#ffwotspnf

Over the course of the past few months, which felt more like decades to him, he noticed all the tell-tale signs. Signs that he wished he could bottle up and keep for himself, but that were being exclusively directed at Sam.

The stolen glances between them. The way her eyes lit up the moment Sam entered the room. The faint pink dusting on her nose when he greeted her with a smile.

At first, she’d bashfully fidget with her hands in that nervous habit of hers that he learned to notice immediately. Eventually, she switched to brushing Sam’s elbow with a hesitant palm instead. By the time their fingers started interlocking casually, Dean stopped paying attention. That is to say: It was like a car crash he couldn’t look away from, but he wanted to avert his eyes whenever it happened.

He only had himself to blame for this mess, too.

In what world would it be fair to be angry at her or at his brother, when neither of them could possibly know of his dilemma? Dean was stuck in a limbo, torn between feeling angry at them and happy for them; plus somehow being unable to openly show makes it a thousand times worse. Ironic, since bottling up his feelings was supposed to protect him from a broken heart — not cause it.

Part of him made peace with it, since it’s probably better this way — she deserves someone better than him, someone smart and reliable like Sam, someone who makes her smile in ways Dean can never even dream of. But the other part, his ego with a crack in it, doesn’t want to stick around to see it.

Thus, Dean finds himself retreating more and more, making sure to only walk around the bunker when he was absolutely sure he wouldn’t bump into them. Some locations he avoids entirely: The library, for instance, is off limits. The same applies to the kitchen during certain times of the day. And he always makes sure to go around the hallway rather than pass Sam’s room directly.

Whenever they have no other choice but to sit at the same table, Dean is uncharacteristically quiet. He’s certain that they can tell he’s acting strange, so when they have the guts to ask, he just scoffs and says he’s busy focusing on the current job.

The first couple of times it happens, he manages to sprinkle in some teasing words — “Not everyone has the luxury of floating around on cloud nine.” His spunk doesn’t last past their one-month anniversary, much less the weeks that follow.

Nowadays, his go-to excuse is solo hunting.

“Just another simple case, you two lovebirds stay at home.”

“Just meeting Cas, he called and said he needed help with something.”

“Just catching up with another hunter two towns over, don’t wait up on me.”

More often than not, Dean finds himself grabbing a pool cue and a bottle of beer at a random bar instead of his sawed-off shotgun and a flask of holy water at a demon’s hideout.

Tonight is no different; another evening in which he drowns his sorrows in pale ale and regretful decisions.

A pretty girl sits down next to him, makes light conversation, and giggles a little too hard at his jokes. Initially, Dean thinks it’s perfect. Maybe this is just what he needs, something fun that will help him let loose and forget for a while. But after the second round he buys for them, the woman’s laughter sounds too much like hers, and he finds himself comparing her eye color to the one he’d rather be staring into now.

It downright pisses him off how helpless he is against his own feelings. He can’t drown them in alcohol or other women, unable to think about anything but her hand in Sam’s, and he hates it.

Excusing himself, he leaves the bar alone that night, driving back to the bunker in solitude.

For a while, Dean avoids the garage like it’s a minefield. Aimlessly driving the thoughts in his mind, going round and round in circles, much like his car. Only when he’s sure it’s late enough, figuring Sam and her are probably asleep already, does he park the car and gather the courage to sneak into the kitchen.

Against his better judgment, he grabs another bottle of beer from the fridge, having long lost count of how many drinks he already had. Who gives a fuck, anyway? If every other joy seems to be denied to him, he should at least be allowed to indulge in this little craving.

“You’re back,” her voice appears in the doorway, making him freeze. “How was your hunt?”

Dean can tell by the sarcasm lacing her voice that she’s caught up on his bullshit. Seeing her glance down at the drink in his hands and the lack of blood on his knuckles just proves that theory.

“False alarm,” Dean chokes out through gritted teeth.

She raises a telling eyebrow at him, as though that stern expression could get him to elaborate. It doesn’t. She might as well try breaking into a fortress of steel. No matter how little Dean has, he still holds onto his pride and resolve.

“Where’d you leave your loverboy?” Dean asks instead.

“Out,” she replies calmly. “To meet up with Cas, who called and said surprisingly little about working on a case with you. Curious, huh?”

Fuck. He should’ve known that lie would bite him in the ass eventually. His gaze drops to the floor, and he can only offer a shrug, as if he can brush off the implied accusations. The beer bottle turns into a lifeline, something to grip hard enough that his knuckles turn white, and he can excuse his unresponsive demeanor by taking a sip.

“You’re angry,” she sighs.

It’s a gut punch. Her eyes are soft and worried, her lips — too fucking enticing for her own good and he hates himself for noticing how plump they look and for wondering what they’d taste like — are forming a pout. She’s fidgeting with her hands, nervously, but never in the same fashion as when she’s feeling shy around Sam. How can that realization not make his stomach twist into knots?

“Since when are you an expert in psychology?” Dean huffs, attempting to sound playful and coming across as only gruff. Because that’s who he is, and that’s why she fucking picked Sam over him.

If it were his brother in this situation, he would handle it way better. Hell, he’d be smart enough not to fall for Dean’s girlfriend in the first place. He’d respect the boundary and know she’s off limits.

And while Dean is trying his hardest to do exactly that, he can’t help but want.

He wants to grab her, wants her to smile at him the way she’s always smiling at his brother, wants to see what other expressions that pretty face can twist into between whispered sweet nothings and tangled bedsheets. He wants to be the cause of every single one of them, wants it to be his name spilling from her kiss-swollen lips, wants to be the one that gets to hold her hand.

Alas, he’s in no position to do any of it.

Dean has two options here: Stay to watch his brother indulge in everything Dean wishes he could have, or stay as far away as possible.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asks, timidly, and the crack in her voice causes a crack in Dean’s chest.

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, I’m— You never talk to me anymore, I barely see you around,” she shrugs. “If I didn’t know it any better, I’d say you’re avoiding me.”

Dean chokes out a pathetic chuckle, unnatural and forced, and shakes his head. “That’s not true,” he retorts, dangerously close to snapping it defensively. It’s the last thing he wants, to raise his voice at her. Then again, maybe he should, just so she’d stay away from him and leave him to suffer in peace.

She tenses visibly, leading him to run a hand across his face.

“I’m not avoiding you, it’s just— it’s complicated,” he mumbles.

“Complicated,” she echoes, her breathless voice merely above a whisper. “Dean, if I’ve done anything to make you hate me, just tell me.”

That’s his last straw. If it’s not her pained expression, it’s that uncertainty and unnecessary guilt lacing her desperate voice that undoes him. She slowly chips at the walls he’s built around himself, without even needing to try very hard.

“That’s what you think, sweetheart?” Dean asks, voice surprisingly steady. “That I hate you?”

He honestly can’t blame her. The way he’s been treating her, avoiding her, being nothing but downright rude? Of course, she thinks he hates her guts.

The worst thing is, sometimes he does.

When her laughter fills the room and makes his heart jump, only for it to turn to stone once he realizes she’s laughing at something Sam said. When she does that stupid thing she’s doing right now, that tiny pout that has him conflicted on whether to kiss her or shake her.

He hates that he doesn’t have the right to.

She’s not his to touch, after all. And the mere fact makes him feel hollow and aching in ways he doesn’t know how to tackle other than with his usual coping mechanisms:

Deflection. Distraction. Denial.

“Do you?”

Her question hits him like a freight train. He avoids her gaze, staring at the bottle in his hands. The silence cannot possibly last for more than a couple of seconds, but each of them stretches out between them, like an ugly, torturous thing hanging heavy in the air.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” Dean grumbles.

Deflection.

He takes a languid swig of his beer, forcing himself to focus on the way it slowly flows down his throat, like it could fill a void inside of him. It’s not nearly strong enough to make him feel anything, as it can’t even compare to the burn of whiskey. Although he has a hunch that not even the strongest drink could suffice as liquid courage in this scenario.

Distraction.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he adds, knowing that even though his words must sting her, they’re sharp enough to cut his own tongue. “It’s not that deep.”

Denial.

Part of him regrets the words the moment they come out of his mouth, each syllable feeling wrong as they slip past his lips. They earn him nothing but a crushing silence and a sense of remorse.

She doesn’t deserve this cold-shoulder treatment, since she technically hasn’t done anything wrong. Her only crime is being happy with Sam, and fuck if Dean doesn’t want to grant both of them the joy of love. And fuck if he can’t fully do it.

She deserves the truth. But how can he possibly confess when he damn well knows it’ll destroy everything? Perhaps in this case, ignorance is bliss, and perhaps she’s better off thinking he hates her than finding out it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Thus, he does what he knows is right — what he knows is best for everyone involved — and pushes himself off the kitchen counter, brushing past her without sparing another glance in her direction.

“Quit pestering,” Dean says, the hiss of his cold words cutting through the thick air like a sharp blade.

Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1):

@ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @cassieriddle713 @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @conceepp @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @dragonfly92 @edajcheel @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @flawlesslyspellbound @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @hot-and-confused @idfc @idjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @lessons-of-red @lunaleah @lyarr24 @madelinessss @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath @marvellousbrattigan @mayushkabar

Life for you and your little found family was going good. Suspiciously, a little too good.

After settling down for a while by taking temporary residence at Bobby’s house, you were finally able to live a relatively normal life. Or as normal as life can be for a family of hunters. Dean had proposed to you on your four-year anniversary, and you’d said yes in a teary-eyed heartbeat. Sam was to be his best man, Bobby offered to walk you down the aisle seeing as your blood relatives were out of the picture, and Castiel was to officiate. It was going to be a wedding on the smaller side. But you were going to be surrounded by everybody you loved the most and for that, you couldn’t wait until your big day.

You quickly decided on a Christmas Day wedding. The reason being that the merry season had seemingly never been on your side. Between a lack of familial connections and seasonal depression, this time of year was normally dreadful and anything but holly jolly. Having to face how lonely this lifestyle seemed to be at every turn with the constant reminders that we should be gathering with loved ones. Not to mention, even the average side of it sucked—itchy skin, flaky hair, the sun peeking through the curtain cracks far too early for your liking, the Impala’s leather seats being freezing cold, and having to wear so many layers of clothing and brave an icy tundra just to go out anywhere. So you thought instead, why not make new memories and reclaim the time of year that has previously given you so many years of anguish at worst and annoyance at best.

With the big day right around the corner, that’s how you and Bobby found yourselves at a small thrift store, hunting for antiques that could work as wedding décor. You were taking your time, carefully nosing your way through the electronics section while Bobby was walking to and from the ceramics section, bringing you various trinkets and doodads, to which you kept scrunching your nose and shaking your head no.

Finally, after scouring through tattered desk lamps that had seen better days and floral lamp bases with crudely mismatched shades scattered about, you came across an ornate candelabra that had five twisted arms for candles. It reminded you of the kind that the wide-eyed and flowy-haired female protagonists would carry around the halls of gothic castles in the cheesy romantic monster movies you loved to watch on motel TVs during rainy nights. And the second you touched it, you just knew you had to have it. You could already picture it making the perfect centerpiece. You picked it up and briefly examined it for wear and tear, noticing a little card tied to it with a piece of crème colored ribbon. You opened the card, and it read “Turn me on.” with an illustration of lit candles and a strange symbol you'd never seen before. You brushed it off, figuring it must be the brand manufacturing logo. Before you had any time to deeply think it over, Bobby approached you with a sense of urgency in his step.

“We should, uh, get goin’.”

“But we haven't even gotten to-”

“Girl, ‘m not playing.” His voice was low, like he was supposed to be whispering a secret to you, and stern in the way that you knew it was best to just go along than to keep objecting. He shoved a few weathered twenty-dollar bills into your hands before heading out to wait in the car, grumbling some barely legible excuse about going to get the windshield defrosted.

You shrugged it off as you knew his knees acted up during the cooler months, and the fact that he was probably tired of waiting on you for hours. However, suspicions began to arise when the ride back to his house was uncharacteristically silent. You tried starting conversations, asking him questions about his latest hunt, asking him how he thought Sam and Dean were holding up while getting fitted for their tuxedos. Nothing got much of a reaction out of him, only a few mumbled words strung along by awkward pauses. Eventually, you just accepted defeat and turned the radio’s volume up a little louder to fill the open space.

When you got back to his house, Bobby went straight to his room. You went to the kitchen to look for his late wife’s old cookbooks that you knew he still kept in the cupboard collecting dust. You made yourself hot chocolate in your favorite mug and carried the pile of old 80’s cookbooks back to the table to begin scouring them for wedding foods.

It was hardly dusk when you heard that familiar sound of the Impala pull up to the lot and the quick succession of the boys’ talking amongst themselves gradually grew louder. The door opened and closed quietly, and their conversation shifted to strained whispers. Unbeknownst to them, it wasn’t out of your earshot like they’d intended. You briefly looked up from your book, expecting at least one of them to come barreling in through the kitchen doors any minute now to get a beer from the fridge. But when neither of them did, you turned your attention back to the colorful pictures of fruitcakes and minced meat pies.

“Dude, I swear it—just like that.” Sam said, his voice a mixture of confused and in disbelief, “Out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, same here.” Dean sounded annoyed, if anything.

“Well, it's safe to say, we’re definitely not welcome back to that tuxedo rental.” Sam let out a low whistle.

“You’re telling me. Tailor Diane has probably filed a restraining order against us.” Dean chuckled in that sarcastic, dry way before his tone became serious again.

“But this needs to stay between us, got it? What (Y/N) doesn't know won't kill her.”

Where you’d previously been tuned out of their conversation, trying to focus on what ingredients were needed for a cinnamon bundt cake, your ears suddenly perked up, your attention shifting at the mention of your name and that suspicious sentence spilling from your fiancé’s mouth.

“Got it, understood.” Sam replied in his meek golden retriever tone.

Then, you could hear their footsteps disperse, and you promptly shift to pretending to look super engrossed in an artichoke casserole recipe, as if it were the most fascinating thing you’d ever laid eyes on.

“Hey, honey.” You greeted Dean, not needing to look up from the pages to know that it was him. You knew the pattern of those footsteps from a mile away.

“How was the tailors?”

“Good. Not bad. I mean, it was fine.” He cleared his throat while taking a beer from the fridge, just like you'd predicted. “How’d thrifting with Bobby go?”

“Well… I don’t know.” Now, you sat down the book and fully turned in your chair to face him. Dean took your mug from the table and put it in the microwave to reheat as he popped the cap from his beer and leaned against the counter.

“I thought all was well. But suddenly, out of nowhere, he just started acting… weird. Quiet. I mean, I know Bobby’s not usually a man of many words, but he’s never been so awkward around me before. Not even the very first day we met.”

When the microwave beeped, Dean sat your mug back down in front of you and sat across from you, kicking his feet up onto the dining chair and taking a swig of his drink.

“Strange day for everyone, then.” He said, partially under his breath.

You raised an eyebrow, silently prompting him to continue with his suspiciously brief comment. After a moment, he picked up on your cue and jumped up from his chair like something had bitten him on the ass.

“I’m gonna go, uh- take a shower. Long day, you know.”

“Need some company?” You shut the book in front of you with a smack but he was already out of the kitchen.

“Sorry, babe, not today!” He hollered from down the hall as he scurried away.

The next day started off strong, and it seemed that everything was back to its normal routine. Bobby was scouring some ancient texts, looking for answers to his current hunt, Castiel was appearing here and there out of thin air to ask you random questions about your preferences on wedding arrangements, and you’d given your blessing for Sam and Dean to have a bachelor’s night at the strip club. You trusted Dean and, if anything, having him not looming over your shoulder every two seconds allowed you a chance to focus on baking the cakes and cookies without him trying to swipe tastes of frosting or eating the ingredients you needed. Trying to bake sweets with Dean in the vicinity was just a recipe for getting absolutely nothing done.

“Is there any assistance you require, (Y/N)?” Cas tilted his head ever so slightly as he watched you fold some flour and sugar in a large mixing bowl.

“No, thank you, Cas.” You didn’t even peel your eyes away from the bowl as you made sure to thoroughly mix the batter. When you heard the angel swoosh away, that’s when you finally picked your head up and called him back.

“You called?”

“I'm so sorry. I just remembered- do you think you could get me five gold- no, red- candles? Pretty please?” You tried to cartoonishly bat your lashes at him like you were so instinctually used to doing when asking favors of Dean, but Cas had already left and come back in the time it took you to do that. You thanked him and wiped your hands off on your apron before taking the candles from his hands and strutting excitedly over to the candelabra you’d bought yesterday.

“Look at how pretty this is.” You picked it up to show him as you placed the candles snugly in the allotted spaces. “$5.99. Pretty good deal, I say.”

He immediately furrowed his eyebrows, “Strange. There’s something off about it.” He approached you and looked down at the object in your hands with fierce concentration, like as if he stared at it hard enough it would give him all the secrets of the universe.

“Hm? Well, antiques tend to smell off, but that’s just part of the thrift store charm.” You shrugged him off and sat it back down on the shelf before continuing with your baking.

Later that evening, once all the cakes were done and set aside on their cooling racks, you were curled up on the couch with the fireplace blazing a comfortable warmth. You'd decided on occupying your attention with a book since Bobby had declined your offer to have your annual Christmas movie marathon together. When the boys walked through the front door much earlier than you had anticipated, you picked your head up in surprise but once again they stayed in the hallway and spoke in hushed whispers.

“Great, now you’ve gotten us banned from the only titty bar within a hundred mile radius.”

“Me? I didn’t- I’m not the only-” Sam stumbled over gasps of disbelief at his brother’s accusation, “It’s your fault. You were the one making it way too obvious, dude.”

“Hey, it caught me off guard, alright? One minute, Ginger’s shaking her ass in my face, and then before I know it… one thing after another happens.”

That’s when you appeared in the entryway of the living room, looking at them with a mustered expression of faux naivety like you weren't just eavesdropping ten seconds prior. They just about jumped out of their skin when you appeared, as if you were the scariest thing they'd ever encountered.

“You boys came home earlier than expected.”

“I think a lot of things came earlier than expected.” Sam said, still staring at Dean with that tongue-in-cheek sarcasm in his tone. Dean just shot him a warning glance, not seeing the humor in whatever inside joke was being played out right now.

“Yeah, just tired tonight. This winter weather is really making me,” Dean force yawned, stretching his arms out like a cat, “Really tired. So, I’m gonna go hit the hay early.” He punctuated his sentence by giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek so brief that if you blinked you would have missed it.

That really set the scene for the week that followed. Each day, you hardly had a full conversation with Dean. You never thought you'd miss his stupid jokes, his badly singing along to songs in the car, or trying to talk with his mouthful. At this point, you'd take anything you could get if it just meant he'd look you in the eye again. You'd been looking forward to nothing more than cuddling up by the fire with him, anticipating the new chapter you two were about to embark on.

You tried to brush off all the worry to the best of your abilities. Your wedding day, of all days, should be the one day where you’re free from concerning yourself with any of the bullshit within your day-to-day life. However, life had a silly little way of seemingly always working against you. Suddenly, Bobby didn’t want to help you pin up your hair or secure your veil, Sam was conveniently too busy doing nothing important to be able to help you zip up your dress, Dean was absolutely nowhere to be found, and even Castiel hadn't been answering your calls since that day in the kitchen.

This holiday season was somehow even lonelier than the ones you had spent alone, because now the boys were constantly declining your invites to do anything. They wouldn’t even sit down at the kitchen table to have dinner with you. Bobby didn’t want to bake sugar cookies with you because he was too busy occupying himself with old books, Sam always had some weak excuse like exercising for why he couldn’t help you go shopping or wrap presents, and then there was Dean.

Dean. The worst of them all.

Your own fiance hadn’t given you so much as a kiss on the lips, much less a long look of acknowledgement. Even when you walked out of the bathroom wearing your new lacy nightgown, which you’d originally intended to save for the honeymoon but decided it might be best to bring out the big guns in such a dire situation, and all he did was tell you goodnight and promptly turn the lamp off.

This whole mess was wearing you so thin that as you looked at yourself in your partially zipped wedding dress and your hair half up and half down in a bird’s nest, you couldn’t help but break down into a fit of tears. The one day that everybody is supposed to be helping the bride and making sure her day was most special, and so far, it’s been spent avoiding you like you were sick with a plague.

Suddenly, Castiel appeared behind you, but you couldn’t see his reflection in the mirror through the blotches of mascara and eyelash glue that were clouding your vision.

“(Y/N), you seem to be in a state of distress.”

“That's putting it lightly.” You peeled off a fake eyelash that was falling off and Castiel looked at it with fearful concern, unsure of what magic you just enacted to be able to remove your eyelashes like that.

“I’ll get Dean.”

Before you could protest, he was already gone. You groaned in frustration, your heart feeling like it was twisting and contorting within your rib cage and your whole body was covered in goosebumps. You picked up the candelabra from your makeup table and threw it across the room, where it fell onto the bed with a dull thud. The object was supposed to be a beautiful reminder of the most exciting day of your life, but now just seemed to be mocking you by showing your disastrous state within its untarnished reflection. You turned back around and began trying to wipe away the smears of messy black makeup running down your face.

No more than three minutes later, Bobby, Sam, and Dean were gathered in your room, dressed in their tuxedos, slicked back hair, and clean-shaven faces.

“I thought it was bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony, but Cas said you were upset?” Dean sounded out of breath, like he’d just ran a marathon, and his face was flushed to match.

“Bad luck?," You scoffed, "As if these past few weeks haven’t been bad enough already?” You laughed sarcastically at how nonchalant and unconcerned Dean sounded by this whole thing as you threw your snotty tissue down in disbelief.

“You know what? No wonder I hate this time of year.” You stood up and collected your train in your hands, angrily bunching up the delicate fabric between your fingers until your knuckles turned red, a stark contrast against the white lace. “This whole holiday season, you know, the time of year where families are supposed to spend time with one another, you guys have been avoiding me and keeping secrets behind my back. You think I can’t hear you goons whispering in the hallway about God knows what? And Dean, don’t even get me started with you. I can’t even remember the last time we had-”

“Okay, okay! (Y/N) deserves the truth.” Sam stepped forward and started speaking, prompting Dean to grab his shoulder, shaking his head and mouthing ‘no’ while Bobby just looked at him with an expression that read equal parts embarrassment and deer caught in headlights.

“Dude.” Dean warned, his voice low but shaking with uncertainty.

“No, Dean. This has blown up and become ridiculous. I mean, she’s your fiancé, she deserves to know the truth.” Sam looked over his shoulder at his older brother, “And you know she’s proven herself to be accepting of all our bullshit over the years, why wouldn’t she be just as understanding about this, too?”

A thick, heavy silence fell over the room as the boys shuffled awkwardly on their feet while you just crossed your arms, readying yourself to receive whatever gut-wrenching truth bomb they were about to pull the pin on. When nobody spoke up soon enough for your liking, you decided to take the plunge yourself and ask the question that had been brewing in your mind since the guys had started having these secret, late night meetings to discuss something that was quickly hushed the second they suspected you were listening.

“Dean, be honest with me.” You lifted your eyes from the chestnut wood floorboards to find his dark emerald eyes that were clouded with some indistinguishable emotion, “Did you… cheat on me? With the tailor or- or one of the strippers?”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Now it was Dean’s turn to step forward, pulling your crossed arms out from their position in order to hold your hands within his. “Honey, there is nobody else in this whole entire, fucked up world who I would rather spend the rest of my life with than you. And I have been looking forward to this since the day I proposed. Hell, I’ve been looking forward to this day since the day we started dating. But to me, you’re mine whether or not it’s official in the eyes of the law or- or in the eyes of God or angels or any of that other bullshit. I don’t need a piece of paper or any holy entities blessing to make it known that I want to be with you, and only you. I would never even think of spending a night, or even a second, cheating on you.”

Now it was your turn to forget how to speak, as weeks' worth of pent-up emotion welled in your eyes, tears of relief replacing the ones of frustration. “So, then what’s with all the secrecy?”

That’s when, like a light switch, Dean shifted back to his blushing schoolboy act, forgetting how to speak and instead just fidgeting with your gloved hands within his.

“The truth is,” Sam started, prompting everybody in the room to turn to him.

“Recently, we- Dean, Bobby, and I- have been having some… man issues, you could say. Basically, uhm, every few days, very randomly, we all have these… well…” He made a particular motion with his hands and you raised an eyebrow in utter disbelief at the absurdity of what he was implying.

“You guys get boners?” You asked in confusion, “What’s exactly new here?”

“It’s not just that.” Dean coughed out, looking at the ceiling before whistling like a firework noise and using his hands to mimic explosions.

“You all came in your pants? Like teen boys?” You began to laugh lightly, the tears that had previously threatened to fall now rolled down your rounded cheeks, “And here I was thinking something really, really bad happened, like maybe you fucked a stripper. But instead, it was just in your panties.”

“Hey, watch it. It’s embarrassing!” Dean rolled his eyes at you, his face still flushed with embarrassment, “And worst part is, we never know when it’s going to happen.”

“What I don’t understand is why it happens at the same time for all of us. Even regardless of where we are.” Bobby finally spoke up, bringing the real questions to the forefront, “I mean, it don’t matter where it is. On a hunt, at a thrift store, the tailors, strip club, there’s not a lick of rhyme or reason to it.”

“And I’ve noted that the times of day are all across the board.” Sam added, “It makes no sense.”

“The candelabra.” Castiel suddenly appeared in the room, or at least finally made his ever-looming presence known. He was stood beside the bed, his gaze focused right where you’d thrown the candelabra just minutes prior.

“After I sensed a strange energy coming from it, I looked into it. It has been cursed with an ancient fertility spell. Whenever one touches it, it, well… curses… all of that persons loved ones into experiencing unstoppable pleasure.”

“A curse? So, how are we supposed to stop it?” Dean crossed his arms, more than ready for this spontaneous nightmare to be over.

Now, it was Castiel’s turn to look embarrassed, something that rarely ever happened. He adverted his gaze from you and up to the ceiling as if silently asking for forgiveness, a blush dusting his cheeks.

“The owner of the item must… well, they must follow the instructions. Light the candles and then perform a ceremony to appease the fertility Gods within the eye of its candle light.”

By this point, you’d looked over to Dean and noticed in your peripheral vision that Sam, Bobby, and Cas had already taken that as their cue to skedaddle elsewhere.

“Guess that leaves just us.” Dean rubbed his hands together absentmindedly, adverting his eyes to nowhere in particular as he got lost deep in a sea of his thought.

You sat on the foot of the bed, smoothing your dress out to the best of your abilities as your mind raced with finding the right words to say.

“I’m sorry I-”

“I should have-”

You giggled softly, a sound that felt like hearing his old favorite song after an eternity of silence. Dean couldn’t help but smile upon hearing it, the crinkles around his eyes forming in the way that never failed to ignite a fiery fondness within your heart.

“You go first.” You said, invitingly patting the bed beside you. But instead, he kneeled down on his knee at your feet like the day he proposed, placing his hands atop the expanse of your thighs.

“I should have just told you to begin with. It’s stupid, really. It was just so embarrassing, and I thought it would just go away on its own but... apparently it didn’t.” He studied as he spoke, the pearls and lace details that adorned your curves, “And now I’ve just gone and ruined your special day with all my bullshit lack of communication and not wanting to appear... Inadequate, you could say. I’m really sorry, darling.”

You smiled down at him and reached your hands out to gently brush your fingertips through his tresses, “Hey, it’s kind of my fault for picking out this cursed object in the first place. That's what I get for not being suspicious of mysterious symbols and cryptic notes. And I guess every time I touched it, it was kind of torture for you guys, huh?” You crinkled your nose in a sympathetic, second-hand cringe.

“Well, now, I wouldn’t say torture.” Dean held his hands up in mock surrender as you nudged him playfully in the stomach with your foot, “However, it would have been a much more pleasant experience with you around. The 75-year-old tailor and my friggin' brother weren’t exactly my ideal audience.”

You began peeling off your white silk, elbow length gloves, tossing them aside somewhere without breaking eye contact as you continued to giggle at the strange situation you’d found yourselves in.

“And let's just say, Miss Diane didn’t find the humor in it like you apparently do.” He tried his best to sound peeved, especially since he knew you’d never let him live this one down and would relentlessly tease him about this for the rest of your lives. But on the inside, he was just relieved to see you giddy and playful instead of stressed and tear stained.

“Well, I’m sorry I accused you of cheating. I really, truly trust that you would never do that. But I- I didn’t know what else to think when you guys started acting so weird.” You explained with slouched shoulders as you fidgeted with your engagement ring, “I mean, I would have never come to this conclusion.”

“Nobody would have.” Dean chuckled, “Let’s just break this curse once and for all, alright?”

You nodded and stood up, stepping carefully around the room to fetch a lighter from one of the bedside drawers. Unbeknownst to you, Dean had become mesmerized in watching the way you walked around. The way your train followed after your every graceful step, the way your gown was perfectly contorted and complimentary to your form. Even with your smudged makeup, it didn’t matter. Dean Winchester swore in that moment that he must have saved an entire country in his past life to be deserving of someone as breath takingly beautiful, patient, and kind as you are. He was so focused on the carefully calculated way you moved around the room that he hadn’t acknowledged your warning, your words sounding muffled and dreamy to his absentminded daze.

That’s when it hit him. The overwhelming, full body feeling that he’d been experiencing time after time again lately. He screwed his eyes shut, seeing blinding white dots as his fists clutched the duvet for dear life and his knees weakened against the wooden floorboards beneath him. Those beautiful grunts and groans you normally only got to hear when the rest of the house was empty were suddenly replacing the silence in the room. This seemed to go on for an entire minute, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, before he finally steadied his breath and came back to some form of consciousness for his surroundings. That's when he heard your cheeky tone pipe up.

“This show is what you've been keeping from me?” You said with a particularly wicked glint in your tone, “On the second thought, I’m not so sure I want to get rid of all this power I can wield.” You hummed playfully as he felt the bed dip near where his sweaty palms were still steadying himself against the mattress. He shot you a stern side-eye, clearly not as amused as you were.

“Yeah, laugh it up. Just think, every time you touch that cursed thing it’s effected Sam and Bobby, too.” He rose back to his feet, kicking off his dress shoes and loosening his tie.

“Eww, shut up! La la la-!” You covered your ears as you lied back down among all the pillows and fluffy winter blankets adorning the bed.

That’s when Dean finally realized that during his distracted state, you’d lit the candles, shed your dress in a heap on the floor, and left yourself in only your special wedding lingerie. A strapless white bra that laced up in the front, matching crotchless panties, and an ornate, blue silk garter fit around your left upper thigh.

As much as Dean wanted to stand there admiring you til the end of time, there were other urgent matters he wanted to get to as he climbed onto the bed and made his way on top of you. His knees caged you in on either side of your hips and one of his hands found yours while the other roamed down your silhouette as he leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss. It had been so long without his attention that just a kiss alone was enough to drive you crazy, and you instantly regretted teasing him so much about his little predicament when you felt like you could very well come undone already.

You sighed into the kiss, letting go of all the worries, loneliness, and stresses of not only the past few weeks but of the past few years. None of it mattered, this unpredictable lifestyle, the daily uncertainty, the fear, danger, depression, and chaos that came with this line of work. None of it mattered because it all ultimately led you to this moment. Here. Now. With your husband - the only person in this whole world that could cure everything that ailed you.

When Dean reluctantly pulled away, he spoke softly, “Isn’t this a little unorthodox?” He chuckled but his mind was beginning to drift elsewhere as his eyes roamed over you, “Isn’t it tradition to wait until the honeymoon to do this sort of thing.”

“I think so… but,” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, leaving ample space left between your bodies, “When have we ever done anything the orthodox way, Winchester.”

That brought another smile to Dean's face as he kissed you once more, harder and with more purpose this time. This time, there was less gentleness and more need. There were weeks of words unsaid and neglected affection, and this kiss was the unspoken apology. The proof that he truly didn't crave anybody else anywhere close to the way he did for you.

Dean's lips trailed down your jaw, making their way to bite the spot on your neck that he knew by heart. You threw your head back further into the pillows, arching your body into his. He took it as an opportunity to run his hands around to the arch of your back and pull your body flush against his, letting you feel the effect you had on him.

"Is that for the candles or me this time?" You huffed out breathlessly as he sucked on the delicate skin over your pulse.

"All you, baby. All you." Dean said each word between bites and kisses that trailed down to your chest, stopping just above where your bra started. His hands snaked their way up your shoulder blades until they reached your bra clasps and expertly unhooked them, releasing your breasts from the underwire digging into your ribs.

"God, I missed this. Missed you." He rambled like a man drunk on love in between bites to the swell of your breasts, hands snaking to the forefront of your torso in order to flick his thumbs over your already hardened nipples.

Your hands flew up to entangle in his hair, urging his mouth a little lower as he got the hint and replaced one of his hands with his lips. One of your legs wrapped around his thighs, trying desperately to pull him closer as you grinded up into his clothed hips. He followed your lead, sensing where you needed him the most and squeezed his hand in between your bodies to press his fingertips against your clit. You jolted and grabbed onto his shoulders, rolling your hips into his palm.

"You're doing so good for me." Dean whispered to you as he looked down to admire the way your body reacted so sensitively to even his slightest touches. "I'm so sorry I've been neglecting you, baby."

"Then shut up and make it up to me." You dared him with a bite of your lip, taking the chance to begin unbuttoning his button up shirt and dress pants with shaky hands. When he grew impatient, he sat up and tried to shed his clothing as quickly as possible, popping a few buttons in the process. You took the opportunity to discard your bra over the side of the bed, leaving you in only your crotchless underwear and garter.

"What's all this about?" He pulled at the little band of silk, watching as it snapped against your thigh and created a rippling effect across your skin.

"I dunno, I heard somewhere that it was a wedding superstition." You reached your arms up to find the bars of the bedframe, "But between you and me, I just wore it so I could watch you could take it off with your teeth."

That's when he smirked and wasted no time, propping your left leg onto his shoulder and running his warm palms up the smooth skin, daring to go so close to where you needed him the most. He ducked his head down, nipping the silk between his teeth and pulling it down your leg.

"Technically, you're supposed to do this in front of everybody." You giggle, reaching down to run your hands down his toned torso.

"Fuck that." Dean shook his head playfully, tossing the flimsy fabric over his shoulder before lying down on his stomach with your leg still hook over his shoulder. "Right now, I wanna be selfish. I want you all to myself."

You didn't have time to even think of a witty comeback when he immediately licked a stripe over your slit, your hands finding their way back into his hair as you whined. His lips began sucking on your most delicate muscle, igniting a heavenly lightening throughout your legs. All you could think to do was tug on his hair, coaxing him on to not only move his tongue faster but to add two muscular fingers into you. After weeks of nothing, your body was pushed over the edge the second he pushed them in to his first knuckles. Your legs wrapped around his shoulders and his free hand pressed down on your hips to keep you from squirming away as you came undone on his tongue.

"That's it, baby. Good girl." He chimed against your skin, his voice vibrating against you. "God, I missed your taste." He lapped up everything you had to give like a man starved.

Your chest heaved as you caught your breath as you pulled on his hair, ushering him to move up. And of course, your loverboy, with ever-the-need to please, complied and moved to hover above you once more. When he kissed you deeply, you tasted yourself against his lips and it caused you to whine.

Dean deepened the kiss as his hands moved to massage your hips, feeling your muscles unwind underneath his palms. When he could tell you were distracted and relaxed enough, he took the opportunity to slowly slide into you. The feeling had you gasping a sigh of relief. Finally, just what you'd been needing for far too long.

Meanwhile, Dean already looked strained, the little vein in his forehead becoming prominent as he panted. "If you need time to adjust-"

"No, no, please-" You began frantically pleading, grasping at his shoulders for dear life, "I just need more."

Without needing anymore encouragement, he bottomed out with one hard thrust, causing you both to moan in sync. From there, there was no more holding back. Every thrust was equal parts erratic and calculated as the bedframe began to hit the wall each time. Your nails dug into the firm contours of his back, creating red crescent moons and leaving white pressure lines in their wake, but the stinging pain only made him hiss with pleasure and fasten his pase. Your nails were most definitely digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood, but he couldn't care in the slightest when he got to watch you lose all inhibition and let your mind get lost in the euphoria.

"Dean, I- I don't know how much longer." You managed to choke out before he leaned down to kiss you.

"I gotcha. Come for me, sweet girl." He panted against your sweaty skin, pushing you over the edge as you thrashed underneath him and screamed his name with nothing to hold you back. When he felt you clamp down around him, he let himself chase his high at the same time, emptying himself into you and filling you with a comfortable warmth.

Neither of you were sure for how long you laid there like that, sweat combining and limbs intertwined as you weren't ready for him to pull out just yet. A comfortable silence fell between you two and you began to think that he might have even fallen asleep. That is until you felt his thumb begin to softly trace absentminded patterns against the skin underneath your breast, right over your anti possession tattoo.

"You are anything but inadequate, Dean Winchester." You let out a breathy laugh, referencing his word choice from earlier. "Holy shit."

You felt him silently laugh, a huff of warm air fanning across your collarbone before he spoke groggily, “I’m sorry today didn’t go as planned, sweetheart.” He leaned up to kiss you on your temple, his arms wrapped protectively around your midsection.

“It’s alright. I'm here with you now, and that's more than good enough for me.” You glanced up at him, catching the sparkle in his eyes as he stared past you at something out beyond the window ceil. Your eyes followed his to see snow falling in steady flurries against a gradient of moody nightfall blues that couldn’t ruin your mood no matter how early in the evening it was.

You felt a warm kiss to your neck. You shut your eyes and lulled your head to the side, reveling in the serenity of this moment. No matter how cold it was outside, it was warm right here with the one you love the most, and you knew in that moment that the cold could never tear you down again.

After a moment you opened your eyes and were face to face with that all too familiar iron object sat on your nightstand, the flame had gone out, leaving that candles melting semi-dried wax all down the base and onto the glass tabletop. With his eyes closed and his breath steady against the back of your neck, you crept your hand out from under the covers with careful precision. Your fingers stretched out, wanting to just test the waters and see if the curse had been lifted. But even with his eyes closed, Dean could read you like the back of his hand.

Day One: Masturbation

title: amateur

word count: 686

character/pairing: Jack Kline

Day Two: Breeding Kink

title: make me yours

word count: 1199

character/pairing: Sam/Dean

Day Three: Oral Sex

title: you little whore

word count: 590

character/pairing: John/Azazel

Day Four: Rimming

title: on the brink

word count: 698

character/pairing: Sam/Dean

Day Five: Public Sex

title: taste of you

word count: 567

character/pairing: Sam/John

Day Six: Edging

title: begging

word count: 923

character/pairing: Dean/Claire

Day Seven: Spitroasting

title: the glances and the dance

word count: 1286

TO BE CONTINUED...

character/pairing: Sam/Jess/Dean

Day Eight: Chastity

title: caged

word count: 994

ᵂᵃˡᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶦⁿ ᵐʸ ˢˡᵉᵉᵖ 

   Castiel aided in the creation of the world—or, at the very least, he watched it happen. He tucked behind archangel legs back when he was barely a fledgling, excited wings fluttering and earning a laugh from his favourite brother Gabriel. It had been quite scary at the beginning, to be honest. Lights and colours and flora he had never seen before spotting the planet that was once nothing but an ugly, burning rock in space.  

   It had been hot at the beginning of the world, humid and muggy and warm. The first concepts of insects buzzed around and thrived in the wet air, breeding in the still water that resided in every crevice. Gabriel had introduced him to all the beautiful things God had crafted, had told him all the things the angels were supposed to do to help the start of a planet of life. All the other planets had been barren before, but now God was breathing creation upon this one.  

   He’d been a curious young creature at that age, unknowing to the tradition of holding one’s tongue.

Gabriel didn’t mind, didn’t correct him. “Why this planet?”, “What’s this?”, “What’s this for?”, “Is this all it will ever be?”—all questions he was not privy to knowing. All questions Gabriel answered anyways. There was a kindness to him the other archangels viewed as a weakness, something that God had left him with but never helped him with. 

   Castiel had not been born to a world that was thickened with ice; the world he was born to twitched hot and warm and muggy, breathing and moving in a wild fight for survival. Creatures snarled exhales of fire, they slashed with burning claws, they devoured with a heated hunger curling in bellies growing greedier by the day. The world had been a pit of the fiery destruction, burning the surface like scorched rubble until it died and blossomed green. 

read the rest HERE!

Life has a funny way of kicking you when you’re down, doesn’t it? For Dean Winchester life doesn’t seem to ever want him to get up. First, his mom dies sending his dad into a decades long quest for vengeance with what seemed like little to no thought of the well-being of his two young sons. Beanie Weenies out of the can aren’t a homecooked meal and cable TV teaches a lot of things that the pre-pubescent mind would be far better to leave alone at times, but he’d survived. Then came the angels and the demons and the apocalypse along with all the self-righteous, power of the divine bullshit that they all spew. Had it been up to Dean, he would’ve ganked them all years ago and called it a day. But, like I said, life has a funny way of kicking you when you’re down.

It’s been several months since Sam was killed in Detroit. Or at least that’s what Dean’s been told; he wasn’t there to see it for himself. But word is that Lucifer took Sam over and the battle between the archangels took his baby brother down in turn. A heavy sigh leaves Dean’s lips at the thought and he shakes his head as if to rid it of the reminder. If he could get his hands on a good bottle of whiskey, he’d be three sheets to the wind by now. Sadly, with Heaven’s bounty on his head and Camp Chitaqua’s version of booze tasting like it was made out of Bobby’s left boot (it probably was), he’s shit out of luck.

Glancing out of the smudged window of his little cabin he catches a glimpse of movement down the path from the surrounding woods. He squints as he slips his pistol from the holster clinging to his thigh but pauses when a pair of familiar heads of dark hair round the corner toward his cabin. Chuck and Castiel are both hunched over, one lazily holding the crown of a scraggly excuse for a tree and the other juggling the trunk as he tries not to trip over the path below him. Dean watches for a second longer until Chuck finally trips, hitting the ground with a thud and taking several branches that the tree couldn't afford to lose with him. Dean’s heavy steps thud across the creaky floor of his cabin as he reaches for the door and swings it open.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

The sudden sound of Dean’s gruff voice pulls Chuck’s head from the dirt. His blue eyes lock onto Dean sheepishly as he scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, it’s Christmas?” He mutters as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“What?” Comes Dean’s short reply. His brows furrow in confusion as he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. He hadn’t thought about Christmas in years. He couldn’t even remember the last time he knew what day of the week it was, let alone if it were a holiday. Shaking his head he adds, “Who cares?”

Cas’ eyes slowly lift from Chucks frame still sprawled across the dirt. Lifting the thin branch he’s still barely holding onto, he meets Dean’s gaze with a lazy smile and shrugs, “We thought we’d celebrate.”

Dean’s lip curls. He rolls his eyes as he stares down at the two below him. “Celebrate?” He spits the word as though it had personally offended him before continuing, “Celebrate what? We’re in the middle of the damn apocalypse!”

“Well, we haven’t had many morale boosters lately and Christmas just brings…” Chuck’s spill is cut off abruptly by Dean slamming the door to his cabin and stepping further out onto the porch. The toes of his boots stop just short of the first step as he towers above them.

“Morale boosters?!” He snaps as he flings a hand harshly out toward the smaller man, “You want a morale booster? Join one of Cas’s seminars with the ladies. Go for a damn walk. We’re not doing Christmas.”

“But…” Chuck starts again, pushing to sit up a little straighter.

Dean’s frown hardens. He points a single finger toward Chuck and shakes his head, “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t.”

Chucks face falls and he mumbles something incoherent toward the dirt. At the pitiful look on his face Dean almost feels bad for being so angry. Almost.

Leaning forward, Dean scowls again and spits, “What?”

“He said it’s his birthday.” Cas speaks up, shifting uneasily beside the scraggly tree.

“It’s his…” Dean stammers as he looks from Cas to Chuck and then to the sky. Running his palms along the rough fabric of his jeans, he throws up his hands and lets them fall roughly against his thighs, “What the hell…fine. Do Christmas.” He says quickly. He grimaces down at the limbs below them and adds roughly, “That’s a shit tree though.”

Chuck smiles suddenly, jumping up from the dirt and dusting off his pants before grabbing the trunk of the tree again. Sending a nod to Cas, he mumbles a quiet, “Thanks.” Cas nods once in return and lifts the other end of the tree to help carry it toward the middle of camp as Chuck’s voice fades slowly from Dean’s ears, “Man, it feels like years since I’ve celebrated my birthday…”

Another sigh leaves Dean as he watches them stumble down the narrow path. Resting his palms against the railing he closes his eyes. The familiar feeling of grief too often shoved down rears its ugly head and he has to fight the sting of tears threatening to spill.

Dean used to love Christmas. Sure, he never had a real Christmas, not one that he could remember anyway. But he’d tried his best to make things good for Sam as they’d gotten older. He’d stolen a few presents out of random homes when they were kids. Hell, he’d even snagged a Game Boy once from a kids backpack on the walk back to the motel during Christmas break. When Sam finally opened it, they’d holed up beside the creaky nightstand and played that thing until the batteries died. But, just like everything else in his life, it didn’t last long and was crushed under the foot of a Werewolf a few weeks later. Sam was devastated, but he pretended everything was okay. He always had.

Dean shakes his head and pulls himself back from the past and that heart wrenching feeling of missing Sam. He sinks down into one of the rickety old rocking chairs beside his window and watches as Chuck somehow coerces the others in the camp to help decorate his atrocity of a tree. Jane comes along with a handful of pinecones she’d snagged from the edge of the tree line. She tucks them in to fill the many open spaces, even supporting a few flimsy branches along the way. Stepping back she smiles at her handy work and pats Chuck on the back before turning away. Risa tosses a few mismatched shoestrings around it like garland, tying the ends together in tight knots when they fall through the gaps. Even Bobby carefully hangs a couple of rusty wrenches off of the few sturdy limbs he could find. He nods gruffly when they don’t immediately fall off. As Dean takes in the free entertainment the corners of his lips begin to twitch upward.

Heaving himself out of the chair, he shoves his hands in his pockets and begins to trudge slowly down the path. When he reaches the clearing, Bobby hasn’t moved. But, even with his back toward Dean, he speaks, “You here to help or bitch?”

Dean snorts and steps up to stand beside the old man. Shrugging, he replies, “Does it matter?”

It’s Bobby’s turn to scoff. His stern gaze settles onto Dean and practically cuts clean through when he snarls, “Yeah, it does.” He gestures around to the people still bringing random items to throw on the otherwise bare tree, “They need this. A little Christmas Cheer never hurt no body. You need this, Boy.”

The words are harsh coming from Bobby’s mouth and they strike true when Dean lets his eyes fall toward the tree trunk with a scowl. He knows he’s right, he knows he needs a little Christmas magic in his life just like his people do, but how is he supposed to celebrate when Sam’s gone? How is he supposed to be cheerful and happy when his little brother is no longer existent? How can anyone else?

His voice is quiet when he finally mutters, “It’s not fair.”

“Nothings fair, Boy!” Bobby’s sharp tone cuts in before Dean had even finished. As if he’d already known what he was going to say, “We’re stuck living in a world with Croat’s breathing down our necks any time we leave and Angels hunting us for sport even when we don’t! If you’re looking for fair it hit the road with the T.P.!”

Dean winces, opening his mouth to retort before Bobby cuts him off again, “You think I don’t know what this is about? You miss your brother. Everybody else may not see it, but I do. Hell, I miss him, too. But this is the hand we were dealt, Dean. This.” He gestures toward the scraggly tree in front of them now decorated with rocks, a few twisted bits of wire shaped like candy canes, and several torn up t-shirts tied up like bows.

A stunned look crosses Dean’s face and he shifts under Bobby’s stare. His quiet voice barely reaches the older man's ears when he finally speaks, “You can only lose so many people before you start questioning why you’re still here.”

“For them, Dean. You’re here for them.” Bobby replies as he shoves his hands into his pockets and looks around at the few stragglers coming up the path with their own decorations, “They need you. And, whether you like it or not, you need them.”

Dean lets himself take in the solidarity of the camp for a moment. The laughter and calm conversation that hasn’t rang in his ears here in years surrounds him now and slowly pulls the tension from his shoulders. He locks eyes across the small clearing with Castiel who nods toward the tree in question. Dean swallows at the unspoken suggestion and nods in return. He doesn’t have much, he never has, however, none of them do either. But where they lack in material things, they make up for in numbers. They do have each other. He drops his eyes to the worn boots on his feet and huffs. Bending down he begins to unlace one quickly and tug it from his foot. With a slow limp toward the scraggly little excuse for a fir he grabs the top and settles his upside-down boot snug onto the crown.

Cheers erupt from the surrounding camp members as he steps back and takes in the sight. A rawboned little tree with a few misfit decorations shouldn’t be this heartwarming, but damn if Dean didn’t find himself swallowing down tears again. Chuck sidles up beside him with a wide grin, practically vibrating with excitement and Dean has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“I’m glad you decided to join us.” Chuck finally sputters out while nudging Dean lightly with his elbow, “It’s nice to know our fearless leader has a little holiday spirit left.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but slaps Chucks back firmly, “Don’t get used to it. I only did it because you said it was your birthday.”