Author's Note: Set in season 12 post ep 12 (2017), and contains spoilers for that season and previous ones. Slightly AU because December probably actually took place over the course of events in the episode "First Blood."

We live in troubled days/Oh my friend
We have the strangest ways/All my friends
On this one day of days/Thank God it's Christmas
-Thank God It's Christmas (Queen)

The interstate just north of Austin, Texas was too near the equator for snow, even in the middle of December. The temperature wasn't low enough to prevent precipitation -if there had been any- from melting on the way to the ground. There was not even a wind to add extra chill to the night air. At three AM in this spot, the wind always stopped, leaving the northbound interstate utterly silent except for the ceaseless whizzing of vehicles passing and the occasional horn honk shattering the calm.

The reason for the preternatural hush was known to Castiel, though it did not presently concern him, except in the corner of his consciousness which was always concerned about anything that affected the universe on a cosmic scale. Humans seldom made note of these wind dead areas, possibly not even noticing them because the death of the wind in these spots lasted only a short time, the duration of which they were well-capable of measuring, but which was too short to garner much attention.

"C'mon, Cass. You've gotta get up here for Christmas. Just say yes and I'll quit callin' you every five minutes," Castiel could hear the desperation in Dean Winchester's over-the-phone appeal, though neither the appeal nor the desperation made the slightest bit of sense to him.

"Dean," Castiel sighed wearily, "This annual preoccupation with a pagan holiday never ceases to confuse me, especially coming from you and Sam."

Castiel did not add aloud that he had noticed that this year the preoccupation had changed substantially. In former years, Sam and Dean seemed to go out of their way to ignore Christmas. They didn't mention it, didn't decorate for it, and certainly did not set up a Secret Santa event. But this year, despite every possible distraction -including the arrival of the British Men of Letters, the conception of Lucifer's child, and the resurrection of their own mother!- the Winchester brothers had inexplicably gone to more than the required or expected amount of effort to deck the halls, including a ridiculously large tree they had cut, hauled into the Bunker themselves, erected in the library and then decorated (primarily with improvised home-made ornaments constructed from empty beer cans and bottle lids). They had also acquired enough seasonally themed intoxicants to allow them to flood several rooms of the Bunker and still have enough left to fall into drunken oblivion until mid-January.

"You're not even gonna tell me about how Jesus was born in May or something?" Dean asked in surprise, then added more thoughtfully, "Jesus was real, wasn't he?"

"Dean-" Castiel began, and his impatient tone caused Dean to interrupt him at once.

"I'm serious, Cass!" but apparently not about the reality of Christ, for Dean continued, "Christmas is a time for family togetherness... so families can do things... together. As a family," the protest had started strong, but it got a little weak by the end.

"Are you done?" Castiel inquired, after Dean mumbled his way into silence, "Because I still have a Nephilim to find, and it's a long drive to Tuscon."

"You think Kelly's in Tuscon?" Dean asked skeptically.

Castiel sighed heavily, unsure whether he was more reluctant to admit his doubt because it forced him to overtly acknowledge that he was proving inadequately equipped for even so simple a task as finding a pregnant woman, or because that acknowledgment would give Dean additional leverage in persuading him to drive up to Lebanon.

After all, Castiel was already on the right road, aimed in the right direction, and it would take a little more than twelve hours to get there, barring car trouble or holiday traffic snarls. All he had to do was get back on the road, which he had driven off the side of and parked next to when his phone rang.

"All the more reason to visit the Bunker," Dean said brightly when Castiel hesitated too long, seizing the opportunity with the ferocity of a starving squirrel on an acorn, "Really, Cass, you could probably use the break. When was the last time you stopped driving in circles long enough to say 'Hi'?"

"When Ramiel stabbed me," Castiel recalled darkly, which provoked a brief pause.

"Okay," Dean said slowly, almost cautiously, "I'll admit, that wasn't a lot of fun. But that's all the more reason for you to come up here. No cases, no Princes of Hell, no Satanic babies, just the Christmas game and way too much eggnog. We get drunk enough, we might even sing a Christmas carol or two, but I promise you that nobody will stab you with Micheal's Lance."

"It wouldn't hurt me now," Castiel pointed out, "Crowley broke it, remember?"

"Cass!" that edge in Dean's voice was back, "You cannot leave me alone with these people on Christmas. You were originally assigned to be my Guardian Angel, so get up here and guard!"

Now Castiel knew Dean was desperate.

Dean never, not once that Castiel could recall, brought up the origins of their association. Even though it might have made Castiel's initial introduction to Mary Winchester much smoother, Dean had not mentioned him to her and -once they were introduced- he never let on how they had met, but had instead left that task to an unwitting Sam, who -after casually mentioning Dean's death- was forced to explain that particular snapshot in their long history to Mary in considerably more detail than he was comfortable with. Castiel only found out about it later because Mary had felt moved to thank him for pulling her oldest out of Hell, which shocked Castiel speechless for a good number of seconds. It was an acknowledgment of gratitude that Dean himself had never made aloud, and one Castiel certainly had not expected from Dean's mother so many years later.

Besides that, the last time Castiel had acted as a Guardian Angel for the Winchesters, Dean had gotten terribly bent out of shape about it, refusing to even speak to Castiel for some days afterward.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Castiel asked.

It was Dean's turn to be hesitant,"Nothing. Nothing's... wrong. Not exactly."

"But?" Castiel encouraged when Dean fell silent.

When Dean responded, it was surprisingly quickly and frantically,"But I'm trapped in a bunker with a brother who wants to work through Christmas like Scrooge McDuck, and a mom who doesn't realize that the last time we celebrated Christmas, a pair of pagan gods almost had us in place of a turkey dinner, after which I got sent to Hell, which kinda puts a damper on whole the yuletide spirit thing."

"Your mother knows you died," Castiel pointed out.

"Yeah... but, Cass, she doesn't know we don't do Christmas every year, and... if we tell her-"

"Then you'll have to tell her everything," Castiel concluded for Dean, "I understand."

He didn't. Not entirely. But he had gathered that Dean and Sam didn't want their mother to see all of their many, many scars. He didn't understand why, merely accepted it as some peculiarly human quirk he hadn't figured out during his brief stint as a mortal. Humans seemed to always go around projecting idealized versions of themselves, and carefully trying to only notice other people's own idealized versions of themselves. For reasons Castiel didn't understand, this was not considered the same as lying.

What he did understand, finally, was why Dean wanted him there.

Dean had been using Castiel as a buffer between himself and Mary almost from the moment they'd met in the Bunker. Sometimes he wanted Castiel to be a physical buffer, other times more of an emotional one. Dean never said as much, and Castiel never called him on it, pretended not to notice, though it was hard to miss when Dean carefully sat himself at the breakfast table so that Castiel was between him and Mary on the few occasions when all of them happened to be together.

Castiel had also noticed an increasing insistence from Dean that he participate more in human rituals, such as drinking beer after a case, and gathering for a meal; neither of which had any physical benefit to Castiel, as Dean knew full well. It was baffling, as was the rather recently manifested overt and strenuous concern for Castiel's welfare from Sam and Dean.

Humans -especially Winchesters- were a constant puzzle to him. It was frustrating at times, but it was also a large part of what made them such amazing and wonderful creatures.

"Alright," Castiel finally caved in, "I'll be there."

"Yes! Good. You come here, and... and I'll take care of... whoever it is you're supposed to be getting a gift for," Dean said, clearly elated.

"That shouldn't be too hard," Castiel replied dryly, "Because it's you."

Dean responded to this, but Castiel was no longer paying attention to him. A car had pulled off the road, turned around and now shone its too-bright headlights directly into his truck's cab.

No amount of light or darkness ever used to be a problem for Castiel, but his vision had been dimming slowly but disturbingly ever since The Fall. He hadn't noticed at first, because his eyesight as a human had been appallingly bad (though perfectly normal by human standards, as best he'd been able to determine), and in some ways it had been still worse when fueled by borrowed Grace.

More and more these days -despite having his own Grace back- he found himself squinting against uncomfortable amounts of light, or needing artificial lights in dark chambers in order to see.

"I have to go," Castiel absently told the phone, and hung up without waiting for Dean's answer.

As Castiel squinted in the glare of the other vehicle's headlights, he managed to make out the driver as she exited, sauntered around between the fronts of the vehicles, and came to the driver's side door of Castiel's truck. Absently, Castiel wondered if she would fit the term "hot blond," which had been one of Dean's favorite turns of phrase of late, though never in front of his mother, indicating he thought she would disapprove of his terminology... or perhaps the way he said it.

The woman at the window was a picture of elfin elegance, trim and fair, with white-blond hair that fell in a cascade down to her hips and wide, sky blue eyes. The time of dead wind had passed and the fresh breeze picked up and played with the ends of her long hair. She smiled at him in a friendly way, and indicated that he should roll down his window so they could hear each other. Of course, Castiel could have heard her perfectly well with or without the window, but she didn't know that. So, out of learned human politeness, he rolled down the window for her.

"Your truck stall?" she asked sweetly.

"No," Castiel answered flatly, "I got a phone call."

"At this time of night?" she sounded surprised, and her frost-white eyelashes fluttered in response.

Plucking at his thread-bare social skills for something to say, Castiel said, "I have a friend who works nights," by her silence, Castiel thought he had perhaps not said enough, so he continued, "He wants me to come and stay with his family for Christmas. He's been very persuasive."

"What? No family of your own?" the woman asked, sounding almost disapproving for reasons Castiel couldn't begin trying to guess at.

It was an unbelievably awkward and hopelessly complex question to try to answer, Castiel thought, but he couldn't tell if this was a normal query for a stranger met by the side of the road at night. He wanted to disengage from this conversation, but was compelled to forge ahead by the need to expand his ability to socialize with humans, which meant actually trying to interact socially, which seemed the only way of improving his skill at the activity.

"His family is my family," Castiel said finally.

She tilted her head, causing some of her hair to fall in front of her shoulder. She raised a hand absently to tuck it back, saying, "I thought you said he was your friend?"

Great. Now what?

"It's complicated," Castiel said, which he'd found was normally a Get Out of Conversation Free line.

Not this time, mysteriously, which was Castiel's first clue that all was not as it should be.

"Family usually is," the sudden hard, cold edge to her voice was unmissable, even for Castiel.

But the suspicion of danger came much too late, as the blond -hot or otherwise- quickly lowered her hand to her coat pocket, pulled a revolver out, aimed through the open window, and fired a bullet point-blank into the left side of Castiel's chest.

It had been a handful of years since he'd been shot with a bullet made of a melted down Angel's Blade, but Castiel found it no less shocking now than it had been that first time.

White-hot agony seared through him, even as he reflexively unlatched and kicked open the door, causing it to smack the blond, knocking her down. Despite this, she managed to get a second shot off, which found its way into Castiel's right shoulder, causing him to lose his sense of balance. He had intended to climb out of the truck and draw his Blade, but instead he tumbled out of it head first, rolled, managing to get one foot under him and his Blade into his hand before a third shot tore through his abdomen, knocking him flat. New pain flowered there, but weakness and tremors spread still more rapidly from each point of impact, until he was shivering flat on his back, from which position he was displeased to discover he could not locate the strength to rise.

"Damn you! You split my lip, you feathery bastard," the blond was wiping blood off her face with one hand, even as the other raised the revolver and shot Castiel twice more, sending his consciousness spinning helplessly into the pitch black of the unknowing and unknowable.

She stepped quickly over to the Angel, and checked for signs of life, before committing herself to the task of lugging the body -larger and heavier than her own- to her vehicle and wrestling it into the backseat, which she had set up especially for the occasion by lining it with plastic to contain the blood, which the Angel had shed prodigious amounts of already.

Angels never did anything in half measures.

She paused to look at the Angel a little more closely. She thought it had picked an aesthetically pleasing vessel – in a slightly shabby nerd kind of way. She had allowed the vessel to cloud her judgment, because it looked rather shy and unassuming, certainly not as ferocious as the warrior she had just successfully bested. But of course that was just the vessel. The Angel was definitely a Seraph as she had expected, one quick to go for the kill if the Angel Blade in its hand was any indication.

Remembering what it had said about a phone call, she riffled hurriedly through its pockets until she found a cell phone (faintly wondering what an Angel needed a phone for), which she tossed onto the ground, then hauled the heavy Angel into the back seat. From behind the seat, she pulled a tarp, which she used to cover the body.

Then she slammed the back door of her sedan -which she had left running when she went over to the truck- and walked briskly to the driver's side. A few quick back and forths at the side of the road and she was turned around the right way. She merged onto I-35 and headed north through the dark, not looking the slightest bit like she had shot an Angel repeatedly before stuffing it in the back of her car and driving away into the crisp December night, even though that's exactly what she'd just done.

A/N: This story is completely written. I will be uploading one chapter per day.

This is my sixth annual Christmas fic and, as with all previous stories of its kind, all the chapter titles are taken from lyrics of Christmas songs. If you want to know more about these stories, see the "Annual Christmas fic" section of my profile. If that doesn't leave you feeling properly filled with knowledge of the subject, feel free to drop me a message.

Thank you for your time, and I hope you enjoy the story.