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It's the dark of pre-dawn twilight when Dean first wakes, and the room's gone drafty with the winter chill. He couldn't get the old generator to start up yesterday, but between the fireplace in the living room and the woodstove in the kitchen, the cabin seems to have stayed warm through most of the night. Sharing body heat with Cas while they were both piled under a mountain of blankets probably also helped to ward off the cold.
Speaking of Cas. He's warm, pressed close against Dean, sleeping sound in an easy tangle of their limbs. His features are softened in rest, his hair ruffled and dark against the sheets. The mattress they're on is old, with springs that squeak as Dean moves. The blankets smell like woodsmoke and mothballs, with just a slight musky hint of sex and sweat. The memory of last night sits like a heavy heat in Dean chest.
Dean pushes through the sheets cocooning them and touches Castiel, skims his palm along the angel's stubbled cheek before settling fingers in his mess of hair. His hair is soft, and the strands combine to form a fine and silky tangle that Dean runs his finger through. Dean smells the organic citrus shampoo Sam convinced Cas to start using, which Dean teases them both about mercilessly.
The cabin's quiet, and for a while Dean simply listens to the crackle of the fire and the even rhythm of Castiel's breathing. He curls against Castiel's sleep-warm body and breathes him in, the earthen and lightning-storm scent of his skin. Cas stirs, body shifting as he wakes. He yawns before opening his eyes, blinking up at Dean.
"Dean," he whispers, voice a sleep-rough rasp.
"Your ankle feeling better?" Dean asks, his own voice coming out thick and dry with sleep.
"Yes," Castiel nods. "It's healing quickly."
"Good," Dean huffs, sliding closer so that their bodies press together, and he shivers at the feather-light touch of Castiel's fingertips against his waist.
"Dean," Castiel says again, something shifting on his face, a tension riding along his body.
"Yeah?" Dean whispers, concerned.
Castiel watches him closely, eyes sliding along Dean's face. He raises his hand and lets his fingers shape the curve of Dean's jaw. Dean stares back, watching how the flames from the fireplace reflect in Castiel's eyes. They lock gazes for long moments, the silence holding its own conversation.
"I slept well," Castiel says after a time, and his tone is hesitant as his fingers trace up to Dean's shoulder, following the play of firelight on his skin.
"Yeah, me too," Dean says, brushing his knuckle against Castiel's chin and meeting his eyes for another long moment. He sees something of his own uncertainty there.
Castiel's fingers trail down Dean's neck, landing in the dip of his collarbone. Dean shivers, presses closer, and Cas sends him another questioning glance.
"I have no idea what I'm doing either," Dean admits, answering the unspoken sentiment. For a moment he feels like he's sinking into the cold darkness of the icy river again, but Castiel's hands are pulling him free, pulling him to safety. So he kisses Cas, needing to feel anchored to him, needing to feel him.
Castiel's lips are dry and soft, and he slips one arm around Dean's waist as his teeth sink into Dean's lower lip. Dean shivers again, curling into Cas, kissing him deep and wet. They're touching everywhere now: chests and bellies and naked thighs. It's cold outside and in the rest of the house, but it's so warm under the blankets with Castiel, Dean can't think of anything other than their soft possessive hands, slick tongues, and the hot press of their heavy cocks.
Dean moves his tongue across Castiel's collarbone, mouthing the curve of his tattoo, chasing the line of his throat until he reaches the angel's chin. His lips catch on the rough, dark bristle on Castiel's cheek and jaw before finding his mouth again.
"Cas," Dean whispers, with something like desperation.
"Dean," Cas breathes, his cock slip-sliding over Dean's belly.
And Dean thinks, no, no, no, they can't keep doing this. But, God, it feels so damn amazing. His cock thickens further with blood, pressing hard against Castiel's hipbone. Want spreads in his gut, slides up his spine, hot as fire. Cas shudders and gasps as Dean moves them together with purpose. When the angel's hand slides down Dean's back, his fingers brush against Dean's ass and Dean groans and pulls away, gasping.
Dean pushes onto his back, eyes on the dark ceiling, sucking in breath after breath. "I should uh…" he pauses to heave in more air, his fingers still threading through the soft hair at the nape of Castiel's neck. The feel of Castiel's hand spreading across his hipbone is almost enough to send Dean over the edge. He struggles to get his breathing under control before he continues, "I should probably get more logs for the fire."
"Alright," Cas says, still breathless himself. "Can I assist you?"
"No way," Dean grunts. "Dude, you're staying off that ankle. It'll take forever to heal if you keep overworking it. I still can't believe you brought that tree all the way here while carrying my unconscious ass."
Castiel almost smiles. "I knew how important it was to you."
Dean wants to say not as important as you, but he stops before the words leave his mouth. He clears his throat instead and rolls his eyes. "I can't take you anywhere," he huffs before sitting up, blankets tangling around his hips.
Castiel's hand lands on the dip of Dean's back, settling there. "This trip was your idea if I recall correctly."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean smiles and pulls himself up from the mattress, letting the blankets drop from his naked body. The cool air makes him flinch, and he misses Castiel's warmth immediately.
Sometimes Castiel's focus on him is too intense. Like now, Dean can feel the heat of the angel's gaze push against his back as he walks across the room. It's like a searchlight moving across his skin, and in this moment Dean feels more naked than he's ever been, stripped and bare, all his secrets out on display. Dean hates the feeling, but he sort of craves it too, because no one else has ever made him feel like this. Castiel pulls at him and pulls at him; he digs deeper inside of him than anyone Dean's ever known. If Dean's honest with himself, he can admit that Cas found a place inside of him long ago, and he's never really left.
Dean runs his hands over the dark solid wood of the doorway, the weathered oak carved with runes and protective sigils. He finds his duffle nestled beside Castiel's on the floor in the corner, their shared clothing strewn across the tops of the bags. The fire is warm against his naked skin as he searches through his bag for clothes. He finds his oldest pair of denims and slips them on. He shoulders into a couple of sweatshirts and pulls on a pair of socks and his boots.
He turns to glance back at Cas. His friend is currently cocooned: lean body swaddled in blankets and sheets, his wild hair just barely peeking out from the edge of the comforter pulled over his face. Dean smiles, turns away. Something warm twists in his gut.
Dean's never been good with words. Sure he knows how to play a character for a hunt, how to hustle to keep food on the table, and how to charm someone looking for a quick hookup. But when it comes to being himself, to knowing how to say important shit to the people he's closest to, that's not something he's ever mastered. He's always been far better at actions. Making Sam his favorite dinner after the kid brought home the first-place science fair trophy. Offering his dad a cold beer after he stumbled in at two in the morning from another tough hunt. Every action meant to say, I love you, or I'm proud of you, or Please stay. Please. Sam, Bobby, and John were the only ones who ever had to decipher his actions, understand his silences.
Until Cas, that is. Dean thinks most of their dysfunction lies in the fact that neither of them knows how to use words to say exactly what they mean. Maybe for them action becomes its own language. Words themselves get lost in translation. The last two days are testament to that: action doing all the work when speech failed them both.
Dean pads through the cabin, trying to settle his thoughts. The fire is dying in the woodstove in the kitchen, casting an orange glow around the room. The floorboards creak as he walks, old wood speaking of age and history. Dean looks around, eyes taking in everything, the soft dust coating the shelves of books, the lace curtains covering the frosted windows, the old brown couch, threadbare but comfortable. He sees their tree, settled by the door, the scent of pine heavy on the air. He smiles and shakes his head. "Friggin' angel," he whispers.
The cabin is comfortable, its solitude tempting. He doesn't know how long the place has been empty, but he knows Rufus used it anytime he passed through the state. Weeks ago, drunk on Johnnie Walker and lost in their respective grief, Bobby finally told Dean what happened between him and Rufus. Bobby messed up bad on a hunt in Omaha, and his mistake lead to the death of Rufus' daughter. Dean knows it's something the two best friends never got past, even though they managed to retain something close to friendship in the years before Rufus passed away.
Dean didn't know what to say to Bobby at the time, knowing deep down how holding on to something so painful can eat you up. He remembers the pain of losing Sam (each time he lost him), and the memory of those times still feels like a stab to the gut.
Coat and gloves on, Dean pushes the memories away and steps outside the cabin. He's surrounded on all sides by trees, their bush pine and spruce fronds dark against a violet sky, shivering in the cold. It stormed during the night, and there are thick blankets of snow covering the fields behind the cabin, white mounds to match the white hills rolling away in the distance. The snow is so bright Dean has to blink, look away from the blinding landscape.
Dean hunches into his coat, gloved hands going deeper into his pocket. The air is sharp, scrubbed clean by ice and cold. Dean inhales the cool air into his lungs; he realizes that this is the first time in months he's felt like he could breathe, really truly breathe. He thinks about yesterday, lying on the snow-covered forest floor beside Cas, making snow angels, making up. Even half-fallen, Castiel was still strong enough to hold Dean down, to hold him still. Dean thinks about the way Cas looked, flushed pink by the cold and adrenaline, his smile bright like a beacon. Dean felt warm just watching him; in that moment Cas was everything Dean had ever tried to stop himself from wanting, from needing.
Dean closes his eyes for a long moment. Snow falls from surrounding tree branches, thudding softly as it hits the ground. It's the only sound in the early morning silence as Dean walks toward the wood pile next to the storage shack. With the wind coming down the slopes, Dean feels his skin going numb. He hurries to gather an armful of logs, missing the warmth of the mattress and Castiel.
On his way back to the cabin, Dean eyes the road that will take them away and back toward the past, toward mistakes made and mistakes forgiven. The journey here took longer that he thought it would. But he thinks it was worth it.
The first time Dean saw snow after he returned from Hell, Castiel was standing in it. Hell had been fire and pain, the blackness of burnt skin and the dark, filthy curl of demon smoke. It was nothing as unmarred as the whiteness of snow after the first fall.
They were in Bangor, Maine, and the angel stood in the parking lot outside of Dean's motel room, a dark figure against the purity of the snow. Dean watched him through the motel window, following the soft step of his walk, the way his dress shoes padded through the snow drifts, circled around fallen tree branches. He looked like he was simply taking a stroll at midnight, like the snow and cold couldn't touch him.
When Dean couldn't take the creeping any longer, he'd dressed quickly and exited the motel room. Jacket held tight around his body, he'd yelled, "What the hell are you doing?"
By now there were thick clumps of snow on the ground, and the broken sidewalk leading up to the motel was slick with fresh ice. Dean didn't walk any further, but he watched as Castiel made his way toward him.
Castiel didn't say anything, just stopped a few feet from Dean and stared up at the gray-white sky. Snowflakes fluttered down, landing on his messy hair and wrinkled trench coat. A couple of weeks earlier, the last time Dean had seen the angel, Castiel had sat beside him on a bench in a park, saying things Dean had never expected to hear. I'm not a hammer, as you say. I have questions. I…I have doubts. I don't know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But, in the coming months, you will have more decisions to make. I don't envy the weight that's on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don't.
It felt like something important had passed between them back then, like some kind of wall had been knocked down, like they were seeing each other as equals, as friends. Maybe that's why Dean didn't press him further here. Instead he stood with him out on the pavement staring up at the sky for a long time. Dean didn't notice the ice melting across his own skin or the cold seeping slowly into his bones. He was too busy watching Castiel and the way he stood in the snow, how the flakes danced around him, and how his otherness felt almost magnetic. There was a softness to his gaze as he looked at Dean, and for a long while Dean couldn't look away.
After a time, Dean blinked and shook himself back to reality. He shivered and rubbed his arms. He was freezing, and he could taste the snow on his lips. Castiel stepped closer, and Dean had the urge to touch his face, the high ridge of his cheekbone, the wet spiral of his hair. He wanted to see if he was as cold as Dean. If angels were anything like humans. If Castiel was anything like Dean.
He wanted to say, Why are you here?, or Are you okay?, or What's going to happen to Sam and me?, but his words were frozen on the back of his tongue, and nothing felt quite real about this anyway.
Instead he said, "Jesus, man, it's fucking freezing."
"The first snowfall of the year," Castiel said, voice full of a roughness that made Dean swallow hard. The angel stepped closer and reached out to touch Dean's shoulder, that shoulder, and Dean felt a warmth spread throughout his entire body, a heat that settled deep in his bones. "You should go inside," Castiel said quietly.
"Yeah, I should," Dean said, watching as Castiel turned and walked away without another word. The snow continued to fall, covering the ground in an ocean of white.
Dean stared at Castiel's retreating form until the angel was just a dark speck in the distance.
Dean stumbles in from the cold, logs stacked high in his arms. He kicks off his boots and leaves them by the door, pads over to set the logs down by the fireplace, quickly feeding the flames of the fire with the kindling before crawling out of his cold clothes.
Cas is still passed out on the mattress. Dean doesn't hesitate before joining him, shivering as he curls back under the covers.
"You're cold," Castiel grunts, turning toward Dean as he scoots further beneath the blankets.
"You're warm," Dean mumbles, wrapping his cold arms around Castiel's warm ones.
"I may be half-fallen, but my vessel's temperature still runs hotter than regular humans," Cas says, tugging Dean closer, sharing his body heat like he did last night.
"Explains why you're always a goddamn furnace," Dean huffs.
"Hush, Dean," Castiel says, and then his hand is on Dean's face, thumb smoothing along Dean's jaw. Dean turns into the touch because Cas is warm, and his touch feels like coming home. Cas tugs him closer, runs a warm hand up and down Dean's flank, pouring heat and something more into Dean's body. Under the blankets, they huddle close, knees knocking together. Their limbs tangle, and Dean can feel the coarse brush of their leg hair.
"Dean," Cas says, hand stalling along Dean's waist. "Are you warmer now?"
"Much," Dean whispers, touching his mouth to Castiel's collarbone, pressing a kiss there. The sound of his breathing is loud here in the confines of this intimate space, and the fire is a roaring warmth at his back.
Dean feels a helpless ache in his chest, and he knows the only thing that will soothe it is the feel of Castiel's hands on him, the way his long fingers grip into Dean's hips, possessive and tight and reassuring. The heat they're making in the small space between them makes Dean's skin tingle. Dean runs his mouth along Castiel's collarbone again, sucking gently at the tattoo. Castiel shivers beneath him, fingers running up and down Dean's back as Dean settles further on top of him. Castiel widens his legs, and Dean eases between him, their cocks sliding together. They both gasp at the touch. Cas arches under him, and Dean's mouth opens as he welcomes Castiel's kisses.
"Maybe we should stop," Dean whispers against Castiel's lips, because somewhere in the back of his mind there's that old fear that haunts him, the fear that maybe he shouldn't do this because it's wrong, and there's something wrong with him for wanting Cas so goddamn much. Something wrong with him for wanting things he shouldn't. And maybe he's ruining Cas by just touching him, maybe he's turning Cas into something the angel was never meant to be. Maybe Cas deserves better than this, better than Dean. And maybe one day he'll realize the truth and leave again.
"Do you wish to stop?" Cas says, pulling back, but his palm is warm as it lingers on the side of Dean's face. "We can stop, Dean."
"Cas," Dean whispers, but he doesn't say anything more. The sheer weight of this thing is too much.
Castiel's hand stills at his side, and he trains his gaze on Dean. "Please tell me what you want, Dean," he says leaning closer, words pressed against Dean's ear. His voice is a slow burn that makes Dean's chest ache.
Dean swallows thickly. He can't say it. He can't.
"Tell me, Dean." Soft, but commanding.
"You, goddammit!" Dean manages on a rough rasp, forcing it out with a brutal honesty that he shakes with. I've always wanted you. He can't help but confess this chick-flick shit to Cas. Cas always digs up the secrets Dean didn't even know he was hiding. He's taken up residence inside Dean's head, and he won't get out.
"You already have me, Dean," Cas whispers, voice a low hush as he meets Dean's eyes. "I am yours." And the words unsaid, but echoing inside Dean's memory: And you are mine.
There's a long silence, and Dean knows Castiel is waiting for him to say something. "Cas, I haven't…I don't…not with guys. Not in a long time."
Cas nods, his palm a steady warmth against Dean's neck. "There were others, though."
"Not the best memories for me," Dean says on a quiet breath.
"I know you've been hurt," Cas whispers quietly. "I know, Dean. I've seen your memories. And I saw what he did to you in Hell."
"Cas." Dean puts his hand around Castiel's hip and presses his face against Castiel's neck. Breathes him in. "Can we not talk about it?"
Castiel's arms wrap around him, and it's a warm comfort. "You're safe with me. I will always keep you safe."
"Shit," Dean sighs, head shaking, years of doubt and fear rolling in his belly. "What are we even doing?"
"If you think it best, we can stop. This doesn't have to happen again," Cas says, words low and careful. "We can refrain…"
"Refrain?" Dean breathes out, laughing with a soft desperation. "Cas, I don't know how to be around you without wanting to…" He stops, squeezing his eyes shut. Without wanting to touch him and be touched everywhere by him. God, he wants him so much.
"We should take it slow," Castiel says, voice prudent.
"Yeah, okay," Dean says, and he puts his hands on Castiel's face and draws him closer. Castiel wraps his hands around Dean's head, closing the short distance, dragging their bodies back together. And then they're kissing again, open-mouthed and hungry, lips against lips, sharing air more than anything else, and it feels as wild as the first time. Dean loses himself in it, sighing and shivering, moaning softly as Cas sucks on his lips, sucks on his tongue, his long, burning fingers stroking down Dean's back, nails clawing hard enough to leave bruises.
Dean's hand twists in Castiel's hair, and the smell of them is everywhere in the sheets. He moves his face to nuzzle against Castiel's neck, breathing deep as he feels Castiel's hot length twitch against his own. This feels so damn dangerous, so huge and world-shifting, but it feels good to know Castiel is just as caught up in this as he is, as damned as he is by a need that's greater than them.
It feels like reverence when Cas drops a kiss against Dean's cheek, gently mouthing and kissing the juncture of his throat and shoulder. His eyes are dark and wide as they stare up at Dean, and Dean feels profoundly naked under that gaze. Cas whispers his name, kisses his mouth again like there's nothing else in the world he'd rather be doing, mouth slicking over Dean's, prying inside with teeth and tongue, greedily eating every sound Dean makes.
They roll to the middle of the mattress, bodies locked together, lost in a hot friction as their hips thrust slowly, deliberately. Dean whines, a sob of need shaking loose from his chest as their thrusts speed up, growing faster and wilder, cocks rubbing and bumping. When he comes, the force of Dean's orgasm rocks through him, and he's left gripping hard into Castiel's hips as the angel follows in his wake. Dean slumps his head against Castiel's shoulder, muttering, "Holy shit."
The fire in the fireplace is warm, but the fire between them is warmer. Dean's sweating in the musky air as Castiel eases his grip on Dean's hips. His friend lets his head fall to Dean's shoulder and closes his eyes. Their come is sticky and wet, sliding thick between them, and Dean's glad Rufus has a laundry room out back so that he can wash the sheets.
Dean doesn't move them though. He simply rests his head against Castiel's shoulder, the sheets tangling around their legs, as they tangle around each other. The feel of Castiel's fingertips over his brand on his shoulder lulls him to sleep.
The sun is high when he wakes again, and Castiel is still and sleeping beside him. The light is a soft yellow tint behind the lace curtains, throwing a muted glow into the cabin. Careful not to jostle Cas, Dean gets up, stirs the fire, and heads to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror and smiles when he notices his neck and collarbone covered in soft bruises, Castiel's mouth and fingers having left their mark. He wets a washcloth in hot water and cleans himself off, removing a day's worth of dried come and sweat.
He gets another wet towel for Cas and returns to the living room. Cas is sprawled onto his back on the mattress, the sheet twisted around his legs. He looks more naked without clothes than anyone Dean's ever seen. The sight of him stretched out like that, his cock soft and curled against his thigh, his skin pale compared to the dark patch of hair that trails down from his belly to his groin, sends Dean's dick throbbing again. Dean has to take in a deep breath, tell his downstairs brain to shut the fuck up so his upstairs brain can function.
Dean knows he's a complete fuck-up, has been a fuck-up all his life, but he doesn't want to fuck this up. He doesn't want to fuck Cas up more than he already has. Moreover, he doesn't want to ruin or lose whatever this is they have. Dean swallows hard and sits down beside Cas on the bed to clean him up. He wipes the warm towel down Castiel's chest, sliding over his peaked nipples, moving along his old scars, tracing the design of his tattoo, all before drawing the towel down over his muscled abdomen. He runs the cloth along Castiel's sharp hipbones, and the angel opens his eyes at that soft slide, blinking against the light. He regards Dean with his steady blue gaze, but he doesn't say a word as Dean continues to wash him. Dean pushes the towel over the coarse dark hair of his groin, before moving it over his thickening cock in slow and easy strokes.
In this quiet moment, Dean thinks Cas is beautiful, although it's not something he'd ever be caught dead saying aloud. It's just that he expected Cas to be something untouchable, something that his hands wouldn't be able to learn like this. But the angel's skin is warm, his cheeks are flushed, and as Dean touches Castiel's face his lips part, and he takes a deep breath. Whispers, "Dean."
It's Christmas morning, but they stay in bed together for a long time.
Rufus has a vinyl collection that makes even Dean envious. Dean found a working gramophone in the closet, hidden beside boxes full of scratchy old LPs. Dean's been playing them for the past hour, schooling Cas on the classics of blues, jazz, soul, and rock. Cas is currently lying on the couch in front of the stone fireplace, blankets wrapped around him, and his ankle elevated on a pillow. He's quietly reading through one of the many books he snagged off of the bookshelf lining the back wall. They spent the past hour working their way through the large pot of tomato-rice soup Dean made them for lunch, and their empty bowls cover the coffee table.
It's warm and cozy in the cabin, and even though Dean knows they have just a short while left before they need to head back to Bobby's in time to celebrate Christmas with everyone, he doesn't want to rush this.
"Etta is timeless," he says, moving to put another record on. Earlier he'd played a little of everything: from Robert Johnson to Sinatra, from Coltrane to The Temptations. Cas had gone off on a tangent about how jazz felt sort of like moving around in his true form, the sharp pull of the rhythm mapping the syncopated beat of his own multidimensionality. Dean had laughed and whispered to Cas how music was one of the only things that ever made him feel like standing still. In the solitude of the cabin, Dean probably confessed too many things – things he had never said aloud before, never even admitted to himself before. There's something about this cabin that makes Dean willing to say crazy shit, do crazy shit that he can't imagine doing anywhere else. There's something about this place that makes him braver than he really is.
Etta's singing about how her lonely days are over when Dean crosses the room and takes a moment to dig something out of the bottom of his duffle bag. He'd almost forgotten.
He then climbs on the couch, kicking off the excessive collection of pillows. Cas glances up, putting his book down and moving his legs so that Dean can scoot closer. Once they're settled beside each other, Dean nudges Castiel with his toe.
"So," Dean says with a smirk, hiding the package he'd retrieved from his duffle behind his back. He clears his throat, continues with, "We humans have this tradition on Christmas that involves exchanging gifts."
"Yes, I'm aware," Cas nods gravely. "Sam took me to Wal-Mart to go shopping for your gift last month."
Dean frowns. "He did?"
Castiel sighs, nodding. "I found trying to choose a gift for you quite perplexing."
"Dude," Dean says with a soft laugh. "You didn't have to get my anything."
"I wanted to. And Sam said I should give you something useful," Castiel continues, not missing a beat. Dean watches, mouth slightly agape as Castiel stands up and hobbles over to his duffle. He spends a long moment digging through it before his hand comes up with something wrapped in green tissue paper.
Castiel walks over to the couch and settles back onto it, gift in hand. He hands it over to Dean, watching him expectantly.
"Uh, thanks Cas," Dean whispers, taking the package and shaking it. It's light and soft. His fingers tug carefully at the tissue paper, not wanting to destroy it.
When Dean finally opens the present, he has to stare for a long moment, not exactly sure how to react. "Cas, you got me socks?"
"I did," Cas says, nodding. "I noticed that most of yours have holes in them. Moreover, at night your feet are quite cold."
"But dude. They're green and fuzzy," Dean says, confused. Lime green and fuzzy actually.
"I thought you would like the white ones better, but Sam assured me this was more to your taste," Castiel says, frowning. "I take it he lied?"
That little fucker, Dean laughs to himself, thinking of ways to get Sammy back in the future. He turns to Cas then, laughing like he hasn't laughed in a long time, because this is freaking classic Winchester antics. Welcome to the family, Cas, Dean thinks. "Thanks, man. This is cool. And I do need new socks."
Cas smiles then, a flash of white teeth. "They're made of a soft, warm microfiber. I think you'll find that your feet will stay warmer at night."
Dean chuckles again, shaking his head. Truth is, he hadn't noticed his own cold feet in the past few weeks because he's been sharing Castiel's bed, getting lost in the heat of him. Feeling warm from head to toe. He looks up after a moment, meeting Castiel's eyes. "So, look, I got you something as well."
Castiel's eyes brighten. "You didn't have to."
Dean smiles, reaching behind himself for the package, presenting it in a flourish as he twists around. It's wrapped in an old newspaper, which Dean is kind of embarrassed about, but he did his best to make sure the edges lined up and the tape didn't curl weirdly. "It's not fuzzy green socks, but I hope you find it useful too."
"Are you sure you want me to have this?" Castiel asks, looking hesitant. Dean sighs and slides closer, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder and pulling him in tight. "Merry Christmas, Cas," Dean says, smiling wide as he hands over his gift. "I really want you to have this."
Castiel hesitates for only a moment, and then he's smiling too, reaching out to accept the present. "Attaboy," Dean laughs softly as Castiel takes the gift and examines it closely. "Go on and open it. I promise it won't bite."
Dean watches as Castiel takes off the old newsprint, his motions careful and exacting as he works to free the black leather-bound journal from its wrapping. Dean had spent a long time thinking about what to get his friend. He saw this at the bookshop in Sioux Falls, and well, he thought it would make a good gift. The journal's antique-looking, handmade out of a dark, oiled leather hide with an aged-looking patina. There's a tie that wraps around the journal and then tucks into a loop to keep it closed. Dean watches as Castiel opens the journal up, his long fingers running across the sheets of thick, unlined paper. He looks up at Dean, eyes dark and solemn. "Dean, I'm honored by this gift."
"It's for you to write in, you know," Dean says, cheeks feeling warm. "I have one. My dad had one. We use ours to record hunts, any important information we come across. But you…you can use yours for whatever you want. To record anything."
Castiel smiles, hands running along the copper rune embossed on the cover, the Enochian letter for C, representing Castiel's name, which Dean had carved and attached to the journal himself. "The number thirteen," he whispers with a teasing smile. "Thank you, Dean."
"I figured you more than anyone have things to write down," Dean says, shrugging. "You've been around for millions of years. You've seen everything, man. Maybe you can write down your story. Record your own history."
"Is there anything you'd want to know in particular?" Castiel asks, gaze soft.
Dean tells him, "I just want to know you, Cas. I just…I'd like to know you."
"There's time yet to know me," Castiel says softly, and then he's putting the journal aside and pushing Dean back against the couch. Cas kisses him soft, open lips and teeth and tongue, his palm curling over Dean's jaw, long pads of his fingers stroking his cheek.
On the gramophone, Etta's singing soft and sweet, at last, my love has come along, and the rest of the cabin seems to move with the soulful hum of the music, the warm shadows and firelight dancing. Cas presses a kiss to Dean's neck and says, "Merry Christmas, Dean."