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The last Christmas present was wrapped, and in its place under the tree. The stockings hung from the mantel in a neat, familiar line, their toes brushing the stone like they always did. Dean stood there for a second longer than necessary, hands on his hips, taking inventory of the quiet. The house felt…settled. Full in a way that didn’t buzz or demand anything from him.
He switched off the tree lights, leaving just the soft glow from the hallway lamp, and headed for the stairs.
Each step creaked in the way he knew by heart. Halfway up, he caught something different — warm, sweet, unmistakably deliberate. Lavender, maybe. Vanilla. Something that said someone had put actual thought into this, not just grabbed whatever was closest under the sink. He slowed, brow furrowing, following the scent like a breadcrumb trail.
The bathroom door was ajar.
Dean nudged it open with his knuckles and stopped short.
The lights were dimmed, candles set carefully along the counter and the edge of the tub, their flames steady and patient. Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling, carrying that same soothing scent. The bath itself was already drawn, a thick layer of bubbles mounded high enough to look indulgent, almost decadent. A folded towel sat within easy reach, plush and warm-looking, and his favorite soap — his actual favorite, not the generic “close enough” kind — rested on the ledge.
He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, something soft and surprised. “You gotta be kidding me,” he murmured, though there was no heat in it. Just disbelief. And something like gratitude that caught him off guard.
For a moment, he just stood there, hands braced on the doorframe, letting the warmth roll over him. The ache in his shoulders made itself known now that it had permission. His feet throbbed in a dull, familiar way. He’d been running on fumes longer than he wanted to admit.
Slowly, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, sealing off the rest of the world.
Dean reached out and adjusted one of the candles, making sure it was steady, then leaned back against the counter, eyes closing. The tension didn’t vanish, not exactly, but it loosened. Like a knot finally willing to be worked at instead of clenched tight.
“Yeah,” he breathed, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay. I get the hint.”
He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the edge of the tub, letting the warmth seep into his bones. The bubbles shifted softly around his shoulders as he exhaled, long and slow, like he was finally setting something down.
The door opened quietly behind him.
Dean didn’t even have to look. He felt it; the subtle change in the room, the familiar gravity of Castiel’s presence. Still, he cracked one eye open and turned his head just enough to see him standing there, sleeves rolled, tie gone, watching him with that soft, intent expression that always made Dean’s chest feel too small.
“Well,” Dean drawled, lips quirking, “you just gonna lurk, or…?”
Castiel huffed a quiet, almost-smile and stepped fully into the bathroom, candlelight catching in his hair. “I wanted to be sure you’d seen it,” he said simply. “The bath.”
Dean’s mouth curved wider. He shifted, sliding an arm along the edge of the tub, deliberately making space. Then he looked at Castiel and — because he couldn’t help himself — winked.
“C’mon,” he said. “Plenty of room.”
Castiel hesitated for only a beat before moving closer, toeing off his shoes, shrugging out of his shirt with careful movements. When he finally stepped into the tub, the water sloshed gently, bubbles spilling over the edge. Dean laughed under his breath and scooted closer to Castiel, settling between his legs so that they were thigh to thigh.
“This,” Dean said, gesturing vaguely with one hand, “is why I fought so hard for this stupid bathroom.”
Castiel glanced at him, curious. “You did?”
“Hell yes, I did.” Dean leaned his head back again, eyes half-lidded. “When we bought the house, remember? Contractor kept saying a standard tub would be ‘more practical.’” He snorted. “Told him no way. I wanted a bath and shower big enough for the two of us. Figure if we’re gonna renovate, we might as well do it right.”
Castiel’s expression softened, something warm and achingly fond settling there. He shifted closer, their shoulders brushing. “You said it was for…comfort.”
Dean cracked an eye open. “TYeah…that too.”
“I see the children’s presents are wrapped,” Castiel murmured behind him, his fingers gently running along Dean’s forearm.
Dean hummed, eyes still closed, leaning just a little more into the touch. “Yeah. Got ‘em all sorted before I came up. Figured I’d better, or I’d talk myself into ‘one more thing’ and be up till three.”
Castiel’s fingers traced slow, absent patterns over Dean’s skin, warm and grounding. “You were very focused,” he said. “It was…nice to watch.”
Dean cracked a smile. “You mean me sitting on the floor muttering at tape that wouldn’t stick?”
“I mean you caring,” Castiel replied simply.
That did it. Dean opened his eyes, and glanced back up at him. Castiel wasn’t teasing. Just stating a fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“They’re good kids,” Dean said after a moment, quieter now. “They deserve a good Christmas. Normal. Safe.”
Castiel nodded, their shoulders brushing as the water lapped gently around them. “They have that here,” he said. “Because of you.”
Dean scoffed softly, but he didn’t pull away. “Because of us,” he corrected, turning his arm so his fingers could curl loosely around Castiel’s wrist. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
Castiel’s thumb stilled, then pressed lightly into Dean’s pulse. “I wasn’t,” he said, voice low and warm. “I was including myself with you.”
Dean swallowed, throat tight in that familiar way that had nothing to do with fear. He shifted again, settling more comfortably against Castiel’s side, the bubbles drifting and popping between them.
Castiel shifted behind him, careful not to splash candle wax or slosh the water too much. “May I?” he asked quietly, already reaching for the shampoo.
Dean didn’t even open his eyes. He just tipped his head forward a little, baring the back of his neck in easy consent. “Yeah. Please.”
Warm water poured gently over his hair, Castiel’s fingers massaging shampoo into his scalp with unhurried patience. Dean let out a low, content sound before he could stop himself, shoulders finally dropping the rest of the way.
He drifted as Castiel worked, thoughts loosening the same way his muscles did.
Funny, how they’d started. All sharp edges, things unsaid piling up between them like debris they didn’t know how to clear, the late nights, and arguments that felt like they might crack the world open, followed by silences that were somehow worse. Then somewhere along the line, without him noticing exactly when, Castiel had become home. Not the idea of it — the real thing. Steady. Chosen.
Jack had come after that. Not planned, not expected. Just…there one day, all bright eyes and impossible hope, needing them in a way that rearranged everything. Dean smiled faintly at the memory, warmth blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the bath.
And Claire; a little firecracker who was fierce, guarded, and brave as hell. She’d slammed into their lives like a storm and then stayed, pretending she wasn’t staying, testing the edges until she realized they weren’t going anywhere.
Family. The real kind.
Castiel rinsed the shampoo out slowly, palms smoothing over Dean’s hair, reverent. Dean swallowed, a sudden tightness behind his ribs. Tomorrow morning — chaotic, loud, kids up at the crack of dawn — there was a ring sitting in his sock drawer, tucked behind the thick winter ones. Simple. Perfect. Waiting.
He hadn’t told Castiel. Not yet.
Castiel finished and rested his hands briefly on Dean’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tension there. “All done,” he murmured.
Dean exhaled, deep and steady. “Thanks.”
Castiel leaned in, brushing a kiss to Dean’s temple, then straightened. “As wonderful as this is,” he said gently, “we should get you out and into bed.”
Dean cracked one eye open, amused. “You kickin’ me out of my own bath?”
“I am being practical,” Castiel replied, fondness threading every word. “I am quite certain the children will wake us very early in the morning.”
Dean laughed softly, the sound echoing off tile and steam. “Yeah,” he said, already reaching for the towel. “You’re not wrong.”
Castiel caught him before he could step away, hands warm and sure at his waist. The kiss he gave Dean was gentle, unhurried — meant to soothe rather than claim. Dean leaned into it, resting his forehead against Castiel’s when it ended, breathing him in.
“Go to bed,” Castiel murmured, thumb brushing along Dean’s jaw. “I’ll clean up here and join you shortly.”
Dean smiled, soft and tired and full in a way that surprised him every time. “Okay,” he said, the word carrying more trust than it needed to.
He wrapped the towel closer around himself and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to look back. Candlelight flickered around Castiel, steam rising, the room warm and quiet and safe.
“Don’t take too long,” Dean said.
Castiel’s answering smile was small and certain. “I won’t.”
Dean left the door ajar as he went, the glow spilling into the hall behind him. Upstairs, the house settled into silence again; waiting for sleep, for morning, for children who would wake too early and laugh too loudly while opening the Christmas presents that he knew would be perfect.
But Christmas was never about the presents or the lights or getting everything exactly right. It was about warmth in the quiet moments, about choosing each other again and again, about love that showed up in small, ordinary ways and stayed. Dean had spent years thinking it was something meant for other people, something he watched from the outside. But now, lying in a house full of soft light and steady breathing and the promise of morning, he knew better. Everything Christmas was meant to be — family, safety, love — he had it right there.