Visions of Sugarplums and Other Various Oddities ( Part II: A glimpse inside Dean Winchester's head)

[elfladyarwen]

“Mornin’, sexy.”

“It’s early afternoon, Dean,” the figure at the kitchen counter scoffs, too preoccupied with whipping something yellow in a large mixing bowl to turn and face the other man, who is himself currently on a mission to the coffee pot. The figure finished chewing whatever was in his mouth and watches as Dean stumbles in a haze across the room, snagging his robe on first the doorway, then a chair, the brilliant blue of his eyes crackling with amusement. Dean ignores both the words and the smirk and proceeds to rummage sloppily through the cabinets for his usual coffee fixings.

Once he’s successfully managed to pour himself an obscenely large mug, (without spilling a drop, even though he’s functioning through only partially opened, sleep-drunk eyes, he might add) Dean cat-stretches languidly, popping several vertebra and scratching at his exposed belly. “Yeah well, a certain Angel of the Lord kept me up with rowdy sexcapades till the wee small hours. No pun intended,” he yawns. He takes a first enthusiastic swig of coffee and whimpers as a good portion of his tastebuds are burnt off.

“Speaking of which; don’t those need to be washed?”

Dean follows Castiel’s line of sight down to his own hips, where lay a thoroughly soiled pair of red satin, lace-trimmed panties. He grins and slips a thumb into the elastic waistband, stretching it out an inch and letting it recoil back against his skin with a sharp snap. “I thought it’d be nice to model my souvenir for a while,” he says with a wag of his eyebrows. The underwear is by no means the only souvenir he’s displaying from last night; Dean’s got a line of hickeys down his neck and obliques, claw marks on his chest and inner thighs, and a very sore ass still full of lube and angel spunk. He wears them all proudly like badges of honor, reveling in the feeling of being well-fucked and roughed up.

“Holy shit,” Dean groaned, staring down into the gift box in his hands with an expression of both dismay and longing etched on his face. “How did you know- Are you gonna wear these for me, Cas?”

“No, Dean. You are going to wear them for me.”

Dean groaned again, the very thought of his angel’s hands on him through the silky slide of fabric making his dick go from six to midnight immediately. He was ashamed to add his mouth had started to water as well. And there may have been some trembling in excitement - manly trembling.

“It would be unwise for you to remain in such a scantily clad state,” Cas informs him, his voice tinted with regret. He breaks the intense, wistful stare he’s got fixed on Dean’s body and returns to his cooking, adding teaspoons of something white into the bowl before resuming his mixing at a flurried pace that suggests he’s trying to take some sexual frustration out on the batter. “Your brother and Bobby will be here any minute, along with their families. Unless you’d like to paint them a vivid picture of our activities last night, perhaps you should change into something more appropriate.”

Another reference to last night isn’t doing anything to help discourage Dean’s growing boner. He sets down his mug and moves over to encircle Castiel’s slim waist, pressing their bodies together in one smooth line, back to chest. The angel smells vaguely like citrus, cloves, and sex.

Last night, Dean had gotten owned.

Not in the ‘I beat you into humiliation in the latest Xbox game’ sense, but the ‘I already own your soul so now I’m going to use your sweet body as my plaything’ kind of owned. Dean had spent the night as little more then a pretty sex toy for an Angel of the Lord who’d taken him and used him and made him moan like a goddamn slut. Cas had taken all of his resolve, all of his masculine pride and burned them away with his fiery blue gaze and wicked tongue.

He’d known from the moment he slipped those ladies’ underpants over his hips that he’d be playing the role of blow up doll for Cas tonight. It coursed a thrill through his blood, the idea of being made so vulnerable, so basest. He’d liked the panties the last time long ago, but from the way Cas’ entire body went stiff and alert, his eyes darkening to a dangerous, fierce navy as his lover stepped out of the bathroom, Dean knew this time around was going to be infinitely better. In fact, he’d bet money he wouldn’t be able to walk without a limp come morning - he was counting on it.

“They’re a little tight in the crotch,” he teased, bending over wantonly to lean against the wall, watching Cas lift his shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. Castiel scooted slowly to the edge of the bed, looking fucking fine in only those black slacks and ruffled hair, and beckoned Dean forward without a word. Dean strode over, thinking the glide of silk over his skin nothing short of delicious. From the expression on Cas’ face, the panties looked as good on his body as they felt. “S’matter, Cas?” he snickered, reaching out to rake shaking hands through soft dark hair, “red not really my color?”

“That’s the last time you get to talk tonight unless spoken to, Dean.” The smoky ultimatum sent heat bulleting straight to Dean’s already throbbing cock. Castiel drew the pads of his fingertips up Dean’s leg, starting at mid shin and taking his sweet time until Dean had started getting fussy and impatient with the slow pace. One flick of those blue eyes was enough to still his twitching. Jesus, a single look like that from Cas was enough to darken the front of his panties with precome and drive the breath from his lungs. He wasn’t gonna last long in these damn things.

Especially when Cas started kneading his ass, raising and separating the cheeks so their silk covering whispered and sighed under his ministrations. Cas had glorious hands - he always knew just how much pressure it took to rack Dean’s body with shivers, he always knew where to position his nails to make Dean’s blood surge with acidic heat. Dean had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from making a sound when Cas tugged his hips forward and rubbed his face into Dean’s crotch.

He’d slotted that perfectly sculpted nose up one side of Dean’s dick then down the other, nuzzling his erection with all the careful scrutiny of a connoisseur breathing in the bouquet of an exquisite and rare wine. Cas had barely gotten his mouth fixed in a wet kiss to the clothed underside of Dean’s frenulum before he came so  fast, his knees had buckled and collapsed. If not for Cas’ unyielding hands on his hips rooting him in place, he would have crumpled in a boneless pile on the floor.

And even though Cas had taken a minute to suck a taste of Dean’s come greedily through the weave of the silk, Dean had been ‘punished’ for his early release. He’d been forcefully flipped, then sprawled across Cas’ knees before he could protest, and the angel immediately proceeded to spank and finger Dean through red silk until he was rock-hard again and sobbing for permission to come.

“That was very naughty of you, Dean. You know you are not allowed to come until I say you can. I will forgive you this once, but you’ll have to prove to me that you’ve been a good boy this year. Because only good little boys get cock. Sit up in my lap now, and show me what a good little boy you are,” Castiel ordered as Dean scrambled to obey. Only once the hunter had spread his legs over each of Cas’ thighs and began to thrust needily against the hard on pressed into his lower back did Castiel start to touch him again. Slow, tortuous touches meant to control and claim. Cas was using him at his leisure, only touching him when and where it pleased CAS, only placing him in positions that CAS wanted to see. This pervy, mock Santa routine brought on by a little Christmas panty play should not have turned Dean on that much. But God help him, he was gonna blow his load again without ever having his dick touched, horny and green as a fucking teenager, if Cas wasn’t careful. His stomach was already cramping with want, the tremors rocking his body so far beyond controllable.

“What do you want for Christmas, Dean?” Pale hands slid down to count the ribs Dean’s heart was beating a tattoo upon. He squirmed, needing those hands lower, faster. But Cas’ possessive grip on his hipbone told him neither pleasure nor pain would be dealt out beyond the angel’s own whim. Dean was helpless to do anything but whimper and rut into the open air.

“Want you. Cas, come ON.”

The angel’s fingers bit into the meaty part of Dean’s upper thigh to shush him.Dean wondered vaguely if Cas could dig right through to the bone if he wanted.  Even reigning it in to this extent, the alien, other-worldly  power radiating from the supernatural creature pinning him down both scared and excited Dean beyond belief. He was playing blow up doll to something that had chosen him out of a billion different souls and a billion different time lines. He would never be able to fully wrap his head around the idea. “You already have me, Dean. You have to be more specific if you want a worthwhile present. Now tell me what you want,” he breathed hot and wet against Dean’s neck, Dean’s pulse jumping up to feed the little fires that started everywhere Cas’ lips touched down.

“Your cock.”

“And where do you want my cock?”

Dean groaned as those clever hands moved down to rub red silk in tiny circles over his balls. His head thrashed shamelessly back as the sensation of cool fabric against his burning skin shattered another little piece of his sanity.

“Inside me. I want you inside me. PLEASE, Cas. Just fuck me already!”

It pleased Cas when he begged - he’d apparently been waiting for it because the more Dean pleaded, the quicker he found he got what he wanted.

“Last night was...” He trails off into a low moan, rotating his hips against Cas’ backside till they’re swaying back and forth a bit in a rhythm that can’t be anything but sexual. The angel slows, then stills his determined mixing, head sinking back onto Dean’s shoulder with a soft throaty noise that sends a jolt of heat straight to Dean’s groin. Jesus, he’s been drained dry, pounded senseless, and chafed raw and he still wants to throw Cas down across that table and fuck him until the neighbors come to complain about the noise. He knows he’s a hound dog, but nobody has ever had this kind of an effect on him before.

The only word that comes to Dean’s mind for it is addiction. And right now, his every fiber is starting to scream for a hit, ‘cause Cas is swallowing hard under the lips Dean is latching onto the pale column of neck bared to him, his breath hitching a bit as Dean’s hands trail over the growing bulge in his slacks. Cas is gorgeous to him; all tapered, elegant limbs and sharp, cutting angles and eyes. Top that with haphazard morning hair, day old stubble, and the whiskey rasp he’s doing as he murmurs Dean’s name, and Dean is high as a kite, cracked-out, gone.

“How is it possible that I want you again already?” he purrs into Cas’ ear, punctuating each word with a flick of his tongue. The angel’s head lolled to the front and Dean hungrily takes advantage of the newly exposed skin, delighted to feel Cas shutter under his lips. “Dean...I have to- the pancakes,” Castiel protests weakly, not putting up much of a fight as he tries to shove the man attached to his neck away. He always puts up a fuss about Dean’s propositions for sex at inopportune times, but the quickening staccato of his heartbeat and the way he clamps the hand previously used for stirring down on the arm around his waist gives him away. Dean grins and worries the nearest earlobe in reach between his teeth. “Come on, Cas. Pancakes are great, but you can’t honestly be thinking about that when I’m thinking about the way you felt inside me that last time,” he sighs, tugging the angel deeper into his arms. From the way Cas starts stuttering on his exhale, they’re both thinking about it now.

Dean was so close to coming, he was about to cry. Chest heaving, sweat-drenched, incoherent sobbing - that was what Cas had driven him to in the past 20 minutes.

“Please, Jesus fuck, Cas. I can’t- I want- I want to come. Please let me come, holy God, please,” he managed to babble as the angel continued to lift him up and impale him down on his cock with one inhumanly strong hand. Castiel grunted beneath him and bit into the strained muscle popping up between Dean’s shoulder and neck, making the man wail and scrape at the arm locked around his torso. Every thrust in battered Dean’s sensitive prostate, every drag out accompanied by a tiny catch of skin against silk-slick fabric. It had been mutually decided that the panties had to remain in their original place when Cas finally fucked up into Dean, having been hastily pushed aside for desired access of course. And now he couldn’t do shit except ride, ride, ride that glorious cock, being physically raised and lowered by means not of his own doing on Cas’ lap faster and harder as the angel neared his orgasm.

“Who do you belong to, Dean? Tell me, and I’ll allow you release,” the angel growled, landing sloppy, lust-drunk kisses between Dean’s shoulder blades.

“You! Fuck, only you Cas,” he screamed, whipping his head back as hard as he could onto the shoulder behind him. It took all his effort to concentrate on that gravelly voice, the words blurring and swirling into the rest of the white haze threatening to overtake his senses. He felt stretched tighter then a bow, ready to snap at any moment of Cas’ choosing. He was so close, he was starting to go numb and stupid.

“No. That’s not my name. Be a good little boy and say my proper name. Tell me who you belong to. Tell me who owns you.” Cas’ voice was urgent and fucking wrecked and his motions had started to mirror Dean’s own frantic neediness. Dean was at that point only aware that if he could manage to gasp the angel’s real name, he would finally be rewarded and the wonderful agony would end and explode in something shiny and perfect. He could be there, be consumed by it, he had only to form the correct syllables.

“Castiel!”

And then something changed, though he couldn’t see Cas’ face. The angel’s hold shifted from something purely possessive to something softer, more reverent. Dean was not being used anymore. He was being worshipped. Cas’ very skin sang with it, making the room seem to glow from even behind closed eyelids. “Mine.”

“DeanDeanDeanDean,” Cas choked as he fell over the edge, losing the ability to form any other intelligble words when he spilled himself deep inside the man he gripped so tightly. ‘LoveyouLoveyouLoveyouLoveyou’ was all Dean heard as he came so hard his vision blacked out.

Castiel sighs, then with great effort detangles himself from Dean’s grabby embrace. “Dean,” he says reproachfully, “I have to get the bread in the oven and these pancakes to the table. I don’t have time for this charade of seduction at the moment, as much as I delight in participating in random sexual congress with you.”

“Sexual congress? Gee, Cas, who knew you were such a romantic at heart. You’re gonna make me blush, you ol’ smoothie,” Dean says sarcastically, tearing his hands away from Cas’ body rather pissily as it’s rather insulting to hear their awesome, kinky lovemaking referred to in such a demeaning fashion. Cas gives him a rueful sort of smile and wordlessly goes back into his cooking frenzy. He’s worse then a woman, Dean thinks; has a one track mind and the attention span of...something with a crazy long attention span. All cooking and no morning sex is quickly making Dean a pouty boy.

He reaches to snag a piece of bacon from a waiting tray, only to yelp and recoil as his hand is soundly slapped. “Breakfast nazi,” Dean grumbles as he settles for a muffin instead, stuffing the entire thing in his mouth before Cas can slap it too away. This earns a chuckle from the other man and Dean leans against the counter as he chews, returning the grin as he watches Castiel go back to flipping pancakes like a pro.

Alright, even though there’s no sex involved, this isn’t so bad. He likes that they’ve reached this rapport; there’s a simplicity here, a system of give and take that Dean’s never had before. His entire life he’s been the protector, the unwilling champion and the provider. Others look to him for help, for answers. He’s lived his existence in the shadow of an absent father, casting shadows himself on a sibling who outgrew the need for his worrying a long, long time ago. Cas doesn’t need that from him. He doesn’t want him because he can chase ghosts away or because he’s soldered to him through a blood bond. Cas wants him as he is, fucked up and flawed. Cas looks into his eyes and still sees something worthy enough to claim and worthy enough to make Christmas breakfast for, even though Dean’s tarnished beyond belief, impossible to reason with, and never ever puts the cap back on the toothpaste. And while most of the time it just makes Dean wonder what the hell is wrong with Cas, he watches the pancake pile grow higher this morning and dares to think himself the luckiest son of a bitch ever.

“Dude,” Dean starts, noticing for the first time that pancakes are not the only food to be sitting in piles on virtually every surface of the kitchen. “When did you make all this? Did you not sleep at all last night?” There are two plates of homemade biscuits beside the bacon tray, one plain and one with slices of ham stuffed in the middle. Over on the table, a variety of jams and spreads wait, along with more types of fruit then Dean can count on both hands. There’s no less then four types of eggs, sausage (links AND patties), fresh juice and tea and toast and Dean’s pretty sure those burnt things are crème brûlées.

“Some of us have been up for hours in preparation for your family’s traditional Christmas brunch,” Castiel huffs impatiently, forcefully maneuvering Dean out of the way so he can reach the spice cabinet with ease.

Dean snorts and selects another muffin. It’s light and moist and goddamn, Cas is a good cook. “This isn’t a brunch. This is a feast. I mean, I’m flattered you think me and Sam can handle this kind of weight, but we might die today if we attempt to tackle this spread.”

“You could just put the fork down,” the angel says nastily, but the quip rolls off Dean unheeded. He grins again and crams his mouth full of muffin. “S’like oo ont know meh t’all, Cas,” he munches happily as crumbs rain to the floor. Castiel gives him a disgusted look and turning his back on him, starts to knead some kind of fluffy dough.

Dean laughs and continues to scan the countertops, overjoyed to see not one, not two, but six different pies glistening provocatively in the kitchen light.

“You made all these?” he gasps dumbfoundedly, choking a bit as a blueberry goes down the wrong pipe. Cas gives him a look that suggests while he loves Dean, he also thinks the man is rather obtuse. Dean is too overwhelmed at the sight of so much pie to do anything but blink stupidly back.

“Is this my Christmas present?”

“You already received your Christmas present last night,” Cas says with a pointed look down at Dean’s silk-clad crotch. The return of his gaze back up Dean’s almost naked form is much, much slower and Dean can’t help but preen a bit at the attention.

“That’s just- I mean, wow. You’re awesome, babe.” He’s looking at Cas now with little hearts in his eyes, fucking domesticated as he could be and so in love it’s stupid. Castiel however is looking both aggravated and aroused and like he would very much  like to physically remove Dean from his kitchen.

He shakes his head and flutters around doing about three things at once. “If I were really that awesome, I would be able to get things prepared at the same time, have the table setting finished and you dressed in something decent for a change. What good is having divine powers if I can’t even get a breakfast ready on schedule? What if I didn’t make enough and your family goes hungry? This is all your fault. This is a ridiculous holiday, it’s not even Christ’s actual day of birth! I’m not ready for this,” he said sounding close to hysterics (for an angel, anyway.)

Dean hums in a sympathetic, non-committal way, only hearing every other word as Cas is currently bending down to shove bread into the oven and treating the room to a glorious view of his pert little ass. And Dean is coming to terms with the fact that his erection won’t be going anyway till New Year’s. Which he’ll seriously regret later when the blue balls consume him in sexually frustrated agony, but right now, all he can seem to think about is how sexy Cas probably looked making all those pies early this morning. Castiel covered in sugar and pie dough is the best wet dream he would most likely ever have, and Dean’s got a great imagination. He mentally chides himself for being lazy and missing that show for a little sleeping in. He also wonders why it’s so hot in kitchen when he’s only wearing a thin, tattered robe and a pair of panties that barely exist. He feels stifled and feverish and like he needs to lose about 3 more layers of clothing that isn’t there.

All the while, Cas is chattering on about what a fucking travesty Christmas brunch with Dean’s family is, describing his martyrdom in full detail and even going so far as to bring the past to the surface, recalling how Dean is responsible for most of the bad things that have happened in the world since 2008. And luckily Dean is too preoccupied daydreaming about pie sex to hear most of it because otherwise he would have started sulking.

Cas brings an exasperated hand to his chin, scrubbing at the stubble there and eyeing a tower of unfolded napkins with all the fierce scrutiny of a warrior trying to pinpoint the best plan of attack. The motion’s left a streak of white on his face, the flour pale enough to stand out on his flushed skin and he worries his bottom lip in his teeth, making the flesh there plump and red.

And that’s it for Dean.

He lets the muffin wrapper fall disregarded to the tile floor, surging forward to encase Castiel’s hips in his hands, spin him around and crush their mouths together. He’s got to taste his angel now before he goes absolutely batshit crazy. He invades Cas’ mouth in a rough clash of tongue and teeth, keeping their heads together with a brutal hand clamped on the back of the angel’s neck.

Castiel squawks, frozen in shock for a second before wriggling free enough from the embrace to lean back and give Dean a glare of exacerbation, which is tinged with a strange combination of desire and apology enough to make the edges of the blue irises sparkle ethereally. A sliver of Cas’ grace is always visible when he succumbs to strong emotion like this and it only serves as a further aphrodisiac to Dean, who is still surprised by how glorious it is. “Dean,” the angel pleads against the lips that relentlessly dive in for more kisses, more swipes across his bottom lip, just more, more, more. “We can’t-”

Dean doesn’t let him finish the sentence, cuts him off by sticking his tongue in Cas’ mouth. There’s been too much talking already and from the way Castiel slowly drapes his arms over Dean’s broad shoulders, he knows he’s about to cement down a victory.

“Oh my god, you taste like bacon,” Dean moans, lunging for him again with new found eagerness. This time, the fight seems to have drained from the angel because he latches onto Dean with astounding hunger, curling that nimble tongue up against the roof of his mouth and using it to imitate a very sensual act that has Dean rutting up against him in want.

He licks a hot stripe up Cas’ jawline, sucking hard at the sharp curve there and grinning as it wretches a whine from the angel’s throat. Castiel squirms beneath him, pressing their already straining cocks together in a single line of fire and it’s Dean’s turn to whimper. Every place Cas touches him alights with sparks of flame until he’s burning alive. Cas tastes like everything he’s ever wanted and never knew he needed  and the hell if he isn’t going to resort back to the original plan of bending him over the table and taking him on the green and red place settings.

They stumble as one tangled form backwards towards the furniture, one of Dean’s hands searching wildly for a solid surface as he tries to juggle the weight of Cas’ legs around his waist and his arms around his back. They crash into something eventually, too preoccupied with roaming lips and fingers on any exposed skin they can find to pay much attention to what they’re doing.

“Watch it,” Cas hisses as the crystal ware clatters in alarm at being so roughly jostled. Dean mutters an apology into his mouth, negating the idea that sex on the table might be a good one from the fiery warning in Cas’ eyes. To his credit, Dean has turned him on enough that he resists the urge to right the toppled jam jars pressing into the small of his back, which is quite a feat considering how anal retentive he’s been about this stupid brunch thus far. Dean hoists the angel back up, stumbling in the other direction.

They slam into the wall as a collective line, both groaning at the impact as knick-knacks and the shelves they sit on wobble dangerously above their heads. It seems as long as it doesn’t threaten the integrity of Christmas breakfast, Cas couldn’t really care about what gets broken by their vigorous make out sessions.

“Want me to suck you off, Angel? Want me on my knees trying to swallow all of you down in the middle of Christmas baking?” Dean leers crudely between passes of laving the angel’s collarbone with his tongue. He wedges a knee tighter against Cas’ groin, unable to help feeling a bit smug that he could reduce an Angel of the Lord into a writhing, moaning mess with just some heavy petting and a lewd suggestion. It’s only fair after all, since Cas could leave him heavy and wanting with just a glance these days.

“Nghhh-yes. NO! Your family will be arriving at any second, Dean,” the angel moans, the name on his lips sounding downright filthy. He clutches spasmicly at Dean’s robe, as if he’s giving serious thought to shredding it once and for all. Spurred on, the hunter captures up Cas’ wonderful mouth again, thrusting his tongue in to roughly silence all protests. He uses his thighs to pin Cas up against the wall, the knee between the angel’s rocking up to give him the friction he needs. Cas growls, sinking his teeth into Dean’s earlobe as a long-fingered palm slips down to cup his aching cock through red silk. “Fucking Christ,” Dean gasps, jerking under Cas’ hand and knocking him hard enough into the wall to finally make the ugly little ceramic chicken collection rain around their ears.

“Blasphemy, Dean,” snarls Castiel, biting Dean’s neck in what he must think is just punishment. If anything it just makes Dean’s dick harder and he rubs himself further into Cas’ hand, his own grip tight enough on the angel’s hips to leave bruises.

“Cas, believe me, I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you won’t even remember the definition of the word,” Dean pants as his fingers dance up Cas’ ribs beneath his sweater.

And he would have made good on his promise if at that precise moment, a car horn hadn’t blasted from outside. The crunch of gravel up the driveway signaled the sudden arrival of not one, but two sedans full of happy, jabbering family. Cas goes rigid beneath Dean’s hands, a deer in the headlights expression splashed across his face, that normally would have been comical enough to warrant a laugh from Dean. If the timing wasn’t so fucking wrong.

He groans and lets his forehead drop heavily against Cas’s shoulder. The angel cards an understanding hand through his hair and makes a small disappointed noise of his own. He carefully ties the hunter’s robe up, making sure all bits of satiny red are covered from view. Dean thrust his pelvis forward one more time against Castiel’s, tormenting himself with things he couldn’t have but that were so close within reach.  “Cockblockers. Every last one of them,” he hisses.

Castiel chuckles and shoves at his chest until Dean released him with a morose sigh. His smirk says ‘serves you right’, but the swirl of grace in the depths of his eyes promises ‘we’ll finish this later.’ Which is the best deal Dean is going to get right now, so he pushes himself off the wall with a scowl and stomps over to answer the door.

“Merry Christmas!” a chorus of greetings comes when he yanks open the door with enough force to rattle the windowpanes. He gives each and every one of the beaming faces a glower, trying to overpower all the smiles with his surliness at being denied angel sex. There’s too many of them to fight though and he feels his resolve softening and then dissipating under the radiant seasonal tidings of comfort and joy. Freakin’ holiday spirit.

“You took long enough to get here,” he ends up grumbling, throwing out an arm to usher them in out of the cold. The kids fly by first, eager to reach a waiting Castiel (who always has treats), Sam and the misses stepping back to graciously let Bobby and his wife enter first. Dean catches the tail end of a mumble to ‘put some clothes on, you idjit’ as Bobby passes. Dean rolls his eyes. And oh goody, one of Cas’ dick brothers has decided to show up uninvited.

“Dude,” Sam says carefully as he gives Dean a calculating once over, “where’s your other sock?”

“What are you, the fashion police? Just get in the goddamn house.”

“Uncle Dean!” the children gasp in outrage, though their shocked little faces are quickly melting into nervous grins.

“Sorry. Get in the goddamn house. Please,” Dean corrects politely.

“Cute,” Sam snips as he forcibly shoves his way into the house, taking great care to bump into his brother’s shoulder as hard as possible. Dean counter shoves him with a grin and ushers in the rest of the family.

“Alright, move it along people. Get on in here, you’re letting out all the bought air. You know the routine; coats and hats off, even you, Bobby, Cas’ orders. Presents go under the tree and- GABRIEL! Don’t you freakin’ touch that pie!”

On Bobby Singer’s couch, Dean Winchester smiles in his sleep, because when Dean dreams, he is home.

*****

Part III: A glimpse inside Castiel's head