#this-darkness-writes

Nick hums and slips his arms around Dean’s waist, squeezing the pert globes of his ass through the stupid fancy dress slacks Dean has to wear to work. Apparently showing up in denim and flannel is against the school’s dress code for teachers. “Not quite, but close enough,” Nick murmurs just as a well-timed shriek rings out from the playground. The hell are these little cock blockers up to now? Stiffening, both men lean forward (or in Dean’s case, backward) to see what the fuss is all about just as two colorful blurs dart past the large window.

Eh. They’re just playing tag or some shit. Whatever. Let ‘em burn off all that energy so they can focus on math after recess. With a shrug Dean faces Nick and, with a borderline demonic smirk, slams him back against the whiteboard, knocking another marker to the floor as he pins him in place. Nick yelps but it quickly morphs into a moan as Dean captures his lips in a deep kiss. “Now where were we?” Dean asks when he pulls away a few seconds later, still close enough that their lips brush together as he talks.

In reply Nick cups Dean’s face and urges him forward for another kiss, this time with more teeth and tongue, but not enough to get either of them feeling frisky. “Mmm. Right about…there.”

And yeah, okay, it’s sort of weird making out with his boyfriend in a room with brightly colored ABCs and one-two-threes trimming the walls and cubbies full of backpacks and lunch boxes near the front door and stick figure Crayola masterpieces pinned to the cork board near his desk. But this is the only time during the week they really get to see each other. Even though Dean gets home in the early afternoon, by that time Nick is already heading off to work. And no way is Dean gonna ask a single dad struggling to support himself and his son to play hooky just for some tonsil hockey. So they make do with making out during recess while the kids are too busy running around like hooligans to notice what Mr. Winchester and Mr. Kline are getting up to, and tease each other until the weekend, when they can – ahem – get together. In the Biblical sense.

Speaking of the weekend…

“Am I seeing you this Saturday?” Dean nuzzles a kiss onto Nick’s neck as he tugs the other man away from the white board and into a tight embrace. It’s insane how good it feels to just hold his lover in his arms. Before his brain can jump off the high dive and drown in a pool of fuzzy pink chick flick feelings, he reaches around and smacks Nick smartly on his ass. It’s a nice ass, too. Tight enough to bounce a nickel off of it.

Nick’s in the middle of answering when Dean smacks him. “Yeah, I THINK so.” Dean cackles and earns himself a playful swat on the shoulder. “Keep that up, and you won’t get a piece of this until next week,” Nick says with mock indignation.

Dean just snorts. Yeah right. His boyfriend’s a cockslut and they both know it. “You couldn’t go another whole week without my cock filling you up, splitting you open nice and wide.”

Nick considers this for a moment, then shrugs. “You do have a nice cock.” He doesn’t even blush, just quirks an eyebrow and winks up at Dean like the sassy little shit he is.

Dean loves it.

Grinning, he leans forward for another kiss when a small voice pipes up from behind them. “Daddy, what’s a cock?”

Somewhere, the record player oozing cheesy chick flick music glitches to a halt. Or maybe that’s just Dean’s brain shutting down in a shit storm of oh fuck. Shoving Nick aside (”Oof,” Nick grunts as he hits the whiteboard for the third time that morning, sending the rest of the markers and erases clattering to the floor), Dean spins around and peers past the clusters of brightly colored plastic desks and giant foam planet balls hanging from the ceiling (last week’s art project) to see the sandy brown mop and wide blue eyes of —

“Jack.” Nick steps forward, straightening his shirts and nudging Dean out of his way with his shoulder to squat in front of his son. Dean swears under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. Great. This is just perfect. Who knows how long the kid’s been standing there? This is not the kind of vocab lesson a kindergartener needs.

“Why aren’t you playing outside with the other kids? It’s a nice day,” Nick’s saying, gesturing vaguely at the slightly cloudy but otherwise sunshiny morning visible through the window.

“But what’s a cock?” Jack asks again, not taking the go-play-outside bait.

Coughing, Dean shuffles his feet and scrubs a hand along the back of his neck. “It’s…uh…Um.” He’s tempted to dial his desk phone from his cell phone to get himself out of this mess, let Nick tackle this parenting problem all by his onesies. But then Nick might really get pissed at him and he might not get laid this weekend, and that’s a tragedy Dean can’t live with.

Suddenly Nick perks up and snaps his fingers. “Aha! Its, uh, its’ another word for ‘rooster.” He gives a shaky little laugh and pats Jack on the shoulder, obviously proud of himself for pulling a G-rated answer out of his ass at the last second. Dean inclines his head, silently giving Nick props. Hopefully that’ll satisfy the kid and he’ll skip on out to the monkey bars so he and Nick can get back to their own kind of goofing off.

Instead, Jack tilts his head and stares up at them with laser like focus. “Where does he live?”

Nick’s face scrunches up, looking as hopelessly lost as Dean feels. His thoughts race, searching every nook and cranny of his mind for what the hell Jack might mean, but no brave answer pops up and volunteers as tribute, so he’s left spinning his wheels.

Clearing his throat, he inches toward Nick for some adult-vs-child solidarity. “Where does —” He’s so focused on Jack he forgets all about the foam solar system hanging from the ceiling and smacks himself upside the head with Neptune. Grumbling darkly under his breath, he glares at the offending blue foam ball and gently bats it aside. “Where does who live, buddy?”

Jack’s eyes flick up to him. “Your rooster.” He turns his gaze back onto Nick, who visibly flinches like someone socked him in the stomach. “You said Mister Winchester had a nice cock, daddy.” Nick’s face is the same color as the whiteboard. “So where does he live?”

Goddamn it, this kid’s too smart for Nick and Dean’s own good. Dean would be proud of his student and possible future step-son (hey, ya never know, it could happen) if the situation hadn’t been so damn awkward. Sweat beads on his forehead, and a drop trickles down the side of his face. Shit, this is almost as bad as getting interrogated by the cops. Maybe worse.

Nick scratches at the stubble on his chin and glances up at Dean, a pleading look for help on his face. Dean shakes his head and holds out his empty hands, ‘cause he’s got nothing. Besides, he fielded the last question. Nick’s on his own with this one. Nick shoots him a narrow-eyed squint, lips flat across his face, but honestly, Dean has no idea what to say here. Besides, Nick’s the parent.

Setting his jaw, Nick huffs and then turns back to Jack, who’s patiently waiting like a little angel for an answer to his question. “It’s, uh. It lives in his, in his…” he trails off, fingers twitching in the air like he’s hoping the parenting gods will drop another kid-friendly answer into his hands. Then his eyes light up and a slow smile spreads on his face like ink staining water. “In his backyard! Yeah. The rooster lives in De— Mr. Winchester’s back yard.” He sits back on his haunches, looking all kinds of smug, and bounces his eyebrows at Dean, obviously pleased with himself.

Dean isn’t pleased with Nick though, oh hell no. At this point he’d kinda like to strangle him. Just so Nick knows how not-pleased Dean is with him, he none-too-gently kicks Nick in the shin. What the hell? he mouths at him, eyes bugging out of his skull.

Nick shrugs a shoulder in a very sorry-not-sorry sort of way. What did you want me to say? he mouths back. Anything but that! Dean silently screams at him. Oblivious to the silent conversation the adults are having above his head, Jack’s face bursts into a smile bright enough to rival the sunshine outside. Toddling over to Dean, he tugs on his pants leg. “Please bring your rooster to class tomorrow, Mister Winchester? For show an’ tell? I wanna pet him.”

Dean blinks down at Jack. Goddamn it. He can’t shoot down the hope brimming in this kids eyes, but where the hell is he supposed to get a goddamn rooster by tomorrow morning?

Nick’s grinning along with his son. Hmph. His ass is saved, so of fucking course he goes and throws Dean under the big yellow school bus. Asshole. Dean vows to get back at him later, but now, all he can do is swallow around the rooster-shaped lump in his throat and say, “Uh, yeah. Sure thing, buddy. Now go out and play, okay? You’ve still got — “ he checks his watch “—six more minutes of recess.”

Jack claps his hands and laughs, bouncing from foot to foot. “Okay!” Then he’s gone, tumbling out the door. Dean and Nick get as far as sharing a relieved look when Jack starts screaming outside. “Mister Winchester is gonna bring his cock tomorrow for show and tell!”

Nick bursts out laughing, doubling over and slapping his knees and repeating Jack’s announcement in a wheezy voice.

Dean just groans and wanders over to his chair, sinking down into it and covering his face with both hands. This is just fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic. An hour or two from now, he’s gonna get bombarded with concerned phone calls from concerned parents. The damn thing’s gonna ring all afternoon. Probably all night too. He peeks out from between his fingers to see Nick still chortling away, face all shiny and red.

Oh yeah. He’s definitely making sure Nick will be too sore to walk straight for a week.

Bonus scene:

Dean’s just about ready to take a ride into hickville and bird-nap a random chicken when he remembers that Sam owns a small organic farm nearby. When school lets out that afternoon, he heads over and convinces Sam to let him borrow a rooster for the next day.

Fucking thing crows all night long, cock-a-doodle-dooing at the top of its voice. Dean stuffs his head under his pillow and tries to get some shut-eye, but each time he’s nodding off, the goddamn thing wakes him up again.

After a few hours of tossing and turning, he gets up at the ass-crack of dawn, which is actually a good thing because it escapes the crate when he goes to feed it and it takes Dean half a century to wrestle the mangy son of a bitch back inside. By the time he’s done he’s got scratches and peck marks all over his arms and neck and hands and he’s craving fried chicken like no one’s business.

Turns out the rooster loves kids, lets them pet its feathers and poke at its wattles and give it the five-year-old equivalent of a giant bear hug. But for some reason it hates Dean. Not that asshole Nick, or the flock of concerned parents that showed up for today’s show and tell. Just Dean. It attacks him every chance it gets, chases him around the classroom and pecks at his ass, all while cawing loudly and flapping its wings.

The kids laugh and clap and think it’s the best thing ever. Nick the asshole records the whole thing and puts it on YouTube, and damn it if it doesn’t go viral and get mentioned on the local weekend news, their feel-good story of the day. And of course Sam has to call and “congratulate” him on making the six o’clock news.

Dean makes sure Nick can’t walk straight or sit on a chair without a cushion for a month.

“Howdy, pardner.” Sam meets Dean’s shit-eating grin with a tight-lipped smile. That joke was old the first time his brother used it. Three years he’s been running this little organic farm with his husband, and Dean still isn’t through with the redneck farmer shtick. Sam, though, is one hundred percent done.

“What’s up?” he asks again, coming to a stop on the edge of the field. “Kinda busy right now.”

Dean waves a hand like he’s swatting away flies. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Grimacing, he swipes a hand down his face, shifting his weight from foot to foot, then grunts. “All right. Listen, I need to borrow a chicken.”

Sam jerks his head back and squints at his older brother. That’s honestly the last thing he expected Dean to want. “A…a chicken? Like, a live chicken?” he asks just as the barn door creaks open. Castiel pokes his head through the crack, a bit of hay stuck in his dark hair, but as usual he seems oblivious.

“Hello, Dean,” he says somberly, like he’s welcoming his brother-in-law to a funeral and not their humble little farm. “I thought I heard your car. Is there something Sam and I can help you with?”

“He wants to borrow a chicken,” Sam says before Dean can answer.

Dean nods and grins, back to his usual I’m-so-awesome routine. “Just for the next day or so.”

Castiel tilts his head and stares at Sam. Sam just shrugs and holds up his palms. Hell if he knows what Dean’s on about.

Apparently deciding that this conversation is worth abandoning his chores in the barn, Castiel slips outside and ambles over to Sam, casually slipping an arm around his waist. “And why do you need to…borrow a chicken, Dean?” he asks evenly, for all the world like family members dropping by to borrow livestock is a normal, everyday occurrence.

Dean swipes his tongue along his upper teeth, making his lip bulge, then huffs. “Okay, look. I…kinda got myself into a situation at work.” Sam’s brows arch up at that. What kind of situation could a kindergarten teacher get into that would require a chicken?

When Dean doesn’t elaborate, Sam makes a give-me-more gesture. Deans just scuffs his fancy school shoes in the dirt and admires his socks. Sam shares another glance with Castiel, then clears his throat. “Look man, we aren’t giving you one of our chickens unless you tell us why you need it.”

Dean fidgets in place and fixes his gaze on Sam’s chin. “Aww, c’mon Sammy,” he tries. “It’s just one chicken.”

“Why do you need it, Dean?” Castiel asks, giving Sam’s side a squeeze. Sam gives him a small smile, thanking him for having his back even in something as small as this.

Dean fidgets some more, biting his lower lip, then grunts. Hands curling into fists at his sides, he finally looks them (or at least Sam) in the eye. “Okay, fine. I was…talking with Nick during recess and his kid interrupted us and heard something he shouldn’t have.”

Sam cocks a brow. “Dude. Could you be any more vague?” he asks sarcastically, ignoring the thing about Nick. He’s hassled and nagged Dean about making out with his boyfriend in the classroom, but all his warnings have fallen on deaf ears. Looks like karma’s come and kicked Dean in the ass though, which Sam can’t help but feel a little smug about.

Dean groans and throws up his hands. “Look man, just give me the goddamn chicken, okay? I promise I’ll bring it back tomorrow afternoon in the same condition you gave it to me.”

Castiel rubs the knuckles of his free hands under his chin and glances up at Sam, head slightly tilted. Should we indulge him? his gaze asks, leaving the final decision to Sam.

Sam presses his lips together in a small grimace. On the one hand, Dean is being awfully sketchy on why he wants to borrow one of their animals. On the other, it’s not like Dean to actually hurt an animal (unless he’s eating it for dinner, in which case it’s already dead, so).

After a moment’s consideration he decides, what the hell? and gives a short nod. “Any particular chicken you want?”

Dean slumps in relief, knees buckling, then catches himself and plasters the cocky grin back on his face. “You won’t regret it, Sammy,” he says. “Promise I won’t harm a feather on its head.”

Sam motions for him to follow them and leads them around the back of the barn where the free range chickens are pecking at the seed he scattered for them earlier this morning. The big gray and white rooster, Zachariah, struts around the yard, making a tok-tok-tok sound every time he finds a fresh pile of food, but the hens ignore him. They’ve found some already.

Dean immediately points at the rooster. “That one.”

Sam and Castiel share yet another look. Zachariah isn’t exactly friendly to anyone, even them. Sam’s the only one who can get near him without getting pecked to death. The one time Castiel tried to collect eggs from the hens, Zachariah chased him around the yard, cawing and nipping at his heels. He only escaped when Sam ran outside and threw a handful of chicken feed in the opposite direction, distracting Zachariah.

Wetting his lips, Castiel takes a hesitant step forward. “I’m not sure that’s a wise decision, Dean. Perhaps one of the females?” He points to a cluster of brown and white hens sharing some seed, clucking softly to each other as they feed.

Dean’s shaking his head before Castiel is even done talking. “Nah, man, it has to be a rooster. That the only one you got?”

“Unfortunately,” Sam says. Castiel’s eye are glued on Zachariah, warily watching every step the bird takes. Having mercy on his husband, Sam clasps him on the shoulder.

“I’ll take it from here, babe,” he murmers. “Could you do me a huge favor though and get one of the dog crates and fill it with some hay for me?”

Smiling gratefully up at Sam, Castiel gives a small nod. “Absolutely, Sam. I will be right back.” With a peck on the cheek for Sam and a wave to Dean, Castiel heads back toward the barn.

Dean waves back, looking confused. “Hey, where’s Cas going?”

“Getting a crate,” Sam replies absently, psyching himself up to go snatch Zachariah. Just because the bird tolerates him doesn’t mean this is gonna be easy.

“A crate? Why?”

Sam throws him a bitch face. “You really think a rooster’s just gonna sit on the car seat like a dog?”

Dean makes a fair-enough face, and Sam turns back to the task at hand. Okay. If he can separate the rooster from the hens, he might be easier to catch. Might be less aggressive too, if he doesn’t think he needs to defend his flock. Absently rubbing his fingers together, Sam waits and watches, then sucks in a deep breath and darts forward.

Zachariah zigs left and darts for a small copse trees just as Sam’s fingertips brush the rooster’s tail feathers.

Right. So, trying that again. Setting his jaw, Sam creeps after the bird as it pecks around the roots. As it wanders around the trunk of a tree, Sam lunges to his left, but the chicken veers to the right.

Correcting his course, Sam dashes after it, circling the tree just as Zachariah decides nope, it’s gonna go left and streaks off across the yard toward the hens, Sam in hot pursuit.

Dean’s cackling on the sidelines. “Get it Sammy!” he yells, whooping and hollering like he’s at a football game. Sam spares him a glower, determined to catch this stupid bird now that it’s a matter of pride.

He chases it around the cluster of clucking hens, back toward the trees, back into the yard, around and around in loops and laps. Finally he corners it between the fence and the chicken coop. Before it can fly away, Sam takes a mighty leap and tackles it, grabbing the rooster by its feet.

Dean’s in stitches, tears streaming down his face as Sam picks himself up. Holding the squawking, flapping rooster trying to wriggle out of his grip at arm’s length, Sam trudges over just as Castiel emerges from the barn, arms wrapped around a large dog crate and a tattered old blanket. His knee twinges a bit from where he hit the ground at a weird angle, but all he feels is a sense of victory.

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean wheezes as Castiel sets the crate on the ground and backs off, watching the spectacle from a respectable distance. “You think you’d be better at that by now.”

Spitting out dirt and feathers, Sam scowls at him and stuffs Zachariah into the crate, slamming the door shut before the rooster can escape and terrorize Castiel. “Yeah, like you could do better,” he snipes between pants, trying to catch his breath. Zachariah pitches a fit, pecking at the bars and kicking out some of the hay, but settles down a bit after Sam drapes the blanket over the front. “Just don’t let him out, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean says around a snort and giggle, obviously not taking this as seriously as he should. Whatever. Let him run around the yard trying to catch a chicken. He’ll see.

With Zachariah safely ensconced in the crate, Castiel deems it safe enough to accompany Sam as he walks Dean back to the Impala. After Dean settles Zachariah in the back seat, Castiel pulls a small plastic baggie of poultry pellets from his pocket and holds it out to Dean. “Feed him once in the morning and once in the evening.”

Dean takes the baggie and slips it into his slacks pocket. “Do I just dump some in there or what?” He jerks a thumb at the crate on the back seat.

Sam shakes his head. “You can pour some into a shallow bowl or put them on a plate. Doesn’t matter how much; he’ll eat what he wants and leave the rest.”

Dean nods. “Okay then. Guess I’ll be heading off.” Then he grins and tips an invisible cowboy hat at them. “Thank ya kindly, pardners.”

Sam shoots him a very plastic smile as Dean slides behind the wheel. Seriously. When is he gonna knock it off with the stupid cowboy shit?

As the Impala rolls down the gravel drive, classic rock blaring from the rolled down windows, Castiel sidles up beside Sam, a pensive expression on his face. “Do you think we should have warned him that Zachariah likes to crow all night long?”

Smirking, Sam shakes his head. “Nah.”

Lucifer, who’s munching on a bowl of popcorn, has the courtesy to swallow his mouthful before answering. “It’s how humans decide important things.” Grabbing another large handful, he stuffs his mouth full. Cruncha-cruncha-crunch. Castiel scrunches up his nose at the distasteful lack of manners. Catching that thought on angel radio, Lucifer grunts and offers the bowl to Castiel, who declines on the basis that butter flavored molecules are still molecules.

“One…two…three!”

Dean claps and aims a gun-shaped hand at Sam. “Oooh! Take that, bitch!”

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. “Dude. There’s two more rounds. Or one, if I win the next one.”

“Yeah, dream on.”

Sam just smirks and raises his fist.

Castiel squints at the humans. “Humans decide important matters by chanting numbers and making odd hand gestures?” Still chewing, Lucifer makes a broad, expansive gesture at Sam and Dean as if saying, see for yourself. Blinking, Castiel tilts his head to the side and absently scratches at the stubble on his chin as the Winchesters start the next countdown. “It seems very inefficient.”

Before Lucifer can respond, Sam crows in victory and smacks his open hand on top of Dean’s fist. Dean swears and kicks at the ground, almost upsetting the sorry excuse of a Christmas tree they managed to find in the nearby woods. It’s more of a Christmas bush than anything, but it’s got lights blinking and twinkling from the flimsy little branches and red and green ball glass ball things and an angel perched on top, so in Dean’s own words, “whatever. It works.”

“C’mon, man. How do you always win?” Dean grouses as he sits down and slides Sam’s small pile of presents to him from under the tree. Sam gleefully rubs his hands together and gathers them to himself, eager to see what’s inside.

“I’ve told you, Dean. You’ve got a tell,” he says as he tears blue paper covered in smiling snowmen off a box and opens it to reveal a new hunting knife from Mom.

“It’s friggin’ rock paper scissors. How do I have a tell?”

Sam shrugs as he carefully sets the knife aside and grabs his present from Dean, which is wrapped in what looks like brown paper grocery bags covered in twine with his name scrawled on the top in Sharpie. “You just do,” he says, then tosses his brother a bitch face as he pulls out a wadded up pair of bright red flannel pajamas with happy cartoon moose frolicking on them. “Really, Dean?”

Dean returns Sam’s bitch face with a shit-eating green. “Merry Christmas, Sammy. And hey, maybe you’ll even get to wear ‘em a couple days a week,” he adds with a lascivious wink. Sam’s face turns the color of the pajamas. Chuckling in a self-satisfied sort of way, Dean reaches over and yanks the bowl of popcorn off of Lucifer’s lap, ignoring the archangel’s indignant squawk.

“That was mine!”

“Yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it?”

While Lucifer and Dean fight over the popcorn, Castiel leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Please open the present from me next, Sam,” he says loudly over the sounds of World War III. A few pieces of popcorn land in his hair, but Castiel absently brushes them onto the couch.

Between the jumbled mess of paper and tape that looks like a kindergartner’s art project and the rectangular box with the perfectly seamless wrapping paper and perfectly placed ribbons and perfectly arranged bows, Sam instantly knows which of the last two presents is from Castiel. Tugging the art project in front of him, Sam puts his chiseled upper body to work tearing through the mass of paper and tape to find —

“Dude, is that lube?” Dean, who’s struggling to escape a chokehold from Lucifer, barks out a laugh.

Sam clears his throat a few times and stares down at the bottle of Anal Ease. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah it is.” He coughs and then fixes his gaze firmly on Castiel’s chin. “Uh, thanks man.”

Castiel beams back at him. Sam kind of wants to melt into the floor.

Unlatching his arm from around Dean’s neck, Lucifer shoves him aside (along with the popcorn bowl, though most of the popcorn is on the floor by now) and perches on the very edge of the couch, eyes shiny and bright. “Now mine!” he says. “Best for last!”

Castiel nods. “We bought them to coordinate.”

Sam is kind of scared to open Lucifer’s present. At this point he’d almost rather face a hoard of murderous clowns.

Almost.

Avoiding eye contact with the other three, he meticulously unsticks each bow from the top of the box, carefully slices each ribbon with his pocket knife, and then peels off the paper. Cold chills race down his spine as he pulls out —

Dean is rolling around on the floor now, tears streaming down his face as Sam holds up a package of blue silicone anal beads. Except the beads are shaped like little hearts.

“I remember you said you wanted to experiment,” Lucifer says, all bubbles and joy, wide eyes aglow and hands clasped in front of his chest.

Sam doesn’t have the heart to berate him for choosing Christmas morning to remember an off-handed off-color comment. “Uh. Thanks, babe.”

The smile on Lucifer’s face is worth the embarrassment. “They’re water safe too,” he adds helpfully above Dean’s howls of laughter.

“Dude!” he says, swiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Where the hell did you two go shopping?”

“A place called Extreme Fun Zone,” Castiel says.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to snicker as all the color drains from Dean’s face. Bypassing the presents from Mary and Sam, he lunges at the other two and tears them open in record time.

Seconds later he’s holding up a sexy, lacy black negligee and a pair of silky apple green thong panties.

“But Dean,” Cas says as he tries to coax the eldest Winchester out of the sobbing little ball he’s rolled himself into, “the sign on the rack said ‘for that special someone.’ You are my special someone.”

Sam has never laughed so hard in his life.

Dean shifts on the sofa but otherwise doesn’t move. “I’m gonna give you ten seconds to plant your evil ass in a chair before I do it for you.”

Lucifer wishes that wasn’t actually a viable threat. Gone are the days when the Winchesters stared at him in terror, flinching at the very sound of his name. Yep, those were the good ol’ days. Now they just roll their eyes at him or threaten to kick his ass when he mouths off or lock him in the dungeon.

But he’s still the Devil, damn it, so he counts to nine before dropping into the armchair next to the couch.

His ass barely dents the cushion when the front door opens, sound ringing through the bunker like a gong.

“Hey guys, we’re back,” Sam calls.

Lucifer is out of his chair and on his feet again in a flash, heart hammering his chest. They’re here. Oh my Dad, they’re finally here. Biting his lip, he adjusts his jacket and then clasps his hands behind his back, hoping he looks decently presentable.

“About time,” Dean calls back as he rolls into a sitting position and stretches his hands over his head. “Old Scratch here is about to have a cow.” He shoots a cocky grin up at Lucifer as he unfolds himself from the sofa and smooths the wrinkles from his flannel shirts.

Lucifer really wishes his smite button wasn’t broken. But the sass button still works. Oh, how it still works. Glaring, he sucks in a breath to sass the hunter with the sassiest sass he’s ever been sassed with when a small, soft voice interrupts.

“Who is this?”

A young man with floppy brown hair steps forward, staring up at Lucifer with pale blue eyes. He’s dressed in a white tee-shirt, blue jeans, and a brown jacket with squiggly designs on the chest and shoulders.

Lucifer’s mouth goes dry and he’s suddenly so dizzy he can barely stand. It’s him. It’s really him. Even with most of his grace gone AWOL, he can sense the power surging from the young man like lightning crackling through the sky. From his son.

Jack.

The backs of his eyes burn, but he’ll take a swan dive back into the Cage before he lets Sam and Dean Winchester see the Devil cry. Blinking rapidly, he reaches a shaky hand out toward his son.

Jack pulls back, staring up questioningly at Castiel and Sam, who flank him on either side.

Sam clears his throat. “Uh, Jack, this is your…this your dad. Your real dad. Lucifer.”

Lucifer does his best to smile and gives Jack a little wave.

Jack’s mouth goes slack and his eyes widen. “This is my father?” He takes another step back, as though trying to use Sam and Castiel as shields.

Lucifer’s heart plummets into his stomach, which churns and roils like the ocean. Swallowing with difficulty, he lets his hand fall to his side as a bitter taste coats his tongue. Of course his son hates him, fears him; he’s been raised by Team Free Will (TM) for most of his short life. And all this talk of Christmas and family and healing old wounds is obviously just a way for them to rub it in his face. Butter him up, get his hopes all nice and big, and then crush them under their lumberjack-issue boots. He should have known better. Gritting his teeth, he shoves his hands into his pants pockets and clenches them into fists.

Castiel puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder and leans down to whisper something into his ear. If that’s not worse than an angel blade through the heart, Lucifer doesn’t know what is. Glancing over at Dean, he finds the eldest hunter’s face twisted in a satisfied little smirk. Lucifer should want to smite that smirk right off Dean’s face. He wants to want it. But all he really wants is to run out the door, out of this damn bunker, and throw himself off the nearest tall building on the off-chance he’s lost enough grace that he can die.

He must have curled in on himself, bowed his head or something, because he doesn’t even notice Jack is standing right in front of him until a warm hand touches his face. Flinching, Lucifer jerks his head back. Jack startles too and glances back over his shoulder at Castiel, who gives him an encouraging look. Openly gaping, Lucifer runs a hand through his hair. Is this really happening?

Before he can tuck his hand back in his pocket, Jack grabs it and, turning it over, traces a thumb along the lines on Lucifer’s palm. Lucifer doesn’t dare breathe. Once he’s done examining Lucifer’s hand, Jack lets it go and looks Lucifer up and down, a slow smile building on his face.

“You’re not evil,” he announces with the happiest grin Lucifer’s ever seen.

Lucifer feels like someone sucker punched him in the gut. His mouth falls open and all the breath whooshes out of his body. If the other three gasps in the room are anything to go by, Team Free Will wasn’t expecting that either. Jack is blissfully oblivious to the shock and disbelief swirling around him, gazing up at Lucifer with a smile bright enough to herald the dawn.

Predictably, it’s Dean who ruins the most beautiful moment of Lucifer’s eons-long life.

“Wait, wait wait,” he says, striding forward and reaching for Jack like he means to snatch him away from Lucifer. “What do you mean he’s not evil, Jack? He’s the fu— the friggin’ Devil. He’s the definition of evil.”

Neatly sidestepping Dean’s attempt to grab him, Jack is shaking his head even before Dean is done spluttering. “No. He’s an angel, just like me.” He crinkles his nose. “Well, half of me.” Then he smiles again. “Besides, he’s dressed just like me.”

Lucifer’s not sure what his clothes have to do with not being evil, but he’ll take it. Anyway, it reminds him of something.

Smiling down at his son, he clears his throat and plunges his hand into his jacket pocket. “I, uh, have something for you,” he says. “I heard you like nougat—” he deliberately refuses to give the Winchesters any kind of credit for that knowledge “—so, uh, I got you some.”

Jack’s face splits into an impossibly wide grin. “I love nougat!” he says, grabbing one of the candies from Lucifer’s hand, unwrapping it, and cramming it in his mouth. “Thank you, father!” he adds, words garbled through the sticky treat.

And then, before Lucifer realizes what’s happening, Jack throws himself into Lucifer’s arms and hugs him so hard he squeaks.

A wave of warmth washes over Lucifer, and he’s so lightheaded he can barely stand. He’s sure this is just a dream. Any time now he’ll wake up, still a captive in Asmodeus’s prison with no hope of escape and nothing but another lifetime of torture to look forward to. Good things like this don’t happen to him; they just don’t. And if they do, they don’t last.

“Father? Is…is something wrong?” Jack’s question knocks him out of his reverie. Shaking away the unwanted thoughts, Lucifer focuses all his attention on his son, the brightest, most precious being in the universe, and pulls him close.

“No. Everything’s fine. Everything’s just fine.”

And though Asmodeus is still out there, no doubt plotting revenge, and Bizzaro Michael is assuredly plotting his way into their world, in that moment, Lucifer has no doubt that everything is, indeed, just fine.

Smiling, Sam plucks the small white berry from the angel’s palm and tucks it in the left breast pocket of his flannel over shirt. “Why’s that?”

“You gave me a delightful kiss, and I gave you the fruit of a plant that sucks the life and vitality from its host.”

Pressing a hand to his mouth, Sam bites down hard on his lip to hide the grin threatening to bloom across his face. “You sure have a way with words, Cas,” he says in a wheezy voice full of choked back laughter. He kind of wishes he was recording this, because the angel’s earnest inability to understand that it’s just a dumb tradition is too funny.

If he notices that Sam’s on the brink of cackling like a wicked witch, Castiel doesn’t show it. He dips his head and thanks Sam for the compliment. “Now I believe it’s your turn, Sam,” he says, as serious as if he’s reciting wedding vows. And that’s not really a thought Sam needs right now, because it’s a nice thought and he likes it too much, and it seems like everything that he likes ends up crumbling to dust in his hands. Or dying. Besides, this is just supposed to be something silly and fun. And they don’t even know what “they” are, yet.

But what if…? It couldn’t hurt to play a little, right? (Rehearse, a voice at the back of his mind coughs, but he shoves that thought back where it came from.) Straightening to his full height, he schools his features as best he can and gazes down into Castiel’s deep blue eyes. In his little fantasy, Castiel is in a white tux with a black tie, and Sam himself is in a complimenting black tux with a white tie. “Ready when you are,” he murmurs, heart scudding in his chest at the idea of making his daydream real.

He remembers too late that, powered down though he may be, Castiel can still read his mind, especially when his emotions are cranked up to eleven like they are now. Castiel’s eyes widen and his lips part slightly, and Sam knows the angel has caught on to Sam’s pipe dream. A hot flush creeps up the back of his neck and he stares down at his boots. Way to go, Sam. You killed that nice, happy moment like a boss, he mentally grouses at himself.

Cool, slender fingers slide under his chin and tilt it up until he’s staring down into Castiel’s eyes, soft and shining with millennia upon millennia of wisdom and…something else that makes Sam’s breath catch in his throat. “I’m ready,” Castiel says in a rough whisper that sends a shiver down Sam’s spine.

This kiss is different than the one Sam gave Castiel only moments ago. Hell, it’s different than any kiss they’ve shared before. It’s slow and warm and simple, yet so much more than just the pleasure of sensitive skin on skin. Sam has no words to describe it. Sighing, he cups Castiel’s face in his hands and lets himself get lost in the moment, the feeling of warm skin beneath his palms, of Castiel’s body flush to his own, his arms tight around Sam’s waist and shoulders. A scent like night and earth and honeysuckle wafts around them, and it’s the axis on which Sam’s whole world spins.

Rap-rap-rap. “When you two lovebirds are done eating each other’s faces, dinner’s on the table,” Dean says, voice oozing smugness like a parent who just caught two kids acting naughty.

Sam starts. He’d been so caught up in Castiel, he hadn’t even heard Dean approach. Castiel, of course, is the epitome of poise. Completely ignoring Dean, he pulls away from Sam, lips plump and damp, and skims the back of his hand down Sam’s face. “That was wonderful,” he murmurs, the corners of his mouth tugging up at the edges in the closest thing to a genuine smile Sam's ever seen on his stern face.

Sam feels gratified to see a faint blush pinking the angel’s cheeks, because he can feel an identical one warming his own. “Yeah. Yeah it was,” he says, tracing the prominent ridges of the angels’ cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs.

Dean loudly clears his throat. “FYI, me an’ Luce ain’t waiting for you two,” he announces, then heads back to the kitchen and starts good-naturedly razzing Lucifer about piling microwaved veggie patties and actual vegetables onto his hamburger bun instead of the cheese stuffed burgers Dean apparently “slaved” over all afternoon.

Shaking his head at his brother’s antics, Sam squeezes Castiel’s shoulders and then forces himself to pull apart from the angel. Immediately he mourns the loss of warmth and sense of connection. “I guess we better get in there if we want anything to eat. You know how those two get.”

Castiel nods. “Our brothers would put a pack of starving hyenas to shame.”

Sam really does laugh this time, because the mental image of Dean and Lucifer crouched over a fresh kill (or, in Lucifer’s case, a pile of fresh fruit and veggies), growling and snarling at anyone who tries to butt in, is just too funny. “C’mon,” he says, grinning as he turns toward the kitchen and the sound of playfully rude banter and the smell of Dean’s famous burgers.

Before he can get two steps, a hand falls on his shoulder. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Sam?” Castiel asks, looking pointedly up at the mistletoe.

Sam mentally smacks himself in the forehead. The berry. “Oh. Right.” Reaching up, he pulls a berry off the plant and hands it to Castiel with a lopsided smile. “Here you go. Payment for, like, the best kiss I think I’ve ever had.”

Unless Sam is imagining things, and he’s pretty sure he’s not, the blush coloring Castiel’s face deepens. “I will treasure it,” the angel says as he takes the berry from Sam and slips it in one of the pockets of his trench coat.

Sam has no doubt he will.

BONUS SCENE

Dean cackles and takes a swig of his beer as Lucifer pauses the video while Sam and Castiel are mid-kiss. “It’s like watching a friggin’ chick flick, man.”

Lucifer snickers along with him and playfully nudges Dean’s shoulder with his own. “Aren’t they adorable,” he croons, zooming in on their brothers’’ love-struck faces. “I think we just watched them get married.”

Dean shudders and takes a huge gulp. “Dude, don’t say that,” he moans. “I’m not ready to walk my baby brother down the aisle.”

Grinning, Lucifer hits ‘play’ and the video starts up again. The soft little moans their little brothers were making while locking lips would make a porn star proud. He doubts they even knew their desire for each other was so…audible.

Tilting his head back, Dean finishes off his beer and settles the empty bottle on the end table next to the sofa with a muted rattle of glass on wood. “Good enough for blackmail?” he asks, stretching his arms overhead and rolling his neck from side to side to loosen some of the kinks he got slaving all day in the kitchen.

Lucifer can practically feel those proverbial horns sprouting from his head. “Oh Hell yeah.”

Despite the dastardly duo’s intentions, the video ends up being used less as blackmail and more to embarrass the newly married couple at their wedding a year later. Sam berates Dean for projecting it on a screen during cake, but he looks so much like a tomato in a tux that all Dean and Lucifer do is laugh and give each other high fives.

Holding it by the crook, Gavin laves the shaft from top to bottom with a slow, wide stroke of his tongue. Once he reaches the top, he suckles on the tip for a moment and releases it with a wet little pop. His tongue, already stained red from the candy, darts out and licks along his pink lips.

All the pure, innocent thoughts of blanket-clad cuddles fly out Fritz’s head as all the blood surges to his groin in a hot, tingling rush that leaves his cock tight and full in his pants. Eyes locked on Gavin, Fritz leans forward, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The only thought his fuzzy mind has the energy to summon up is “oh god.”

But Gavin is apparently just getting started. Flipping a page, he wraps his lips back around the candy cane and pumps it in and out of his mouth with slow, deliberate motions. All the way down. All the way up. Down again. He’s practically deep throating the goddamn thing. On the way back up he swirls his tongue along the shaft of the treat and then pulls off with a borderline obscene smack of his lips.

Fritz can’t help the strangled whimper that punches out of his throat. He can’t decide if he wants to smack the thing out of Gavin’s hand and kiss his asshole of a boyfriend senseless, or keep torturing himself with the little show he’s sure Gavin is putting on just for him. No one just eats a candy cane like that. Right?

At Fritz’s whimper Gavin glances up from his book, and he must look as strung out and half wrecked as he feels, because the most self-satisfied smirk he’s ever seen splits the lawyer’s face in two.

“Hey babe.” Gavin’s tone is the epitome of pure, angelic innocence even as he deliberately pumps the candy cane in and out of his mouth with rhythmic thrusts. His blue gaze drops to Fritz’s crotch for a long moment, and when he looks back up, his eyes are sparkling with mischief. He’s practically oozing smugness from every pore. “What’s up?” he asks, deliberately raising his eyebrows and tilting his head to the side. In goes the candy cane. Suck. Out comes the candy cane. A swirl of tongue.

Fritz kind of wants to strangle him right now. Or throw him down on the couch and rip all those fancy clothes off of him and touch him and kiss him and tease him until he’s a trembling mess, begging for Fritz’s cock. He’s learning toward the second one.

Then Gavin winks at Fritz — the sassy bastard actually winks at him! — and chomps on the candy cane, crunching it in half. He holds Fritz’s gaze as long as it takes him to chew and swallow, then bounces his eyebrows and turns back to his book, a grin tugging at the edges of his lips.

Fritz winces despite himself, and just like that, the spell is broken. Blinking rapidly, he shakes his head and wanders over to the sofa, putting his heretofore forgotten glass of eggnog on a coaster colored like a round peppermint.

“You’re horrible,” he grumbles as he settles next to Gavin, shifting so his still hard cock doesn’t strain and chafe too much against the fabric of his boxers.

“And you love it,” Gavin says unrepentantly, eyes locked on the page in front of his nose, candy cane dangling out of his mouth like a red and white striped cigar.

Just for that, Fritz forcibly cuddles him (read: practically sits on him) and makes him sit through an entire football game without his book or any other distraction.