in white. Snow, to Castiel, has always been something miraculous. Not one flake like the other, all of them intricate and delicate. Much like humans, if you think about it.
The snowfall is light but pretty, accompanying their travels all the way to the grocery store. The white crystals seem to illuminate the scenery around them, the dark night starless, but not at all hollow.
Dean parks the car, ushering Cas outside.
For as beautiful as the evening is, it’s freezing cold.
They seek refuge inside the store, where Dean takes two confident strides towards the snack aisle. Castiel follows behind gingerly, not sure what to look for. He’s never heard of Santa’s Delights, but watches the hunter curiously as he browses the shelves. Eager fingers paw at various bags in all colors and sizes, only to put them back with increasingly defeated sighs.
“No luck,” Dean frowns, rubbing the stubble on his jaw as if deep in thought. “Guess we’ll have to make them ourselves. How difficult can it be?”
Castiel blinks, eyes widening each time he opens them again. He’s never seen, nor eaten these Santa’s Delights cookies, much less baked them himself! As a matter of fact, he has never baked any cookies before, ever.
“How— What would we even need?”
Dean only makes a dismissive gesture and grabs a shopping basket from near the entrance. “Don’t worry, I’ll grab the ingredients. You just wait here.”
With that, Castiel is left alone, watching Dean wander off towards the other side of the store. Dumbfounded, the angel looks around, grabbing one of the cookie boxes in front of him. He eyes the package as though it could tell him the secrets of the world. Or at least give him a tutorial on how to make cookies, which would be a start.
Flipping around the item and reading the ingredients offers some insight, but when he picks a different one to compare, he realizes it’s not as simple as it seems. There are so many options it almost makes him dizzy. Sugar, sprinkles, chocolate. The universe of candied treats seems endless.
Grabbing another bag, his eyes widen in surprise. Sugar, sprinkles, and chocolate. Surely this must be the cookie superior to all others, then. Flipping it to the front, he freezes.
Santa’s Delights. Right in the palm of his hand.
Castiel whips his head up, blue eyes searching for a tuft of sandy hair. However, Dean is nowhere to be seen. Having wandered off to God knows which aisle, he’s left Cas to himself and his new discovery. Even as the angel walks around, he can’t find his companion anywhere.
Instead, his exploring earns him different treasures.
A scented candle that’s supposed to smell like a pine tree, but really makes no sense to Castiel’s nostrils. He places it into a shopping basket of his own anyway, along with Santa’s Delights.
Soon, he adds a plant — not quite a flower, but also not just a fern. Viscum album, white berries like little pearls between its green leaves, and labeled as ‘mistletoe’ according to the tag. He’s not entirely sure what it’s doing among the Christmas items, but he picks one with a red bow around it and puts it in his basket.
Various accessories can be found on the shelf right next to it. Most seem to be red hats with white trim, undoubtedly a nod to this Santa figure humans keep referring to. He takes one into his hand, squishing the soft fabric between his fingers. There’s a button on the inside that makes the furry trim light up brightly.
He adds it to his other findings, along with a hairband that he assumes is supposed to replicate a halo. On its top rests a golden ring, adorned with string lights that blink rapidly upon activation. Sure, why not?
His wandering leads Castiel all the way to the cash register. Looking around for Dean one last time, he decides to pay for his things and wait outside. Surely enough, once he and his brown paper bag have made it back inside the Impala, his phone rings.
“Where the heck did you wander off to?”
“I got… lost.” There’s a telling pause, something humorous in the fact that a grocery store was apparently a celestial being’s limits. “I’m waiting in the car.”
Dean returns a couple of minutes later, storing two bags filled with supplies in the backseat. Cas glances behind him, seeing gallons of milk and an abundance of flour packs sticking out of the grocery bags.
Dean slips into the driver’s seat again, pointing at the bag in Castiel’s lap. “Did you find anything for yourself?”
“It’s a secret,” Castiel hums. “That is the custom, no? Presents are a surprise?”
Dean’s wide eyes regard Castiel for a solid second before he erupts into laughter. “Yeah, I guess so, I taught you well,” he smiles with pride, patting Castiel’s shoulder and starting Baby’s engine again. It stutters a little, hiccuping once, before rustling to life.
“Damn cold is no good for her,” Dean grumbles, more to himself, giving a gentle pat to the Impala’s dashboard. “We’ll be home soon, Baby.”
Turns out he could not keep his promise.
Just a couple of minutes into driving, about halfway back to the Bunker, the car sputters in protest. She slows down, then stops, unmoving, no matter how many times Dean turns the keys.
“No, no, no, c’mon,” the hunter groans, trying again. “Not now!”
No use. The Impala does not want to cooperate, preferring to sit perfectly still amidst the increasing snowfall. It’s much heavier and way more dense than when they left the Bunker. They can barely see ahead of them.
“Great,” Dean sighs. “First, no cookies, now this.”
Castiel’s eyes drop to the bag in his lap, then he averts his gaze, glancing at Dean instead. He looks back and forth between the two, biting his lower lip.
“You know, I could—”
“Teleport us back? No, thanks, it always gives me whiplash, and I don’t wanna leave Baby here,” Dean sighs. He leans back, folding his arms in front of his chest as he stares ahead. Snow drops from the skies with even more vigor, covering Baby’s hood in a thick blanket already.
Somehow, no matter how frustrating this situation may be, it feels serene.
“This isn’t so bad,” Dean mumbles quietly, watching the white calmly dust the outside world. “Just part of that chaotic Christmas experience I told you about.”
Castiel hums and nods, glancing back into his bag again.
“I have something for you,” the angel says then, holding the bag up.
“You’re supposed to hand out presents on Christmas morning,” Dean reminds him.
Castiel does not listen, handing the bag to Dean instead. The hunter stares at Cas for a beat, before reluctantly accepting the offer. Rummaging around, he fishes the first item from the bag, turning the candle in his hands.
“Where’d you find all this stuff?” Dean asks, crooked grin on his face, while he pulls the Santa hat out.
“Christmas aisle,” Cas answers bluntly, when suddenly Dean leans over and places the halo on Castiel’s head. He presses the switch, letting the bright lights nearly blind him.
“Awesome,” he snorts, “It looks… just awesome.”
Something about the way he giggles in between his words makes Castiel painfully aware of how untrue the sentiment is. He feels as ridiculous as he probably looks, but Dean’s cheerful grin makes up for it. He’s sure the warmth of it could probably melt all the snow outside and fix the car just like that.
Next is the plastic bag, the crinkling noise of which alone prompts Dean to freeze mid-movement. He stares at Castiel in bewilderment, swiftly pulling out the cookies.
“No way! How did you—?”
Castiel’s eyes follow the eager movement of Dean’s fingers.
The man tears open the package, all giddy, and inhales deeply, savoring the scent of sugar within. The fine white powdery substance covers his fingers immediately. Paired with the sugar comes the colorful sprinkles and the chunks of chocolate, which upon closer inspection appear to resemble a smiling face — a wonky face, but a face nevertheless.
Dean lifts one to his mouth and takes a bite out of it, chewing slowly. His lips are pursed, then he turns to Cas, silently offering him the bag.
The angel hesitantly takes a cookie of his own, smelling it first, scrunching his nose, and experimentally licking it. He can’t make out any distinct flavors besides the overwhelming sweetness. Upon seeing Dean’s expectant expression, however, he takes a small bite.
Immediately, he regrets it.
The different types of sugar flood his mouth, amidst the driest crumbs he ever had the displeasure of chewing on.
“My God,” Dean mumbles, mouth still full. Then he swallows and laughs. “They taste fucking awful, even worse than I remember.”
Oh. Cas pouts slightly. “You don’t like them?”
“Nope, never have,” Dean chuckles softly, then blinks at Cas and quickly corrects himself, not wanting to sound ungrateful. “But I wanted those, really! They bring back memories. Thank you. This is a great find, Cas.”
He eats another one, complaining about the taste again, all while smiling brightly. He seems happy, so Castiel takes it as a victory.
“Anything else in here?” Dean asks then, still chewing, and shuffles through the bag again. He pulls out the mistletoe, holding it above him for a second, before he whistles. “Aren’t you a charmer?”
Unsure of what he means, Castiel tilts his head while Dean uses the red ribbon to tie the plant onto the rear-view mirror.
Without wasting another second, the hunter then drapes one arm over Baby’s bench, around Castiel’s shoulders, and pulls the angel impossibly close. Next thing he knows, he feels a pair of lips on his own — warm, dry, sugary lips. He’s sure the kiss would’ve been just as sweet without Santa’s Delights, but it makes his head spin all the more.
Cas melts into the touch immediately, heat spreading across his face despite the icy cold outside.
It’s hardly the first kiss they share, yet it is just as intoxicating. As familiar as he is with the shape of Dean’s lips, the feeling of them against his own always takes Castiel’s breath away. It’s over far too soon, like all their kisses are, but at least the sweet taste lingers.
Dean seems to be thinking the same, licking his sugary lips and looking at Castiel with eyes more glittering than the snow outside.
The hunter mumbles something about the weather calming down — which, in comparison to the rapid heartbeat in his chest, sounds right. He swiftly slips outside, disappears for a minute, and returns to the hood of the car.
Castiel joins him, wrapping his trench coat just a little more tightly around his middle. He can’t do much besides stand and stare while Dean fixes something with what Cas thinks might be a rusty wrench. He could watch these hands for hours, whether they’re covered in grease, or blood, or cookie crumbs. Whether they’re holding a tool, a knife, or Castiel’s hand.
When, minutes later, Dean tries to start the engine again, it roars to life with a smooth purr — much like Castiel’s pulse does at the sight of his proud smile. When, a while after, they arrive back at the bunker, said smile only widens, and said pulse is still humming.
Dean heads straight to the kitchen, armed with grocery bags and a foolhardy bravado. He fumbles with the record player, putting on tunes that are less than festive, but which he hums along to as though they’re the jolliest thing ever.
Castiel follows behind gingerly and again stands and stares in awe. In a matter of seconds, the kitchen turns into a war zone, with ingredients and supplies scattered everywhere. The angel was not aware of how many bowls and measuring cups they had until Dean lined them all up.
He pours flour, eggs, milk, and way too much sugar into a bowl — without using even one of the dozen measuring cups, by the way — and shoves the heavy thing into Castiel’s hands.
“Mix this up, will ya?”
Cas can’t say no to the boyish gleam in Dean’s eyes if he tried.
Upon closer inspection, Castiel wonders if it’s one of the bowls they’ve used for spells before. Maybe baking recipes are a lot like preparing spells? Herbs and bones and blood are now replaced by powdered sugar and seasonal wonder, but the rest remains the same. Kind of.
He sets the bowl on the counter and starts kneading until the substances melt together. The dough is goopy, way too sticky, so Dean adds a confident cup of flour. It turns clumpy, so Dean frowns and shrugs and tries to salvage it with more milk. When that doesn’t work, an attempt to save the day with butter is made.
“Almost forgot the chocolate!” Dean hastily adds chunks of chocolate chips, as well as the infamous sprinkles. Can’t forget those.
Dean then argues that the cookies will soften up during the baking process and shoves the first batch into the oven. They come out raw.
Castiel chews on one of the pieces, just because Dean told him to try one. There is a crunch, but that’s only thanks to the heaps of rainbow sprinkles Dean has dusted on top.
Dean looks at him expectantly, much like a child would on Christmas morning, anticipating a grand reaction to an unwrapped present. Cas swallows, clears his throat, then asks: “Did you preheat the oven?”
“Oops.”
The second baking sheet comes out burnt, the smiley faces more like lumps of black coal. Dean, however, claims that it’s “nothin’ a little coating of powdered sugar can’t fix”, so they turn the black lumps of coal into black lumps of coal with white sugar on top.
“Third time’s the charm,” Dean huffs, still eager to get it right.
His calloused hands roll the dough thoroughly and add a slap at the end, before he flattens it and uses a whiskey glass to cut them into circular shapes. His brow is furrowed, but the tension is different from that of a rough day or a difficult hunt. His movement is lighter, not carefree, but enthusiastic.
He’s having fun.
Finally, Dean puts the third batch into the oven and rubs his hands on a towel. “That ought to do it,” he nods and turns to Cas, who’s really been doing more observing than anything. Not that Dean seems to mind.
“You, uhm, got some flour on your cheek,” Castiel points out, gesturing towards Dean’s face. “Not there, wait.”
Clean hands, soft but firm, reach for the corner of Dean’s mouth. His thumb swipes over the stubble there, gently removing a smudge of white powder from it.
Honestly, that spot has the least residue of flour on it, but it’s the one drawing the most of Castiel’s attention. There’s not an inch of the kitchen that is not covered in flour or sugar or both. It’s like they made their own indoor snow, just as magical as the one outside.
“Thanks,” Dean hums, calmer than Castiel has seen him in weeks, if not ever.
“Are you not frustrated?” the angel asks innocently. They must’ve spent hours in the kitchen, trying to replicate a cookie neither of them even liked.
“Why should I be frustrated?”
“Well, this is the third attempt,” Cas shrugs. “What if we can’t get them right?”
Dean chuckles, a low, pleasant rumble that rolls through his throat and straight into Castiel’s spine. The hunter shakes his head, beaming at Cas.
“Whatever we get, it’ll taste better than Santa’s Delights, that’s for sure,” he half-jokes. “‘sides, this is exactly what I was talking about, y’know? Christmas isn’t about getting stuff right, not at all. Things go wrong more than ever, but hey, ‘s about sharing it all.”
Castiel squints his eyes a little as he listens, trying to understand. He thinks he does, figuring a broken car, gross store-bought cookies, and a chaotic kitchen aren’t so bad when you have someone to share it all with.
With his palm still cupping Dean’s cheek, Cas pulls Dean closer until their mouths meet. His lips taste like cinnamon and stolen bits of dough — both the undercooked and the burnt versions — and he didn’t know Christmas could taste like anything, let alone like delight.