Title: What to get an angel for Christmas
Disclaimer: Obviously I own no part of Supernatural.
Characters: Castiel, Sam, Dean
Warnings: None, and no real spoilers as long as you know the basic premise of Season 5, I think. Not even.
A/N: Can I just say, in regards to writing Cas: NEVER AGAIN. I feel like I need to research the religious history behind everything he says. So, yeah, this may not be super accurate. I don't know man, I feel like this whole story might just be an exercise in WHAT IS WRITING. The characterisation probably sucks, but hey, I need to practise. Hopefully next time will be better for it, yeah? Okay, yeah, I will be writing Cas again. Fine.
Happy Holidays to all who read this!
In Castiel's defence, he's been far more foreign places during the last few weeks than a mall.
On the other hand, even in those slightly-more-than-unusual predicaments, he tended to have at least an inkling of what he was meant to be doing. This time . . . not so much. And by all means, there is no reason such a task should be so difficult. Castiel is knowledgeable and tactful in all number of subjects. Hi experience with humans spans thousands of years. He knows what it is to feel. And to top it all off, he is an Angel of the Lord.
Surely an Angel of the Lord can come up with gifts for two humans.
He glances around at the myriads of people walking around, each with a direction in mind. Such human concerns wandering through their heads. It should be displeasing that these are the sort of concerns most humans dealt with daily, never considering what might be hiding in the shadows, or worse, the light. But he can't really hold their ignorance in contempt at the moment, because in spite of the impending Apocalypse, his immediate concern is the same.
Cas stubbornly keeps his gaze on his surroundings as though he would see the entirety of his family in Heaven laughing at him should his eyes stray towards the ceiling.
There are depots with books and clothing and household appliances, and even others with displays of small plastic articles that couldn't possibly be of any use to anyone. Wandering over for lack of drive to do anything else, he picks up a small plastic angel figure, white and winged and covered with sparkles, and he can't help the frown that grows on his face as he examines the small feathers fastened to the wings.
He's quickly coming to peace with the fact that he will not find anything for Sam or Dean here.
Replacing the figurine on the table, he insists on making himself do one last visual sweep before moving on. It's fortunate he does, too, because this one last glance lands his eyes on something he hadn't spotted before. A small shop filled with toys of every colour imaginable.
A plan begins to form in his mind. It's not exceptional, but it's something, and surely an attempt at time travel couldn't possibly be any less fruitful than this.
All at once, he's gone, the only change in the air a slight flutter of the plastic angel's feathers.
If it were up to Dean, teaching Cas to at the very least knock on the door instead of just popping up whenever he saw fit would be top priority on the "list of human skills to master". But since it isn't up to Dean, Cas arrives in much the same fashion as always—out of nowhere, at one of the least expected moments possible.
On the bright side, if he had to be woken up to something without warning, there were worst things to hear than "Merry Christmas."
". . . the hell?" Dean groans, wearily pulling himself into a sitting position. Cas watches patiently as Dean's human mind puts together the pieces—motel room, angel, presents, analog clock with the numbers 6:08 lit up in green. The minute he does, he asks rather resignedly, "Is the world ending already?"
"Of course not," Cas replies, confused. "It's Christmas, Dean. Why would you—"
"Is there any other good reason why you're here?" Dean interrupts, already rolling out of bed.
"I believe I already mentioned it's Christmas. Twice."
Dean, now seated on the edge of the bed, lets his head hang in exhaustion. "Well, fantastic. Merry Christmas to you, too. Thanks for dropping by, grab some eggnog on the way out."
Cas glances at the packages in his arms. "But I've brought gifts. I believe that in modern times it's traditional to offer presents to friends at this time of year. To celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ."
A mumble resembling "at exactly this time, though?" is heard, but Cas can't be sure, so he says nothing. Finally, Dean sighs deeply and looks up at the angel. "Look, are you gonna let this go, or do I need to get up and get it over with?"
Eyebrows pulling together in confusion, Cas carefully places the presents on the floor and lets go of them, looking to Dean in case he was missing a crucial part of the Christmas tradition.
Even exhausted, Dean manages a clear eye-roll.
Cas begins to put together the pieces of his own puzzle. "Is this a bad time?"
Dean shoots him a glare but otherwise ignores him, dragging himself across the room to wake up his brother.
Sam, for his part, is slumped over a book Dean would call an encyclopaedia judging by size, only fractionally awake after hours of gruelling research. He' begun to drop off around hour four or five as it became increasingly clear that the answers they're looking for are anywhere but in this particular volume.
"Merry Christmas, kiddo," Dean announces with a lack of cheer even by Castiel's standards, haphazardly shoving Sam's arm to bring him around. "There's some man with a funny outfit here with presents for you. Spoiler alert though: it ain't Santa." Sam's head pops up instantly, blinking blearily for just long enough to get a peak at the analog clock. He just about immediately groans and his drops his head back down to the table as though anything supporting it suddenly turned to jelly.
"Go back to sleep, asshole," Sam grumbles, making a valiant effort to make the book seem like an acceptable pillow for his head.
Dean shoves him again. "No, I'm serious. We've been paid a visit from one of Santa's little helpers and everything."
"What?" Sam looks up again, finally noting the angel standing in the middle of the room. "Oh. Hey, Cas. World ending or something?"
Castiel narrows his eyes this time. "Is this another reference I don't understand?"
"Nah, we're just wondering why exactly you're disregarding the "no social calls before sunrise" rule," Dean deadpans, looking at Cas expectantly.
Cas turns his eyes out the window, noting with dismay the lack of light for the first time. Sam and Dean are shooting him identical disparaging expressions, and Cas finally gets it. "Ah. My apologies. It seems I neglected to account for the time change."
"You think?" Dean says.
Sam closes his book with a thud and pulls himself to his feet. "Well, might as well get an early start today," he exclaims. "Oh, and Merry Christmas to you too, Cas."
Feeling as though the entire point of his arrival has thus far been overlooked, Cas holds up the only two things he brought once more. "I have gifts for you," he tries one last time.
Thankfully, Sam picks up on what's going on rather quickly. "You didn't have to do that."
"It is human tradition, and since I am amongst humans more than angels, it seems only sensible that I participate in the celebration of this day as you would."
"Yeah, but that's the thing," Dean insists. "'Celebrate it as we would?' We didn't get you anything. Sorry, dude, but that's what you get for pulling the holiday 180."
Cas shakes his head. "Reciprocation is not of importance to me."
Sam takes the mature route and accepts the gift Cas is holding towards him. "Thank you. It's very generous."
Dean says something less-than-sincere into the fridge as he searches through it.
The minute Sam takes the package from Cas, however, he nearly loses his footing as its weight drags his arms down. "I wasn't aware Christmas tradition involved getting rocks for each other as presents," Sam grounds out with a slight smile, putting the gift on the table.
Castiel frowns. "It hardly has the dimensions of a rock."
There's a thud from back towards the kitchenette that sounds oddly like Dean's head banging against the counter.
Sam pulls the wrapping paper off and takes in its contents. "Prometheus Bound," he reads, "by . . . Aech-y-lus?"
"Aeschylus," Castiel corrects. "It's an ancient Greek text. I thought you might like to add it to your collection of reading material."
"Oh, yeah, he's always looking for more dusty tomes to lug around in his book bag," Dean exclaims, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he walks by.
Sam directs a pointed look at Dean (even Cas recognises this one as the look of "stop being rude") before returning his focus to Cas. "It's awesome," he says genuinely. "Thanks a lot."
(Sam doesn't mention that the text is actually in the original ancient Greek and he can't read a word of it. Someone else they know might be able to. You know, maybe.)
"You're welcome," Cas replies, grinning contently. One down . . .
"Your turn, Dean," Sam declares. When Dean doesn't take his eyes off the coffee pot, Sam walks over and physically drags his brother over by the arm. "Merry Christmas."
"Jerk," Dean spits, still looking half-dead to Cas. But he straightens up and sticks out his hand anyways. "All right, let's have it."
Dean's present is significantly lighter than Sam's and somewhat smaller too. Dean doesn't really show much care in tearing off the paper (though he does wonder when Cas found the time and means to wrap these things), but he stops and focuses when he sees what's inside.
A bright teal box with the "Hot Wheels" logo stares up at him, challenging him to make sense of it. Opening the box as well, he finds three not-quite-vintage cars that look like they were designed around 1983. He picks one up and peers at it as though it contains some hidden message as to what he's meant to do with this gift.
When Dean doesn't vocalise his response, Cas takes it upon himself to explain. "I didn't think there was much you wanted in this time period, so I went back to . . . before any of this happened and tried to discern what you wanted back then. These seemed to be popular toys in the era, and given your fondness for automobiles, it seemed appropriate."
The explanation is the opposite of helpful—Dean continues to stare at the miniature cars originally designated for his 4-year-old self, with more intent and awe now, if anything. Slightly afraid he's done something wrong, Cas looks to Sam for guidance. He doesn't get any, of course, as Sam is simply watching Dean with hints of concern, gauging his reaction.
"You went back to 1983 to pick up some a couple of old toys I wanted 25 years ago?" Dean asks quietly, the bite that had been in his voice ever since he woke up all but gone.
"Yes." Cas suddenly begins to doubt his choice slightly. Perhaps his hunch was a misguided. "However, I understand if they are too juvenile for you at this age. If you don't like them, I can take them—"
Dean shakes his head. "No, no, it's fine," he answers hastily. ". . . I mean, thank you." He seems to snap out of it slightly and clears his throat. "I mean, yeah, it's real cute and all. Just not really for me nowadays, I guess. Don't expect me to be building tracks all over the motel room, but hey, thanks, man."
Cas and Sam both watch as Dean walks over to his bag as if he means to briskly shove them into the big pocket where they'll be lost among articles of clothing and guns to be cleaned. But at the last second, he takes the orange car with the yellow racing stripe and holds it up for examination one more time. Cas wonders if he's trying to imagine what it would have been like to hold this car 25 years ago, show his brother how to race two of them, boast to his mother about beating Sam at a race.
Sam seems to be pretending not to look.
Dean eventually stuffs the car in his pocket and turns back around as if nothing has happened. Sam clears his throat, looks around awkwardly, tries to think of something to break the silence. "We, uh, haven't exactly got anything for you."
"What do you get an angel anyway?" Dean postulates aloud. "A coupon for world peace? Box full of kittens? No, wait, I got it," he says, snapping his fingers. "Burgers."
"Sounds great," Sam says. "I think there was a 24-hour joint a few towns over."
That sets Dean back a notch. "Wait, what? It was a joke, Sammy."
"We need to be headed that direction, anyway. Besides, it's only polite, Dean."
"Since when are we polite?" Dean asks, shaking his head. Completely back to normal, Cas thinks. "Furthermore, since when are we polite at six in the freakin' morning?" Sam scowls at him and effectively ends that debate before it has a chance to go anywhere.
"All right, fine. I'm with you," Dean says a moment later, grabbing his keys from the table. "Good deeds and Christmas spirit and all that. Food's on me." He pauses to smirk for a second, turning to Cas. "And hey, this way we can do right and actually pay, instead of whatever angel instant-meal mojo you always use to get your burgers. I'm sure Cas would appreciate us keeping to the straight and narrow for once."
Sam narrows his eyes sceptically as he pulls on his jacket. ". . . Dude, you do realise all our income is from illegal credit card scams, right?"
And, despite Dean's odd reaction to the gift, Cas notices over the next few months that the orange car with the yellow racing stripe can always be found sitting above the dashboard on the Impala. He also notices that neither Sam nor Dean ever pay it more than a look, never even acknowledge it in the angel's presence, at least. So Cas does the same, just admiring the fact that he'd ostensibly made some sort of impact on Dean.
Perhaps he's getting the hang of this "being human" thing, after all.
FIN
Merry Christmas, everyone! Reviews are lovely, but no pressure.