lt_indigo

Fandom:	Supernatural
Title:	A Very Winchester Christmas
	In which Dean is morose, and Castiel brings some unexpected Christmas cheer.
Author:	lt_indigo
Pairing(s):	Dean/Cas if you squint. Could be read as friendship (but you know me better than that)
Warning(s):	spoilers for 11x09
Disclamer:	Never mine.
Word count:	538

Dean had barely gotten the Impala back in the garage before Cas arrived, back from wherever-the-hell he had been recently and looking peculiarly at ease, if empty-handed. His shoes and the bottom of his pants looked damp, as if he had walked outside for a while. He probably had: Cas would think very little of walking the 10 miles or so from the nearest public transportation to the bunker, other than how annoying it was that his wings were still burned out from the Fall and he couldn’t make the trip instantaneously.

"Cas, you okay?"

Cas gave him a little smile. "Yes, Dean, I am fine. But I recently discovered that humans regard Christmas as a time that should be spent with family. I have returned home to do that. How are you, Dean?"

How could Dean answer any of that? How was he? He was a fucking mess: Sam wasn’t answering and Dean had a horrible suspicion that Crowley and his witch of a mother had a lot to do with that. Sam was probably in Hell; probably in the Cage itself, knowing him, because he was an idiot who trusted too much that God had gotten off his lazy ass for once and helped, because that was a thing that always happened.

And Cas had just called Dean his family, called the Bunker home.

Cas seemed to understand. He picked up Dean’s duffel from the trunk, took his hand gently and led him to the kitchen. He set the bag down out of the way and brewed some coffee. He set a mug down in front of Dean and sat down opposite him at the table.

“What can I do to help?”

“Cas, no, I… Sam…”

And it all came spilling out, in semi-coherent sentences. Cas didn’t interrupt him once; just nodded at the right moments and reached out and brushed the back of Dean’s hand when his voice caught telling Cas what he thought had happened in Hell.

“We will sort this out, Dean,” Cas assured him at the end of it. “Sam will be home safely soon enough. You forget: I have been into the Cage once already. I may not have the use of my wings any more, but I know how Sam might be able to escape, should it turn out that he is in there. And we will find out from Crowley whether or not it is true. But first, you need to sleep.”

Dean’s head shot up, his eyes ablaze with indignation. “I need to find my brother,” he growled.

“You are of no help to him when you are dead on your feet,” Cas pointed out all too reasonably. “And do not think I am incapable of forcing you to bed. I will summon Crowley while you sleep, and I will still be here when you wake.”

Dean couldn’t deny the little thrilled shiver that travelled up and down his spine at the idea of Cas actually forcing him into bed, but that was something for another time.

Dean swallowed his pride, because Cas was right. “Will you help me sleep?” he asked.

Cas’ smile could power the whole bunker for a week. “Of course, Dean. Come to bed.”