It was all Sam's fault really. Dean had come home from work in early November to find his brother hovering in doorway to the kitchen with a very concentrated expression on his face. Cas was sitting at the table intently focused on Sam's laptop. Dean shrugged out of his coat and said hello, while Sam began a long-winded lecture about the significance of family, and memories and something about "important milestones." Honestly, Dean was just sort of nodding and tuning it out, because he was tired and hungry, and he could really admire the musculature of Cas' back from where he was standing…

"Wait, what?" Dean asked, snapping suddenly back to attention, brow furrowing slightly

Sam rolled his eyes and activated bitch face #72: Dean have you not been listening to a single word I've been saying? "I think we should have Thanksgiving this year," he repeated.

"You think what?"

Sam huffed, "We should celebrate Thanksgiving. You know, Dean, that holiday at the end of the month. Lots of food is involved."

"I know what it is Sammy," Dean retorted.

The younger Winchester activated bitch face #19 don't sass me Dean, and then launched into a clearly prepared speech about why they should celebrate Thanksgiving this year.

"Dean, it's Castiel's first real holiday as a human," here he gave Dean a pointed look that meant that neither of them counted the fucking Halloween debacle as a holiday, "and it's an important milestone for him, for us too, Dean, I mean we're supposed to be living normal lives now, isn't celebrating holidays part of that? We can invite Bobby, it'll be great. We should really do this; we could be like a normal family."

Dean took a deep breath, "Normal? Really Sam are you fucking-?"He was going to continue that Thanksgiving wasn't a real holiday, that none of them even knew how to cook, for god's sake, and that, honestly, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot to be thankful for anyway. The argument was fully formed in his mind when he glanced over at Cas—who hadn't said anything beyond a short hello when Dean had walked in, and was determinedly staring at the screen in front of him. He realized that the former angel was ignoring them both in favor of reading a pumpkin pie recipe. Cas was reading a fucking pie recipe like it was the holy writ, and Dean felt his rant completely die in his mouth. He glanced back at Sam; his baby brother was giving him the strongest puppy eyes in his arsenal, and, somehow, despite being a fucking giant, he still managed to look like he was five when he made that face. He tilted his head slightly towards Cas, as if to say, "Yeah, that's right, jerk, your angel wants to make you a pie. The holiday would make him so happy, and doesn't he deserve it…after everything he's been through for us?" Dean looked at Cas again, who was frozen, as if waiting for final judgment, and then back at his little brother, who was blinking his eyes in supplication. Dean sighed heavily; he felt himself cave a second before he did.

"Fine, all right, we'll have a Thanksgiving," he grabbed a beer from the fridge, and pointed it at Sam, "but I'm not cooking." The small smile that Cas gave him and the giant grin that split Sam's face made it almost worth it.

Since Dean had refused to participate in the cooking, he'd been saddled with the shopping. It's the night before the holiday, and Dean comes in with the final item: a can of cranberry sauce. Apparently, according to Sam, you couldn't have a thanksgiving without it. So help him, Dean would really rather take on a vampire nest than middle-aged women in the supermarket the night before a national holiday, at least you could chop off the vamps' heads when they pissed you off. He shrugs off his coat (it's freaking freezing outside) and makes his way to the kitchen.

"Whatcha doin' there, Cas?" he queries, leaning against the doorjamb.

The former angel looks up from where he's been peering through the oven door. His hair is complete chaos (which for Cas, is really saying something), his clothes covered in a combination of flour, grease, and various other substances that Dean's not totally sure that he wants to identify. Cas is a mess and it's kind of adorable. Dean laughs softly, and Cas glowers at him.

"I'm attempting to make sure that the turkey doesn't become dry," he says, like this is a sacred task with which he has been entrusted.

"It smells awesome," Dean offers, because it does, and Cas smiles a little, shy and proud of himself. Dean counts that as a personal victory, "So did the pies yesterday," he adds and the corners of Cas' mouth twitch upwards again, "Don't suppose that we could maybe give them a try before—."

"You can have pie tomorrow, Dean," Cas rebukes, but his refusal is light and fond.

"Come on," Dean wheedles, "it's not gonna hurt anyone."

Cas snorts, "Sam will disembowel you."

"Might be worth it for a little slice of heaven," he smirks and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but Cas' face closes down almost immediately. Fuck, Dean thinks, real fucking smooth, Winchester.

"I just meant that, ah, you know," Dean shrugs. Cas nods sharply.

Dean clears his throat as an awkward silence infuses the kitchen that had, five minutes ago, been warm and inviting, "Where is Princess anyway? I brought him his damn cranberry sauce," he hopes the change of topic will get that distressed look off of Cas' face.

"He's on a date," Cas offers, "he met a girl at the library two days ago. I believe they went out for drinks…" Cas looks up at Dean.

"Sam's on a date?" Dean processes this for a minute, "'Atta boy, Sammy. She hot?"

Cas rolls his eyes in exasperation and grins slightly; Dean counts that as another personal victory, "I know absolutely nothing about her, Dean. Sam seems to like her." Because apparently Sam and Cas have been having girly heart-to-heart conversations. They've probably been painting each other's nails too, Dean thinks. But he's secretly glad that his brother and his angel are becoming friends.

"So he ditched you and made you do all the heavy lifting?"

"I don't mind," Cas shrugs.

Dean considers this, "You want some help?"

"Do you know how to cook a turkey?" Cas asks dubiously.

Dean laughs, "Hell, no. I know how to buy Boston Market…but, I can at least keep you company?" He makes it seem like it's not a big deal, the offer to stay and hang out, but it is. Cas has been withdrawn lately; he's been quiet and reclusive. Dean gets that…or tries to get that. There have been a lot of fucking changes for Cas in a really short span of time and it has to be hard. Settling into domesticity hasn't been that easy for any of them, and Cas has to settle into humanity on top of that, but Dean misses Cas: snarky, lively, sarcastic. He wants him back. It aches to look at Cas and know that he's hurting. Dean will play it off if Cas says no, but he'll worry, and he knows the rejection will burn even if it's not meant to.

Cas stares at him, intent, and then smiles slightly, "That would be nice."

So they sit, and they talk. It's quiet and comfortable. Cas tells Dean the story of the first Thanksgiving, and damn, those pilgrims were selfish dicks, and Dean thought angels were bad. Dean tells Cas about the year that he actually tried to make something resembling a Thanksgiving dinner and nearly burnt down their motel in the process. In his defense, he had been nine at the time: "So, for god's sake, give me a break."

They speculate about the girl that Sam's with. Cas maintains that she is probably a teacher with a "good soul." After the disaster that was Ruby, Dean is more skeptical, but maintains that she must be nerdy if she's going for Sam. "She's probably got that whole sexy-librarian thing happening," he suggests, and Cas narrows his eyes and sighs. Dean chortles at the expression on his face, and the angel grudgingly smiles back at Dean. The hunter has the fleeting realization that Cas could definitely rock the sexy librarian look if he tried, and he's thankful that Cas can't still read his mind, because he'd like to keep that smile on his face a while longer. Cas still narrows his eyes at Dean though, as if he knows that something mischievous is going on in his brain, but Dean only smirks in response, imagining Cas with glasses and a blazer. Cas makes tea, Dean has a beer. Dean watches Cas obsess about the turkey ("Cas, seriously, dude, it's fine." "Dean, this could all go terribly wrong."). Dean rolls his eyes some more and helps Cas baste the damn thing. They haggle over the radio (Dean wants Classic Rock and Cas has been enjoying Jazz), and they end up taking turns choosing the station. Dean watches with a soft grin as Cas rubs at his eyes and yawns widely. When Cas asks why Dean is staring, Dean just shrugs and says that he's missed this, the two of them together, like it used to be, and it's nice. Cas smiles back, his eyes are so blue they're almost glowing.

Sam comes in around midnight, with a dopey grin on his face. Dean's good natured ribbing, and Cas' half-hearted attempts to get him to shut up, only make Sam beam brighter. Turns out the girl is named Elizabeth. She's a teacher (Cas shoots Dean a knowing look, and Dean shakes his head, freakin angels) at the local middle school, and Sam is clearly smitten. Apparently they're planning to go out to dinner this weekend.

Dean smirks, "How far did you get?" before Cas cuffs him over the head, and Dean rubs at the spot comically.

Sam gets indignant and flustered, "None of your business, pervert."

Cas assures Sam that, "We're both happy that you had a nice night," he looks pointedly at Dean, "I'm sure that Elizabeth is a good person, Sam."

"Thanks, Cas," he replies before shooting Dean bitch face #929 At least someone here has some tact, because you clearly don't. It's becoming increasingly obvious that teaming up on Dean is going to become a thing with the two of them.

Cas yawns again, and Dean stands up, "All right, bitch," he says, throwing a dishtowel at Sam's head, and pulling Cas to his feet, "You're on turkey duty."

"Jerk," Sam retorts, but he seems genuinely happy. Whether it's because he had fun with Elizabeth or the fact that Dean and Cas seem so in tune with each other, or maybe both, is debatable.

"Come on, Cas," Dean says, "Sasquatch has got this. You and me are gonna go relax."

"Good luck," Cas says earnestly, as he's led away.

"Thanks,'" Sam calls back, looking at the baster with a more serious expression.

Dean tells Cas to go and take a shower, "You got a little somethin' in your hair, dude, and maybe your face." Cas ruffles his dark spikes, sending up a flour halo, and he looks down at his shirt and jeans, stained with all types of food. He glares at Dean, and Dean is relatively sure that the only reason that he doesn't look like he's going to smite Dean's ass for being so bossy is because he's too tired to fully recreate the expression. Dean shoes him away and flops down onto the couch, flipping on the TV. When Cas comes back into the room fifteen minutes later, he's wearing an old AC/DC t-shirt that used to be Dean's and a pair of sweats slung low on his hips, his hair is still damp and raised in messy points that seem to have no discernible order. It's sex hair, plain and simple, and Dean wants to be the reason that it's there. Cas looks ravish able. Dean shifts and clears his throat. Cas opens his hands' towards the hunter, as if for inspection, unaware of what he's doing to Dean in the process.

"Lookin' good there, Cas," he offers, "C'mon, Doctor Sexy's on."

Cas sits next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders are touching. Cas glances at Dean, almost to make sure this is okay. There's uncertainty in his eyes, and Dean is absurdly aware of how close they're sitting, the slope of Cas' neck and the bareness of his arms. Dean clears his throat and gestures towards the TV, "It's the thanksgiving episode."

Cas nods, as he absorbs this clearly essential detail, and turns towards the show, pulling his knees up towards his chest. It's really bizarre to see Cas with no shoes. He wiggles his toes and somehow that confirms his humanity in a very real way.

"You're not watching the program," Cas admonishes with a smirk.

"Huh?" Dean gapes. He'd been looking at the shell of Cas' ear wondering what sound Cas would make if he took the lobe between his teeth. And, yeah, Dean's really glad that Cas can't read his thoughts.

Cas is grinning, "You're staring."

"Yeah, well, I like the view," Dean admits without thinking.

Cas turns towards Dean startled and tilts his head in silent question.

"Cas, I—" Dean begins.

At that exact moment, Sam comes into the room, "So, I put the turkey in the fridge, we should be good to go for tomorrow, so I'm just gonna head up to bed. You guys good?"

Dean sighs, one day he's going to murder Sam for this, "Yeah, we're good, Sammy."

"Good night, Sam," Cas says, still gazing at Dean, who has turned to look at Sam. The younger Winchester seems to have realized he's interrupted something and beats a hasty retreat, "Night, guys."

Dean sighs. He looks at Cas; his scrutiny is so intense that he can feel it like a tangible thing, "Maybe we should hit the hay too. It's late." He moves to back away, to stand up, "I'll just—" Slender fingers catch his wrist and bright blue eyes stare up at Dean.

"Dean," Cas says, quiet, "don't go."

Dean can't say no, not when Cas looks like that, so he sits back down. "Okay," he glances down at Cas' fingers on his wrist. Cas startles and pulls back, like he's been caught doing something illegal. Dean licks his lips.

"We might as well be comfortable," he suggests, and god that's lame, but Cas looks confused, so Dean puts his arm around Cas' shoulders and pulls him with him as he settles back down into the sofa. So that Cas is half resting on Dean's chest, the tips of his hair brushing against Dean's face. He smells like spices.

It's nearly silent: just the soft voices of Nurse Piccolo as she has a heart-to-heart with Doctor Sexy's sexy best friend. Dean is hyper aware of Cas' body heat and the points of contact between them, the rise and fall of Cas' breath, the solidity of him.

"Hey, Cas," he says, gruff, "what's with all the cooking?"

Cas sighs, he nuzzles into Dean's collarbone, "It's simple," he offers, "there are rules, an outline of necessary tasks. If you complete them properly and in the right order, you are guaranteed an expectant result."

Dean rubs a slow circle into Cas' shoulder with his thumb. He hopes it's comforting, but he's not sure, "I guess that makes sense." Too much sense even.

Cas shivers and moves closer, "It's just so difficult, Dean."

Dean's voice is rough but low, "What is?"

Cas tenses, "Being human."

Dean swallows, he's not sure he's really ready for this conversation.

"It's complicated," Cas continues, his words are slurred with sleep, "and messy. There's so much," he sounds like he's really struggling to explain this and he brings his hand to rest top of Dean's heart as if to say that's where all the tangled mess resides. Cas' face scrunches briefly in consternation, "Emotions are messy. There are so many, and sometimes, I don't-They're overwhelming and exhausting. I am exhausted."

Dean sighs, what the hell is he supposed to say to that? He places his hand on top of Cas' so that they're both resting over his heat. He reaches up with his other hand to brush Cas' hair off of his face: he used to do that for Sammy sometimes when he was small. "You don't have to worry about that stuff right now, okay?" he whispers, gentle and gruff.

"I worry about it all the time, Dean," he admits, "Sometimes; I feel like I can't breathe…I didn't used to need to breathe."

"I know," Dean doesn't really, but if he could breathe for Cas he would. "I'm not goin' anywhere, though Cas," Dean promises, not ever, "just rest, all right?" Cas nods and presses his nose into Dean's shoulder. Dean knows that Cas has nightmares. He hates sleeping, dreams of falling and hell, and Dean has to go in and wake him six nights out of seven, but Dean has his own nightmares too and Cas will wake him just as often. And sometimes they'll sit together after in the darkness and they'll learn to feel safe again.

Dean rests his head against Cas' and closes his own eyes.

"You make it worse sometimes," Cas admits in the shadowy room, half-asleep, and Dean is sure his heart might stop beating at those words.

"I'm sorry, Cas," he apologizes and he means it.

"Don't be," Cas speaks into Dean's chest, "You make it better, too. You're the only thing that makes it better."

Dean runs his hand through Cas' hair again, "You too, Cas."

"Ain't you two precious," a gruff voice snarks somewhere near Dean's head, and he startles so sharply that he nearly dislodges Cas. The morning sun is streaming through the windows. They must have fallen asleep out here and shifted sometime during the night. Dean is lying back against the arm of the sofa and the former angel is spooned against him, so that his head is resting just below Dean's chin and their legs are tangled together.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Bobby," he offers as he attempts to extricate himself without waking the slightly snoring Cas.

Bobby chuckles, "You too, boy. How about you wake up Feathers, while I go see if your brother's managed to make some coffee."

"Cas," Dean shakes him, "hey, man, wake up."

"'m comfortable," Cas complains.

"It's Thanksgiving, dude," he ruffles Cas' hair, "c'mon. Pancakes and parade time."

Cas groans and glares up at Dean, and he really looks like he'd enjoy nothing more than to smoother him with a pillow. The effect is ruined by the fact that he also looks totally disheveled, "Morning, sleepy head," Dean quips.

"I do not like you right now," Cas glowers with narrowed eyes.

"And a Happy Thanksgiving to you, too," Dean laughs.

Sam makes them breakfast. Bobby's contribution to their feast turns out to be damn fine whisky. They drink coffee, and Cas starts to become fixated on preparing dinner even though it's only ten in the morning. Sam takes over, so that Dean can force Cas through his first Thanksgiving Day parade. It's fucking hysterical because Cas finds the entire concept extremely confusing, and misunderstands all the references. The best moment comes when the Muppets are being interviewed. "Don't the reporters understand that they are talking to a felt toy," he questions.

"Don't talk about Miss Piggy that way," Dean chides. Bobby calls them idjits for the fifth time since he's arrived.

Bobby turns on a football game once the parade ends because "If we're gonna do this thing, we're gonna do it right."

Cas finds this far more interesting, "It is a ritualized method of warfare that mirrors territory disputes between primates." But leaves midway through to go and make sweet potatoes. Sam is playing Christmas music in the kitchen. No one says anything about Cas and Dean sleeping together on the sofa, but Dean catches Bobby shooting him knowing looks over his beer. Sam looks smug as hell (he will bring this up in his best man speech and make it seem like the whole thing was his idea—not that Dean is thinking about marriage or anything, because that would be crazy, right?), until Dean throws him under the bus by mentioning his date the night before to Bobby. Cas is avoiding Dean's eyes in a very disconcerting and pointed way and consistently staying out of his reach. Ostensibly, it's to prepare dinner, because Cas really wants for it to go perfectly, and Dean wants that for Cas, but he's worried that he did something wrong, something to chase Cas away. Sam seems to think so too because he shoots Dean a special variation of bitch face that Dean associates with Cas related subjects; it's bitch face #2419 what the fuck did you do to your angel? You'd better fix it right now.

Mostly though, the day is, well it's normal. Team Free Will is back together again, but there's no apocalypse, there's no crisis, they're just spending time together, joking, and laughing, teasing, lecturing, and mock fighting. Dean might not want to admit it, but he's enjoying Thanksgiving.

The house smells awesome, which is also a plus. Dean gets conscripted to set the table.

"Seriously?"

"Just do it, Dean," Sam reprimands.

Finally, they're all sitting down together. The turkey is mouthwatering. There are sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes and corn. There's some green bean thing that Sam made, and in a place of honor is Dean's contribution: cranberry sauce. "Hey, I risked my life for that stuff."

Bobby seems bemused by the proceedings, but he tells Sam and Cas that "you've done good, boys."

"Hey," Dean interjects, "what about me?"

Bobby shakes his head, "Oh, and what did you do?"

"Nothing," Sam coughs into his hand.

"I was the taste-tester," Dean says proudly, "So no one will be poisoned; you're welcome."

"Oh, you poor baby, that must have been hard for you," Bobby is caustic but clearly amused.

"I feel really bad for you, Dean," Sam jibes.

"Bitch," Dean laughs.

"Jerk," Sam rebukes.

"Dean provided moral support," Castiel suggests without meeting anyone's eyes, "he also braved the market to buy cranberries, which I am assured is essential to this ceremonial meal."

"Well then," Bobby smirks.

"Thanks, Cas," Dean allows.

Sam clears his throat, "I think that we should do the Thanksgiving thing."

Dean looks at him blankly; Cas seems bewildered and worried that he's forgotten an important detail; Bobby looks on knowingly and leans back in his chair.

Sam stares at everyone, and then elucidates, "Where we say what we're thankful for."

"Oh, for god's sake—" Dean starts.

"If this is an important traditional element, then, of course," Cas nods solemnly, effectively cutting Dean off.

"Bobby," Sam prompts.

The old hunter, sitting at the head of the table, takes a deep breath, "I'm thankful you idjits didn't burn the house down making this dinner."

Sam looks disappointed and annoyed, but Dean laughs, and even Cas gives a small smile.

It is Dean's turn next apparently and it takes him a moment. For all his bluster about not having a lot to be thankful for, the truth is, he feels incredible gratitude in this moment. There's no more hunting, they stopped the apocalypse, Sam is alive, soul intact, relatively well-adjusted, and blood-addiction free. Dean's got a job and a place to live. Bobby, who, whether Dean admits it or not, is the best father-figure he's ever had is alive and well. And, there's Cas…Cas who is learning how to be human a little bit more every day. Cas who is his closest friend, who is deadpan humor, and messy hair, and wrath and fury and beauty and strength. Who is trying so hard, and chose Dean and humanity when he could have completely gone the other way. Cas who pulled him out of hell and protected him in heaven and was his brother in arms on earth and is maybe the love of Dean's life is sitting across from him at the table. Dean feels like he's been smacked over the head with a blunt object and he blinks. He can't say any of that out loud, so he does what Dean Winchester does best, he fronts: "I'm thankful that Bobby brought the good stuff," he smirks, and then winces when Sam kicks him hard under the table, and Cas looks fixedly at his empty plate. Bobby laughs at least.

Sam clears his throat, "I'm thankful," he emphasizes the word as if he's going to teach the table out large how to behave properly through sheer force of will, "that we're all together for Thanksgiving and that we have a second chance to be a family."

Well that's sobering, Dean is silent. Bobby nods, "That's real good, son."

Cas is still watching his plate, and it's to that blank surface that he addresses his thanks, "I am thankful for my free will," his blues eyes dart up to meet Dean's, "and I am thankful that you found me when I fell."

"That's real nice, Cas," Sam says in a heartfelt, sensitive voice. Bobby looks proudly at Cas before fixing his gaze on Dean, who can't really speak. Thankfully, it's now time to eat. The food is amazing. Like really, unbelievably good. They all have seconds and thirds of everything. There are myriad compliments to the chefs. Cas looks absurdly proud and slightly embarrassed, if the slight flush as he ducks his head is anything to go by.

Dean clears the plates; Sam doesn't even have to ask. Bobby strolls in, while Dean is putting leftovers in the fridge. "What're you doing here," Dean jokes, "Shouldn't you be taking it easy and keeping an eye on the kiddies, old man?"

"I can still beat your ass, boy," the old hunter growls.

"Don't I know it," Dean agrees.

"Don't your forget it neither," Bobby smiles, and he places a warm calloused hand on the back of Dean's neck and squeezes lightly, "You done good, boy," Bobby offers gruffly. Dean knows that he's not talking about his phenomenal dish washing skills, but instead about the life that he's building, and all the miles that brought them here. He's talking about the holiday itself and the happy looks on Sam and Cas' faces and the fact that they're all here together in one piece.

"Don't you be afraid to be happy, too," Bobby inclines his head knowingly, and Dean understands that he's talking about Cas. If Dean were the blushing type, he'd be the color of a tomato, instead he just nods like it's no big deal, like true happiness isn't something that he's simultaneously been craving and running from since he was four years old. Bobby slaps Dean lightly on the back, "Good. Now, be sure to be careful with those plates, Sam says they're the good china."

Dean chuckles, "Fuck you," and Bobby leaves him to finish his task.

Ten minutes later, dishtowel slung over his shoulder, Dean joins everyone in the living room.

"Time for pie?"

"You wash the dishes?"

Dean rolls his eyes, "Squeaky clean, Samantha," then, after a moment, "hey, where's Cas?"

Sam gives Dean a pointed look, "He went to get some air."

"Dude, it's like twenty degrees out there."

"Yeah," Sam scowls at Dean, "He seemed like he needed some space." Unmistakable, bitch face #562 you hurt his feelings, douche, now go and fix it. "I'll go get the pies."

"I'm gonna just—" Dean trails off and launches himself to his feet. He throws on his old leather jacket and as he heads to the door he hears Bobby in the kitchen, "Surprised there's any left with Dean in the house—" and Sam's echoing laugh.

Cas is perched on the front porch steps, his face turned up towards the sky, breath turning to mist in the winter air, and yeah, twenty degrees might have been wishful thinking.

"Hello, Dean," Cas greets him softly, without turning his head or opening his eyes.

"Heya, Cas," Dean drops down next to him, so that their knees brush, "C'mon, it's pie time, and it's fricken freezing…what are you doin' out here?"

"Thinking," Cas answers evenly.

Dean rubs his hands together, "'Bout what?"

"The fathomless enormity of the universe and my place within it."

Wow, okay, "So something nice and light then."

Cas doesn't bother to dignify that with a response. Dean doesn't really blame him. He places a hand on Cas' shoulder; he can feel the other man shudder at the touch, "Want to talk about it?"

Cas sighs, "I find this holiday problematic," He doesn't look at Dean, and the hunter feels his heart drop. He'd been hoping that things would go smoothly—that they could do this normal family thing and have a holiday just like Sam and Cas and even Dean secretly wanted, and now Cas is sitting out in the cold feeling distressed, and Dean is starting to blame himself. Cas must be able to sense Dean's distress because he places his hand on Dean's knee, stopping the path of his thoughts. Dean hesitates a moment before taking Cas hand in his own. Their fingers are freezing, but Dean feels nothing but warmth at the contact. A smile tugs at the corners of Cas' mouth.

"The historical reality of this event is misconstrued. The nationalistic sentiment is conflated and incorrect," his brow furrows, "I still do not understand the necessity of felt puppets and giant balloons as essential for this celebration," Cas sounds frustrated, confused, and annoyed. Dean squeezes his hand, "But I do understand the concept of giving thanks. The host would participate in joyful rejoicing and thanksgiving when the moment was right."

They sit in silence.

"Sometimes I miss that," Cas admits softly.

"Singing hosannas in heaven?"

"My siblings," Cas corrects and looks down at his empty hand, "A sense of purpose and certainty."

"Being human must really suck," Dean offers because sure Zachariah and Rafael had been dicks and Anna had gone bonkers in the end, but there must have been some cool angel bros amongst the millions. Cas had had billions of years with a different family, with a different concept of self and reality and his place in the universe, all to have it come tearing down. Cas holds Dean's hand more firmly

"Not always," he continues to look downwards, "I meant what I said during our thanksgiving ritual…I am thankful for my new family and for my new purpose." And yeah, okay, Dean's an ass. Because this means something to Cas and it should mean something to Dean. It does.

"Cas?" he says, "hey, Cas, look at me." The former angel doesn't move, so Dean reaches over and tilts Cas' chin up until blue eyes meet green, "I didn't—when we were saying what we were thankful for—I didn't mean it."

Cas seems puzzled, and they're close enough that Dean can see the exact wrinkles that furrow on his brow when he frowns, "You weren't thankful that Bobby brought good whiskey?"

Dean rolls his eyes exasperated, "Well, yeah, but that's not—" he begins, "I'm not good at this chick-flick stuff. I didn't realize that this whole "thankful" thing meant something to you, and—" He moves his hand until his fingers are resting in the curls at the nape of Cas' neck, and his thumb is brushing Cas' jaw, "what I'm trying to say is—" and even though Dean's getting better with using his words, sometimes, he's still a man of action, and so he presses his mouth against Cas', soft and slow and lingering. He can taste cranberry and feel the rasp of stubble and the warm wetness of Cas' tongue. He's aware of how Cas' hand has come to rest on his thigh and how his own fingers have twined more firmly into Cas' hair. Dean pulls back and rests their foreheads together. He licks his lips and he can see the clear look of wonder in Cas' eyes, the contented smile on his face, "Hey, Cas?"

"Yes, Dean," Cas' voice is several octaves lower than usual.

"I'm thankful for you," and Dean presses their mouths together again. Cas leans into him like Dean is the only thing in the world that matters.

"You know what else I'm thankful for?" Dean asks after a few minutes. Cas looks at him quizzically, and Dean brushes his thumb against Cas' cheekbone, "Pie."

Cas laughs, "I hope it meets your expectations."

"You made it, Cas, it'll be perfect," Dean kisses him again, "Now let's get inside before we freeze to death."

"Hypothermia is highly unlikely," Cas assures him, Dean chuckles and pulls him to his feet, their hands still together.

When they go inside, holding hands, Bobby gives them a pointed "well there's something to be thankful for." Sam is completely bitch face free; he's actually wearing an anti-bitch face that says Dean, I'm really proud of you. They eat pie in the living room. Dean's got one arm around Cas and a slice of pumpkin and apple each. He feels completely content and he's never seen the former-angle look so at peace. Bobby and Sam are commenting on the Christmas special playing on TV and Cas chimes in with esoteric facts that the film has gotten wrong. They stay like that for hours. Sam and Dean bicker, and Bobby and Cas referee, and everyone is full and comfortable. Eventually Cas falls asleep on Dean's shoulder, and Bobby starts to snore in the arm chair, while Sam clears up the plates. Dean ruffles Cas' hair. He's thankful for his family: for Bobby and for Sammy and for Cas. He's thankful that they're all alive and together and he's even thankful that his arm is falling asleep because Cas uses it as a pillow. So, maybe Dean won't blame Sam for Thanksgiving, after all—he drops a kiss on Cas' forehead and the angel smiles in his sleep—maybe he even owed his brother one. Christmas is coming after all…

AN:

Thanks for taking the time to read this! Fun confession: I never intended to write a holiday fic, ever, but I promised a dear friend a Thanksgiving story to make up for all the angst I've caused her and here we are. I hope that you enjoyed it, and I'm sorry that it's late. Reviews and comments would be really welcome. If you'd like a Christmas follow up, let me know. Much love and a happy belated thanksgiving!