This was meant to be the Christmas chapter. But the boys wanted to play in the snow instead. So Christmas will have to wait!

Chapter 15

In and out. Rise and fall. Slow and steady.

Dean lay in the dark, listening to the deep, even breaths of his still heavily asleep angel. Cas was lying on his back, his face toward Dean, but Dean could see nothing of the sleeping man's features - he was just a vague, dark, heat-radiating lump.

They'd had a peaceful night - the first in over a week - where neither of them was kept awake by their own or the other's coughing, where neither had to get up to find the tissues, or the Tylenol, or to get some more water, or even to go to the bathroom. Dean felt well-rested and happy with the thought that there was a day ahead of him where he could get a few jobs done, think about what they had to do to get ready for Christmas - maybe even go out and play around in the snow for a bit.

He wondered how much more snow had fallen. Would it block the long, narrow lane that led to the highway? Were they cut off? Oh well. They'd manage. They weren't that far from civilization.

Cas slept on. And it was still early - Dean guessed about six - so the sun wouldn't be up for an hour or so yet. But he was ready for the day.

He slid across the bed, the soft memory foam dampening the impact of his movement, and extracted himself carefully from the bedding, rolling out and landing in a crouch on the deep-piled carpet. It felt good on his knees. That thick underlay had really been worth the extra expense.

He had left his clothes in a heap on the curly-armed couch that stood against the wall opposite the bed. He grabbed them and dressed quickly in the soft, warm layers and then pulled some extra thick wintery socks from the dresser, easing the drawer open and closed slowly so it didn't rattle or squeak, and then tiptoeing out. Cas should get the chance to sleep as long as he needed to.

There was a big pack of bacon in the fridge. This Dean knew because he'd got it out of the freezer the night before in preparation for a hearty breakfast. The bacon was calling to him. But he'd sort out the fire in the living room first.

The cactus-guys on the mantelpiece shimmied when Dean prodded the embers with the fire iron.

"Morning, amigos."

They shimmied again, even the little rustling of their joints loud in the early morning quiet. It seemed even quieter than usual, in fact - nothing else moved in the house apart from Dean and the cactus-guys, and from outside there was no early-morning birdsong or animal call or rustling of branches in the wind.

Dean poked and wriggled at the burnt-down wood and couldn't help thinking about all the times he'd used a fire iron to swipe through the form of some murderous ghost, prior to finding the remains and having a good old salt-and-burn. He held the plain, heavy iron tool in front of his face, feeling its weight and balance. It was a good weapon, against the supernatural or against any mundane asshole who might choose to invade their home. They'd be biting off more than they could chew if they did, that was for sure.

There were a few embers still glowing and once they'd been cleared of the clogging ash and fed some fragments of kindling, they burst into new life. Dean carefully placed bigger sticks around the little flames, waited for them to catch hold and then gave them a few full-size logs to be going on with. But that was it for the wood in the basket. He'd have to venture out to the woodshed to restock.

In the kitchen, he pulled on boots, his thick winter coat, a hat (a furry one with flappy bits either side which went with a Russian accent - So… we meet again, Mr Bond) and a scarf and gloves. He picked up the basket and a flashlight and ventured out.

It was still dark. And it was absolutely still.

The snow had stopped falling, the clouds had cleared and the air was bitterly cold. Dean crossed the sheltered verandah and stood at the top of the snow-covered steps, the woodbasket in his hand.

He could hear his own soft, puffing breath and the rustling of his coat as he moved and the dry creak of the boards beneath his boots. But the sound was flat - muffled by the blanketing snow - and Dean felt like he was enclosed in an isolated bubble, as if the house and its couple of acres had been cut off from the outside world completely. The moon had set and the stars were fading, the way they do just before dawn, when the sky still looks black but the sunlight's already beginning to creep in, lightening it just a shade or two.

Dean's boots sank into the snow with a soft, dry squeak. It wasn't that deep - deep enough to be pretty, but not deep enough to cause trouble. Perfect Christmas snow.

In the woodshed, he filled the basket with logs, which meant he needed two hands to carry it, which meant he couldn't carry the flashlight. But light from the kitchen windows made a path to follow over the snow.

Time to get started on the bacon. Although, no - he'd go and check on Baby first. He'd make sure the tarp covering her hadn't come loose. And later, when it was light, he'd get her running for a bit.

The wood basket thudded on the verandah. Dean gave it a shove across the boards toward the kitchen door. Then he flicked on the flashlight and crunched and squeaked his way around to the front of the house on the orchard side.

It'd been dark when he and Cas had arrived that first time. And Cas had shot out of the car before Dean had even switched Baby's engine off. He had been like a wild thing, then - a creature that Dean had broken out of captivity and let loose back into its natural habitat. And when Dean had found him he'd looked like the angel he had been, lit up by the rising sun, the clouds outlining him like wings.

The sun was rising now. Dean flicked the flashlight over Baby's snow-covered form. The tarp was secure. He'd take it off and warm her up later.

He sent the beam of the flashlight darting into the orchard. It bounced off the white-edged branches and cast black shadows that stretched toward the edge of their plot, where he and Cas had first watched the sunrise. Dean followed his beam of light, treading easily over the smooth blanket of snow, unworried about trip hazards this time - Cas had cut back and tamed the tangle.

His breath puffed, his coat rustled, his boots scrunched and squeaked, and the sounds dropped into the silence, flat and heavy, like the snow was swallowing them up. He reached the edge of the orchard and, just like that first time, the sky was changing from the deepest purple to a dark, burnt orange to a misty golden glow that crept slowly and steadily up through the sky at the same time as it spread over the land.

Was Cas still sleeping? Or was he up and looking out the window and watching the sky change colour, just like Dean? Was he thinking about that first day, when they'd arrived at the place they were going to make into a home - when they got here and didn't realise that they were home to each other just as much as this place was their home?

It was another new day, of many new days they'd have, and there was bacon to cook and the fire to keep lit and the house to get ready for the holidays - and Cas to love.

But sunrise was special. Sunrise would always be special.

Dean watched the sky change colour for another couple of minutes, until the cold got through to his feet and his fingers - and actually the tip of his nose was almost numb. Time to go inside.

First, though, he trudged all the way back down to the woodshed and sorted through the bits of old timber that he'd set aside as potentially useful, and he chose a bit that was just the right size.

He ran a gloved hand around the edge, imagining trimming it down and sanding it smooth, and picturing how he'd stain and paint and varnish the surface.

"Awesome," he muttered. And then, as his stomach gurgled a reminder, "Bacon."

"So…" Dean licked the grease off his fingers one by one - that had been the best bacon. "Do you wanna build a snowman?"

Cas's bacon sandwich paused on its way to his mouth. He frowned. "Am I expected to sing a response?"

"No! It's from Frozen. You know, the one with Elsa and Anna and that snowman-dude? Let it go?"

Cas glanced down at his sandwich.

"Not the sandwich, the song - Let it go." Dean cleared his throat: "Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back anymore!"

"Can't hold what back?"

This definitely deserved an eye-roll. "Are you winding me up? We watched Frozen, didn't we? You remember? When Jack went through his Disney princess phase."

"Oh." Cas smeared his sandwich around the rim of his plate to pick up a blob of ketchup. Ketchup on bacon. Now there was an abomination, in Dean's opinion. "I recall the phase," said Cas. "But the movies have all blended together in my mind. So many songs. So many colours. So many strangely-proportioned animated characters." He leant toward Dean. "The over-large eyes were most intimidating. And the tiny waists."

Cas's eyes were very large and very blue. It crossed Dean's mind that he'd look good in a ballgown.

"Yeah, well, anyway - Do you wanna build a snowman?"

Cas glanced toward the window. "Does it have to be a man?"

Dean's eyes were going to roll right out of their sockets in a minute. "No. It can be a snow anything. I just thought it'd be fun to go out and, you know - play around a bit. Have you ever played in the snow?"

"No, Dean. Have you?"

"Of course. Not for a while. A long time." He scratched the side of his jaw. He hadn't shaved in a few days. Maybe he should just let it grow. Let it grow, let it grow. When was the last time he'd been somewhere it'd snowed and he'd had time to lob a few hard-packed snowballs at his brother? "It snowed one time at Bobby's."

Cas took Dean's plate and stacked it on his own. "Humans need time to play." He reached out to clear away the ketchup bottle, but paused, his long fingers turning it around in place, his eyes unfocussed, a small soft smile lifting one side of his lips. "They used to play all the time. There was a settlement by a lake and I'd hover in the morning mist and watch them as they came out of their cave. The little ones would always be first, running around in circles and making the birds fly up around me. The adults would be slower - preparing food, helping the elderly… but they were just as lighthearted as the children. There was always laughter, always a song or a story, always a way to make the work of gathering or hunting into a game. Their lives were so simple. So full of joy."

Their cave? Dean held tight to the handle of his coffee mug. The old wooden table was solid beneath his elbow, the chair wobbled slightly as he shifted, either because the legs were uneven or the floor was.

"You're one of them now. One of us." Would he always doubt? Would there always be that little niggling feeling that one day, Cas would decide, 'enough with the human crap,' and find a way to get his wings back?

The empty coffee mug was pulled gently from his grasp and two warm hands enfolded his.

"Dean."

He looked up. And you'd think all those memories would show in Cas's eyes. You'd think it'd be like staring down an endless tunnel, or like that bit in Doctor Who where the kid Time Lords get forced to look into the time vortex. You'd think it'd be like being a gnat under a microscope. But it was just Cas. Just Cas, looking at Dean - and he had a smear of ketchup on his chin.

Dean smiled. "Let's go outside."

Snow had begun to fall again - just a few lazy flakes, drifting down. One landed on Dean's nose, where it tickled as it melted. He ignored it, and pressed his back into the uneven planks of the woodshed, and tried to quiet his breathing so that he could listen.

Was that the soft squeak of a booted foot, its weight easing stealthily into the snow? His ears strained to catch a hint of sound. Maybe he'd imagined it. Dean inched along the side of the shed, flattening his cheek against the cold, damp surface. He'd risk a look. It'd be safe now. He'd been silent and still, and his stalker would have given up ages ago.

He slid in tiny increments closer and closer to the edge of the planking. His shoulder a fraction of an inch shy of breaking cover, he twisted his head slowly, slowly… and shifted his weight ever so slightly so that he could just about get a line of sight around the corner of the shed.

Then there was cold and wet and shock and yelling, and the yelling was Dean because it was so cold! And it wasn't even the stinging impact of a well-aimed missile. It was just a massive faceful of soft, freezing cold wetness, pressed and smushed into his face and down his neck.

"Son of a bitch!"

"I got you! I got you, Dean! I win! I win, don't I?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Cas! That's gone right down my- Shit, that's cold!" Snow was melting down the inside of his clothes, lines of ice running down his chest. And Cas was beaming and clapping his gloved hands together, scattering the snow which clung to the gloves and his arms.

Dean's cheeks were wet and freezing. He wiped his face on his gloves but it didn't help. "All that time, you were just standing there? Hugging an armful of snow?"

"It was breaking up and I was worried I'd drop it before you came out."

"Oh, well, I'm so glad you didn't." He winced as a runnel of water seeped as far as his belly button.

Cas was still grinning. Which would have been really, really annoying - Dean would pretend to be annoyed anyway - except the clouds had cleared away again and the sky was blue and the snow was a bright, clear white. And Cas was just standing there, smiling, his hair sticking out from beneath a hat he'd knitted himself, which had a stupid face on and long tassels dangling by his ears. And he was just perfect.

Dean kissed him.

"Mmf. Wet," said Cas.

"Your fault." Dean slid his arms around Cas's padded, winter-coated bulk and burrowed his cold, damp face down the side of his scarf and pressed it against the warm skin of his neck. "You're such a cheat."

"I didn't cheat."

"It was supposed to be a snowball fight. From a distance."

Cas pulled back, placing his gloved hands on Dean's shoulders, a smirk playing over his lips. "No such rules were agreed. And sniper tactics would have been obvious. So, of course, a full frontal assault was the better option."

Dean narrowed his eyes and tried to look pissed. "Huh. Sneaky ancient commander of celestial forces."

Cas shrugged. His innocent 'who me?' expression was a step too far. And Dean may not have had a background of directing armies of angels, but he knew a thing or two about wrestling. A classic single-leg takedown had Cas sprawling on his back and Dean on top of him, blowing raspberries on his cheeks, pulling up the hem of his coat and sweater and shirts, scooping up handfuls of snow and rubbing them into his stomach, while Cas fought and shrieked and writhed and begged for mercy.

Dean was merciful. He rolled off his struggling angel, lurched to his feet and offered Cas a hand up, half expecting to be pulled down and tortured in revenge.

But Cas scrambled to his feet, grinning and hugged him. "I didn't know that snow could be such a lot of fun."

"Yeah, well - there's a lot you don't know. You gotta try stuff for yourself." Dean tugged Cas's hat straight by pulling on one of the tassels. He kept hold of the tassel, turning it up to brush over the tip of Cas's nose.

Cas batted the tassel away. "I could make a list of things to try. For the New Year."

"Good idea." Dean clapped his gloved hands together. "Hey, we could both do that. There's plenty of things I haven't had time for." His shoulders suddenly shook in a shiver that travelled right down his body. "I'm getting cold, Cas. Time to go in."

"Oh." Cas glanced over his shoulder at the two snow figures they'd made, a snow angel and a snow demon, situated so they could be seen from the kitchen window. "I was going to try sculpting snow. I'd like to build a large mound and then shape it with a saw."

Dean studied Cas's face. His cheeks were pink and his eyes bright. "Aren't you cold?"

"No, Dean. I'm fine. You can go in, though."

Dean's face was going numb and the wet inside his clothes seemed to be sucking in bitter cold air every time he moved. "Don't stay out too long. You don't want to get sick again."

Back in the warmth, Dean started stripping off all of his clothes in the kitchen, draping them over the chair backs to dry. He carried on as he headed upstairs, leaving his pants hanging over the foot of the bannisters and his fleece hoodie at the top. He left everything else in a heap on the bedroom floor because the hot shower was calling to him like a siren.

And it was wonderful. Dean stood under the stream, letting the heat soak through his skin and right down to his bones. He groaned with pleasure. It'd be even better if Cas would join him. And if he'd got the mini spa up and running they could both have had a shower and a sauna and then gone in the steam room. But it wasn't ready yet. Dean decided to do his very best to have it ready for Sammy to try out at Christmas, though. And he wouldn't even hide the row of plastic bath ducks he'd bought for Cas. Anyway, they could be an artistic statement or some shit - six ducks, placed in a perfect row, graduated in size, large down to small. Cas had tried to get them to float in a row, but they always bobbed off in all directions.

Dean was beautifully warm. But it didn't look like Cas was coming. He shut the shower off and, once again, revelled in the luxury of the huge fluffy towels. He was never going to take them for granted. Never. Not after growing up with small, thin, stained motel towels - or worse.

He dried off and dressed in fresh clothes - soft and loose and comfortable and perfect for a relaxed lunch on the couch in front of the fire. In fact, why not make the fire part of the deal? They could toast some bread over the flames and slather it with lots of butter. Cas would want honey as well. And Dean would make hot chocolate, so that it would be the perfect after-snow meal. Like après ski except that sounded like something pretentious douchebags might do. Not that Dean would know - he'd never been skiing.

Anyway, après snowman and snow demon and snowfight should involve lots of toast and hot chocolate, so he made it happen. And soon he had two mugs of hot chocolate all ready to be topped with squirty cream and marshmallows, and he had a big plate of bread on a tray as well as the butter and honey. So he was all set. He just needed his angel.

Dean shoved his feet into his boots and stepped out onto the verandah, quickly closing the door behind him. "Cas!"

It had clouded over and snow was falling, light but steady, obscuring Dean's view. He could see a dark shape, bent over and wobbling from side to side - Cas had got the big bow saw. He might've been better off with the small tenon. It'd need drying off and oiling when he'd finished, to stop it from going rusty.

"Cas!"

The figure paused, then stooped over awkwardly. Had he dropped the saw? Yes. He fumbled around in the snow at his feet, straightened up, stooped over again, then toppled forward. What the hell? He was lumbering slowly upright. But Dean had already ducked back into the kitchen, pulled his coat around one shoulder and was halfway down the steps.

"Cas!" The saw dangled from his hand. "Hasn't got the sense he was born with," muttered Dean. "'Cept he was made, not born, which explains a lot. Cas!"

"D-dean?"

His face was pale, his lips had a blue tinge. He gestured weakly toward his snow sculpture, which looked like some kind of giant flower.

Dean lost no time in getting an arm around his angel, pulling the bow saw from his weak grasp and hustling him toward the house.

"Why'd you stay out so long? I should've made you come in when I did."

Cas mumbled something.

"What?"

"W-w-ws h-havin' f-f-fun."

"Yeah, right." Dean pushed Cas ahead of him up the steps. "Hypothermia's always good for a laugh."

In the kitchen he pulled off Cas's hat, coat and boots and then herded him into the warmth of the living room, where he pushed him down onto the couch. He pulled the red and orange blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around his shivering angel.

"S-s-sorry, Dean."

"Don't apologise to me. You're the one who's getting the consequences."

"I d-didn't realise I'd g-got so c-cold."

"No." Dean tugged the blanket right up under Cas's chin. "Well, I shoulda known you'd stay out too long. You might not know the signs when you're getting too cold. But I do. So it's-"

"Not your fault, Dean."

Cas's face was still pale and pinched-looking. He was still shivering, huddled in the thick, knitted blanket. It felt like Dean's fault. It felt like, in some ways, he needed to be the responsible adult. A bit like with Jack - the ex-angel was adult-shaped, but his experience as a human was toddler-level at best. Although, he should have a lot more common sense than a toddler really.

A hand reached out of the blanket and grasped his wrist. "Not your fault, Dean." Cas tugged on Dean's wrist and pressed cold lips to his hand. "Not your fault," he repeated.

"Yeah, okay." Dean bent over and gave his angel a smothering hug, rubbing his back vigorously in the process, to make sure he was warming up. "No one's fault. But maybe sometimes I need to remind you - you're human now. Hey, I could make you a sign to go around your neck."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, Dean."

"No?"

"No."

He'd stopped shivering and was looking a bit more like there was blood in his veins and not ice. So Dean retrieved the tray from the kitchen - a quick zap in the microwave revived the hot chocolates - and he piled Cas's mug with cream and marshmallows and made sure both his hands were wrapped around it and that the blanket was tucked around him so that it wouldn't fall down as he drank.

"You drink all of that. It'll warm you up. I'm gonna make some toast."

Cas took a sip of his drink. "With honey."

"Yeah. With honey."

Dean knelt in front of the fire. They didn't have a toasting fork, so he wiped the fire iron off and stuck it through a piece of bread, which made it difficult to toast it evenly, but what was a bit of charring between friends? He scraped off some of the black and put plenty of butter and honey on and Cas ate it happily enough. Dean toasted a piece for himself, covered it in butter, folded it in half and ate it in two large bites. Then he did another bit for Cas. Then Dean's next bit fell in the fire and the fire ate it happily, which was annoying.

"This is nice." Cas licked honey and butter off his fingers.

"Yeah." Dean stuck the fire iron through another piece of bread and held it over the flames.

"I was really cold."

"Hmm." One edge was browning too quickly and the other not at all. Dean twisted the fire iron to get a better angle.

"If I'd still been an angel, I wouldn't have been cold at all."

"No." Now a different bit was blackening. Damn thing'd be on fire in a second. He turned it to do the other side.

"But then I wouldn't be warm either."

"Uh-huh." Just a bit longer. It didn't matter if it was patchy. Dean wasn't fussy.

"And this wouldn't have been as nice."

There. Done. Kind of. Dean pulled his toast off the fire iron and dropped it on his plate. Now for the butter.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He bit into his dripping-with-golden-goodness toast. Oh yeah. That's what I'm talking about.

"When I was an angel I didn't understand. About getting warm after being cold. About toast with butter and honey. About the whole concept of… cosiness."

Dean, his mouth full of toast, plumped down on the couch next to Cas. He picked up Cas's honey-sticky hand with his butter-slick one, swallowed his toast, and then kissed Cas's fingers, one by one, licking the tips where they were sweet. "You were really missing out then, weren't you? All those years."

"Yes, I was."

"Well, you won't be missing out any more. I'll make sure of that." He kissed Cas square on the lips and lingered, licking at the sweetness of honey and of Cas. Maybe Cas was right - toast did need honey as well as butter. "More?"

"Yes, please, Dean."

He speared another slice of bread and carried on toasting.

Mmm... buttery toast. Nice. Now I'm going to have to start thinking about what they're going to eat at Christmas. I like giving them nice things to eat. It makes me hungry, though.