Chapter Text
Intro
Christmas Eve
Dean gripped the steering wheel with two gloved hands and guided the car, crawling at about three miles per hour down the pitch dark lane. Dean Winchester wasn’t crazy. He’s a long way from crazy. Doing one crazy thing does not make a person crazy. Okay, so this wasn’t exactly how he expected to be spending Christmas. He bet it wasn’t how Castiel Novak planned on spending his, arms wrapped tightly across his chest and chin jutted forward as he stubbornly ignored the Impala rumbling next to him.
Dean called out to him through the open window, “So, you’ve been walking for what, about an hour? And you’ve gone…” he peered down at his dash, “I’d say about two miles, give or take, which puts the nearest gas station at least…twenty miles away?” He looked back up. “You do the math.”
The other man reacted only by further hunching his shoulders against the snow as he trudged down the road, ignoring Dean and his beast of a car.
“Look, why don’t you just come back to the house, we’ll have some spiked eggnog or something, okay?”
Dean tapped on the brake in surprise when the man came to an abrupt halt. Maybe the guy was a big eggnog fan? His nostrils flared and he stared down the road as if it had personally offended him, which Dean reasoned it probably had. His breath puffed around his face like steam. After his expression worked through what appeared to be all seven stages of grief, he turned to the car and wrenched open the door, sliding into the passenger seat. Dean smirked and swung a one-eighty in victory, rolling up the windows and cranking the heat. Castiel stared straight ahead, no doubt seething, and Dean could feel the cold radiating off his frosty form.
“What, nothing smart to say?” Castiel took several deep breaths, still ignoring him, so Dean raked his eyes over the man. His nose and ears were shiny red. “Your lips frozen?”
The man’s nose wrinkled up, face contorting. He finally spoke, spitting out each word. “You, Dean Winchester. Are. The devil.”
Dean chuckled and shrugged, turning the volume up on the radio until Judy Garland’s voice filled the cabin.
~~~~~~~
Chapter One
Eighteen hours earlier, December 23rd
Dean’s day started out typically, which lately wasn’t exactly great. From the other side of his wall he could hear women squabbling in Russian, which as far as he knew had continued unabated since the previous night when he had crashed into bed. He hoped they felt as miserable as he did, it would serve the package thieves right. Not that it made any difference. He was now on the wrong side of that bed, half an hour late, stomach grumbling. That last concern coaxed him out from between his sheets and he padded first into the bathroom and then into the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator with unfounded optimism. He slid out a takeout box and took an experimental whiff, nose wrinkling. He tossed it into the microwave and set the timer, zoning out to the whirr while he leaned against the counter and waited on the rotating plate. Maybe if it heated up enough to scald his taste buds they wouldn't be able to tell how many nights it had sat and congealed in the fridge. His phone started ringing from his bedroom.
He checked the caller ID, letting the guitar riff ringtone play as he stepped back to the kitchen before hitting answer and pressing it to his ear. At that moment a muffled splat sounded from the microwave, noodles and sauce splattered all over the inner walls of the appliance.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, bent over and squinting through the glass.
“Dean? Is everything okay?”
He winced. “Hi, Mom. Yeah, ‘s fine. Sorry.” He opened the door, assaulted by a swirl of steam and foul odor.
His mother’s voice was garbled by the poor connection and Dean squeezed the phone tight to his ear to make out her words. “I wanted to make sure you’re all set before we head out the door and lose service up at the cabin.” Dean searched his drawers for a clean rag to mop up the mess. “You have directions and everything?”
Dean continued to rummage, bending under the sink in his search. When he stood back up he banged his head on the counter edge, cursing again. “Yeah. I got ‘em.” He rubbed at the back of his head with a frown. His mother babbled on about decorations and snow and despite the connection he was sure her voice was pitched higher than usual. This new Martha Stewart act his mom had adopted recently still threw Dean for a loop. She was really going all out for Christmas, something he hadn’t experienced since Sam was a toddler. He wondered how Bobby was faring.
Her tone turned reproachful. “You still hadn’t sent me any dietary restrictions for you or Cassie before I went shopping so any vegetarians or vegans are on their own.”
Dean blinked, hand grasping a roll of paper towels. He opened his mouth to correct her but she added more brightly, “I’m so excited to meet her, sweetie. What a special Christmas.” Mary continued, “Happy hour at six, though I know you said you won’t get off work until around then.”
Dean sighed, now wiping the interior of the microwave, careful not to make skin contact with any of the muck. “I’ll talk to Ellen about getting off earlier.”
His mother made a satisfied noise. Then, in a hopeful tone, “You think she could be, you know, the one?”
He groaned. “I don’t know, Mom. Look, I don’t really have time to talk about this right now. I gotta,” he gestured vaguely with the paper towel, “get ready for the interview.”
“Oh! And remember to wear that sweater I sent you!”
“The - what?”
“Good luck, Dean!”
The phone beeped dully indicating that the call had ended. He straightened and his empty stomach groaned forlornly.
~~~~~~~
Sleet slashed mercilessly against the early-evening pedestrians who ducked from doorway to car for shelter. Dean hurried towards the Roadhouse with a mixture of anticipation and dread, torn between its promise of warmth and the prospect of dealing with holiday customers.
While its humble name conjured the image of some dusty tavern, the Roadhouse often had a line out the door these days, at least during peak season, ever since a glowing (and 100% accurate) write-up had been published in The Spokesman-Review over a year ago. The sudden influx in tourist interest and cash and subsequent dwindling contingent of local Regulars had led to heightened tension and constant bickering between the Harvelles.
The exterior gleamed with a fresh coat of paint and the main neon sign had been replaced. Ellen had won that battle. Jo, she had protested, I refuse to step foot one more day inside the ‘Road Ho’. Either we replace the broken letters or I’m tearing the whole thing down. For what it was worth, Dean had argued that a neon sign really only mattered at night, at which point the suggestive messaging worked in their favor, given the nature of their clientele in the evenings as well as the competition posed by the Hooters down the road. Jo relented, to Ellen’s relief, while Dean had been quite sad to see the end of the Roadho era. When it came to WiFi, however, Ellen had put her foot down, telling anyone else who would dare ask that the password was 1234GetLost. According to several Yelp reviewers, this only heightened the ‘rustic charm’ of the Roadhouse. Everyone stole the McDonald’s WiFi, anyway.
The door slammed with more force than usual, but Dean stomped across the damp entryway without a glance spared backward, jaw set. A few of the patrons swung their heads in alarm.
“Dude, why do you never, ever answer your ph—” Jo, coming in hot, finally looked up to see his expression. Her eyes immediately narrowed in concern.“Whoa, you okay?” Her voice lowered. “How did the interview go?”
He laughed without amusement, tugging off the scarf wrapped around his neck. “Pretty sure I didn’t get it.”
Jo waited for him to elaborate but he swept past her, shrugging off his soggy coat.
She latched onto his arm. “Hold up.” She held out a set of reindeer antlers, jiggling her head for emphasis. Little bells were fastened to the ends of her own felt antlers. “Sorry, them’s the rules.”
He stared at her incredulously and she popped up on her tiptoes, sliding the headband behind his ears.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grumbled and slid off the rest of his coat.
Jo barked out a laugh, zeroing in on his chest. “I’m not, but oh my god that sweater is definitely a joke. Is that a…fruit cake?”
The reminder did nothing to improve his mood. Dean’s mouth twitched unhappily and he turned his back on her, advancing towards the bar. “My dress shirt got…” He gestured vaguely with his hand in a circular motion over his chest and wrinkled his nose. “and Mom ordered me to wear this thing tonight.”
She regarded him with continued amusement until a swinging door startled them both. Ellen Harvelle burst out, eyes flashing and phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. She hauled a box out, slamming it onto the bar counter.
“For the last time, I can’t help you with your corporate retreat party! I don’t care that you’re willing to put down an advance deposit, damn it!”
Dean and Jo both startled and looked up above the door where an antique Colt Single Action Army pistol mounted on a plaque rattled against the wood as the door banged shut again.
Dean eyed it warily. “I sure hope that thing isn’t loaded.”
Jo shook her head with a grimace, returning to her customers.
~~~~~~~
Impossibly, Dean’s day worsened. Every dick in Idaho had apparently decided to patronize the Roadhouse that night, which was open until eight o’clock to all ages. It wasn’t that Dean disliked kids or couldn’t handle the tourists. What he disliked were customers yelling at Dean about crying babies and parents that refused to acknowledge the disruption their kids were making. Already, he had mopped up three spills from kids on booster seats and two tables had shoved back their chairs and walked out without leaving so much as a spare penny. What’s more, the gun plaque had come crashing down to the ground, causing Dean to spill an entire tray of drinks. He finally got the drinks remade only to arrive at the table to discover that the patrons had changed their minds and wanted banana daiquiris instead. In December. Instead of sending the tray flying again, this time on purpose, Dean simply smiled tightly and returned to the bar. He paused briefly to pick up the plaque, now in pieces, and set them aside on the back bar counter with trembling hands, concealing them behind two fifths of Jack.
Jo must have noticed Dean’s mounting distress because she yanked him into the kitchen. “Dude, you’re scaring the customers. You know that’s Mom’s job.”
On the other side of the door, Dean sagged into the wall, drained. He dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus Jo, I can’t do this. Christmas with my family? With this new Stepford version of Mom? In some fucking cabin out in the sticks? There’s gonna be nowhere to hide. I’ll be trapped like The Shining.”
“Look, Dean. You know I’d come with you if Mom wasn’t completely militant about Christmas.” She then narrowed her eyes and asked, “How did Mary take the news about the breakup?” Dean sucked in a breath, not answering. “Seriously? It’s been weeks! How are gonna spring that on them tonight?”
Dean knew from a lifetime growing up with Sam that trying to explain the ins and outs of leaving things to the last possible moment to a non-procrastinator was like pushing water uphill with a rake. He settled for shaking his head, at a loss. “You didn’t hear how excited she was Jo. It was like me having a relationship meant she could finally...I don’t know, be proud of more than one son? Stop worrying that she’d raised another John?”
Jo looked skeptical, but didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need Dean’s testimony to prove to her that maternal relationships were complicated, especially when they involved near brushes with death.
“I couldn’t just call her up and tell her I’d fucked up the one thing I had going for me.”
Jo moved to speak at that, but Dean rushed out, “What am I supposed to say? Hey Mom, sorry about that interview you pulled strings for me to get, I guess I just rather spend the rest of my life wiping down counters and living alone in a shitty apartment.” He winced. “I didn’t mean to say, there’s nothing wrong with—”
Jo shook her head and brushed off the insult. “No, you did. It’s not fine, but I get it. Maybe if Sam were my brother I’d feel the same way.” Dean could be so stupid. On the one hand, he had found the courage to come out to his family as a teenager with no choice but to hope they would accept him for who he was. It just hadn’t translated to the rest of his life choices or identity.
“It’s not Sam. And the Roadhouse is great,” he said lamely. “It’s not about what I think. It’s not a fancy degree, or a wife, or a batch of kids; hell, I bet Sam’s gonna show up with that happy news.”
Jo frowned. It was rare for Dean’s jealousy to emerge; it was usually totally stifled by his glowing pride in his brother’s accomplishments. “Since when are you so insecure? You adore Sam and Jess. And any future little Winchesters they might be making.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Please don’t remind me.”
“Yeah, fine. What are you going to do? Get on your knees and beg Cassie to take you back?”
Dean quirked his mouth, considering.
Jo lifted her hands in surrender. “Dean Winchester, you’re a fucking disaster, you know that?”
She followed another waiter out the door and Dean called after her, “My point exactly!” He returned to the bar right as a new customer approached one of the stools. The man sat at the bar, placing a used Starbucks cup in front of him and shrugging off a large overcoat. Through the storm of negative thoughts in his head Dean asked the man for his order.
“A Manhattan, please.” The man finished draping the coat on the bar stool and raised his head to face Dean expectantly. He lingered on Dean’s antlers and probably-a-fruitcake sweater, but to his credit his expression remained neutral. Dean blinked at him. The man’s brow furrowed. “Do you…know how to make that?” Dean cleared his throat, looking slightly offended before turning back around, reaching automatically for the whiskey and vermouth. He made up the cocktail then slid it towards the man, dropping in two maraschino cherries with an over-dramatic flourish. The guy looked up from his palms and Dean registered his weary blue eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the glass. Before Dean could respond, he added sheepishly, “also, would you mind disposing of this?” He tipped the empty coffee cup towards Dean.
Dean took the proffered cup. Hovering over the trash can, his thumb brushed over the Sharpied-in name – Cas, the phone number hastily scrawled underneath a messy ‘Call me!’, and the hearts drawn in a border around the name. Dean peeked back at the man, who was mid-yawn and looked more like an extra in a Mucinex commercial than alluring. For some reason, his eyes lingered on him, hands wiping out a glass with a rag absently.
The old-fashioned clock on the wall chimed, six o’clock.
Dean pulled out his phone from his coat, checking it for messages, and as if summoned by some cosmic force it rang – his brother Sam. Dean picked up automatically. His voice was crackly on the other end.
“Dean? Hey? Jess and I are ab --- to lose service, but Mom made me promi --- ll you and make su --- two were getting your butts up here.”
Shit. Dean could dread and avoid this moment no longer as nightmare materialized into reality. Dean’s chest seized. His eyes were watery and his throat growing tight; hell no was he gonna start crying at work. He wiped a rough hand over his eyes and the room came into focus once again and his gaze centered on the dark-haired man at the bar again. The tired but attractive man in the well-cut suit with the Starbucks cup - Cas. Cas.
Trancelike, Dean spoke slowly into the phone. “Yeah, of course.” He watched the man tip the rest of his drink back, and check his watch. He had already done that at least twice. “We’re just…leaving now. Promise.”
“Good. We can’t wa --- see you guys. Bye!”
Dean could hear Jess cheerfully echo the farewell in the background. Dean watched as Cas stood up from the bar and followed the sign for the restroom. He hung up, absently pocketing the cell phone and following the dark suit heading for the restroom. “Hey.”
The man paused with his fingers clasped around the restroom door handle. “Is this not the bathroom?”
Dean froze, scrambling. “Yeah, but…” He looked all around, eyes landing on the Colt still tucked away on the bar counter. Unthinking, he produced the pistol, concealing it from the restaurant with his body but pointing it threateningly toward Cas. The guy wrinkled his nose and recoiled away, but the movement was aborted by Dean’s sudden grip on his arm.
“What is this?”
Dean’s heart pounded. “This? This is a gun.”
Cas regarded the pistol and squinted. “Are you sure?”
Dean looked down at the antique, his cheeks reddening. “Okay, wise guy. Let’s move it. Outside.” Dean cocked the gun for emphasis, gesturing towards the back door. He stole a glance over his shoulder, making sure he wasn’t spotted. When he looked back around, he saw that the man’s face was draining of color. Dean’s jaw twitched, and he added in a low voice, “Buddy, I’m not gonna hurt you, just move.”
With a shove, the men exited the Roadhouse and were immediately assaulted by the arctic air. It was well after sundown, the only real source of light coming from the streetlights and windows. Luckily for Dean the parking lot was filled only with snow-dusted cars. He could feel the shivering man tense through his suit sleeve where Dean’s arm wrapped around him, his other hand pressing the gun barrel into his hip. Despite his tense posture, the man walked cooperatively with Dean as he steered them both toward the Impala.
“If this is about money, we can settle this quietly. You don’t have to do this.”
Dean grit his teeth. The man’s gaze flicked nervously at Dean, and his step faltered. With a sharp movement, Cas wrenched out of Dean’s grip and shoved him, sending Dean sprawling backwards. While Dean struggled to right himself, Cas propelled in the opposite direction towards the restaurant. The man only got in a few strides before his shoes were met with a sheet of black ice and Dean watched in horror as he slid and collapsed to the asphalt with a sharp crack. His body stilled.
Dean cursed under his breath, rushing to his side. He crouched beside him, taking in his disheveled, motionless appearance. A rapid-fire litany of fuck fuck fuck shit fuck swept through his mind. Dean held his breath in dread and closed his eyes when he felt at the man’s pulse, exhaling loudly at the strong, steady rhythm. Dean carefully cradled the guy’s head, checking all around it for any signs of blood or trauma with trembling fingers.
He whispered urgently, “Cas? Hey?”
Dean had to get the guy out of there. To a hospital, probably. Dean scanned the parking lot and the street for any bystanders, but for the first time that day he had struck some luck and the two men were completely concealed in the shadow of a huge commercial van. He gathered the man up - no small task, Jesus the dude was heavy - and hooked his forearms under the other man’s armpits and then shuffled awkwardly backwards towards the Impala two cars over, acutely aware of just how damning it must have looked. By the time the man was hauled up in the passenger seat and buckled in, Dean was red in the face and puffing huge clouds of breath. He looked down at the man’s large hands loosely rested in his lap and bit his lip. Kneeling down, he tugged at the already-loose blue tie from around his neck. He tried not to dwell on the image as he secured the tie around Cas' wrists, then looped it up and through the handle above the door. With an experimental yank he made sure it held, then shut the door.
Once he slid into the driver’s seat, Dean studied his passenger for a long moment and exhaled deeply. No one else was around to see as he raked a hand down his face, peeled off the reindeer antlers in surprised annoyance, and started up the car.
~~~~~~~