Visions of Sugarplums and Other Various Oddities ( Part III: A glimpse inside Castiel's head)
Castiel has always liked the snow.
It has a cleansing power unlike anything else on Earth. Snow is the gentle devastator, bringing a season of equilibrium and silence to the world. It mercilessly covers everything, sparing no surface and baring no prejudice. It comes in quiet violence and levels all it touches with icy precision. In it’s wake there is only hush and refracted light and the promise of eventual rebirth and growth. And it in itself is a miracle; constructed of a billion tiny separate parts, yet each one is unique and painfully beautiful and complex and bright enough to rival the light of Heaven. Though to the naked eye it appears the same every year, no snowfall is ever repeated or ever identical to another. Each one leaves its mark on history and melts away to leave room for its successor to do better.
Today however, he is left little time to contemplate the smaller things as there is a ferocious battle being waged around him in the acreage off to one side of Singer’s Auto Garage.
“You look frickin’ ridiculous.”
Castiel gives no sign he’s heard Dean’s declaration (although it’s the seventh time it’s been said) and continues to pat snow into perfectly uniform balls so the hunter can continue to wage fake war on his brother who is camped behind a tree at the opposite end of the yard.
Dean throws a lazy punch to Cas’ upper arm, snorting humorlessly when his fist bounces right off the puffy sleeve without any indication that the angel buried inside can feel any part of it. “Seriously, you look like the Michelin Man with a bad case of frostbite. Take it off, dude.”
“No,” Cas says patiently, “I’ll get cold. Besides, you like when I wear blue because you think it brings out my eyes.”
“Wow. That doesn’t sound gay at all.”
“Says the only man in the yard sleeping with an angel who inhabits a male vessel!” comes a helpful call from behind the far oak tree. Dean immediately launches a fastball of snow at the grinning face that peeks around the trunk in accompaniment to the comment. It swerves to the right at the last second and explodes in a kapoosh of wet powder against the bark. Not one flake hits Sam, who has already ducked back into his battle position, laughing the entire time.
“Come out here and say that to my face, cowardly little douchebag!” Dean challenges, already snatching up another snowball from Cas’ pile and cocking his arm back in preparation to hurl it forcefully at his hidden, snickering brother. He’s forced to hold that position for a long minute because Sam isn’t stupid enough to emerge without tactical planning. He’s not the reigning snowball fight champion for nothing, which is exactly why Dean has claimed the Angel of the Lord for his team.
Unfortunately, Castiel isn’t the fierce comrade he’d anticipated, admitting to being perplexed as to why two grown men would want to throw frozen water at each other in a mock combat situation where no rules are laid down and there is no apparent victor since everyone involved winds up cold, tired and damp. After a brief, circling debate, Cas gets stuck on weapons detail, and is charged with making sure Dean has a supply of ammunition that always exceeds Sam’s.
“If you’d worn a heavier jacket, you might not be so irate right now.”
Dean adjusts his knitted toboggan and gives him a glare that suggests he’d like to stuff a great deal of snow down Cas’ pants before going back to targeting his brother in the treeline. “I’d have no cause to be irate if my lieutenant looked like a respectable adversary and not like a giant marshmallow Peep.”
The corners of Castiel’s eyes tighten as once again another reference goes over his head. He has no idea what a Peep is, but he is certainly a respectable adversary and ‘accidentally’ dumps a handful of snow over Dean’s head. The man sputters, wiping hunks of melting ice off the back of his neck as he twists around to shoot the angel a look blacker then the first one. “Watch it, Cas! We can’t have any friendly fire in the ranks.” Castiel just nods his agreement, careful to keep his expression stoically neutral.
Sam pops around the trunk again to gesture a line between the two of them, and draws a big heart around it in midair with one finger. “Adorable,” Sam mouths with much exaggerated sappiness and clasping of hands over his chest.
Dean gives him a finger of his own. And a volley of well aimed snowballs. Sam looks quite polka-dotted when he finally manages to crawl back behind his tree, but despite Dean’s numerous hits, the game continues and Castiel once again doesn’t understand the strange ways of humans. He voices this confusion to Dean, who only orders him to quit lolly-gagging and make him more ammo.
“Headshot to win, Cas, we’ve been over this,” Dean grumbles, mushing up his own snowball, which is no where near as pretty and symmetrical as the angel’s. Castiel takes some pride in being the best snowball maker. He finds he is also proud of Dean’s fighting methods; the elder Winchester is definitely the more formidable of the brothers, even in this mock battle scenario. While Sam is undoubtedly stronger and more strategic, Dean is methodical and takes the time to make sure his throws count. The angel has trouble believing Dean is the one defeated year after year in these fights.
“Your aim is surprisingly accurate, but I believe you could increase your accuracy by no less then 12 percent if you opened both of your eyes while you shoot and released your wrist 3.465 degrees higher,” Castiel offers, to which Dean gives him a level, unflinching pokerface.
“Peachy.” He ignores the angel’s advice through two more heated rounds of volleys (Castiel huffs his displeasure at being so obviously brushed off, but reminds himself this is not exactly a new development), until Sam lands a blow on Dean’s right upper thigh that’s way too close for comfort. Snarling, he pitches his next weapon with both eyes open and boring holes into his target.
“OW!” Sam’s cry of agony echoes through the yard. “JESUS, Dean, I thought we agreed no crotch shots!”
“Yes!” Dean cheers back at their snow fort, slapping Cas’ back gleefully before doing a little dance. “See, that right there. That’s why I love you even when you look like big blue Santa minus the beard.”
Castiel glows at the admission, feeling bright enough on the inside to outshine the newly falling snow. It’s a rare gift when Dean Winchester openly praises him and willingly defines the bond they share. Still, the insult to his beloved jacket at the end rubs him the wrong way and he runs a protective hand down the feather-stuffed blue fabric. “Is it really so bad?”
Dean gives him a lingering, conflicted look and reaches out to take one of Cas’ heavily mittened hands in his own. He stares at the jacket for a long while, wincing as he fondles the little white poof balls hanging from the string ties.
“Yes,” he croaks in a pained voice. Castiel’s face falls, the expression more pout then anything.
“But I guess you do look kinda cute. In a really, really stupid way.” They share a small moment where the world blurs away to nothing outside locked blue and green eyes and the sparkling lace falling from the sky.
“Dude- DUCK!” Dean yells suddenly, disappearing out of Castiel’s line of sight in the blink of an eye. The angel frowns and opens his mouth to question this strange order, but he’s struck forcefully in the chest with a large wad of snow before he can utter a word. His lungs contract against his will as the breath is pushed from his body and he teeters on the heels of his feet for a moment, but manages to right himself before tipping completely over.
“What-,” he starts in wide-eyed confusion.
“Oh shit! I’m sorry, Cas, are you okay?” interrupts Sam quickly, a genuine note of concern in his snicker as he moves from behind the tree to check on the friend who has just inadvertently been caught in the crossfire of the War of the Winchesters.
“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE THROWING, YOU CLUMSY BITCH!” Dean bellows, rapidly lobbing three snowballs in quick succession at his momentarily unshielded brother. All three land somewhere amongst the flailing arms and dancing legs, Sam demonstrating his ability to move at high speeds despite his large size.
“Quit hiding behind the angel then, you stupid jerk!” Sam cries indignantly, two more spheres of powder being fired in retaliation across the yard. He retreats behind the nearby shell of a rusted Oldsmobile as he throws, assuming his hiding position once again. Dean’s already out of range though, hurrying back to Cas’ side and giving the smaller man a thorough once over.
“You okay, Cas?” he repeats, green eyes searching. Castiel nods, fingering absently at his chest, focused more on the gentle hands Dean has on his waist then answering the question. He figures he’d take about five more hits to the torso if it means Dean would keep his hands there a bit longer.
“I’m fine, Dean.” He gives the hunter’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, happy to see a brief smile of relief grace the freckled face. “I am unhurt. I barely felt it; my jacket provides more then adequate protection from the snow in any form, it seems.”
Dean’s smile vanishes at the reminder of the jacket, but he cups Castiel’s chin in his fingers and tugs their faces together till visible breath mingles and ricochets off the other’s skin. “Guess it’s not totally useless,” Dean murmurs before closing the remaining space between them and brushing his soft lips ever so faintly across Castiel’s own. It could barely be categorized as a full touch, but it makes Cas’ knees feel liquid and wobbly. There are snowflakes clinging to Dean’s eyelashes. Castiel notes with wonder. Dean is so warm, he wonders why they haven’t melted away yet. He’d like to kiss them off, but doesn’t think the hunter will tolerate such a flagrant gesture of intimacy, so he relishes what he’s allowed and tilts his head in readiness for a second kiss.
“Your faces are going to freeze together if you don’t knock that off,” Sam informs them imperiously, emerging slowly from behind the car and eyeing his brother cautiously as if he’s afraid Dean might attack him with a kiss next. He’s also apparently taking the opportunity to rebuild his snowball reserves while the couple have their moment.
“Well then we’ll just have to eskimo kiss all day in front of you,” Dean retorts sourly. Sam gives him a well rehearsed bitchface and chucks a particularly soggy snowball in his brother’s direction. It falls flat and Dean gives him a ‘you suck’ smirk.
“What’s an eskimo kiss?” Cas inquires curiously, automatically a bit wary of the term lest it be some kind of colloquialism for an action most likely seen in the pornography Dean is so fond of watching.
“Like this.” Dean proceeds to demonstrate quickly in order to get it over with.
Behind them Sam fakes a choking fit, complete with throat clutching and tongue flailing and falling to his knees dramatically in a snowbank to protest this sappy display of affection. Dean takes a moment to turn and bean him with a snowball while he’s down.
When he returns his full attention to Cas, he chuckles to find the angel scrunching his nose up and down like a bunny and frowning thoughtfully. “I believe I prefer the normal method of kissing as opposed to the methods of the Inuit tribes,” he admits to Dean, who tightens his grip on Cas’ hips and leans in till their foreheads are pressed together.
“You and me both, man.”
It’s just a gentle kiss at first, Dean dipping in to pepper the area around Castiel’s mouth, little presses that stem the chapped chill that comes from over exposure to winter air. Cas can feel his pulse flutter and clutches at him deepening the kiss, greedy for the taste of Dean, the feel of Dean. When he finally gets down to business, the human kisses like he fights; sure and confident, with a roughness around the edges that hints of an underlying reigned in violence. He knows exactly what he’s doing, arrogant bastard, thrusting his way past Castiel’s lips and wringing tiny mewls of longing from the angel. And when Dean swipes a scalding tongue over his bottom lip, Cas shivers and absently wonders why he was so cold before.
Castiel thinks Dean tastes like snow.
“I wish I knew hoooooow - Your eyes are like starlight now - To break this speeeeell - I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell,” Sam warbles in an exaggerated imitation of a duet, complete with the female singer’s high-pitched octave. Dean disengages from the kiss long enough to shoot him a venomous glare.
“Lock it up, Sam.”
“I ought to say no, no, no, sir - Mind if I move in closer - At least I'm gonna say that I triiiiied - What's the sense in hurting my pride,” Sam wails louder and bit more off key, twirling with arms spread out to embrace the falling snow. Snowballs fall from his coat pockets as he spins.
“Quit your yowling, Sinatra, before the dogs join in!” Castiel is saddened at losing Dean’s embrace, but understands that for all their teasing, the Winchesters are still in the middle of their fight, each one too stubborn to give in before death or glory can been achieved. Which is why Cas does not protest when this order to cease any and all singing is punctuated with a timely snowball chucked at the still crooning younger brother, who bats it away and unmans himself with a giggle.
“Just give up already,” Sam grins, “your head obviously isn’t in the game and it goes against my conscience, taking you out when you’re attached to Cas’ face. I don’t want to give him a nosebleed or anything by accident just because he’s got bad taste in men.”
“Thanks,” Dean growls, maneuvering Castiel a few steps to the left so he can have a clear shot at his brother’s head.
Sam throws up palms to ward him off. “Alright, well how about we call it a truce? I go inside before my nuts freeze and break off, you two can stay out here and play ice tonsil hockey - everybody wins. No shame, no dishonor,” he propositions, still giving Dean the ‘be calm-don’t do something crazy’ gesture.
Dean narrows his eyes, arm still cocked and ready to fire. “Just like that. You’re pussying out and letting me win.” The tone of his voice is low and full of disbelief. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Which is understandable because this will be a monumental first, if Sam really is volunteering to a ceasefire in a snowball fight. Castiel flashes the younger sibling a grateful look over Dean’s shoulder and is pretty sure Sam winks back.
“No, dumbass, we - the both of us - are simultaneously agreeing to a truce. To leave the field as equals and respected enemies. Don’t you know your war history?”
“Equals. No losing involved.”
“Correct.”
Dean glances at Cas, who just shrugs. Personally, Castiel would never agree to a truce of any sort, a warrior of heaven is created to only accept full and unconditional surrender. But his fingers and toes are starting to tingle uncomfortably and he really wants to kiss Dean longer and deeper then the frigid weather will allow so he’s willing to remain mute on the issue in the hope that Dean will acquiesce with Sam’s request.
“Fine.” The brothers share a crudely stiff handshake, Castiel having to reach forward to break their grip before they snap digits, trying to ‘out-truce’ each other. Dean winces as he replaces his fingers in the coziness of Cas’ mittens, obviously coming away bruised from the strength of Sam’s monstrous hands. Thus comes the end of the great battle, with no fanfare beyond suspicious glares and the shivering of three men most likely too beyond their prime to be participating in such nonsense in the first place.
“Good,” says Sam pleasantly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and stomping snow off the tops of his boots. He still looks a bit like an appaloosa, the outline of white circles clinging to entire body from Dean’s earlier attacks. “Cause kicking your ass every year is getting kinda old.”
He side-steps Dean’s swung fist with graceful ease and turns sniggering toward the beckoning gold glow of the house. When he’s a good ten paces away, he takes up singing again, starting softly at first, but bursting loudly into a heart-felt climax.
“I really can't stay - Baby don't hold out-”
“I told you to cut that shit out, Sam!”
“AHH, BUT IT’S COOOOOOLD OUTSIIIIIIIDE!”
And that’s the point when Dean decides he’s had enough of truces and puts an end to the singing merriment once and for all.
He couldn’t land another bulls-eye like that in a million years. A perfect hit; square in the back of Sam’s girlishly long-haired head, the snowball sloushing forward to clog up his ears, the momentum of the blow hard enough to have Sam stumbling a few paces in effort to maintain a vertical position.
Dean’s arms raise in a V of triumph as Sam swears passionately. “Fuck! I already withdrew, Dean! That’s a blatant truce foul! Unsportsmanlike behavior!” Sam whines, shaking his head like a dog in effort to dislodge slush from his collar and hair.
“Whatever you say, Samantha,” Dean crows victoriously. “You wail like a mangirl, I take you down. That’s the new truce, bitch!”
Castiel is left to offer a scowling Sam a look of condolence as Dean makes a sad show of masculine aggression by pumping his fist in the air and beating on his chest a few times like a barbarian. Sam returns it with a look of sheer apology that clearly suggests Cas should not feel bad for him because he’s not the one romantically attached to Dean. Castiel glances between the brothers and thinks perhaps Sam raises a valid point.
“Cas, did you see that shot?” Dean cries, his grin still a bit manic as he practically tackles the angel and lifts him off the ground, muttering under his breath at the end about how it’s like hugging a Care Bear.
“Yes. You kept both of your eyes open.”
“Damn right I did. You just made me King of the Junkyard. You’re awesome, babe!” Cas gets another squeeze and a quick peck on the mouth for being awesome.
“Sam’s song is appropriate though. It is cold outside,” Cas admits reluctantly, burying his hands inside Dean’s leather coat once he’s got both feet back on the ground. Though the material lacks the ostentatious padding Castiel’s outerwear has, Dean himself is like a furnace and Cas hums contentedly as the stolen body heat seeps through his clothing and into his skin. Castiel likes the snow, but he likes snuggling into his hunter’s secure warmth so much more.
“You’re finally getting cold, huh? Ok, then how about this. I’ll run you a hot bath, join you in it AND make that peppermint hot cocoa you like, if we can use that jacket as fireplace fuel,” Dean urges, his free hand creeping around to splay over Cas’ ass temptingly. The angel falters for a moment in his conviction because he does love hot cocoa and bathtime with Dean.
“Don’t give in to bribery, Cas!” Sam calls over his shoulder, already half-way through the kitchen door frame. “You look too fantastic to throw that away on something so small and measly as chocolate.”
“I hate you!” Dean yells in response. Sam’s laughter is loud enough to be heard next door, which is saying something since Bobby’s scrapyard spans almost 4 acres.
Cas however preens a bit at Sam’s words, despite them being said mostly to get a rise out of the brother attached to his rear end, and burrows further down into his jacket. He might love his jacket enough to turn down Dean’s offer after all. “I think I shall keep it,” he informs Dean happily, feeling a bit sorry at the dejected look that spreads over his lover’s face. “But if you still agree to the bath and chocolate, I’ll do the thing with my tie during intercourse that you find so agreeable,” he says casually, hoping it’s enough to barter with. Dean is predictably easy to negotiate with when it comes to trading goods and services for specific sexual acts, which Castiel finds thoroughly amusing because Dean seems unaware that Cas would perform them with no expectation of repayment simply because he loves him.
Dean groans, then sighs, expression sinking into one of a man who’s realizing he has just lost a battle he thought he’d won. He shakes his head, the only surrender Castiel is going to get, and rolls his shoulders as he tries to gather up as much self-respect as he can. “Hmm. Dammit. It’s a deal. Alright, Snow Bunny. Let’s go get warmed up,” Dean says gruffly, tugging Cas behind him as they shuffle, hands clasped tight, back toward the house. The upward twitch of his lips as he sneaks an adoring side-ways glance at the angel is almost unnoticeable. Almost.
On Bobby Singer’s couch, Castiel smiles in his sleep, because when Castiel dreams, he is loved.
*****
Back in the living room, Bobby’s brow furrows as three crooked smiles spontaneously blossom across all the slumbering faces before him. Sam has started twitching his foot as if running and Dean and Castiel have shifted so close together, there has to only be a paper’s width keeping them from touching. “Now what the hell are they all smiling about?” he grumbles, but there’s no answer, only the cheery winking of the lights on the tree as if they know something he doesn’t.
Bobby shakes his head at the foolishness of young men and holidays and leaves the room to it’s quiet (albeit drunker then hell) reflection. God knows those fellas deserve some peace tonight and who he is to interrupt a small bit of happiness found in sleep.
“They better be dreaming about a way to pony up the cash to replace my liquor cabinet,” he mutters as climbs the stairs to bed. But as the clock chimes midnight and a rare hush settles over the house, Bobby finds himself smiling absently and silently wishing his boys a Merry Christmas.
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