Christmas on the road never announces itself properly.

It seeps in through the cracks instead — the tinny jangle of carols leaking from gas station speakers, the red-and-green decals peeling off diner windows, the way every motel clerk suddenly wishes you a happy holidays like it might stick if they say it enough times. You always notice it. You always let it get to you.

Dean notices that you notice.

He sees it in the rearview mirror when you slow down outside a grocery store strung up with blinking lights, in the way you hum along to songs you pretend you don’t care about. He clocks the pause when you pass a sad little plastic tree in a motel lobby, the look on your face like you’re filing it away somewhere tender and unreachable.

You don’t ask for anything.

That’s the worst part.

You just… hope. Quietly. Like hope won’t cost anyone anything if you keep it small enough.

Dean carries that with him all day.

By the time night settles in, the motel room is exactly what it always is — beige carpet, flickering lamp, heater rattling like it’s got beef with you personally. Sam’s out grabbing food, which means it’s just you and Dean, the silence stretching in that familiar, comfortable way.

You come back from the shower in borrowed socks and a flannel that smells faintly like cheap motel soap and something unmistakably Dean, and you stop short.

Because the desk is… occupied.

Not decorated. Not festive. Just occupied.

There’s a cardboard tube of microwave cookie dough sitting dead centre. A crumpled packet of bargain-bin Christmas sprinkles. One of those sad little plastic tubs of red and green icing that definitely came from a clearance rack. Dean stands in front of the microwave, arms crossed, staring at it like it’s insulted his mother.

You blink once.

Then again.

“You—” your voice cracks with surprise. You clear your throat. “You bought cookie dough.”

Dean flinches slightly, then schools his face into something casual. “Don’t get excited.”

Too late.

You step closer, eyes lighting up as you take in the scene. “Dean. These are Christmas cookies.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Well. Yeah. I mean. Kinda.”

Your smile is slow and genuine and so warm it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

“I didn’t know if you’d, y’know,” he adds, suddenly unsure. “Like it. It’s not exactly… Martha Stewart.”

You laugh softly. “I love it.”

Something in his shoulders eases.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Good. Because I already put one in and if it explodes I’m blaming you.”

The microwave dings like it’s proud of itself. Dean jumps about three inches. You laugh harder this time, the sound bright and easy, and he glares at the appliance.

Later, you’re both sitting on the bed, paper towels spread out in lieu of plates, decorating cookies that look absolutely nothing like the pictures on the tube. The icing is too thick. The sprinkles go everywhere. Dean’s technique is… aggressive.

“You’re not icing that cookie,” you tell him, trying not to laugh. “You’re attacking it.”

“It needs to know who’s boss,” he says, dumping half a tub of icing onto one cookie.

You flick a sprinkle at him. He flicks one back. There are sprinkles in his hair. He doesn’t notice.

For a while, it’s just that — stupid, soft, domestic in a way that feels almost unreal. Like you slipped sideways into a life neither of you is supposed to have.

Then Dean goes quiet.

You notice when his gaze drifts, unfocused, jaw tightening just slightly. When the joking energy drains out of him like someone pulled a plug.

“This isn’t really…” he starts, then stops.

You glance at him. “What?”

He exhales through his nose. “This isn’t what you deserve.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are fixed somewhere past the far wall, like he’s staring straight through the motel and into something older.

“Christmas,” he says. “You deserve… more. Trees. Presents. Normal stuff. Not a busted motel microwave and cookies that barely count as food.”

Your chest tightens.

“Dean—”

“I’m serious,” he cuts in, voice rough. “I know we’ve got enough to keep moving, but that’s not the same as… giving you something real.”

You set your cookie down.

Carefully, you shift closer until your knee presses against his. He doesn’t pull away.

“Christmas isn’t about gifts,” you say softly.

He huffs a humourless laugh. “Yeah? Try telling every eight-year-old in America that.”

You smile a little. “Okay. Maybe not only that. But it’s about people. About time.”

He finally looks at you.

“You’re here,” you continue. “You thought about it. You bought sprinkles. That counts for everything.”

His throat works around the words he doesn’t say.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then he lets out a slow, shaky breath and leans back against the headboard, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it hard to feel guilty.”

You grin. “It’s a gift.”

He snorts. “Figures.”

When Sam eventually comes back, he takes one look at the scene — the cookies, the sprinkles, the red icing smeared across Dean’s knuckles — and just shakes his head.

“I’m not even gonna ask,” he says.

“Good,” Dean replies. “Because I’d lie.”

Later, after Sam retreats to his own bed and the room quiets again, you’re curled up under the blankets, sugar-sick and sleepy, a terrible Christmas movie that neither of you are watching flickering on the television. Dean reaches over without looking and nudges your shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates. Then, almost sheepish, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket draped over the chair.

“I had… one more thing.”

Your heart skips.

He pulls out a sad little sprig of mistletoe — plastic, bent, clearly purchased from somewhere that did not specialise in joy.

“I didn’t know what else to do with it,” he admits. “Figured… tradition or whatever.”

You laugh, soft and fond. “Dean. Are you asking me to—”

“Don’t make it weird,” he says quickly. “Just— c’mon.”

He holds it up between you.

You lean in without another word, closing the distance until your mouth meets his.

The kiss is soft, unhurried — warm in that way that settles straight into your chest. Familiar, but charged, like something carefully held rather than rushed. His breath stutters against your lips before he exhales, melting into it, one hand lifting to rest at your waist as if to ground himself.

For a second, the world narrows to that simple contact: the quiet hum of the heater, the faint sugar-sweet smell of icing, the steady reassurance of him right there.

He freezes for half a second.

Then relaxes, smiling just a little.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs.

“Merry Christmas,” you echo.

Tags: @fratbrochrisgf @biancalinkas @littlebitb @witch-of-letters @ohtobeahobbitgal @thewinchesterwench @magic-sprinkled-daydreams

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If you asked me, Zooble's my favorite out of these guys. While these are not the official/fully thought out designs, these are really close to what I want in the end. I want to fix up Ragatha's design to make her more like Raggedy-Ann, I think I want more details in Gangle's design, and Jax's proportions are all off. Pomni is pretty fine, though.

And another thing! They're not going to be in the same clothes much through it. Zooble has a whole wardrobe of matching ties and belts, and Gangle is meant to be an indie singer with a style akin to Egg. Ragatha is supposed to be a classical violinist who delves into the world of pop (think Lindsey Sterling). Jax is a part of a boy band-ish-thing, so his taste is extremely expensive (but also because it's what their agents recommend.) Pomni is still undecided.

I've been debating between one of those idol-awards competitions being a driving plot, or if it's just them being musicians in general. They could be gathering for a collaboration! Or, they could just have the same producers.

A lot a lot a lot that I want to do, but not much organization.

Individual pngs!