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'OK. All right. We can do this.' Dean runs a nervous hand through his hair and looks beseechingly at Cas. 'Do we really have to do this?'
His housemate favours him with an amused smile. 'They're your family, Dean.'
'I know that! I just – god, Thanksgiving can fuck itself sideways with a Black Friday prices chainsaw.'
'I fail to see how the cost of an object thus misused would impact on the manner of its insertion,' Cas says, and even after six months of living together, Dean still can't figure out if that trademark mix of deadpan delivery and squinting is an epic-level trolling technique, or if Castiel really is that goddamn literal. Either way, he laughs despite himself, then gives a little moan and rests his head on the steering wheel.
'Tell me the rules,' he says, eyes closed against the injustice of it all. 'One more time, Cas. Humour me.'
Castiel sighs and stretches in the passenger seat. 'I am not to mention your bisexuality, because, quote, it's none of their goddamn business. I am not to try and humour your father by pretending to understand sports, because my last attempt at doing so in a social context was, quote, woeful. I am not to try and humour your mother by pretending to care about interior design, because, quote, she'll just know. I am neither to tell your brother any stories about your life that could be construed as embarrassing nor prompt him to tell me any such stories in turn, because, quote, the last thing I need is you two ganging up on me. Also, I'm not allowed to let you drive drunk, though how I'm supposed to stop you when you refuse to give me your keys has never been definitively established.'
Dean bites his cheek, pulls the keys out of the ignition, and hands them blindly to Cas. 'Here. If we have to bail, you can drive us both out of dodge, and I'll pay for us to stay somewhere. Deal?'
'Deal,' says Cas. There's a soft jingle as he pockets the keys. He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is hesitant. 'Dean?'
'Yeah?'
'We could just go to a motel now, if you wanted.'
His chest goes cold as his blood rushes off in opposite directions: half to his cheeks, and half below the belt, because the thought of having Cas alone in a motel room is a little bit too close to some of his more sordid recent fantasies, and goddamit Dean stop crushing on your housemate. That's, like, the First Sexual Commandment of College Life: don't get involved with people you either live with or have serious platonic brofeels for, and especially not both, because that way lies the path of madness and passive-aggressive label-Nazi fights over the last quart of milk and screaming matches when someone brings over a new hookup because you weren't clear enough at the outset and it turns out you have wildly different expectations and literally everything that went wrong when he and Lisa boned in first year and no, no a thousand times no is Dean not going there again with Castiel Novak, even if the guy is hotter than sunstroke.
'Dean?' says Cas, because Dean has apparently forgotten that answering is a thing he should do, and then he tenses up, heart pounding, as Cas puts a hand on his shoulder. 'Will seeing them really be so bad?'
'No,' he mumbles, meaning yes. Which Cas actually gets, because Cas is eerily fluent in Stubborn Winchester. He gives Dean a gentle squeeze, long fingers stroking softly across his collarbone before the hand withdraws, and Dean sucks in a raggedy breath. Fuck my life, he thinks. And especially fuck Thanksgiving.
'Come on,' he says, and finally unbuckles his seatbelt. 'Let's get this crapshoot over with.'
*
'So, Castiel,' says John Winchester, who keeps determinedly using Cas's full name despite the four times Dean's corrected him on it, because wilfully making relatives and guests uncomfortable over the pumpkin pie is an all-American holiday tradition. 'What is it you're studying again? English or something?'
Dean resists the urge to facepalm, jaw clenched as Cas says, with more politeness than Dean could possibly muster in the face of similar provocation, 'Actually, I'm majoring in philosophy.'
Manfully, Sam tries and fails to join the conversation. 'That sounds –'
'There much of a market in that?' says John, blithely talking over the top of his younger son.
Cas's smile is wide and pleasant. 'Is there much of a market in sporting memorabilia?'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
Dean barely stifles a groan. 'Maybe we should go outside –'
'Well,' says Cas, determinedly ignoring the out, 'I noticed you have a lot of signed jersies in the den, along with other related items, and presumably you spent money to acquire them because they bring you pleasure, but that doesn't make them inherently valuable; to people who don't follow your teams, or your sports, they'd be worthless. The point isn't their market value; it's what they mean to you, personally. And –' he hesitates, finally catching on to the fact that John looks slightly murderous, '– well, I suppose philosophy is like that to me, too. Worthless to a lot of people, but valuable to me.' And he drops his gaze, blushing slightly as he spoons pie into his mouth.
The ensuing silence is the second-most awkward of the day thus far, topped only by the gaping chasm of mute shock produced when Sam announced that he'd like to take a year off to travel before going to college.
'Would anyone like more pie?' asks Mary, just a little too brightly.
Already stuffed to bursting, Dean fakes a smile for his mother. 'Sure thing,' he says, and as Cas's shoulders hunch in embarrassment, he thinks, Kill me now.
*
After lunch, they're given a tour of the house – or rather, the house's latest renovations. Ever since Dean left for college, his parents have entered into a sort of quiet, determined war over how to best make use of his now-empty room, and slowly but surely, the battleground has expanded to encompass the rest of the dwelling. Initially, John claimed the room in the name of Extra Garage Space, but was forced to beat a tactical retreat after the Great Oily Car Parts Fiasco of 2012, which lead to Mary planting the flag for Sewing and Crafts. Acting under a banner of truce, John installed what Dean has come to think of as sleeper shelves, inasmuch as they gave his father a covert toehold in his mother's space; tools began creeping back into the room, and Mary had looked set to lose it all until she hit on the cunning tactic of suggesting that if John could put up shelves in her room, then he could certainly do the same for himself in the laundry.
Thus stymied, John retaliated by transforming the laundry into such a nice workspace that Mary began to covet it herself. John agreed to a trade, but failed to take into account the fact that the laundry was warmer in winter, and so lobbied for new insulation in the entire roof to improve his upstairs lair. Mary allowed the insulation on the proviso that John finally redid the bathroom like she'd always wanted, and Dean's pretty sure there were a few more bargains and counter-bargains made to explain various other new furnishings past that point, but it's such a weirdly Byzantine arrangement that he's long since lost track of it all, except that every time he comes home, the place looks a little less recognisable, and there's always something he's not allowed to touch, or which – worse still – he's roped into trying to alter. He doesn't know how Sam puts up with it; but then, his brother's always been calmer than him.
'We're doing the kitchen next,' says Mary.
'That, or putting on an extra room,' says John. He raises an eyebrow at Dean. 'Y'know, Dean, I could always use an extra hand during the holidays, once I start in on the real work. It'd do you good to keep your eye in, make sure you've got some options open at the end of all this.'
Dean feels his stomach sink. He'd been hoping to avoid this particular talk, but evidently not. 'What's that supposed to mean?' he asks; but of course, he already knows.
John sighs. 'Look, son, you know how proud I was of you getting accepted to college, but we both know you're more of a hands-on man than a thinker. I'm all for new experiences, but at the end of the day, carpentry's a solid career, and what with all that debt you're racking up, you're gonna need a skillset to fall back on.'
'I don't understand,' says Cas, looking between them. His brows are drawn together in puzzlement, and Dean tries to mouth at him to let it go, but either his friend doesn't notice or he doesn't care, because just like before, he keeps right on going. 'Engineering has always seemed like a fairly hands-on career to me. Why should Dean need to fall back on something else?'
John crosses his arms and squares off against Cas, chin lifted to emphasise his greater height, because apparently bullshit macho posturing isn't just a young man's game: it's a lifestyle. 'Excuse me, Castiel, but I think I know my son a bit better than you. There's no shame in admitting his limitations –'
'Limitations?'
'– and I'd rather see him come home with his head held high than flunk out more in debt than he has to be, just to prove some stupid point.'
Everyone goes still. Dean stares at the floor, fists clenched and shame in his throat, willing Cas not to say anything stupid. From the corner of his eye, he can see the sympathetic grimace on Sam's face, the frozen concern on his mother's, and he doesn't blame either of them for not rushing to his defence, because they both know how it'll go if they do – which is to say, exactly like the last two Thanksgivings; which is to say, badly – and even though they haven't said as much out loud, the three of them have exchanged enough meaningful glances since Dean and Cas arrived to have formed a tacit pact around avoiding a repeat performance.
Dean makes himself look up, and when he does, his heart jerks sideways a little bit, because Cas looks furious, red-faced and unmoving despite John's looming incursion into his personal space. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can marshal the right words, Dean reaches out and touches his wrist and says, softly, 'Cas. It's OK.'
Cas's head whips around. He stares at Dean, those stupidly blue eyes scanning his face before flicking back at John. There's a heavily pregnant pause, and then Cas seems to wilt. Taking a quiet breath, he ducks his head, and says, more calmly, 'You said something about the kitchen?'
'Yes,' says Mary, in a tone of obvious relief, 'come on through, I'll show you what we have planned –' and then they're moving again, John turning slowly to stride down the hall while Dean and Cas trail behind.
Dean doesn't realise he's shaking until Cas takes his hand to still it.
'Are you all right?' he murmurs, too low for the others to hear.
'I'm fine, Cas.' Dean's palm burns at the contact – and later, once his ears have stopped ringing, he's going to sit down and overanalyze the shit out of this, because hand-touching is new territory for the two of them, and it would be so easy to just lace their fingers together and tug Cas in for a kiss, except for the part where that's a monumentally bad idea because Cas is still his housemate and his parents are right fucking there – and so he pulls away, and heads staunchly into the kitchen.
'I want to redo everything,' his mother says, firmly back in decorator mode as she gestures at the cupboards. 'New appliances, new benches – something a bit more modern.'
'There's nothing wrong with traditional kitchens,' says John, with the sharp, half-quirked smile that says this is an old argument he nonetheless plans on winning. 'Wood makes the place feel warm.'
'Well, I'm sure that's easy for you to say,' says Mary, archly, 'when you're not the one who has to try and clean it all.' She turns her back, putting cling film over the pie dish and tucking it in the fridge, Sam's teenage snigger not quite hidden by the sound of the door opening.
John humphs, glaring at Sam, who feigns innocence. 'I pull my weight around here.'
'Of course you do,' says Mary, 'but that doesn't change the fact that metal is easier to clean than wood. Stainless steel, that's what I'd like – fridge, counters, appliances.'
'Very space age,' says Sam, grinning at Dean, who somehow finds the energy to grin back.
'Stainless steel is what swanky city idiots buy because they've got no imagination,' John says. 'Hardwood has more character.'
'Says the carpenter.' Mary rolls her eyes.
'Says the only one in this room who knows anything about construction,' John counters, and Dean doesn't have to look to know that Cas has tensed up again, because Dean is an engineer with as much of a background in building things as his father could force down his throat, and maybe it's not an intentional slight, but it sure as hell feels like one. 'Stainless steel will cost a fortune, and then you'll spend the rest of your life getting pissy every time someone leaves their fingerprints on it. Which will be every damn day, because stainless steel doesn't wipe down half so easy as you seem to think. You want to upgrade, hardwood is the way to go.'
Mary's head snaps up; she doesn't like it when John calls her pissy – it is, in the Winchester household, what spaghetti westerns would call a fightin' word – and Dean is on the point of interjecting when someone else beats him to it.
'Oh, I don't know,' Cas drawls, looking John straight in the eye. 'I bought myself a stainless steel butt plug, and it's pretty easy to clean.'
The silence evoked by Sam's post-educational wanderlust is as nothing to the cold and crystalline void this comment leaves in its wake. Dean thinks time has actually broken, suspending him between heartbeats in some awful sort of slow motion, forcing him to watch as his mother's hand flies to her mouth; as Sam's face is steadily transfigured by a scandalized, laugh-imminent grin; as his father turns an increasingly apoplectic shade of red, jaw working in futile search for a suitable comeback, and all the while Cas just stands there, smiling his ridiculous wry smile and looking squintily pleased with himself.
And then the moment breaks, and it finally dawns on Dean that holy shit Cas just defended my honour with a stainless steel butt plug, which is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened in the entire history of things, and he collapses into helpless paroxysms of laughter, shaking and wheezing and gasping as he leans on the wall for balance. Sam joins in, head thrown back as he brays in uncontrolled teenage hilarity, and even Mary cracks a smile behind her hand, and it doesn't matter that John starts roaring at the pair of them to get out from under his roof, because he shouldn't have to tolerate that sort of disrespect in his own home; the yelling only makes the rest of them laugh harder, and when Cas says, as calm as if he isn't actually killing them all, 'Oh, I'm sorry – is the stick up your ass made from hardwood, too? I'm sure it's suitably warm, but maybe that's more a consequence of its location than any inherent charm,' Dean is actually reduced to tears, crying with laughter as he grabs a hold of Cas and drags him at a half-run out of the house before his father murders them both.
'Thanks for the pie, Mrs Winchester!' Cas calls over his shoulder, and then they're outside, staggering over to the Impala, and Dean is still laughing so hard that he can barely stand up, which somehow leads to him shoving Cas up against the passenger side door and looping his arms around his neck for balance, cackling into his shoulder.
'Oh my fucking god,' he gasps, delighted and thrilled and terrified and shaking, 'oh my fucking god, Cas, I can't believe you said that to my dad! What the hell, man!' And he lifts his head and grins at him, panting as he tries to get his breathing back under control.
Cas's smile is almost shy, and it's at this exact moment that Dean realises his friend's hands are on his hips, thumbs stroking gently against the bones, the contact shooting through him like electricity.
'He was belittling you, Dean,' says Cas. 'He deserved to be shaken up.' And then the smile turns wicked, Cas's blue eyes burning as he leans in close, his mouth beside Dean's ear. 'And besides, I wasn't lying.'
'Holy fuck,' Dean whispers, shuddering as Cas's lips brush lightly against his neck, and before he can think better of it, he slides his hands down to cup Cas's jaw and drags him in for a kiss. Cas moans filthily into his mouth and tugs him closer, their bodies flush as Dean presses him back against the car, and it's everything he's been fantasising about since the first day they met and then some, hot and deep and absolutely perfect.
Panting, they pull apart for air, and Dean is just coherent enough to raise an eyebrow and say, casually breathless, 'So, uh. We going to find a motel or what?'
Cas chuckles, pressing a kiss to his jaw. 'For starters, yes.' And then, hands stroking reverently up Dean's sides, 'God, do you have any idea how long I've been waiting to do that?'
'Too long,' Dean says, and greedily pulls him in again, slipping a hand into Cas's pocket – which action elicits a happy gasp – and dragging out the car keys. He breaks away, jingling them triumphantly, and Cas makes a face.
'Aren't I driving?'
'Hell yeah, you are,' says Dean, and grins as he kisses his ear. 'Just not the car.'
It takes Cas a moment to get it, but when he does, he groans in anticipation, swiping at Dean's ass as he ducks around to the driver's side and lets himself in.
'Drive fast,' he says, hungrily.
Dean does.