Written as a gift for the marvelous alethiometry over on LJ. And yes, the title is terrible. Suggestions more than welcome. :)
It takes him longer than it should to figure it out, but in his defense, life's kind of been a whirlwind lately.
The first few months after they failed to shut the gates of Hell were...difficult. He can't even remember much of them, really, just a handful of still-life screenshots complete with sound and smell and panic, because the picture alone isn't painful enough. There's Sammy's face, pale and bloodless, his eye-sockets sunk in dehydration and the faint pulse of his heart echoed in the purpling skin at his temples. Castiel's there, too, of course, human and helpless, fluttering around in anxious confusion and buzzing out words Dean's too tired to hear. Snatches of unwilling sleep ripped away in terror, always, because Sammy needs me need Sam need to stay awake and the thin, reedy dread that is Death hovering at the edges of the room, eyeing this greyscale image of his brother like a wolf on a juicy steak.
So yeah. He'd rather not remember.
And anyway, Sammy always was a stubborn bastard, and Death couldn't get him that easily. It had taken awhile, but eventually the chaos had eased back into minutes and hours, and the grey of Sam's cheeks had turned white and then pink. These days, he'll even smile occasionally, if Dean cracks an extra-bad joke.
It's morning now, and Dean's crusty from sleep and the chill fall air that somehow slips through the non-existent cracks in the walls of their bunker. The steam from his coffee soothes his eyelids, and he sips it again, thick and bitter, no hint of the acrid, burnt aftertaste it sometimes gets. It's hit or miss when Dean makes the coffee, which he always does, now. Castiel hasn't quite developed a taste for the stuff, though he puts on a brave face and tries sometimes. And Sam...well.
He'll get Sam a mug soon, splash in that hazelnut creamer he found at the drugstore. It made him think of Sam the moment he saw it, the way the kid used to order the frilliest drinks, dump in sugar and cream like that was coffee's whole point. He used to tease Sam about it, before, and Sam might've winced or shrugged his shoulders a little, but he'd never changed his order. If that doesn't sum up Sam right there, Dean doesn't know what would.
He brings their coffees into Sam's room and sits on the edge of the bed. It's still bare, this room, empty and blank like Sam's face when they first came back, though not as grey. It takes Sam a moment to notice his presence, and when Sam's eyes flutter open and he pushes himself up on his elbows, all sleep-flushed and safe, Dean feels a rush of affection so strong he wonders how he ever could have thought he'd lost it.
"Brought you coffee," Dean says, and hands the mug over.
Sam takes it and breathes in the steam like he always does. Gives himself a minute to enjoy the warmth on his face, the first taste of sweetness on his tongue, the heat in his throat when he swallows it down. One sensation at a time.
Sam sets the coffee down on his nightstand and looks at Dean, then away, his fingers twitching nervously on the bedspread. "So," he says. "It's November."
Dean's not sure how to answer that, so he doesn't. Conversation never used to be this stilted between them.
Sam hums a little and fidgets some more, then he sighs and looks up at Dean. Steeling himself. "It's almost Thanksgiving."
Dean blinks. He can't remember a time they celebrated the holiday, other than that one image he glimpsed in the fake heaven Zachariah fashioned for Sam. He's not even completely sure what people do for Thanksgiving. Turkey, he thinks. Or ham? He can't remember.
Sammy's doing that thing where he shrinks in on himself, and Dean realizes his silence has stretched on too long. "Think we should celebrate?"
Sam perks up at that, but he tries to hide it, tries to keep his lips still and his voice casual. When did Sam get so nervous around him? "Might be nice," Sam says with a shrug.
The more Dean considers the idea, the better it sounds. Sam's only left the bed a handful of times in the months he's been healing, hasn't asked for anything or showed interest in much. It'd be good for him to get excited about something, maybe put some more fat on his bones.
So he breaks out his cheesiest grin and says, "Sounds great, Sammy! Might be nice to show the ex-angel how us humans rock the holidays," because if he makes it about Cas, maybe Sam won't feel so shy.
It works. Sam's hesitation shifts into a full-on smile, dimples and everything, and his shoulders relax back into the pillows. "Yeah. So, I was thinking…."
But he's cut off by the sudden entrance of said ex-angel, who bursts in smelling of fresh air and ozone with his cheeks flushed red from the Kansas wind. "Hello, Sam. Dean," he says, with that funny little nod of introduction he picked up God knows where.
"Hey Cas, where you been?" It's a little early to be up and about, but Dean figures human Cas is still Cas, so maybe weirdness is to be expected.
Cas blushes, though, which is even weirder than usual, and stutters slightly when he speaks. "I…" he falters, "I picked up some breakfast." He shoves a crumpled paper bag in Sam's lap and hesitates before handing over a cardboard tube. "And something for your room. It," he says, his hands jerking aimlessly, "seems rather empty."
What? Dean squints and frowns at Cas, but the man is ignoring him in favor of conducting an in-depth study of the blank wall beside him.
Breakfast turns out to be a few slightly smushed muffins, the kind with shredded carrots and raisins that Sam inexplicably loves, and the tube contains a poster of Michael Platini, one of Sam's soccer heroes growing up. Sam's eyes go wide when he sees it, and he looks up at Cas uncertainly. "Wow, uh," he says, running a hand through that ridiculous mop he calls hair. "Thanks, Cas."
Cas bites his lip and nods again and leaves the room without another word. Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam, but Sam just shrugs. "Don't look at me," Sam says. "I don't know. Maybe it's a sorry-I-broke-your-mind present."
Dean wants to tell him to shut up, to not even joke about yet another time he watched his brother slowly die, but Sam's back to examining the poster, and his eyes are sparkling with interest, and dammit it's been too long since Sam looked at anything that way.
"Soccer, huh?" he says instead. "Think you might ever play again?'
Sam's hands go still and his breath catches a bit, but he takes the time to steady his breathing before he looks up at Dean. "Yeah," he says, "You know. Maybe for that week after I finally ditch this bed and before another hunt drags us out." His voice is light like he's joking, but there's a blankness in his eyes that Dean would have been able to read before. Despair, maybe, or hopelessness, though whether Sam doubts he'll ever get better or just dreads hunting again, Dean can't tell.
The tension eases a bit as they eat their muffins, and Sam is meticulous as always, spreading napkins to catch the crumbs and licking his fingers between bites. Dean leaves to toss out the trash and refill Sam's coffee mug, but he gets distracted by Kevin on his way to the kitchen and spends half an hour debating the merits of American-made cars. By the time he gets back to the bedroom, Sam is asleep and snoring, his mouth half-open and leaking drool. The poster is tacked onto the wall by his bed.
It's another couple days before Sam brings it back up. This time he's holding a pen and a notebook, which, when Dean glances at it, is full of densely packed scribbles, like Sam's been making to-do lists or something.
Apparently Sam feels no need to beat around the bush, because what he says when Dean walks in is, "Think you can take me grocery shopping this afternoon?"
Dean has to blink away his shock, because more often than not he can barely get Sam to drag his ass out to the kitchen, and now the kid wants to go shopping? But he bites back the wisecrack he wants to throw out there - he's getting better at that, he thinks - and instead says, "Sure, Sammy, if you wanna go. You need something?"
And then Sammy is fidgeting again, and Dean wonders what he's done wrong this time, if maybe Sam was reading minds now and knew Dean was about to poke fun, but then Sam takes a deep breath and says, "I wanna pick up some stuff for Thanksgiving."
Oh.
Dean pulls out the mental bag of tricks he uses to impersonate cops or priests or whoever the fuck and pretends that wasn't a surprise. "Yeah, ok. Sounds good. Whatcha gonna make?"
Sam purses his lips, clearly annoyed, and Dean's about to throw his hands in the air and call the whole thing off because seriously, when did it get so hard to read Sam? But then Sam twists his hands in his blanket and says, tersely, "I dunno, Dean. Salad, maybe? Whatever I can cook from this goddamned bed," and oh. Right.
Dean pastes on his best big-brother grin and says, "Sammy, if you wanted me to cook you Thanksgiving dinner, all you had to do was ask."
Sam huffs at that, but Dean can see the irritation sliding off his shoulders, so he pushes a little and adds, "It'll be fun. You can watch me show Cas how to use the oven. And assuming we all survive that, I bet you'll be up and about to help when Christmas dinner rolls around."
Sam doesn't respond, but his eyes light up, and later when Dean is hauling in the groceries and Sam is settled back in bed, exhausted but content - little fucker refused the motorized cart, and seriously, how hilarious would that have been? - Dean does a little jig in the kitchen.
No one sees him, so it doesn't count. It totally doesn't.
Dean can't remember why he thought this was a good idea. It's the day before Thanksgiving, and he's squinting at the dog-eared cookbook he'd found crammed in a corner of the bunker library, trying to figure out what the hell to do with the cranberries and sugar he's dumped in a pot. Bring to a simmer, the cookbook says, like that helps any.
Damn Sam and his not-from-a-can idealism.
He's already tried asking Sam, whose only response was an attempt to snort himself to death with laughter. He's perched at the table now and still grinning like an idiot. "Glad to provide you some entertainment," Dean says flatly, but he can't keep a smile from tugging at his mouth.
Castiel's no help either; he's too busy smacking the flames from whatever he's got going on at the stove. And Kevin - well, Kevin scampered away as soon as Dean tried to pawn the turkey off on him. "I've got to put my hand where?" he'd asked incredulously, turning green.
So it's up to him. Fine.
And anyway, Dean gets the last laugh, when everything's said and done. The simmered cranberry sauce turns out perfectly, and if the mashed potatoes are a little gluey, Sam doesn't seem to notice, judging by the giant mound he devours. Even the weird green bean thing Dean had been so suspicious of isn't half bad.
But the turkey...the turkey is fucking perfect. Who cares if it doesn't reach the correct temperature until nearly an hour after they finish the rest of their meal? It's delicious.
Castiel rambles on for hours afterward, comparing notes with Sam on the various flavor profiles represented by the meal. Sam disagrees on some minor fucking point, and from there on out it's all ten-dollar words and funny smiles. Whatever. His brother is weird.
Dean ignores them both and helps himself to a third slice of pie.
It's a couple weeks later that Sam gets his next big idea. Dean's bringing him lunch, a blue cheese and steak salad that's a compromise between Sam's love of vegetables and Dean's belief in the healing power of protein. He isn't in his bed, though, which has Dean instantly worried, momentarily frozen in place by a blinding succession of images: drops of blood on Sam's tissue, the black smoke of demons, fire spreading out like waves.
He clings to the plate as he stumbles through the bunker, looking for Sam. Kevin gives him a funny look when he spots him, demanding Sam's location and flinging lettuce all over the place. "He's in the library, Dean," Kevin says, and looks like he's about to ask questions of his own, but Dean doesn't stay to listen
And sure enough, there Sam is, curled up in a big upholstered chair with a book spread across his lap and a small pile more at his feet. "Sam," Dean says, annoyed or relieved, he can't tell which, but Sam just looks up at him with those happy-puppy eyes and smiles.
"Hey, Dean," he says. "What's going on?"
"Uh," Dean says, stuck for a minute in warring emotion and unwilling to dampen Sam's mood. "I made you lunch. You weren't in your room."
"Oh. Yeah." Sam shuffles around in the chair a bit, pushing himself up with obvious effort. "Cas brought me out here this morning. It's nice," he says, looking around at the miles of shelving and heavy drapes. "Or at least," he shrugs, "it's not my room."
And Dean can't fault him for that. It's been months now Sam's been stuck in that room, stuck in that bed, stuck in a body that's letting him down. He should be able to get out if he wants. "Just, next time, don't give me a panic attack, ok?"
Sam cracks a blinding smile. "Awww," he says, waggling a long, bony finger at Dean. "You were worried about me."
Dean wrinkles his nose. "Nope. Just didn't want all my hard work to go to waste." He shoves what's left of the salad at Sam, hands him a fork, and asks, "So, what are you reading, anyway? No research to do these days."
Sam snorts. "Not our kind of research, no. Just," he says, and blushes a little. "Stuff about the holidays. In case we want to do it again."
"Oh." Dean takes a chair across from Sam and looks his brother over. "You're ok, right?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Yes, Dean. I'm fine. I'm sitting in the library of the most well-protected bunker on the planet. I'm fucking perfect. And I knew you were worried about me."
Dean huffs but doesn't deny it. There's a spark in Sam's eye he's not seen in a long time, and he's swearing at Dean, for pete's sake. Dean's not going to discourage that. "So. Holidays."
"Yeah," Sam says, and clearly, Dean's attempt at distraction has worked, because now Sam is waving his huge hands around like he does - like he used to - while he speaks. "I'm reading up on some old Christmas traditions, since, well, if we're gonna show Cas Christmas, it should probably be more than gas station presents and a beer can wreath."
"What's wrong with gas station presents and a beer can wreath?" Dean objects.
Sam grins at him, seeing straight through his feigned protest. "Nothing, Dean. Just thought we could do more this year, that's all."
Dean pretends to be mollified. "Sure we can, Sammy. Whatever the invalid wants, he gets." And then he laughs at Sam's bitchface.
Turns out, the invalid wants a lot. Dean's off to Walmart the very next day with a shopping list as long as his arm - eggnog and stockings and goddamned candy canes, not to mention the bags of food he just knows he's responsible for cooking. And what the hell do they need chestnuts for? Do people even eat chestnuts? Knowing Sam, kid's probably planning to make a wreath out of them or something.
Dean mutters his way through the checkout line, embarrassed to be caught out like a fucking househusband shopping for Christmas goodies, and keeps right on muttering through the door of the bunker.
"Goddamnit, Sam," he shouts once he's dragged the last of his purchases inside. "What the hell do we need all this crap for?"
But Sam doesn't hear him, because he's busy setting up a tree with Cas.
A tree.
A real tree. In their bunker.
A Christmas tree. It's got little lights and everything.
Dean decides to take advantage of their distraction to sneak up on them, maybe exact a little comic revenge, when the strangest thing he's ever seen happens right there in front of him.
And he's had a lifetime of witnessing strange fucking things.
Right there, not two feet away from him, Castiel, ex-angel-of-Heaven, pulls his hand from the tree where he's been adjusting a little snowman ornament and brushes the back of Sam's neck. And Sam, he leans into the touch like he's starved for it, like he's been waiting his whole goddamned life just for that one little touch, and then the two of them go right on hanging decorations. Like Dean's whole world wasn't just turned on its head.
He slinks away then, suddenly less sure of himself than he's been in a long time, and sits on his bed to think. What the hell.
Maybe it's just Cas being weird. It could be just another in a long line of failed attempts to act human. But Dean knows that look on Sam's face, saw it years ago with Jess and Sarah and then Madison. And it's thinking of Madison that does it for him, makes him remember all the times that Sam loved and lost, and damnit if Dean's going to let him get screwed over by some dick of an angel from Heaven. Ex-angel, Dean corrects himself.
But he figures he'll take some time to watch and listen before he says anything.
Christmas morning dawns sunny and cheerful, just like it ought to. Sam deserves as much, anyway. There's a mountain of presents under the tree, all red and green and most of them labeled in Sam's careful handwriting. Four ugly stockings are tacked up on the wall, nearly split at the seams they're stuffed so full. It's a riot of color and tinsel and lights - Sam's never been the best with decorative schemes - and it should be overwhelming, but something about it is so very Sam, so reflective of that part of his brother he'd thought had burned away in the Cage, that all Dean can feel is grateful.
When Dean brings Sam his morning coffee - peppermint mocha this time, in honor of Christmas - there are strings of twinkling lights hung around his room. Dean doesn't ask, and Sam doesn't explain, but when Sam notices Dean looking at them, he gives a little ghost of a smile which tells Dean more than any words could.
"So Cas hung some lights, huh?"
"Yeah," Sam shrugs, all pretend-casual. "He thought they would cheer the room up a bit."
There's a new poster in the wall, too, tacked next to Michael Platini. It's some famous artsy thing, a skeletal man hunched over a guitar, everything bathed in blue. "It's starting to look like a chick's dorm room in here, Sammy," Dean says, but Sam only grins.
They start with Cas telling the Christmas story - first-hand experience, he reminds them solemnly - and it's a lot less poetic than Dean remembers. He doesn't recall sheep dung being an integral part of the story. At Sam's insistence, it's roast chestnuts next, and they sip mulled wine - it's Christmas, ok? - while the room fills with the spicy, beguiling aroma.
The chestnuts are sticky and skunky and burn Dean's fingers. He hates them. Sam, the little bastard, just giggles at Dean's betrayed expression and hands him another mug of wine. Mulled wine that Sam made from scratch by himself, no assistance necessary, and then Dean can't help but smile back.
They work their way through a handful of carols, their voices blending about as harmoniously as you'd expect from an angry prophet, a humanized angel, and two hunters with years of excessive drinking to thank for their strained vocal chords. At least Sam thought to print out the words, Dean thinks, remembering their awkward rendition of Silent Night a few years back. He sings "round and round the table" anyway, just to make Sam grin.
Dean draws the line at sucking the juice from an orange with a peppermint stick. That's fucking gross.
Finally, Sam lets up on his quest to conquer all the Christmas traditions and allows Kevin to divvy up the presents. There's a rush of tearing paper, and haphazard piles of presents bloom amidst the carnage.
Sam explains Dean's as he opens them: skin mags for tradition, the new sheath for his knife a promise for the future. The one that hits Dean the hardest, though, is the carefully framed photo of Mom and Dad smiling and squatting down, their arms wrapped tightly around Dean who's clutching baby Sammy to his chest.
If he blinks a little, it's just because the room's too damn warm and dry.
Sam's excited by the books Dean dug up for him, a long-ass tome on Pacific Island folklore and a handful of Grisham novels. And then there's another package, small and clumsily wrapped in brown paper, with a note that states in perfect block letters: "From: Castiel. To: Sam."
Sam unwraps it, and Dean can't see what it is at first because Sam's big hands are blocking his view, but there are tears in Sam's eyes and he's looking at Dean. He whispers Dean's name and struggles to stand, but he's still so weak, so pale and fragile he looks like a breeze might snap him in half, so Dean hushes him and goes to his side instead. And then something's pressed into his palm, and Sam's fingers tremble on the back of his hand, and when he looks to see what it is, his eyes flood with moisture and his heart splits with ache because there in his hand, black and gold and innocuous against the white of his skin, is the amulet Sam gave him all those years ago.
He can't look up, not yet, but he hears Sam's voice, thick and wavering, asking Cas how, how. Cas says nothing, but when Dean meets his eyes, they're heavy with warmth and something that looks like forgiveness, and Dean sits clumsily on the floor by Sam and rests his head on Sam's knee.
If he still harbors doubts about Cas's intentions, they dissolve on New Year's Eve. They're all together, Dean and Sam and Kevin and Cas, warm and alive on the bunker's couches, fizzing with champagne bubbles and sparkling like glass. Their bellies are full, there's no one to haunt them, and when the announcer's voice on tv counts down to one and that giant glitter-ball drops, Cas leans over, guides Sam to his feet, and presses their lips together.