Dean, passing through with a plate of cookies, mutters, “Oh no,” and flees.

Cas ignores him entirely. He leans one hip against the counter, studying you like you’re a newly discovered gospel.

“Your mouth,” he says suddenly, “is very distracting.”

You nearly drop the ladle. “Excuse me?”

“It curves when you smile. I have catalogued thirty-seven variations. This one—” he gestures vaguely at your face “—is new. I like it. I would like to be the reason for it more often.”

Heat floods your face. “Cas, how many mugs have you had?”

He counts on his fingers, gets lost somewhere around four, and gives up. “Several. Enough to notice that your sweater has a tiny hole here.” He reaches out, thumb brushing just beneath your collarbone, feather-light. “I could fix it. Or I could keep touching the skin instead. Both options seem… optimal.”

You swallow. “You’re flirting with me.”

“Yes,” he says, surprised you needed clarification. “I practiced in the mirror. Then I decided the mirror was inadequate. You are much better at receiving flirtation. Your pupils dilate. It’s charming.”

Footsteps thunder back in. Dean pokes his head around the door. “Everything okay in here or do I need to confiscate the wine before the angel starts quoting poetry?”

Cas turns, perfectly steady despite the flush riding high on his cheekbones. “Dean. Your emotional repression is showing. Leave.”

Dean’s mouth opens. Closes. He retreats again, muttering something about boundaries.

Cas returns his attention to you like Dean never existed.

“I have another confession,” he says, stepping closer until the mulled-wine warmth of him is all you can breathe. “I find your presence… intoxicating. More than the wine. Significantly more.”

His hand finds yours, fingers sliding between yours with deliberate care. “May I?”

You manage a nod. He lifts your joined hands, presses a slow, reverent kiss to your knuckles, lips lingering.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs against your skin, eyes shining like he just invented the holiday. “I intend to spend the remainder of it making you smile variation thirty-eight through seventy.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am yours,” he corrects, soft and certain, like it’s the simplest truth in the universe.

Somewhere down the hall, Dean yells, “I’M PUTTING A BELL ON THAT ANGEL.”

Cas smiles against your wrist. “He is jealous because his heart is approximately the size of a raisin.”

You tug him down by his tie (when did you grab his tie?) and kiss the smile right off his mouth. He tastes like cinnamon and wonder and makes the sweetest surprised sound, hands coming up to cradle your face like you’re something sacred.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide, lips parted, utterly dazed.

“Variation sixty-two,” he whispers in awe.

You grin. “Keep drinking, angel. We’ve got the whole night.”

He steals another kiss, clumsy and perfect, then rests his forehead against yours.

“Best invention,” he decides. “Humans. You, specifically.”

And somewhere between the twinkling lights and the simmering pot, an angel gets gloriously, gloriously tipsy on mulled wine and the taste of you.