Dean really wants this to be the best Christmas ever. But the shadow of John Winchester is messing with his head again. How is Dean going to get over his inhibitions? With Cas's help, of course...

Chapter 17

It was getting late. Cas had taken Sam upstairs to show him his room and make sure he had everything he needed. Dean had stuff to do and had told Cas he'd be up in a while.

And it was true - Dean did have stuff to do. But also, he needed a bit of space to think. Not that he hadn't already thought around and around in circles and come up with pretty much zilch in the way of solutions, but it was zero hour and if he didn't think of a halfway decent approach it'd be t-minus too late, and Christmas wouldn't be ruined - but it wouldn't be as good.

Dean huffed and grumbled under his breath as he put on his coat and boots and hat and scarf and gloves.

"Stupid fucking idiot. Stupid fucking… head!"

He had to shove the front door hard to get it open, fighting against the couple of feet of drifted snow that had piled up against it.

"Get your shit together, Winchester. Just… get over yourself!"

He stomped over the snow-covered verandah but picked his way more carefully down the icy steps. Cas wouldn't thank him for getting himself hurt, though in the past pain had sometimes been an anchor for Dean - it had kept him grounded, given him something to kick against when he didn't know how to handle his own tangled thoughts.

Snow was piled up around Baby's wheels.

"I'm sorry, Baby." Dean brushed some snow off the Impala's hood, but what was the point really? More was falling all the time. He trudged around his precious car, checking the ropes on the tarp, which were all secure.

If he could sit inside her, in the familiar seat that was moulded to his body, and run his hands around the steering wheel, maybe things might sit straighter in his head - maybe there, he'd be able to see how to get things to work with Cas, so that he didn't freeze up whenever it looked like they were going to be able to take things further - further than kissing, cuddling, maybe some half-clothed groping if Dean was feeling particularly relaxed and had shut off most of the ingrained shit he'd grown up with.

But he'd have to undo the ropes on the tarp to sit inside Baby and they were best left where they were.

Anyway, there was nothing else he could do for his car. But come the thaw, he was getting a concrete foundation laid ASAP and building Baby a proper, weather-secure home.

Dean's fingers were going numb even in his thick gloves. Time to go in. Reluctantly, he turned his back on the Impala and crunched over the ice-crusted snow and back into the warmth and light.

He shed all his winter gear, hanging it up from the hooks in the hall and dropping a couple of towels underneath to catch the drips - no way was he messing up the newly stained floorboards.

Upstairs there was the sound of running water - Sam or Cas having a shower. Cas, naked, in the shower. Dean shivered, but not with cold.

He made his way into the kitchen, opened up the biggest door in the old range cooker and stuck his hand inside. It felt about right. Tins clashed and clanked together as he pulled a large oven tray out of a cupboard. He set the tray on the table, then he slid the turkey out of the fridge and, his arm muscles standing out from the weight, dumped it in.

"There you go, buddy. Home sweet home, for the next… whatever." He shrugged. The turkey was the biggest, baddest bird he could get ahold of, because Dean wanted the most lavish Christmas feast that anyone had ever seen, even if there were just the three of them to eat it. They'd all missed out on too many Christmases and this was going to make up for it. And he wasn't going to stress about cooking the bird to some celebrity chef's method. A low heat all night and maybe some of tomorrow and it'd be falling-to-bits done.

It couldn't hurt to give it some butter though, could it? He grabbed a pack from the fridge, and warmed it in his hands.

"It's just you and me now, Big Bird. You and me." Dean sighed, pulled the wrapper off the butter and squished it up into bits. "Gonna give you a nice massage."

The turkey was cold and slightly rough from where the feathers had been plucked. It was all soft flesh in parts and hard in others where bones came near the surface. Dean rubbed the butter all over it.

Cas's skin was always warm - and it was a bit creepy comparing him to a dead turkey, but he too was soft in places and hard in others where bones came near the surface - he was always warm, though, except when he'd spent too long playing in the snow.

Dean groaned. Why wasn't it as easy to touch Cas's naked body as it was to give a damn turkey a massage? They'd only taken things further once so far. Dean's cheeks heated up, even though it was just him and the turkey in the room.

After a couple of beers each, they'd started out with the usual kissing and cuddling, but it had got heavier and then they'd both worked their hands into the other's pants, pulling down sweats and underwear to get a bit of room. And they'd jerked each other off, wasting no time and coming almost simultaneously.

Which should have been progress, shouldn't it? But it wasn't, because there'd been no heart in it. There'd been no connection, not like there should've been. It was like some buddy thing - no love, just a bit of relief between two men who might easily have concluded the act with a shifty glance, a swift tucking-in and a grunted, no homo on both sides.

And it was homo. Totally homo. Dean wanted it to be homo.

"Fuck."

He rubbed the butter up and down the turkey's breast, up and down, up and down.

At one time he'd had a lot of sex - always with girls, though. To begin with because Dad was always there, and he was cool with Dean disappearing for a while most nights when they didn't have a hunt. In fact, Dad pretty much encouraged it, his eyes narrowing above a knowing smirk when he caught Dean checking out a waitress's ass or leaning over a bar to get an eyeful of the bartender's rack. Me and Sammy are gonna head back now, he'd say. And Dean was free to do what he liked.

And when Dad had mostly gone his own way and sent Dean off on hunts of his own, Dean had carried on with girls - out of habit, out of suppression, out of dark, twisting shame at what he really wanted. He'd had guys check him out more than once. He'd had a couple of thinly-veiled propositions. He'd been tempted. And he'd definitely felt urges. But the deeply-ingrained memory of John Winchester's words and his heavy, brooding glower and his occasional, and only when he was really drunk, heavy, bruising fists made any urges trickle away like ice melting down Dean's back.

His hands were slick with butter. The turkey shone with it. He washed the grease off and then ground pepper and salt over the turkey, and the condiments clung to the palely glistening skin - black specks and white crystals on dead flesh like a mouldering corpse ready for burning. Jesus Christ. Dean shook himself, grabbed a roll of foil from one of the cupboards and began encasing the huge bird.

If he could just relax and let go and have sex with Cas like he used to with girls - no. That wouldn't work, on two counts. One, the obvious one - Cas was a man so the mechanics were… well, anyway. And the other… sex with girls had only ever been on the surface.

It had been purely about pleasure - for them and for him, because Dean was never that guy who took what he wanted and didn't give in return. That was half - sometimes most - of the fun. He'd explore them - their bodies, their reactions. He'd find out what they liked and then he'd give and give until they were a puddle of melted, happy satisfaction. But it had never gone deeper than physical pleasure - well, maybe with Lisa, maybe with Cassie, but look how those relationships had ended.

And Dean knew now that none of it had ever been about love, because he really loved Cas and he'd never felt anything like that before.

The turkey was as wrapped as it was going to get. The foil didn't want to mould itself to the sides of the tray properly, but it would have to do. He opened the oven door and, straining under the weight, slid the whole lot in and closed the door firmly behind it.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Turkey," he said. "Or maybe Mrs Turkey. Anyway, you have fun in there, now."

Dean leant back against the table - heavy and tired and not nearly as excited about Christmas as he wanted to be - and stared through the thick glass at the massive turkey wrapped up in its crinkly coat of foil.

He should go up. He should go up to Cas and make love to him like he wanted, like they both wanted, because although Cas had said he could wait, he'd waited long enough.

Dean loved Cas so much it hurt. He'd love him even if he didn't think his angel was the sexiest thing on two legs. He'd want to worship his body no matter what Cas looked like. He wanted so much to be tender and awed and caress every inch and lavish his angel's naked body with kisses and adoration and let Cas touch him and explore him in return.

But he couldn't. Because he'd freeze. Because he could think about those things; he could imagine what it would be like to do them - but then he just couldn't. Because if he did, if he went ahead, if he gave in, he'd finally be crossing that line that John Winchester had scored in his head and heart as deeply as if he'd used one of his wickedly sharp knives.

Dean rubbed his tired eyes.

Cas would be waiting, wrapped up in the duvet, cosy and warm. Did he know what was going on in Dean's head? Did he know that Dean was worrying and stalling and stalling and worrying some more? Probably.

"Goddamn it all to hell!"

His angel had waited long enough. Dean had waited long enough. His stupid head and his stupid memories had got in the way long enough and they could just fuck right off down the pot-holed lane that led to the highway and hitch a ride and dump themselves on some other poor, suppressed asshole.

Dean was going to give Cas his Christmas present. He was going to do it.

So, how? How was he gonna pull this off? Should he get really drunk? That might work. No. Because then he wouldn't be able to get it up even if he got past his self-imposed barrier. Should he just go for it? And hope that this time would be different, because he wanted it so much? What if he froze up again?

Sam was upstairs. Would Dean even be able to go for it, with his brother in the house? Stop looking for excuses, Winchester. There was that whole, great big spa/bathroom in between their rooms and the doors and walls of the old house were thick and pretty soundproof. So, no, that was no excuse.

But then Sammy's voice was in his head, and his brother was just so damn reasonable sometimes - so fucking logical and level-headed.

Why don't you just talk to him, Dean?

Well, there was an idea - he could talk to Cas. He could ask for help.

Asking for help was never a first resort for Dean. Especially with stuff he barely knew how to put into words. If he asked for help with physical things, like carrying something heavy - well that was fair enough. But asking for help with head-stuff… Dean huffed and rubbed a hand through his hair, which was a much more satisfying action now that it was longer.

Talking about emotional stuff made him feel like some teen girl writing a letter to a magazine - did they still do that? It was probably all online now. Dear Auntie Flo, My boyfriend wants to go all the way, but I'm not ready - what should I do?

Except Dean was ready. Well ready. Overflowing with readiness. He so wanted to be ready.

He switched off the lights in the kitchen and the living room and the hallway, checked that he'd locked the front door, and then he climbed the stairs.

"Dean. You've been a long time. Are you alright?" Cas was sitting up in bed, the pillows stacked up behind him, reading a book about bee-keeping. The pool of light from the lamp on the nightstand softly lit one side of his face. Dean stood outside the pool, in shadow.

Yeah, I'm fine.

Dean couldn't say it. He couldn't pretend.

He stood in the middle of their bedroom. His shoulders sagged like they were weighted down, his head dropped wearily to his chest, his hands didn't know what to do and decided to tug futilely at the ends of the opposite sleeves. He hadn't a fucking clue where to start. So much for asking for help. Pathetic.

"You're not alright. Are you?" There was a soft clapping sound - Cas closing his book. And then a rustle and creak - Cas getting out of bed. And then there were Cas's bare toes, curling in the deep, soft carpet, and Cas's hands curling around Dean's biceps and then slowly sliding up over his shoulders and his neck, to cup the sides of his face and gently raise his head. "Tell me what's wrong, Dean."

And then, fuck, he really was a teenage girl. Because his throat tightened and he just couldn't stop the wobble in his lips and the dragging down of their corners. And his cheeks were hot and his eyes were burning with welling tears.

"Dean." Cas's arms slid around him as his breath hitched in a tearing, aching sob made of all the feelings that were trapped inside.

"Cas."

"Hey, it's okay. Whatever's wrong, we can make it better together."

Cas stroked his back and held his head, his fingers softly moving in Dean's hair. It felt so right - to be so close, to be held, to be comforted. So why couldn't other things feel right?

"I wanna love you, Cas." His voice was like a melted puddle of misery and his nose was running. He sniffed, wetly.

"You do love me, Dean. I know that."

"B-but… I wanna love you, like, properly."

Cas's hands stilled on Dean's back and in his hair and pressed him closer, large and warm and reliable. "You mean you want to go further with our lovemaking. You want to have sex."

Dean wondered if Cas could feel the heat of his blush. His angel could be pretty blunt about stuff like this - which was a lot better than barely being able to talk about it at all. "Doesn't have to be sex. I mean, not like - all the way - yet." Dean heaved a deep, deep sigh. "I just wanna touch you, you know? I just wanna be able to touch you without feeling… bad. Without feeling wrong."

"We do touch. You do touch me."

Dean mumbled. "Only with clothes on."

"Oh. So, you want us to be naked."

"Well… yeah." It was a good thing his face was still pressed into Cas's shoulder. He could speak into the fabric of Cas's shirt and it came out muffled, but he didn't have to make eye contact, which he couldn't have done, not saying those words. "But, I can't, Cas. I just can't." His breath hitched again and more stupid tears pricked at his eyes. His nose was running onto Cas's shoulder.

"I think you can, Dean." Cas's voice was so soft, so full of love. "I think you can - if you let me take the lead? Do you think you could do that? Let me touch you?"

Dean sniffed. He blinked and his eyelashes brushed the side of Cas's neck. "What - like, just lie there, and let you do… whatever?"

"Yes. And you could tell me to stop doing anything you don't like."

"Pretty sure I'd like it all, if I could just get past… you know."

It was Cas's turn to sigh. "The internalised homophobia that your father inflicted on you."

"Yeah. That." Dean managed to raise his head. He wiped his eyes so that he could see Cas's face, his eyes full of love and compassion, his mouth gently curving up at one side in the softest of soft smiles.

"Dean, you looked after me when I was sick. You touched me then. Didn't you?"

"Yeah, but that's different. That wasn't, like - sexy or anything."

"No. But it was about caring, wasn't it? And when you love someone as much as I love you or you love me, sex is about caring - giving and taking, sharing in mutual pleasure and trust. It all comes from the same place."

"Jeez, Cas - when did you get to be so wise? You're supposed to be the inexperienced one here, compared to me."

Cas stroked his still-damp cheek and Dean leant into the touch. "There are many things I observed without full understanding when I was an angel. Now, I look back and I… see and understand what all those people must have been feeling."

"What - you watched people having sex? Cas…"

"I watched people doing everything, Dean. I've always found humans fascinating. And it would have been difficult not to watch, when such things weren't hidden and shameful as they often are now."

"Oh. Okay." Sometimes Dean had to simply stop himself from thinking about Cas's history - just shut his brain down against the incomprehensible length of his angel's existence and take what was in front of him right here, right now - a man, his love, around whom he was building a new life.

Cas's hand drifted down his body and held one of his, fingers sliding between fingers. "Let me love you, Dean."

He swallowed and nodded. "Okay. Uh. Yeah." Could he do it? Could he let Cas lead him where he wanted to go?

"Stop thinking, Dean. Stop thinking and just let me do this for you." Cas's hands slid up his sides to hold the collar of his shirt. "I'm going to undress you first," he said. "Not completely. Yet."

"Okay." Dean's throat was tight, his words stuck inside.

"You'll be able to tell me if you want to stop?"

Dean nodded, jerkily.

His green shirt wasn't buttoned up. Cas pushed it off his shoulders and let it fall. Then he knelt down and pulled off Dean's socks one by one, Dean leaning against his shoulder for balance. Cas looked up and smiled, his lips moist for a change as if he'd been licking them, and his eyes were wide and hot, but full of kindness and patience. He stood up and kissed Dean, gently. Then he pulled up the hem of Dean's T and Dean obediently raised his arms and let Cas lift it off over his head.

Dean's eyes were on the carpet again and his arms were wrapped tightly around his waist. A curled finger beneath his chin raised his head.

"Do you want to carry on?"

He nodded and croaked, "Yeah."

Cas smiled again. And grabbed the hem of his own shirt - actually an old Zepp one of Dean's - and pulled it off. Cas stood in just his boxers and Dean in his jeans. And Cas was a couple of inches shorter than him but Dean felt small and exposed, and he wanted to be - but at the same time he didn't. He wanted Cas to see him and take care of him but it was so hard to relax and let go.

"I'm just going to hold you." And he did. He slid his arms around Dean's back and pressed their bare chests together and rested his head on Dean's shoulder and held him firmly. And then slowly he began to shift his weight from one foot to another so that Dean had to copy to keep their balance.

Dean couldn't help a tiny snort of laughter. "Are we slow-dancing, Cas?"

A rumble transferred itself from Cas's chest to his. He growled into Dean's shoulder, "I kept them with me babe, I put them with my own, Can't make it all alone, I've built my dreams around you."

Dean grinned. "You are so corny."

He wrapped his arms around Cas and held him. And it felt good. It felt right.

Cas hummed and growled his way through the closing lines of the song. And then he kissed Dean again and his hands dropped to Dean's waistband. "Is this okay?"

Dean's breath was suddenly faster and shallower. He nodded and husked, "Yeah. That's okay."

Cas unbuttoned and unzipped and knelt and Dean leant against his shoulder again as he raised first one leg, then the other. And then they were the same - just a thin layer of cotton underwear separating them.

He'd seen Cas like this before, many times. Cas had seen him like this before. They shared a house, shared a room, for fuck's sake, of course they wandered around in their underwear. But not with intent. Not like it was going to lead to anything. Because Dean hadn't been ready and Cas had been so, so careful with him - Dean realised that now. He'd been treated like a bone china vase with painted roses on that your Grandma placed on a high shelf and told you never to go near. Was Dean that fragile? Yeah, maybe he was.

Cas took his hand and led him to the bed, watching him with love and - not wariness exactly, but with watchful concern.

"I'm okay, Cas," he said gruffly. "I'm not gonna break."

"But that's the point, Dean. You can break. You can break into little pieces and I'll hold them together and make you whole again."

Dean's throat was suddenly so tight he could hardly breathe and his eyes filled with tears and he really, really didn't know what was happening to him or maybe who he even was anymore. But Cas was there, guiding him to sit on the side of the bed, softly telling him to lie down. And he was doing as he was told and it was okay. Cas was safe. He was in charge. Dean could let go - couldn't he?

Cas climbed on the bed and leant over him and kissed him again, long and slow and soft and deep. Then he broke it off and kissed Dean's forehead with such tenderness and stroked his fingers through Dean's hair and trailed the tips of his fingers down his cheek and followed them with a trail of tiny kisses. His fingers continued, along Dean's jawline, down the side of his neck, to his collarbone, and his lips followed in their wake, tiny, tiny kisses, tiny, tiny nips and licks, leaving a wandering path of damp and cool and affection.

Dean wanted to touch Cas in return. He wanted to spread his hands out over Cas's body and stroke and feel everything. But he lay still. He lay motionless because if he tried to move, maybe the spell that Cas was conjuring would break. Maybe the hard shell would form over his mind again and he'd be back to being John Winchester's son who hunted monsters and fucked girls and left both behind without a second thought.

So he lay still and let himself be the china vase.

Cas's fingertips ran along his collarbone, all the way out to the point of his shoulder, and his kisses followed. And then all the way back to the little hollow at the base of his neck, where Cas's tongue dipped in and left a spot of moisture. Four hot trails ran down over his sternum and swept sideways, back and forth over his chest, lightly grazing first one nipple and then the other.

Dean breathed in a soft hiss. His hands, still lying at his sides, twitched. But he didn't move - didn't moan or groan or push his hips up to meet Cas's, in case he shattered the small, fragile pool of peace at the centre of his heart and mind. If he lay still, if he just existed in the moment, perhaps he could let himself have this.

Cas's lips surrounded one of his nipples and sucked gently and his fingers ghosted over Dean's ribs. Maybe the touch should have been too light, maybe most of the time he'd want it harder and light touches would tickle and make him shiver in the wrong way - but not now. Now, light was good.

"I love you," Cas murmured into his chest. "I love you, Dean, I love you so much."

Dean's lips moved but no sound emerged. He didn't have to say the words. Cas knew.

And Cas carried on, moving steadily down his body, over his ribs, his stomach, kissing along the line of his waistband, back and forth, slowly, with no hurry or sense of urgency. His kisses slowed until he dotted one to the thin fabric covering one of Dean's hipbones and then to the other, skin-to-skin, where the waistband had ridden down.

Then Cas sat up, kneeling on the bed, just outside the pool of lamplight, his features softened with shadow. He shuffled backward and slid off the end of the bed and Dean watched as he pushed his underwear down over his hips and let it fall. He padded softly back into the light and waited, fully exposed, his arms at his sides, relaxed and open and letting Dean look and look - his sturdy, well-muscled thighs, the thatch of dark hair between his legs, his cock standing out. And Dean smiled because Cas's cock perfectly matched his totally committed but relaxed, unhurried actions - firm but not over-eager, flushed but not… threatening. If a cock could be threatening, which, yes it could if you were a china vase.

Dean smirked. Humour was a weapon against all kinds of things.

Cas's lips twitched. Then his eyes fell and Dean followed his gaze to his own underwear and back to Cas's face, where one eyebrow was raised in question.

Dean licked his lips and nodded. And Cas knelt on the edge of the bed and hooked his fingers in Dean's waistband and slowly, slowly pulled the fabric down, over his hips, over the first few dark hairs and then further. Cas glanced down, but mostly he kept his eyes on Dean's as he moved, and Dean looked back and lifted his hips slightly to free the fabric and felt the catch of the waistband softly scraping over his ass and thighs and calves and heels - and then it was free.

Still Cas kept his gaze on Dean's face and on his eyes, and he moved up the bed so that Dean could feel the warmth of his body. Then he kissed him - first a close-mouthed press of lips, and then his tongue pushed in and Dean let his jaw go loose and his mouth fall open in a slack, lazy, take-all-you-want kiss. Cas was melting him with his slow, sure, constant love - his gentle touch, his confidence, his almost telepathic assurance that this was right, that Dean was okay, that he was loved and wanted and understood.

Trails of moisture ran from Dean's eyes down the sides of his face. One of them ran into his ear, which tickled, but Cas kissed the other one away before it got that far.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Real good."

"Tell me, Dean. Tell me if it's too much."

He shook his head. "It's not. It's not, Cas. It's just right." And stupidly, he thought about Goldilocks, about reading the story to little Sammy, about the fact that, amazingly, against all the stacked-high odds, Dean had found the one person who was just right for him. His lips wobbled in a silly, trembling, smirk. And Cas flashed him a quick, lopsided grin, his teeth glinting in the light for just a fraction of a second.

Then Cas lowered himself over Dean so that first he could feel heat, and then the soft touch of hair and then skin and then weight, pressing him down along the whole length of his body - Cas's lips on his, Cas's chest on his, his stomach, his hips, their legs tangled together. And their cocks, skin to skin, firm flesh to firm flesh, heat to heat, need to need.

Dean groaned into Cas's mouth. And the spell didn't break, because he was safe, weighed down with safety, covered in it, gloriously smothered in it.

Cas began to move, slowly, up and back, pressing his groin into Dean's, firm but easy - small movements with just a hint of drag because they were both dry and hot and maybe they could've broken out the lube and slid slick and wet and fast, but Dean didn't want Cas to stop, he didn't want the moment to hitch or jar or take him out of his loose slackness where he had nothing to do but be cared-for and loved.

He breathed, deeper and faster and he felt Cas's chest expand against his own, and the softer flesh of their stomachs fluttered together with shiverings of want and need. Dean's head tipped back as his neck arched and Cas kissed his chin, his jaw and down his throat. And Cas moved and moved, and their hard flesh grew harder and the deep, rich pleasure grew and grew inside Dean, centring on the heat and need between his legs but spreading out in a warm, tingling flush all over his body. It expanded and expanded, until he was floating and detached and yet deeply rooted in every nerve and sensation - the spiralling pleasure of Cas's thrusts against him, the strength of Cas's body weighing him down, the pull and play of Cas's muscles as he moved, his dear, beloved angel holding himself up with broad shoulders, encasing Dean in his strength, shielding him and protecting him and healing him from his past - holding him together, as he'd promised he would.

Then light burst inside Dean and all around him and he was flying, shattered in all directions and it was freedom and love and peace all at once.

And when he floated back down into his body Cas was there, murmuring into his ear, kissing his face, kissing away yet more tears. Dean moved then, wrapping his arms around his angel, wrapping his legs around him, holding him as tight and as close as he could and kissing him back, messily and randomly, hitting an eyebrow, an ear, his jaw, his nose. And he was laughing and Cas was laughing too, because life was like that - so serious one minute, everything so full of meaning and intent, and then the next it all collapsed and you were just like a kid, laughing at nothing and everything.

Cas slid off him and Dean rolled onto his side so that they were facing each other. Dean kissed the tip of Cas's nose. They'd have to get up in a minute and clean up and straighten the tangled bedding.

But for now Dean just looked at Cas, and Cas looked back, and it was perfect.

"Merry Christmas, Cas."

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

I hope you enjoyed that chapter. I really wanted to keep it within the softness and comfort and general vibe of my story and just give Dean and Cas a nice time.