Dean thinks on any other night he would hate being stuck indoors, curse nature and the elements for the endless sheet of white falling down upon the small midwestern town of Northome, Minnesota. The snow is stacking against 2B's door, and through the frosted glass window Dean can see it piling up on Baby, who is stuck idle in the parking lot of yet another run-down highway roadhouse; though Northome Motel, with its log cabin exterior and the strip of moose-patterned wallpaper lining the walls of the room they've landed, seems much more quaint than the dumps they usually frequent.
Northome Motel is still lacking in some respects, however. The vending machine out front has a flickering light, and when Dean had trudged out earlier, the collar of his jacket pulled up to shield his neck and hands cupped over his mouth to thaw his fingers with warm puffs of breath, he ended up with 'Nacho Tortillas' instead of Doritos. That should have been the first sign. Dean also came to find that the selection of granola bars was severely lacking, much to Sam's dismay.
It's the vending machine that has Sam making a grocery run now-or making a trip to the mini mart three blocks down- because although they've sustained themselves on less before, most vending machines do not stock pie, and pie is an unspoken tradition that even Sam abides by. Besides, they are running low on alcohol too.
The circumstances leave Dean and Castiel to themselves for a time, the faint hum of the television going in the background, just loud enough to mix with the noise of the rattling heater. Some sweeping shot of a knife collection plays out on the screen, channel chosen based on the criteria that it is the only one that comes in as more picture than static right now.
The light emitted from the bedside lamp seems muddied in the small room, a dim orange glow that casts soft shadows against beige walls. Mixed with the green glow of the fluorescents shining from outside the room seems to have taken on a sickly sort of hue, but that may also be attributed to the poor taste in wallpaper, Dean thinks.
The faulty heater leaves the room dank, at best, and where Dean is seated at the edge of one twin bed he has the comforter rucked up around his shoulders. Castiel is seated on the floor, in the space where Dean's legs part, back to Dean and bowed forward at the neck, allowing for Dean's fingers to press against the skin at the knob of his spine. Dean's thumbs work in circles, with enough pressure for him to feel when Cas winces, shoulders tensing slightly before settling back to let Dean continue. His hands work, the heel of his palm kneading into Cas' shoulder, fingers rubbing a trail up his neck before running back down. The skin there is smooth and surprisingly warm to the touch, and Dean doesn't know how Cas manages it.
"You're a real shit sleeper, Cas," Dean comments, the room swallowing his words when Cas doesn't respond. The silence hangs between them. But it's true, and Dean didn't think it was possible for anyone to suck at sleeping, but Cas really does. To be fair, Cas only started sleeping just over a week ago. After an existence of not sleeping, he figures it might take some time getting used to.
Most nights now find Cas lying rigid on his back, motionless with his hands placed neatly at his sides. Even more nights Dean wakes up to find Cas staring straight up at the ceiling, like maybe he hadn't shut his eyes to begin with. It isn't a surprise that Cas has begun to mention how his neck feels stiff and aches when he tilts his head.
Cas sighs, low and drawn out, back arching into Dean's touch when he digs into the muscle of Cas' shoulder, working underneath the fabric of his shirt. The trench coat lies folded off to the side.
"Is that too hard?"
The motion of Dean's hands stop momentarily, only continuing after Cas hums and nods his head forward even more. The dark strands of hair at the base of his neck are getting long. They'll need to cut it soon.
There's the sound of tires against gravel outside, the shine of headlights piercing through the window to throw everything into a harsh light briefly before dying away. Out through the window Dean can see the building across the street, multi-colored lights twinkling above the shop door, blurred through the glass and obscured by the snowfall. It's dark as pitch outside, the sun having set much earlier in the day, and Dean contemplates calling Sam, just to make sure he hasn't slipped on his big clumsy feet and cracked his head on the icy pavement. Dean only notices that his hands have stilled again when Castiel angles his head back up, turning so he can meet Dean's eyes.
Dean swallows. Cas really does look tired. It's not the exasperated look of reproach, or the look of tried patience Dean has grown used to. His eyelids are hanging heavy and his mouth is drawn. It must be the lighting, but Dean thinks Cas' eyes might not be as blue.
Cas looks worn thin.
When Dean speaks it is soft, mingling with the sound of the TV still playing and the insistent rumbling of the heater.
"If I could-"
Stop. Compose. Restart.
"If I could give you your Grace back, I would."
Dean isn't sure Cas hears him at first because the other man—only a man now, Dean has to remind himself—doesn't so much as blink. Then Cas' brows draw together and his lips turn down. He twists around and out from under Dean's hands, turning fully so that he is knelt in front of Dean. That's when Dean has to avert his eyes, has to look around the room to settle on the tacky moose wallpaper, searching for some sort of guidance, anything to erase the look of Cas, so human yet still so warm beneath his hands, as if he's lingering there inside.
"You don't realize what you have given me, do you."
Dean looks back; back to blue that has dulled, lost its vibrancy. It is only the lighting.
"What, chronic neck pain?" Dean laughs and it sounds too bitter even to his own ears.
Cas doesn't take the bait though, leans up, gathering himself and placing his hands on Dean's knees for support. A man on the TV screen introduces a set of Bowie knives. Sam's is getting dull, he knows, and Dean briefly considers dialing the 800 number.
He is drawn back when Cas goes on.
"I have something for you."
"Cas we talked about this. No gifts." Dean knows Cas remembers. His fingers play restless in the sheets.
"I know, Dean," Cas confirms, and there is the distinct sound of fluttering air, only just the wind knocking against the door, but it is there, and so is Cas, leaning up with his hands coming to lace behind Dean's neck and then smooth lips melding into his own.
It's over so fast that Dean isn't sure it happened at all, and he doesn't notice that he's shut his eyes until he is opening them again.
Cas is kneeling back, hands in his lap and eyes studying Dean from under his lashes.
"Was that- satisfactory?" Cas starts, hands clenching. Dean thinks this is the first time he has seen Castiel flush. "Sam suggested it may be a good idea to express-"
"Please don't talk about Sam right now." Dean finds himself sliding off the edge of the bed all at once, on level with Cas now.
This time Dean is sure of it. There is no mistaking the feel of Cas beneath his hands as Dean pulls him in, or the heat of his mouth when Cas parts his lips. This time when they break apart they each wear a smile, Dean's spreading and broad, Cas' crooked and tentative.
"Merry Christmas, Dean."
"Merry Christmas, Cas."
When Sam returns with an armful of plastic bags to find them entwined on Dean's bed, Cas' legs wrapping around the backs of Dean's thighs to pull him closer as he explores the expanse of Cas neck with lips and tongue and teeth, his brother says nothing, just shuts the door loud enough to startle Dean and make him scramble backwards. There is a knowing sort of glint in Sam's eyes and a stupidly large smile fighting to remain hidden, and Dean has to wonder if there was a particular reason Sam took so long to bring back groceries.
Sam doesn't mention a thing though, just breaks out the pie and some plastic forks without a word, and Dean deems it some sort of Christmas miracle.
Dean thinks on any other night he would hate being stuck indoors, but not this night. This night he has his brother next to him, glasses clinking together half full with eggnog. This night he has Cas pressed into his chest and an arm thrown across his waist, a head tucked under his chin and a warm breath against his neck. Although Dean may stay up late into the night it is out of watching Cas, whose eyes flutter shut in an instant and whose breathing evens out shortly after his head hits the pillow.
This night sleep comes easy for Castiel, and Dean is content to watch over him.