Pie of Christmas Past
Story on Ao3
Artwork by - malallory
It’s snowing outside the window, the sky still the inky black color of night. Condensation collects on the glass, distorting the images that are seen while looking through it. Green eyes fly open, looking around a room that is unfamiliar, but all too familiar at the same time. His heart is racing inside the rib cage just underneath his skin, beating a loud tune in his ears. Dean sits up quickly, two arms bracing himself on the mattress below him. He’s no longer in his room at the bunker, no; this is his old childhood bedroom in Lawrence. Dean rubs a hand across his eyes, effectively wiping away evidence of his sleep. Once his eyes adjust to the light coming from the corner of the room, he stands up slowly. Dean tries to gain his bearings, stretching out sore muscles that ache from waking in a bed that is too short to fit his six-foot-one frame.
With one foot in front of the other, his steps lead him to the window; reaching out he wipes the moisture build up that has collected on the glass. He can see the tree and tire swing stand in the distance, a reminder of the days he played in the backyard. A red wagon covered in snow rests where he last left it after being called inside to wash up for dinner. The room still smells the same as it did years previous. Freshly washed linens and the faint scent of the perfume his mother wore hangs in the air.
Muffled sounds coming from downstairs send him on a higher alert, if that’s possible. It’s not every day you wake up in a house that burned down years ago, claiming the life of your mother. His first instinct is to grab for the knife that he keeps under his pillow, but the pillow lying on the bed is not his any longer, nothing is underneath it. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for a fight, against whom or what he is unsure. His steps toward the door are calculated, somehow remembering where not to step to save the floor under his feet from creaking. A careful hand reaches out and turns the knob, pulling the door open and allowing his eyes to adjust once again to the lack of light in the hallway before he steps out. Another breath in to calm his racing heart, to stop the drumming in his ears; he needs to be able to hear the presence before he sees it so he can counter the attack.
He reaches the top of the stairs before he feels the ache burning in his lungs, a breath held too long before he realizes the need to exhale. Carefully, he steps down each one, a hand gliding down along the banister where he used to slide as a small boy. At the bottom, he turns to the right, walking into the living room where he spent countless hours watching cartoons or playing with his miniature cars. A tree similar to the one he remembers from his last Christmas in this house stands in the corner between the couch and his father’s recliner, decorated in the same twinkling lights, shining tinsel, and different colored balls. A smile touches his lips as he recalls his small hands guided by his mother’s as they hung each decoration in place. His favorite ornament is a small rocking horse; it’s similar to the one he had when he was little. There is a tiny nutcracker hanging close by; he reaches out to touch it, remembering the time his mother helped paint his face like one. He pulls back and flicks his eyes over to the couch. Memories of him tying a towel around his neck like a superhero and jumping off the cushions flood his mind.
Singing coming from the kitchen dashes away the memory of holidays past, and he silently chastises himself for allowing the distraction. That could get someone killed in his line of work. It has gotten several of his fellow hunters killed. Inhale strength, exhale fear; Dean’s body is back on track, hyper-aware of his surroundings. He moves quietly in the direction of the kitchen, family pictures lining the walls of the hallway where he walks. If he had the time, he would stop and examine each one. Right now, though, he needs to find out what is waiting for him in the kitchen. He’s sure that whatever or whoever brought him here, the answers will be in there, knowing that this could just be a drug-induced state at the hands of a Djinn.
Dean prepares himself as he steps forward and into the light. Sammy’s old highchair still rests in its rightful place at the table; a freshly baked pie sits in the middle of the dark stained wood. A plate with a piece already cut is waiting as if placed there just for him. He doesn’t give in to the temptation, though; it could be a trap. One he will not fall for no matter how great the temptation calling out to him like a siren. He catches movement in his peripheral vision; reaching for the silver knife, he turns, moving quickly, efficiently. When his eyes land on the presence in front of him, his hand stops mere inches from piercing the being, the blue eyes staring back at him are familiar, but this can’t be real. This isn’t real. His mother, the way he remembers her the year she passed, is standing in front of him with her eyebrow arched.
“What kind of trick is this?” he snarls, voice dripping with suspicion. “Are you a shifter?”
Mary sighs, pushing her blonde hair back away from her face, “I’m your mother.”
His jaw tenses, the movement fluttering beneath his skin, he cocks his head, “Yeah? Well, if you are who you say you are, then prove it.”
She sighs and holds her hand out for the blade in his hand.
“Uh, uh, uh, not so fast, there’s no way in hell I’m handing this knife to you.”
Mary stands up straight, a smile touching her lips, “That’s my boy.” She moves over to a drawer by the stove, pulling a knife from it. Dean watches as the blade produces a tiny gash on her skin, a superficial wound that draws the deep crimson blood. She doesn’t stop there, though, instead, she does every step there is to ease his mind. The salt and borax have no effect on her that Dean can see. After splashing herself with holy water, she meets his eyes, “Happy now?”
He’s really not; he doesn’t understand what the hell is going on, but when Mary points at his chair he sits down, not taking his eyes off her. “Eat your pie, Dean,” she says, her voice soft.
He lays the blade down on the table near him, still not one hundred percent sure that he won’t have to use it. He stares at the pie in front of him, wanting desperately to take a bite, but his eyes find their way back up to his mother’s face.
Mary places a glass of milk beside him, cuts a piece of pie for herself, then sitting across the table from him. Feeling that she’s being watched, her eyes flick back up to his face. “You’re safe here, Dean.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought when I was trapped in the Djinn world.” Reaching for the fork, he cuts a bite and places it in his mouth. His tastes buds spark to life when the flakey crust and sugary filling hits his tongue. His mother would use the same recipe when she baked for him. If he remembers correctly, and he does, in the Djinn induced dream, everything had a dullness to it. He can still remember the food, nothing tasted the same, the way it should.
“So how’s Sam?” Mary asks while watching him eat. He sees something in her eyes, emotions that he can’t quite place, sadness, possibly, for not being there for her boys while growing up, her life stolen from her far too soon.
He swallows thickly, grabbing for the glass; it’s cool against his hand. He takes several gulps before setting it back down. “He’s uh, he’s fine, went to Stanford for a while, before I brought him back into the life. He’s smart, Ma. You’d be proud.”
“I’m proud of you too. Don’t forget that, Dean.” She takes a bite of her pie, then places the fork down. “Do you have someone special?” she asks, pushing her empty plate away and crossing her hands in front of her on the table.
He rubs the back of his neck, not sure what to say. His mother knows how it is, knows that the life of a hunter is not a place to bring someone in. It’s dangerous; being content and happy only magnifies the possibility of them being hurt, or killed. It’s a risk that he doesn’t want to take, that he won’t take. Dean remembers all too well what happened with Lisa. He misses Ben, but knows he wasn’t truly happy with her. He can’t deny, though, there is still an ache deep inside him. One that wants a family, someone to share his life with, a house with the white picket fence and all that crap, but he keeps that to himself. “You know the answer to that, Ma. It’s too dangerous.”
Her laugh is soft and reminds him of music, and as the sound hits his ears, he finds himself relaxing. “Dean, I was younger than you when your father and I married.” She reaches for his hand, twining their fingers together.
Dean can’t stop his eyes from getting misty. Her touch is soft, warm, and he wants to memorize this. Wants to lock it away and keep it safe so when he misses her, he can fall back on it. “We know how that turned out.”
“You can’t give up on your happiness just because of what happened to me, son,” she tells him, her voice soft. Mary moves to the chair next to him and cups his face. “Please, Dean, you have to try. This is not the life I wanted for either of you boys, but I can’t change the past.” She brushes his hair back and meets his eyes. “All I ever wanted was for you and Sam to be happy.”
“We are happy, Mom.” It’s a lie and one that Mary can clearly see through, but she doesn’t call him on it.
“Tell me about your life, what I’ve missed out on with you and Sam,” she says, changing the subject.
Dean sits back, his thumb picking at a scratch on the table and tells her everything. He tells her about Sam going to Stanford, and why he brought Sam back in the life. How John lost his life in place of Dean. He explains that an angel named Castiel raised him from Hell, how they met in the barn years ago. How with help from Castiel, they stopped the apocalypse. The hours seemed to slip by while talking to her. As the minutes tick by he grows more mournful, knowing this will be the last time he sees his mother, so every second to him is precious.
Dean looks away from his mom over to the window in the kitchen; he can see someone standing outside. “Cas,” he whispers.
Mary looks over to see what Dean is looking at, then turns back and gets her son’s attention. “Go talk to him.” Mary cups his face, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You are my little angel. I love you, always. Tell Sam the same please?”
He doesn’t want to leave, so he takes a few minutes to memorize his mother’s face. Her blue eyes that shimmer when she smiles, the freckles that spatter across her nose that matches his own, “I love you too, Mom,” Dean replies finally, as a tear slips down his cheek. “I will.” He reaches for his mom and brings her into a warm hug. Standing up from the table and with one last look over his shoulder, “Merry Christmas, Mom!” he says and then makes his way out the door.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, smiling when Dean finds him.
“Was that you,” he asks, stepping closer. “Were you the one that sent me back?”
Blue eyes flick down and then back up to Dean’s face. “Yes, Dean. I sent you here as a gift.”
Licking his lips, a huge smile crosses Dean’s face, making his eyes shine, “Why, Cas? Why would you do that for me?”
“You said it was a shitty Christmas,” Castiel starts, but is interrupted by Dean snorting at the curse word. “I wanted to change that. I knew seeing your mother would be special.”
A silence stretches between the two men as the snow falls from the sky. Dean is aware that he should be freezing, but standing near the angel brings warmth to him. Their eyes lock as they have so many times previously. The intense blue of Castiel’s eyes brings the raw memory of emotions back to Dean, a small undercurrent of longing when around the angel. Dean’s eyes flick to Castiel’s lips, and it stirs a desire to taste the angel. His emotions are still raw from talking to his mom, which seems to prompt him into taking action. His body moves of its own volition, stepping forward slowly. Finally closing the distance between them, Dean cups Castiel’s face.
“Dean?”
Taking a deep breath, Dean whispers a shushing sound before leaning forward and touching his lips to Castiel’s, hearing the angel’s sharp inhale and then feeling Castiel relax and melt into the kiss. It’s slow, sweet, just the press of lips. Dean breaks the kiss, pulling back; he looks into the blue eyes of the man in front of him. “Thank you,” he says, resting his forehead against Castiel’s, stroking the angel’s cheekbones with his thumbs. “Let’s go inside where it’s warm,” Dean whispers.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean wakes up in his own bed, back home in the bunker. It was a dream, his mom, Castiel, the kiss, everything. However, it felt so real. He reaches up and places his fingers against his lips. Dean can still feel the soft touch of the angel’s lips against his, the taste of Castiel still fresh in his memory, and it makes something stir deep inside him, a small flame in the pit of his stomach, the embers flickering to life. He misses that feeling from the dream. The contented feeling he got after kissing the angel, like the piece he was missing finally fit in place when their lips met. He runs a hand through his hair and gets out of bed. Slipping on his robe and his house shoes, Dean walks out of his room. He’s a little surprised to see Sam and Castiel sitting at the table with a pie in front of them. “Hey, Sammy, why are you awake,” He asks as he takes a seat next to his brother.
His brother pushes his hair back from his face. “I had a weird dream about Mom, like I was there in the house with her. It felt real.” He huffs a laugh, “It’s probably nothing.”
Dean’s eyes flick to the angel, arching an eyebrow in a silent question. Castiel shrugs slightly, shaking his head in response. Dean finds it odd that both he and his brother had a similar dream, and they should probably get to the bottom of it, but they can deal with that later. Dean takes a clarifying breath, “Cas, can I talk to you for a minute?”
The angel tilts his head to the side, looking at Dean for a minute, and then nods, “Of course, Dean.”
Dean walks up the stairs and puts his coat on before opening the door. He leads Castiel out into the snow a few feet away and stops. Taking a deep breath, he gathers his thoughts on how exactly to approach the subject. The thing is, Dean’s not so great with talking about his feelings. So, he decides to do the next best thing, and, turning around, he takes Castiel’s hand and places it on his forehead.
The angel tilts his head; confusion laced is his voice as he says, “Dean?”
Dean closes his eyes and huffs a breath, “Just look, Cas, please.” He knows when Castiel enters his memories, he can feel the angel’s grace run through him. The warm heat from Castiel running through his veins, from his head to his toes, leaving him feeling whole and at peace, and then it’s gone.
“Oh,” Dean hears Castiel say, and he opens his eyes to see the angel step back, his hand falling to his side. Neither of them speaks, just silently staring at the other as the snow falls around them. For a moment, Dean thinks Castiel is going to turn and walk away, but he sees the unmistakable desire swirling in the blue depths of the angel’s blue eyes.
Still riding high on the emotions from the dream, and knowing that Castiel possibly sent him to see his mother, Dean steps forward slowly, not wanting to spook Castiel, but also wanting to close the distance between them. His hand cups the angel’s face and Castiel leans into the touch, it gives him the courage to ask, “May I,” as his eyes search Castiel’s for any sign of hesitation. Castiel nods his head slightly and closes his eyes. Dean hooks his finger under the angel’s chin, snow falling off the dark locks of the man’s hair. Then their lips meet, a gentle, barely there press. Dean hears a soft sigh from Castiel, and he smiles against the angel’s lips. He can feel Castiel’s fingers run through the hair on the back of his head as they each tilt their heads to deepen the kiss. Dean runs his tongue across the seam of Castiel’s lips and then licks inside as the angel opens for him. The taste of Castiel is indescribable, like the sunshine on a warm spring day, refreshing like after a thunderstorm on a hot summer night. Dean’s not sure how long they stay like that, but all too soon he breaks the kiss, pulling back slightly to rest his forehead on Castiel’s. “Was that okay, Cas?” he whispers the question.
It seems the angel is rendered speechless because all he can do is nod his response. Dean huffs a laugh and pulls out of Castiel’s arms. “Let’s get inside. I could use some hot chocolate,” he says as he throws an arm around the angel, pulling him close to his side. They walk in silence back to the door and Dean stops before he opens it. He pulls Castiel closer, their lips meeting in one last chaste kiss before going back inside. Dean thinks to himself that he could get used to this, the feel of Castiel’s soft lips against his, and that stirs up the desire to feel Castiel lying beside him in bed. One-step at a time, though. For now, he’ll be content with this. Breaking the kiss once again, he whispers, “Merry Christmas, Cas,” against Castiel’s lips.
Castiel pulls back, a bright smile on his face that reaches his eyes, making them sparkle in the darkness as he says, “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Ao3 Pie of Christmas Past
