12: [Action] Silent Night
It's been a fairly quiet Christmas, as Christmases go.
There's nothing to hunt; no meadowsweet wreaths over the chimneys, no unfortunate mistletoe incidents. He's spent a brief period of time as a nine-year-old adventuring through the library, an evening decked out in a tux thanks to Kurt (It looked good, actually), and another three days struggling through an obsession with Castiel. Dean can't classify it as anything else, really - Each night was progressively worse. He can stand being out of range now, but while it had been going on he was always nauseous at the thought of the angel being around someone else.
It's not attraction. Too much rum in the eggnog, maybe, but not attraction. Dean doesn't dig dudes. Even if the dude in question has these really awesome wings that are fuckin' soft as Hell and all he wants to do is pet them 'cause Dean's never felt anything nicer in his life.
Right.
Now that's he's suddenly free from the OCD about sticking next to Cas, Dean steps out into the hallway and makes his way down to the first floor study. With any luck, he could run into a hot chick under some pagan herbs and get a little action. As things stand, though, the sex life's been pretty grim for a while, and-
...there's a stocking, there.
Over the hearth. With his name on it. Dean moves to it curiously, brow furrowed, and unties it. It's heavy and has a weird shape at the bottom, so he reaches in to pull it out.
"...oh...no fucking way," He breathes, withdrawing his father's journal. Nothing can quite describe the sheer - Is it joy? Seriously? - elation that bubbles up into him, and Dean laughs breathlessly, hugging it to his chest with a stupid grin.
Best Christmas ever.
There's nothing to hunt; no meadowsweet wreaths over the chimneys, no unfortunate mistletoe incidents. He's spent a brief period of time as a nine-year-old adventuring through the library, an evening decked out in a tux thanks to Kurt (It looked good, actually), and another three days struggling through an obsession with Castiel. Dean can't classify it as anything else, really - Each night was progressively worse. He can stand being out of range now, but while it had been going on he was always nauseous at the thought of the angel being around someone else.
It's not attraction. Too much rum in the eggnog, maybe, but not attraction. Dean doesn't dig dudes. Even if the dude in question has these really awesome wings that are fuckin' soft as Hell and all he wants to do is pet them 'cause Dean's never felt anything nicer in his life.
Right.
Now that's he's suddenly free from the OCD about sticking next to Cas, Dean steps out into the hallway and makes his way down to the first floor study. With any luck, he could run into a hot chick under some pagan herbs and get a little action. As things stand, though, the sex life's been pretty grim for a while, and-
...there's a stocking, there.
Over the hearth. With his name on it. Dean moves to it curiously, brow furrowed, and unties it. It's heavy and has a weird shape at the bottom, so he reaches in to pull it out.
"...oh...no fucking way," He breathes, withdrawing his father's journal. Nothing can quite describe the sheer - Is it joy? Seriously? - elation that bubbles up into him, and Dean laughs breathlessly, hugging it to his chest with a stupid grin.
Best Christmas ever.