Sam's mouth widened in a smile. "You two are like that O. Henry story, The Gift of the Magi." He received two blank looks for his pains. Sam threw his arms up. "Dean, do you teach him anything that isn't on TV?"
"He can learn things on his own. And he's right here," Cas pointed out crossly.
"While I was hiding your present for Dean, he had me hiding one for you. Dean?" Sam looked to Dean who nodded, granting permission.
"We'll wait in the hall. I don't think we want all the guests to see it." Dean stepped out, motioning for Cas to follow. He leaned against the wall in the hallway, folding his arms and looked sideways at Cas. "Whatever took that kid's mom, don't take any risks, okay? And don't go all 'berserker' if I get injured."
"Says the man who taught me to fight against impossible odds." Cas leaned against the wall beside Dean and stared at the floor.
"Well, its not like you haven't taken orders from hypocrites before," Dean added.
The look that Cas darted at him could have frozen moving water. "Lucky for you, I've had practise." He gave Dean a tight smile. "I would ask you not to indulge in guilt and self-recrimination if I become injured."
Dean's mouth curled up and he snorted, "Indulge?" The corner of Cas' mouth twitched. His eyes gleamed with humour as he continued to study the floor.

Noise from the party flooded the hallway as Sam squeezed through a small gap and shut the door. He held something behind his back. Dean grinned at his arrival. "Cas, you're not going to believe it."
Sam handed it to Dean who held it out to Cas. "Sorry, I didn't know how to wrap it. It's kind of an awkward shape." Cas didn't believe it.

It was a sword in a plain, brown, leather scabbard, with multiple leather straps hanging from it. Cas' hands reached for it without thinking. "I knew you'd like it," Dean smiled. "It's a back scabbard." He handed it over to Cas, who ran his hands over the smooth scabbard, to the leather braided hilt, and drew out the sword in a smooth motion. "It's well balanced," he commented, tilting his hand up and down. He jabbed with it, lunged and wove patterns with it in the air. He could hear the faint hiss it made slicing through the air.

"Here, put it on." Dean waved his hands at Cas, offering to help him slide on the scabbard and adjust the straps.
"You just want him to look more like John Constantine," Sam grinned, as the sword was put back in the scabbard.
"He doesn't wear a sword on his back." Cas corrected a surprised Sam. Dean smirked smugly at Sam. "Cas doesn't dress like him anymore anyway. See, we have been learning stuff."
"And yet you've never heard of O. Henry. You need to go easy on the 'pop' and focus more on the 'culture'."

Cas slid on the shoulder straps and waited patiently while Dean adjusted buckles and tugged at the straps. "Not too tight?" he asked. Cas shook his head and reached back for the sword. It left the scabbard with an impressive metallic zinging sound. His mouth spread into a large smile. "Do I look …'bad-ass'?" Dean barked a loud laugh. "Hell yeah, you do!" Cas enjoyed Dean's enthusiasm.

Sam slapped them both on the back. "I'm leaving, before you two start making out like horny teenagers. Be careful guys. Phone me if you need me." Sam gave Cas and Dean a tight-lipped nod before he closed the door on them.

"Thank you, Dean. I like it very much." Cas couldn't stop smiling. This was a weapon and fighting style that came naturally to him. It made him happy to know Dean was not just trying to teach him how to live as a human, but wanted him to remain himself at the same time. Dean gave his shoulder a squeeze and allowed himself to have a teeny-tiny, never-to-be-admitted, chick-flick moment.

Cas gingerly tested the sharpness of the blade with this thumb and found out, the hard way, that it was indeed extremely sharp.

-oOo-

Dean carried the shotgun in his hands, cradled against his chest. He concentrated on not getting distracted by how ridiculously great Cas looked with his sword strapped to his lean back, even over a stupid sweater. Cas carried the EMF meter and scouted ahead. The whine of the meter intermittently peaked and dropped as the needle veered erratically.

"Something has been here, Dean." The hallway lights flickered ominously causing Cas and Dean to glance at each other in silent communication. Something had been there - or still was.

"It doesn't make sense," Cas mused. "A rakshasa would have killed by now, and other clown-like spirits generally attract and steal the child, not the parent."

Dean smiled tensely. "It wouldn't be a Winchester Christmas if it was easy, Cas." Castiel nodded and kept his vision trained ahead. His eyes were attracted to an unusual substance glistening in equally spaced patches on the floor. He stopped and crouched to look at one. He took the silver knife from his pocket, flicking it open in a way that made Dean forget to breathe for a moment. Cas scraped at the substance with the blade and gestured ahead. "There is a trail… look." Cas held the silver blade up to the light. The substance was thick and reddish, but wasn't blood. Cas rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed it. Dean quickly interjected, "I swear, Cas. If you taste that, you will never touch these lips again."

Cas pursed his lips and ignored Dean's jibe. "It appears to be mud or clay. These could be footprints." Cas' tone was thoughtful. "But we're in an urban environment…. I haven't seen any red soil like this in the area." "So do we follow the prints? Keep going to the apartment? Or split up and do both?" Dean speculated. Cas shook his head. "No splitting up. We don't know what we're dealing with yet." Dean tilted his head in agreement. "Fair enough. Let's keep going to the apartment then. The footprints might not be related."

It soon became apparent that the footprints led away from Sophie's apartment. The apartment door stood open. Dean pointed at himself and pointed at the doorway, then motioned at the gun tucked at Cas' waist, pointed at his own eyes and the doorway again. Cas nodded, pulled out the gun and quietly thumbed the safety off.
A part of Dean's brain filed away how hot that was, for future reference. The rest of his mind concentrated on ensuring neither one of them got killed. He nodded and squatted, poking his head into the room at knee height. All was still and semi-dark.
There was a lamp on in the lounge area, casting shadows from the large couch, covered in nubbly brown polyester fabric. It looked ugly but comfortable. The footprints seemed to get fainter towards the back of the apartment, which didn't make sense. Even more perplexing; there were prints leading out, but none leading in. Dean frowned at the prints and glanced at Cas, who motioned towards the bedrooms with his chin. Dean nodded and led the way.
They looked into the mother's room. No footprints entered here, but there were clothes strewn everywhere; dresses were pulled from hangers and lacy lingerie was sprinkled liberally. Dean raised an eyebrow. If he was any judge (and who was he kidding - he was) most of what had been spilled from the drawers was the 'special occasion' stuff. Other than that there was no sign of struggle or violence. They moved silently on towards the only room left - Sophie's room.
Cas poked his head around the door frame. He locked and put away his gun and drew the sword, quietly stepping into the room, followed closely by Dean. Cas turned to check behind the door while Dean peered under the bed. Dean also prodded at the closed drapes. Nothing. He and Cas locked eyes and edged warily towards the built-in wardrobe. Dean put his hand on the door handle and mouthed "Three, two, one," then yanked the door open as Cas held the sword, ready to both attack or defend. Nothing. The wardrobe was piled with soft toys, games, sports equipment and the child's clothing. Dean's shoulder's lost some of their tension.

"Well, that was disappointing."

Cas shook his head. "I disagree." Dean grinned. "You would."

Cas was distracted by something behind Dean. "Dean, look." He gestured, and Dean turned, to see a framed picture on the wall. It had a simple, cheap wooden frame, surrounding dingy grey scenery. A ferris wheel, a tent, some balloons. All were in blues and greys, as though sun-bleaching had worn away the reds and yellows. The bottom of the frame glistened with goo. Clear slime dripped down the wall below the frame. The footprints started here.

There was no clown.