Finally, we've reached the Christmas feast. This chapter made me very hungry.

Chapter 19

The back door burst open and spatters of snow landed on the floor.

"You sure you don't need any help, Dean?" Sam hung in through the opening, his face red, his hair totally messed up. He grinned and panted like a crazy wild animal.

Dean flicked at the microwave, which began to hum. "I'm sure, Sammy. You two carry on playing for a while."

His brother's eyes darted around the kitchen, fixing on the growing spread on the table. "Hey, is that-"

"Out!" Dean grabbed the edge of the door and pushed, even though the freezing air was pretty welcome in the hot kitchen. "It ain't ready yet."

"Dean, I'm hungry." Just like little Sammy, wailing for snacks as soon as he got out of school. "Can I just have-"

"No." The sizzling kicked up a notch in a skillet and Dean grabbed the handle and gave it a casual toss. "Look, Sammy…" He'd need to check the stuff in the oven - give it a stir, make sure it was all crisping up. "Give it ten minutes and then you and Cas can come in - through the front! Get all your wet stuff off, maybe dry your hair - and then it'll be ready." The microwave pinged. "Now get gone before I cook you."

Sam retreated. His booted feet thudded across the wooden boards and then a whoop and a softer thud told Dean that his brother still had plenty of energy to jump into snowdrifts despite his hunger. What was Cas up to, though? Probably planning an ambush, sneaky angel style.

Dean surveyed his kitchen - he may not have been a commander of angelic troops, but he sure as hell had the upper hand on this feast. "Hear me and obey," he said to the food.

The microwave worked overtime on all the stuff Dean had pre-prepared in the last few days. The oven did its thing, making root veg crispy on the outside and hopefully fluffy on the interior. Dean tipped out jars, threw away packaging, filled up all the serving dishes he'd laid out, made the now traditional arrangement of random bits of leafy stuff for the table centre - and then he was done. He surveyed his feast.

"Awesome."

The slamming and stomping, clattering and laughter in the hallway died away and there was a tentative tap at the kitchen door.

"Can we come in now, Dean?"

"Yeah, angel, come ahead."

Cas came in slowly, Sam craning over his shoulder to get a look at the feast. They stopped just inside the threshold.

"Whoa." Sam's mouth dropped. "Whoa…" he breathed again. "That is a lot of food, Dean."

"You said you were hungry."

"It looks delicious, Dean." Cas took his hand and squeezed it. "Are you happy?"

"Yeah, I'm happy." It had all worked out just as he'd planned - all the traditional things to eat and some a bit less traditional.

"That is one huge turkey," said Sam. "What happened to its legs?"

"I cut 'em off. They needed longer and it turns out when they're really well done you can pull 'em apart, like slow-cooked pork." He pointed to a dish containing shreds of juicy-looking meat. "I mixed in a bit of barbecue sauce. It seemed like the right thing to do."

"And hey, are those burgers?"

Dean rubbed his hands together and admired the row of homemade burgers flanking the turkey breast. "You can't have too much meat, Sammy."

Sam laughed. "Or carbs either. Dean."

"Mashed potato is my favourite," said Cas.

"Yeah, mash is good." Dean had mixed butter and a bit of cheese into it. "But roast potatoes are great too and then there's all this other root veg stuff which is kinda like chips or fries if it's got oil and some salt on."

"But you've done fries as well!" Sam pointed at the fine golden mound of delicious salty fries.

"Well… yeah." Dean shrugged. "I like fries."

"And you really did do mac-and-cheese!"

"Straight out of the box, Sammy. A taste of childhood."

"I'm surprised there isn't any bacon."

"Who says there ain't bacon?" Dean pointed to the dish of green beans and brussels sprouts. "I made you some greens, but you get them garnished with crispy little morsels of meaty goodness. Now, come on - enough talk. Let's eat."

He pulled out a chair and pushed Sam into it. The carving knife was nice and sharp and Dean sliced off a couple of huge slices of turkey breast and dropped them on his brother's plate.

"There you go. Help yourself to the rest."

Sam hesitated, his fingers twitching. Then he reached forward and plunged a serving spoon into the mac and cheese, doling himself out a huge portion.

"I don't know where to start." Cas's plate was empty. He looked up at Dean.

"Allow me." Dean bowed, flourishing the carving knife. He served his angel a bit of everything and then he served himself a lot of everything so that his plate was overflowing.

A chunk of turkey on his fork, a couple of fries, a spread of the mash, a dip in the cranberry sauce - perfect. Dean ate, and he watched his brother and his angel eat.

"Well, you said everything of the best, Dean." Sam scooped up some of the green beans and sprouts (with bacon) and then helped himself to a pile of fries. "This is really great. We're never going to get through it all, though."

"Leftovers, Sammy." Dean leant forward, nodding firmly. "You think this is good today? Tomorrow, when it's all just ready for the microwaving and eating in front of the TV - that's when it's at its best."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Okay. Whatever you say, Dean. You could feed a small town with this, though."

Cas swallowed his mouthful and wiped his lips with a paper napkin decorated with cartoon reindeers. He shook his head. "This is more than just a meal, Sam."

"It is?"

Dean took a scoop of the barbecue turkey leg and paired it with a heap of root veg. "I just wanted to cook." He offered Cas the shredded turkey leg.

"Thank you, Dean." His angel smiled. "Yes, you wanted to cook, but you wanted to feed us. You wanted to share - not just the food but the special time, and above all, yourself."

"Okay. Uh…" A brimming mouthful was needed cause Cas was gonna say something insightful and Dean would be best off not being able to respond. And the roasted parsnips were sweet and salty and he was definitely cooking these guys again.

Beneath the table a warm hand curled around Dean's thigh and squeezed gently. "This isn't just food, Dean. This is love."

Oh. Dean's face was already red from the heat in the kitchen. He felt the blush spread further down his cheeks and up into his hairline. He slid his hand down and covered Cas's and threaded their fingers together.

A choked throat-clearing came from Sam's direction, followed by a strangled whisper. "Uh… yeah. I don't say it, but… I love you guys."

Dean forced himself to look up and his eyes were blurry, but his brother's were definitely shiny, so they were even, weren't they?

"And I love you both. Very much."

How did an ex-angel with known communication issues just come out and say stuff straight like that? Dean pulled Cas's hand up from beneath the table and pressed his lips to their linked fingers and, hell, he was getting so mushy but he just couldn't help matching the goofy smile that was aimed his way. And the sasquatch was grinning like a total idiot too, so now they were all even.

Then Dean released Cas's hand and slapped the table hard. "Enough with the chick-flicks! Pass the fries, Sammy!"

"So, this is the new Dean Cave? Impressive!" Sam ran his hand along the smooth edge of the bar that Dean had made himself.

The blinds were drawn, the recliners ready to go - they just needed to choose a movie, or maybe start with a gaming session. Dean could go for a bit of a shoot-em-up. His brother's reactions were sure to be slower than normal after the amount of turkey he'd put away. And there were a fair few empty wine bottles, when Dean had mostly been drinking beer.

"Thanks, Sammy. But there's one thing it still needs." Dean took a bottle from beneath the bar - one of the special ones that he'd been saving.

"Really? What's that?"

Cas nodded to accept a tumbler of the fine Scotch whiskey. "It lacks a fitting name," he said, sniffing the glass appreciatively. "We should have a ceremony."

"Yeah." Dean handed Sam a glass. "We need to name this baby before her maiden voyage."

"Oh. Uh…" His brother scratched the side of his neck and twitched a shoulder. "Just call it the Rec Room."

"No way. It has to have a cool name."

"Eden," said Cas firmly. "The Terrestrial Paradise. It is a room entirely given over to delight, after all."

Sam looked at Dean who looked back and grimaced. How not to crush his angel's suggestion?

"Although," Cas continued, "we should consider that the delights may not prove to be entirely innocent. Perhaps Sodom might be a more fitting name. Or Gomorrah."

"Yeah, no - I don't think so, Cas." Images of what Cas might be planning sprang to mind - on the reclining sections of the couch… the pool table… the bar… Dean took a gulp of his drink, coughed and winced at the burn.

"How about Shangri-La?" Sam knocked back his drink and sloshed some more into his tumbler. "Or hey - what about Asgard? Rivendell! Camelot! El-dorado?"

His grin was sloppy. He gestured wildly with his free hand. How much of the wine had he got through over dinner?

"Atlantis," added Cas. "Valhalla?"

"Tír na nÓg!" Sam reeled and collapsed on the couch, triggering the recliner and jerking in surprise as it flung him full length.

"Yeah, I think that's enough whiskey for you, Sam. And enough suggestions."

Dean looked around at the room he'd made - at the rich, dark wooden panelling he'd installed, at Sam, giggling and spluttering, his arms and legs everywhere, and at Cas, who had picked up one of the games controllers and was pressing buttons and moving it around like he was steering. Just like a couple of kids in a treehouse.

"The Treehouse."

"What?" Sam squirmed around and started to slither off the smooth leather of the recliner.

"The Treehouse. We always wanted a treehouse, didn't we?"

"Yeah, but it's not in a tree."

"Doesn't matter. It's… it's the vibe that counts."

"It's a good name, Dean. It's a place to play. Like children." Cas raised his glass. "We name this room - the Treehouse," he said.

"Uh, okay." Sam raised his glass too and cleared his throat. "Jack bless her."

Dean's glass hovered between his brother's and Cas's. "And all who game and watch movies and do… other stuff in her."

The glasses clinked, he swallowed the rest of his whiskey, put his glass down on the bar and rubbed his hands together. "What shall we play first? Grand Theft Auto?"

The lights flickered suddenly, but then steadied. Dean plucked at the edge of one of the blinds. It was still snowing and the wind had picked up.

"I wanna try Ciliv- Cilivazation." Sam frowned and rubbed his mouth. "Civilisation," he repeated, carefully.

The lights dimmed again for just a second. No. No power outage, please. Not on Christmas.

"I like the game where everything's square," said Cas. He giggled. "There are even square bees."

Dean rolled his eyes. Maybe he should just put on a Hallmark Christmas movie and let these two lightweights fall asleep in front of it. Then he could play Grand Theft Auto while they snored.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna-"

The lights went out.

"I should get the generator going," said Dean again.

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean, it'd be too loud. We wouldn't be able to hear a movie."

Cas pushed closer to Dean beneath the confines of the slanket. "This is nice, anyway," he said. "Just as it is."

"Yeah, okay."

It was nice. They had the fire, they had the slanket, Sam was enveloped in his Cas-made hoodie. They had snacks and drinks laid out on the coffee table and if the tree lights weren't twinkling at least the cactus-guys were enjoying the conversation, wriggling and rustling whenever anyone spoke or the fire cracked.

Sam leant forward to dunk a carrot stick into the dip. "Hey, maybe we should have some ghost stories - they are traditional."

"No they aren't."

"They were in Victorian England." He waved his carrot stick - he'd better not be double-dipping. "Dickens - A Christmas Carol."

"Scrooge McDuck off, Sammy. We're not in Victorian England, we don't need Dickens and, seriously - ghost stories?" Dean shook his head and snagged a large handful of tortilla chips. "We've had enough ghost stories to last a hundred lifetimes."

"I could tell you a story about angels." Cas snagged one of Dean's chips and studied it thoughtfully. "But there would be very little humour."

"Plenty of smiting, though, I bet," said Dean.

Cas hummed, without much enthusiasm.

Sam was on the cucumber sticks now, loading them up with garlic mayo. "Hey, Dean." He paused. He twisted his cucumber stick around to stop a drip falling, his eyes flicking up and down. What was coming? "Uh, I was just wondering. I mean, I never really asked before…"

"Spit it out, Sammy. The suspense is killing me."

Sam nodded and his lips firmed. "Okay, so - what did we do for my first Christmas?" He continued quickly, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want. Or maybe you can't remember."

Dean paused, a chip halfway to his mouth. He let his hand fall back to the cluster lying in the folds of the slanket. The chip snapped in half. "I remember."

"You don't have to-"

"No, it's okay." He shrugged. "There's not a lot to tell, really."

Firelight danced on his brother's face. All those years ago, Dean wouldn't have gone near an open fire. It wouldn't have meant warmth and comfort to him then. It would have meant horror and screaming and his Mom gone - just gone and never coming back, and no more home and no more toys, no more pb and j at their little kitchen table. And mostly it seemed like there wouldn't be any love or comfort or anything soft for Dean ever again.

He took a slow, steadying breath.

"Well, you know that it… the fire… happened in November. And then word must have gone around. About Mom. So that when Dad started chasing up leads on yellow-eyes, some other hunters reached out to him. Maybe they tried to persuade him to drop it - I don't know. But anyway, Pastor Jim was one of the first hunters Dad got to know and we spent that first Christmas at his place."

Sam was silent. Cas was a close and comforting presence. Dean hadn't thought about those early months in a long while. It was probably time he talked about it.

"It, uh… it wasn't great."

The Pastor had tried. And there'd been his housekeeper too - Dean couldn't remember her name. They'd both tried to give the broken little family some kind of a Christmas.

"Dad did his best. I remember sitting up at the table next to him. And the Pastor was saying grace over the meal. But you wouldn't stop crying, Sammy. You sat in your highchair and wouldn't stop. And I knew that if I held you on my lap you'd be happy enough, but… at the time words just wouldn't come out for me. They weren't there. So you were crying and the housekeeper was shaking some stupid rattle at you which was just pissing you off more and Pastor Jim was saying thank you to God and… Dad just snapped. He'd been drinking, probably. And he started yelling - what did he have to be thankful for? Why should he say thank you to a God who'd taken everything away from him? And the more he shouted the more you screamed, Sammy. And then he left. And the housekeeper lady took you out of the highchair and bounced you around trying to get you to stop crying, but she couldn't and she wouldn't give you to me. So I kicked her in the shins and pulled you off her. And you stopped crying. And they left us alone. I don't remember much else."

Dean had curled up in the corner of the kitchen, wrapping his body around his baby brother, clasping him in his arms and holding him tight, because Sammy was the only thing he had to hold onto - the only thing that was still his. His to keep safe and to love and to cling to like a liferaft on a stormy sea.

A log shifted and collapsed and sparks flew up the chimney.

"I don't know what to say," said Sam. "You must've felt so alone."

"I had you. I was never alone." The tortilla chips were shattered fragments in the folds of the slanket. "I had you, Sammy."

Cas's fingers slid into Dean's, pulling them away from the mess he'd made of the chips. It was all a very long time ago. But the sad, angry little boy who'd clung to his baby brother was still there inside Dean. He'd shaped so much of Dean's life, so many of his actions over the years, both good and bad.

"We were on the road at Christmastime the next year."

Sammy had been toddling and getting into trouble. Dad had strapped him into his carseat and they'd driven into the night, coloured lights flashing past, Sammy falling asleep. They'd slowed down through a town and there'd been a tree lit up and a choir and a band. But John Winchester had driven on.

"I remember stopping at a motel. Dad carried you in and put you on the bed, still asleep. And then he gave me a knife. He told me - keep this away from your brother. And that was Christmas."

Dean couldn't see Sam's face. His brother stared at the ceiling, stretched out in the armchair, his long legs angular, dark shapes in the shadowy firelight.

"A knife for Christmas. And you were, what - five?"

"Nearly six. And I liked it. It was useful."

Dean picked at the fragments of tortilla chip. Cas leant forward to get a cucumber stick.

Sam's fingers twitched and tapped on the arm of his chair. "Didn't we go to IHOP one year?"

"International House of Pancakes," murmured Cas. "I don't think I've ever been."

"I'll make you pancakes, angel."

"Thank you, Dean."

"We did, though, didn't we, Dean? I was pretty young, I think."

"Yeah." Huh. Another stand-out fun family Christmas.

"What? What happened?"

"Okay, so, you remember some years Dad'd take us to eat somewhere on Christmas Day and let us order stuff we wouldn't normally get. Well, put it this way - we never went to IHOP again after that year."

"Why not?" Cas looked up at him, eyes like blue searchlights. "You both like pancakes."

"Yeah, Sammy liked them a bit too much. He got sick in the car. I mean, like, full on, no holds barred. Dad couldn't stop in time and he was real pissed."

"Huh." Sam laughed. "I don't remember that part."

"Lucky you. Because it sure wasn't funny at the time."

Another bleak motel room, another time Dad fled to the nearest bar, Sammy sleeping off his nausea and Dean left to do what he could with laundry soap and hard scrubbing.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Shit, Sammy, it was a long time ago. A long time ago and there were a lot of other times I had to clean up after you or Dad or me - and I needed that. I needed to do all that stuff, because what else could I do? What else did I have? It was my job to look after the three of us."

"You were a child, Dean."

"I was older than you and that's what counted."

His brother had been so young - that night when he had carried him out of their burning house. He'd been so much younger than Dean. Because, the time between late thirties and early forties? Well that's nothing. But back then those few years had meant a huge weight of responsibility for Dean. Would things have been different if they'd been closer in age? If his brother had been only two years younger? Or one? It didn't matter now.

His angel seemed to pick up on Dean's thoughts.

"I could wish things had been different for you both - that you'd had a stable, loving childhood. But we couldn't have this present without that past." He pushed an arm between Dean and the back of the couch and curled it around Dean's waist. "And I like it here."

"Yeah, me too." Dean scooped up the rest of the chip fragments and dropped them into his mouth. "Anyway," he said, crunching, "we had one halfway decent Christmas. You remember, Sam? That time at Bobby's? You were maybe five or six?"

"Yeah, I remember Christmas at Bobby's." Sam sat up, reeling in his long legs. "Didn't we eat bear?"

"It wasn't bear."

"You told me it was."

"Yeah, well. I used to tell you a lot of shit."

"Tell me about your Christmas at Bobby's," said Cas.

"Okay. Well, we'd been staying at Bobby's while Dad was on a hunt. And Dad came back and we were gonna leave, but somehow Bobby persuaded him to stay."

"Did you get presents? Was there a tree?"

It hadn't been much of a Christmas, not compared to what some kids got, but it had been pretty good for Dean and magical for little Sammy.

"Bobby hadn't been going to do anything, I don't think. But he had some stuff tucked away. So Dad went out and chopped down a branch of some old tree and stuck it in a pot and we were allowed to put on the lights and some garland and some baubles. And Bobby wrapped up a couple of things - some old books for Sam, some pens and paper - stuff so he could draw."

"What did you get?"

"Bobby got together some stuff for Baby - special polish for the chrome, so I'd be able to get it real shiny, one of those bendy screwdrivers for getting in tight places - a couple of other bits."

Dean had torn the crumpled brown paper apart eagerly and the whole lot had fallen out into his lap like treasure.

"Did you have a turkey?"

"No. It definitely wasn't bear - but I'm not sure what it was. Something Bobby had in his freezer - that he'd shot. A deer, I guess. Anyway, it got cooked and eaten, along with canned corn and green beans."

"It sounds… nice."

"Yeah. It was different."

A gust of wind shook the windows and smoke blew back down the chimney. The power lines wouldn't get fixed tonight.

"Ghosts of Christmas past," murmured Sam.

"Huh. I guess we were more Dickens than Hallmark. But that's enough of our family's rattling chains." Dean pushed the slanket over his head and slithered out from underneath. "It's time for - guess what?"

The slanket surged and rippled as Cas struggled out from its folds. "I'll come and help you, Dean."

"What?" asked Sam. "What's it time for?"

"It's time for pie!"

Sam had said he didn't want any pie. He'd said he was still full from the feast and that any little cracks he might have had had been taken up by the cucumber and carrot sticks and dips.

But then Dean had brought in all three of the pies that he had made - cherry, blueberry and apple. And somehow his brother had managed a good portion of each. Not as big as Dean's portions, obviously - he wasn't the older brother for nothing - but enough to leave him groaning and clutching his stomach and saying he'd need to live on wheatgrass juice (or some shit) for the next six weeks just to get over the pie.

"I think I'm going to go to bed."

"Looking a bit green around the gills, there, Sammy. Do you need anything? A glass of water? Tylenol? A bucket?"

"Uh." He unfolded himself and staggered upright. "No. I'm good. I think." He pressed a hand to his mouth for a moment, then let it fall. "Yeah. All good."

"Okay, dude. Maybe I'll just come with? Make sure you get up the stairs. Power's still out. I'll bring the lantern."

"You don't need to-"

"Yeah, well, I'm going to."

Dean steered his brother out of the room. "Are you staying up, Cas?"

Cas was still eating a piece of blueberry pie, slowly savouring it in small spoonfuls. He nodded. "Yes. I'm not tired yet." One eyebrow twitched up and down and his lips twisted around the tip of the spoon. What was that all about?

"Right. Well, I'll just make sure Sammy's not gonna puke everywhere."

"Dean."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Dean, I'm not going to-"

"Or the last."

Sam carried on whining all the way up the stairs. "I don't need you to babysit me, Dean!"

"No?"

His brother stopped on the landing, and turned around, hands on hips, pissy expression in place. "No! And I wish you wouldn't-"

"It's okay." Dean flung up his hands and laughed, then curled his fingers over Sam's shoulders and squeezed, giving the great big moose a shake. "I'm just winding you up, Sammy."

He knew he deserved the eye-roll and crossed arms. But he didn't let go of his brother.

"You ate too much pie, man."

"So what if I did?"

"You never eat too much - not unless it's too much lettuce."

"And the one time I do, you're going to criticise?"

Dean squeezed his brother's shoulders again and then patted the side of his scrunched-up face. "No. I'm not. I'm proud of you, Sammy. You're letting go. Loosening up. Enjoying life. It's good to see."

"Oh." Sam shuffled and scratched his chin. "Really?"

"Yeah." Dean stepped back - and he was definitely pushing his chick-flick limit for the day. One hand crept up to rub the nape of his neck. He shrugged. "You 'n me? I think we're doing pretty well - considering. Cause, you know… I never thought we'd have this. Fuck, I always hoped you'd get to have a normal life, but I never thought I'd even get to live, let alone be… well, happy." He glanced up. Sam was watching him, puppy-dog eyes fully deployed. "Jeez, Sammy, don't give me that face."

Then Dean was caught up in an avalanche. He staggered, but his brother's long arms kept him from falling.

Sam mumbled something into his shoulder and sniffed a couple of times and squeezed him way too hard and slapped him on the back and mumbled a bit more, wetly. Then he released Dean, half turning away and pretending not to wipe his eyes and Dean did the same kind of thing because really, enough with the heart-to-heart drama.

"So, uh, thanks for today, Dean. It was great." Sam sidled toward the guest room, his bangs covering his face.

Dean shrugged and swayed from one blue-socked to one green-socked foot and back again. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Sammy."

"Night, Dean."

Dean made sure all of the leftovers were safely in their plastic containers in the fridge - ready to be dipped into tomorrow in one long day of alternating Scooby-Doo style stacked sandwiches and delicious slices of pie. In fact, maybe he should just make a small snack now… no. Well, not unless Cas wanted something too. He'd go and see.

"Cas?"

It was quiet and soft in the living room, the only light coming from the dying fire. Maybe his angel had fallen asleep.

"Cas?"

No, he wasn't asleep. His head was poking out from the slanket, just about - he'd snuggled down until it was bunched up around his neck. The fleecy arms were flat so Cas's hands must be inside the folds somewhere.

And on the armchair where Sam had been sitting was a neatly stacked pile of clothes.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean looked at the clothes. He looked at Cas - two bright blue eyes twinkling in the firelight and just one corner of a mischievous smirk visible above the neck of the slanket.

"Uh…"

"You don't have to be worried about the integrity of the slanket, Dean. I checked the care instructions. It says machine wash. And tumble dry."

Dean swallowed. He didn't know laundry care instructions could sound sultry. "Okay. Okay, good to know."

"Why don't you join me, Dean? It's lovely and warm in here. In fact… it's hot." Cas's face sunk further, until, with a slow, suggestive wink, he disappeared completely.

The fire glowed red. The wind had dropped again so that there was just the occasional soft bluster against the walls of the house. The power might be back. Dean didn't know. And he didn't care.

Cas had left his clothes in a neatly-folded stack. Some of Dean's went flinging onto the Christmas tree.

He peeled up the edge of the slanket.

"I'm coming in."

Cas giggled.

Naughty Cas! What's going on under the slanket?!

So, that was Christmas... next stop, January. Doesn't somebody have a birthday in January?