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The Ghost of An Idea 7

Yes! The scratchy blanket was in the motel bed in Colby, Kansas. The roach was still under the covers, and the floorboards were still peeking out from the ancient shag carpeting. The nicotine-stained drapes fluttered in the frigid air. Best of all, Dean was back in his original time, to make his own future with his own free will.

“I’m not afraid anymore” Dean whispered, his voice scratchy, as he scrambled out of bed. “Thank you Jo, thank you Charlie, thank you Billie!” Dean closed his eyes, overcome with feeling. “Oh, Bobby, thank you so much! That was the best night with three women from my past I could ever have imagined.”

Dean ran to the open window and saw Baby, tucked safely in her parking spot in front of the room. “Oh, she’s still here!” he cried. “She’s here: I’m here: that bullshit future can still be changed!”

After a brisk shower and shave, Dean stumbled around the room, haphazardly gathering the meager supplies he had brought in. He located his keys under the nightstand. He gave the cold pizza a wide berth (fearing bugs, or worse had indeed snacked on it). He scooped up his now-dead cell phone (he had forgotten his charger in the car) and the motel key.

On the way to the office he realized he had no clue what day it was. He couldn’t figure out how long his travels with the ghosts had taken. A teen-aged girl, likely the owner’s daughter, sat behind the registration desk, aggressively tapping the screen of her phone. Her long, stringy hair obscured her face, and she didn’t look up when Dean dropped the key in front of her. “Uh, excuse me,” Dean began. “What day is it?”

She looked at him with the contempt only teens can muster for anyone over the age of 30. “Dude. It’s Christmas Day?”

Dean laughed. The young woman startled, shaking her head at his borderline hysteria. Dean pushed his room key at her. “Merry Christmas,” he said, before taking another look around the office, noting the small Hindu symbol on the door to the family’s residence. “Uh…” he began awkwardly. Shit. He hadn’t meant to offend her. “I mean, if you celebrate.” he finished lamely.

The girl just smiled. “Don’t worry. Most of the hicks out here don’t even think twice about assuming. And we do the whole tree-and-presents thing.” She gave him an appraising glance before ducking her head back to her phone. “You, too. You know, if you celebrate.” She didn’t look back up at him, but Dean grinned broadly, pushing open the glass door, bell tinkling as he headed into the icy blast of December morning air.

At this rate, he wouldn’t return to the bunker until mid-morning, so Dean took time to grab some waffles. No sense in showing up with low blood sugar. Then he made a stop in Hutchinson for a few supplies.

He hummed along to the radio, thumbs tapping the wheel of the Impala as he floored it heading East on I-70. He caught a glance of his face in the rearview and almost didn’t recognize his shining eyes, flushed cheeks, toothy grin. His heart was beating quickly with excitement, but it wasn’t anxious. Dean felt strangely at peace. He had made his decision, and one way or another, the stupid stuck-ness of his life was going to change today.

Perhaps as a result of some kind of twisted Pavlovian conditioning, however, things had changed by the time Dean pulled Baby into the bunker’s garage. He hadn’t tried to text or call anyone this morning, and they were liable to still be pissed, seeing how he had acted last night. He felt shame crawling up his spine, and the accompanying defensive, fearful wave of anger. “I’m not afraid, Bobby,” he whispered in the quiet of the car. He jangled one leg for a long minute, and realized if he sat here he was going to chicken out. Storm in and bluster and pretend nothing had happened, pout and punish his loved ones. Or worse, drive right back out and find the nearest bar open early morning for those getting off 3rd shift.

No. Today was about changing all of that. He took a deep breath and tried some pop psychology ‘reframing’ technique Sam had told him about once upon a time, when shit had been really bad. “I fucked up,” said Dean to himself in the dark garage. “But I am not a fuck-up.” Dean squeezed his hands around the wheel one more time and opened the door before he could second-guess himself. He grabbed his loot out of the trunk and strode purposefully into the bunker.

Dropping off his duffel in his room, Dean smelled an acrid, charred smell in the hallways. He poked his head in the kitchen, taking in the absolute wreck of dishes and pans. Someone had attempted (and failed, spectacularly, by the look of the blackened pan and smoke lingering in the air) to make pancakes. Three bowls of cereal sat, half empty, abandoned on the table. Dean sighed. Priority after his peace offerings would be making these assholes a decent Christmas Day brunch.

He rounded the corner to the war room and found the trio near their positions he had left them in last night. Jack was pulling an orange (Sam’s doing, no doubt) out of his stocking. Sam was sprawled in a chair in his pajamas, watching with a small smile. Cas stood to the side, silent and watchful. He was inexplicably down to just the white shirt and the blue tie was loosened around his neck. He stiffened visibly at the sight of Dean. Dean, in turn, swallowed hard. It wasn’t exactly fair of Cas to be here, practically naked with his shirt sleeves rolled up. Forearm porn, thought Dean, unable to stop the words from entering his head.

Sam cleared his throat and Dean realized he had been standing there for a long moment, just staring at Cas and his damn arms. Well, Sam ought to be used to it by now, thought Dean. His thoughts were interrupted by six-and-a-half feet of his brother hugging him warmly. Dean hung on gratefully, and didn’t let go until Sam did first. “Merry Christmas, Sam,” Dean said. He thrust a package at him. Sam raised his eyebrows in question, but Dean just jerked his chin, indicating he should open it.

Sam tore into the packaging. He stopped, abruptly, raising his eyes to stare at Dean, who returned it innocently. Then Sam broke into laughter. He shook his head. “Are you,” he began, wheezing for breath in between peals, “making fun of me, dude?”

Dean shook his head quickly. “No! No, man. I swear. The woman at the store said this was the best shit for hair or whatever.” He had spent an inordinate amount of time in the salon outlet’s hair product aisle until a sales representative took pity on him and helped him select a 5-in-1 styling cream and dry shampoo they assured Dean would change his long-locked friend’s life. For the amount he had thrown down on the paltry amount of product, they’d better, he thought, not without some bitterness. Sam just beamed at him, with just a hint of suspicion.

“Okay.” Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean approached Jack. The nephilim was still hovering near his stocking, shoving a candy bar into his mouth. Apparently Santa had remembered to bring Jack some nougat. Dean glanced at his brother, who gave a half shrug and indicated Cas subtly with his head. Of course. Cas really took the whole stepdad thing seriously with Jack.

The kid was eyeing Dean warily, clearly expecting another outburst. Dean put out a hand, palm down, like you would approach a wild animal. “Hey, Merry Christmas, Jack,” he said softly, then fell silent. Best intentions aside, Dean wasn’t exactly good with the whole using-his-words thing and he didn’t have much practice or experience at this. Preferring to let actions do his talking for him, he scrabbled behind him for the package he had left there on the table. He passed it to Jack, who looked Dean for a long moment before unwrapping it, ripping into the wrapping much as Sam had done.

“Thank you, Dean,” Jack said automatically, then sat with the present in his lap, unmoving. Dean’s stomach sunk. Damn. The kid was madder than he thought. Dean rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “It’s cool, I didn’t really know what you wanted, I just-”

“What is it?” asked Jack, wide eyes searching Dean’s without guile. Oh.

Dean grinned. “It’s a skateboard. You stand on it, and it rolls along, and…” he trailed off, feeling suddenly stupid. Dean hadn’t exactly been a skater himself, but they were popular back in his high school days, and for some reason when he pictured Jack, all lanky limbs and barely-contained energy, it just seemed right.

“Why?” Jack asked, seriously wanting to know the answer, obviously not trying to be a dick. Dean didn’t really have a good response. Why, indeed? “Uh, it’s fun,” said Dean, shrugging helplessly. “And kinda cool. Chicks dig ‘em.”

Jack was still doing his best Cas impression, all stoic impassivity. In fact, Cas was currently narrowing his eyes at Dean from what he could see out of the corner of his eye. Dean hurriedly added, “I never really got good, but I know the basics. I could teach you. If you want.”

Dean didn’t even have to turn to feel Sam beaming at them. Again, Dean couldn’t really find the way to apologize to Jack. How do you say “sorry I rode your ass for having dead parents, but I’ll love you because I’m your family now.” The best he could do was “here’s a skateboard, wanna learn?”

Dean felt the shame prickle up his spine again and his reframing was quickly unraveling into you’re a fuckup territory again when he looked up and saw Jack’s face split into a wide smile. “Yes, Dean. I’d like you to teach me very much.” Dean nodded, stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket. He took a deep breath, and met Cas’ eyes.

They stood there forever, eyes locked. If Jack knew it was awkward as hell, he didn’t let on, and again, Sam, the poor, long-suffering bastard, had a lot of practice in ignoring this kind of thing.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas broke the silence first, so Dean met him halfway by taking two steps toward him, closing the distance but not so much so that they could touch. He didn’t need the distraction.

“Hey, Cas” Dean returned quietly. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t. He was just feeling...careful. He hadn’t really thought this out. In the car he tried running through a few speeches but they all sounded too much like his usual bullshit or something out of a cheesy rom-com. Actions, not words, he thought. Okay.

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” said Dean, pulling his present out of his jacket pocket. It was a tiny black kitten, eyes barely open. Dean had struck out at Hutchinson’s better-known retail establishments before running into a woman giving away kittens in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

Cas tilted his head at Dean in confusion. Dean motioned for Cas to put out his hands, and Dean gently delivered the fluffy ball into his large palms. Cas looked at it for a long moment, holding it away from his body, before returning his blue eyes to Dean’s. “You got me a cat?”

Dean looked away, searching the ceiling for words. Nothing was written there, so he tried his best. “I know you like them.” He couldn’t really verbalize the tug he had felt, the visceral belief that Cas should have this kitten the second he laid eyes on it in that pickup truck bed, climbing over its siblings and mewling helplessly. “You can take her with you, or if you want, she can live here at the bunker.” Dean plowed on, relentless in the face of what seemed now his total humiliation. “I can take care of her when you need to go do, you know, angel stuff.” Dean looked at the floor to see if any better words were there. Nope. “If you want.” Dean repeated, lamely.

Cas wasn’t moving or saying anything so Dean was grateful, initially, that Sam broke the silence. “I thought you were allergic, Dean?” Yeah, leave it to his fucking detective brother to bring that up.

Dean rattled a box of pills in his other jacket pocket smugly in Sam’s face. “Allergy medication, dude.”

Sam gave him a classic bitchface. “I can’t believe you won’t let me get a dog and then you go and drag a cat in here.”

Cas looked between the two brothers. Tentatively, he pulled the kitten towards his body, cradling it against his chest. “She?” he asked, finally, searching Dean’s eyes for confirmation. Dean nodded, his eyes captured once again. Cas ran a hand over her head and back with his long, capable fingers, and she responded with a tiny purr, a small buzz of a thing. Cas’ mouth turned up at one corner and Dean had to look away. Unfortunately, that made him face Sam, who was regarding Dean with the smuggest expression ever.

“Can I hold her?” asked Jack, barely able to contain his fascination. Cas nodded and deposited the kitten into Jack’s waiting arms. Sam stood up, rolling his eyes.

“C’mon, Jack. I think we’ve got some milk in the kitchen. Maybe we can set her up a little spot of her own. She’ll need a litter box…” Sam’s voice trailed off down the hallway as he and Jack disappeared to go take care of Cat Things. Dean said a silent prayer of thanks to Sam for clearing them out of the room.

Dean wanted the kitten to say it for him, that he wanted Cas to stick around and that he wasn’t afraid of whatever this thing was between them anymore. But it looked like the feline peace offering wouldn’t be enough. Dean was going to need to actually, you know, express himself. This was hard enough without an audience.

“Thank you for the present, Dean.” Cas closed the distance between them this time, until he was in what Dean would historically have referred to as his “personal space.” Dean didn’t flinch. Time to kick it in the ass.

“I wanted to apologize for that night,” Dean said quickly, before he could chicken out. The silence ticked on between them. Dean took another breath and soldiered on. “I’m sorry I got scared and pushed you away.”

Cas scowled. “I’m not stupid, Dean.” Dean froze. He had pictured this somewhat differently. Maybe Cas would fall into his arms, grateful. Or maybe he’d misunderstand Dean. What he hadn’t pictured was this: understanding the situation perfectly and calling him on his bullshit.

“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have left like that. I was disappointed and upset and...I should have stayed. I know you, Dean.” Cas was still talking, inconsiderate to Dean’s sudden course adjustment to whatever path he thought this whole thing was going to take. “You don’t let people in. I have to fight for every inch.” Cas searched Dean’s eyes. Dean felt small and exposed under those laser blue eyes.

“Cas-” Dean forced out around the lump that was growing in his throat.

“Let me finish. I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About our-” Cas’ voice stumbled a bit. “-friendship. And I’ve decided I want more.” Cas finished this little speech and waited, never moving his eyes from Dean’s face.

Dean nodded, resigned. Of course. He had been too much of a coward and avoided Cas for a month and left in a huff last night and Cas had moved on. This was a breakup speech. I want more was breakup-speak for you’re not enough for me. He drew in a resigned breath. Cas continued.

“We both deserve more.” Cas’ voice was soft, yet firm.

“I agree.” Shitshitshitshit was a constant buzz in Dean’s brain.

Cas moved closer and took Dean by the elbow. “Which is why I’m not going to leave like that again.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. Wait, what?

“Next time you ‘freak out’” Cas used his free hand to make the air quotes with his fingers. “I’ll stay until we figure it out.” He moved his hand from Dean’s elbow to shoulder, pulling him closer yet. “If you need space, I’ll give it to you. But I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes bored into Dean’s, and the certitude Dean saw there sent shivers down his spine.

Thoughts whirled in Dean’s head, competing to fly out of his mouth, but nothing came. Instead, he did the only thing that made sense; the only thing that seemed to adequately express what he wanted to say, and closed the scant distance between his lips and Cas’.

The kiss started off soft, little more than a gentle press of lip on lip. Sober this time, Dean was able to appreciate the sensations. Cas was warm in front of him, and he smelled absolutely divine, some heady combination of evergreen and snow.

Dean pulled back. “This okay, Cas?” he breathed, raising a hand to gently cup Cas’ cheek. Cas nodded and surged back in, turning his head slightly so their lips fit together better.

Dean meant to take things slow; he really did. But somehow their kisses transformed from gentle and tentative to rough and urgent in the matter of moments. Dean had his hands wrapped around Cas’ head, digging his fingers into the dark strands of hair there. Cas had one hand around Dean’s shoulder and the other clutching his back, fingers dipping under his waistband. He pulled Dean into him firmly with a groan and Dean broke off the kiss, panting. “Wait,” he said, catching his breath.

Cas went stony and still under Dean’s hands. He quickly removed all points of contact between himself and Dean, but stood resolutely in front of him, waiting patiently. Dean couldn’t help but laugh helplessly. Of course. Cas thought he was having another ‘freak out.’

Dean caught Cas’ hand in his own, drawing him close again and capturing his earlobe in his mouth. “Hey,” he said, listening to Sam and Jack’s voices down the hallway in the sudden calm between them. “I just meant,” he continued, sucking and licking his way behind Cas’ ear and down his neck as Cas bared the long column of stubbled skin to Dean’s ministrations. “That we should probably take this somewhere more private,” he finished, licking the cleft in Cas’ chin, and capturing his plush bottom lip between his teeth.

Cas released a low noise halfway between a moan and a grown and pushed Dean away, holding him firmly by the hips. He nodded once, serious and intent, and abruptly headed down the hallway to the bunker’s bedrooms, dragging Dean after him.

----------------------------------

Dean was as good as his word, and more. To Castiel, who did not get his heart broken, he was a partner, friend, and lover. Dean didn’t change overnight; he was still taciturn, he still turned to anger too readily and used humor as a shield. But he no longer walked in weakness and fear. He loved his brother and his surrogate son, Jack, bravely and as fully as he knew how.

He never saw the ghosts of Bobby, Jo, or Charlie again on this plane. Billie he occasionally saw in a professional capacity, but that’s a story for another tale. Dean lived the rest of his days with Cas as though he were building a house of memories; each happy one a brick in the foundation of an imagined future together. Christmas, in particular, was an annual occasion for him to go all out, making the sappy most of the holiday.

Dean never said “honey, I’m home,” but they did fall into a comfortable domestic routine at the bunker. He often made dinner, not only for Cas, but for any number of loved ones and friends who cycled through Lebanon regularly. They raised their little black kitten together, even though she wasn’t allowed in bed due to Dean’s allergies. Kids were firmly off the menu, but they did do their best with Jack, showing him how to live in their liminal space between humanity and the Supernatural. As long as he found happiness, they didn’t really mind what Jack chose to do, but of course he joined them in the Family Business. Dean only wore sweaters when a case required them, but Cas favored them on cold winter days in the bunker, especially ugly ones he found at the local thrift shop. Vacations were hard to come by, between their lifestyle and Dean’s phobia of flying, but they did manage to travel quite a bit and steal plenty of pleasant moments of relaxation between hunts. As for holding hands, they did that plenty.

#spn #supernatural #season 13 #destiel #DeanCas #Dickens #A Christmas Carol #kitten #oops I wrote fluff #It was supposed to be smut #happyending #futurefic #fanfic #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #JustJack #Castiel

The Herbaliser feat. Just Jack - Seize The Day

The Herbaliser feat. Just Jack – Seize The Day

Sunday Jazz Continues, check us out as we broadcast live from a remote outpost out off of I-20 in Atlanta as a Sunday morning shifts into Sunday afternoon! That polar vortex paid us a late visit, that Spring Equinox is on deck check out the upcoming paradigm shift as priorities shift, real soon! Until we’ll hit you with a tune or two, uplifting the mood for all of us going through trying to…

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