campbunkersecretsanta-blog

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

What to Expect When You're Expecting (to be human soon)

Takes place around Christmas during Season 5. The pictures have captions and link through for credit. Happy holidays, Jamie, from Chris!

"Dean, what the hell are you doing with a glue stick?"

There's a muffled shout from the adjoining motel room, the sounds of a scuffle.  Cas has gotten regrettably used to sort of living with two grown men who occasionally behave like twelve year old children.  At least the coffee maker in this room works.

"I thought that we were exchanging gifts?" He asks, a little petulantly, because Cas has spent the better part of the last week trying to find the perfect presents for his ragtag little family, and he's growing impatient.  The weight of his prizes in his coat pockets is extraordinary considering their small sizes.

Sam comes bolting out of the other room nursing a wicked bruise on his forearm and glaring back into the room.  "Dude, you've had like months to finish it, and you're in there gluing things together now?  Cas is right here."

It seems a strange thing to point out, considering that Dean had answered the door, taken one look at Cas, and ran for the other room through the adjoining door.  Surely Dean is aware of Cas's presence.  "I can leave, if you'd like some more time...?" Cas ventures quietly, crestfallen, but Dean barks a loud and decisive 'NO!' from the other room, so Cas sits back down at the tiny, haphazard table in the corner and drinks more coffee.

"He only acts like an idiot when you're around," Sam mutters.  Cas finds this highly improbable, as Dean tends to do foolish and reckless things regardless of his location in relation to the Winchesters.

Cas opens his mouth to tell Sam this and gets interrupted by Dean marching out of the other room and plopping down on the floor in front of the television.  "Get your asses down here so we can get this over with."

"Is it customary to sit on the floor to exchange gifts?" Cas wants to know.  He stands from the table, leaving his tepid coffee behind, and allows Dean to grab a fistful of his trenchcoat and yank him to the carpet beside him.  Sam folds his long legs across from his brother with two large boxes balanced on his lap and continues glaring at Dean.

"Yeah, it is.  So who's going first?"

All three men look around at one another for a moment before Cas digs into his coat pockets and extracts his offerings.  He hands one to each brother, identical in their wrappings, and then folds his hands in his lap to await their verdicts.  Sam, naturally, takes great care in opening his gift, pulling gently on the edges of the plain brown paper and untying the twine bow from around it.  Dean claws at the string and shreds the paper in short order, and he squints down at the rock in his hand critically.  "Uh, thanks.  What is it?"

Sam has now managed to unwrap his matching present and is also studying it closely, though with far less skepticism than his brother.  "It's coal."

Cas looks between them expectantly, and he's a little surprised when Dean closes his fist around the gift and collapses onto his back, laughing uproariously with his head halfway under the motel bed.  "Jesus, Cas!  You're not actually s'posed to give people fucking coal for Christmas, holy shit..."

"It's a precious natural resource," Cas frowns, defensive. "I heard it mentioned in a Christmas song on the radio."

"Dean, we probably deserve it."  Sam's expression is pensive as he studies the charcoal colored residue on his fingers. "We did sort of start the Apocalypse."  Dean's laughter dies almost instantly, and Cas's frown deepens, his brows furrowing.  That most certainly hadn't been his intention when selecting their gifts.  He's obviously misinterpreted yet another human custom and will have to reevaluate his understanding of the tradition.

"Yeah, okay.  It's cool, Cas.  Thanks," Dean mutters, sitting up, but he doesn't look particularly grateful.  Instead, he leans across the space between he and Sam and paws at the boxes in Sam's lap.  "What's in the box?  Gimme."

Sam seems thankful for the change in topic and tosses one of the brightly colored boxes to Dean before handing the second to Cas more carefully.  Cas hesitates once it's in his hands, unsure of how to proceed.  Dean's approach is the same, wrapping paper ripping loudly as he tries to get to the goods.  Cas decides on adopting Sam's more sedate method and carefully slides his fingers under the edges of the paper, loosening the tape and revealing a simple cardboard box with a large black 'french fries' stamped along the side.  "Thank you, Sam.  I enjoy fries very much."

Snorting, Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.  "It's not fries, Cas.  I just needed a box to put your gun in--"

Across from them, Dean crows triumphantly.  "Ha!  You fucked up!  You let it slip.  I told you that would happen!"  He's still wrist deep in wrapping paper, scrabbling to get his own box--hickory smoked bacon--open.  Cas turns back to the box in his lap and pulls the tape off of the flaps, opening them and peering inside.  Nestled in a bed of packaging peanuts, mismatched tissue paper, and a few pieces of balled up newspaper is a semi automatic handgun. It's matte black, a newer model. Cas blinks down at it.

“I know you've got your angel blade, but guns are pretty useful, too. Longer range, easier to conceal...” Sam trails off, and even Dean has paused in his box destruction to watch Cas's reaction. “I mean, you're sort of losing your mojo by the day, so you might need it--”

“Sam.” Dean cuts his brother off gently, gaze locked onto Cas's face. They haven't really discussed what being cut off from Heaven is doing to Cas's true form, how he shows up at random and sometimes needs a place to crash for a few hours to recharge, that he's eating and drinking and taking longer to heal, these days. Dean has been incredibly vigilant over him recently, and Cas suspects that it has something to do with whatever post-Apocalyptic future Zachariah whisked Dean away to several weeks ago. Cas is very much aware of his own abilities and shortcomings now. He supposes that Sam must be as well.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas says quietly. He runs his fingers over the slide of the gun. “This was a very thoughtful gift.” He means it, too. The Winchesters care about him. They treat him as an equal and an ally, yes, but also as a sibling. They worry about him. Cas doesn't think that he's ever had anyone worry about him before. He's certainly never received a gift before.

Cas is still studying his new weapon when Dean gets to his feet and leaves the room, returning with a small package and a spiral-bound notebook.  He tosses the package unceremoniously at Sam before slumping back onto the floor.  Cas tilts his head at the gift in Sam’s hands.  It isn’t wrapped or remotely festive.  He wonders if the wrapping is necessary or just a superfluous gesture intended to provoke curiosity in a gift’s recipient.

“Damn, Dean.  This is awesome!”  Sam is opening his package and extracts a slim black electronic device.  “I’ve been wanting one of these for awhile now!”

Dean shrugs.  “I don’t get the appeal, but it’s what you wanted so Merry Christmas.”

“What is it?” Cas asks, scooting closer to Sam.

“It’s an iPad!” Sam grins, and he’s pulling cords and other accessories from the packaging. “Where’d you get the money for this, Dean?  Pool?”

Leaning back against the foot of the motel bed, Dean snorts and grins proudly, waggling his fingers at Sam.  “Five finger discount.”

Cas frowns.  “What’s a five finger discount?”

Sam groans.  “Nothing you need to worry about,” He sighs, then gives his brother a loaded warning look.  Cas recognizes that expression.  It’s the same one Sam had adopted when Dean had attempted to explain how to hotwire a car, last week.

“That’s right!” Dean chuckles.  “We haven’t taught you shoplifting yet, Cas.”  While Cas finds it a bit absurd that Dean doesn’t think he knows what petty theft and larceny are, he doesn’t bother to comment on it.  “Okay, Cas.  Here’s your present.  It’s not that great, but I got kicked out of three libraries and a bookstore in order to make this for you.  Don’t lose it.”  He thrusts the notebook into Cas’s hands before standing and stretching with an overly theatrical yawn.  “Damn, I’m tired.  Gonna go hit the hay.  I’ll see you dorks in the morning.”  Dean retreats into the adjacent room and closes the door, leaving Sam to his technology-induced glee and Cas to stare down at the notebook in his lap.

There’s what appears to be a torn book cover glued to the front of the notebook.  Interesting.

Sam clears his throat loudly from beside Cas, nearly startling him, and moves away from where he’s obviously been reading the cover.  “I’m gonna go grab some food.  You want anything, man?”  Cas shakes his head.  He hasn’t been hungry yet today, and he supposes that when he is, he can tell Dean and Dean will buy him more cheeseburgers.  “Okay, good.  I’ll be back… later.”  And just as quickly as Dean had fled the immediate area, Sam is gone as well, the quiet rumble of the Impala’s engine retreating down the street.

Cas opens the cover of the notebook and stares.

There are pages from magazines and books, some carefully cut out, others ripped hastily and pasted crookedly over the lined notebook paper pages inside.  There are articles, charts, diagrams, and lots of information.  Some of them have writing along the margins, things highlighted or circled for emphasis, and it all appears to be in Dean’s handwriting.  Impatient, Cas flips through several pages.  He finds notes scratched quickly onto gas receipts, diner napkins stained with grease, motel stationary…

Cas turns back to the first page and begins to read.

Cas closes the notebook and has the strong urge to see Dean.  He’s not supposed to watch Dean sleep.  They’ve had this conversation several times now, but Cas also isn’t sure if he’s allowed to wake Dean up.  This seems like a relatively important matter, though, so he wills himself into existence beside Dean’s bed and reaches down carefully to shake Dean’s shoulder.

“Go ‘way, Sammy.”  Dean flings and arm out in a poor attempt at striking him before rolling onto his stomach and hugging his pillow to his chest.  It’s strangely endearing.

Cas tries again, this time holding Dean’s shoulder and shaking more insistently, and this time Dean startles awake and blinks around sleepily but semi-alert.  His hair is standing up in disorganized spikes on half of his head, the other side flattened by his pillow.  “Cas?” He slurs.

It’s an impulse borne of overwhelming fondness that compels Cas to lean down and kiss him.  It’s chaste, closed-mouth and quick, but Cas funnels all of the gratitude he can into the simple gesture.  When he pulls away, Dean looks less panicked and more than a little awestruck.  “Thank you,” Cas murmurs, and raises the notebook into Dean’s field of vision. “For this.  It’s been very informative.”

Dean blinks at the notebook in Cas’s hand and back to Cas’s face, gaze lingering over his lips.  “Yeah.  You’re welcome.  I mean, it’s better’n coal, I guess.”  Dean makes jokes when he’s uncomfortable or confused about things, so Cas doesn’t pay much mind to the subtle jab.  “Wait, you’re not here to ask me about condoms, are you?  ‘Cause I don’t know if you’re ready for all of that yet--”  Cas cuts him off with another kiss, this one firm and full of intent, and Dean makes a helpless noise before sliding his hands up into Cas’s hair and dragging him down onto the bed.

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

Merry Christmas Elizabeth! I hope you enjoy it! 

From: Jess (no one is surprised!)

Lord Dean Winchester stepped into the ballroom. Much as he didn’t wish to be there, he had to admit that the staff had done a beautiful job of decorating the space. Fragrant garland hung around the room, perfuming the air with pine, while bright lights twinkled around the windows that lined the far wall. A string quartet played a jaunty tune, and people laughed and chattered in small clusters around an open space in the center. Dean could make out his mother and father dancing together, Mary’s head thrown back, laughing at something John had said, and a few other couples swirled around his parents.

“Come on, Dean, don’t just stand there,” Sam huffed next to him. He was eager to get into the ballroom, of course, using his height to search out the blonde he had been dying to see all day long. Dean could tell the second that Sam spotted Jessica, because he inhaled sharply next to Dean. “Woah,” Sam said under his breath. Dean looked in the direction that Sam was staring, and woah was right. Beautiful on any regular day, Lady Jessica Moore had outdone herself for the evening. Her curly golden hair flowed down her back, red flowers tied into the strands. She wore a dusty pink dress, and a pale shawl wrapped in the crooks of her elbows. She was stunning.

“Don’t just stand there, go get her, tiger,” Dean said, giving Sam a none-too-gentle push. Sam grimaced at Dean before moving toward Jessica as if drawn there by an imaginary string. Dean would not be surprised if Sam stayed by her side the entire evening. He’d be even less surprised if he gained a sister-in-law by the end of the night.

Except that Cas could not come to the ball; he’d been called home to the Milton estate, and he wasn’t sure when he’d return. Dean hadn’t been able to interpret the look that Cas had shot him as he’d left earlier that week, his horse prancing and eager to get on the road.

Dean sighed and stepped into the ballroom, knowing he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. No matter how much he didn’t want to be there, it was his duty, and he would do what was expected of him. His face lit up when he saw Benny leaning against a far wall. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be a total loss after all.

He grabbed a glass of champagne off of a tray of a passing footman, and headed in Benny’s direction. Along the way he was stopped by various lords and ladies, all of whom wanted his attention for something or other. Most of the older nobles wanted to introduce Dean to their daughters (and more than a few sons as well). Dean let them know he was flattered by their attention, and promised dances to everyone who asked. He quickly finished his first glass of champagne and grabbed another.

He finally reached Benny, who gave him a slow smile. “Well brother, I see you’re quite popular today.”

Dean snorted. “It’s always like this,” he said, a sour note in his voice.

“You telling me you don’t enjoy having men and women thrown at you by their parents?” Benny drawled.

Dean shook his head. “They’re not interested in me, only in the Winchester estate.” It was true, too. The Duke’s lands were the best in the valley, including a forest stuffed full with game and some of the most fertile fields around. Most of the people who lived under the aegis of the Duke were happy to be there, for he treated his vassals well.

Benny laughed and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “One day you’ll find your fairy tale, brother.” A dark haired woman in a red flowing dress caught Benny’s attention. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I see Lady Andrea.” Benny barely waited for Dean to acknowledge before he was across the ballroom, whisking the dark beauty into his arms. He whispered something in her ear, and she blushed prettily. Dean turned away, not wanting to intrude on their private moment.

He danced with the daughters and sons who had been thrown at him, whiling away an hour or so, and he began to wonder if his presence had been noted enough by others to satisfy his father. Could he get away with slipping out of the ballroom?

“May I have this dance?” a deep voice came from behind him. Dean turned, an apology on his lips, but the words froze before he could get them out. A man, about Dean’s height, wore a mask. The mask covered most of his face, only showing the merest hint of pink lips and the sparkle of eyes that might have been blue, but could have been another color beneath the holes. Feathers adorned the top of the mask, so it was difficult for Dean to tell what color hair the man had. Several people attending the ball wore masks as well, so this man did not stand out from the other attendees. He held out a hand expectantly.

Dean sighed and clasped the other man’s hand in his own. He let the man lead him out onto the dance floor, and didn’t even complain when the man took the lead in the dance as well. The man was warm beneath Dean’s embrace, radiating a heat like a furnace. Dean tried to see who the man behind the mask was, but it was nearly impossible. The dancing area of the ballroom had fewer lights, and therefore more shadows, and the man seemed to steer Dean towards the darker corners of the dance floor.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself, my lord,” the man said, and something tickled the back of Dean’s mind - the voice was familiar, but not.

Dean shrugged lightly. “It’s a fine enough evening, I suppose.”

The man gave a warm chuckle, the sound reverberating beneath his skin. Dean tried not to think about the fact that he could feel the man’s muscles moving under his palm where it rested on his shoulder. Despite the fact that the man wore a mask, he gazed at Dean with such an intensity that it nearly took Dean’s breath away.

For the first time that evening, the music ended far too quickly for Dean’s taste. He hesitated when it came time to separate, unsure why he was drawn to the stranger. The other man’s mouth quirked up in a smile and he pulled Dean closer as the next piece started up. “You have time for another dance, I’m sure,” he murmured, and the intimacy of the remark sent a shiver down Dean’s spine.

In the event, they danced three more dances, and then it was nearing midnight, time for the games and presents. Dean stepped away, reluctant to give up the warmth of the man’s embrace. “I have to...” he pointed toward his parents apologetically. The stranger smiled, and again, that itching feeling of familiarity arose at the base of Dean’s neck.

“My lord,” the man said, and he swept into a low bow. Dean inclined his head. When he looked up again, the man had been swallowed up by the crowd of people gathering around the head of the ballroom.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur, and though Dean looked for his dance partner for one final waltz, the man was nowhere to be found. When Sam announced to the crowd that he had asked Jess to marry him and she’d said yes, the resulting roar of approval practically shook the windows. Dean toasted Sam and Jess, a warm, happy feeling settling in his belly.

By the time the last guest had thanked John and Mary for the wonderful evening, Dean was exhausted, swaying on his feet. Sam had long ago slipped away to see Jess home. Benny had left much earlier with Andrea by his side, and Dean figured he’d be attending at least two weddings this spring.

Dean bid his parents good night, kissing Mary on the cheek. He ignored the slightly sad look in her eyes, knowing that she wished the same happiness that Sam and Jess had found for him. Other than the stranger, no one sparked any kind of interest in Dean, and he resigned himself to another lonely, cold winter.

***~~~***

Several days passed, and Dean knew no more about the stranger with whom he’d danced at the party. Cas returned the afternoon following, looking subdued. He was quiet about what had transpired at home, however, and Dean didn’t push. Cas would tell him when the time was right.

So they hunted and practiced fighting and spent time together, as they always did. Something seemed off, however, and Dean didn’t know how to broach the subject with his friend.

Things continued in that vein for another few days, and then it was time for the New Years’ ball. Dean went through the motions of dressing for the party, this time to be held by the Moore family on their estate, neighboring that of the Winchesters. He put on his maroon coat and cream shirt, fussing with his cravat until he felt that it was good enough. This evening would be better, because at least Cas would be by his side. Since Benny would spend most of his time with Andrea (he had asked her to marry him on Christmas day, and she’d said yes) and Sam would be with Jess, Dean was counting on the fact that Cas would be there.

He rode over to the Moore estate with his parents, feeling slightly detached from the proceedings, thinking that maybe he would find someone to dance with that evening who would be more interesting than the usual suspects. Perhaps his masked stranger would be there. He perked up at that, and began to look forward to the evening after all.

Cas was already there, laughing with Benny and smiling widely at Andrea. His nose crinkled as he did so, and Dean realized with a start that this was the first time in a week he’d seen Cas look happy. He clapped his friend on the shoulder and greeted Andrea with a nod of the head. Benny winked at Dean, and after a few minutes of idle conversation, he swept Andrea away for a dance.

“They look happy,” Cas remarked, sipping on his champagne. He leaned against the wall, one hand behind his back.

Dean nodded. “They do. So does Sam and Jess.” He pointed his chin at the couple in question, dancing closely together in the middle of the room. They only had eyes for each other.

“Do you...” Cas hesitated. “Is there someone here you would like to be with? Like that?”

Dean looked at his friend, an eyebrow raised. This was the first time this sort of thing had come up. Cas never talked about romance or marriage. As far as Dean knew, Cas had no interest in that sort of thing. For that matter, neither did Dean, but he still talked about it. Mostly in terms of the fact that Mary and John pestered him about getting married, and Dean had no one he was interested in.

“No,” Dean said after a minute. He briefly thought of the stranger from the Christmas ball. “No one here.”

Cas looked at him sharply. The qualification was an interesting one. He merely grunted, though, and they dropped the subject.

As midnight drew near, Dean and Cas withdrew from the ballroom, choosing to spend time in John’s study. Dean pulled out some of John’s good whisky, knowing that John would (probably) not mind, and he poured a glass for each of them.

“I never did give you your Christmas present,” Cas said, apropos of nothing.

Dean handed Cas the whisky. “I didn’t think you’d gotten me anything.”

Cas shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give it to you.” Cas held out the hand, which Dean now realized had been behind Cas’s back most of the evening. In it was a small package wrapped in black tissue paper. “But... I thought it best that I did.”

Dean wondered at the formality of Cas’s speech, but he took the package nonetheless. It was light, and the tissue paper crinkled softly beneath his fingers. “Can I open it now?”

Cas bit his lip and nodded. Dean carefully peeled away the tissue paper until the present within was revealed. He held in his hands a mask with feathers sprouting out of the top. Dean held it up. It was the mask worn by the stranger at the Christmas ball.

“I don’t understand,” Dean said eventually.

Cas’s eyes widened, and he looked like a startled deer. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and cleared his throat. “I thought...”

“That was you?” Dean said, the question overriding whatever Cas was going to say.

Cas nodded, a miserable expression on his face. “I think I was mistaken, though. I shouldn’t have...” But Dean rushed forward and cupped Cas’s face in his hands. Before he could think about what he was doing, what it might mean, he kissed Cas. Cas made a startled noise, but then he was kissing Dean back, his hands gripping Dean’s elbows. The kiss was slightly frantic and sloppy, their heads not quite tilted the right way, but it was warm and Cas’s lips were soft beneath Dean’s.

“Oh,” Cas said when Dean pulled back. “So...”

Dean rested his forehead on Cas’s. “Why didn’t you say?”

Cas laughed, his hot breath brushing against Dean’s cheek. Dean closed his eyes. “I didn’t want to be wrong. If I was, then it wouldn’t have mattered, you wouldn’t have known it was me.”

“But you would have. What would you have done if...” Dean started, but Cas cut him off with another kiss.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” They stood together for several long moments, kissing softly, smiling at each other. Cas’s thumb rubbed small circles into Dean’s forearm, sending delicious shivers up and down Dean’s spine. Dean couldn’t get enough of kissing Cas, pressing his lips to Cas’s cheeks, his mouth, mouthing lightly at Cas’s jawline.

A thought occurred to Dean. “Why did you go home? What did your family want?”

Cas sighed. “They’d wanted me to marry. Lady Naomi.” The name was said with such distaste that Dean stepped back.

“You don’t like her.”

Cas gave a rueful smile. “No one does.”

“If you want to marry someone else, will that be all right with your family?” Dean asked hesitantly.

“Are you asking me to marry you, Lord Winchester?” Cas asked, a playful smile on his face. His eyes sparkled now, and Dean wondered why he didn’t recognize those brilliant blues beneath the mask.

“Kind of sounded like it, didn’t it?” Dean said.

Cas wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and tucked Dean close to him, so they stood flush against one another. “It did. I won’t hold you to it if you didn’t mean it. Your lack of interest in marriage is legendary.”

Dean laughed. “Perhaps I was just waiting for the right masked stranger to dance with me.” Cas grinned, his nose crinkling up in the way that Dean found utterly adorable, and he kissed Cas, unable to resist the temptation. They kissed and kissed, even through the cheers and shouts from the other guests as the clock struck midnight.

“Happy New Year, Dean,” Cas whispered, and Dean kissed him again.

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

All for One

By: Colonialdncr

Read on AO3

Merry Christmas Guu!  A little birdie told me you were a fan of the Three Musketeers, so I hope you enjoy :)

The year was 1625.  The Holy Roman Empire was being torn apart in a religious war, factions of demons facing off against their angelic foes, each side using creatures of the supernatural to aid their cause.  In France, Louis the XIII sat on the throne.  Everyone knew he was a weak king, dependent on his top Cardinal for advice. Though the King supported the beliefs of the angels, there were whispers and rumors that the Cardinal’s sympathies lay instead with the demons to the north. As the war raged on along the eastern borders, showing no signs of easing, the chaos of the war began to find its way into France; the horrors of these monsters held at bay only by an elite force: Hunters.  The best of the best.  They were known as The Musketeers.

The earliest memory Kevin had was his father, Carver, telling him of his adventures as a musketeer while Kevin sat enraptured at his feet in front of the hearth.  For as long as he could remember, his father had told him that one day, he too would be a musketeer.  

When he turned twelve, his father showed him the tablet for the first time.  It was ancient.  “It’s been in our family for at least ten generations,” Carver said, looking at Kevin, seriousness radiating from his normally affable face.  “Look and tell me what you see.”  

Kevin looked, but all he could make out were strange markings that he could neither make heads nor tails of.  He was proud of his ability to read not only French, but Latin and German as well. It frustrated Kevin that there were words in front of him he could not interpret.  

Carver smiled wryly at his son’s clear irritation.  “Don’t worry, Kev.  I didn’t expect you to be able to read it yet.  You’re still too young.  One day you will know what it says.  You will not need to learn the language.  It is born in you.  When you can read it, that’s when you will be ready to join the musketeers.  It will be your sacred duty to carry the words to them.  They will need you and you will become one of the most important amongst their ranks.”

“Can you read it, Father?”

“I could, once.  The words have changed now.  Altered for you, and for the message that you must use to protect the kingdom.”

After that, Kevin pulled the tablet out every year on his birthday, trying to see if he was ready yet, impatient for the day to finally arrive.  He trained daily with Carver.  They practiced everything from sword fighting, to archery, to hand to hand.  Carver was also insistent that Kevin focus on his studies.  

“A musketeer needs to use his brain as much as his brawn.  The best strategy will always be to seek out danger and outwit it before a fight ever becomes required.  A fight will always involve a cost and you can’t necessarily predict what it will be ahead of time.”

So Kevin studied.  He learned the lore of every known creature.  He could recite their habits, their weaknesses and their strengths in his sleep.  And still he could not read the tablet.  

When Kevin was seventeen, his father was killed. Kevin and his mother, Linda, had been at the market.  Kevin wouldn’t normally have accompanied his mother, preferring to stay at home with his books.  His father however had been insistent that Kevin go, claiming part of Kevin’s studies should include observing the interactions between the people and understanding the workings of a simple village.  Kevin had privately thought the exercise futile.  He much preferred working on his studies at the family farm, away from the villagers, whose greatest goal in life were to sell enough crops to buy a new cow.  

When Linda and Kevin returned, Carver was nowhere to be found, but there were clear signs of a struggle and an ominous blood trail leading to the woods.  As the months passed, Kevin came to accept his father had been killed, though by whom or what, neither he nor his mother knew.  Linda, for her part, became fierce in the protection of their land, working twice as hard to ensure their holding.  Kevin threw himself more deeply into his studies, trying to find any hints as to what might have come for his father.  

He sometimes thought about Carver’s insistence that Kevin go with his mother that day.  Had he somehow known that something would be coming?  Had his father seen or expected the attack?  

When his eighteenth birthday arrived, Kevin went to the old wooden trunk where the tablet was stored out of habit more than any belief that he would finally be able to read it.  He pulled it out and set it on the table.  It was nearing sunset, so Linda opened the western-most windows on the house to let in as much light as possible before going to sit next to Kevin, watching him expectantly.  

Kevin looked at the tablet, almost dismissively at first, when a word jumped out at him

War.

Kevin did a double take, looking at the engravings in the stone more closely.  The letters were still the same indecipherable shapes they had always been.  And yet…

Kevin let his eyes relax and drift.  On the edges of his vision, as though he was reading out of the corner of his eye, words started to take shape.  Something must have shown on his face, because Linda was suddenly grasping his upper arm and looking at him expectantly.  

He looked at her, eyes full of surprise, confusion, excitement and fear.  

He was starting to understand the tablet.  

Kevin had always thought that when he finally gained the ability to read the tablet that it would be just like reading anything else and the words would come with ease.  The truth was anything but this expectation.  

It took him another month to fully translate.  Kevin did little else.  Unfortunately, fall was progressing rapidly and the days were growing ever shorter.  Kevin burned through dozens of candles as he worked through the night, forgoing sleep and often meals.  Vaguely, he saw his mother’s concern, but couldn’t focus on anything but the tablet.  In the few moments he did surrender to sleep, it haunted him, pulling him out of his dreams and back to the table where he worked.  

When he had finished, he was sure he had read the words wrong.  Surely what was in front of him couldn’t be true.  Was this what he was supposed to prevent?  How could he be expected to do that?

Kevin reworked the calculation on the date one more time, but the information didn't change. Everything pointed to the winter solstice - only a scant three weeks away.

He wasn't sure what he would actually be able to do to halt what was coming. He knew though, his father had been right. He had read the tablet and it was clear that now was when he would finally take his place among the musketeers.

Dean looked around at the hustle and bustle of the city surrounding him. A small group of bar wenches he recognized from Ellen's establishment passed by whispering amongst themselves, shooting glances in his direction. He flashed them a toothsome smile, aware he cut a handsome figure, even out of his uniform. Sure enough, the whispers dissolved into giggles and blushes. Dean let the sound wash over him.  He wasn't interested in the high pitched twittering of the girls in front of him, attractive as the package might be. As always, he found himself scanning the crowd, looking for a pair of piercing blue eyes, never fully conscious he was doing so.

His mind wandered as he thought about his best friend. In many ways, Cas was still a mystery. They'd met many years prior, before any of them had joined the elite group of hunters that protected the kingdom from the creatures that strayed over the border from the Germanic kingdoms that made up the Holy Roman Empire. In those days, Dean and Sam were still living on the family farm.  Dean's primary duties had included getting up at the crack of dawn to muck out the stables and feed the horses.  

As he did every morning, Dean went straight to his own horse, Impala, first.  He had almost reached the stall when there was an abrupt movement in the loft above him. Before he could take another step, a figure had dropped in front of him, a scowl on his face and a short blade in his hand.   

"Woah, buddy!" Dean said  raising his own hands placatingly.  He looked around for anything nearby he could use as a weapon.  "Just who the hell are you?" Dean asked, because really, this was his barn after all - or his family's at least.  

"Castiel," the young man in front of him growled out, his voice issuing forth deep and gravelly.  

Dean gestured to the blade in his hand, an eyebrow raised.  "You mind putting your weapon down and explain why you're here?  I'm not gonna hurt you, just looking for some answers."  

Cas had explained that he had left his home, though he didn't elaborate on the circumstances - only that he couldn't go back, but that he likewise had no place to go.  He had offered to work in exchange for continued lodgings in the barn.  Instead, the Winchester clan had opened their home to him and Dean and Cas had been inseparable ever since.  They had joined the musketeers together, Sam following along four short years later at their father's insistence.

Lost in his reminiscence, Dean didn't see the young boy dart into the street in front of him until they collided hard, both falling backwards into the dirt.

"The hell!?" Dean groused, irritated with himself as much as the boy.  He was a musketeer, damnit. He shouldn't be falling all over himself in the streets.  It was embarrassing.

The boy, Dean pegged him to be around seventeen or eighteen, bounced back up to his feet, anger and irritation clear on his face.  "Watch where you're going, fool."  

Dean's eyebrows reached his hairline as he stared at the boy in surprise.  "Did you just call me a fool? Do you have any idea who you're talking to?"

"A klutz who can't seem to use the eyes in his face for their intended purpose?" The kid shot back.

Well, now he was just pissed.  "I've killed people for a lesser insult, kid.  Watch your tongue and know your place."

"Perhaps you should know yours. I seriously doubt you would be able to lay a blow on me no matter how hard you tried."

Dean could feel his frown turning into a feral grin.  "Well, I'm not one to back down from a challenge and that there? That sounded like a challenge.  A duel then?"  

The boy nodded, in affirmation.  “Gladly, but you see, I have an appointment at the moment that I can't miss.  Perhaps we can schedule this for later in the day?  Say one o'clock?"

Dean nodded, "Fine, I'll meet you at one at the fountain in the square in front of the palace. Don't forget to bring a second. I want someone to witness your humiliation."

The boy nodded and turned smartly on his heel and walked briskly in the opposite direction.  Dean turned too, now seeking out those blue eyes in earnest; after all, he would be required to have a second too.  

As usual, Sam had his nose buried in a book.  If he'd had his way, he would have joined a monastery early on and devoted his life to studying.  His father refused to hear of it, however, convinced that his sons had a greater purpose and responsibility to serve as musketeers.  After all, John had been a musketeer too and considered it to be the family business.  

Sam's greatest consolation was the library maintained by the musketeers.  Books were generally hard to come by and the headquarters of the musketeers had the largest collection in all of France.  It was rumored to be even larger than the libraries in Rome.

Almost all of the books focused on the lore of the beasts and monsters the musketeers would be expected to face, but Sam didn't mind.  He absorbed the knowledge like a sponge.  He was a more than capable fighter as well of course, Captain Bobby had seen to that, but this was what he preferred; finding a way to use the knowledge he learned to fight smarter, more efficiently, rather than just with brute strength.

He supposed that in the long run, he was happy with where his life had brought him.  He was near his brother and Castiel, who had been part of their family for so long now, Sam considered him a second brother.  He had his books and had not, in the end, had to give up his learning.  He also found, to his surprise, a certain level of satisfaction in protecting people.  He was good at his job and he was proud of the position which he had earned himself.  

That hadn't helped his relationship with his father though.  When it had come his turn to join the musketeers, Sam had nearly walked out of the house in protest, refusing to fall in line the way Dean had.  Dean had always been his father's little soldier, obeying without question.  Sam had never quite been able to do that.  Dean swore it was because Sam and John were just too much alike. Now years later, Sam was willing to concede that Dean was probably right, but at the time, it had only made him more angry.  Even though Sam had become a musketeer, more because of his brother's pleading than his father's edict, that fight had broken their relationship beyond mending.  Sam hadn't spoken to his father again until shortly before his death five years later.  

Sam's gaze refocused on the page in front of him, pulling him out of the past.  He realized he didn't have the slightest clue what he had just read.  He sighed and resigned himself to starting again.  

"Need any help?"

Sam looked up, confused, and realized he had stopped in the middle of the road.  "Oh, I'm sorry," he said and moved aside to let the person he was blocking pass.  It was a dark haired boy, about eighteen.  

"Sure you can handle that?" the boy said, nodding at the book in Sam's hands.  

Sam frowned.  "What do you mean?"

"Well, you were concentrating pretty hard there you know.  Just staring at the words isn't going to make you suddenly understand how to read.  It takes practice, patience and no small level of intelligence."

Sam felt a bright flash of anger.  After his father, he was easily riled whenever someone questioned his intelligence.  His temper was usually slower than Dean's, but it tended to burn longer.  

"I have no problem reading, thank you very much.  It would serve you well to know your audience before jumping to conclusions."

"Ah, so now I should take advice from an oaf who can't read and walk forward at the same time?  It's alright to admit to a weakness you know,  there's nothing shameful about that."

Now Sam was truly angry.  

"I cautioned you once.  Do not insult my intelligence again, kid.  I assure you, I know more than you, and likely know more in more languages that you can even comprehend, though unlike you, I won’t make that assumption. Beware your pride,  it might well prove to be your downfall someday in the near future."

"Perhaps, but it won’t be today, and certainly won't be from you," the boy said.  

"Someone who considers himself to be so intelligent surely wouldn’t turn down the opportunity for a lesson.  Shall I teach you how a scholar fights?"

"I will gladly teach you precisely that, but i’m afraid you’ll have to wait until this afternoon.  You see, I have another imminent appointment.  Shall we meet at the fountain in square in front of the palace, say, half past one?"

Sam's eyes flashed steel.  "I'll see you there."

Castiel looked at the array of choices in the stall in front of him, his forehead furrowed in concentration.  There were pasties, meat buns, and rolls, as well as a host of other delectable looking edibles, but Cas didn’t see what he was looking for.

        “Excuse me, but I can’t seem to find any pie,” he asked, trying to make sure he kept his voice even and polite.  Dean had often told him most people found his mannerisms off-putting.  Despite knowing this, and despite having been friends with Dean for fifteen years now, Cas still found attempting to fit in perplexing and exhausting.  He preferred the company of just Dean or even Sam, where he didn’t have to worry about being anyone but himself.  

“We’re out of pie, mister.  Should’a come this morning when they were fresh.   Tha’s when I have ‘em.  Run out quick.” The vendor didn’t spare a glance in Cas’s direction, his tone brusk and clearly irritated at being asked to assist.  

Cas’s frown deepened.  “That’s unacceptable.  I need pie.”  

The vendor looked up at him now, eyes meeting Castiel’s from beneath big bushy eyebrows.  Castiel’s own gaze pierced back.  He could hold his own when it came to eye contact.  

“Oh for the love of all things holy,” a young voice said from behind.  “The man said he doesn’t have any pie.  Either purchase something else, or move along, you’re holding up hungry customers.”

Surprised, Cas turned around slowly to take in the form of a young boy.  

“I don’t believe you are involved in this particular conversation.  My concern is with the owner of this cart, not with you.”

The boy sighed, the sound heavy and put-upon.  “Yeah, but the man already said he doesn’t have any more pie.  It’s not like he can produce it out of thin air, so either buy something else or move along.  You’re keeping me from my lunch.”

        “Your continued persistence is only delaying your own ability to order lunch.  Had you minded your own business, I could have rationally discussed with this man how I might go about getting a pie, whether now, later, or from another location.  Therefore I don’t understand your continued insistence at interrupting our exchange.”

        At this point, the vendor had had enough.  “Look, yer both holdin’ up m’line and I don’t feel like serving either one of ye.  Get yer food somewhere else.”

        Castiel and the boy stepped out of the line, both glaring at each other.  Cas wasn’t surprised when the boy broke his gaze first.  Dean had often told him he had an “unnatural intensity” when he stared at other people.

        “You have now prevented me in getting pie.  Unless you have a suggestion as to where I might obtain some, I suggest you make yourself scarce.  You've not put yourself high on my list of favorite people today.”

        “What is it with you and pie?  It’s just pie,” the boy muttered impudently.

        “It wasn’t for myself, it was a gift for a friend, now you have delayed me and I still don’t have a pie.”

        “Get over it.  Just get your lady friend some cake instead.”

        Cas wasn’t sure whether it was the assumption that the pie was for a friend of the female orientation or the boy’s unapologetic attitude, but suddenly his limited patience snapped and he found himself pressing the youth against the building behind him by the throat.  “It can only be pie.  And I’ve grown tired of your insolence.  It seems you need to be taught some manners.”

        “Over pie?” the boy asked incredulously, his voice thin around Castiel’s grip.  “Sure, whatever, but it will have to wait till later.  Thanks to you, I don’t have time for lunch now and I have another meeting to get to first.  Why don’t we meet around two o’clock at the fountain in the square in front of the palace?”

        Castiel narrowed his eyes, trying to determine if it was a trick and the boy was simply using the delay to get out of the duel.  If he had any honor, he would show up.  Cas nodded his assent and let the boy go.

        Never one to leave loose ends, he had one final question before the boy was out of his sight.

        “What’s your name?”

        The boy looked at him and tilted his chin up, “Kevin.”                

        It took him another hour, but Dean finally spotted an unruly head of dark hair bobbing in the crowd ahead of him.

        “Cas! Cas, wait up, buddy!”

       The head stopped and turned and Dean saw one of his favorite faces.  He felt his own face split into a wide grin, mirrored to a lesser degree on Cas’s.  It was rare Cas indulged in a full smile and never in public.  The expression he was giving Dean now was for Dean alone and Dean treasured it.

        “Hello, Dean.”

        “Where’ve you been, Cas?  I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

        “I was attempting to purchase – foodstuffs – in the market, but they'd already sold the provisions I needed.”

        Dean raised his eyebrows, unsure of what Cas could need in the market that they couldn’t get back at headquarters.  The mess hall was known for its amazing fare.  The head cook was a retired musketeer himself and he ran a well-ordered kitchen that only turned out the finest.  No one questioned Benny and his food.  Aside from being an excellent cook, a wrong word tossed in his direction might find you on the business end of a sword.  Benny wasn’t in his prime anymore, but he could still pose a fairly significant threat when his food was insulted.  

“Well, I’m glad I found you.  I need a second.”  

Surprised flashed briefly across Cas’s face, followed by mild amusement. “I was going to ask you the same.”  

Dean looked more closely at Cas and realized that his friend did indeed look ruffled under the edges, his usually implacable calm bent.

“You? You’re involved in a duel?”  It wasn’t that he thought Castiel wouldn’t do well in a duel.  Quite the opposite in fact.  There was no one better than Castiel in all France when it came to fighting with a blade.  No one in Paris was stupid enough to challenge him. Aside from that, Cas rarely interacted with people outside the musketeers long enough to offend anyone, which could only mean…

“Wait, did you call the challenge?”

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel replied patiently.  "The boy was excessively irritating and prevented me from completing my objective.”

“And you thought that warranted a duel?”

Castiel didn’t answer directly.  Instead he narrowed his eyes shrewdly and looked at Dean.  “And what great complaint resulted in your challenge?”

Dean smirked.  “Pretty much the same thing.  But everyone expects that from me.  You’re the calm collected one.  I can’t remember a time when you called for the duel.”

Cas huffed a small laugh.  “As always, your double standards for our behaviour baffles me.  So will you be my second or not?”

Dean rolled his eyes.  Did Cas really think he might say no? Before he could answer, a large hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind.  Dean knew that hand and looked back, unsurprised.  

“Dean, Cas,” Sam said, greeting his brothers with a tight smile.  “I need your help with a small task this afternoon.”  

“Sure man, what is it?” Dean asked, curiosity peaked.  Usually Sam was neck deep in lore texts and rarely asked for Dean’s help.  Sometimes he roped Cas into whatever it was he was researching because Cas had an insanely good grasp on languages and Sam needed him to translate something.  

“Well, I might have lost my temper earlier today. In any case, I have a duel at half past one and I need a second.”  

Dean looked at his brother and best friend in bemusement.  “Was there something in the turducken Benny fixed last night?”

Sam scrunched his face up in a way that made him look like a confused puppy.  “Dean, what are you talking about?”

“Cas and I both have duels today too.  I’m at one -”

“And mine is at two o’clock…”

“By the fountain in front of the castle?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Dean and Cas responded simultaneously.  

“Wait,” Dean turned and looked at Cas, “You said your duel was against a boy.  What did he look like?”

Castiel frowned as he pulled forth the memory. “He appeared to be about eighteen years old, pale skin and messy black hair.  He said his name was Kevin.”

“Huh, I didn’t bother with a name, but sounds like the same kid. What about you, Sammy?”

Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname, but nodded nonetheless. “Sounds like my opponent as well.  Do you think he realizes he’s just challenged the three best musketeers still in active service?”

“Doubtful.  I am sorry guys.  But it looks as though I'll be the only one fighting today.  Seeing as how he’s not going to be capable of making your appointments after dealing with me,” said Dean with a shit eating grin.  

Sam snorted inelegantly.  “Yeah, we’ll see see.  At the least it should be good entertainment." Sam turned away from his brother, shaking his head good naturedly. "So logistically, I’ll be Dean's second, Cas, you can be mine, and presuming Dean’s still alive, he can be yours.”  

Castiel nodded in confirmation.  Dean just shrugged as though the seconds were insignificant in light of this new information.  

“Hey, like Sammy said, at least it should be good entertainment.”

After his encounter with the oversensitive pie patron, Kevin tried to make his passage to the headquarters of the musketeers somewhat less conspicuous.  He felt in his pocket for the letter of introduction his mother had given him.  Before he died, Carver had written the letter and entrusted it to Linda.  It explained Kevin’s heritage and his role in the history of the order.  

It was just shy of noon now.  If he presented his letter, he should be able to make an appointment with Cardinal Crowley, the official head of the musketeers.  The position was traditional.  Crowley himself had never been a musketeer, but as the second highest figure in the land, outranked only by the king, the musketeers fell under his jurisdiction.  

Before long, Kevin found himself facing a set of wrought iron gates inlaid with the symbol of the musketeers, a pentagram in the center of the sun.  They were manned by two guards wearing the traditional grosset and dunlap uniform.  

“I’d like to make an appointment with Cardinal Crowley,” Kevin said to the thinner guard to his right.

The man looked gangly and underdeveloped, almost as though he were made entirely of knees, but Kevin supposed he must be a good fighter if he was a member of the musketeers, and he knew better than to take his appearance for granted.  

The guard looked down his slightly oversized nose at Kevin and smirked.  “You would, now would you?  I reckon lot’s of folks would like to see the Cardinal about something or other.  Doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen, kid.”  

The guard to their left shot a sharp look in their direction, his face unreadable as the gate cast a shadow over his features.  

"What makes you think the Cardinal would waste his time with a nobody like you?"

Kevin bristled.  "I’m here to join the musketeers.  I have a letter of introduct-"

The second guard stepped out of the shadows as he reached for the letter Kevin held out.  Kevin had a brief impression of dark skin tone, muscular build and a strong, stern face before he registered that his letter was being torn to shreds in front of him. His heart stopped.  This wasn't was supposed to happen.

"Hey now, Gordon.  That's not necessary..." the first guard said.

"Garth, you mind your own business.  There's no way the Cardinal would see this little pig farmer. We don't need his kind among us."

"My father was a musketeer!" Kevin protested, outraged.  

The guard, Gordon, laughed in his face.  "Yeah, I'm sure he was kid."

"I have a letter of introduction! You're supposed to grant me entrance, at least let me talk to the Captain.  I have something the Cardinal needs to see!"

"I don't see a letter of introduction, do you Garth?"

Garth looked apologetically at Kevin.  “I'm sorry, kid, but if both guards don't agree, we can't open the gates.  Those are the rules."

Kevin backed away, stunned.  He had trained his whole life to be a musketeer.  He'd spent years studying, practicing, just for today.  He was an excellent student.  This wasn't supposed to happen.

What was he supposed to do now? He'd lost his letter and he could hardly expect anyone else to pay him any more mind than the guards had without it.  

Kevin felt a surge of anger run through him.  From somewhere behind him, church bells chimed the time - a quarter to one.   He smiled a grim smile of satisfaction.  At least he had a means to vent his frustration.  

Cas watched Dean anxiously.  It wasn’t that he thought his friend couldn’t easily win the upcoming duel - Dean was among the best of the best and the only one he knew who could genuinely give him a challenge in a swordfight - but Dean was rash and tended towards overconfidence.  It would only take one wrong move, one moment of distraction for Dean to be hurt.  And Cas couldn’t tolerate that.  

Cas supposed he had been taken in by all the Winchesters.  John, for his part, treated Cas with tolerance and at least allowed him a roof over his head even if he had never been warm or open.  He knew Sam considered him a second brother, a feeling gladly returned.  Dean, however, had always been more than that.  He was Castiel’s best friend and ally, and more recently, something else Cas was hesitant to put a name to.  All he knew for certain was an overwhelming need for Dean to be safe and happy.  

The object of Castiel’s thoughts sent him a wide, anticipatory grin.  All three had changed into their uniforms, Dean insisting the intimidation factor alone should help skew the fight to their advantage.

“Less than ten minutes to go, wanna take bets as to whether the kid actually shows up?”    

Sam piped up from behind them, “He’d better.  I’d hate to have to hunt him down.”

“Yeesh, Sammy, what did he do to you, insult your hair?” Dean asked, still grinning.

“Dean,” Cas started, his voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry to Sam. “Please promise you will be careful.  I don’t doubt your ability to win this fight…”

Dean didn’t let Cas finish before speaking, his voice lowered to match Castiel’s, “Don’t worry, man.  I know to watch my steps.  And I know I have you and Sammy watching my back in case the kid tries something underhanded.” His face softened as he noted Cas’s tightened expression.  “I won’t do anything stupid, I promise.”

Castiel quirked an eyebrow, clearly indicating he would believe it when he saw it.  

He knew Dean better than anyone else, including Sam.  Even though Dean could probably say the same for Cas, there were things Cas had never told Dean.  About his past, about where he had come from.  No matter what Castiel might feel towards Dean beyond brotherhood and friendship, it could never be more than that, because Dean trusted Cas with his life, and Cas couldn’t tell him the whole truth about who he was.  

“So you’re all here together, good.  That will make this easy,” a familiar voice said from behind Castiel.  

Castiel turned and saw the boy from earlier.  He didn’t seem to be the same person.  His entire demeanor had shifted from arrogance to hardened anger.  Everything about him screamed a warning to Cas’s senses and he put a restraining hand on Dean’s arm when he felt his friend begin to move forward.  

Kevin’s eyes narrowed as he took in their uniforms.  “So you’re all musketeers, huh?  Good.  Not too happy with you guys as a whole right now.”  

Dean tensed under Castiel’s hand; Cas understood why.  Dean loved being a musketeer.  He was proud of his position and the respect it earned, but more than that, Castiel knew how much it meant to Dean to be a part of something that worked for the greater good.  Cas knew Dean would still do the job even without the fame and accolades, even if he himself were shunned for doing what had to be done to make the world safe.  It was one of the many things Castiel loved about him.  

“Well, you know what they say about us musketeers right?  You got a problem with one of us, you’ve got a problem with all of us.”  

Kevin rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I know the motto.  All for one and all that crap.  Look, I don’t really have the patience to deal with you guys one at a time.  So why don’t we get this over with?”

Castiel saw the surprise he felt mirrored on Sam’s face. “You want to fight all of us?  At once? Do you really know who you’re fighting?”

“A clutz, an oaf, and a moron who doesn’t understand the concept of ‘move along.’  I’ve done nothing but train for this my whole life.  I don’t think you’ll be much of a challenge.”

With that, he lunged forward towards Cas, rapier already drawn, only to meet with a clash of metal against metal as Dean blocked the blow.

“First rule in a fair fight, you don’t attack when your opponent hasn’t yet drawn their weapon.  In battle? Fine, protect your ass.  Now?  You’ve just pissed me off.  Cuz that guy there? He’s my best friend, and you just played dirty.”  

“Dean!” Castiel called sharply.  This was exactly the kind of rash behavior Castiel had been afraid of.  

It soon became apparent that Kevin had not been bragging heedlessly about his skills.  He was still no real match for Dean, but he was good.  Castiel stepped back to watch.  He knew Dean wouldn’t actually hurt the boy, but it would be interesting to gauge his measure.  Someone with that outright skill should be one of them, not fighting them.  

Dean seemed to think the same thing and began tailoring his moves to challenge Kevin, stretching him to see exactly what he was capable of.  

“Who are you, kid?” Dean asked, admiration trickling into his voice against his will.  

Kevin gritted his teeth, starting to show signs of fatigue, but clearly unwilling to give in.  “Kevin.  But if you’re asking where I learned to fight?  My father.  Carver Edlund.”  

Dean dropped his stance, shocked.  It was enough that Kevin’s next blow effectively sliced Dean’s upper arm.  

“Dean!” The cry came from Sam and Cas both as they rushed in.  The change in situation was so sudden, Kevin just stopped, stunned, rapier still raised defensively.  

Dean hissed as he gripped his upper arm, “Well, that was stupid,” he said ruefully to Sam, who reached him first, Cas right behind.  

As the two fussed over Dean, Dean himself looked back to Kevin, frowning.  “Your father was Carver Edlund?  The prophet?”

Kevin frowned in return, his chin tilting up defensively, “Yeah, I guess you’ve heard of him then?”

“Heard of him?  Dude, he’s a legend.  Fought with our father,” Dean tilted his head back to include Sam.

“Your father?” Kevin asked, his voice laced with surprise.  

Cas looked up to observe the exchange silently while he pressed a clean cloth firmly against Dean’s injury.  He dearly wished he could heal Dean here and now, but that would be neither appropriate nor wise.  He would have to wait until Dean was asleep or not paying attention and help him recover miraculously quickly. The brothers had often joked about Dean’s astonishing healing powers.  All Dean seemed to need to recover from something was a good, deep sleep.  

“Yeah, John Winchester.  I’m Dean, Sam, and this is Castiel - Winchester by right if not by birth.”

Cas felt something warm in his chest at Dean’s words.

“You’re Winchesters?” Kevin finally dropped his rapier point and relaxed his stance.  “Damn, I grew up on stories of your dad.”  

“Why the hell are you fighting us?  You should be one of us,” Dean said in confusion.

“If your father was the prophet, that means you should be carrying on his tradition, naturally serving in the ranks,” Castiel added, his head tilted to the side as he studied Kevin.  

“I tried, I’ve just come from the headquarters.  I have - had - a letter of introduction, but one of the guards tore it up.  But the thing is, I’ve read the tablet.  I know what’s coming and the Cardinal needs to be told.”

Cas exchanged a dark look with Dean and Sam.  The three of them had had several discrete discussions well outside the city limits dealing with their concerns about the Cardinal and his latest policies.  

Cas turned to Kevin.  “You’re right, you need to see the Cardinal to officially become a musketeer.  In this particular instance, your inability to do so, might be for the best.”

Kevin visibly bristled before Cas continued.  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t join the musketeers; from what we’ve seen, you would be a valuable asset.  But there are more...politics…at play than you might imagine.”

Castiel ran his free hand through his hair and huffed in irritation.  There was very little they could explain within the city walls.  Crowley had eyes and ears everywhere.  He turned to Sam and Dean.  “I think we need to take a walk to discuss this further.  If he has indeed read the tablet, he might be in danger.”  He gently pressed Dean’s arm, “And I want a chance to get this tended to properly before too long.”   

Sam and Dean nodded their assent and Dean canted his head over his shoulder.  “C’mon kid, we’re gonna go have a nice long chat, get everyone caught up.”

“Where are we going?” Kevin asked as he jogged to catch up with the three musketeers ahead of him.  

Sam smiled down at him, “The bunker.”

On the first day of the season of death,

When the kings of the plains have ruled for six and thirty years.

War will come to the land of the Hammer,

Lead by those who need no breath.

Poisoned from within,

The crown no longer holds sway.

The foe, met at a crossroads,

Seeks to be king among both demon and men.

  Sam read the translation Kevin had provided for a third time while Cas carefully banaged Dean’s arm.  Dean felt a warmth flow through him at his friend’s touch, but he resolutely ignored it.  He couldn’t deny that Cas’s mere presence made any ache or pain seem distant.  Dean always felt more whole when Cas was around and Dean knew there was more to their relationship that just that of brother or friend - at least on his end.  He had never had any indication Cas felt the same, so he kept those thoughts to himself.  Now, he turned his attention to the prophecy, and whatever it was they were supposed to be figuring out from this gibberish.

“What the heck is all that supposed to mean exactly?  In French this time, please.”

Sam took a deep breath as though he was about to explain when Kevin jumped in.  

“I’m not sure about all the details.  But from what I can tell, someone is going to threaten France on the Winter Solstice of this year - someone close to the crown.”

Dean frowned. “And how do you get that?”

“Well, the Winter Solstice part is easy - that’s the “first day of the season of death," marking the beginning of the coldest time of the year, even if the solstice itself is a symbol rebirth.

Dean nodded, and waved the hand not attached to the arm currently being tended to.

“The second line refers to the Bourbon royal family; ‘the kings of the plains’ is most likely talking about their origins as the rulers of Navarre, or the Plains.  This year marks their thirty-sixth year controlling France.”

“How do we even know this prophecy is about France?  I mean, that whole line is based on an assumption.”

“Not really. ‘The land of the Hammer,’ most likely refers to Charles Martel, or Charles the Hammer - Charlemagne’s grandfather and one of the first Kings of a unified France,” Sam supplied, eager to contribute.  

Dean snorted under his breath, “Nerds.”

Castiel frowned at him and tied the end of the bandage a little tighter than strictly necessary.  

“So that means war is coming in about three weeks time, lead by those who ‘need no breath.’ Great.  That means either angels or demons - dicks all around.”

Dean felt Castiel tense beside him slightly and glanced at his friend questioningly, but Cas just shook his head, his face clear of emotion.  

Instead, he responded to Deans comment.  “Demons most likely, based on the last lines.  ‘A foe met at a crossroads,’ sounds like a deal demon who apparently has ambitions if he wants to be king of both Hell and France.”

“And the whole, ‘poisoned from within, the crown no longer holds sway,’ yeah, that sounds like an inside job alright.” Dean ran a hand down his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.  

“Well, it doesn’t take a nerdy genius to figure out who the traitor probably is.”

Sam’s face was grim as he watched his brother.  Cas’s mouth thinned and he looked down at his hands.  Only Kevin seemed confused as he glanced around at the others in the room.  “I don’t understand.  Who is it?”

There was silence, as though none of them wanted to speak the name aloud.  As though speaking it aloud might give the name power over them and bring down the shitstorm this revelation would unveil directly upon their heads where they stood.

Finally, it was Cas that spoke.  

“Crowley.”

“Crowley? As in Cardinal Crowley, second most powerful man in the land?” Kevin asked incredulously.  

Sam sighed.  “We’ve had our suspicions about him for a while now.  The war between the angels and demons has not been going in Lucifer’s favor.  There have been...suggestions...that despite Louis’s preference to either stay neutral in the war or to nominally back the angels, Crowley prefers to support the demons to the north, but he's no friend of Lucifer's either.  It’s well known, in Paris at least, that Crowley is the real power behind the throne.  I wouldn’t take much for him to overpower the King.  And he controls the musketeers.  While we are supposed to be the King’s guard, protecting the people from the monsters spilling over the borders, Crowley has his own special contingent loyal just to him.  I think one of the guards you met today was one of them.” He glanced over to Cas and Dean for confirmation, “Gordon was on duty today, wasn’t he?”

Dean nodded, “Yeah, I told Garth to try and keep an eye on him and to let me know if he did anything particularly suspicious.  I’ll probably hear about your letter tonight, kid.  At least the Captain’s on our side.”

Captain Singer was smart enough not to shout his mouth off about his opinions, but he also knew where the wind was blowing and had created a network of loyal soldiers within the musketeers on whom he knew he would be able to rely.

Cas still looked troubled.  

“Spit it out, Cas,” Dean said.

“Based on this prophecy, the traitor is already a demon.  If we are all agreed Crowley is the traitor…”

“Shit,” Dean spat out.  “We have a demon sitting in what is basically the most powerful position in France. Damn.”

Unable to sit still any longer, Dean pushed himself off the table he’d been leaning against and stalked outside.  

He didn’t do much but pace back and forth in front of the small cabin they had dubbed ‘the bunker,’ but the motion and the fresh air helped him burn off some of his excess energy.  

Cas followed him out a short while later, saying nothing, just watching him with his characteristic stare Dean had learned to find comforting rather than odd.  

Dean wished he could grab his friend and hold him close.  This was so much bigger than anything they had faced before.  Yeah, they’d seen plenty of fights together, but this would mean not only taking on the most powerful figure in France, but likely a host of demons as well.  Not counting his fellow musketeers who would side with Crowley.  This would likely turn into a civil war and right now it was the three of them - four if they counted the kid - against the whole combined lot and he had no idea what they could do.  

Dean wanted to cling to Cas, afraid of what he might lose.  He had often teased Cas about how he never seemed to get a scratch on him.  It was as though everything just bounced off him and Dean liked to think of him as a lucky charm.  Could that luck hold against what they faced now?  

He stopped pacing and looked back at Cas, neither of them speaking.  He and Cas had been friends for more than fifteen years now, yet there was still so much Dean didn’t know about him.  For a long time, it had bothered him.  He had questioned why Castiel didn’t trust him.  Years of fighting together though, had proved to Dean beyond a doubt that Cas trusted him implicitly.  If there were things Castiel held back about his past, he had a damn good reason to and Dean no longer questioned it.  It still made him hesitate though.  

Cas walked over to him.  “We will get through this Dean, we will find a way.”  

“How, Cas?” Dean looked imploringly into twin pools of blue as though they held all the answers.

Cas’s mouth curved into a small smile, visible only at the edges.  “This is your problem, Dean.  You lack faith.  We are the best of the musketeers.  Yes, Crowley might have an army waiting in the wings, but we have knowledge and forewarning.  We can act preemptively.”  

Humor left Cas’s face and he turned his head to look off into the distance.  “I might have an ace or two up my sleeve as well should it become...necessary.”

Dean didn’t like the sound of that, but knew from the tone in Cas’s voice that he wouldn’t divulge what he was thinking.  

Instead of pressing, Dean grabbed the front of Cas’s tunic and pulled him forward until their foreheads rested against each other and blue filled his entire vision.  

“Whatever happens, we both come out of this together, understand?  No stupid heroics.”

Cas’s shoulders shook in a silent laugh as he closed his eyes.  He didn’t move from the intimate position as he responded, “That’s usually my line.”  

The weeks passed quickly as Cas, Dean and Sam worked within the ranks of the musketeers to determine who they could count on to be loyal to them, and who would be loyal to Crowley.  Captain Singer’s network went a long way towards giving them the head start they needed to formulate a defense.  

They decided it would be safer to keep Kevin at the bunker and out of Crowley’s line of sight.  Fortunately, Kevin had not mentioned the prophecy to Gordon, or Castiel was sure Crowley would be spending vast energies hunting the boy down.  

Castiel was experiencing a personal crisis of conscience.  He knew they needed all they help they could get and if he was willing to open up his past, he was sure they could easily defeat Crowley.  But doing so meant exposing himself, not only to the past he had long ago left behind and sworn never to return to, but to Dean, Sam and the rest of his fellow musketeers as well.  Would they consider such a breach of confidence as a form of treason in its own right?  

Would the Winchesters - would Dean - shun him? Cast him from the family he had for so long considered himself a part of?  

Would the help he could provide even be welcome?  Would it make their position more vulnerable in the long run?  If he played his cards right, Cas didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be positive.  If he wasn’t positive, he wasn’t sure it was worth losing everything he found here that he held so dear.  

The decision was made for him a week before the solstice in a manner that would wake him from a deep sleep for many nights in the future.

As the date in the prophecy approached, everyone noted the upswing in the amount of supernatural activity in the country.  Woods and farmland were the most vulnerable and Captain Singer had assigned patrols of musketeers throughout the region.  By quiet agreement, only Sam, Dean and Cas patrolled the area near the bunker and it was there the ambush happened.  

If it had been just demons, they probably would have been fine.  The rawhead that accompanied them, however, skewed odds in the demons’ favor.  

Sam had already left Cas and Dean to check on Kevin when the demons made their move.  Between the two of them, Cas and Dean managed to take down six demons, leaving three and the rawhead.  Cas was dealing with the demons when he heard Dean’s cry of pain behind him.  The sound shot through Cas’s chest like an arrow, sending energy to every extremity in his body.  The feeling was pure fear.  A glance told him Dean was down, the rawhead progressing forward quickly.  Taking no time to think about himself and what the decision might mean, Castiel dropped his rapier and drew a hidden, shorter blade.  One Dean had only seen once and likely forgotten.  He grabbed one demon by the forehead, sending a concentrated push of power through his hands and destroying the monster within while simultaneously running the blade through the second demon.  He didn’t wait for either to fall before turning and gutting the final demon.  

At the flash of light Castiel had produced in vanquishing the first demon, the rawhead had paused.  Now, as Castiel stalked towards him, righteous fury clear in his eyes, the rawhead backed away from Dean.  It did him no good.  Castiel was upon him in a blink, hand to the forehead, smiting the creature until there was nothing left but a pile of thick, gelatinous, slime.  

Quickly, Cas turned to Dean’s prone form, heart caught in his throat.  Please, he prayed, as he had not prayed since he left his former life behind.  Please, let him be alright.  Don’t let him be dead.

Cas pressed one hand against the gaping wound in Dean’s stomach as he slipped his other hand beneath his friend’s neck, cradling his head and pulling him close.  He could feel sobs threatening as he closed his eyes and prepared to unleash a healing power such as he had not had cause to do in over fifteen years.  

Just then, Dean stirred, and Cas heard a thin voice say plaintively, “Shit.  Cas, are you alright?”

Cas’s eyes flew open.  Seconds were slipping away, but Dean was awake.  Dean would see.  Dean would know.  But he couldn’t let Dean die.  It went against every fiber in his being.  

“Dean.  I’m fine.  You’re going to be fine too.  And, Dean, I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry.  I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how.  I didn’t know if you would let me stay…”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said weakly.  “It’s ok.  You’re ok, right?  That’s all that matters.  Watch out for Sammy for me, ‘kay?” His eyes drifted shut again.

“No,” Cas said forcefully and Dean’s eyes fluttered open again in surprise.  “Dean, you’re going to be fine.”

Castiel spoke as he started to let the energy flow through his fingers, as though he would be able to distract Dean from what was happening.  When he had healed Dean in the past, the injuries had been minor, or non life threatening to the point that Cas could channel his energies more slowly.  This couldn’t wait.  The light produced as a side effect couldn’t be hidden.  

“You are going to watch after Sammy.  Just like you always have.  And you’re going to lead the musketeers against Crowley.  You are going to live a long life Dean, I swear.  And I’m sorry.”

Cas watched as Dean’s eyes grew more clear as the pain receded and the wound in his belly closed, seemingly of it’s own accord.  

Cas started to mentally build walls as he saw fear enter Dean’s eyes.  Shoving his feelings into a safe corner to protect them from the rejection he knew would come.  

Sure enough, as soon as the light faded, Dean scrambled away from him, eyes wide in shock.

“The hell, Cas? What just happened?  What did you just do?”

Cas spread his hands placatingly.  “I’m sorry, Dean.  I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know…” He took a deep breath and started again.  

“I’m an angel, Dean.”

There was a heartbeat of silence where Dean and Cas just stared at each other and Castiel waited on the edge of a knife to see if his world as he knew it was over.  

The first emotion Cas saw enter into Dean’s eyes was unadulterated hurt.  It broke Castiel’s heart.  He should have told Dean long ago.  Before it had become a matter of life and death.  

Dean lurched to his feet and started walking away without another word, leaving Cas on the ground behind him, broken and trying to pick up the pieces of himself.  

About fifty feet away, Dean stopped and turned, staring at Cas with eyes that were no longer showing hurt, but were hard and cold as steel.  “Are you coming or not?”

Even if he was angry and no longer felt he could trust Cas, he was still willing to allow the angel near him.  Castiel was willing to take it.

When they reached the bunker, Dean slammed his way inside, Cas following more quietly, shutting the door behind him. Sam and Kevin, both looked up from the table, currently covered in lore books, where they had been researching.

“What happened?” Sam asked, alarm in his voice.  He jumped to his feet and ran to his brother when he saw the gash in his clothing and blood stains on his tunic.  

“Dean! Are you alright?”

Dean snorted.  “Fit as a fiddle, Sammy,” he said, his voice tight.  “Almost wasn’t, though.  We got ambushed.  Nine demons and a rawhead.  Rawhead nearly got me,” Dean paused and tilted his head.  “Actually, the rawhead did get me, but it turns out Cas here has been hiding something pretty damn major from us.”  

Sam’s eyes, still filled with fear and worry, despite being able to see Dean was fine, flew to Cas.  Dean didn’t continue, clearly waiting for Cas to tell Sam himself.  Cas forced himself to look his friend and adoptive brother in the eye as he said quietly for the second time, “I’m an angel.”

To his surprise, Sam didn’t look shocked.  He merely thinned his lips and nodded his head as though he’d had suspicions confirmed rather than his entire outlook destroyed. Dean seemed to notice the same thing.  

“Aren’t you even a little bent out of shape about this?”

“Not really, I mean, I’ve kinda suspected for a couple years now.”

“What?” the surprised response was echoed by both Dean and Cas.  

“C’mon, Dean.  All your ‘miraculous healing?’ Cas is always the one to patch you up.  He’s got an uncanny ability of being around whenever you want him, the dude barely eats, though he eats more now than when he first arrived.  Sleeps more now too.  Honestly, I thought you already knew.  And no, I’m not going to get bent of shape about it.  He just saved your damn, ungrateful life.  I’d rather thank him for that.”  

Castiel could feel his face heat as Dean’s mouth worked itself open and closed like a beached fish.  

“Fine, but he still lied to us.  For fifteen years.”  

“Dean, first of all, he’s still right here.  Second, do you really trust him any less?  How many times have you saved each other’s asses?  Have you thought about giving him a chance to explain himself first?”

Dean’s shoulders slumped as he acknowledged what his brother said.  Castiel sincerely hoped that Sam’s points rang true. Cas didn’t blame Dean if he couldn’t trust him anymore, but maybe, there was a chance Cas could earn that trust back.  

“Cas?” Sam raised an eyebrow and gestured to the chair he had recently vacated.  “Why don’t you tell us your side of the story?”

Sam watched as his adoptive brother sat nervously in the chair.  He could see Cas was visibly restraining himself from throwing looks in Dean’s direction.  It frustrated Sam to no end as he thought of what idiots these two could be.  That there had been something between them had been obvious for years - since before Sam had joined the musketeers even.  He was sure it was one of the reasons John had never fully accepted Castiel as one of his own sons.  

He knew his brother was hurt over finding out the truth of Castiel’s past, but Sam suspected it had more to do with the manner than the fact that Castiel was an angel.  Sam, for one, would never dare question Castiel’s loyalty to the musketeers and France if for no other reason than it would also make him disloyal to Dean.  

Cas took a deep breath before starting his story.  

“I was born into an extremely strict angelic family.  One bent on gaining, keeping and controlling power.  We were raised to be soldiers.  My older brothers did it well, following every order, killing as many as it took to stay at the top.  When Lucifer pulled away from the rest of the Holy Roman Empire in rebellion, the fight took on new meaning.  Carnage became a daily cleansing.  If you refused to fight, you were considered to be supporting the enemy - on both sides.  I was tired of killing my own.  I was tired of taking orders I didn’t believe in.  I was tired of watching the innocent suffer and die.  So I left.  I ran away from all of it.  Had my family found me, or discovered what became of me, I don't doubt they would have demanded my return and my...reconditioning...to their beliefs.  

“Our war has not remained isolated.  Angels and demons both have caused untold suffering here in France.  I was afraid if I revealed where I had come from, I would be rejected.  But here, I could do exactly what I had no opportunity to do at home - protect the weak and innocent from the fallout of war.  This was my choice, my will.  It is an incredibly rare occurrence for an angel to be born with an independent will.  Depending on the circumstances, it is viewed equally through our history as a blessing or a curse.  For me, it has certainly been both.”

Castiel fell silent and looked down at his hands as he waited for judgement to fall.  Sam looked at him pityingly, wishing he could just push Dean into admitting why he was really upset with Cas.  He knew though, trying to push Dean towards anything was the most assured way to push him in the opposite direction.  

“Well, speaking for myself, Cas,” Sam shot a glare towards Dean, “this doesn’t change anything.  You’re still my brother in every way that matters.  I still trust you with both my life and Dean’s.”

Castiel looked up, gratitude clear on his face, before it clouded again.

“There’s more.  I have been...considering...options I might be able to explore that would give us additional aid for our impending battle.  Of course, I couldn’t ask you about them without revealing my true past.  Since that decision has been taken out of my hands, I can now discuss this potential plan freely.”

Dean frowned and spoke up for the first time since before Cas had begun his story. “If we request angelic aid, that puts France right in the middle of the Empire’s battle, with half the musketeers on one side, and half on the other.  It would be a civil war, plain and simple and in the end, France would go to the winner. On top of that, from what we can tell, Crowley is looking to take over France and Hell simultaneously, ousting Lucifer in the process.  So there’s a third threat we haven’t even considered yet.”

Castiel nodded.  “That’s a valid concern, yes, but only depending on whose help we request.”

“Cas, I don’t care who you know, you’d have to have some pretty powerful strings to be able to request a small faction of the angelic army and leave the Archangels out of it.  Michael is the Holy Roman Emperor.  You don’t think he knows where his armies go?”

Cas smiled wryly, “Oh I'm fully aware Michael knows where his armies go - he’s my brother.”

Sam sucked a mouthful of air through his teeth.  He looked over at Dean to see a stunned expression he didn’t think he’d soon forget.  Kevin’s jaw was resting somewhere on the vicinity of his chest.  

“You...You’re a prince? Of the Archangel family?” Sam sputtered.  

Castiel nodded.  “I’m the youngest son.  If we were to ask Michael or Raphael, not only would Dean’s prediction about a civil war come true without fail, but I would also be forced back home.  Their methods for reintegrating lost members of the flock are...intense.”

Sam watched Castiel suppress a shudder and felt his fist clench.  Prince or not, Cas was a Winchester now.  Family didn’t end with blood and there was no way Cas would be taken away from them against his will.  The tightness in Dean’s jaw told Sam his brother was on the same page, even if he was still angry with Cas.  

“If we ask Gabriel, however, we might have a good chance,” Cas continued.  

“Why would Gabriel be any better?” Kevin asked.   

“Gabriel has always had something of a rebellious streak.  He would consider being able to hide his army as a challenge and a trick.   Besides, he’s always had a soft spot for humans.  Among my brothers, he is the one that argues for additional protection along the borders to prevent as much spillover into France as possible.  If it weren’t for his efforts, France would be overrun by now, with or without the musketeers.”   

Sam looked at Dean, who nodded back.  After all, it was the best option they had.  

Contacting Gabriel had been remarkably easy.  All Castiel had needed to do was pray to summon his brother.  

The whole affair still left a twisting sensation in the pit of Dean’s stomach.  He was sure Castiel had minimized the danger to himself when he suggested contacting Gabriel.  After all, it had been over fifteen years since the brothers had last seen each other.  Who was to say Gabriel himself hadn’t undergone this ‘rehabilitation?’

Even after meeting the angel, Dean was no more convinced Cas would be safe.  Gabriel was brash, rude and, as far as Dean could tell, self-centered. Dean refused to acknowledge his concerns centered more around Cas’s well-being than that of the country.  Just because Dean was still angry with Cas didn’t mean he wanted the angel to go anywhere. His one consolation was that it had seemed Gabriel was honestly fond of his younger brother.  

Dean honestly wasn’t sure why he was so upset.  He had always known Cas was hiding his past.  And Sam’s points had all been valid.  Dean was actually angry at not suspecting it before himself.  It was just so big.  And angels were powerful.  Especially direct descendents of the Archangel family.  Dean must look so tiny and insignificant by comparison.  How could Cas have chosen them, chosen him?  And how could Dean have ever hoped for anything more beyond brotherhood and friendship?  

In the end, Gabriel had agreed to lend him a battalion of his own army.  All were angels he was sure beyond a doubt were loyal to him rather than Michael or Raphael so they needn’t worry about excessive involvement.  He also managed to identify the most likely location for the engagement.  Ironically, they staged it to take place at a crossroads, where the King’s Highway crossed with the Gypsy trail.  

Musketeers loyal to the king and angels alike camped at the crossroads on the eve of the solstice.  Normally, Dean would be sharing a tent with both Sam and Cas, but given the circumstances, Castiel had opted to bunk with his brother and Kevin had joined Sam and Dean.  On more than one occasion, Dean had left his tent to seek his friend out, twice getting as far as the entrance to Cas’s quarters, before turning back.  

They didn’t know what would happen tomorrow.  Even though Dean now knew why Cas so rarely seemed to get hurt, angels weren’t invulnerable.  The thought of never seeing Cas again, of one of them dying while Cas thought Dean was still angry with him, of Cas never knowing how Dean felt, about how much he needed Cas, burned a hole in his gut.  But Dean didn’t know what to say.  He’d never been good with words.

In the end, he wound up spending a sleepless night on his bedroll, the sick feeling he’d been battling for days tying his stomach into nervous knots.  He had never felt like this before a battle.  But he’d never been in a fight without him and Cas working in tandem.  

The dawn brought a bright clear sun and, as predicted, a demon army.  The angelic/human host had arrayed themselves so that the forest was to their backs, allowing them a place to retreat and more easily divide the enemy if needed.  Several archers were already positioned in the trees to give them the advantage of height.  The demon army marched up the open road, visible for at least two miles before they reached the camp.

The two sides met with a roar and a clash, starting with the sharp report of musket fire as the demon army approached.  As they come together at close range for hand to hand, muskets were abandoned in favor of the rapier.  Dean tried his hardest through the battle to keep his eyes not only on the demons in front of him, but also on Kevin, his brother, and of course, Castiel.  

He would have brief moments of panic when he lost sight of one or more of them for more than a minute; once distracting himself so badly he nearly missed bringing up his sword in time to block the downward swipe of a demon.  Mixed into the clanging of metal upon metal, Dean also heard the distinctive sounds of angels smiting wherever they turned.  Cas had been right.  Having the support of Gabriel’s army was making all the difference.  

As he acknowledged the thought, he glanced over at his friend.  What he saw had his heart flying to his throat.  Cas was surrounded by at least ten demons with no aid in the immediate vicinity.  With a perfunctory swipe at the head of the demon in front of him, Dean cried out, “Sam!” as he threw himself towards Cas, praying he wasn’t too late.  

Sam looked in his brother’s direction and assessed the situation.  He finished off the two demons directly in front of him and then helped Kevin dispatch a particularly stubborn bastard before grabbing Kevin’s arm to pull him along as an additional reinforcement.  

By the time Dean arrived, Cas was clutching his upper arm, a thin band of light shining through his tunic.  Dean’s worried eyes met Cas’s in question.

“One of them managed to get their hands on an angel blade.  It’s the only weapon that can kill an angel,” he explained.  

Dean saw red.  Spinning, he put himself so that he and Cas were back to back.  Hopefully soon Sam would be here and could help even the odds.  Despite the exhaustion he could feel wearing down his limbs, Dean fought like a madman, determined to protect his own.  

Sure enough, it was mere minutes before Sam and Kevin were there as well.  The four of them formed a ring that worked in perfect tandem, bringing death to any demon foolish enough to step near.  Dimly, Dean heard Kevin shout, “If you mess with one of us you bastard, you mess with all of us!”

Dean laughed and shouted loud and clear, “All for one!”

A chorus of voices, more than just those of his small group echoed back to him, “And one for all!”

Stunned, Dean straightened and realized the battle was over.  He looked over to Gabriel and saw he had a sword to Crowley’s throat.  They had won.  They were safe.  All of them.  

Dean dropped his sword there on the battlefield and spun to face Castiel.  Castiel looked back at him wary, still unsure of his reception with Dean.  

But Dean just grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him in, kissing Cas full on the mouth, heedless of the carnage around them.  Castiel was here with him and alive.  Dean didn’t care what came next as long as those fundamental facts didn’t change. If Gabriel tried to take Cas back with him, he would find Dean Winchester a force more powerful to overcome than the entire demon army.  

Dean’s mind initially froze when he realized Castiel had stilled against him; afraid he had gone too far and his actions were unwelcome.  What if Cas had changed his mind?  What if he wanted to go back?  Or what if he wanted to stay, but he just wanted things to continue as they had?  

Then the angel was grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him in closer, tongue playing at the seam of Dean’s lips as Cas tried to taste as much of Dean as Dean did of him. Fears of Cas wanting something else fled as the angel’s hands threaded their way through Dean’s hair, fusing them together.  Dean tightened his grip, determined to never let go again, even if they did eventually have to part for air.  

From behind him, he heard his brother distinctly mutter, “Finally,” before tuning him out entirely to focus on Cas, an Angel of the Lord, his best friend, and soon to be so much more.  

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

Merry Christmas, Wish!!!

Christmas 101 - Rated PG-13 - A Destiel story

by drownedinblissfulconfusion

"Can you explain to me why this is necessary?" Cas glares at Dean, steely blue, from under his fuzzy Santa hat.  

"Cas, we've been over this,” Dean tries not to smirk.  “The kid's the only one who saw what killed his uncle, and he's gone all mute.  Wouldn't talk to me and Sammy, he thinks FBI agents are scary.  You know who's not scary?  Santa Claus."  Dean punctuates his declaration with a finger jabbed into Cas's faux-belly--a motel pillow strapped to his chest beneath the red costume jacket.  They probably could’ve sent Cas in wearing a cardigan and a kind expression, made out he was a shrink or something, gotten the kid to talk.  But this is way more fun.  And Dean has to admit, with those twinkling blue eyes, he actually makes a pretty appealing Santa.  

“I feel very conspicuous,” Cas sulks, but he sighs and moves towards the door.

“Well, this time of year you’ll blend right in,”  Dean reassures as he grabs his keys.  “Come on, Claus.  Strap on your beard and let’s go.”  With a hand on Cas’s (fuzzy red) back, he propels him out of the room and towards the Impala, waiting in the snowy parking lot.  

*****

An hour and a half later, they’re back in the car; one hunter and one Santa, and one less supernatural creepy crawly to worry about.

“So it was just an actual grizzly all along,” Dean muses, tapping on the steering wheel as he tries to avoid the pedestrians who seem to think Christmas cheer trumps traffic safety--they zigzag across the road clutching Starbucks cups in their mittened hands.  

“Unless you’re aware of any supernatural beings that take on the form of bears, then yes.  The child was very clear on what he saw, and had an excellent view from the back seat of the car.”  

Cas has been slowly divesting himself of his Santa trappings while they drive.  He’s lost the beard and hat, tossing them into the back seat, and somehow wormed the pillow out from under the jacket without unfastening his seat belt.  Dean watches out of the corner of his eye, in case Cas decides he’s gonna go the full Monty.  He stills, though, and Dean turns his focus back to the conversation.

“Grizzly in the parking lot of a mall.  Hey, maybe he was just trying to do some Christmas shopping!”  Dean flashes a cheeky grin at Cas, but Cas is looking away.  “Well, anyway, nothing here for us.  Bears are park ranger territory, not Winchester.”

Cas worries at the buckle of his shiny leather belt.  “Dean, may I ask you something?”

“Sure, Cas, shoot.”

“I don’t understand, why was the child willing to speak to me, a complete stranger, so openly?”

“Dude, you’re not a stranger, you’re Santa!”  

“I’m not Santa, I’m a man in a costume!  Which is completely historically inaccurate, by the way.  In the first place, the third century Dutch saint known as Sinterklaas-”

“Cas.  No.”  Dean cuts him off before it can turn into a lecture.  “It’s not about historical whatever, and it’s not about some dead Dutch dude.   It’s just about kids needing to believe in someone who’s looking out for them, you know?  So when you put on that suit, doesn’t matter who you are underneath; all the kid saw was Santa.”  He feels a warm glow of affection, remembering how well Cas had interacted with the boy.  “You did good, Cas.  You totally made that kid’s Christmas.”  

“Despite the ill-fitting costume.”

Dean laughs.  “Yeah, despite that.”

“There’s evidently a lot about Christmas that I don’t understand,” he tells Dean, with a wry smile.

“Hey you know what?  We should introduce you to Christmas.  Do all the bells and whistles or whatever.  All that sappy stuff they show on TV.  Complete crash course on the holidays!”  He looks over at Cas and thrills to see Cas smiling at the idea.  “You in?”

“Yes, I think I’d enjoy that.”  He catches Dean’s gaze and holds it.  “Thank you, Dean.”  

“Well, you’re welcome.”  Dean breaks the eye contact when he feels his cheeks turning red.  He can’t keep the smile from creeping back onto his face, though, as soon as Cas looks away.  They roll on through the winter landscape, warm and happy in each other’s presence.  

*****

“Psst.  Sammy!”  

“Dean, why are you whispering and hiding behind a bookcase?”

“Just c’mere.”  Dean glances around to be sure Cas is nowhere nearby, and pulls Sam into the alcove with him.  “We gotta go get a Christmas tree.”

“You.  Want to get a Christmas tree?” If Sam’s eyebrow gets any higher, it’ll merge with his hair.  

Dean’s sure relentless mocking is coming any minute, but no way he’s gonna haul a Christmas tree around by himself when there’s a Samsquatch right here to help.  Not like he could hide the tree, anyway.  It’s not exactly a secret.  He’ll just have to play it cool.  “Yeah, you know, I mean it’s Cas’s first human Christmas, I thought i’d be good for him.  Show him some of the fun human stuff, you know?”  

To Dean’s surprise, Sam turns off the smirk and his smile becomes genuine.  “That’s really nice, Dean.”

“Really?”

Sam laughs and shakes his head.  “Yeah, really!  It’s very thoughtful, he’ll like it.  You wanna go now?  I’ll tell Cas we’re going for groceries.”

“Yeah, cool.  Hey, Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”  

“Don’t mention it.”  

For a second Dean sees something in Sam’s expression that he can’t quite read, and he wonders if Sam knows.  He shakes it off, though.  He might have feelings for his best friend, but if there’s one thing he’s a pro at, it’s hiding his feelings.  His secret’s safe.  

*****

It must be a Christmas miracle, because they manage to get the tree inside and set up in a corner of the library without Cas seeing.  Sam's gone to bed and Dean is sitting at the table struggling to untangle a string of lights that he just took out of the package, for christ's sake, when Cas slides up beside him.  

“Dean, why is there a fir tree in the bunker?”  He looks almost affronted at the sight, and Dean grins at the squinty angel glare being leveled at the poor tree.  

“Christmas lesson one, Cas!  It’s a Christmas tree!  Come on, you must’ve seen these before.”

“I didn’t realize it would be so... bare.”  He tilts his head as though staring harder will make ornaments appear.

“We just got it home, dipshit, they don’t grow with lights on them!  We gotta decorate it.  Which is Christmas lesson two, so I’m glad you’re here.”  He tosses the mess of lights at Cas, who catches it deftly.  “Sort those out while I get the hooks on these ball things, and then we’ll put it all up.”   

Cas seats himself at the table beside Dean, and they work in companionable silence for a while.  

“You know, last time me and Sam had Christmas, he got this scrawny-ass tree and decorated it with air fresheners.”  Dean smiles at the memory.  

“Is that traditional ornamentation?”  Cas looks a hundred percent innocent, but Dean knows he’s having his leg pulled.  

“You’re getting better at that whole sarcasm thing.”  He leans over to bump his shoulder against Cas’s, and Cas smiles down at the strand of lights.  

“There, I think these are in order.”  Pushing back his chair, Cas displays the lights; one long, perfect string.  

“You’re a miracle worker, man.  Ready to get these babies strung up?”  

“Ready.”

Between the two of them, and with only three false starts, they manage to get the lights wound around the tree, and the multicolored baubles hung on the branches.  It doesn’t look half bad when they’re done, and they stand back to admire their work.  

“Hey, not bad for our first tree!”  Dean throws caution to the wind and slings his arm over Cas’s shoulders.  

“No air fresheners this year?”  Cas slants a smile at Dean.

“Nah.  See, there’s this guy who’s never had a Christmas before, so I’m gonna show him the real thing.  Done up right.  No air fresheners.”  His arm feels warm and right against Cas’s back.

“That guy is lucky to have a friend like you."  Cas leans minutely into Dean.  

For just a moment Dean allows himself to wonder what it would be like to turn his head and press a kiss against Cas's face.  He shakes the thought free, though.  Cas has been through too much, and he's finally finding his feet.  The guy doesn't need Dean and his messy emotions complicating things.  Cas is here; that's enough.  

They stand together, enjoying their Christmas tree.

*****

In the next few days, Dean finds that the Christmas tree is a bigger presence than he'd expected.  Whether it's because the tree is a sign that this is a home now, or just that colored lights are so damn hypnotic, the three of them gravitate towards the library, just to be around it.

Dean is sipping his morning coffee and wondering if next year he should maybe get the kind of lights that flash, when Cas shuffles in, mug in hand, to join him.  Cas is laconic at best in the mornings, until he's got at least one cup of coffee in him.  Dean watches as Cas drinks, his eyes gradually opening until Dean can see the blue in them instead of just a sleepy squint.  When he drains the last of the mug, he sighs happily and turns to Dean.  

"What's the next lesson?"

"Huh?" Dean is caught off guard by the question, coming out of the blue.

"The Christmas tree was lessons one and two, if I recall.  Is that all there is?"  Cas looks disappointed.

"Heck no!  There's tons of Christmas stuff we can do."  Dean is sure there is, if only he can think of it.  Christmas hasn't really been his forte.  But no way is he giving up this opportunity to spend time with Cas.  Not that they don't spend their time together anyway, but somehow this Christmas business is different.  It occurs to Dean that for the first time, maybe ever, they're just together having fun.  There are two weeks until Christmas.  He'll milk it for all it's worth.  If he can just come up with some other Christmas traditions.

"Ice skating!  That's a Christmas thing.  We could go ice skating, what do you say?"

"Put on boots with metal blades attached to the soles, and slide around on ice."  Cas is skeptical.

"Yeah!  It's fun.  You'll love it.  We'll take Sam."

"If you say so."

"Lesson three."  Dean gives Cas his brightest, most charming Dean Winchester Grin, and Cas smiles back.  

*****

"Dean, you've never been on ice skates in your life."

"Neither has Cas!  It'll be hilarious.  Come on.  Besides, I need you to help me think of what other Christmasy stuff we can show Cas.  We can brainstorm while we skate."

"Yeah, I think I'll stay here.  You guys have fun."

"Alright, Samantha.  Enjoy your knitting or whatever."

*****

Turns out Sam had a point.  Dean is terrible at ice skating.  He spends more time on his ass than on his feet.  Cas, in a completely unfair turn of events, skates like a pro.  Something about angels' superior sense of balance.  

"The word is 'graceful', Dean.  As in 'filled with Grace'.  Angels have an excellent sense of physicality.  It helps us in combat, and in flight."  He glides backwards in a circle around Dean.

"Your face is... in flight."  Dean grumbles from the ice, where he's fallen, yet again.

"Dean, that makes no sense.  Come on, I'll help you."  He reaches out a hand and pulls Dean to his feet.  

With Cas's arm around his waist, steadying him, they make a few successful laps around the pond, and Dean actually starts to enjoy himself.  The day is perfect, clear and cold, and the skaters around them are festive in their bright colored parkas and woolly hats.  The park is like a scene from a Christmas card, right down to the icicles hanging from the roof of the skate rental booth.  

A couple more laps, and they decide it's time for a break.  Sitting on a bench at the side of the pond, they watch the other skaters go by.  It's quite an array, from unsteady toddlers with their unsteady fathers, all the way to an adolescent girl who looks like she should be at the Junior Olympics instead of at a small Kansas park.  It's mainly teenagers, and young twenty-somethings on dates.  A gaggle of girls run up, trying to negotiate their arms full of shopping bags as they rent their skates, and Dean is struck with an idea.  

"Hey Cas!  After this let's hit the mall for lesson four: Christmas shopping.  Point of a tree is to put presents under it, right?"

Cas stops blowing into his hands and turns to look at Dean.  "We'll buy presents for Sam?"

"Well, yeah, and then we can split up and get things for each other, too."  

"You're going to buy a present for me?"

"Dude, of course I am!  We're family.  It's Christmas.  Of course I'm gonna get you something!  Sammy will too, definitely."  Dean's heart breaks a little at the grateful look on Cas's face.  

"No one has ever given me a present before," Cas muses.  

"Yeah, well, you hang out with a bunch of dick angels, that's what happens.  Presents are one of the truly awesome things about being a human."

"Thank you, Dean.  Being human has been... trying, at times.  But being human with you has been a wonderful experience."  Cas's eyes catch Dean's, and for a moment the noise and bustle of the park fades away.  

Dean stands up before he can do something dumb like turn bright red or try to hold Cas's hand.  

"Alright, let's get shopping!"

*****

They're on the way to the mall when Cas spots the Christmas village set up in the empty lot beside the post office.  

"Dean, those buildings look very unusual.  What are they for?"

"They're just vendor booths, for the Christmas season.  They sell, I dunno, local crafts and stuff."

"Can we go?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?"  Dean parks the car, thinking this is probably better than the overpriced and overcrowded mall, anyway.  

They wander through the small rows of stalls.  Cas is entranced by the tiny booths, each so heavily and lovingly decorated with pine garlands, dripping tinsel and tiny Christmas lights.  The vendors are a mixed bag; cheap, mass-produced junk cozies up beside hand crafted items like quilts and jewelry, with food vendors scattered in among them.  Dean buys a hot chocolate for Cas and one for himself; it steams in the cold air and warms their hands.  Cas finds an antique dealer and buys Sam a book on local legends from the 1800s.  Dean gets him an obscene keychain-slash-bottle opener and a headband with antlers.  

Around a corner, Dean spots the perfect thing for Cas, and quickly steers him in the other direction.  "Ok, time to split up so I can get something for you."

Cas looks panicked for a moment, but it passes.  "Alright, I need to get something for you, too.  I'll meet you back at the hot chocolate vendor after we're finished?"

"Capisce."

It only takes Dean a few minutes to make his purchases, but it's growing dark by the time Cas reemerges from the maze.  

Dean has just taken a bit of a giant cookie (hey, a man needs his sustenance) when he spots Cas walking up.  He barely takes the time to swallow.  "Hey Cas, check it out. Gingerbread house kits!  These are totally Christmas.  You wanna get one?  Lesson five?"

"They're very attractive, but I don't understand, why shape food into a house?"

"Man, I got no idea.  It's just tradition, I guess."

Cas's confused look grows calculating.  "Do you think we could make it look like the bunker?"

Dean throws back his head and laughs.  "Yeah, buddy, we can try!"  

*****

The gingerbread bunker is a disastrous mess, but it is delicious.

*****

"I think we should have a party," Sam announces over dinner.  

"Yeah?  What for?  You get your first period?" Dean winks at Cas.

Sam rolls his eyes.  "For Christmas, asshole. We've got friends, now.  We've got a cool place.  We've got a Christmas tree.  We should have everybody over to enjoy it."

After a moment's consideration, Dean realizes he loves the idea.  "Christmas Eve!  We can call Charlie, and maybe get Krissy and the other kids out, they could probably use a good party."

"And Kevin and Linda aren't too far.  And Garth."

"And Jody.  And we can get some mistletoe." Dean teases; Sam blushes.

Cas stands silently and takes his dishes to the sink, turning the tap to run hot.  At a pointed look and frantic head motion from Sam, Dean stands and joins Cas, leaning against the counter.  Sam slips unobtrusively out of the room.

"You not a party kind of guy?" Dean asks gently, over the sound of the running water.

"I've never met most of your friends," he begins, "only Kevin.  I don't think I made a very good impression on him.  What if..."

"Cas, are you worried no one's gonna like you?"  The thought that anyone could possibly NOT like Cas boggles Dean's mind.  Of course, he realizes he's pretty far gone on the guy.  

"It's a legitimate worry, Dean!  Your friends are hunters.  I am--or was--a supernatural being.  Not to mention the things I've done, I--"  His eyebrows are furled, lips pursed into white lines, and the only thing Dean wants is to get that expression off his face.

"Whoa, Cas, shut it down.  Time out.  The past is behind us, we're not gonna worry about that.  Whatever you were, you're human now, and you're with us, you're a hunter.  Shaping into a pretty good one."  Dean sees a smile quirking onto Cas's lips.  "So, you've got nothing to worry about.  They're all gonna love you, just like I-- We-- I mean-- 'Cause me and Sam-- Anyway, it's gonna be fine!"  Dean slaps Cas's back and rushes out of the kitchen, oblivious to the way Cas stares after him.  

*****

Dean doesn't find too much time to be embarrassed and awkward over the next few days.  After all, there's a party to plan.  Charlie arrives two days early to 'help', i.e. cover the entire bunker in tinsel.  She helps with Cas, too.  Maybe it's because of the damn Supernatural novels, but she greets him like she knows him--surprising him with a hug--and within hours they're fast friends.  It goes a long way to alleviating his fears about fitting in.  

Dean swears he's not jealous when, on the morning of the party, Cas and Charlie disappear into Cas's room and shut the door; Sam looks like he knows better, and he sends Dean into the kitchen to start working on the food.  

It's hours later when Cas emerges; Dean is sulking in the kitchen, elbow deep in ground beef he’s mixing for sliders.  “So, you and Charlie done telling secrets and painting each other’s nails?” he snarks, without looking up at Cas.  

Cas's words put the smile back on his face, though.

"We didn’t paint any nails.  Charlie was teaching me mixology.  I want to bartend tonight," he announces.  "She says it's the best way to be the most popular guy at the party."

"Well Charlie's a smart girl.”  Dean turns then, and can’t help but smile at the excitement radiant on Cas’s face.  “That sounds great, Cas.  You sure you learned enough in just a couple hours?"

Cas narrows his eyes.  "Grace or no grace, I’ve still retained my superior memory.”  He lowers his eyes and his look turns slightly bashful.  “Anyway, Charlie thinks if I have a ‘signature concoction’, people will mainly drink that and not want anything complicated.”

“And I guess you’ve got a signature concoction all worked up, huh?”  

Charlie pokes her head around the door, Cas’s Santa hat perched on her head and a beer in her hand.  “Cas is going to make eggnog!” she declares.  

“Hah!  Perfect.  Cas, eggnog is lesson seven!”

“Six.”

“Six, then, whatever.  Maybe the hangover can be lesson seven.”

“I don’t think I want a lesson in hangovers, Dean.”

“Well, goes hand in hand, you know?  Go ask Sammy for a recipe, he makes crazy eggnog.”  He moves to the sink to wash his hands.

Cas smiles.  “Thank you.  I will.”

“Do I want to know what these lessons are?” Charlie sidles up to Dean after Cas has gone.  

“Nothing, just a thing me and Cas are doing.”  Dean feels himself blushing and concentrates fiercely on working the hand soap into a lather.  

“Oh ho, you and Cas having secrets now?  Come on, tell Santa all about it.”  She scoots up to sit on the counter beside Dean’s mixing bowl, and pats her lap.

“Har har, no way I’m going to sit on your lap.  And get your dirty butt off my kitchen counters!”

“Not unless you tell me about these lessons!”  she teases.

“Fine!  It’s nothing.  I’m just kind of... introducing Cas to Christmas.  One tradition at a time.”

“That?  Is adorable.”

“Yeah, yeah, now get off the counter.”  He threatens her with a spatula.  

“What were lessons one through five?”  She asks, swatting him away.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.  Tell me everything.”

“You are definitely my most annoying little non-sister.”  He starts with dressing Cas as Santa, tells her about the tree and the lights, the skating and the shopping and the gingerbread.  He skims over the moment he and Cas shared when they finished decorating and the way Cas’s arm felt around his waist as they skated, and he doesn’t tell her about the looks exchanged over hot chocolate.  When he’s finished, though, he’s pretty sure she’s guessed.  

She slides off of the counter and squeezes his arm.  “You really like him, huh?”

“Guy’s my best friend, so yeah.”

“Dean.”

He sighs.  Well, who better to talk to than Charlie, really?  He looks up at her and finds he doesn’t even need words.  She’s read it in his expression.  

“I knew it!”  She’s grinning all over her face.

“Yeah, yeah, keep it down.  Look, it doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t change anything.  He’s my best friend, and that’s it.”

“Don’t be too sure.”  She picks her beer back up and pats his arm.

“Charlie, what do you mean?”

“Just... don’t stop believing in Christmas miracles, okay?”  And with that she’s out the door, and Dean is left alone with his ground beef and his thoughts.

*****

The party turns out to be a rousing success.  Charlie discovers that the main computer controls a bunker-wide PA system, and she patches in her iPod to play all the Christmas favorites.  Soon, Linda and Garth are literally rocking around the Christmas tree, while Kevin tells war stories to Chrissy and her friends, who seem to have adopted him as a kind of guru.  Cas doles out eggnog to all and sundry, and Dean even catches Sam and Jody beneath the mistletoe, sharing a pathetically chaste kiss.  

Dean’s sliders are much loved by all.  He’s standing by what’s left of them and the other snacks, watching as the party winds down, when he feels a warmth beside him.  He turns to see Cas, mirroring his position leaning back against the table.  “Give up on the bartending business?”

“My customers seem to be otherwise occupied.”  He points towards Linda and Kevin dozing on the couch, and the three kids in front of them, sprawled on the rug.  

“Looks like Casanova is finally getting his act in gear.”  

“Casanova?” Cas tilts his head.

Dean gestures to the corner, where Sam and Jody are chatting, heads bent close together.  

“Ahh.  They make a nice couple.”

“Yeah.  She’ll be good for Sammy.  He deserves a little happiness.”

“You both do.”  Cas’s voice is quiet.

“We all do.”  Dean looks up to meet Cas’s eyes, and is rewarded with a small smile and a nod.  “Hey! I haven’t even tried your eggnog!  Let’s get some lesson six going.”

“Are you sure, Dean?” Cas looks concerned.  “Even if it’s lesson seven in the morning?”  

“Yeah, come on, I bet your eggnog is worth the hangover.”  He puts his hand on the small of Cas’s back and propels him towards the drinks table.  “Hey, where’d Charlie and Garth get to?” he muses aloud.

“I believe Charlie said she was going to ‘kick his ass’ at something called Assassin’s Creed, and Garth said he could take her any day of the week.  Are these assassins something we should worry about?”

Dean laughs.  “Nah, it’s just a game.  And my money’s totally on Charlie.  My girl’s got skills.”  It looks like everyone is pretty settled in for the evening.  Time for Dean to relax and enjoy himself.  “Now pour me some concoction.”

*****

Christmas day dawns bright and freezing cold.  Dean is relieved to find himself unaffected by lesson seven, even after his three cups of Sam-strength eggnog last night.  He rolls out of bed and heads for the kitchen to start coffee and pancakes for all.

After a prolonged breakfast, the guests begin to depart, with many hugs and Merry Christmases all around.  By mid-day the population of the bunker is back down to just Cas and the Winchesters.  

“Alright, presents time!” Dean calls out as he shuts the door behind Linda and Kevin, the last to go.  He hurries down the stairs and finds Cas and Sam waiting for him near the tree.  Sam looks indulgent, a typical Sam face. Cas looks nervous.  

“Ok, ok,” Dean gestures towards the wrapped packages waiting beneath the tree.  “What are you waiting for?”

Wrapping paper flies as they dig in.  

Sam loves the book and actually deigns to wear the antlers.  Dean pretends to get teary eyed over the awesome set of grill utensils Sam got him (but he doesn’t need to pretend very hard).  Sam gives Cas a book of unusual animal facts, and Dean just KNOWS that Cas is going to spend the rest of the day reading them completely useless bits of information about the inside of cows’ digestive tracts or something.  

When Cas opens Dean’s gift to him, his eyes light up.  “I love it, Dean.  Thank you.”  It’s a fair isle sweater, hand knitted in soft blues and greens, with a matching hat complete with bobble.  Cas dons the hat immediately.  

“Lesson eight, ugly Christmas sweaters!”  Dean grins.  

“It’s not ugly, it’s magnificent!” Cas retorts, but they both know Dean didn’t mean it.  

“Dean, what did Cas get you?” Sam reminds him of the small package still sitting unopened in his lap.  

“Oh yeah!”  He pulls the paper off and opens the box.

Inside is a silver frame, with a photo from the night before of all of the partygoers.  Dean doesn’t even remember the photo being taken, but there he is, with a burger in his hand and a fond expression on his face as he watches his friends dancing and laughing.  He looks at each face, their expressions caught perfectly, and sees that the photo even has Cas in the background, sipping eggnog behind his bartender station.  

“Cas, this is amazing, man!  It’s everyone!  How did you even--?”

“Charlie took it for me, she said she had an app for that,” Cas smiles. “And she printed it.”  

Dean shakes his head in disbelief.  “I always say that girl’s got skills.  Thank you Cas.  This is, it’s great.”

“I thought it might look nice on your desk, by the photo of your mother.  Your family.”

“Yeah.”  Dean’s throat is tight and he has to swallow before he can speak.  “Yeah, it will.”  

Sam coughs and shakes Dean out of his reverie.  “I think I’ll start cleaning up in the kitchen.”

“Thanks Sam.  I’ll be there in a minute.”  Dean feels Sam clap a hand to his shoulder, and then he’s gone.  Dean stands and picks up his gifts, and he hears Cas doing the same.  In the doorway they pause and lock eyes.  

“Dean, thank you.  For the sweater, and for everything.  This may be my first Christmas, but... I can’t imagine a better one.”  

“Yeah.”  Dean is lost in the blue of Cas’s eyes.  “It’s been a pretty good time.”  He can feel himself getting sentimental, but hell, it’s Christmas.  He’ll let himself slide just this once.  “It’s been really good having you around, Cas.  I’m glad you’re here.”  

“Mistletoe,” Cas whispers.  

“What?”  Dean’s not sure what kind of response he was expecting, but that wasn’t it.  

“We’re under the mistletoe that you put up for Sam.”

Dean glances up.  “Yeah, huh.  I, uh--”

“It’s a Christmas tradition.”  

“What--”  Dean hasn’t even figured out what he’s going to ask when suddenly Cas is close, breath warm on Dean’s face, and he feels Cas’s lips on his.  It takes his brain a moment to catch up, and then he’s kissing Cas.  It’s sweet and just a little rough where their sandpaper cheeks meet, and it’s everything Dean never allowed himself to imagine.  His hand finds its way to Cas’s waist and Cas slips an arm around his back as they kiss softly, so softly it could break Dean’s heart.  After a minute they pull back and rest their foreheads together, Cas’s padded by the hat he’s still wearing.  

“Lesson nine?” breathes Cas.  

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” Dean chuckles and kisses him again.

FIN

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

Merry Bunker Christmas, Rob!

-- by americanaintheimpala (Liann) YAY XMAS!

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

For Liann - Happy Christmas!! (not very christmassy but I hope you’ll like it!)

Love, Guu.

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

Present for Jess!!! From: tamryneradani

Dean’s at the grocery store, debating between Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms when Krissy Chambers runs up to him.

“Mr. Winchester! Mommy, look it’s Mr. Winchester? Can I say hi?”

“Honey - “

Krissy tugs on Dean’s jacket. “Hi, Mr. Winchester!”

“Hey, Krissy.”

Dean teaches kindergarten at the local elementary school, and Krissy had been one of his students last year. She’s bright, aggressive when there’s something she wants, and fiercely protective of the people she takes under her wing. Dean had been sad to let her go last year, but she’s got Lisa for first grade, and it’s a perfect match.

“Grocery shopping with your mom?” Dean asks, giving her his full attention. A lot of his coworkers don’t want to live in the same town they work in, because when they’re not in school they don’t want to see their students. For Dean, running into his kids, and his former kids, is one of the best parts about living in town. That and a great commute.

Krissy nods. “Did you know we’re getting a new girl in our class tomorrow?”

“Are you?” Dean, of course, knows this. Lisa’s been furious for days. The school district refused to add a fifth first grade class so with all the move-ins they’ve had this year, most of the classes are climbing towards 25 students.

“She’s from Florida. Do you think she’ll be okay? It’s warm there. What if she’s not used to the cold?”

“We’ll make sure she has a jacket,” Dean says. They’d gotten their first flurries last week, though, in weird New England fashion, this whole week has been sunny and pushing 50 degrees.

“And gloves and a hat and boots or she can’t play at recess.”

“See?” Dean says with a smile. “She’s going to be just fine with classmates like you.”

Krissy beams.

“Alright, Krissy,” her mother says. “That’s enough. I’m sure Mr. Winchester has lots of things to get done today.”

Dean gives Krissy a wave. “I’ll see you in morning line-up tomorrow. If I’m lucky, I’ll see your new friend too.”

Krissy nods and runs back to her mom. Halfway there she pauses and turns to fix Dean with a very serious expression. “My mom says dessert cereals don’t set you up to be your best. You should get Kix.”

“Krissy!” Her mother hisses. She turns to Dean. “I’m so sorry.”

Dean just laughs and waves them off. Once they’re gone, he moves past the temptation cereal and picks up a box of Berry Berry Kix and drops it in his cart.

***

Dean’s unpacking his groceries when his phone rings. He ignores it at first, because he talked to Sam last night, and his latest isn’t Jess the most wonderful perfect person in the whole world story can wait until Dean’s put his eggs in the fridge. And then Dean remembers that he changed Sam’s ringtone to the Jaws theme song after the last time he ignored a phone call he thought was from Sam and it turned out to be from his girlfriend.

She’s now his ex-girlfriend.

Anyways, this is the generic ringtone which means it’s not Sam.

Dean grabs the phone midway through the last ring. “Hello?”

“I met with the Novaks tonight,” Lisa says. “They actually just left. Hang on a sec, let me make sure they’re not standing outside my room while I talk about them.”

Dean tucks his phone between his ear and his shoulder and continues to put his groceries away. Lisa loves to gossip which Dean would give her shit for if he didn’t love listening to all the things she finds out.

“Okay, we’re good. Anyways, the Novaks. Claire’s adorable. Smart too. I did a very basic series of tests to get an idea of what group to put her in for reading and math, but she seems to have a good handle on things. I told her she had perfect timing with the move. We’re about to start our unit on bears.”

“What a terrible unit to miss.”

Lisa laughs. “Make fun all you want. I know how excited you get about your ocean unit.”

“We get to read A House for Hermit Crab. Eric Carle is the best.”

“Krissy told me you teared up reading that to the class.”

“Krissy has difficulty being truthful.”

Lisa laughs again. “Stop getting me distracted. I’m trying to tell you about Claire’s father.”

“Here we go,” Dean says. He puts the milk in the fridge and then wanders into the living room so he can get himself comfortable for what is definitely going to be a long conversation. “You do realize there are ethical issues with you dating one of your student’s parents, right?”

“Dean,” Lisa sighs, “I’m not trying to date Castiel. I’m trying to set you up with him.”

“Castiel? The hell kind of name is that?”

“You’re getting distracted again. Dean, he’s dreamy. You’re going to love him.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of things. I’ve never met the man. You don’t even know if he’s into guys.”

“Oh, he’s definitely into guys. And, before you bring this up, he’s not married so I’m not setting you up to be a homewrecker. Claire’s his niece, but he became her legal guardian when she was two. And you’re meeting him tomorrow.”

“I’m what?”

He can hear Lisa’s smirk through the phone. “He’s doing parent pick-up. I might have given him faulty directions. He’s going to end up in your wing of the building.”

“You’re a terrible person,” Dean says.

“But a fantastic matchmaker. You’ll be thanking me later.”

Dean shakes his head even though she can’t see him. “You’re ridiculous, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Say hey to Ben for me.”

***

Dean doesn’t spend an extra ten minutes debating what he’s wearing to school the next day. Well, maybe he does, but he won’t admit it to anyone.

Lisa, of course, notices as soon as she sees him. Her lips curve into a smirk as he rummages through the fridge for an emergency yogurt. “Looking good today, Dean.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles.

She just laughs and swats him on the ass on the way out.

It’s not like Dean put a lot of effort into his outfit today. He just might have finally ironed his green button-up, because he knows it makes his eyes look good. He has a lightweight brown sweater over the shirt so just the cuffs and the collar poke out, but he knows the sweater won’t last long. It’s warm in the building, and he spends the entire day in constant motion. There’s a reason he wears polos most days.

By the end of the day, Dean’s lost the sweater and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he’s forgotten all about Castiel Novak. Dean’s tidying up, making sure the scissors are blade down in the cups and that the paper scraps are in the recycling instead of around the bin when there’s a knock on the door.

“Excuse me but could you help me? I think I’m lost.”

Dean straightens up and does his best not to stare when he catches a glimpse of the man in the doorway to his classroom. The man’s jacket is misbuttoned, and his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is a mess, and Dean feels bad opening ogling him when the guy’s clearly flustered, but flustered is a good look on him.

“Uh, yeah.” Dean wipes his hands on his pants. “I’m Mr. Winchester - Dean, sorry. Too much time around kids.”

Dean holds out a hand.

“Castiel,” the man says shaking it.

“Yeah, you’re Claire’s dad. Are you looking for parent pick-up?”

Castiel nods. “I thought I remember her teacher telling me it was down this way but,” he shrugs.

“I’ll help you get there. The school’s confusing in the beginning. Have you been in town long?”

Dean leads Cas out of the room and down the hall.

“Only a few days. It’s been a hectic time for us.”

“Understandable. Going to school will give Claire structure, and I’m sure it’ll give you much needed time to settle in.”

Cas stops looking panicked long enough to look at Dean with interest. “You sound like someone who’s moved a lot.”

“When I was younger. These days, I’m happily settled here.”

“It seems like a nice town. I haven’t had much time to explore yet.”

They make it out of the kindergarten wing and pass through the library. The cafeteria, where the parent pick-up is, is on the other side of the school from where Lisa had sent Cas. Dean almost feels bad.

“Well, if you need any directions or suggestions, I know this town inside and out. There’s a good bowling alley on Prospect and if you’re looking for a restaurant to take Claire to for her birthday or even just to celebrate the move, I know a few places.”

Cas pauses just in front of the double doors that lead to the main lobby of the school. He tilts his head to the side, considering, and then his lips quirk up in a hesitant smile. “And if I’m looking for a place to get away and be an adult for a bit?”

Dean shrugs, going for nonchalant, but his fingers shake a little as he takes a crayon and crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. He scribbles out his number and hands it over. “I’ve got some suggestions for those too.”

“And directions?”

“I could pick you up even,” Dean says, “You don’t seem to do very well with directions.”

Cas laughs and pushes through the doors. “That’s true. I’ll call you later this week, once things calm down at our house.”

Dean tries not to smile too hard. He points across the lobby to where the cafeteria is. There’s a parent volunteer manning the sign-out table. “You just have to show Mrs. Keller your license and she’ll let you take Claire home. You think you can manage getting to the cafeteria on your own now?”

“I think I can manage.”

“MR. WINCHESTER! MR. WINCHESTER HI!!!!!”

In the doorway to the cafeteria, there’s a little girl with two blond pigtails, jumping up and down waving at him. Dean laughs and waves back.

“You’re very popular around here,” Cas comments.

Dean grins. “Kindergarten is all about having fun. Plus, Becky gets enthusiastic about things. But, you should go get Claire. And I should go back to tidying up my room. I’m pretty sure one of the boys buried all the plastic produce in the sand table.”

Cas laughs and shakes his head. “Thank you again for your help Dean.”

Dean nods and watches as Cas approaches the sign-up table. When he decides he’s being too creepy, he heads back to his classroom, because he really does have fake kitchen food to fish out of the sand table.

***

They don’t manage their date (dinner, Dean tries to tell himself so he doesn’t get overexcited) until over a week after their first meeting.

Dean agonized over where to take Cas for hours. The Chophouse seemed too fancy, and the chain restaurants too family-oriented, and finally he’d settled on Benny’s which is local and one-of-a-kind, but what if Cas was expecting more?

Dean likes the rustic feel of the place, likes the dim lights and the wooden tables. He likes that he knows everyone who works there and that Elizabeth knows his order without having to ask and that he has the high score on all Benny’s arcade games.

Since he showed up ten minutes early, Dean has ten minutes to panic about the upcoming date and then another five to think up worst case scenarios when Cas doesn’t show up on time.

“Sorry,” Cas says in lieu of greeting. “Claire insisted I read her her bedtime story, because Nora won’t do the voices right.”

Cas shrugs out of his oversized tan trenchcoat before hooking it onto the coat rack.

“If you’re late because you were reading to your daughter then I’m contractually obligated to forgive you.”

Dean flashes a smile and takes a long sip of his Sprite that doesn’t actually do much to settle his nerves.

“Ah, so he does exist,” Elizabeth says as she comes up to their table. “And here I thought you were telling stories again.”

Dean ducks his head, embarrassed. “Cas, this is Elizabeth. She’s the owner’s niece so she can sass the customers without getting fired.”

Elizabeth laughs and leans in close to Cas. “I only give Dean a hard time, and who can blame me when he blushes so pretty?”

Dean, predictably, flushes a deep red. “You are the worst.”

“And yet you brought your date here anyways.” She doesn’t give Dean a chance to talk back, because she turns her full attention to Cas. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just water is fine.”

Elizabeth disappears with one last smile, and it leaves the table quiet.

Cas picks up his menu, gives it a half-hearted once-over. “Fair warning, my daughter made me eat dinner with her in case we went somewhere yucky.”

“Yucky?” Dean asks with a grin. “Well, I can promise you nothing here is yucky, and I can also promise that if you order a salad for dinner then Benny will take it as a personal insult. He makes the best burgers in the area.”

“That’s a bold claim,” Cas says, but he picks the menu back up with renewed interest.

***

They don’t order an appetizer, because Cas isn’t hungry and Dean’s too nervous to eat, which means they have to fill their time waiting for their food with conversation. Dean’s worried about that part, because he spends his days with little kids or, if he does see another adult, it’s because they’re talking about little kids.

“Claire settling into school well?” Dean asks, because Claire is safe ground. Cas can probably talk about her forever, and Dean can talk about school, and everything will be fine.

“She is.” A little frown wrinkles Cas’s forehead. “Though one of her classmates knitted her gloves, mittens, a scarf, a hat, and socks. Well, I think her classmate’s mother did, because the stitching is too neat for a first grader, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

“Krissy Chambers?” Dean guesses.

“How did you - “

Dean grins. “She was one of mine last year. I ran into her at the grocery store. She was very worried that since you guys were moving from Florida you wouldn’t be prepared for the cold and Claire would miss out on recess.”

“Wow,” Cas says. “She had them on first day Claire was in school. She didn’t even know Claire.”

Dean shrugs. “Kids. Krissy’s definitely not a bad friend for Claire to have. She can be intense at times, but I’m guessing Claire can hold her own.”

“Her old teacher called her bossy. I prefer to thinks of her as independently spirited.”

“Lisa’s definitely a good match then. She won’t try to stunt that.”

“I’m glad. She comes home and talks about nothing else but Miss Brae - Lisa - which is good, but I’m waiting for the inevitable breakdown over the fact that we’re not going back to Florida. I’m not sure it’s sunk in for her yet.”

Dean nods, sympathetic, because he’s had enough kids move into his classroom after school has started to know that it isn’t always an easy time. “How’d you guys get up here? Plane?”

“Drove. With a U-Haul trailer hitched to the back of my car. Nothing to put things in perspective like having your entire life trailing behind you on the highway.”

“I did that a few times,” Dean said. “Without the trailer.” His younger years had been spent almost entirely in his car while he tried to figure out what the hell he was doing with his life. Eventually he figured it out, got himself a proper apartment, and now he’d never be able to pack his life up into the Impala. Too much stuff accumulated over the years.

“But,” Dean clears his throat, because he hadn’t meant to open that door. They’re not ready to talk about pasts and childhoods and all that, “Long drive to make with a seven year old.”

“No kidding.” Cas huffs out a small laugh. “Thank you modern technology. We never would’ve made it without her,” Cas mimes playing a handheld video game.

“Nintendo-DS?” Dean guesses.

Cas shrugs. “Whatever it was it did a good job keeping her busy. Of course, she’s angry now that I don’t let her play it all the time, but I promised to arrange a playdate for her next week so that should help. Maybe I’ll call Krissy’s mother.”

By the time the food arrives, Dean had forgotten he was supposed to be nervous about talking, because it had come so naturally to them. They moved from topic to topic with ease, and Dean’s smile is so bright, Elizabeth raises her eyebrows when she comes over with their burgers. She doesn’t say anything, but she gives his shoulder a brief squeeze on her way back to the kitchen.

Dean picks up his burger and tries not to be too obvious about the fact that he’s watching Cas take the first bite of his. When Cas’s eyes go wide then flutter shut, Dean can’t help his grin.

“Good, right?”

Cas nods around his mouthful of burger but waits to speak until he’s finished chewing. “Not sure if I can qualify it as the best in the area, though, since I haven’t sampled everywhere else.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, dragging one of his french fries through his ketchup.

Cas’s smile is hesitant, but he meets Dean’s eyes. “We might have to try another place next week. For comparison purposes.”

“Yeah,” Dean says as something warm and happy settles in his chest. “We can definitely do that.”

***

They share a brief kiss by Cas’s car, and reiterate their plans to get together next week, and Dean’s whistling as he heads back to the Impala.

He makes a quick stop at the grocery store on the way home and the next morning, he leaves a bouquet of flowers on Lisa’s desk with a simple note that reads: you were right.

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

Home for the Holidays

Happy Christmas, Lis!

by Wish

Read on Ao3

It was November before Dean made the call and said “Come home.”

It was three more weeks of Dean pacing-- actually wearing a groove in one of the carpets, already threadbare from another with similar predilection-- before Cas showed up, his hair a little shaggier, face a little more gaunt, but carrying himself a little taller than the last time they’d met.

Gone was the blue vest, but the khakis remained. Dean might actually hate the khakis, but far be it for him to say anything. He’d already asked for too much. Cas was home.

Before he’d settled on a room, Cas claimed a coffee mug and a robe, both of which he used obsessively. Each night he’d make a bed in one room, each morning strip the linens off and fold them. After a week he settled on the room at the midpoint of the hallway between the brothers, and diagonal from Kevin. By that time he’d acquired a few sets of pajamas from the drawers in the various rooms, mostly in shades of blue piped with white or navy. They reminded Dean enough of hospital scrubs that he was glad of the ratty robe Cas strode around in. Sam had tried, at Dean’s bidding, to get Cas to trade the worn robe for a different one, but Cas just hummed and stuck his thumb through the small hole in the front pocket and said, “I like this one.” And that was that.

It’s shocking how easy they settle in together, four not-exactly-reserved men. The ease between Dean and Sam speaks of years of close proximity, most of their arguments taking up old patterns, and Kevin has been adopted as a little brother. Sam might get a bit too much glee out of finally having a younger sibling to pick on, but they rub together well. Most days he and Kevin can be found in the library across the wide table, shoving tomes and slips of paper to each other without a word. And Cas, well, he’s been part of Team Free Will for longer than anyone else alive. Sam ribs him mercilessly like he must have his Stanford friends, and Dean and Cas still orbit each other in increasingly close proximity. They don’t touch often, but it’s a close thing, hands brushing the edges of sleeves, cups of carefully passed coffee. They don’t speak much either, communicating effectively with the long stares and head tilts of the language they’ve shaped together.  

  One day Sam walks into the library and drops a hand on Kevins shoulder. “Just got off the phone with Jed,” he says without preamble. “He wants a consult. I figured me and shortstack can take it.”

  “Hey!” Kevin complains without heat.

  “And,” Sam continues, “I figured that since Jed’s his neighbor, we can swing by Garth's and work on the archive.”

Dean’s already nodding, “Works for me. We can be back up research on this end.”

  Bags are thrown together quickly and they’re out the door within an hour. The plan suits Cas and Dean just fine--they can take over the work on the Bunker end of things, mostly just working on cataloging the library in the system Charlie has started to put together for them. The plan is for an online database, an intranet of sorts, for the hunting world so everyone can have access to the best possible information and maybe save more damn fool hides. They’ve already started reaching out to hunters known to have good information asking them to donate their archives to the database. Along with Bobby’s library and the Bunker’s miles of files, they’d be compiling everything the hunting world possibly knows about the supernatural. It’s a huge project, but it’s not like they’re saving the world or anything. Lord knows, it might actually keep them out of trouble. For a bit.

With the eggheads gone it’s quieter in the Bunker. Kevin makes a lot of noise for a little dude and there’s so much of Sam he can’t help but be loud. You’d think that more of than a decade would be enough time for him to get used to his limbs, but doorways continue to be the bane of his existence. Dean can’t help but quip that maybe he’d run into fewer things if he could actually see it, flicking a long lock of hair out of Sam’s face. The noogie he’d received in return was totally worth it.

In reality, not much is needed from the two in the bunker. It’s cold out and, let’s be real, Dean is lazy. And Dean’s side project, creating full dossiers of identification of the newest recruits to the Bunker crew just wrapped up a few days earlier, handing over passports, birth. Charlie made the technical magic happen in the federal and state databases, but it’s Dean who handles the hard copies. No one quite has a hand for forgery like Dean—his time spent with Frank Devereaux had been quite instructive. If he and Charlie also set up some crawlers to find Linda Tran, they didn’t tell Kevin.

  He doesn't know of many other career hunters, most seem to do it and balance a life, but all he knows is that this career of his, this life of his, doesn’t offer paid vacation. Until now. Not only that, but he can start Cas’s sorely needed pop culture education. What better to do in winter with shitty weather than sit around and watch awesome movies? They start with Star Wars, the original thank you, and move on to Die Hard, a seasonal classic, in a brutal marathon.  Then there’s Star Trek I and II and Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He debates breaking out the mob movies, but figures The Godfather might have too many painful parallels. Fuck his life, man.  Dean’s eyes are scratchy and tender from two solid days of staring at a flickering TV, so he drags them both to the second-hand bookstore in town, peering through the musty stacks, buying pieces of his childhood for quarters. Cas doesn’t say much, just smiles at Dean’s exclamations over dogeared covers of The Adventures of Tom Swift, watches the giddy smile that spreads across his face when he finds a set of well-loved Asimov and Bradbury to take home. These afternoons follow their own pattern, usually ending down the street at the bakery where they get two desserts and split them—Dean ends up eating half of Cas’s anyhow. He likes the way their forks rest against each other on the plate, likes the way their books jumble together in the faded plastic bag.

It’s only a little more than a week, but it’s weird when Kevin and Sam return and it’s lonely. Dean had gotten used to spending having Cas to himself, legs pressed together on the couch, hands caught on the same books, falling asleep on each other’s shoulders, their small jokes and smiles the only sounds, that the Bunker seems loud and crowded.   He mostly ignores the hollow that appears in his gut when Cas spends afternoons in the library talking lore and script with the others, taking it out only when he’s about to fall asleep, the sharp ache of it a reminder of who he is, what he is, what he’s allowed to have. He doesn’t let himself think about what it might mean.

Charlie comes by a handful of days before Christmas to finish her upgrades to their system. She’s swept up in a crushing hug as soon as she exits the dinky piece of plastic she’s currently using as a car, but everyone freezes when the other door slams shut, revealing none other than Linda Tran, which is just nuts. The boys are speechless and Kevin collapses on the ground in silent tears, his mom rushing over to sink down next to him, petting his hair and murmuring into his ear. Retreating to the kitchen, the others leave them alone. Eventually they find their way inside, eyes red rimmed and puffy, grinning like maniacs, and Dean just hands her a beer. Linda punches him in the arm and reaches over to give Sam a hug in thanks for taking care of her son. Turns out she’d holed up in Washington for a bit with some old family friends, helping run a restaurant. When the angels fell she realized something was up and started working her way to Lawrence. She was only a few days out from when Charlie’s system got a hit and she was found.

The next morning she walks into the front room and grunts at the empty, undecorated front room. She drags Kevin and Charlie with her to get proper decorations, but not before badgering Sam into agreeing to take care of the tree and declaring, “Get with it boys. It’s Christmas.” Twenty minutes later, Cas finds Dean in the front seat of the Impala, white knuckles around the steering wheel. Saying nothing, he slides into the front seat. They breathe together, Dean’s shuddered inhales harsh in the enclosed space. Slowly they even out to match the measured rise and fall of Cas’s chest, Dean’s eyes fluttering shut, the warmth of his best friend across the bench seat a bone-deep comfort. “Wanna get out of here?” Dean’s voice is tight and failing at casual. Cas meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, lips tipped up slightly, “Sure.”

  That’s how they end up in the mall parking lot three hours from the bunker (because even though Lebanon might house the geographic center of the US, it has fuck all else) in freaking Topeka. Because they’re apparently doing fucking Christmas and Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing, having had nothing but gas station Christmases, but he’s watched enough TV to know how it’s supposed to go. Ribbons and bows and stupid plastic trinkets, he can do. He thinks. Surprisingly it’s Cas’s abject annoyance that saves the whole endeavor. They’re standing in front of the window at Macy’s and Cas emits a strangled sort of half sound. It’s a scene of an angel chorus, white gown and fluffy wings and gold trumpets—the whole shebang—all glittery and trying to be ethereal. Cas is glaring at the most prominent angel, the one announcing the Good News, brow furrowed and it’s fucking adorable. “What?” Dean prompts.  Cas grumbles unintelligibly and Dean cocks his eyebrow, “Didn’t catch that, Groucho. Wanna share with the class?”

  “Not particularly,” he says and savagely takes a bite out of his churro. Dean chokes on his pretzel because there’s a disgruntled angel of the goddamn lord  being pissy and taking it out on a goddamn dessert. So, it’s about two chews into the next bite of pretzel  when it hits him that the goofy smile on his face is because of this guy next to him, newly-human and wearing his second-favorite henley, hands shoved into the pockets of well-worn jeans. The guy who drinks all his coffee and leaves the cups everywhere, who takes too long in the shower and sings a little off key, who slips across the center of the couch to fall asleep on his shoulder in the middle of the best part of every movie—this guy, his best friend, the former angel, who has somehow become as integral to his existence as his big dumb brother. Holy shit. He carefully finishes chewing and forces himself to breathe. Holy shit I’m in love with Cas.  Not that it comes as a huge surprise, because, yeah, there’d been a few guys here and there and he’d long come to terms with that, but this, fucking this. Well, it’s it. Standing in front of a stupid window display with half of Kansas around him and this is when he realizes something that should have been clear four goddamn years ago. Savior, best friend, new god, fallen angel—whatever he’s been in the past, the most obvious thing is that it has always come down to the two of them choosing each other. He and Sam, there’s never been any choice about it—Cas is the first thing he’s ever chosen for himself.  And the hell if that’s not fucking terrifying, but it’s the best thing in the world. His chest feels like it’s about to burst and his shoulders feel a million times lighter because it’s going to be ok. He’s got his brother and he’s in love with Cas and it’s good. Dean narrows his eyes at the stupid angels in the window. So, fuck you Gabriel, and the rest of your winged dicks for brothers, he’s got his angel and he’s keeping him. Doesn’t matter if Cas feels the same way or not, all Dean knows is that Cas is family and he’ll take whatever he can get.

  Breaking from his introspective non-freakout, Dean nudges Cas with his shoulder, “Let’s get this over with.” Cas nods and shoves the last three bites of churro into his mouth at once before they turn and head into the fray. Dean shakes his head, Goddamn adorable.

  Gift shopping goes surprisingly smoothly. They move through aisles together, well inside each other’s space as usual. Their fingers brush when they both reach out to grab the same book for Kevin and when Dean pauses, Cas just smiles up at him, placing the book on top of the ones they’ve already grabbed for Sam. It goes on like that through the other stores, seamlessly wandering away from each other and coming back, not saying much at all, just holding up increasingly absurd Christmas sweaters. Cas wins the contest when he finds one with a rather fat and disgruntled looking sheep dressed as Santa. Dean laughs so hard his eyes leak and Cas grins up at him like a loon when Dean throws his arms around the other man’s shoulders to stay upright—they walk out of the store like that. A clerk folding ties watches them go and sighs. The cute ones are always taken.

  They’re almost to the exit when Cas stops short. “Dean,” he says urgently. “We need to split up.”

  Dean’s heart jumps into his throat and he croaks, “What?”

  Cas rolls his eyes, “I don’t have a gift for you.”

  Dean just blinks at him.

  “It’s customary for gifts to be a surprise,” he explains patiently. “I need to get one for you and you can’t be there.”

  Dean can breathe again and man is he an idiot. Of course Cas means for shopping, not for that other thing because he and Cas aren’t anything so they can’t split like that and wow, Winchester. He realizes he’s been silent for a moment too long and clears his throat, “Right. Right, ok. Meet back here in 30?”

  “Excellent.” Cas nods, “See you soon.”

  He trots back the way they came and Dean watches him go.

  Back in the car he lets Cas put Christmas carols on the radio and he doesn’t complain once. Ok, maybe once, but that Christmas Shoes song is bullshit, Dean doesn’t care what anyone else says.

  Night falls on the road and the sky is crystal and bright with the full moon. The silence of the last few miles of the drive is comfortable and Dean basks in the way they just are together. He’s not the righteous man, he’s not the older brother looking out for his brother, he’s not a hunter, he’s just Dean Winchester, whoever that is, some amalgam of all those, plus a few other things. But Cas knows all of that, has been a part of most of it, has his own baggage too, but he knows Dean like no one else and he’s still here. And Dean knows Cas, all the self-destructive tendencies and pure stubbornness, traits he shares. And here they are, just being. Two guys in a car together, heading home.

  Dean parks the car and sits back in his seat for a minute.  Something is in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t know what it is. Cas reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Thanks,” he says before grabbing his bags and sliding out of the car. Dean follows, his hand curling into itself as if to hold on to that warm press, yelling into the hallway when they step inside, “Sammy! What’s for dinner?”

  Cas rolls his eyes and Dean grins shamelessly. His life is pretty good.

    He’s up with the dawn the next morning, made breakfast and taking his coffee out back to look over the slight hills. Some mornings are like this and thankfully no one bothers him, keeping their voices low when he returns to the bunker.  He’d be annoyed but he appreciates their concern. He’s in love with his best friend, Linda Tran is alive, and they’re celebrating Christmas—he’s allowed to have a bit of an emotional hangover from the previous day. But, really, that sort of shit is par for the course for the Winchesters at this point. Which of them hasn’t come back from the dead at this point, really? More pressing is the fact that he doesn’t have a present for Cas. Nothing at the mall held any interest. The guy barely wears any of the clothes they bought for him to start with, preferring to dig into Dean’s clean laundry when he can, which thrills Dean more than a little. So, clothes were out. And what use does Cas have for an iPod or radio when they have a huge record collection already? The only thing he can think of is more books, maybe from the place in town. But he already has a handful of towering stacks perched on the floor of his room to read. That’s it! Dean rubs his hands together, brilliant, Winchester. You’re brilliant.

  The bookcase is plain, but sturdy, made from boards Dean ripped from the broken down regulation desks in one of the storerooms— the ones with broken legs and cracked frames. It matches the desk in Cas’s room and Dean thinks he might have enough wood left over to make some matching wall-shelves like he has in his own room. He’s more than a little proud of himself, even if he’s sore and tired from dragging the damn thing to his room in the dead of night to keep it a surprise. His room is one of the few places Cas doesn’t come into uninvited and he can keep him out for a few days without it becoming too obvious that he’s hiding something. Excitement quivers in his gut and it’s all he can do to keep the surprise. He wants to tell Sam, but more he wants it to be a complete surprise, so he keeps his mouth shut, funneling his energy into needling his Sasquatch of a brother even more than usual.

Christmas Eve arrives in a flurry of a massive snowstorm. Which means of course, after a good breakfast, they all end up outside in as many layers as they can handle. Kevin and Charlie spearhead the snowman building, directing the others to help pack the snow into shapes that are vaguely spherical. Naturally, Dean starts it, lobbing a softly packed handful of snow at the back of Sam’s head. Rocking back with a yelp, Sam shakes his head, sending flecks of snow everywhere and it is on. It’s every man for himself and snowballs are flying. Kevin takes cover behind the largest of the abandoned snow man pieces and builds a small arsenal before lobbing them with an apparent strategy of just constant barrage at Sam and Dean. The brothers of course are dashing around, ducking behind the trees, tripping each other, Cas keeping pace, getting his licks in where he can. Linda Tran cackles at the sidelines, fully appreciating the apparent unspoken “no hitting the mom” rule. Dean steps out from behind a tree and gets snow full in the face. He gasps, and the culprit makes the mistake of stopping to hunch over laughing. “You should have seen your face,” Cas crows.

  Dean shakes his packed snowball like a fist. “You’re going to regret that,” he says and sprints after his friend. Weaving through the trees, he picks up speed as they enter a clearing, launching himself bodily at Cas, pinning him to the ground. Still laughing, their chests heave with exertion, cheeks flushed and noses red from the cold. Snow flecks Cas’s eyelashes and dusts his hair and Dean’s mouth goes dry. The laughter peters out and they’re staring at each other much like they often do, but this time Cas is just looking up at Dean, smiling softly and he can feel the line of Cas’s legs strong and lean against his own, their chests pressing together with each breath. Dean’s eyes flick down to his friend’s lips and his tongue darts out to lick his own. He feels a hand tighten on his hip and Dean’s eyes jolt back up to meet Cas’s and it’s perfect because Cas is looking at him like he’s never seen before. His breath hitches and he leans just a little closer, eyes still locked, breath intermingling, and they’re almost there. And then everything is fucking cold and they’re both covered in a shit ton of snow, dripping down their necks into their shirts and down their pants, and Sam and Charlie are howling with laughter. He and Cas gape at each other before nodding and launching themselves at the other two. It is so on.

  It takes both of them to tackle Sam and rub his face in the snow and Charlie escapes by hiding behind Linda Tran and negotiating hot chocolate as a peace offering. They accept and everyone trudges inside, leaving a heap of sopping clothes by the door. Dean has never been so glad for the seemingly endless supply of hot water; he’s never been so aware of the man in the next cubicle; he rubs his skin raw.

  Charlie makes good on her promise and makes some killer hot chocolate. Dean puts on some coffee as well and they arrange themselves across the sofas to watch the old school Rankin & Bass Christmas movies. Naps are necessary and Kevin drops of first, but they all drop off, one by one, lulled by the warm drink and company. Sometime later Dean wakes to find Sam leaning against the doorframe, looking at him with a misty expression. He’s confused until he realizes the weight on his chest is Cas, sprawled across him, head tucked under his chin, Dean’s hand curled possessively across the small of his back. He swallows and looks back up at his brother. “So it’s like that?” Sam asks. His first instinct is to scoff and deny it, but he looks down again and breathes in the scent of mint shampoo and Cas, and this is Sam. He’d do anything for his brother, even take a stab at the happiness Sam seems to always badger Dean into thinking about and that, frankly, has been too terrifying to contemplate. But that was before.  Taking a deep breath he looks up and murmurs, “Yeah, it’s like that.” And, because his life is insane, Sam grins and says, “Fucking finally,” before leaving the room.  A huff of laughter ghosts across his lips and Cas shifts, muttering into his chest. Arms tightening around the man sprawled across him, Dean slides back into sleep.

    He wakes up alone the second time, Kevin poking him in the forehead. He swats the hand away and Kevin just says “Dinner.” Grumbling, Dean hauls himself up, a little disappointed to find himself alone. Everyone is already in the kitchen, food arranged artlessly around the spare surfaces. The seat next to Cas is conspicuously vacant and Dean snags it, eyes sneaking over to find Cas smiling at him. He rolls his eyes and digs in.

  They eat too much, Charlie groaning how she’ll never fit into her royal gowns for the next war after this. Kevin looks like he’s about to fall asleep into the half-eaten mountain of mashed potatoes still on his plate, and even Mama Tran has to adjust her belt. Waving them all off to the front room, Dean starts the dishes. Someone puts on the Andy Williams Christmas album and the strain of “White Christmas” echo down the hallway. Hands appear at his elbow to take the clean plate and it’s Cas, wordlessly taking up the towel to dry. They work in silence, listening to the sounds of their friends and Christmas music in the other room, bumping shoulders and smiling to themselves. The last dish done, Dean turns to wipe down the table when a hand snags his own. Looking at where Cas’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist, Dean stills. Cautiously he looks up at his friend, who rolls his eyes and crowds him against the edge of the sink. So close Dean can feel the breath of each word, Cas says, “Dean Winchester, you are impossible,” before pressing their lips together. After a nanosecond of panic, everything in Dean jumps aboard the thank fuck train and he drops his hands to grip Cas’s hips. The other man groans at the contact and Dean takes advantage of the moment to lick his way between the gently parted lips. Cas’s hand fists in the hair at the base of Dean’s neck, changing the angle just enough that they’re pressing together in a clash of long-denied need.

  A whistle breaks them apart, but it’s just Charlie at the door. She waves her mug at them with a sly grin, “Don’t mind me, boys, just here for more nog,” before grabbing the entire carton and scampering out to no doubt tell the entire world. Laughing, Cas rests his forehead against Dean’s. Strangely, Dean thinks it’s even better than the kissing and the kissing was fucking stellar, but Cas is in Dean’s arms and his hands are carding through his hair and he’s dropping small kisses on his nose and cheeks. It’s too much so Dean dips down to capture Cas’s lips again, trying to convey all his mixed up insides. Cas seems to get the message just fine, dropping one last chaste kiss before taking him by the hand into the front room to their friends. Dean doesn’t let go of Cas’s hand.

      He can’t remember much of the Christmas morning gift exchange, his stomach in knots until Cas picks up his present. Lightheaded, he watches Cas lift the lid of the box and pull out two books from his new favorite series and a wood chip. At the arched eyebrow, Dean laughs tension abating. He holds his hand out and Cas sets the books on top of the new laptop Charlie and Sam had given him, letting Dean lead him down the hallway. Dean doesn’t even get to explain the gift, Cas just zeroes in on it and then Dean is up against the side of the bookcase being kissed soundly.

  The bookcase ends up staying in Dean’s room.  Or, rather, their room since Cas officially takes over half of Dean’s drawers and most of Dean’s bed after that.  He’d never admit it, but he thinks he’d left that one wall in his room bare for so long in a subconscious hope that Cas would make it his, as he quickly does. Cas’s ratty robe hangs next to Dean’s on the back of the door, his favorite coffee mug making rings on the nightstand most mornings. Dean builds him another bookcase and some shelves for Cas’s old room, which is now Cas’s office. The second one is better made, but Cas prefers the first, making a show of organizing all the books they’d picked out at the second hand store on the shelves and carving Enochian he won’t explain into the edges. Cas sleeps in his old room some nights, which would bother Dean more if he didn’t wake up with an armful of boyfriend every morning anyhow. He’s glad Cas has his own space, is creating his own life outside of Dean and their room, that he has his own hobbies and patterns. After all, Dean has the Impala and the rest of the garage to retreat to. Sam teases him about becoming an adult and Dean can’t do anything but smile into his coffee and head out to join Cas on the porch. He presses a kiss to Cas’s check and lets him steal his cooling coffee, looking out over the melting snow.

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

clicky click

merry christmas lily

from jamie

[campbunkersecretsanta-blog]

For Kristin! Happy Holidays, and enjoy!

-Lis

The case is going nowhere.

Dean slams the book shut with a groan and stands to stretch, ignoring the librarian's glare, and turns to Sam. "I'm gonna go check out the gravesite again. You good here?"

Sam nods, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Yeah, I think I finally found the right book of microfilms. Call me if you find anything?"

Dean nods, already standing his books by Sam's pile. "I'll pick you up in a couple hours, all right?"

Sam gives a distracted wave and Dean shakes his head, fighting an affectionate smile at his geeky brother. Sam could spend all day in the library and still want to come back for more, but Dean's more a man of action than the kind of guy who can read all damn day.

The Impala's waiting for him right where he left her and he grins as he slides behind the wheel. The case is kind of a weird one, even for them; each of the six victims seem to have died in their beds of natural causes, but their bodies were flattened to less than an inch thick. Gross. Dean's pretty sure they've lost their FBI stalker and the weather's that crisp, cold kind of winter evening that makes everything seem brighter and sharper. He starts the car and heads onto the road, turning the tape player up until the car vibrates with the strains of AC/DC. The graveyard where the last four victims are buried is just ten miles away but the roads are small, twisty and icy and he doesn't want to take any chances, so he takes each curve slowly and carefully.

The sky's starting to darken as he pulls onto the road the graveyard straddles and he frowns, glancing up. He's pretty sure it's not even four o'clock, so why’s the sky so dim?

That's when he notices the massive clouds bearing down on him fast and sees the first snowflakes land on the windshield. They start to patter faster and faster across the hood of the car as he flicks on the lights and grips the wheel tighter.

He's just trying to turn when there's a shout behind him and he glances in the rear view mirror to see a figure silhouetted in the dim light.

"Shit," he mutters to himself, lowering the volume on the music as he navigates the accumulating snow. "Shit." It's Agent Victor Henricksen, FBI, who he'd been sure they'd left behind four states and three days ago. He's jogging after the car, jacket flapping in the wind and snowy clumps clinging to his shoulders and hair.

It's absurd, Dean can't help thinking, as he tries to avoid fishtailing on the sudden two inches of snow. It's the slowest chase he's ever been in, the Impala rolling down the road at ten miles an hour, Agent Henricksen slip-sliding on foot in the snow behind as he tries to catch up.

The snow's falling harder now, building up faster than Dean thought possible, and he swears silently at the Minnesota weather as he tries to control the car in the slippery stuff.

They’re over a mile from the graveyard and Dean hasn’t seen any sign of Victor’s car, and he’s starting to get a little worried against his better judgement. The agent’s just trying to do his job, after all, and he’s pretty fucking good at it when he’s not chasing Winchesters. Dean would really rather not have some actual murderer go free because Agent Henricksen slipped under the Impala’s tires.

The snow is blinding, swirling across the dash, and Dean can barely see the road in front of him between the snow in the air and covering the pavement. Victor has fallen behind now and as Dean watches he nearly slips on a patch of what looks like ice.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, carefully slowing the car and turning her in a tight loop, slowing to a stop as he draws up alongside the agent and rolls down the passenger window, sliding over and leaning out into the blizzard, wincing as flakes fly onto the leather seats. “Hey there.”

Victor looks up at him through the drifting cloud of flakes and glares, reaching for his gun. Dean smirks a little when his hands close on air. The gun had fallen out a mile back, the second time Victor nose-dived into a snowbank and Dean had decided it wasn’t the best plan to let the agent know about the loss.

“Need a lift?”

Victor stands carefully, eyes blazing. “No, Mr. Winchester. I need you to get out, turn around and put your hands on the car.”

Dean snorts. “It’s a blizzard, and you want me bent over my car? Kinky, Agent Henricksen.”

Henricksen rolls his eyes and Dean sees his shoulders relax a little. Dean grins. He can’t help it, he thinks, I’m adorable.

The wind is picking up, and Victor shivers once, just a quick shudder, and Dean sighs. “Dude, it’s fucking freezing. Just get in the car.”

Victor’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Get. In. The. Car.”

“I  don’t take orders from murder suspects, Winchester.”

Dean shakes his head, letting his eyes drift shut. “We’re miles from your car, if you can even find it in this weather, and it’s gonna get even darker when the sun sets in a few minutes. So just get in the damn car, all right? At least you won’t freeze to death.”

Victor’s still hesitating, but Dean can tell he’s on the edge of agreeing. It’s pretty fucking cold, after all. “Didn’t know you cared, Dean.”

“Not gonna let you fucking freeze to death, dude. I’m not that much of a dick.” Dean slides back a few inches and swings the door open, shivering as the cold wind triples in the larger opening.

The agent starts to shake his head, but then a huge gust of wind nearly knocks him off his feet and he swears under his breath, climbing into the Impala and slamming the door. Dean grins at him, the wide, shit-eating grin that he knows will drive Victor crazy, and the other man just glares back at him. “Not a word.”

Dean just grins at him.

-----

The snow’s falling even faster now, and after the Impala fishtails a third time Dean sighs into the uncomfortable silence of the car. “I gotta pull over, dude. We’re not makin’ it back to town in this weather.”

Victor shifts in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, and stares at the man beside him. 

Dean parks neatly on the side of the road, tires slipping only a little, and meets the agent’s eyes. “Look, I know you don’t wanna be here. I don’t really want you douching up my car either, all right? But we’ve gotta wait out the snow a little if we want to survive the trip back.” He glances at the gas gauge and swears. “And we’ve got like a quarter tank left, so running the car all night’s not really an option.” He turns the key, shutting the car off, and reaches behind the seat.

Victor tenses, watching him closely from inches away as Dean digs at a bag on the backseat. Finally, he lets out a Hah! and slides back into his seat.

He shoves a wad of fabric at Victor, who hesitates.

“Gonna start getting cold in here pretty soon,” Dean says gruffly. “Wrap up.”

Henricksen looks down at the blanket in his hands, then back up at Dean. “You’re serious.” It’s not a question.

“What? I told you, I’m not gonna let you die in here.” Dean tosses a blanket around his own shoulders and sighs. “Doesn’t look like it’s gonna let up anytime soon. You wanna drink?” He pulls a flask from his jacket pocket and offers it to Victor. “It’ll warm you up.”

“You’re serious.” The agent’s staring at Dean, eyes narrowed. “You think you can offer me a ride and a drink, and what, change my mind about you? Get an inside man? What’s your game, Dean?”

“What? No!” Dean’s eyes are wide, shocked. “Just don’t want you to freeze to death, dude. You’re just doing your job.”

“Yeah, my job. Where I try and catch you. And arrest you.”

Dean pulls the flask back, sipping from it himself. “Well. Yeah. But not just me.” He looks away, sighing. “You know, you’re not the only one who did his research. You’re a good agent.”

“You think so?” Victor’s surprised, and a little thrown. There’s a lot of ways he’d imagined tonight going, starting with him catching Sam and Dean red-handed desecrating a grave, souvenirs from a dozen cold cases on his person. He’d taken that goal down a few notches as the evening had progressed, first to just ‘catching Dean Winchester,’ then to ‘finding some evidence’ then to ‘finding my goddamn squadcar in this snow.’ Then there’d been a brief bout of optimism when he’d seen the Impala, but then he’d lowered his expectations down to ‘don’t freeze to death or be brutally murdered.’

Now, somehow, he’s sitting in a warm, dry car, wrapped in a blanket, being complimented on his skills by the very fugitive he’d been hoping to catch.

It’s jarring, to say the least.

But he’s been in the car for half an hour already and he’s not dead yet. And who knows how long Dean was tailing him before that.

In fact, Dean’s had hundreds of opportunities to kill him, and given the Winchesters’ history, Victor can’t quite figure out why he’s still alive.

He lets out a long, slow sigh and holds out his hand to the other man. 

Dean stares at him for a moment, then grins, and Victor’s struck by the genuine happiness in the expression. Dean’s eyes crinkle, dimples forming in his cheeks, and he slaps the flask down into Victor’s palm. The metal’s cool against his fingers, and Dean’s skin is warm against his palm, and Victor pulls away quickly to unscrew the cap and take a swig.

It’s whiskey, warm and golden as it pours down his throat, and he can’t help but let his eyes drift shut for a second as he savors the taste and the way it heats his belly. He holds the flask out, passing it back to Dean, and unfolds the musty blanket. It’s large, fuzzy, and looks like it’s lived in the car for at least as long as Dean’s been alive. He gives it a discreet sniff as he settles it around his shoulders and wonders at the herby scent that clings to the fibers.

“Should be clean, man,” says Dean, and Victor looks up, startled. “I promise. Me and Sammy washed them all a few states back.” Dean reaches beside the seat and tugs a lever, reclining the seat as far as it goes and wriggling to get comfortable.

Victor raises an eyebrow. “Would that be in, uh, Andover, Massachusetts, with the missing hand? Or maybe out in Michigan, where I guess you two had some sort of problem with Christmas trees and old people?”

Dean snorts, shaking his head and taking another drink, slouching in the seat a little. “You know I can’t tell you that, Agent.” He shakes his head. 

“Worth a shot,” says Victor with a shrug, grabbing the flask back for another gulp. 

A part of him is horrified at this. He’s in a car he’s been tracking for months, alone with someone he’s pretty certain has killed at least twenty people, and yet–

And yet somehow he’s almost completely at ease.

He thinks back to that lawyer, the one who he’s sure had a hand in getting Dean and his brother out of Folsom Prison. He thinks of Detective Ballard in Baltimore, and of all the other witnesses he’s interviewed on this case. Almost everyone he’s talked to has defended the Winchesters, swearing that they saved people, that they got rid of whatever the problem was.

And he thinks about the weird pattern, the fact that a few weeks after they show up in a town, the problems stop. He’s always figured they’d just gotten places before people saw them, started early then played the hero, but in a few cases, the timelines just don’t match up.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean, watching him with those damned green eyes of his. He’s seen Dean charm people; he’s got that bad-boy attitude and innocent face that somehow makes people fall at his feet.

Victor’s fought it off for months.

Now he just hopes it’s evidence, not white teeth and eye-crinkles and a shared drink of whiskey, that’s making him question things.

He shivers a little, pulling the corners of the blanket more closely around him. He’s grateful for his FBI-issued fleece-lined jacket, and he spares a glance at Dean as he tries to tuck his hands completely inside the sleeves. Jesus, gotta be below freezing in here.

Dean’s worse off than he is, though, in battered jeans with a rip at the knee and an old leather jacket that’s seen better days. There’s a blanket over his shoulders, but it’s not doing much good. He’s shaking pretty constantly now, little tremors running over his shoulders, and Victor shakes his head. “Got any more blankets back there? You’re looking a little cold.”

Dean snorts. “What, you worried about me?” He looks up, meets Victor’s eyes and tries to smirk. The effect is dampened by the chattering of his teeth and the redness in his nose and cheeks, and Victor just glares back. Dean sighs. “No. This is all I got. Let the rest–” he cuts himself off. “This is all of them.”

Victor hesitates a moment, battling the curiosity that makes him a good agent, before giving in. “Where’s Sam, anyway?”

Dean’s head whips around, that fiercely protective gleam in his eyes. “Nowhere you guys’ll find him.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Victor raises his hands in surrender. “Just makin’ conversation. It’s not like I have any way of reporting back in this.” He gestures at the snowy terrain outside, now covered in at least eight inches of fluffy white and capped by swirling gray masses of clouds.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean sighs. “He’s, uh, not feelin’ too good. He usually gets a cold this time of year that knocks him out for a few days.” His voice is fond, and Victor’s struck again by the depth of feeling he can hear in the man’s voice. “He’s kind of a whiny bitch about it, though.” He sighs. “Kinda wish he was here, though. No offense, man.”

“Hey, you’re not my top pick for people to be trapped in a car with, either,” Victor retorts. He offers the flask back with a sardonic smile, softening the blow. “But–” he leans forward, squinting in the dark– “looks like we’re stuck here a while.”

Dean shakes his head. “Yeah.”

They sit in silence a few minutes, passing the flask back and forth and watching the snow fall. It’s nearly completely dark now, just a single streetlight a dozen feet up the road that’s flickering dimly, and Victor watches Dean.

“You know, this is the first time I’ve seen you without your brother,” he says, conversationally. “You split up like this often?”

“Dude, why would I tell you if we did?” Dean’s grinning at him. “But, uh, sometimes. I guess.” He takes a sip and looks out the window. “He’s a grown man now. I’m trying to remember that and let him do his own thing sometimes.”

“Is his thing different than yours?”

Dean nods, still staring out the window. “I, uh– I used to think I was more like Dad, you know? Sammy got out, he was living the normal life, and I was Dad’s– I was following in his footsteps, taking over the family business, whatever. But now, after Jessica–” he shakes his head. “Man, I don’t know anymore. Maybe Sam’s more like Dad than I thought.”

Victor lets out a long breath. “I always thought so.”

“Yeah?” Dean turns back, meeting Victor’s eyes squarely. 

“Yeah.” Victor holds his gaze. “Didn’t think so at first, but–” he shakes his head. “Sam’s got that drive, that anger at the world, like it’s done him wrong. You do the job, but seems like you don’t feel it the way Sam does.”

Dean snorts. “Maybe.”

Victor hesitates a moment, the warm whiskey making him loose and a little dizzy. “Dean,” he says, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Dean’s still staring carefully, focused on Victor’s face, green eyes just barely visible in the dim glow of the streetlight.

“All of it. All the– the ghosts and the monsters and whatever the hell else you people claim to– to hunt.” There’s a roaring in his ears as he speaks, a feeling like he’s running off the edge of a cliff and there’s nothing to break his fall.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is quiet, somber, and out of place with the loose, alcohol-tainted feeling of the last few hours. It’s almost– almost apologetic. “It’s real. It’s all– yeah, it’s all real.”

“So those people– the ones who all say you saved them from things– they’re telling the truth?”

Dean nods. “Yeah.” He sighs. “Look, Agent–”

“–Victor. We’re a little past the formalities, don’t you think?”

Dean tips the flask towards him in acknowledgement, shrugging, and continues. “Victor. I don’t think you really wanna go down the rabbit hole with me.”

Victor bristles. “Why not? I’d rather know the truth, Dean.”

“You can’t go back, though.” Dean’s leaning closer, elbows on his knees and body canted towards Victor’s. 

Victor can’t help but lean closer as well, into the warm fire of Dean’s body heat, and he’s caught again by the intensity of Dean’s expression. “I know.” He thinks about his first year at the FBI, fresh out of Quantico and full of the dream that he’d set evils to right and change the world every single day. 

Instead, he’d found paperwork and compromise, rare successes and far more frequent dead ends, and the idealism of his early days faded quickly into an empty apartment and a fridge full of half-eaten chinese food and a nightly pair of beers.

There’d been people who made things easier, for a while. First there was Susan, his high school sweetheart, who he’d married just after he started at the Bureau. She taught music to elementary school kids, and she was everything he wasn’t. She’d cried for every missing child, for every dead father and murdered mother and Victor watched it break her down slowly, tearing her optimism and vigor for life down until he couldn’t stand it. He was pretty sure she was married to a piano tuner now, happy in Scranton with two kids and a dog, and he hoped she was happy. 

There’d been Rachel, who’d been CIA, but their marriage just became twice the cases brought home and twice the anger and loss. There was no escape there, no easing of stress, just a mirror of his own pain. As far as he knows, she’s still fighting the fight out there like he is. 

So now there’s no one, and watching Dean Winchester, he can’t help but see a parallel. Dean’s got Sam, yes, but Victor isn’t sure if one brother, no matter how close, can make up for how totally removed they are from the world. The things  they must see on a daily basis, if all he’s read is true–

He shakes his head. The truth is still better than hiding, he thinks. Isn’t that why I joined the FBI in the first place?

“I want to know.”

-----

Vampires and werewolves, rugarus and wendigos, ghosts and demons and pagan gods– they’re all real.

And Dean’s apparently fought them all.

It’s a lot to take in.

Especially when the temperature just keeps dropping.

He can see Dean shivering constantly now, and though he’s a little warmer, he’s pretty sure they’re not going to make it through the night if it keeps getting colder. He shakes his head, trying to quiet the voice saying this is still a criminal, and scoots a little closer on the bench seat.

Dean’s head whips up, suspicion in his eyes.

“It’s cold,” Victor offers. “Getting colder.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s still watching him carefully.

Victor sighs. “Look, as lovely as this is, I’d like to still be alive in the morning. So we’re gonna have to share body heat. No use wasting it.”

Dean’s face turns sly. “Agent Henricksen, you don’t have to pretend it’s for body heat. You can just admit that I’m adorable.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Get over here, Winchester.” He holds the edge of his blanket up, and Dean, after a moment’s hesitation, slides down the bench until they’re just an inch apart. Once he’s under the edge of Victor’s blanket, he yanks his down and tucks it neatly around their thighs.

Now they’re up against each other, sides somehow pressed together, in a quickly warming cocoon. Victor’s not sure where the inches between them disappeared to, but there’s a solid line of heat against his thigh. His arm’s trapped awkwardly between them and he shifts a little, trying to get it comfortable.

There’s a huff from Dean, just a warm exhale that he can feel ghost across his neck, and his arm’s sliding behind Dean as their bodies curve in towards each other and suddenly the awkwardness is gone. 

The flask is finally empty and Dean sets it aside, capping it tightly. 

“Better?” asks Victor, fighting the urge to lean in and– what, snuggle his suspect? He’s not even sure. But the warm fizz of alcohol’s making it difficult, especially with Dean’s muscles relaxing bit by bit against his arm.

“You know–” Dean’s voice is contemplative, quiet even in the snow-hush of the winter night– “you’re not so bad, for someone who wants me dead.”

Victor lets out a huff of laughter. “And you’re not too bad yourself, for a confessed serial killer and possible psychopath.”

The streetlight’s glow glints off Dean’s grin, and it’s easy to lean closer and laugh with him, Dean’s hand dropping onto his thigh as their eyes meet.

It’s just as easy to let the grins drop from their faces, slowly replaced by a static Victor’s not sure how to ignore.

It builds between them, filling the space within their little cave of blankets and tracing a slow, slow path along Victor’s leg where Dean’s hand is slipping upwards. The cold Victor had felt only moments ago seems gone completely, replaced by pounding hearts and warm breath and the feeling of a sliver of bare flesh between Dean’s jacket and belt where his thumb rests.

He runs his thumb across the patch of skin, enjoying its warmth, and Dean shudders a little under the touch but leans into it.

“So you seem pretty prepared for this, Dean,” says Victor, voice husky as his hand slides a little further under Dean’s shirt. “You spend the night in here often?”

“Often enough,” Dean replies, fingers trailing along the crease of Victor’s dress pants. “She’s pretty comfortable, if it’s not for too long.”

“Hm.” Victor’s not paying much attention to anything beyond the hot flesh under his fingers and the warm buzz of whiskey in his belly that’s slowly changing into something else. It’s all sort of blending together, and he leans into Dean’s side. “I’ve spent a few nights in my cars over the years, but they’re not half as comfortable.” His hand’s now running up and down Dean’s lower back, fingertips tingling. “But I doubt I’ve put it to as, uh, exciting uses as you have.” He lets out a breath of laughter. “And they’re from the motor pool, so I feel a little bad getting ‘em too dirty.”

“No backseat action for you, Agent?” asks Dean, breath warm on Victor’s cheek. “How about that. I’d’ve pegged you as more of a Casanova.”

Victor snorts. “Maybe so. But not in borrowed cars.”

“This one’s not borrowed, though,” says Dean, voice barely a whisper, and Victor can’t hold back a shiver that’s got nothing to do with the weather that’s still raging outside.

“No,” he replies, finding himself even closer than before, less than an inch between their faces. “No, this one belongs to a wanted felon.” His other hand, the one that’s not working its way across all the warm, taut skin of Dean’s muscled back, falls on Dean’s knee. “A hardened criminal.” He slides it up a few inches, matching Dean’s on his own thigh. “A dangerous man.”

“You think I’m dangerous?” There’s a challenge in Dean’s voice, and in the way his fingers are stroking along the inner seam of Victor’s pants.

Victor can feel himself hardening in his pants, a combination of the charged energy, the warmth of the blankets and the touch. “I think you could be.”

Dean grins at him, cocky. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And that’s it, somehow. Something shifts and they’re impossibly closer, eyes locked on each others’ and Dean’s mouth millimeters from Victor’s. A moment later, warm lips land on Victor’s own and his eyes drop shut as a groan escapes him. He curls his arm around Dean, pulling him closer and enjoying the feeling of all that warm skin against his forearm and fingers as Dean deepens the kiss. Dean follows the movement, turning and swinging a leg up and over until he’s straddling Victor’s lap. From there it’s easy to pull Victor back in, enjoying the feeling of lips against his own, and Dean can’t help but slide a hand down to tug at the agent’s firmly tucked shirt.

Victor’s hands are warm and broad, fingers calloused from guns and pens and hard work, and Dean leans into the touch of the pads as they ease his shirts and jacket up. The kiss breaks for a moment as they slip over his head and Dean takes the opportunity to take care of the buttons on Victor’s shirt and toss that aside as well. The car’s heat might be off, but their bodies and their breath are keeping it warm enough now, or at least they’re not feeling the cold quite as badly. Dean lets his hands wander across Victor’s firm stomach and shoulders, grinning when a fingertip drifting over Victor’s ribs makes him start. “Dude, are you ticklish?” He does it again, and this time Victor lets out a growl and twitches away. “Is that even allowed in the FBI?”

“I will shoot you. Next time I have a gun, I will shoot you in your pretty face if you do that again.”

Dean grins even wider. “You think I’m pretty?” His voice is teasing, light, and he purposefully trails his hand up to brush a nipple.

“You know you’re hot, you dick,” Victor growls, leaning forward to drag his teeth over Dean’s neck. “And you get away with too much because of it.”

“What, like this?” asks Dean, fingers running down Victor’s side.

Dean’s relaxed, comfortable, and he’s completely unprepared for Victor to surge upwards, flipping the both until their bodies are pressed together from thighs to chest, his legs caught between Victor’s broad thighs and his arms pinned above his head in one of Victor’s fists.

He strains against the grip for a moment, then relaxes when he realizes he’s not going anywhere. He looks up to meet Victor’s eyes and for a moment there’s a question there and Dean can’t help the way his face softens as he gives the tiniest nod of permission.

Victor’s lip curls up into the barest smirk and he gives a slight nod back, then lowers his head into the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder.

Dean gasps at the sensation of teeth, lips and tongue exploring every inch of skin and he can’t help but buck his hips up when Victor’s hot breath brushes the curve of his ear.

Victor grinds down in response, the hot line of his cock sliding against Dean’s through wool and denim and Victor’s cotton boers and Dean still can’t help the moan that slips from his lips.

“You like that?” asks Victor, voice barely a whisper and so low it’s just a rumble next to Dean’s ear. “You do, don’t you. You like it when I hold you down like this.”

“You never know,” gasps Dean, “I could take you any time.” He writhes up, drawing a groan from Victor as Dean’s legs shimmy out and around the other man’s hips, ankles crossing behind Victor’s knees.

Victor leans hard on one elbow as the other works its way in between them to fumble with their belts and buttons and zippers. Dean’s not exactly helping, starting a slow, steady rhythm with the smooth roll of his hips.

Finally their flies are undone and Victor lifts his hips just enough to shove Dean’s jeans, then his own dress pants and boxers down their hips. His breath stutters as he encounters bare flesh much sooner than anticipated under Dean’s jeans and Dean meets his eyes and smirks again. Victor shakes his head, feeling his lips pull into a smile, and lets go of Dean’s wrists to wrap one arm around the other man’s waist while the other snakes between their bodies to brush along Dean’s cock.

Dean’s hands, now free, slide down Victor’s back greedily to settle against the swell of his ass. One squeezes gently, fingers pressing into firm muscle, while the other drifts further down and slips against the crease and downwards until it’s brushing the back of Victor’s balls. Victor shudders and gropes for both cocks, gathering them in one hand and thumbing moisture from the heads to slick down the shafts. Both gasp at the feeling, tight grip balancing against the feeling of velvet hard flesh against their own. Dean’s the first to thrust, finding Victor’s lips again and kissing deeply at first, then just breathing raggedly into Victor’s mouth as both pick up speed, thrusting in counterpoint as the heat in the car builds.

It’s Victor who breaks first, streaking hot wetness across Dean’s stomach, and biting down on a nipple as he lets out a long groan. Dean shudders and comes as well after a few strokes, writhing against the pleasure and pain zinging from his nipple straight to his cock.

They lay in silence a moment, their harsh breaths the only sound, before Victor reaches down and tugs his undershirt from the pile of twisted fabric in the footwell. He mops up the come and sweat spread between them, rolling up on an elbow and wiping in gentle strokes across Dean’s belly and groin. Dean sighs, pressing into the motion, and Victor can’t help but smile at the other man’s lazy stretch.

“So Agent Henricksen,” says Dean as he settles against the Impala’s leather seats. “You do this with all your suspects? Or only when you need to, uh, share body heat?”

Victor snorts, panting a little as he squeezes down onto the bench between Dean and the seat back. 

Dean just grins and rolls a little closer, tucking the blankets firmly around them both and burying his face in  the agent’s shoulder.

-----

Dean raises his head from where it’s pillowed on a shoulder and squints. Everything’s bright white, glowing in the sunlight, and for a moment he’s not sure what’s going on.

Then a dark head rises beside him, eyes blinking blearily. “Snow stopped?” asks Victor, yawning.

“Mmm.” Dean pulls himself upright, wincing as muscles that didn’t appreciate a night in the backseat pull. “Think so.”

It’s a different world out there, glittering with ice and snow, and for a moment Dean just takes it in. It’s hard to imagine this is the same world he spends his life exorcising of evil. Right now it looks like a fairytale, like something out of a kid’s book.

They sit for a few minutes, shoulders pressed together in the body-warm car watching the sun glitter through the trees. Dean’s hand rests on Victor’s knee, and Victor’s arm is slung over Dean’s shoulders.

The moment breaks when snowplow chugs through, clearing the road just a foot from the car, and Dean clears his throat, pulling away and running a hand over his face and through his hair and checking the time on his phone. “Should be okay to drive by now. Where to, Agent?” 

There’s a challenge in his voice, a tease, and Victor grins in response. “Drop me off at the field office, and I’ll give you a few days’ head start.”

Dean grins back. “Really think I’ll need it?”

A hand slides up his thigh, bold and warm. “I think you might.”

Dean’s pretty sure that head start’s gonna have to wait a few hours.

(AO3)

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