Sam refuses to have mistletoe in the house. "I'm happy for you two, really, I am, but you don't need an extra excuse." Which of course means that Dean goes out of his way to buy some—"You are aware that these berries are poisonous?" Cas asks—and hangs it in the doorway to the kitchen.

It's as good an excuse as any to give Cas a quick peck, or a lingering kiss, or throw him up against the archway and run his hands over the warm skin beneath Cas' assortment of sweaters. He gives himself extra points if Cas moans and double bonus points if Sam makes a gagging sound.

Dean has honestly been going slowly and carefully about the whole physical aspect of this new thing between him and Cas—testing the waters. He wants Cas, it burns in him, that want. If he's being totally honest, it has for years. And now that Cas is here and he's human and Dean can touch him, it's a different sort of desire, one that can actually be fulfilled. That being said: this is new, Cas is new. He's still raw in so many ways, and Dean doesn't want to fuck this up. He really, really wants to not fuck this up. On a regular basis, whenever he sees Cas, in any context, he thinks, "If I can please not fuck up one thing, just one thing in my life, please, let this be it."

Cas spent his first few weeks as a human, flinching away any time they tried to touch him. Physical contact was almost impossible for him to tolerate, which made Sam and especially Dean worry exponentially more. It also made taking care of the newly fallen angel unbelievably difficult. There had been a gradual, slow, transition for Cas towards becoming someone who sought touch, who needed to feel a connection to those around him. He still seems a bit unsure of what he's allowed to take, and Dean is not always sure of how much he wants. Cas said that falling was like having every nerve in his body scraped raw while simultaneously being rendered blind and deaf. Trading one set of senses for another…made sense. It sounded fucking terrible, and when Dean had said as much to Cas, the angel had laughed a little manically before sobering and looking despondent. Emotional overload was another big part of the early transition process.

Cas seems so much better now; he's more adjusted and calmer and he seems relatively happy, most of the time. Dean's being extra careful, cautious even, trying to let Cas take the lead so as not to chase him away. Sam keeps shooting him charged looks and variations of bitch faces all warning him not to fuck things up, and Dean really doesn't need the reminder. It's reassuring when Cas tries to catch Dean under the mistletoe, when he initiates in a way that is tentative and occasionally possessive and leaves Dean grinning like an idiot and aching for more.

Some things have been expressly forbidden this Christmas. Wreaths for instance. The supernatural is supposed to be over and it's not like they can't spot meadow sweet out of a line up, but the whole "pagan sacrifice thing" leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and why test fate at this point. Another forbidden trapping of the season: chocolate chip cookies. This was (very) quietly discussed between Dean and Cas when the latter was trying to plan out holiday appropriate food items. Chocolate chips cookies remind Sam of Jess and there's no need dredge that up.

That doesn't, however, mean that all cookies are off the list, which is why Dean comes home with one week left to go before the holiday to be hit in the face with some awesome aromas wafting through the house.

"Dude," he says when he enters the kitchen, "It smells freakin awesome in here."

Cas looks up from the bowl he's stirring and smiles. He's got flour streaked on his cheek and dusting his hair and shirt. Dean walks over and brushes the smear away before giving Cas a quick kiss and shedding his coat.

"What're we making?" Dean asks, rolling up his sleeves and licking his lips. Cas looks incredulous and amused.

"Sugar cookies," he replies, "there's a tray in the oven." Dean moves to take them out. Cas has shaped them into traditional trees and stars. He's also gotten creative: there are some devils traps and an Enochian sigil or two. They're all dusted with red sugar crystals. Dean grins crookedly. He has to admit they're pretty damn perfect for their weird ass family. They also smell delicious.

"I like your style, Cas," he offers, placing the pan on the stove to cool, and dropping himself into a seat at the table opposite where Cas is still mixing the dough.

"Thank you…Sam intimated that these were traditional for Christmas celebrations," he looks up, fixing Dean with that impenetrable blue gaze, "we conversed at length to be sure that these would not upset him." Dean can easily imagine that conversation and he's glad that he wasn't a witness to it.

He sighs, "That's good, man. Where is he anyway?"

Cas gets a somewhat teasing glint in his eyes and there is a small smile on his lips. It's barely there, and Dean would miss it if he weren't looking for it, "He is out with Elizabeth."

"Again?" Dean can't quite hide his shock. This is what? Four times that he's heard of in as many weeks, not including whatever secret rendezvous he hasn't been made privy to. He feels like Cas is playing fairy godmother or at the very least wingman for Sam. Dean isn't sure if he feels proud or betrayed.

Cas keeps stirring, "He seems quite taken with her."

Dean grunts, "Whatever, dude. He's totally hiding this chick from us…" Cas rolls his eyes, exaggerating the gesture, "Are we even sure that she's real? I mean, she could be a figment of Sam's imagination—"

"Dean—" Cas begins in that "you think you're being funny, but you're actually being ridiculous, leave Sam alone" voice that only makes Dean continue. He likes to ruffle Cas' feathers, figuratively speaking.

"—I mean, come on, he meets some girl at the library? Who happens to share all his nerdy interests? And is supposedly hot? What are the odds? Poor kid's finally cracked. Wouldn't blame him, really—"

"Dean," Cas is glaring and making every effort not to show his amusement. Dean sees right through the front.

"—Mark my words, Cas, Sammy is probably sitting in some café talking to himself as we speak," he shakes his head in an embellished gesture of lament.

Cas sighs loudly and rolls his eyes again, "More likely, he is afraid that you will subject the poor woman to what passes for your deplorable sense of humor—"

"Cas, we both know that I'm hilarious," Dean retorts, mock offended.

"—or that you will regale her with embarrassing stories," Cas finishes.

Dean snorts, "That's my job."

"I thought you worked at—"

"Figure of speech. Don't get cute, man, I'm onto you," Dean brandishes an accusatory finger at Cas with a glare, and Cas gives Dean wide innocent eyes while simultaneously smirking. Cas' sense of humor involveddeadpan snark and occasionally pretending to take things literally in order to make others confused and uncomfortable. Real angelic behavior. "It's an older brother's prerogative to make fun of him in front of his girlfriend or whatever. Besides," Dean smirks, "what can I do: 'hi, Elizabeth, you know one time we were hunting a vampire in SC, Sam was maybe sixteen, just hit this terrible awkward growth spurt (kid was gawky as fuck), he tripped over his own two feet and face planted, literally face planted, freakin hysterical," it really was, retrospectively, "I can't exactly say that to her. Sam's mostly safe."

Cas gives Dean an eloquent stare that suggest Dean will find ways to embarrass Sam come hell or high water and they all know it, but he shrugs, "Perhaps he is just nervous that you won't like her."

Dean considers this, weighing Cas' tone, "Perhaps?" he prompts.

Lopsided smile, "He may have mentioned something to that effect."

Dean groans, just as he suspected, again with these two, "You want me to talk to him." Not a question a statement. Cas isn't gonna beat around the bush with this.

"Just be nice." Says the guy who at one point wanted to wipe towns off the map.

"I'm always nice," Dean protests.

Cas straight up guffaws, before schooling his expression back into solemnity, "Apologies." He is so not sorry.

Dean smiles ruefully, "I'm mostly nice."

"Dean Winchester, you are a ray of sunshine to all peoples," Cas intones.

"Sarcasm."

"Yes."

They both laugh.

It's warm in the kitchen and comfortable. Cas rolls out the dough. Dean's attempts to craft recognizable shapes makes him laugh ("Dude, I can draw blood sigils in dead languages, make an EMF detector out of a Walkman, and fucking rebuild the Impala, but fucking cookie dough, man," "That very nearly resembles a star, Dean," "Don't patronize me, Cas!" "Fine, it is a shapeless mass," "Damn it, Cas!"). They joke about the mess that they're making. Dean is just as liberally coated in sugar and flour as Cas is before long. They share details of their day and speculate about what they are planning to get Sam for Christmas and whether Bobby will like the tree. When Dean asks if he can put on some music and tentatively turns on a rock station, Cas is relieved to have a change from the Christmas tunes ("Sam has become very fixated. The repetition is both soothing and grating"). They put the last batch of cookies in the oven, but Dean makes Cas try some dough ("this is not recommended by medical professionals" "it's the best part, Cas"), Dean scoops some of the stuff onto his finger and offers it to Cas, who caves, taking the digit into his mouth and scraping of the sugary substance with teeth and tongue. Dean swallows hard. Cas admits that it is good, and Dean licks his own lips and nods ("told ya").

They're cleaning up the kitchen (Dean washes, and Cas dries), speculating about what Sam and his mystery girl are up to, when something occurs to Dean.

"Is that something you want?" he asks.

Cas looks absolutely bewildered.

"I mean," god he's like a fucking teenage girl asking her crush to the prom, "like dating."

Hurt flashes briefly in Cas' eyes, before he carefully blankets his expression, "I do not understand," he admits carefully, "Do you not—" Want me? Like me? Care about me anymore? Dean can fill in all the possibilities and he wants to hit himself in the face repeatedly with the mixing bowl he's washing.

"Fuck, I'm doing this wrong," Dean says, and Cas just looks more confused, "I'm trying to ask if you want to go on a date…with me," he adds, just in case that wasn't clear the second time.

"A date?" Cas' eyes are wide and his brow is furrowed. Like Dean is speaking Ancient Greek, only not, because Cas would probably understand what Dean was saying if he were speaking that instead of the garbled emotionally repressive English he's currently using.

"We could," Dean looks down and away, licks his lips, god fucking damn it he actually just shuffles his fucking feet. Civilian life, is getting to him, all that self-help yoga shit from Sam is contagious, "you know, go and get dinner or see a movie or, you know, something—why are you laughing?"

"Dean," Cas takes his hand, "We already do those things together."

"Well, yeah, but—" I want you to feel special. I want to make you happy. I want to show you that I love you even if that means me acting like an idiot and going to some fancy ass restaurant where I have to wear a tie and shit. Cas covers Dean's mouth with his hand before he can say any of those things, or travel too far down the dark pit of self-loathing where he tends to live. Cas usually catches him and pulls him back from that edge.

He regards Dean extremely seriously and emphasizes each word with precision: all the better to get his message through Dean's thick skull, "I am sharing my life with you, Dean," he is intent and focused, "For as long as you will have me. That is what matters. I do not have any regards for these absurd mating rituals," Dean rolls his eyes, because he doesn't really know how else to react to the fact that Cas basically called him his life-mate or whatever the Enochian translation is, "I do not care what we do. Provided we do it together." Cas levels him with a stare, "Do you understand?" Dean gives a short, sharp nod, and Cas removes his hand, leans forwards, and captures Dean's mouth with his own. Dean thinks, forever, Cas, stay forever. He feels a little overwhelmed.

Cas pulls back and catches Dean's wrist, "If it will make you happy, we can 'date,'" he has an indulgent look that says he'll play along with a human ritual he finds ridiculous if it will make Dean happy.

"I'll show you a good time, Cas," Dean promises.

Tonight though, they end up sitting on the sofa, watching Die Hard II ("hey, it's a Christmas movie: there's snow and everything"), and eating leftover pizza. The Christmas lights are on at Cas' insistence, and they cast a soft multi-colored glow over the room. Cas is smiling pointing out inconsistences in the movie, and Dean thinks this is better than any five-star restaurant.

When Sam comes home, it's to Cas and Dean making out on the sofa. He has no room to judge, not to go by the state of his hair. He joins them for the last half hour of the film, and Dean teases and pries until Sam promises to bring Elizabeth around for New Year's. Cas looks annoyed beyond all reason that there is another holiday to prepare for ("the passage of time is a purely human construct meant to elucidate the vast incomprehensibility of the universe" "thanks for that, Cas" "must we really mark this with a celebration?" "yes, if it means we finally get to meet Sam's imaginary friend" "dude, for the last time, she is a real person!" "pictures or real life evidence, or you got nothing, Sammy" "I hate everything."). Dean promises that he'll be on his best behavior, and Sam looks annoyed but can't totally repress that joyful puppy look on his face. Cas falls asleep on the sofa, and Dean doesn't want to wake him. He rarely rests easily, so when Dean decides it's time for bed, he lays a flannel blanks over Cas' sleeping form, brushing his hand over his hair and kissing his forehead. Sam gives him a sappy smile.

"Shut up, Bitch," Dean shrugs, if you can't kiss your boyfriend goodnight in your own damn house, there is something wrong with the universe.

"You're adorable." Dean gives Sam a shove and a crooked grin.

Up in his room, Dean throws on some sweats and an old hoodie that has alternatively been his and Sam's over the years and crawls into bed.

He wakes to a soft knock at his door and he's on his feet and in a fighting stance before he can process the sound. Old habits. He realizes where he is and he rubs his eyes. Cas is standing the doorway, a blanket draped over his shoulders, eyes hooded, shuffling his feet.

"Hey, Cas," Dean whispers, voice rough with sleep.

"I'm sorry to have woken you."

"Doesn' matter," Dean glances at the clock, it's just gone three. He rubs his eyes again, "C'mere." He sits down on the edge of his bed and pats the empty space next to him. Cas hesitates on the threshold before crossing the room to join Dean.

Now that he's closer, Dean can tell that he's shivering and that his eyes are wild. There are tear tracks reflected in the soft glow of the clock

"Hey," Dean reaches for Cas, his hands brushing his shoulders his face; checking for injury or illness. Cas flinches hard—and Dean freezes—before he leans towards the touch, "Hey," Dean repeats, there's an edge of nerves to his voice, "Cas, what's up?"

"Nightmare," He answers, raw and broken, his eyes shut tight.

Dean usually hears when Cas has a bad dream, leaves his door cracked open specifically for that purpose. But Cas usually sleeps across the hall, not on the first floor.

Dean moves closer and he wraps his arms around Cas, brushing his hands over his hair, making shushing noises when Cas buries his face in Dean's shoulder.

Dean knows better than to ask what it was about. He waits, while Cas shakes and takes deep ragged gulps of air, his fingers biting desperately into Dean's skin.

"I'm sorry," Cas apologizes and moves to pull back (maybe embarrassed or unwilling to unburden himself to Dean), but Dean won't let him go, he holds him in place because something in Dean breaks when Cas says he's sorry for something that is so not his fault.

"Don't be, okay?"

"It was dark," Cas sounds wrecked, "I dreamed that—" his voice catches, "we were in hell and I lost you," he says, "I could not find you and my wings were burning in the darkness."

Shit. Fuck. Fucking son of a bitch. Dean wants to kill someone or something for doing this to Cas. The impotent rage boils in him, but he just grits his teeth and rubs slow circles on Cas' back. Sam is right, Cas is fine tuned to Dean's moods and the last thing he needs right now is to take on Dean's fucking rage. Cas recoils again, at the contact on his back, from the memory and the dream of his burning wings. Dean continues his ministrations, slowly, and Cas starts to relax against him, his breathing evening out.

"I lost you," he repeats.

"You didn't," Dean whispers, "I'm right here."

"I lost you," Cas says again, "and when I woke you were gone and I didn't know where I was—" Dean can hear the panic creeping back into Cas' voice and he curses himself for leaving him an unfamiliar space alone in the dark. That was monumentally stupid.

He forces Cas to look at him. Both of his hands holding his face, while Cas' clutches at Dean's arms, one hand fastened tightly over the mark on Dean's shoulder, the other gripping his wrist.

"Cas," Dean tries to catch Cas' gaze, tries to capture his wide, wild eyes with his own, "Cas, look at me, hey, look at me, Cas." They've done this so many times, brought each other back from nightmares and memories and everything in between in the dead of night, "Cas, I'm right here, okay? Right here," Cas fixes his gaze on Dean and he nods slowly, like he wants to believe what Dean is saying, but doesn't dare to trust.

"You're here," Cas echoes, like the phrase is a benediction, a prayer that will save him from damnation. His wings are gone, and his grace, but he's not in hell, that shit's done. They're safe. They're together.

"That's right," Dean smoothes his hand against Cas' cheek, his forehead, his sweat dampened hair, "We're together. We're home. No one is lost." Not right now, not ever again if Dean has any say in it.

Cas nods, and Dean can see a muscle twitch in his jaw.

"It's okay," he soothes.

Cas leans forward till his forehead rests on Dean's and he sighs. His grip loosens marginally, but he maintains contact, perhaps afraid to let go, lest Dean disappear, or lest this is the dream and Cas will wake to find himself in hell burning and lost. Dean knows that feeling, in the early morning not knowing what's real and what's not.

"I do not like sleep," Cas confesses. Dean doesn't blame him.

"I know," he breathes a sigh.

"C'mon," he throws back the covers on his bed and pulls Cas downs with him until Cas is spooned against his front and their hands are clasped against Cas' chest. Dean draws the blankets over them until they're wrapped in a cocoon, shielded from the world.

He places a kiss at the base of Cas' neck, "I'm not gonna leave you, Cas," he whispers into his hair, "Stay with me." Cas squeezes his fingers more tightly. They drift to sleep like that, holding each other's nightmares at bay.

AN:

Thanks for taking the time to read this story! The next installment, unlike the previous chapters, will pick up immediately after this one with Dean and Cas in bed. I hope you're enjoying this story so far! More soon.