-Warnings: Contains spoilers up to episode 6.9!-
For a hunter, time has a way of slipping by. One minute it can be a sunny day in May, and suddenly it's November. When all a person is focused on is the hunt, time has a way of becoming one big chaotic blur of poltergeists, demons, werewolves and vampires.
For Dean Winchester, time simultaneously goes so fast yet somehow unbearably slow at the same time. Agonisingly long nights spent awake on stake-outs, barely a word passed between Dean and his younger brother, Sam. Long nights where things rarely happen. And yet despite this, time still seems to slip past him. Days pass into weeks that pass into months. Everyday different, yet somehow remaining the same.
"It's nearly Christmas," Sam Winchester says impassively as the Impala drives past a decorated house. Dean glances over and is nearly blinded by the sheer extravagance of it all. A fluorescent Santa and his reindeer scream down at them from the snow covered roof, there are more fairy lights over the outside of the house than he had seen on any display (not that he had seen that many displays in his time). A grotto is set up on the front life with a glowing Mary and Joseph smiling down at a fat, plastic Jesus. Looking at the scene and realising that it is, in fact, two days until Christmas, Dean's heart sinks into his stomach. He dismisses the feeling, slowing down the car to get a decent look at the building,
"You don't say," he mutters. Sam frowns at him,
"I just did-" Dean gives him an incredulous look, "-oh. Right. Sarcasm."
Dean sighs. Of course Sam doesn't understand sarcasm. He never does. Looking at the decorated home, Dean can't help but be reminded of a Christmas two years earlier where the Winchester's had to face a creepy old couple who turned out to be Pagan Gods– he shivers, pressing down on the acceleration to speed up. He would rather not have a situation like that again, thank you very much.
He doesn't know why, but the realisation that it is almost Christmas and more importantly the sinking feeling that came when he first looked upon the house lingers in Dean's mind. A feeling that is only worsened when a calendar hanging on the wall of their motel room...
"Christmas eve?" Dean says, eyes widenening as he looks at it.
"Hrm..." Sam barely glances up from his laptop, "I thought you knew."
"What...you knew?"
Sam shrugs and nods in that dismissive fashion that Dean has learned to associate with his little brother. Not that it makes him resent it any less. He looks up, "Didn't think it was important," he says simply.
Of course. Sam doesn't care about anything else that doesn't involve either killing a monster or getting his dick wet. He has told Dean those were the only times he felt anything close to emotion. Even though they both know it's just adrenalin.
"What did you do on Christmas last year?" Dean asks, out of sheer curiosity. Sam's eyebrows knit thoughtfully,
"I can't-" a smirk crosses his face, "-oh. Yeah. Her name was Angel. I'll tell you what, she may have been called Angel but she was a demon in the sac-"
"Dude," he cuts across, "Remember that talk we had about too much information..?"
Sam shrugs again and returns his attention to his laptop, "All I'm saying is I don't really see what we have to celebrate."
Dean shakes his head, "I'm going to bed..."
After four hours of tossing and turning in a vain attempt to drift off to sleep, Dean finds himself wandering around the room in complete darkness, throwing on clothes. He glances over at the Sam-shaped lump in the duvet. He knows his younger brother isn't sleeping. His younger brother never sleeps. Nor does he flinch as Dean walks out, bag and car keys in hand. The old Sam would have been blocking the door, demanding Dean tell him what the hell he thinks he's doing. This new Sam is awake, knowing that he is leaving and yet he doesn't flicker an eyelash. Probably more preoccupied with finding the next case.
Because he doesn't care - and that's what hurts Dean the most, and something, even after facing forty years in Hell, tortured becoming the torturer, seeing his brother die, dying himself countless times, heaven and hell wanting him – he cannot even begin to learn to accept. This empty shell is not his brother. And damn...Dean misses him. He misses 3am stakeouts that usually dissolve into reminiscing and laughter, he misses being able to talk to him. Hell, he even misses Sam's patented bitchface whenever he said or did anything inappropriate.
Dean Winchester would die for his little brother. He has died for his little brother. And he feels so helpless knowing that he can't do anything to get Sam's soul back, deep down in the depths of hell with Lucifer and Michael.
He can't stay in this room any longer.
The second he's in the Impala he realises that he has no destination. At first he considers going to see Lisa and Ben but he drives the thought as far out of his head as he can. He can't have them in danger. Nor does he think Lisa would be very welcoming if he should up at her door at this time at night on Christmas Eve. Instead, he drives until he reaches a motel.
Dean pushes through into the room door with a bottle of whiskey hastily purchased from the owner (a drunk, middle aged man who looked remarkably like the Santa bobble head sitting on his desk at reception) when he checked into the room. He freezes to see that the room has been haphazardly decorated. Different colours of cheap decorations are hanging from the walls, a scabrous tree set up in the corner with half of its lights broken. The whole effect is rather more sinister than welcoming.
He kicks the door closed, tosses the bag onto the bed and goes around tearing all the decorations down. Most of them come off with a strong tug but with the tree, he curses as some of the pines – even though they are fake – stick painfully into his hands. He doesn't bother to unplug the fairy lights from the socket in the wall. If he gets electrocuted here, he honestly wouldn't care. There is a warning spark as he grabs the tree from its spot in the corner and flings it to the other side, yanking the plug from its socket.
When he is done, he feels no more satisfied. He leans against the dresser, squeezing his eyes closed to try and get rid of the burning sensation in the back of them. He is not going to cry.
"Hello, Dean..." an oh-so familiar gravelly voice greets which Dean recognises without needing to see who it is. He looks into the cracked mirror and as he suspects, Castiel is standing at the door. Showing his knack for not knowing the meaning of privacy. Yet Dean isn't annoyed by the intrusion. He's incapable of feeling anything more than crippling weariness. He trails his finger down the glass,
"I thought you said angels can't find me," he says, his other hand absently tracing his ribs where he has been branded by a spell that makes him unable to be tracked by angels, demons...most supernatural creatures. And he must say, it has come in handy more than once.
"Angels can't," he replies softly, "But unlike the other angels, I know you, Dean."
Dean scoffs humourlessly and shakes his head. He turns slowly around to look at Castiel standing there, whose gaze matches the way he currently feels. However, Castiel manages a weak smile when Dean makes eye contact. Eye contact which is only maintained for an instant before Dean takes another drink from the bottle.
"What are you even doing here?" Dean growls, "Shouldn't you be up in heaven getting your ding-dong merrily on high on or whatever you angels do at Christmas..." he sinks down onto the bed.
Castiel's eyes flicker upwards, "There is no celebration in heaven," he says, soberly, "War will not relent even for the son of God," his tone still holds a hint of bitterness at the word "God". The God who was absent at the time when the world was in need. The God that Dean holds responsible for what happened in that graveyard between Lucifer and Michael...Sam and Adam. His brothers. Castiel's face is troubled as he keeps his eyes averted heavenwards but soon they scour across the room where the cheap decorations are thrown unwanted into a corner after Dean tore them down,
"You are not celebrating either," he says. It's a statement, not a question.
"I don't see why I should be celebrating or thankful-," Dean swallows down more whiskey, wiping his mouth hastilly before continuing, "-so a baby was born. Big deal. Kids are born everyday, what makes him so special? It's not like God loves any of his so called children..." he takes a deep breath and realises he's shaking.
"Celebration or not, no-one should spend this time alone," Castiel adds, "Especially not someone who has been through as much as you."
Dean spent Christmas two years ago with his little brother. It was in some motel room, drinking beer and watching NFL. It was hardly a traditional, heart-warming family Christmas but for that one night they could just be brothers. No case to worry about, not even any troubling thoughts about his looming damnation. It was as close to a perfect Christmas as he could ever hope to have.
Last year he spent Christmas with Lisa and Ben. Something he only celebrated for their sake. When he was chopping the tree he could only think of was contempt toward God. He thought Sam was being tortured in hell – and who knows, maybe he is (his soul, atleast) – for that Dean couldn't keep his troubled mind at ease. He also couldn't help but feel crushing guilt for Adam, their half brother and purely innocent party dragged into all this because Dean refused to be Michael's vessel. What of him? Was he in the pit too? Still, Dean faked a smile as Ben ripped open his presents on Christmas morning, and those times they went for walks in the park to listen to carollers. He supposed that Lisa knew there was something wrong with him but she didn't question him. After all, his brother was dead. He needed the time to come to terms with that.
This year...?
"Who do I spend Christmas with? Sam?" he half spits out the name, "He wouldn't care if it's Christmas, Easter, freaking Kwanzaa! Lisa? Ben..." he hesitates, grimacing at the mention of the name. It hurts to think of them, "I only acknowledged this waste of time holiday last year for them. So I wouldn't drive myself crazy. Fat lot of good that did-" in the time he speaks, he sinks down to his knees and tears are pouring freely from his eyes. Seeing those decorations in that house really brought home how much he has lost – either from their choice, death or his own sacrifice. The whiskey spills from the bottle and pools around his knees.
Castiel sweeps over to him and wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace. Dean clings to the front of his trench coat,
"I feel so useless, Cas," he chokes back a sob.
"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Dean," Castiel replies, "It's a burden that would drive any other man insane.
Castiel holds Dean as he continues to sob, his face buried in the coat as he takes in that strange yet alluring scent of the angel. It brings him comfort. Comfort like the feeling of family Dean used to have; and he supposes maybe that's still true, now. Castiel is just a different sort of family, isn't he?
"Mistletoe," Dean mutters as he looks up towards the light fixture that he and Castiel are unwittingly under in their embrace. Castiel's eyes slowly sweep upwards and fall on the tiny garland. So small that Dean could hardly be blamed for not noticing. And yes, he may be an angel but he knows the tradition for such a plant. Before the breaking of the seals, he had been watching humans and their Christmas traditions. Mostly trying to understand what they had to do with the birth of Jesus. Now he doesn't linger on that. This is the only time of year that humans are happiest, and if that involves trees and lights and gluttony, he can look past that. God knows they deserve some happiness. After an awkward silence and even though Dean knows it isn't that funny, he starts to laugh. The sound is borderline hysterical but he can't stop himself and before long his whole body is shaking. And...that makes Castiel laugh too. Dean wonders if they've both finally cracked.
The laughter eventually subsides into a meaningful silence. Their arms are still wrapped around each other, and green eyes gaze intently into blue. Dean doesn't know who moves first but the next second their lips meet, unsurely. Dean feels like he should pull away and is surprised when Castiel doesn't. The angel's lips are soft and warm, perhaps a little dry but no less perfect. None of them make any attempt to either move or deepen the purely chaste kiss. Dean is just grateful for contact, not realising how much he had craved it until the moment their lips met.
"We're not ok," Dean asserts when they finally break apart.
Castiel nods, "We are no closer to getting your brother's soul back from Hell and the war in Heaven has no end for the forseeable future."
"Earth, Heaven...everything is going to hell whether Lucifer is in that pit or not. And yet all I can do is say "how high" when Crowley tells me to jump," it sickens him to think that they're under the employment of a demon. But it's the only lead they have in returning Sam's however tortured soul back to his body.
"But Dean, even though I cannot always be there, you are not alone in all this."
"The angel on my shoulder," Dean smiles a little. Castiel returns the gesture with a blank look,
"I would not fit on your shoulder."
Dean laughs again. Good ol' oblivious Cas. He rests his head against the chest of the angel, feeling his comforting warmth. Castiel buries his face in his hair.
"Merry Christmas, Dean," he says, gently. And for that moment, though they both know there is chaos and destruction going on all around them, it doesn't seem just as daunting. They aren't ok but they have each other so...it's ok. And despite everything, Dean feels his lips tug upwards in a tiny smile,
"Merry Christmas, Cas."
The End