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Four days before Christmas, Dean realizes it's four days before Christmas.
He figures it out when he's down in Bobby's kitchen at three in the morning, on a break from sitting by his sick brother's bedside. He's brewing coffee, mid-yawn while he twirls the dial on Bobby's old radio. And suddenly there they are, crackling across the airwaves, a bunch of poodle-skirted, nineteen-fifties beehive hairdos cheerfully trilling out, I love those J-I-N-G-L-E bells…bong, before Frank Sinatra picks it up and starts swinging away. It stops Dean dead, makes him think of how the song played in the background of the only Christmas he remembers with his mom. It reminds him that John Winchester loved ol' blue eyes, and there was even a time when he loved Christmas, maybe even wore lurid Christmas sweaters for real, just like that made-up picture in the djinn's fake reality.
Dean checks his cell and sure enough, it's four days before Christmas. And even if it's a shock, it gives him a warm feeling in his belly because it's the first Christmas he can remember since his mom died when he had everything he really wanted under the same roof as him. Except for…he clucks his tongue contemplatively as he stares at his reflection in the window, spends a couple of minutes strategizing, and smiles at himself as it all falls into place because fuck, he loves it when a plan comes together.
He pours himself a steaming mug of joe, shuffles through to Bobby's study, and pulls open the desk drawer.
The keys are right where he thought they'd be.
They're go-for-launch.
It's early enough to still be a murky gray outside as they head west. Fat, crinkly snowflakes swirl gently around the truck like a semi-sentient fog, dancing and pirouetting through the air, pressing delicate kisses to the windshield before the wipers cast the crystals away. Dean nurses the vehicle along carefully, mindful of the icy surface underneath the tires, but he risks a swift glance over at his companion even so.
He feels a smile pull at his lips at the sight of Castiel gazing avidly at his new toy, a finger skating deftly across the tiny screen. "Who's winning?" he asks.
Castiel doesn't interrupt his game, and his brow furrows as he stares down at the phone in his hand. "Sam is," he murmurs distantly. "Your brother is skilled at this words with friends pursuit, even at this indecent hour of the day, when he claims to be coughing up his lungs, and he…he…" His face goes suddenly crestfallen, and he bites his lip. "Wait, how did he…?" He makes an incoherent noise that signals his disbelief all too clearly, and then stabs at the screen. "I resign," he says with a sigh, before dropping his hand down onto his thigh and side-eyeing Dean morosely.
Castiel has the hood of his parka pulled up, and he looks damned good like that, Dean decides. He's all huge, agitated electric-blue eyes and thick, dark lashes peeking out from a faux-fur frame, and there's a second when Dean thinks idiotically of the dark-haired chick in that Abba video, remembers her looking out from her fox-skin hood as she and her blond sidekick wandered around in the snow and mimed for the camera. He realizes how fuckin' ridiculous that sounds just when it's on the tip of his tongue, and blurts out, "You look like Nanook of the North," instead.
The angel seems unimpressed with the comparison. "Your brother cheats," he says. "And I think this pneumonia he claims to have may be a ruse."
Dean tries for some degree of diplomacy, since he's pretty sure Castiel's annoyance over the whole pneumonia deal stems mainly from his guilt over not being able to magic-finger Sam back to perfect health. "The medic Bobby called in says it's pneumonia, Cas. Sam reckons he swallowed near a gallon of water when that mutant fish-guy hauled him in the sea." He frowns as he thinks on it, because he can't shake the feeling his brother hasn't told him everything that happened during his night on the town in Crystal Beach. "Has Sam said any more about that to you?" he prods.
There's no reply, and when he glances across again, Castiel is back staring at his cell phone, his brows knitted together in fierce concentration. Dean reaches over and jabs him in the thigh. "Hey. Did Sam say any more to you about fish-guy when he wasn't coughing up those lungs?"
Castiel startles, swings his head around, and there's a split second where Dean can see something flit through his friend's eyes, something that looks like calculation. "No…he didn't," he replies hesitantly.
Dean chews his lip for a moment at that, because now he can't shake off a frisson of unease, the suspicion that Castiel isn't telling him everything either. That damn well grates after all the crap that went down in the last few months, and after what happened between them in Crystal Beach, so he clears his throat in what he hopes is a determined fashion and goes in for the kill. "Why do I get the feeling you're—"
"Do you think he would?" Castiel jumps in before he can finish. "Tell me anything? Confide in me, trust me? Ever again?"
Now when Dean glances across Castiel's face is troubled, his eyes bleak, and Dean can see the calculation for the uncertainty it really is. He switches tack, tells Castiel unequivocally, "Yes," because he believes it absolutely, heard the honesty in his brother's voice loud and clear as they sat in the car outside the motel, Cas saved my life today…you can't say he isn't trying. "He already does, Cas."
Castiel's features fall impassive again, back to their usual steely calm, but Dean is fairly sure he sighs out relief before his eyes drift away so that he's staring listlessly out at the rolling, prairie-flat miles that mark the terrain this far east, ahead of the striated sedimentary buttes and canyons of the Badlands, and the granite mountains and Disney pine forests that lie westward.
Dean turns his own focus back to the road, marked only by the dim glow of sparse light poles out here in the sticks. The earthy grays and browns of winter are hidden under stark, pristine ivory, as if someone spread freshly laundered white sheets across the usual patchwork-quilt landscape. The truck is cutting through virgin snow, leaving pale-gray tramlines Dean can only barely see in the rearview mirror. It's like steering across a cliché Christmas card, so much so Dean idly muses that he wouldn't be surprised to see a sled and reindeer do a flyby as they journey.
"Perhaps Tamara will check in with news about, uh…fish-guy, and the situation in Crystal Beach," Castiel backtracks out into the quiet.
Dean feels another stab of regret about having to pull out of the hunt early. "Yeah," he concedes reluctantly. "She should be there by now. Pity Sam got sick…wouldn't have minded staying up there and hooking fish-guy myself." He grins slowly then, as he remembers the cloying scent of perfume in the car when Sam finally reappeared at the motel, the evidence of his sly-dog brother's conquest. "He say anything to you about the chick he picked up?"
Castiel stares back at him so intensely Dean can feel a delicious warmth start flooding through his groin, before the angel scowls and returns to his cell. "These pigs are extremely resourceful," he mutters. "Some have even acquired helmets, and my birds have limited weaponry. And no, he hasn't said anything about the chick."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Angry Birds? Seriously?"
When Castiel looks up again, his expression is abruptly unguarded and brittle, the bruised shadows under his eyes more obvious than they've been in several weeks. "Sam recommended it," he says. "It keeps my mind occupied at night, when I – you've been sitting up with him, so…" His voice fades away, leaves the rest of it unsaid.
The thought of Castiel waking from his nightmares with only a video game to help him fight his demons sends a dull ache throbbing through Dean's chest. "I thought you were sleeping better," he says quietly. "You should have told me if you weren't."
Castiel makes some sort of hand gesture Dean can't quite decode, forces a casual tone. "Your brother needed you. I managed."
The angel's cheeks are spotted a hectic pink against his winter-wan complexion, and it takes Dean out of the conversation for a second, has him thinking it's not surprising that Castiel should be flushed, with the heater going full-blast. It makes him wonder distractedly if Castiel might be hot and sweat-slippery under his layers, and the thought makes him flash to the motel a week ago. The image in his mind is vivid, Castiel's hands cradling his face and his friend's small, desperate sounds as their tongues tangled greedily, the way he shuffled Castiel backwards to the bed, the way Castiel stared up at him with dark eyes and said his name softer than he ever had before that moment.
The memory makes Dean's cock pulse, and he shifts uncomfortably against the sudden twitch of hopeful, quarter-hard flesh against the buttons of his fly. The fact he has spent the last five nights in a chair by his sick brother's bedside, mopping Sam's brow and feeding him antibiotics every four hours, means that he and Castiel haven't really talked about it, even though his mind keeps wandering through each step that led up to an explosion of want and need he didn't really expect and he doesn't think Castiel did either.
He tries not to speculate on what might have happened if Castiel hadn't heard Sam's far-off prayer for help, if they hadn't both ended up driving the streets of Crystal Beach in a hot-wired Buick searching for his errant brother instead of…instead of. He very definitely tries not to dwell on the possibilities that might come from being alone with Castiel again for the first time since they crossed the line they've been dancing along for the last two years, if he's honest, not counting the year he spent trying to fit into the white-picket-fence dream in Cicero.
"It's stuffy in here," he sidetracks, because he's trying to think about anything but the press of heated skin and smooth, hard muscle against him. But his brain is two steps ahead and damned treacherous, mischievously calculating the odds of local highway patrol passing by and arresting them for public indecency if he were to whip out his dick and suggest that Castiel warm it up a little inside his mouth. Fuck. No.
He swallows, tries to slow down his heartbeat, tries not to think about anything but the road ahead of him. He's not even sure what happened between him and Castiel in that motel room. He's not sure what it means for him, for his friend, for the two of them together. It's too confusing to think about, and he'd rather not think about it. But, dammit, he can't help thinking about it, has beaten off in the shower to the hazy memory a couple of guilty times, and the possibilities have his nerves zinging out a spasm that's partly pure, unadulterated lust and partly sheer terror.
"You look, uh…hot," he adds, because the silence feels suddenly complicated, and he needs to break it. He cringes inwardly, because it definitely comes out a few octaves higher than his usual pitch. "Maybe you could lose the jacket…"
Castiel regards him with baleful eyes. "We're driving."
The detour leaves Dean feeling a perplexing mix of regret and relief, and after a puzzled shrug he fishes, "Your point?"
"I can't remove my seatbelt while the vehicle is in motion," Castiel informs him. "There are laws, after all."
Dean takes a moment to reflect on that, shrugs again. "Says who?" he asks.
"The South Dakota Department of Public Safety," Castiel says, and he looks pointedly at Dean's own seatbelt-free state as he speaks, turns his attention back to his phone, and does some industrious finger tapping and swiping. "And I quote, every operator and front-seat passenger of a passenger vehicle operated on a public highway in this state shall wear a properly adjusted and fastened safety seatbelt system at all times when the vehicle is in forward motion."
Dean snorts. "Doesn't count if the vehicle predates nineteen seventy-three, Cas. I've checked." He has his eyes back on the road as the truck grinds along, through deep furrows left in the snow by some other suicidal idiot risking death-by-skid, but he can still feel Castiel's stare lasering into him.
"While your car fulfills that criteria, Dean, Bobby's truck doesn't," the angel chides testily. "And there's a fine of—"
"Twenty-five bucks," Dean jumps in. "It won't break the bank."
Castiel is unimpressed. "However, the windshield could break your skull if you lose control of this vehicle on the ice."
Dean tells himself he'll ignore that, tells himself he's a fuckin' grown-up who can make his own decisions and doesn't need to be bossed about by his – whatever Castiel is to him. Dean isn't sure he really knows, even though he can't stop thinking about the motel room, can't stop wanting something from Castiel that he hasn't even been able to put a name to. Or maybe it's just not something he's ready to admit to wanting more of. His dick gives another determinedly gleeful little hop-skip-jump in his jeans at that, and Dean pulls out all the stops this time, forcing his mind to focus on his snot-crusty brother just an hour or so before, surrounded by a sea of used Kleenex and hoiking phlegm up like an old man of ninety with emphysema. It works, just like he knew it would. Sam Winchester, cockblocker extraordinaire even from miles away.
"And it would drain me considerably if I had to fix your broken skull," Castiel adds thinly.
Dean is still silently chanting his fuckin' grown-up mantra as he reaches across and heaves the seatbelt down across his chest, clicking the buckle home clumsily, by feel alone, as he steers one-handed. "Satisfied?" he snaps, with another quick glance to his right, and he can't resist another poke. "You're like Moses the friggin' lawgiver."
Castiel's expression is definitely nudging smug as he gazes unblinkingly at Dean, before reaching up to snag his hood and flick it back off his head, blowing out a long, infinitely patient exhale as he does.
There's nothing in the rearview mirror, nothing else on the road at all as far as Dean can see, though he damn well won't admit it's because only he's crazy enough to drive in these conditions at dark-thirty in the morning, so he brakes gently to a halt and raises an eyebrow.
Castiel inclines his head graciously, unbuckles his seatbelt and unzips his parka before shimmying it down off his shoulders so he's left wearing a gigantic charcoal-gray cable-knit sweater procured, along with the parka, from a bag-load of clothing dropped off at Bobby's by Jodie Mills the week before. They'd been her husband's, she'd informed them quietly, and Dean had hovered there uncomfortably while Castiel unpacked the assortment with solemn care, handling each item reverently as she watched, before thanking her gently. Dean muses on that for a moment as he releases the parking brake and presses his foot down, considers the incongruous air of defenselessness that seems to mark his friend since Purgatory.
The truck rolls forward a foot before the tires lose their grip and they slide sedately off the road. They sit there for a silent moment while Dean drums apologetic thumbs on the steering wheel. "So," he ventures then. "Spinning the wheels not really an option in this situation."
Castiel sighs again, and he's already pulling his parka back on as he asks, "Would it help if I got out and pushed?"
Dean nods decisively. "Yep. Bobby keeps a sack of cat litter in the truck bed for this – if you scatter it around the wheels, it'll give us traction."
He gets a hard look for that, and a supercilious, "We won't need traction," before the door opens and a blast of freezing air hits him between the eyes.
A few seconds later, one single, brutal shove sends the truck slithering back onto the highway, and as Dean eases the vehicle to a barely-controlled halt he can't help thinking there's something so damn hot about being whatever he is with something as strong as Castiel still is despite his odd vulnerability, something that could maybe press him down and hold him in place like the angel did when they sparred in Bobby's attic a couple of weeks before, make him bend to its growled-out will while it—no, goddammit. He shakes his head, shifts in his seat. This is not something he's supposed to be thinking about.
"This smartphone is telling me it's twenty-six degrees out there," Castiel comments as he climbs back into the cab. He clunks the truck door shut, shrugs his jacket off again, and buckles up fastidiously. He leans forward a little to look at the sky and points up. "Bobby tells me South Dakota is known as the blizzard state, which would explain why we've been having them so often lately. And those clouds look pregnant with snow."
Castiel has snowflakes on his eyelashes, but Dean studiously ignores the white sparkles, ignores his sudden desire to grab his friend by the scruff, haul him in, and kiss his plush pink lips until he softens and whimpers. "Relax," he clips out briskly. "We're not on stormwatch, so it'll be fine. And no one says pregnant with snow. Jesus." He turns his face into his shoulder and feels a flash of childish satisfaction, notwithstanding the whole fuckin' grown-up deal, as he whispers, "Pull the stick out of your ass."
Castiel clears his throat in a long-suffering manner. "Winter temperatures can be deceptive, Dean," he reproves. "Thermometers measure only the cold, but don't forget the effects on the body are compounded by the wind. A wind chill of minus twenty degrees can cause frostbite in just thirty minutes." His voice takes on a mildly chilly edge. "And I don't recall inserting a stick in my ass this morning after you woke me." His eyes go flinty and even more annoyed, and he brings his hand up to block a yawn Dean is fairly sure he's faking. "At four-thirty."
Dean snorts as he eases his foot down on the gas again. "It's also called the sunshine state of the upper Midwest," he counters. "South Dakota gets a ton of sunshine. Just…" He pauses, flicks his own gaze up to the still-murky heavens and scowls. "Not today. Not so far, that is, but it's only just sun-up. Give it time." He looks at his wristwatch. "Anyway we're almost there. It's just a quick zip up I-90."
Tap-tap-swipe-tappety-tap, and Dean is beginning to think this might be Castiel's own personal morse code for I am about to intensely irritate my whatever-he-is-to-me-now.
And sure enough, "According to this smartphone, the distance between Sioux Falls and Black Hills national forest is approximately three hundred sixty-six miles. A five-hour drive, in fact. We left Bobby's forty-five minutes ago."
After an intensely irritated moment, Dean parries, "Anyone ever tell you that you can be a grumpy little bastard sometimes?"
Castiel doesn't hesitate. "Yes. Bobby. Frequently. And according to this smartphone, the borders of Sioux Falls incorporate Sertoma, Pasley, Spencer, Yankton Trails, and Oxbow parks. All of which contain pine trees, Dean."
Dean takes what he tells himself is a deep, calming breath. "We can't cut down a pine tree in a local park, Cas. Trust me."
Maybe that worked, he's thinking a few minutes later, because Castiel seems to be tapping less frenziedly. Dean sneaks another surreptitious look up at the sky, thinks, pregnant with snow, my ass, because goddammit, those clouds look like they're carrying a whole litter of little baby blizzards.
"This smartphone is also telling me that the Home Depot on South Louise Avenue has a large selection of Christmas trees on sale at reasonable prices," Castiel declares triumphantly.
"Shut up, Cas," Dean snaps, exasperated. "We're going to cut down our own damn tree. Trust me, you'll like it. I called ahead, and Hardware Hank's in Rapid City has a tree-cutting permit waiting for me. And I'm canceling your data package."
Castiel huffs, falls quiet as he slips his phone back into his pocket, and his silence is indignant, confused even. Dean sighs himself, glides the truck to a halt again.
At first he isn't sure what he's going to say but then it just spills out of him, albeit it's halting. "The last time I had Christmas with my brother was the year before I…" He trails off, swallows. The memory is comforting and warm, but the press of Hell encroaches, singing its edges so they blacken and curl. "Before I died," he continues quietly, and he thinks he sees Castiel frown in his peripheral vision. "We were in some roach motel in Michigan, and it was…" He can see it still, see his brother smiling at him even though Sam's eyes were dark with the strain of knowing time was running out. "It was stupid, I guess," he finishes lamely. "The eggnog was good, though. Had a kick like a mule. Sam must've poured a fifth of Jack in there." He rubs at his jaw, chews wistfully at his thumbnail for a few seconds. "Lisa tried, but it was too soon, I was, uh." He laughs, sort of. "In no shape for it. She and Ben went to her sister's, they needed the break. I stayed at her place by myself."
Dean trains his eyes to the front, fixes them on some spot in the near distance while he sucks oxygen into lungs gone shriveled and feeble. "It'd just be nice to do it properly this year. Christmas with my family, you know? Sam, Bobby…" His mouth goes a little dry then. "And you. Drive to an actual real-live forest and get us a tree." The sun is finally coming up, reflecting off crystalline ice and shooting dazzling white shards of light up into his eyes, making them sting and leak. He scrubs at them with his knuckles. "Man, that sunlight," he mutters. "It's way too bright."
Castiel is silent for a moment. "It is too bright, Dean," he says then. "But they say this is the sunshine state of the upper Midwest." He leans across and his own hand is warm on Dean's cheek, his thumb wiping away the saltwater trickle, his eyes so fond it makes Dean's heart miss a beat. "My apologies," he murmurs. "This – tiredness. I'm unaccustomed to it still, and it makes me short-tempered."
Dean thinks about what happened the last time they let their tempers get the best of them, grimaces as he replies. "Me too. But let's try to watch our manners, eh?" His voice goes rough, catches in his throat, as he goes on. "Friend of Bobby's has a cabin where we're headed. We'll overnight there. Just us. You'll be able to, you know. Sleep."
Castiel nods, settles back in his seat. "The clouds are clearing," he remarks, with a casual tone Dean fancies is schooled in there hard. "Perhaps we should take advantage of this break in the weather to drive more than three-hundred miles to Black Hills national forest and harvest a Christmas tree."
The cabin has only one bed, but neither of them remark on it. Castiel just throws his duffel down in the corner next to Dean's, before following Dean back out into the main living space. He tracks his vision across the overstuffed couch and chairs, and the stone fireplace, casts an approving look up at the protection symbols carved into the weathered log crossbeams over the door and windows. "You said this cabin belongs to a friend of Bobby's?" he asks, as he leans in to examine the bookshelves that line one of the walls.
"Well…belonged," Dean replies, as he feeds chunks of wood into the firebox of the old Kalamazoo stove in the kitchenette. "Rufus Turner, hunter buddy of his." He pauses and grins at the memory. "Crusty old sonofabitch, and not entirely sane. He was totally off-the-grid, had about ten of these hidey-holes scattered all cross the lower forty-eight."
Castiel moves across the room to hover nearby, pulling open drawers and peering inquisitively into the pantry. His new appetite for food must appreciate what he sees, because he seems pleased. "Bobby keeps it well-stocked."
Dean nods. "They all are. Canned food, dried goods." He chuckles. "Whiskey. Just in case."
He pushes up to stand, finds he's suddenly right there in Castiel's no-fly zone. His awareness of his friend's proximity floors the pedal and rockets from zero to sixty in a nanosecond, but he doesn't really know what to do about it even if his sheer want is welling up in him, spilling messily over the levee of good sense and rules, and washing through him like floodwater. He's swimming vainly against the current, feels tight in his pants just like earlier, and he visualizes himself pulling Castiel in close like his friend did to him in Crystal Beach, tangling his fingers up in Castiel's hair, getting comfortable with this new development and testing its boundaries. But he can't go there. Not yet. "I better get the generator turning over," he diverts instead, less decisively than he'd like because his voice isn't cooperating again. "Otherwise we'll have no hot water when we get back."
Castiel is staring at him almost curiously, his eyes a dark pool of knowing that Dean thinks he might willingly drown in. "And then we should find our tree, Dean," he says neutrally.
The mountains rise up inexorably in the distance, their slopes shadowed with a thick, dark swathe of pine and spruce that crawl up towards majestic granite peaks topped with white frosting. Dean stops to marvel at the sight. "Pahá Sápa," he says, as they stand there and absorb the view, and his breath furls out ahead of him into the thin cold. "The black hills. The Lakota Sioux called them that because the trees made them look black from a distance. There's over two million acres of this, peaks high as seven-thousand two-hundred feet or more. An island in a sea of grass."
Castiel stamps his booted feet on the thick snow as he ranges his eyes along the horizon. "It is beautiful," he concedes softly, and he tugs his hood down again, turns his face up to gaze into the sky, brings up his arms like he might take off into the wide blue yonder.
It's suddenly easy between them again, Dean thinks, the stifled awkwardness of wanting to reach out and not quite knowing how dissipating here in the great outdoors. "I said you'd like it," he smirks, and he boffs Castiel in the ribs. "Winter of your discontent made glorious summer, huh?"
Castiel slides an eye his way. "And it's still here because of you and your brother."
That brings an unexpected lump to Dean's throat, because he hasn't thought of it like that, hasn't really thought beyond the small circle of people who mattered most to him. He has told himself it was worth it, but in some strange way, looking at this vista with his friend standing next to him alive, the friend who means more to him than he can quite comprehend or put into words, the friend he thought he had lost, feels almost like the final proof he needed. He says it out loud, "It was worth it," and his voice breaks on the words.
Castiel nods slowly in answer, fishes a folded up pamphlet out of the pocket of his parka. "Maybe we shouldn't think about it," he says carefully. "We can think about simpler things, about being…" His own voice goes warmer and cracks a little when he adds, "a family. Doing something as simple as finding the perfect Christmas tree."
Dean can't speak for a moment, but he nods, stands, and surveys the acres of powdery snow and chunky drifts, fresh and unspoiled in this neck of the woods apart from a scuffed track that marks the trail of a passing deer. Avenues of pine stretch out ahead and thicken into deeper copses further off the trail, their boughs glimmering with clumps of white. Dean tracks his gaze to his left, points as he finds his voice again. "Harney Peak. Highest mountain east of the Rockies. All this has been here for sixty-million years, and now here we are walking where stone-age friggin' man walked. And dinosaurs, friggin' dinosaurs." He whistles. "T-rex walked here. Wow." He grins at his friend. "Sixty-million years. That must be even older than you."
Castiel seems amused as he ponders that. "Not quite." He stares at the distant summit for a moment, pins Dean with his eyes again, and his voice is a low, throaty rumble. "I was standing on the highest mountain of them all, and round about beneath me was the whole hoop of the world. And while I stood there, I saw more than I can tell and I understood more than I saw…for I was seeing, in a sacred manner, the shapes of all things in the spirit, and the shape of all shapes as they must live together…like one being."
The sentiment is perfect, Dean thinks, and he remembers reading the words in school, so long ago. "Black Elk's great vision," he says, and he shakes his head, feels a little foolish. "You already knew all that sixty-million years dinosaur crap, didn't you?"
Castiel's eyes go gentle with the wisdom of ages. "I stood on the shores of a primeval sea once, Dean," he says softly. "I watched as the first fish crawled from the surf onto the sand. And my brother…" His voice fades a little, and Dean thinks his eyes go almost hazy as he remembers. "Michael. It was Michael…he told me that fish had a great future ahead of it."
The name, Michael, sends a sudden jolt of harsh memory through Dean, makes his gut clench a little. "You were close to him?" he asks, because he has never thought to ask, and the realization astonishes him. "I mean, really close?"
Castiel says, "There were times when he sought me out. He taught me much," in that same, faraway voice, only now it's tinged with sorrow. "He wasn't always an assbutt. He was my brother." He sighs then, smiles his usual tentative smile, and tangents as adroitly as Dean ever has. "I like it when you remind me of things I already know. It's…" His brow furrows momentarily and then his eyes brighten. "I like to see the world as you see it, see it as something to be experienced and not simply the blueprint for some grand experiment, or a work of art to be viewed from afar. I like it when you teach me that these things are real…that all of it is real, and can be touched, and felt."
The diversion away from the archangel is masterfully played, Dean acknowledges wryly, because Castiel's face is open and unguarded, his tone affectionate, and Dean finds he has to rip his eyes away and focus somewhere else, anywhere else, finds he has to make a joke of it so he doesn't say something so damn stupid and profound he might regret it. "Teachable moment, who'd have thunk?" he quips feebly, by way of deflection.
They both shift from foot to foot for a few stilted seconds then, until Dean clears his throat and looks up at the blanket of blue draped above them, marred only by the odd, fleecy cloud now. The sun is a fiery yellow ball, and when Dean looks down again its light bounces off the snow and blinds him a little, even through his shades. He nudges Castiel, thankful for a change of subject, and gestures up towards his own face. "You sure you don't need shades? I brought spares."
He almost hopes Castiel will say no, because his friend's eyes are as sapphire-blue as the sky in this light, standing out in sharp relief against his hair and the stubble that shades his jaw. Castiel is so damn distracting, and for a moment Dean finds it hard to concentrate on anything else, even the vast land around him.
Castiel tilts his head slightly, as if he knows what's on Dean's mind, and not for the first time Dean wonders if the angel does know. "I don't need them, Dean," he replies, and he smiles again, his eyes crinkling at the corners, before he glances back down at the paper he's holding in his gloved hand and studies it carefully. "According to the pamphlet Hardware Hank gave us, spruce trees have a classic, tapered form and short needles that allow for easy stringing of ornaments," he murmurs thoughtfully. "But it also says many people prefer the bluish coloring and full shape of the juniper tree. Or we could select a Ponderosa pine…" He stops, scans the clearing. "They have longer needles, and can reach heights of twenty feet."
Dean hefts his ax, chuckles. "I'm so damn tempted to haul a twenty-footer back to Bobby's." He jerks his head. "Come on. Let's hunt."
An hour later, Dean is sauntering along aimlessly, swiping his ax out at shrubs, posing in serial-killer fashion with the tool held aloft, staging mock lightsaber fights with imaginary Sith Lords, and if he's honest, only vaguely listening as Castiel lectures him.
"Using your sense of smell you can easily identify the Ponderosa pine trees that dominate the landscape in the Black Hills," Castiel reads as they tramp along. "Look for a tall pine tree with reddish bark."
He stops, turns slowly in place, his eyes scoping the woods until they stop on Dean. "Are you even looking, Dean?" he chides. "Because…" He rolls his shoulders a few times as he peers down at the print again. "If it has long needles it may be a Ponderosa pine." He's still making little circles in the air on each side of his neck, and Dean frowns, his attention caught by the tell.
"Uh…do they hurt?" he asks sympathetically. "The wings, I mean. It's just that…they looked damaged. In Purgatory."
Castiel's expression darkens, looks pained. "The Underworld, it's…" he starts hesitantly, and his face twists as his voice goes suddenly grim. "It's like an infection to the Host, Dean. Many of my brothers perished in the search for you because of this."
He stops then, scrubs a hand through his hair, making it even wilder than usual, and it's so damn human, Dean thinks, because Castiel is falling right in front of him, like before. He tries not to let it affect him, tries not to dwell on what his friend is losing. "But you didn't perish," he ventures. "You were stronger. You are stronger."
Castiel doesn't answer him, just occupies himself by reading some more and then starts walking again, heading for the nearest tree as purposefully as he can with his boots sinking down into the deep snow that banks the trail. "Now walk right up to the tree and smell the bark," he throws back. "Does it smell sweet…like vanilla or butterscotch?" Once at the tree he rests his face against it, and his voice is muffled. "Dean. I actually have no idea what vanilla and butterscotch smell like."
Dean really has no other option than what he does then, which is bend to scoop up a handful of snow he molds carefully between his hands. "Hey, check this out," he calls, and he pitches as the angel turns. "He shoots, he scores," he crows, as the snow finds its target and explodes on contact. "Right in the kisser." He stands with his hands on his hips, winks elaborately. "Hey, Cas. Your face is pregnant with snow."
Castiel contemplates him for a long moment then, his eyes so piercing Dean feels as if he's being consumed, feels all his confidence fade away, thinks he might even squirm under the scrutiny.
Castiel reaches up a hand to wipe away the wet clots. "You should have taken more care when you read your Bible, Dean," he rumbles out, with the sort of lethal, icy-but-hot calm that promises a smiting incident any minute now. "Warrior of God, remember?"
Dean finds it pretty fuckin' badass, all things considered, and he takes a deep breath. "Uh…count backwards from ten maybe?" he suggests, and then he turns and runs.
His progress is slow and clumsy, punctuated by a steady fusillade of expertly aimed snowballs that thud damply off his back and head as he zigs and zags as best he can. It's all to no avail, because his legs are sliced out from under him, and he poleaxes in a snowdrift, finds himself straddled by rock hard thighs. He barely has time to register the sheer thrill of Castiel's crotch rammed firmly against his own before handfuls of freezing-cold fluff are being dolloped down onto him, until he hollers, "Uncle. Uncle. Cas, Jesus…Uncle!"
Castiel leans down closer, and he damn well smirks. "I don't understand that reference, Dean."
Dean spits, splutters, and coughs it out. "Fuck. It means I surrender!"
Castiel is laughing, Dean realizes then, and it's amazing to see. His face is split in a smile that lights up his features, and flecks of snow glitter on his cheekbones like he was dusted with sugar for Dean to lick off. His eyes are sparkling as he gazes down for a second, before his expression falls serious. His eyes drop down to Dean's lips before they lift again, smoky now, and it's a look Dean can feel in his dick, so help him God. And then Castiel is gone, flopping sideways to lie supine beside Dean.
It's an odd ebb-flow pattern they're in; it feels like they're assessing each other, taking each other's measure, doing all of this more carefully now. His friend's words make Dean think again of Crystal Beach, and Castiel's explosion of hurt and disappointment, the bitter acknowledgment of his new breakability. "Are you still?" he asks cautiously. "A warrior of God, I mean? You think?"
Castiel's answering silence manages to be both cryptic enough to confirm nothing and sufficiently eloquent to speak volumes, and although Dean isn't looking at him the air is suddenly thick with something that feels like grief. After a few seconds, Castiel brings his arm up to cover his eyes. "Sometimes I feel lost, Dean," he murmurs. "And sometimes I feel without purpose. Without hope. Sometimes I feel alone, cast adrift in darkness, and I wonder if I can do this." He pauses a beat. "And then other times it's very clear to me that some things are worth the fall."
It's heavy with meaning, so much so that Dean briefly wonders if they might be veering into one of those profound conversations he doesn't think he's ready for. But Castiel seems content to let it hang there, and they rest side-by-side, shoulders brushing together, and gaze up at the treetops as they wave gently in the breeze. Dean gets a thought then, nudges his friend. “Look,” he says, and he squirms a few feet away and sweeps his arms and legs back and forth, troughing through the soft white powder before he sits up and motions with his head. "Snow angel." He stabs a finger downwards. "Wings, gown. You try."
Castiel mimics Dean's movements to order, springs up agilely despite his heavy parka, and examines the shallow depressions his arms and legs created. "I miss my gown very much, Dean," he says gravely.
"That's a joke right?" Dean queries.
The angel sighs, looks ruefully down at his boots, and shakes his head as he starts walking.
"Hey, that's a joke right?" Dean scratches his head, makes a face. "Of course it's a friggin' joke," he tells himself decisively. "Has to be." He retrieves his ax, swings it back up over his shoulder and follows along behind. "Uh. Hey, that was a joke, right, Cas?"
There's fresh blood on the snow, and it's like red ink, blotches and spatters of the stuff, obscenely scarlet against the white.
"It leads behind that tree…" Dean points. "Animal…coyote maybe," he guesses. "Could have been caught in a trap, chewed off its paw to escape." He hand-signals Castiel to fall in behind him as he skirts around, keeping his distance. "If it's alive, it'll be pissed, so stay frosty," he warns.
"It's barely thirty degrees, Dean," Castiel notes. "Since I feel the cold now, how can I not stay frosty in these conditions?"
Dean ignores him, picks his way along what turns out to be the crest of a ravine, sighs as he finds what he seeks. "Man, that's a damn shame," he says softly.
The deer is frozen utterly still where it lies in the snow at the base of a tree overhanging the drop, staring up at them with huge, oddly calm, liquid eyes that remind Dean abstractly of Castiel. Its ears flicker back and forth as it regards them, and its nostrils quiver. One of its long, elegant front legs is gripped tight in a small, savage gin trap, the chain trailing behind it. Its stomach swells up large and full.
Dean shakes his head. "White-tailed deer," he says, as Castiel frowns down at the injured animal. "Would've calved in May or so, maybe a couple of fawns in there." He's already reaching into his own parka, pulling out his colt. "Damn shame," he repeats.
"Wait, Dean." Castiel's hand stills his arm. "Wait," he repeats. "I think I can…"
The angel sinks to his knees beside the deer, grasps the jaws of the trap and pulls them apart like he's tearing open a wet paper bag. The leg is broken, open down to the bone, the splintered ends of a vicious compound fracture protruding through the flesh. The deer's belly heaves up and down anxiously as Castiel reaches out and touches gentle fingertips to the damage, and without Dean even really seeing what happens, the animal bursts up and out at them.
Dean yelps out and falls flat on his ass as the deer rockets across the clearing and disappears into the trees. It feels damn good, and he pounds the snow with his fist. "How about that?" he celebrates. "Yeah."
When he glances back over his shoulder, Castiel isn't there.
It isn't exactly panic Dean feels as he clambers his way down the steep rock-face, because he knows the angel still has enough mojo to tumble down a cliff and make it out the other side alive. But then again, as he slip-slides and skids, loses his footing, and crashes onto his butt to accelerate rapidly and slither down the slope way too fast, maybe it is slight panic because if Castiel flaked out after he used his mojo he could have incurred some damage on the way down.
Dean flails his arms out, manages to grab hold of a shrub to arrest his own descent, and curses as he dislodges a mini landslide of gravel and dirt that spatters his face. When he feels the shrub start to give, he has just enough time to grate out, "Really?" before he's tumbling, bouncing off rocks, bringing his hands up reflexively to cradle his skull as he careens, rolls, and somersaults his way to the bottom of the chasm, ass over tip.
His progress is teeth-jarringly rough and somewhat painful, and he can feel the sharp points of rocks digging into him even through the thick fabric of his jacket, before the ground changes abruptly, going smooth and glasslike. It's freezing cold underneath him now, and he knows what it is even without checking. He peels his face off the surface and his eyes fall dazedly on Castiel, who's leaning against a modest-sized tree about ten feet away.
"I broke my ankle, Dean," his friend announces matter-of-factly. "It's extremely painful, and I fear it may take some time to heal."
Dean gathers his wits sufficiently to think that sounds way too much like, broke my foot, laid up for two months, and his gut gives a panicky little lurch at the symmetry of that future Castiel declaring himself all but useless. But he doesn't have time to say anything in return, because the air around him is suddenly alive with cracks and pops that sound like gunfire. Only Dean knows it isn't gunfire at all. It's the stress of his landing rending and tearing the frozen surface, and he erupts into action much as the deer did, scrabbling with his boots to propel himself along, reaching desperately at the same time as Castiel realizes what's happening and launches himself bodily at Dean.
Too late, and the shock of the frigid water as the ice splits under him, plunging him in up to his chest, has Dean gasping and then crying out as arctic needles of pain spear his skin and drive the breath from his lungs. He's immersed for a few seconds at most, but he can already feel his hands and feet going numb as he's hauled out of the water and up onto the bank. He's shivering as Castiel settles him against the tree and crawls around to sit next to him.
"Are you alright, Dean?" Castiel says, almost frantically, and Dean nods, resisting the urge to rub at his arms because he knows he needs his blood at his core right now. He pulls his legs up so he's fetal, and leans into Castiel's warmth as he flops his head back against the trunk of the tree.
That's when he sees it, a little clump of green interspersed by silvery-white berries, growing out of a branch a couple of feet above their heads. He waves an arm up sloppily, feeling dizzy and drugged-out. "Whaddya know? Mistletoe. As if by magic. Wonder what that could mean."
Castiel glances up to where he's looking. "In pre-Christian cultures, mistletoe symbolized male fertility," he says. "Possibly due to a resemblance between the berries and…" He trails off, and Dean sees him flush. "Uh. Semen."
He's staring right at Dean, and goddamn it but his eyes are as pretty as they were an hour ago in the sunshine, only now they're almost black, with just a rim of blue. Castiel is bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow, Dean notes woozily, as he brings his hand up and lays his fingers on his friend's cheek, tilting Castiel's face as he leans in. "Just. Shut the fuck up with the history lessons, Cas," he mutters, and then there it is, the softness of lips against his, warm and giving, parting to let him in for a precious, careful tongue-swirl or two, before he grunts out his satisfaction and pulls away.
"You're cold," Castiel whispers, so close Dean can feel the angel's warm breath on his cheek.
Dean chuckles. "Yeah. Not so good with words, Cas," he murmurs through the clickety-click of his teeth. "But how's the ankle, huh?" He winces himself as he stares down to where his friend's boot is misaligned to a decidedly unnatural angle.
"That's not what I meant…" Castiel stops, huffs out in what sounds like amusement, but his voice is tight with discomfort. "It may take some time for the bones to knit back together." Dean feels his friend's mouth at his temple then, a brief, moist pressure. "Mistletoe is also a token of goodwill and friendship," Castiel murmurs. "An omen of happiness and good luck."
Dean is nothing if not superstitious. He forces his eyes open, pushes himself up from his slump to stand, hugging himself against the glacial cold as it seeps into his bones. "In that case, I want this t-t-tree," he stutters out determinedly, as he scans the riverbank for his ax. Which is nowhere to be seen. "Shit," he fumes. "I must've dropped the ax when I f-f-fell."
Castiel hums thoughtfully from behind him, and Dean glances back to see the angel folding his good leg underneath him and groping his clumsy way up the tree, until he's upright and clinging onto the trunk.
Dean protests feebly. "Hey, w-w-wait a minute, I n-n-need to splint—"
All he can do then is feel himself go slack-jawed, because seeing Castiel rip a nine-foot tall pine tree out of the ground, complete with rootball, is definitely going on his list of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.
Unfortunately it isn't hot enough to stop the icy tendrils from creeping into his center, and his vision starts to tunnel as he feels his knees buckle him into blackness.
Pine.
Dean drifts back to the rich green scent of it, and finds that he's lying on something soft, covered by even more softness. He cracks an eyelid, sees that wherever he is, is dimly lit, the walls and ceiling all dancing shadows cast by flickering firelight. Flames are crackling around logs in a fireplace, and he's lying on a mattress six or so feet away from it. He's piled with blankets and quilts, and so deliciously, perfectly warm, he's working up a sweat under them.
In the next second, he realizes that he's naked and that a warm body is pressed up behind him, its arm draped over his ribs, and its hand tucked up at his shoulder. The fingers are loosely curled against his scar, making the mark tingle as if there's a mild electrical current passing through it. The body's legs are braided with his, the muscles solid and reassuring, and he can feel the puff of deep, regular breathing at his nape.
The sheer pleasure and contentment Dean feels as he lies there terrifies him and chokes him with something like joy at the same time. It dawns on him that he feels safe, and he can't recall really feeling safe since…he racks his brain and smiles to himself. He remembers.
He shifts gradually, feels the hand fall away, hears Castiel muttering drowsily. It's something Dean doesn't recognize, Enochian maybe, but he ignores it, acts before he can reason himself out of it. He rolls over to face his friend, reaching out and pulling him closer, fanning his fingers out on warm skin, feeling the ridges of Castiel's ribcage under his hands.
In the cage of Dean's arms, Castiel blinks owlishly in the half-light. "I had to warm you," he supplies after a moment, and he sounds a little defensive. "Sharing body heat through skin-to-skin contact helps to ward off hypothermia."
Dean disregards that, says, "Remember Michigan? You pulled me out of a hive of bruxsas. And there was a motel off of I-80, and we—"
"Dean." Castiel stops him, and suddenly there his hand is again, on Dean's cheek this time. "Are you alright, Dean?" he murmurs, and his gaze goes intense as Dean twitches under his touch, the tiniest flinch Dean can't prevent because the bare inches between them now are still a chasm. Castiel's eyes widen fractionally. "I know, Dean," he whispers. "I know what you've been through."
The pad of Castiel's thumb is a light caress, just like it was in the truck, just like it was in the dream vision weeks before, when Castiel's memory of soothing Dean in his distress seeped out from beyond the prison of souls and Dean saw it through his own eyes, saw his friend reach out to him while he slept it off on Lisa's couch. And maybe Dean's daring is fueled by the sorrow and loneliness Castiel exuded in that dream, and the angel's hushed admission that he missed Dean, or maybe it's fueled by the knowledge that Castiel understands him more than anyone ever will, because he saw what happened in the Pit, saw what Dean became and knows everything Alastair did. Maybe Dean has no clue what any of this means and where it's headed, maybe he's terrified of fucking it up, but he forges on.
"In Michigan, you told me that no matter how lost I was, no matter how hopeless I felt, I was stronger than I knew," he says, and he's acutely aware of the tremor in his voice. Strong enough for this even, he thinks, and he dips his face in, tastes the seam of Castiel's mouth with the tip of his tongue, hears Castiel sigh out a soft aaah as he pulls at his friend's lower lip gently with his teeth. "So are you. And you're not alone in the darkness, Cas. Neither of us is."
The mattress springs creak as Castiel inches nearer, his mouth opening up to Dean, his hand trailing over Dean's naked flank, across to his spine, where his fingers play along each vertebra. Their tongues spar lazily, a warm, wet lunge and parry, followed by gentle, sweeping passes that have Dean wondering hazily how he could have fought this for so long. He feels his friend's thigh hard between his own legs, walks his own hand up smooth, smooth flesh to card his fingers through Castiel's hair, and he can't help but mold himself even closer, so close he can feel Castiel's heart hammering frantically against the skin of his chest. Castiel arches in to meet Dean, making small, soft snuffling noises as they slot together. His mouth is gentle but insistent against Dean's, his fingertips light and inquisitive as they tease up and down Dean's back.
Dean realizes that he's already hard and aching, groans at the friction as he ruts instinctively against Castiel's thigh. He can feel the iron ridge of Castiel's erection jabbing into his belly and nestling there beside his own dick as they slide together slowly, movements slicked by sweat and heat. He thinks this might be comfort more than anything. It's sleepy, not particularly needy; it's long moments of exploration and discovery as they map each other's palates and grind together languidly, unhurriedly, until Dean feels something ignite inside him, a glorious, heated wave of pure sensation that ripples through his pelvis. He gasps, and Castiel stutters out a raw, formless sound in answer, pulls his face away to bury it in Dean's neck, where his breath scorches Dean's skin. Dean feels his friend's steady rhythm start to falter, feels Castiel lock up tight in his arms for an instant before he shudders, and then he feels slick warmth pulse out over his groin, hears himself choke out Castiel's name as his own balls tighten and he spills.
It eases off to soporific then, as Castiel's lips find his again, the deeper kisses scaling back to a soothing, tender brush of lips. And it feels so damn good, so right and natural, Dean thinks it feels like the final stop on a long journey, feels like coming home after years away. They don't say anything to mark what just passed; they simply continue to share oxygen, lips moving together almost reverently.
"How's the ankle?" Dean finally manages to say, breathing the words into Castiel's willing mouth.
Castiel licks another pass in between Dean's lips. "I'll live," he reassures, and he nips along the line of Dean's jaw, sucks gently at Dean's earlobe. "It's healing. But I'm weary…I used up too much mojo healing the deer and bringing us back here." He rolls away then, over onto his back, and his eyes are already closing as Dean turns into him automatically, curves his leg up and over Castiel's and places his hand where he knows his own mark is.
Pine.
The scent is still overwhelming, even through the tang of sweat and semen, and now that Dean doesn't have an armful of angel distracting him he can see that the tree is there in the cabin with them, propped haphazardly against the bookshelves, the roots an untidy tangle of soil down at the base.
"You brought the tree indoors?" he gapes.
It turns out Castiel snores.