Dean's fingers dig into the arm of the seat. As the speaker system blares something about seat belts and 20,000 feet, he closes his eyes and thinks back to what his therapist told him.
Breathe. Start with breathe. Shit, bad at breathing. Um, reverse psychology - don't breathe! Nope, that's a bad idea, go back to breathing.
Just don't think about the plane, plummeting into the ocean. It's okay, I said don't think about it! Avoid imagining flaming wreckage, Sam crying and blaming himself...
"Perhaps you should try picturing them in their underwear." Dean's almost surprised enough to open his eyes - his subconscious usually makes a little more sense than this.
"Wait, what?" Interrogating his own subconscious can't actually be weirder than trying notto breathe, can it? "Try picturing who in their underwear?"
"I don't know." His subconscious sounds stumped. "I'm scared of speaking in public, and I find that always helps. But thinking about it, I suppose planes don't wear underwear."
"That'd be pretty weird." An image of a plane in a lacy bra and panties pops into his head; it morphs into a plane in boxer shorts. Were there girl planes and boy planes? It seemed wrong.
"Forget the underwear, then." His subconscious is apparently unfazed by set-backs. "Here - what's your name?"
Dean nearly points out, "You're in my mind - don't you know?" when he realizes. He's not hallucinating. He's talking to a real person. About planes wearing underwear.
Then it occurs to him he's been too busy realizing to do any responding and blurts out, "Dean. It's, um, Dean." God, who the hell is this guy? Why is he being so nice?
"Nice to meet you, Dean." A hand closes lightly over the fingers digging into the armrest. "I'm Cas."
"That short for Casper or something?" Not that Mystery Man sounds like a Casper - Dean pictures a short, balding man cooking the books in a small town - but he kind of panicked.
"Castiel, actually." Is Mystery Man - er Castiel - smiling? Could a voice even do that? "Old family name."
Pretty, Dean nearly says. Nearly opens his eyes to see if the guy is as pretty as his name. Nearly has a big bisexual breakdown right there in seat 34C.
He manages to blurt out, "Cool," which, although manly, sounds like it's coming from a frog going through puberty.
"Were you named after James Dean?" Sexy voice and good taste in movies? I am very screwed. "You appear to share some of his taste in clothes. Though I suppose your parents wouldn't have known that at the time..."
The image of Rebel Without a Cause starring a baby in a leather jacket and sunglasses has Dean chuckling.
"That's better." Castiel's fingers brush comfortingly over the back of his hand. "May I ask you a question, Dean?"
"Well, you have been holding my hand for the last five minutes..." Please don't stop. "Figure that entitles you to a couple of questions."
Dean wishes fervently to see Castiel's face, but at this point, not opening his eyes is the only thing keeping him from doing something really stupid. To his relief, he hears a laugh - low, warm, throaty.
"I didn't think of it that way. It's just one question - I apologize if it seems too personal: if you're so afraid of flying, why are you here right now?"
Dean feels an unexpected twinge of disappointment. Well, what the hell did you want him to ask? To meet you in the bathroom in five minutes?
In lieu of an explanation, he fishes out his wallet and thrusts it in Castiel's direction. "Top left pocket."
The wallet is taken carefully from his hands. A few seconds pause, then, "She's beautiful. Is she...yours?"
Dean laughs - can't help it. "You think I could make something that perfect? Nah, she's my brother's. Just arrived last week. And of course the damn idiot had to go and move to London. So between missing my niece's first Christmas and subjecting myself to eight hours on this tin death trap...well, it wasn't a choice."
A long pause. Dean's just about to apologize for the over-share when Castiel says, "You must love your family very much." His voice is impossible to read.
"Nothing in this world I wouldn't do for Sam. Same goes for little Mary there." A thought occurs. "You have family you're flying to see too, then?" Please don't have a wife. Or a husband. Kids I can work with. Dog would be okay. God, you're pathetic, Winchester.
"Actually, I have some business to take care of." Castiel sounds somehow further away.
"Gonna be a hell of a turnaround to get home for Christmas! With the two weeks it's gonna take me to be able to look at a plane again, I don't envy you." There's a twinge at the back of his brain, trying to tell him something, but Dean's damned if he knows what it means.
"You misunderstand, Dean. I...I don't have any family. Since I will be spending the holidays alone, it makes little difference where." Castiel's hand begins to retreat - Dean holds it fast.
"I'm sorry, man. I...I didn't know." Oh well fucking done, Winchester. Really, top notch flirting.
Another pause, which Dean spends kicking himself further. "No," Castiel says finally, "It is I who am sorry. I'm sure you have better things to do than listen to me feel sorry for myself."
"First off, unless you've got some wings you're planning on busting out, we're stuck in this tin can for the next seven hours - meaning I don't have a damn thing better to do. Second, you've been putting up with my bitching and moaning ass for the past hour. By my calculations, that makes it your turn."
"Truly, Dean, I don't wish to impose..." The sadness in Castiel's voice made a decision for him.
Oh, what the hell. No time like the present. Dean shoves his fear of flying aside and forces his eyes open. A few blinks, and things are mostly unblurring themselves.
"Look," he begins, pivoting to face Castiel - and that's as far as he gets. Staring right into his are the bluest eyes he's ever seen. Sky blue is wrong. So is ocean. Do they even make this blue anywhere else? And that face...
"Dean, are you all right?" Concern spreads over the handsome features Dean has been feverishly admiring. "If your acrophobia has returned -"
"Just got a little dizzy." It's not technically a lie. "I'll be fine. But Cas, listen - I know things are all Hallmark Christmas special this year, but being alone on the holidays? I've been there. More than once." Presents stolen from the Toys for Tots box ("Dad left them," he'd tell Sam. Even though he knew Sam didn't believe). Canned ravioli for Christmas dinner. Paper garlands, draped over a hotel radiator.
Cas stares at him for a long while, those impossible eyes boring into his. When he finally speaks, it's to say, "I don't believe anyone h as ever called me Cas before."
Dean's terrified that he's blushing. "Uh, sorry. Nicknames - they're kinda my thing. But look, if you want -"
"No!" Castiel's mouth quirks up a little, at the corner. "I...I like it." Dean has to break the eyelock for fear of doing something very, very stupid. Like falling into those blue eyes and kissing him.
Reign it in, Winchester. "Right. Good. Um...good. You want to play cards?" Anything to stop him staring at the curve of Castiel's mouth. He begins to root around in his scuffed duffle
"I'm afraid I do not know how to play any card games." Castiel seems genuinely distressed by this.
"Hey, don't worry about it!" Dean shakes the cards out of the pack and begins to deal. "Here, let's start simply: this one's called Go Fish. My brother used to make me play it five times a day."
"I have never been fishing, either. Will this hamper my abilities to play?" Poor guy. His dad had clearly been as out of the picture as Dean's.
Dean laughs, even though he's tried not to. He gives Castiel a little punch on the shoulder. "Don't worry - you'll do just fine."
It's a little awkward, at first. Dean's nervous, so he keeps dropping the cards, or spacing out when Cas asks him for something because he's too busy staring. Cas, in turn, is not a natural with Go Fish strategy and keeps (unsuccessfully) asking Dean if he has a king. Dean thinks of covertly filching one from the deck, just to make him happy.
But as the time passes, they fall into a rhythm. Cas keeps asking him about his brother - Cas has brothers too, though he won't talk about them. Dean gets the sense there's a story there, but he doesn't want to pry.
Dean asks Cas about his travels. The man's been everywhere: Japan, Argentina, New Zealand. All of his stories revolve around the people he's met. But Cas is an outsider, always looking in, even in his own stories; it breaks Dean's heart a little.
By the time the light begins to stream through the fogged, oval windows of the plane, the cards have been long discarded, along with miniature bottles of water, empty packets of peanuts, and most of Dean's inhibitions. Seven hours - they've talked for seven hours. Dean's told him things he hasn't even told Sam. He feels oddly, wonderfully empty.
The flight attendant takes their trash, puts their seat backs up, tells them to prepare for landing. Dean's heart drops. He's scared of feeling the plane descend to the ground - but even more scared of saying goodbye.
"I suppose we're nearly there." Cas' voice is full of...something: regret? Dean hopes so.
"Cas, I..." The words won't come. Dean's not even sure what they should be. "This is crazy." He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Cas responds.
"What is, Dean?" He's looking intent again, the calm repose of their conversation forgotten.
Deep breath, Winchester. Just go for it. "Look, I don't like thinking of you all alone, in a foreign country, on Christmas so...why don't you come spend it with us?"
"Dean, I can't ask you -" Cas' hand closes over his, ending the ride the same way he began it.
"Of course you can!" It's a toss-up what's making his stomach do barrel rolls - Cas or the plane. "You saved my damn ass today. Least I can do is return the favor."
"But it's Christmas!" Cas protests. "I cannot intrude on your family unannounced. You barely know me!"
"I know you," Dean practically shouts. The plane rattles like it's shaking apart, and Dean is shaking apart with it. "Just like you know me. Better than people who've known me for years."
He clamps his eyes shut again. Breathe. Come on, you remember how to do it. Fuck, okay, try counting. Ten. Nine. Eight. Sev-
Cas' hand tightens over Dean's, the other one moves to rest comfortingly on his knee...and he can breathe again. Not deeply, not consistently, but if he concentrates, he can.
"All right." Cas says it quietly, but Dean knows he's heard right. "If you truly want me to, I'll come."
Dean laughs - not the best idea, but he can't help it. "Yeah, Cas," he pants out carefully. "I want you to."
One bump, then another, and they're on the ground, careening down a runway. For once, the speed of the plane doesn't scare him. It feels...right. Gives him an excuse for the little jerks his heart is giving in his chest.
Not that it calms down once the plane is stopped. If anything, Dean feels it thudding even harder as he and Cas begin to walk off the plane. Am I nuts? Overtired? Oxygen-deprived? Bringing a stranger to Sam's for Christmas - something's got to be wrong.
They hit the terminal, Cas's hand is brushing his shoulder, whirling him around. And one look has Dean struggling to remember what the hell had him worried. Cas' hand is on his shoulder. The other brushes his cheek.
"Dean, I..." Cas mumbles, but no more words come out. Then he's falling forward, Dean's reaching out to steady him, and they simply...collide. Cas' lips are warm, breaking through the lingering chill of the terminal. Dean's just beginning to settle in for the winter when Cas jerks back suddenly.
"I'm sorry." Cas' breathing is ragged, like he's been running a marathon. Dean tries to swallow how arousing that is. "I didn't mean -"
"Hey," Dean rakes a hand through Cas' hair. Don't mess this up. "Come on. You have nothing to apologize for."
"This is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me, Dean." His voice wavers. A lump forms in Dean's throat. "I only wanted to say thank you."
"Well...you're welcome, then." Gently, carefully, he brushes the hair back from Cas' forehead. "Although, I haven't properly thanked you for talking me down up there." The grin spreads quickly to the corners of his mouth.
Cas' eyes widen in surprise. Dean's about to stammer his own apology when Cas grabs the collar of his jacket and murmurs, "No time like the present." Dean needs no more encouragement than that.
After several minutes of scandalizing fellow passengers - and exciting a few others, judging by the cheers - it's Cas who pulls back again. "Presents!" he shouts.
"Gonna be honest," Dean laughs, still feeling like he's stepped suddenly off a carousel. "After that, I can't think of anything else I want."
"For your family!" Cas is positively panicking. In his current state, Dean finds it strangely adorable. "I can't intrude on their Christmas without presents!"
On impulse, Dean wraps an arm around Cas' shoulders. "Come on, then. Bet they have all sorts of fancy British shit in the gift shop. Let's grab the bags and go look."
He weaves Cas through the terminal. Cas' arm rests round his waist, a comforting weight anchoring him against the chaos. While Cas waits for the bags, he sends Sam a quick text: Don't punch me too hard. Bringing a last minute guest for Christmas.
The reply is quick and to the point: Please tell me it's a special guest. Jess will be over the moon. She's desperate for something adult to focus on.
Dean sneaks a glance at Cas, whose impossible blue eyes are trained on the whirring rotation of the luggage carousel. His fingers drift up to his lips, still tingling, still grinning. Before jogging over to give Cas another kiss, he types a final text: Yeah, Sammy. He's special. Really fucking special indeed.