Spoiler warning: Spoilers for Season 5, with special emphasis on Episodes 4 (The End) and 10 (Abandon All Hope)
Warnings: harsh language
Author note: I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.
Disclaimer: All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.
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Chapter 3.
Light shines on Dean's face, waking him, and even without opening his eyes, he can tell it's the white haze that signals a South Dakota winter morning. He's warm and comfortable right where he is (couch, his brain informs him sleepily), and he could almost fall back into deep slumber, except for the fact that his bladder is screaming at him and his mouth is dry and tastes of old sweatsocks.
Throwing back the heavy blanket, he shivers in the suddenly chilly air and stumbles up the staircase, guided to the bathroom more by habit than sight. After a long, satisfying piss, and the manipulation of soap, washcloth, and toothbrush, he's awake enough to feel the childlike pleasure of knowing it's Christmas morning. Which is fucking weird, considering how most of his Christmas mornings had sucked ass. Guess some habits just refuse to die.
Like this one, he grins to himself as he approaches the bedroom door. Sam is snoring up a storm, and the thought of his little brother sleeping peacefully is all the incentive Dean needs to kick the door open and land on Sam's bed with a "Hyah!"
Sam flails, emitting something between a snort and a shriek as Dean pokes him in all his ticklish spots. "Jesus Christ, Dean!" he yells, struggling to smack his brother's hands away.
"That's right, Sammy—it's Christmas morning. Rise and shine!"
Sam succeeds in dislodging Dean and curls into a fetal bundle, pulling the covers over his head. "Wanna sleep."
Dean rolls off the bed, then kicks the frame hard. "No doin', princess. Don't you want to see what Santa brought you?"
"Severed body parts, probably," Sam says from inside his cocoon, trailing off into complaints about pagan gods and bastard older brothers.
"Get your ass downstairs in ten. Seeing how it's Christmas, I'll even make the coffee." Dean doesn't respond to the muttered insults following him out of Sam's room, because he's seized by a sudden worrying thought.
He didn't recall stumbling over any angels on his way to the bathroom. Not that his eyes were working at full capacity, the lids being somewhat stuck together, but even in his half-conscious state, he thinks he would've noticed holy tax accountant-shaped objects in the immediate vicinity.
Dean gives a quick glance around the living room before entering the kitchen—yep, still angel-free. Which is weird, because he thought Cas had agreed to spend the night. Not that it was a thrilling experience; they'd pretty much just sat and talked about nothing in particular (well, Dean did most of the talking, as usual), Cas in the armchair and Dean on the couch, until the talk trailed off into silence. Although he'd never admit it, Dean had enjoyed sitting in the glow of the Christmas tree (lights repaired courtesy of Sam and the electrical tape), just soaking up the silence and peace for the first time in a long time…a very long time.
So there's no reason for him to be irritated this morning, but he can't seem to stop himself from stomping into the kitchen and banging the cabinet doors, shoving aside the typical bachelor hunter's assortment of "spices": table salt, sugar, black pepper, and chili powder—until he finally locates the small orange box of chicory hidden in the back. Missouri had taught Dean that a couple of spoonfuls of chicory in the coffee basket would smooth out the harshest brew, taking away most of the bitterness and none of the strength, so he'd secreted a box in Bobby's kitchen for those rare times when he had access to a real coffee maker.
The routine of coffee-making calms him, and he thinks over what's troubling him about Castiel's absence. His brain clears: the wards, of course. Dean had offered to break the angel wards to let Castiel out last night if he wanted, and Castiel had gently refused. So if Dean didn't let him out, who did?
Curiosity compels him to make his way to the old storeroom in the back, the one they'd had to convert to a bedroom when Bobby had become wheelchair-bound. Maybe Bobby let Cas out of the house, or at least knows where he's gone.
Bobby's irate shout tells Dean that he guessed right.
"…didn't need any goddamn help, especially not from you!"
"You were on the floor." Castiel is using his uninflected 'I'm just giving you the facts' tone—and if Dean knows Bobby, it's like touching a spark to tinderwood.
"So I was on the goddamn floor! You have any idea how many times that happens to me each week? If I had to count on an angel to help me out, I'd be wallowing in my own shit every day!"
Dean interrupts the escalating argument by tapping on the door. "Hey, no bloodshed allowed on Christmas; them's the rules." His smile falters when he catches sight of Bobby glaring up at Castiel.
His friend looks old, almost as beaten down as when they'd told him of Jo and Ellen's deaths. He is canted awkwardly to one side in his wheelchair, hat askew, ratty bathrobe twisted and gaping open around bare, knobby knees. Worst of all, he has two spots of color high on his cheeks that Dean recognizes as a flush of shame.
Anger rushes through him on Bobby's behalf. The man is humiliated by his circumstances, and Cas, helpful as he's apparently been, doesn't get it. It's not that Dean is exactly conversant with the daily struggles and indignities of a paraplegic's life, but he remembers enough of being trapped, bound to the rack and unable to move, feeling helpless, useless…
He's just about to say something scathing to Castiel when the angel speaks up.
"It was my mistake." He subtly moves between Bobby and Dean, blocking Dean's view as Bobby tries to adjust his bathrobe to a more modest position. "I came into Bobby's room and…startled him, then… accidentally moved his chair as he was getting out of bed. I apologize."
Cas is a fucking terrible liar, all hesitance and sideways glances, but it doesn't matter, because it works. Bobby's high color dies down and he sits straighter in his wheelchair, adjusting his hat and adopting his usual comfortable scowl. "Just see it don't happen again, boy," he growls, but Dean can hear the almost-affection beneath the threat.
"So anyway," Dean says before he starts doing something stupid-girly, "I need your help, Bobby, or breakfast is gonna end up being The Nightmare On Christmas."
"Don't tell me you don't know how to crack a few eggs, ya damn chucklehead."
"Oh, sure, I know how to crack them—it's getting those little bits of shell out of the bowl that's the problem."
Bobby huffs in impatience. "Just give a man some privacy to get dressed, then I'll come out to save your sorry asses. Don't know how you boys manage on your own," he grumbles as he wheels toward his new attached bathroom.
Dean grins as he throws an arm around Castiel's shoulders, leading him out of Bobby's room. "Just wait until you taste Bobby's special scrambled eggs," he promises, and tries not to think too deep on how the most empathetic person toward a disabled old hunter may be a warrior angel who is losing his powers.
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If there's anything Dean loves, it's the buttery aftertaste of Bobby's scrambled eggs chased by the strongest, smoothest coffee in at least five states. Even Sam had raised his eyebrows in pleased surprise after an experimental sip, foregoing the usual three pints of milk he dumps in the diner versions. They're all sprawled around Bobby's living room in various states of food coma (except for Cas, who is as bright-eyed as ever), nursing large mugs of Dean's brew, their eyes fixed on the hypnotic motion of the antique bubble lights decorating the Christmas tree.
Any other year, Dean would be practically purring with pleasure, but there's a difference this time. The phone is markedly silent, as it will be every Christmas morning hereafter, and he feels its absence like a burning ache in his chest.
.
"Hey, cowboy." The voice on the phone is whiskey and velvet, hands-down the sexiest growl Dean has ever heard from any woman. "What'd Santa put in your saddlebags this year?"
"Nothin' I can tell a lady," and there it is, the full, throaty laugh that makes him and every other man in hearing distance sit up and take notice.
"Porn again? Here I'd thought you'd be getting bored of that by now."
"Can't mess with the classics, Ellen; that's why I never tried to mess with you."
"Whelp!" That laugh again. "You just know when you're outclassed. You want to say hi to Jo?"
.
The pain is sharp and sudden, hard, twisting knots in his chest and throat. He'd never said good-bye to her, not really. It was bad enough with Jo, that last kiss aching with all the might-have-beens between them, but at least they'd had the chance to say what they'd needed to. But Ellen—her decision was too fast, too shocking (though he shouldn't've been shocked, not really; how could he expect her to ever leave Jo behind?), so while she'd given him her last words, he'd just stood there, numb and hurting until he was forced to flee.
He blinks, forcing back the salt sting behind his eyes before stealing a quick look at his companions. Bobby's scowling into his coffee cup, while Sam is still gazing at the bubble lights, his expression melancholy instead of content. They're all feeling it, Dean knows, all listening for the call that will never come.
There's movement in the corner of his eye, and he glances over to see that Castiel has turned his head and is staring straight at him. It's the same look Castiel wore in the Impala right after their confrontation with Raphael: serious, almost grim, but Dean can read the question behind his eyes.
Are you all right?
Under that gaze, he can't be anything less than honest. No. No, I'm not. But I think I will be.
Castiel gives the slightest dip of his chin in acknowledgment, and that's it, silent conversation over. Except that Dean somehow feels better—not exactly happy; hell, not even close to past mourning, but nonetheless, he feels stronger. As if they're in this dark tunnel without even a hint of daylight, but he thinks there could be some up ahead, maybe around the next bend.
Or as if she's still with them, urging them on.
And Dean? Kick it in the ass.
Yes, ma'am.
He claps his hands, startling his companions. "All right, it's finally swag time. Let's see what you all got me, seeing as I was a very good boy this year."
Sam snorts while Bobby mutters into his beard, but at least they're looking a bit livelier now. Dean stoops down by the tree and starts handing out bundles wrapped in newspaper or wrinkled, used giftwrap. Soon the room is filled with the sound of tearing paper and the occasional grunt of satisfaction or surprise.
"Hey, Busty Asian Beauties, the Triple X Christmas Double Edition! Dude!"
"It's practically tradition, Dean. Hey, look inside the magazine."
"You don't have to ask twice!" Dean pages rapidly to the centerfold—and a length of silver chain slides out. "What's this?"
"It's a hunter's bracelet," Sam says, and he sounds almost embarrassed. "We got Rufus to cough up the design and some charms—see, that one's for revenants, and that one disarms poltergeists—"
"And this one?" Dean points at a tiny gold sword of exquisite workmanship, with intricate filigree flames licking along its edge.
"From Bobby's chess set, the one he keeps under glass," Sam explains, and Bobby humphs in irritation.
"Bobby." Dean frowns at him, uncomfortable with the image of Bobby hacking away at his prized possessions for his sake.
"Don't be giving me that look, boy. Thing's of more use there than gatherin' dust in some broken-down old house. Chess set's not worth much, anyway."
"Twelfth century, Aquitaine." Castiel has approached and is peering over Dean's shoulder at the charm. "It has power. A good gift," he nods at Bobby.
"I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday, Wings, but thanks for the angelic stamp of approval!"
"You're welcome," Castiel replies serenely, and Dean swears he's yanking Bobby's chain on purpose.
A crackle of newspaper precedes Sam's sharp intake of breath. "Guys!" He holds up an iPhone. "I thought we'd agreed not to spend too much."
"Relax, Sammy, that's an ebay bargain. Sixteen gigs, 3G service, and it's unlocked, which I guess is a good thing."
"Yeah, a really good thing." Sam's already fussing with the touch screen in full-on geek mode, almost humming with excitement. "Hey, it's registered in Bobby's name. Bobby—"
"Don't you start with me. Phone bill's gotta go somewhere; might as well be here. Anyways, you're out in the ass-end of nowhere more times than not, so this way, you can keep up with the Internet. I'm getting too old to be doing all the research by myself." Bobby scowls at the frankly skeptical looks on Sam and Dean's faces, and brandishes a bottle of Glenlivet XXV, shreds of newspaper still clinging to its label. "You boys got no room to talk about overspending. This here Scotch ain't exactly a Walmart special!"
"I thought you didn't want him to have alcoholic beverages," Castiel says to Dean sotto voce, which in his case is loud enough to be overheard by everyone.
"Listen, Wings, you and those boys have my official permission to kick my ass if you catch me guzzling this stuff down like cheap rye! Man who can't nurse two fingers of this for at least an hour ain't worthy of the name." Bobby pulls three envelopes from the pouch attached to his wheelchair, and flings one after the other at Sam, Dean, and Castiel. "Think fast!"
Dean and Sam tear their envelopes open, while Castiel carefully unsticks the glued down flap. "Hey, Bobby! Visa Cards with picture ID—how'd you do that?" Sam holds up a credit card with his photo attached.
"None of your business. Them cards got 10K each, so make sure your idjit brother don't spend his limit on porn."
Dean leans over to get a look at Castiel's card, which is adorned with the same photo Dean used for his fake FBI badge. He'd wondered why Bobby had asked him for it a few weeks ago. "Casimir Malak? A Polish-Arabic name is kind of noticeable, don't you think?"
"Everyone's a critic," Bobby grumbles. "Look, genius, most folks in this part of the country wouldn't know Arabic if it bit 'em in the ass. They'll take one look at the name and another at your angel and figure Eastern European, and that'll be the end of it."
Dean can't help sneaking a look at Castiel's chiseled features. Eastern European, huh. He'd never really thought about it, but then again, Cas's vessel had been Jimmy Novak. Duh.
It suddenly strikes him that the only gift in front of Castiel is the card Bobby gave him. Typical, he rants at himself. Spent time shopping for Bobby and Sam, and it never crossed your mind to get anything for Cas. Sometimes he wishes he could clone himself, just so he could kick his own ass.
"Dean," warns Castiel, but before they can get into one of their stupid arguments about self-recrimination, a fancy-wrapped box lands in Castiel's lap.
"From me and Dean," says Sam. "We hope you like it," and Dean could kiss his little brother, he really could.
Or not. Yuck.
Castiel unwraps the paper as if he's unwrapping the Lost Ark of the Covenant. The box is labeled Nordstrom's, and Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam, who raises one right back at him. Yeah, Sam's gonna hold this over his head for a while.
Meanwhile, Castiel is lifting out a cream wool scarf from thin sheets of tissue paper and holding it reverently in front of him.
"You're supposed to put it around your neck," Sam offers, and helps him to do so. It matches perfectly, and sort of classes up the tax accountant ensemble. "It's cashmere, a type of wool—"
"—gathered from Kashmiri goats in the mountains of West Asia," Castiel finishes. "Wool such as this was offered millennia ago in sacrifices to my Father. Thank you, Sam and Dean; I'm honored by this gift."
Sometimes it's awesome having a metrosexual brother. Of course, Dean can't say so out loud, being that he now owes Sam big time. He flashes a subtle thumbs-up at his brother, until he's distracted by Castiel stroking the scarf as it lies against his chest.
Before he realizes it, he's on the couch next to Castiel, tucking the ends of the scarf into his trench coat. "Here, this is the way you do it," and the material is so soft, so unbelievably soft, like fuzzy silk as it rests warm over the angel's heart. Hypnotic blue eyes stare into his, and he can't help staring back, until…
Is he having a moment here with Cas? Right in front of Bobby and his brother?
Dean flinches back and returns quickly to his former spot on the floor. "Huh, so anyway…" and chances a surreptitious look around the room. Bobby is focused on his bottle of Scotch, glaring at the label as if he's going to be given a quiz on the contents, while Sam is looking over at the Christmas tree, lips pursed together as if he's about to start whistling innocently.
Oh yeah, Dean's gonna end up paying for that scarf for a long, long time.
"I have something for you as well," Castiel says, and stoops before the tree to draw out several packages from their hiding place near the wall. He hands two gold-wrapped packages to Bobby, one large and one small, one medium package to Sam, and the smallest one to Dean.
Bobby grunts in acknowledgment and tears the paper from the larger gift. It's an antique apothecary's case, the lid lifting to reveal several foldaway shelves and compartments. Bobby's eyes light up as he lifts out small vials containing amber liquids and golden oils, and tiny wooden boxes holding pungent powders, flakes of silver or gold leaf, or just a few strands of mysterious hairs. "Is that—?" he asks excitedly.
"Yes. It seemed wise under the circumstances to augment your supply inventory." Castiel's voice has its usual uninflected tone, but he doesn't fool Dean. He knows damn well that this took more than just a simple shopping trip for Cas; Bobby's as happy as, well, a kid on Christmas morning, and that means there must be things in the case that Bobby had probably only read about in spellbooks.
The old hunter has already started tearing at his second package, when—
"Stop." Castiel lays his hand on top of Bobby's. "It would be better to wait for some time before opening this one: a few months, perhaps. You'll appreciate it more."
Dean catches a glimpse of a wooden frame, the corner of a black-and-white photograph…oh. Oh.
Bobby lifts a trembling hand away from the package, smoothing the torn paper back over the object before tucking it away in his chair pouch. "Yeah. Well," he says gruffly, "thanks anyway, son."
Dean's getting that girly feeling in his chest again, so he quickly turns toward his brother. "Whatcha got there, Sam?"
Sam's paging through a large, leather-bound book, its leaves edged with gold and its ornate text interlaced with brilliant illustrations. His eyes grow huge with wonder. "Cas, is this what I think it is?"
"Yes."
Sam looks as if he might cry or pass out, but can't decide which. Dean snaps his fingers under his brother's nose. "Hey, Earth to Geek. Spill. What's so special about this fancy-pants book?"
Bobby is edging as close as he can in his wheelchair. "Chucklehead! That's a Gutenberg Bible! There're only twenty or so intact copies in existence; do you have any idea what they're worth?"
"Nothing." Castiel is looking off into the distance, his jaw tight. "In a world scorched to ashes, a Gutenberg Bible will be worth exactly nothing." His gaze snaps back to Sam. "So your task is to study this Bible and help find a way to stop the Apocalypse. Turn to the last page."
Sam does as ordered, his fingers trembling. There, burnt into the back cover, is the outline of a strange, featherlike object. It's almost ten inches long, and has a typical shaft with barbs radiating outward, but the barbs appear crystalline instead of organic. Faint, wavy lines scry out from the feather imprint, like lines of energy or electricity.
"This is yours, right?" Sam asks in a hushed whisper.
Castiel shrugs. "It's equivalent to what humans call a pinfeather," and Dean thinks, yeah, if that's a pinfeather, then Cas's wings are a hell of a lot bigger than the shadows he'd revealed to Dean in the barn.
And this tight feeling in his chest has nothing to do with jealousy, 'cause he's not jealous that Cas gave an angel feather to Sam and not to him, even if he is the one that Cas pulled from Hell. Plus it's not even a real angel feather but just a sort of picture of his feather (probably to avoid that whole "You'll burn your eyes out" aspect), and Dean's sure that whatever gift Cas has given him is ten times cooler than the one he gave Sam.
And if he doesn't stop whining like a sulky six-year-old, he's gonna shoot himself in the head and put them all out of their misery.
So, in the interest of avoiding suicidal holiday violence, Dean starts tearing the gold wrapping paper from his gift, which is shaped suspiciously like a jeweler's box from one of those annoying mall jewelers, only to reveal—
—a jeweler's box from one of those annoying mall jewelers.
Huh. Weird.
Not to worry, though, since Cas has probably put something really cool inside like…like—oh, hell, just open it already!
He flips the attached lid up, getting a brief impression of a white silk lining and velvet backboard, and—
Um.
Dean's only taken aback for about a second, but he's sure that Sam is pointing his cell phone camera to catch his WTF expression. Hey, look, no one can say that Dean's not a good sport (even if he is somewhat disappointed), and anyway, Cas is sure to produce his real gift any minute now. But in the meantime, Dean shoots a smartass grin at his brother, the probable mastermind behind this joke. "Good one, Sam—but remember, now I owe you. It's on, bitch!"
Except Sam isn't pointing his camera and laughing; he's frowning at Dean in a confused way, while Bobby is looking at him from beneath his hat brim with one eyebrow raised.
"The gift isn't from Sam. It's from me," Castiel explains patiently, as if Dean is too feeble-minded to remember who handed the box to him. He's looking into Dean's face with his laser stare, the one that makes Dean feel as if Cas is trying to see into his brain by way of his left nostril. "I regret I can't return your amulet yet, so I thought to purchase a new one for you."
Suddenly Dean gets it.
Oh.
Fuck.
But it's too late, because Sam can't restrain his curiosity and is looming over Dean's shoulder to peer into the box. A wide grin breaks across his features. "Dude!"
"Sam," warns Dean, because Castiel is starting to look uncertain.
"You don't want it?" the angel asks, and that's it, Sam can't contain his hilarity any longer.
"No, Cas, he wants it, all right. Dean's wanted one of those ever since he was a little girl!"
Dean knows that Sam is just reacting to his own initial reaction and taking advantage of an opportunity to mock his older brother. But he still feels like strangling Sam, especially when Castiel draws back into his stiff, military stance.
"My apologies. The amulet is inappropriate. I will find something else for you, Dean. If you will please break the sigils—" Castiel is reaching for the box, and the pressure is building again in Dean's ears, and—
He can see it all, that brief flash of hurt in Castiel's eyes, quickly suppressed beneath his usual impassivity as he absorbs yet another of Dean's small cruelties: Dean's, not Sam's, since Dean was the first to treat his gift as a joke. And he can see Castiel's trip to the mall, braving the confusing crush of humanity in order to find a gift to soothe his charge's sense of loss, asking strangers to direct him to where he can find a suitable amulet. And there's someone behind the counter at the jeweler's: male, female, it doesn't matter which, because all they see when they look at Castiel is an awkward man in an oversized trench coat who doesn't smile and doesn't blink and phrases his sentences with odd pauses between words. And that salesperson sells Cas the wrong type of jewelry on purpose, because small cruelties don't count when they're visited upon people who miss social cues, who are tagged with the casual insults of weirdo or freak or retard.
And not once does that asshole behind the counter realize that what he is facing is an Angel of the Freaking Lord, the only true Angel as far as Dean is concerned, whose glory would burn the eyes from the bastard's head if he so chose. Instead, this angel has chosen to give his life to protect humanity, even its most miserable, sniveling components, and stranger than that, he's chosen to give his friendship to an ungrateful ass who throws it back more often than not. And this angel won't stop giving, won't stop following this man even into Hell, even if he ends up dragged down to the lowest levels of existence.
"No," says Dean, his fingers tightening on the velvet box. "No, I won't break the sigils, and I won't let you take back my gift."
Castiel withdraws his hand and tilts his head to one side. Dean can feel the silence heavy in the room but he doesn't care, because he finally realizes what is important, and it's not his fucking male ego.
"It's true," he starts, then has to stop and lick his lips, because these words are too important to let dry in his throat. "It's true what Sam implied: in the past, I probably wouldn't've chosen this, um, amulet for myself. But things change—people change, and now I want this." Because you gave it to me.
Dean hopes Castiel can hear that last part, because his throat is tight, and he doesn't think he can say another word. Castiel stares at him, eyes narrowing slightly—then his expression softens, and he gives a slight nod, subtle and intimate and just for him.
And just like that, Dean can breathe again, and talk and smile again. "Hey, do you even know how this thing works, Cas? 'Cause I do. Here, watch." He lifts the silvery-white chain from the box and carefully picks the elastic fastening from the medallion. The silver-white disk slides apart and splits the golden heart at its center in two. "Now you have to pick which half you want."
"Half?"
"Yeah, half, dummy. It's two amulets now, see? So you can either choose the half that says 'BE FRI' or the one that says, 'ST ENDS'. Come on, make up your mind."
Castiel choose the ST ENDS half of the heart medallion, and frowns at its jagged outline. "There is only one chain."
"Nobody claimed those jewelers were geniuses. But I have an idea." Dean's had this idea, or should he say suspicion, for a while now. He slips his new necklace over his head, then pulls Cas forward by his tie. Pushing the new scarf aside, Dean tugs at Castiel's tie until it lies loose against his chest. He unbuttons the top four buttons of the crisp white shirt and…yeah, he thought so.
Dean carefully lifts the familiar black cord until the horned demon head appears. Castiel is gazing into the distance, seemingly lost in celestial thoughts, but his cheeks seem pinker—oh, yeah, he's definitely blushing. Dean smirks to himself as he takes a penknife from his back pocket and pries open the metal loop at the top of the medallion, then attaches it to the cord, where it nestles next to the demon head. "Good," Dean says. "Now if you find God, He'll see that somebody's got your back." He does up the buttons and reties Castiel's tie, giving it a final tug so that it hangs slightly crooked. He then wraps the scarf back around his neck, tucking the ends in the trench and giving his angel a fond pat on the chest. "All right?"
"Yes." Castiel is giving him the laser stare again, and Dean stares right back. "Yes, I believe I am."
And yeah, they're having another moment here, but it's Christmas, so they're allowed.
As if on cue, Sam coughs in the background. Dean reluctantly turns away from Cas, and—geez, he doesn't think he's seen anything so pitiful since Sam was sixteen and put a scratch on the Impala. His brother is doing a spot-on impression of a puppy that's piddled on the floor: all huge, sad eyes and downturned mouth, sending out waves of emo that practically have their own My Chemical Romance soundtrack.
Honestly, Dean's ready to roll up a newspaper and whack it across Sam's nose just to complete the picture, when he realizes that the puppy look isn't directed at him. Sam brushes past him and comes to a stop before Castiel.
Popcorn. Dean needs popcorn now, so he can properly enjoy the Match of the Century: Giant Emo Puppy Eyes versus Mighty Smitey Expressionless Angel of Doom. If bookies were taking bets, though, he'd have to place his money on his brother, and not out of fraternal loyalty, either.
Dean listens to their conversation with only half an ear, since he's absorbed in the voiceover sports announcements in his head. Sam makes a cautious opening move, testing the waters with a subdued, "blah, blah, blah, sorry if I offended you," but the gambit is neatly countered by Castiel, up a few points with Confused Head Tilt and "you didn't offend me, Sam."
Most normal people would've called it a day at this point, but Dean knows this simple apology/acceptance isn't nearly Oprah enough for his brother, so he's not surprised at all when Sam slips under Castiel's guard with, "blah, blah, just joking around with Dean and I didn't mean to hurt your feelings." However, Castiel neatly sidesteps the emo with a simple, "you didn't hurt my feelings, Sam", and Dean begins to wonder if he had backed the wrong horse (and yeah, he knows he's mixing sports metaphors, but fuck it—this is all in his head anyway).
Yet if Sam's anything, he's a fighter, so he picks himself up out of the ropes and goes back to his arsenal, delivering a roundhouse kick in the form of "blah, blah, feel guilty, blah, gave me fancy-schmansy Germanberg-Whatsit Bible, blah, blah, owe you—" and Castiel takes the kick right to the chest, getting sucked in to replying, "But your gift to me was very kind," and this is it; now it's only a matter of time.
However, things take a sudden right turn into danger as Sam's eyes start glistening, and there are choked words like "faith in me" and he's only a tick away from wrapping up Castiel in one of those "You're too precious for this world!" hugs (which happens to be true of Cas, but that's beside the point). The danger lies in the height difference between the two and the fact that Castiel's nose is gonna end up in line with Sam's armpit, and Dean can't let something that evil happen to his angel, especially on Christmas morning.
"Okay, girls, break it up," he says brusquely (and part of him wishes he had a referee's whistle). "Stop with the emo before you start cutting yourselves."
This earns him a head tilt from Cas and Bitchface No. 23 from Sam, so yeah, his timing is awesome.
"Shut up, Dean; I wasn't apologizing to you."
"Yeah, and you're done apologizing to anyone else today, either. This show is over."
"Oh, thank Gawd." Bobby's glaring as he peels the foil wrapper from his Glenlivet. "If I hadda watch one more minute of 'As the Apocalypse Turns' in my living room with shitty actors playin idjit characters, I was gonna end up ralphing all over the floor."
Ralphing? Dean mouths to Sam, and gets a confused look and headshake in return.
"You, Winchester Number Two. Get me my good glass tumbler and take it to my room. I'm gonna try to recover with three fingers of Glen, so none of you better disturb me for the next hour, or I will kick your asses, wheelchair or no!"
With that, Bobby turns and wheels rapidly to his sanctuary. Sam scrambles to the kitchen to find the tumbler, then crosses the living room after Bobby.
"Dean." Castiel is stooping by the tree. "I have one more gift for you."
"Cas, you don't have to—"
"Here."
Dean takes the proffered paper bag and looks inside, frowning at the brown, roundish objects within. "What are these?"
"Chestnuts," Castiel replies, and his eyes shine as the corners of his mouth curve gently upward.
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To be continued
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