#however I am not prepared to watch cold hard cash fly out of my hands. I'm miserable

[sxlphie]

Bought a very beautiful vintage dress which ended up being quite baggy in the back 💀 I think tomorrow I will have to accept my fate and take it to be altered (💸)

[whelvenwings]

Under the Mistletoe

read it here on AO3 if you prefer!! Merry happy to all, I hope you enjoy my Christmas fic for this year <3

Summary: Dean and Castiel are locked in deadly combat, a battle that has raged for three years - a prank war that's been their Christmas tradition since their romance catastrophically failed to launch. Since they both work at the same huge grocery store, it's easy for things to get a little out of hand. This Christmas, however, things might not be as simple as covering up a fire they started in the dairy aisle; this year, Castiel is trying to deal with the fact that Christmas doesn't quite feel like Christmas anymore.

Also, Dean decided to wear mistletoe to work.

*********

The phone rang and Castiel, half into and half out of his horrible synthetic work sweater, groaned loudly.

He tried to fight off the blue acrylic nightmare as he searched half-blind for his mobile, knocking over a teetering pile of books and putting his foot through the wrapping on a large, beribboned gift as he stumbled across his room. Shedding the sweater at last, he threw it hard at the wall and located his phone by the light of it coming from under his bed. Of course.

With a huff, he dropped to his knees, grabbed for the phone, and read the name on the screen. Bestest Biggest Bro, it read; behind the letters was a close-up picture of a bent elbow, a contact picture that Castiel certainly hadn’t chosen.

“Gabriel,” he said, injecting his voice with as much happiness as he could as soon as he picked up. It wasn’t a lot. “Everything OK?”

He sat down on the floor, his back up against the side of his bed, phone pressed to his ear - and prepared to be irritated.

“Does something need to be wrong for me to want to call my little brother on Christmas?” Gabriel’s voice sounded tinny and distant on the line, and Castiel squinted as he struggled to understand.

“No,” Castiel said. But you mostly only call me when you need something, these days, he didn’t say.

“Did you like what I set my contact pic as? It’s my -”

“Elbow, Gabriel. I know it’s your elbow.”

Gabriel sighed deeply. “Come on, Cassie. It could have been my butt.”

“I saw you taking the -”

“Cassie. Come on. It’s Christmas. ”

Castiel sighed, heavily.

“It could have been your butt,” he conceded in a flat, weary voice. Gabriel snorted, and Castiel rolled his eyes. “Happy?”

“Sure, I’m happy. I’m sipping a margarita in Malibu. Like, this is the dream.”

“Same dream you’ve been having since you were sixteen, then,” Castiel said dryly, toying with a loose thread on the pair of jeans discarded on his floor nearby. “Don’t you ever want to spend Christmas anywhere else?”

“What, like whatever hellhole it is you’re in?” Gabriel chuckled. “No, thank you so much. I will take two large orders of nuh-uh and a supersize side of nope.”

“Massachusetts isn’t a hellhole,” Castiel pointed out. “It’s beautiful. And -”

“Aaaaand you have the unparalleled opportunity to take instruction from the finest minds in the anglophonic world,” Gabriel reeled off, quickly, bored. “Yeah, yeah, I listen. Occasionally. Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” Castiel said, a little warmth creeping into his voice. Gabriel was an asshole, but he was Castiel’s asshole brother, and he wasn’t that bad. “So, why’d you call?”

“Mostly to make you look at the butt pic.”

Scratch that, Castiel thought, he really is that bad. He pulled the phone away from his ear to quickly check the time on it - late, of course. He rolled to his feet and headed towards the bathroom.

“No, I’m just…” On the phone, Gabriel trailed off, sounding diffident for once.

“Just?”

“Just checking in. Christmas was always your thing. Like, you would actually pull your head out of your books for two seconds and open presents and eat candy canes and, like, actually smile. ”

“I’m still smiling,” Castiel said. He pushed open the door to the bathroom and gave the mirror a wan half-grimace, so that it was true.

“You still love Christmas?”

“I still…” Castiel closed his eyes, and sighed, and poured his best attempt at sincerity into his voice. “Of course I still love Christmas.”

“You sure? Because, you know, if they aren’t treating you right at big-boy school, bigger boy Gabriel can come and get you. This makes three Christmases without you, I’d go the whole works to get you here if you wanted, no expenses spared.” Gabriel put on a dreadful French accent for the last few words, for a reason that Castiel couldn’t fathom. “It’s not too late to send the jet down to you and -”

“No!” Castiel burst out, and then pressed his index finger to his lips for a second, regathering himself. “No, really. It’s fine. I’m fine. I already have lots of - uh - festive things to do. Of course, I’ve planned very hard for this, since it’s my favourite time of year.”

He closed his eyes, crossed his fingers, and hoped.

“... OK,” Gabriel said, sounding convinced, and Castiel breathed out a sigh of relief. “Well, I guess I’ll let you go attend to your Christmas festivities, feasting and gifting et cetera, et cetera, eggnog. Take care of yourself. Oh, you got enough cash to treat yourself to something nice, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Castiel said, trying as hard as he could to sound completely at ease.

“Why do you always talk like a candy cane got lodged somewhere unsavoury? I can send -”

“No, Gabe, I don’t need anything.” Castiel could hear the slight edge to his tone, the potential for it to drift into petulance. He cleared his throat, and tried again, his voice deeper. “I don’t need anything.”

“You sure?”

“I got this,” Castiel confirmed, and rang off.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror - half into his work uniform, his hair a mess, bags under his eyes, and an hours-long shift ahead of him. Christmas festivities? Sure.

“I don’t got this,” he confided to himself, and shook his head, and went to look for his sweater.

***

Half an hour’s drive across town, Dean Winchester was humming to himself as he combed his hair.

“... mmmmhmm mmhmmmmmm, singin’ a song, walkin’ in a winter - dammit.” He shook his head as if to dislodge something, and determinedly set his lips closed as he kept combing.

Ten seconds later, he was humming the same song again.

“... mmmmhmm valley we can build a snowman… mmmmhmmm hmm that he is mmmmmhm Brown…”

“HE’LL SAY ARE YOU MARRIED, WE’LL SAY NO, MAN,” burst in a second voice, at the same time as Dean’s bedroom door crashed open. Dean gave a little yelp of fear and thrust out his hand, comb-first, at his carolling assailant - who was tall, and lanky, and grinning all over his face.

“Sam -”

“Oh, God, no,” Sam said, eyeing the comb with mock-fear. “Please, sir, it’s Christmas. I’m too young to get… combed to death.”

“Sam,” Dean said, still aiming the comb right at him, “you got that dumb song in my head, and you just scared the crap out of me. I’m sorry, kid, your days on this Earth are over.” He shook his head sadly, levelled the comb - and then pulled it back sharply as though recoiling from a shot. “PEW.”

“Oh, GOD, NO,” Sam said, clutching his chest. “RIGHT THROUGH THE HEART. OH, THE PAIN. AND ON CHRISTMAS. IS THAT MY LIFE FLASHING BEFORE MY EYES, OR IS IT THE FAIRY LIGHTS REFLECTING OFF THE COLD STEEL OF YOUR BETRAYAL. Oh, Dean… Dean, my favourite brother…” He staggered forwards, and grabbed the hem of Dean’s work shirt. “Dean… you must… make this right…”

“I swear, I won’t rest until the comb that did this is snapped in two,” Dean swore, grasping for his brother’s hand, and shaking it. “I swear.”

“You… asshole…” Sam whispered dramatically, and then collapsed to the floor.

“And… scene, ” Dean said, turning back to his mirror and pushing his comb through his hair one last time. “Beautiful work, really. You made me really believe I’d actually finally got rid of you.”

“As if I’d let it be that easy,” Sam snorted, propping his head on his hand and grinning up at Dean from the floor. “I’m practically indestructible.”

Dean spritzed himself under each arm with his deodorant, and chucked the can at his brother’s head. Sam caught it, inches from his face.

“What was that?” he demanded. “Slowest throw ever. ”

“Worth a try,” Dean countered, tucking his shirt in.

“Do, or do not. There is no try,” Sam said, attempting a creaky Yoda-like voice. Dean couldn’t help a laugh escaping as he checked his hair for roughly the hundredth time that morning.

“Mmmhm lane, snow is glistening… a beautiful sight, we’re - oh, come on. You owe me brain bleach for playing that to me last night.” Sam grinned - but his smile faded as Dean checked his watch and blinked at it.

“So… what time do you think you’ll be back?” Sam said, false-bright.

“Oh, you know, never maybe,” Dean said casually. “Like, I might just leave you to the wolves.”

“Ha, ha,” Sam said. “And actually?”

“Actually… as soon as I can. Should be at ten. Sooner, if I can persuade my favourite coworker to cover for me.”

“Your favourite… oh, ” Sam said, a whole new kind of smirk appearing on his face. “Is Castiel working today?”

“He sure is. As if my Christmas wasn’t already going to be joyful enough,” Dean rolled his eyes.

“I was wondering why you were doing your hair. Oh, is this why you stole some of next door’s mistletoe off their porch last night?”

“I - what?!” Dean demanded, deciding to go with affronted and offended as his best defence. “That’s… that’s ridiculous , Sam. And I am not doing my hair for him . I hate him, you know that. The guy’s an asshole.”

“Uh huh. Sure. Oh, look, there! Out the window!”

“What?” Dean spun around on instinct, peering out past the glass. “What?!”

“It’s flying pigs! I guess Santa must have swapped them for the reindeer this year.” Sam grinned, and Dean reached for his comb.

“Don’t make me shoot you twice in one morning,” he said threateningly.

“I’m already dead, what are you gonna do?”

“Shoot you in the head, zombie boy.” He leaned down and ruffled Sam’s hair as he passed on the way out the door, and Sam fought him off half-heartedly. “Don’t open the door to strangers.”

“Does that include you?”

“Sammy, you should know by now,” Dean called, as he jogged down the stairs, “I’m not stranger. I’m the strangest.”

“Have fun with Castiel!” Sam yelled back. Dean rolled his eyes, hard, and didn’t deign to reply.

***

Castiel walked through the doors of the biggest grocery store in his town, and breathed in the scent of recycled air and plastic. Here he was: home sweet home for the next eleven hours, just as it had been for the last two Christmases in a row.

He headed towards the staff break room, tugging off his scarf as he headed past the customer service desk and the checkouts. He nodded hello’s to Charlie, Jo, and Claire, who waved, grinned, and scowled at him in respective order. They were all standing idle, customers thin on the ground on Christmas Day. And at the end of the line, hands clasped behind his back, stood the figure that Castiel was least keen to see; tall, well-built, irritatingly good-looking and unfathomably annoying, Dean Winchester bounced on his heels and offered Castiel a smug smile in greeting.

“Welcome, Mr Novak,” he said, and nodded his head. Castiel noticed the headgear he had on: a pair of ridiculous antlers, and between them was strung a large amount of -

“Mistletoe?” Castiel said, frowning and coming to a halt near Dean to stare.

“He’s been waiting here for you, wearing it,” Claire said flatly, chewing on some gum and inspecting her nails as she spoke. At the next checkout, Jo sniggered.

“You have?” Castiel said - and the colour rose in his cheeks, and he couldn’t help the way his stomach flipped.

“Sure,” Dean said smoothly. “And may I just say, Mr Novak…” He stepped closer, and put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder; his eyes flicked down to Castiel’s lips and back up. He leaned in slightly, the mistletoe on his antlers dangling between the two of them. Castiel blinked, his heart racing, but didn’t move away; his eyes were tracing over Dean’s face, trying to understand - “May I just say… that this year’s prank war has officially begun.”

Castiel groaned, and shoved Dean away.

Dean fell back a pace, laughing. He shook his antlers, so that the mistletoe danced crazily. “Pranked! See?” he said to Claire, who was watching him stoically and chewing her gum. “See, I told you it was for a prank. And it was a good one.”

Castiel swallowed hard and set his jaw, determined not to show that the prank had thoroughly landed. For a split second there, he’d really thought that Dean had worn the mistletoe to work just so that he could come up to Castiel and have an excuse to - to -

Of course not, though. Castiel chastised himself for being taken in so easily. Meanwhile, Claire was rolling her eyes, and pulling out her phone.

“Come on, it was a good one.” Dean insisted.

“Whatever, old man.”

“She’s too young to understand. She’s just a child,” Dean explained to Castiel, who had been watching him in glowering silence, hoping that he wasn’t blushing and that the pounding of his heart wasn’t somehow perceptible. “But you get it, right, Cas?”

Castiel felt all eyes on him, and opened his mouth. This would have to be good.

“It’s Castiel,” he whipped back. “And no, I don’t ‘get it’. Because for the prank to be a good one, I would have had to actually want you to kiss me. And we all know I’d rather kiss Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’s rear than you.”

Jo snorted; over at the customer service desk, Charlie sucked in an audible breath; Claire looked up from her phone, and gestured towards Castiel with it while looking at Dean.

“See,” she said, “ that was a pretty good one.”

“Phone away while you’re at work,” Castiel said to her, and then turned to go and put his stuff in the break room.

“He’s so much cooler than you,” he heard Claire say to Dean, and smiled to himself. Imagining the look on Dean’s face hearing that was more than Christmas gift enough.

***

“So, now that my first prank has been successfully completed…” Dean said, leaning one elbow on the top of Charlie’s counter at the customer service desk and wiggling his eyebrows at her.

“First prank?” Charlie asked absently, wiping at the monitor of the computer on her desk with a soft cloth to remove the dust.

“The mistletoe, Charlie, the mistletoe. Keep up with me here,” Dean said impatiently. He shook his head so that the antlers, complete with their garnish of mistletoe, wobbled in Charlie’s direction. Without looking over at him, she reached over and whipped them off.

“The mistletoe?” she said.

“Yeah, you know… I just pranked Cas with it.”

“Oh, right, that was a prank. ” Charlie gave him an exaggerated wink - very exaggerated, her whole face getting in on it.

“What?” Dean demanded, flinching internally at his tone - definitely a little too quick and much too defensive. Come on, he begged himself. Be cool.

“Yeah, it was totally a prank,” Charlie said airily. She began to polish her computer monitor again, flapping the cloth casually. “Totally. And you totally weren’t hoping he’d actually kiss you, and you totally haven’t been mooning over him since forever…”

“Jesus, Charlie. Are we actually having this conversation? Seriously?” Dean tried to interrupt, but Charlie was apparently warming to her theme.

“And when we went out for work drinks two Christmases you two totally didn’t spend the whole time flirting with each other only to be too awkward to ever address it again -”

“Hey, I tried to address it!” Dean cut in, stung - and then realised what he’d admitted, and winced.

“Dean…” Charlie leaned over the counter, too busy looking sorry for him to even celebrate her victory. “I’ve seen you play it so smooth with so many people. Dude, you could charm the hind legs off a donkey.”

“Isn’t it - talk the hind legs off a donkey?”

Charlie shrugged, and grinned. “Either way, there’s ass involved, if you know what I mean. But then Castiel comes along, and suddenly you’re, like… how do I put this nicely… a total idiot?”

“Super nice, Charlie, good job.” Dean gave her a sarcastic smile, which slid off her like water down the back of the proverbial duck - she was eyeing him more solemnly than he’d ever seen her do before, the twinkle in her eye almost completely gone.

“How about this. I know the prank war is part of your little tradition, like, it’s awesome. But what if we cut out the part of the tradition where you never get around to actually telling him how you feel? ‘Cause, like, I don’t run your life, but literally, dude… it’s been three years. I’m dying here. Empires are rising and falling. Apple products are being made and breaking, and being repaired and breaking, and being repaired again and breaking again. I’m getting wrinkles. Like, seriously, I have crows’ feet coming in and I call the crows ‘Dean’ and ‘Castiel’. Just. Tell. Him.”

“I just - I don’t want - it’s not -” Dean attempted to start a few different sentences in quick succession, none of them heading anywhere he wanted to go. He swallowed, and avoided Charlie’s eyes. “I can’t.”

Charlie scoffed. “Yeah, sure, you can’t . Did you forget about the donkey?”

“This isn’t just about…” Dean slashed a hand up through the air, cutting his sentence dead. He didn’t need to talk about how he felt. He just needed to ignore it as hard as he possibly could. That way, he might never get to be with Cas, sure - but he would also never lose all hope of being with Cas. And after three years of angrily and reluctantly falling in love, he wasn’t sure he could handle being that hopeless.

“Dean, you need to talk to him,” Charlie said. “And this is coming from me. I’m, like, the queen of finger guns and not saying things.” She pew pew pew ’d a volley of shots at him, to prove her point. Dean smacked his hand on the counter, and began to back away.

“What I need,” he said, “is for you to do that announcement like you said you would. Come on, didn’t I already pay up?”

Charlie pulled a thoughtful face. “I was expecting something fancier. Like, I’ve seen LARPers with genuine swords, and you gave me…”

“Hey, come on, a miniature catapult is better than nothing! It’s got reinforced elastic and a frame made of mahogany, and the -”

“God. You’re such a nerd. Fine, fine , I’m doing the announcement. Go on.” She grinned at him; Dean smiled back winningly and gave her a return pair of finger guns.

“No violence in the workplace,” said the dry voice of Castiel behind him. Spinning around, Dean repressed his immediate urge to stick out his tongue, and tried to come to a stop in a cool way so that he could put his hand on his hip and have a cool conversation with Castiel where he would provide witticisms and sarcasm and irony, and generally be very aloof and desirable.

He wobbled, half-fell, and - somehow, cruelly, from the pit of his brain - there arose the phrase, “Oopsie-doodle!”

Castiel blinked at him, apparently caught between amusement and confusion, and seemed to decide not to engage. He carried along on his way, arms full of boxes.

Behind him, Charlie said, “How’s that donkey, Dean?”

“Super,” Dean growled, and walked off.

***

Castiel dropped the stack of cardboard boxes in the trash, and dusted off his hands. He made a mental note to send another email to management asking about implementing a recycling policy, and headed back inside.

Oopsie-doodle? his brain said softly to itself, and Castiel did his best to ignore it. Every now and then, Dean stopped being an asshole just long enough to be flustered and sweet, and Castiel hated how much he liked that.

Back on the shop floor, he dodged around a couple of customers as unobtrusively as he could and headed back to aisle seven, where he was planning to stack up the dairy shelves.

“Hey, where’s the sugar?” demanded a big guy in an oversized leather jacket walking down aisle six. Castiel repressed his instinctive response - oh, aren’t you sweet enough? - and calmly gave the man directions. He wasn’t thanked.

“Happy holidays,” Castiel said half-heartedly to the man’s back, and returned his thoughts to the dairy shelves.

“This is a staff announcement,” said Charlie’s voice over the tannoy, crackly and emotionless. “Urgent cleanup on aisle nine, please.”

Castiel stopped, and sighed, and allowed himself a brief moment of internal exasperation before stepping out smartly in the direction of aisle nine. He was sure to be the closest worker, and Charlie would see it on her monitor if he didn’t go sort it out; and he’d made a point, ever since his promotion, to be a store manager who wasn’t too good to do any job.

Unfortunately, that occasionally meant that he had to slop a watery old mop over copious amounts of spilled mayonnaise.

“Study at Harvard!” Castiel muttered under his breath as he rounded the corner to aisle nine. “It’s nothing but glamour, sophistication, and -”

He came to a dead halt.

On the floor, in a pool of red that was slowly seeping larger and larger, was a person.

Castiel heard himself make a noise, deep and wordless and full of horror; he ran the last few steps over to the body, and dropped to his knees in the spreading slick of scarlet liquid, and reached out a hand to place it on the chest of a man -

Seeing the face for the first time, Castiel felt his whole world shudder.

Dean.

“Oh, God, no -” he managed to get out, wretchedly -

And then Dean’s face moved; those green eyes cracked open, and his body convulsed. For a second, Castiel thought that he was having some kind of fit - and then he heard the noise Dean was making.

Laughter. Dean was laughing.

“You - you -” Castiel scuffled away from Dean’s body, grabbing onto the nearest shelf and using it to pull himself upright. His knees felt weak; his world was still churning. He watched Dean, who looked insufferably smug and full of jollity as he pulled himself to his feet.

“Pranked! I can’t believe that worked,” Dean said, through his laughter. “Jesus, Cas, you should’ve seen your face.”

“You - you absolute -” Castiel couldn’t seem to get a grip on himself long enough to find a word bad enough. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the moment he’d seen Dean’s face, completely still and calm and void, pale against the red of the blood.

“Hope you like ketchup,” Dean said, jerking his head towards Castiel’s knees, his laughter finally subsiding.

Castiel looked down, and saw that the ketchup had completely soaked the material; he’d be needing a change of clothes.

I honestly didn’t think anything could make me hate Christmas more than I did this morning, Castiel thought. And I was very, very wrong.

Out loud, he said, “I’m sending you my dry-cleaning bill.”

Dean shrugged. “Sure, man,” he said. “If you want it to never get paid.”

Castiel was about to retort, but he was cut off by a baleful voice coming from further down the aisle. Claire, striding down the shiny floor and chewing her gum, met Castiel’s eyes as she held out a mop.

“Charlie says you’ll be needing this,” she said. “And Dean, she said yours is in the break room. You don’t deserve to have it brought to you.”

“I don’t deserve to clean this up at all!” Castiel protested, finding his voice at last. “This was all him. ”

“ Him has to go and change,” Dean said easily. “I got a little something on my back.” He turned, and Castiel saw that he was dripping with ketchup from head to toe.

“Hurry,” he growled, and Dean grinned at him - damn that smile - before walking away.

Castiel began to mop the floor with a vengeance. Dean Winchester, and his ridiculous Christmas prank war and his stupid plans and his stupid face. Lying dead on the floor. Laughing. Lying dead on the floor. Laughing. Castiel wasn’t even sure why it bothered him so much, the sight of Dean like that, bloody and still. There was a twist in his chest that felt like an echo of someone else’s feeling - as though he’d seen that blood and stillness before, somewhere else. Maybe in another life.

The thought was too grand for the sauces and condiments aisle. He tried to return his focus to the wet slap of the mop onto the floor, desultory and ordinary.

It was only then that he realised Claire was still standing nearby, fiddling with some bottles of ranch whilst keeping half an eye on him.

“What?” Castiel asked, frowning. His shoulders sagged. “Do I have some ketchup on my face?”

“You like him, right?” Claire said baldly, watching the ranch bottles. Castiel went still.

“Who?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Claire flicked her gaze over to him, big blue eyes taking no prisoners.

“So, tell him?” she said, like it was that easy. “What’s the big deal? He’s just, like… a guy.”

Castiel began mopping again, to give his hands something to do. Claire took advantage of the fact that he wasn’t looking at her to turn towards him more fully.

“I can’t like him,” Castiel ground out. “When he’s not being unnecessarily mean, he’s either being stupid or he’s being rude. He’s not - he’s just not -”

“Didn’t he once come into work literally half an hour after clocking off, just because you asked him to cover for you?” Claire said.

Castiel mopped.

“Isn’t this the same guy who puts little old ladies on his arm and walks them personally to the right aisle when they’re lost? The same guy who kept a packet of your favourite cookies out back for you last Christmas so that you still had some even though we sold out?”

Castiel mopped harder.

“He’s not a jerk. He’s just a guy doing a bad impression of one. Trust me,” Claire said, “I know the difference.”

Castiel stood up straight, and met her eyes.

“Why do you care?” he said - but gently. She was only a kid, after all.

“I don’t,” Claire said at once, rattlesnake-fast. “Just… whatever.” She walked away; at the end of the aisle, she turned back. “You know, I make that two pranks to none,” she said. “You’re losing.”

Castiel gripped the handle of his mop, and the smallest of smiles flickered over his features.

“Not for long,” he said quietly.

***

Dean finished changing, and headed back out onto the shop floor. He helped a few customers, restocked a few shelves, attempted and failed to get his mistletoe antlers back from Charlie - she had them hidden behind her desk.

He waited. He knew that there had to be some kind of mischief headed his way. Castiel wouldn’t let a pair of pranks like that go unavenged. Half-nervous, half-eager, Dean kept his eye out for anything unusual. Maybe Castiel would sneak up behind him and blast Africa by Toto, like he’d done two years ago. Or maybe he’d make another box of cupcakes spiked with chili. Or maybe he’d plant another fire alarm in Dean’s pocket, and then deliberately set it off with another fire in aisle thirteen -

That had been pretty wild. The cover-up for that one had been intense; it was amazing what the pair of them could get done when they worked together and didn’t want to lose their jobs.

The point was, whatever was coming Dean’s way - he knew it was going to be good.

But nothing seemed to happen. For a whole hour, he was left alone to work. He stocked shelves, wary of any hidden surprises waiting in the store room or among the produce - but it was all perfectly normal. He moved from the food aisles to the cosmetics aisle to the entertainment section, and gave up checking over his shoulder every few minutes.

Another uninterrupted fifteen minutes passed. This was boring. Dean put down the stack of DVDs he’d been restocking and wended his way up and down a few aisles, trying to walk as aimlessly as he could.

“Castiel is in aisle eighteen,” said Jo, as she passed him.

“I wasn’t -”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” She kept walking, ignoring his protests. Dean swung his arms out to the sides exasperatedly, and shook his head - and then shrugged, and made his way to aisle eighteen.

After all, if everyone expected him to go and find Castiel, to the point where they weren’t even interested in hearing that he wasn’t trying to find Castiel  - well, in that case, going and finding him would barely be giving them satisfaction. It’d just be doing what they thought he should be doing.

It was a tenuous logic, but Dean didn’t scrutinise it too hard. It was a logic that would win him some more time with Castiel, in which he could possibly make back some cool points after the Oopsie-Doodle Incident.

When Dean rounded the corner to aisle eighteen, however, he found Castiel standing with a huge pile of festive things in his arms, groaning under the weight and obviously trying to figure out how to put the whole lot down. The pile towered above Castiel’s head, glittering and sparkling under the fluorescent strip lighting overhead.

“Cas?!” Dean said, moving forward instinctively with his own arms out, ready to help. Castiel turned, and almost lost his grip on the whole lot. “Hey - no, wait - come here, let me -”

“Take, uh - take this,” Castiel grunted, half-dropping a big, bright red coat into Dean’s arms. “And - and this -” He tipped a big, beribboned box after the coat. “And this -”

“Wait, wait...” Dean looked around for somewhere to drop the coat and the box, but they were standing in one of the furniture aisles and every surface he could see had Christmas decorations or sale signs scattered all over. “Uh…” In a flurry, he swung the big red coat over his shoulders and gripped the box more firmly; Castiel let another one fall, and Dean caught it. The pair of parcels were so big that he couldn’t even fit his arms around them, and they were incredibly heavy; the second box had blue wrapping and a big gold bow.

“What - is - in these?” Dean panted, and only then noticed that Castiel had dropped everything else he’d been holding, letting it fall to the floor like it didn’t even matter. “Wha-”

Slowly, Castiel smiled - and Dean drew in a breath as he realised too late that he’d made a big, big mistake.

Castiel pushed him. Dean lost his balance; the giant parcels he was holding didn’t help - and next thing he knew, his feet were out from under him and he was falling backwards. He braced himself, clenched his eyes shut, gripped the boxes more firmly purely by instinct to keep them safe; and when he landed, safe in the gentle hammock of a deck chair on sale, it took him a moment to crack one eye open and verify that he hadn’t, in fact, actually and ironically met his death a mere hour after faking it.

He seemed to be alive - and he also seemed to be having something forced over the top of his head, and dragged down over his face. He frowned, and tried to struggle against the weight of the huge boxes on his lap.

Snap.

Dean looked up, disoriented, to see Castiel taking a picture with his phone and smiling down at it smugly.

“Uhhhhhh,” he managed. “No - what? Is this…?”

“Pranked,” said Castiel smoothly, airily. He turned his phone around for Dean to see. “It’s a good look on you.”

Dean glared up at the phone screen, peering through the - the thing, whatever it was, on his face - and seeing an image of himself in a big fluffy red coat, holding a couple of presents, wearing a large fake white beard and Santa hat combo along with an expression that was somewhere between dazed and horrified. His mouth was indignantly half-open, his eyebrows were pulled down, and one of his eyes was half-squinting, the other wide open and wild.

Dean only realised that Castiel’s shoulders were shaking with silent laughter because the phone was moving up and down. He leaned out and kicked at Castiel’s shin half-heartedly, trying to look appropriately angry. He refused to see the funny side, here.

“You asshole,” he griped. “Get this - get all this crap off me, you jerk. Come on, help me!”

“You look... “ Castiel managed, and turned the phone around to look at it again himself - and then his little snorts of laughter resumed. Dean had never seen Castiel so at the mercy of his own sense of humour; normally, the guy would barely crack a smile, even at the best of his pranks.

Just the sight of it was enough to make Dean want to laugh, too, but he forced back the urge. Instead, he tried to reach up an arm from behind the overlarge gift boxes and tug off his beard and hat. He managed to succeed in getting it caught over both eyes.

“You look -” Castiel tried again, and then he must have looked up and seen what Dean had done to himself, because he completely lost it; Dean could hear him huffing with laughter, occasionally letting out a snort. It was the quietest, strangest, least dignified laugh that Dean had ever heard, and it was completely infectious. He couldn’t help it; he broke, and let his own laughter escape.

“Let me - let me -” Castiel got out, and Dean felt hands tugging at the beard. “It’s - you’ve got it stuck -”

Their laughter got louder. Dean bent over, and rested his bearded face on one of the presents. “You got me stuck in a Santa beard,” he said, his voice a little higher pitched than usual through the laughter. “You’ve ruined my Christmas!”

“You are Christmas!” Castiel said, pulling behind Dean’s ears.

“No, no, you’re bending my ear, you’re bending my - ow, no, let me do it, take one of these stupid presents -”

“It’s almost -”

“I’m gonna drop it on your foot, you asshole, what did you put in these? How long have you been planning this?”

“Since last Christmas,” Castiel said, “obviously. I smuggled them in through the back. There were supposed to be three, but I accidentally put my foot through one of them this morning. I blame my brother.”

“I blame you. For everything.”

“All’s fair in…” Castiel said, and his voice dropped for a second, and then quickly picked back up. “... war. Prank wars, especially.”

“Am I nearly out?” Dean said, still completely unable to see.

“Just - looped it - yes!” Castiel said triumphantly, freeing Dean from his fluffy white prison and throwing the thing away. It fell to the floor a few yards away, looking like a sad yet festive furry animal.

Dean dropped the heavy parcels to the ground, and they made a noise like falling rubble as they landed. Ignoring this for the moment, Dean held out his hand for Castiel’s phone to see the picture again. Castiel, his eyes bright, showed him the snap - but kept the phone just out of Dean’s reach. He’d learned since last year, then, Dean thought ruefully, remembering how easy it had been to delete a picture of himself doing something that had looked a lot like drinking from a bottle of rum in front of a horrified-looking middle-aged woman with a let-me-speak-to-your-manager haircut.

This picture was almost worse than it had seemed at first glance. Dean didn’t think he’d ever seen himself look so utterly absurd. Castiel was laughing again, nearly-silently, shaking his head.

“Rocks, by the way,” Castiel said. He put his phone away, and offered Dean a hand to help him get up. “There are just rocks in the boxes.”

Dean considered spitting on Castiel’s hand - but instead, he allowed himself to take it.

It was warm, and strong, and Dean’s stomach swooped.

“You asshole,” he managed to say out loud - except the tone was all wrong. He said it like it was a good thing, like he was being affectionate and not irritated. He swallowed and quickly added, “You better delete it. Like, now.” Short, blunt, annoyed. Much better.

“No,” Castiel said frankly. “I’m going to go and show it to everyone.” He smiled - a good Castiel smile, eyes sharp and full of fun, lips pulled into a little smirk. Damn that smile.

“Please?” Dean tried, as Castiel began to walk away.

It didn’t work.

***

“This is a staff announcement,” said a crackly voice over Castiel’s head. “Could Castiel please bring five of our beautiful Golden ‘O’ For Her rings to the customer service desk.”

Castiel sighed, and put his phone away. He’d been looking at the photo again - he couldn’t stop enjoying that ridiculous look on Dean’s face, the way he looked so completely thrown. Cracks in Dean’s cool asshole facade always warmed Castiel’s heart, and this one was a giant fault line of a crack; it was absurd to feel it, and Castiel knew it, but he found it almost painfully endearing that in the photo Dean was so utterly unguarded. He didn’t look especially handsome or charming. He looked natural and silly and full of - full of feelings, full all the way to the top.

Castiel had never felt more in love with him. It was so frustrating.

His mind fell back to those work drinks, two years ago, when they’d spent the whole evening - as Castiel had thought - flirting with each other. They’d swapped numbers; Castiel had hoped that Dean would text first - but he didn’t. He’d eventually sent Dean a text late the next day that said, Hello, Dean. This is Castiel. I listened to some music by the band you recommended and I especially liked ‘Kashmir’.

He’d received, in reply, haha nice.

He hadn’t texted again. That was such a blatant shut-down that even Castiel, famed for missing social cues, couldn’t miss it. The next time they’d had a shift together, Dean had come straight up to him - Castiel’s heart had thudded painfully in his chest with sudden hope - but all Dean had said was, you know, my mom liked my dad because of his appreciation of Led Zep.

Castiel, of course, had said oh, that’s nice. And they’d stared at each other for a few seconds, and then he’d walked away. What was he supposed to say, after his text being thoroughly rejected and then Dean’s opener being all hey, have this fun fact about my family! Tune back in next time for information about my mother and father’s music taste.

And they hadn’t got along, at all, ever since. The best way that Castiel knew how to cover his feelings was to be overly dry and caustic, and Dean seemed to thoroughly enjoy being a total jerk in return. Mostly it worked; it was just at times like these, when Castiel was forcibly reminded that Dean was still very much the sweet, kind, nerdy guy he’d flirted with at work drinks, that it felt thin.

“This is a staff announcement,” said the voice on the tannoy, for a second time. “I repeat: could Castiel please bring five Golden ‘O’ For Her rings to the customer service desk, urgently.”

Castiel snapped back to reality, realising that he’d been standing and staring, spaced out, at the festive candle selection. He headed towards the jewellery section, half-dragging his feet, only bothering to walk smartly when a customer came into view.

The rings were easy to find; Castiel took them up to the service desk. Charlie smiled at him as he dropped them on the counter.

“Thanks!” she said brightly. “Five gold rings, nice.”

Castiel walked away, feeling vaguely suspicious for a reason that he couldn’t put his finger on.

He carried on working for the next fifteen minutes, his eyes peeled for any sign of unusual activity. He’d almost forgotten this, from last year: how it felt to be on high-alert, just waiting for the next prank to fall.

The score so far was one all; he wasn’t counting Dean’s mistletoe antlers as a prank, because it was low investment and low result. If it wasn’t practically a heist, it didn’t get the kudos of a prank during the prank war, and that was final. Also, as Castiel had said before and still agreed with, it would only have been a good prank if Castiel had wanted Dean to kiss him, had raised his hopes and then subverted his expectations. And that, of course, hadn’t happened.

Well, it had, but Dean had no way of knowing that, so…

Castiel sighed.

It was two-one. The mistletoe thing definitely counted.

“This is a staff announcement,” interrupted Charlie’s voice overhead, again. “Could Castiel please bring twelve Kids Do Love ‘Em number 56 dolls to the customer service desk, please.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes.

Charlie was well-known at this point to be an ally of Dean’s in the prank war - she frequently helped him pull off his more intricate capers. However, it was also fairly common, at Christmas, for someone to call ahead and ask for a certain toy or book or DVD set to be kept in reserve until they arrived to pick it up, just to make sure they got it.

Twelve of the same doll, though?

Castiel couldn’t risk not doing his job - he was fairly sure higher management were just waiting for a complaint from a customer or two to come in this Christmas. They had to suspect that some strange things occurred between the aisles on Christmas Day. The fire incident couldn’t have gone completely unnoticed, as invested as Dean and Castiel himself had been in the cover-up.

And so Castiel made his way to the toy section, and picked up twelve of the dolls. He eyed them carefully before picking them up; they seemed completely normal, no trip wires or alarms rigged to go off as soon as he touched them. Number 56 in the range proved to be one of the boyband dolls, who came with his own drum kit and bandana. Castiel picked up twelve of them, stacked them into his arms, and walked them all the way to the front of the store.

“Strange request,” he remarked, as he set them down carefully on the counter in front of Charlie. Her eyes were too carefully solemn as she replied,

“Yeah, man, weird. Who need twelve drummers drumming for their kid? Do they have twelve kids?”

“Wasn’t there a movie about that?” Castiel said. Again, something about the words she’d just said stuck in his mind, but her tone and inflection had been so casual that he was second-guessing himself. Maybe it really was just one of those odd Christmas requests.

“Oh, yeah. The one with Steve… uh… what’s his name.”

Castiel hated himself for answering, “Martin.”

“Wasn’t it Carell?”

“No, he was the one in Evan Almighty.”

“Oh, right. Man, you really have the whole actors in subpar comedy movies thing down pat.” Charlie sounded impressed, in a surprised and vaguely confused kind of way.

“I haven’t seen either of the movies,” Castiel confessed. “I just had to restock shelves with them once too many times.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “Makes a lot more sense,” she said. “Yeah. Anyway, thanks for these.” She patted the dozen doll boxes beside her, and Castiel smiled wryly as he walked away.

It took an embarrassingly long time for him to figure out what was happening.

Charlie managed to ask him for two ornamental china doves, eight cans of Milkmaid, eleven children’s panpipe sets, and nine copies of Women’s Jazzercise (Three New Routines!) without him figuring out what was going on. The penny only dropped when, finally, Charlie asked him to bring a fake stuffed partridge dog toy and a large amount of pears to her customer service desk. He even collected them up without realising; it was only as he dropped them on her desk, a partridge and enough pears to almost be a tree, that he groaned and dropped his head onto his hand.

“Wow,” Dean said, rising up from behind the counter like a genie appearing from a lamp, summoned by Castiel’s exasperation and understanding. “I honestly thought the twelve drummers drumming was going to be too much. This wasn’t even supposed to be one of the big pranks. Dude, you strung it out for…” Dean checked his watch, “... an hour and ten minutes. We actually had to do the partridge in the pear tree.”

“I thought…” Castiel started, and then shook his head. He had no excuse.

“Just… I don’t even think this feels like a victory any more. It feels like taking candy from a baby, pretty much.” Dean picked up one of the pears, tested its firmness, and then bit into it and grinned.

Castiel pulled his phone out, and unlocked it, and silently presented Dean with the picture of himself as a very confused Santa once again. Dean choked on his bite of pear, and Castiel smiled in victory.

“It’s not a prank if we have to go to the hospital,” Dean said, thumping his chest and coughing, a little red in the face. “We made that rule last year. So no trying to choke me out just to win, alright?”

“I just thought you might want to see it again,” Castiel said smoothly. “It had been a while.”

Charlie, who had been sorting papers on her desk and half-watching her monitor, turned to them with an almost-amused little smile - an expression that Castiel caught often on her face when she was looking at him and Dean together. He could never figure out what she was thinking; probably, she was figuring him out as easily as Claire had, seeing how he felt about Dean and pitying him soundly.

“Hey,” she said aloud. “I’m just going to go on my break. Can you guys watch the desk for me? I don’t wanna have to go find someone else. Last time I got Claire to do it, and she somehow screwed up my filing system.”

“She’s just a kid,” Dean said, at the same time as Castiel offered,

“Well, she is very young.”

They met each other’s eyes. Castiel tried to keep his expression all irritated and not at all warm.

“It’ll be for ten minutes, max,” Charlie interjected, when the stare drew out a second too long. Castiel cleared his throat, and Dean nodded.

“Yeah, uh, yeah,” he said gruffly.

“Of course we’ll watch the desk,” Castiel added.

“We’ve got it covered.”

“Covered in papers, from your filing system, left just the way you ordered them,” Castiel said.

“No worries.”

“Not a problem.”

Charlie eyed them both, hard, and leaned down towards the microphone on the far side of her desk. Pressing the button, she spoke into it clearly.

“This is a staff announcement. Would Jo please go to aisle eleven and continue restocking.” Her voice echoed throughout the store. On the monitor, Jo could be seen tidying away her mop and heading for aisle eleven. Castiel, who had been trying to shelve stock there between his strolls up and down the store looking for items from a Christmas carol, gave Charlie a little nod of thanks as she walked out from behind the desk and headed for the break room.

Dean and Castiel took their places behind the desk.

Silence fell.

Dean started doing a little dance, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, but quickly stopped.

Castiel cleared his throat.

Twice.

Dean let out a long sigh.

Well , thought Castiel dryly, at least this isn’t awkward .

***

Jesus, thought Dean, this is so awkward.

He swung his arms a bit, and then stopped. Castiel didn’t need any more reasons to think he was a total weirdo, after that ridiculous photo from earlier.

“So,” he said, when the silence was too oppressive and he couldn’t take it anymore. “Got any plans for when you get out of here?”

“Just… going back to my dorm,” Castiel said, and to Dean he sounded dissatisfied. “I have an essay due in the new year that I could start on.”

“You’re going to work, on Christmas?” Dean asked incredulously - and then realised what he’d said, and snorted. “I mean… even more?”

Castiel lifted a shoulder. “I enjoy my studies,” he said flatly.

Dean couldn’t believe it. The guy was getting out of work, just to go home and work? Suddenly, it didn’t seem like such a bad thing that whatever was happening between the two of them had never worked out. If Castiel was this much of a workaholic, they wouldn’t exactly be compatible.

“Yeah, but… come on, man,” Dean said aloud. “Christmas is for, like, trees and stuff.”

Raising an eyebrow, Castiel shot Dean a glance.

“Maybe, in that case, I’ll go walk around in a forest.”

Dean huffed. “ Christmas trees. You know what I mean. Like, you’re not supposed to work on Christmas by choice, you know? You’re supposed to celebrate and whatever.”

Castiel shrugged. “Maybe it’s my way of celebrating.”

“Don’t you have family you can go see?”

“My brother is in Malibu. My parents also live in California. I came here to study, even though they didn’t want me to, so they wouldn’t be thrilled to see me even if I could make it back in time.” He offered Dean an askance smile. “Do you think I’d take so many shifts here if I had parents who supported my life and my choices enough to want to see me at Christmas?”

Dean frowned, looking confused. “I thought… don’t you go to Harvard?”

“I do.”

“And your parents… didn’t want you to come?”

“They’re very traditional. They wanted me to take over the family business. An arts degree from Harvard isn’t what they pictured.” The facts came out hard and short, rapid-fired like bullets.

Dean laughed again, a little bitterly.

“Family business… yeah, I know how that goes.”

“And you?” said Castiel, his tone inviting the conversation to continue. “Do you have plans after work?”

“Oh, yeah. My brother’s waiting up for me. We’re probably just gonna play games and eat crappy food and watch some TV specials or something, but it’s something.” Dean smiled to himself, inside, just thinking about it. For him, Christmas had never really been so awesome - just one day much like any other, albeit with a few more lights and sparkly things everywhere - but for Sam, it was important, and that made it important for Dean in its own way. Even the crappy, sugary TV specials didn’t feel so terrible when his brother was beside him.

Castiel nodded. “It’s something,” he agreed, after too long a pause.

“So… you just never been big into the holidays, or… ?” Dean said.

With yet another shrug, Castiel sighed.

“Actually,” he said, “Christmas is my favourite.”

“It is?” Dean asked, surprised. He watched Castiel’s face; watched the movement across it, the flickers of feeling.

“I…” Castiel started, and then looked at Dean. His expression made his next sentence into a confidence, a secret. “Actually, I… hate it.”

Dean blinked.

“You can’t tell anyone!” Castiel added hurriedly. “I - Christmas has always been my favourite time of the year, and it’s - I just - I don’t want that to go away.”

“You stopped liking it?” Dean asked, a little bemused by Castiel’s urgent need to have this be kept on lockdown. What did it matter?

Castiel, however, was quiet. Very obviously, it did matter.

“I’ve always loved Christmas,” he said. “I don’t want that to not be me.”

“Okay,” Dean said, patiently, trying to understand. “So…?”

Castiel shook his head. He seemed to be gathering words together; for a second, he caught Dean’s eyes. He must have seen something in them that was worth talking to, because he started to talk.

“Look at this,” he said, waving his hand up and around at the store. “Look at where we are. This isn’t Christmas. I loved Christmas because everyone was all gathered in the same room, and it was warm, and safe. And we gave each other presents and ate food, and it was so good and so noisy and so messy. And everything just seemed to glow, and this…” Castiel shook his head. “This isn’t Christmas. Not the Christmas I loved. It’s not just that I have to work. I wouldn’t mind, it’s just... even if I went home, it still wouldn’t be Christmas. It’d just be me sitting in a room with people I only know well enough to be sure that they’d judge me if they really knew me.” Castiel raised his hands helplessly. “Maybe part of growing up is losing Christmas. But I don’t want to. I just miss…”

He sighed, and broke off. The words had obviously been pent up for so long that it had almost hurt to let go, like gripping onto a rope for too long and having to uncurl cramping hands with skin too tight. Dean swallowed hard, and said,

“You miss feeling safe with your family.”

Castiel gave him a look that said yes, and hurt.

Dean wasn’t sure what his look was saying back, but his heart was saying I’m sorry, and stop hurting, please, I like you too much for that shit to fly.

For a few moments, they just stood together in silence. Dean, for one, enjoyed the simplicity of the quiet. Eventually, he said,

“You know… I don’t know a whole lot about families that work good. Mine’s - well, let’s just say, we don’t get most of it right. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Christmas like the ones you miss. But I always thought that one day…” he swallowed. “One day, I’d get to have my own family. Start my own traditions, make my own food, do it all just perfect. So… maybe you’ll do that too, one day. You know?” Dean paused, and bit his lip for a second before adding, “Like, maybe it’s not growing up that makes you lose Christmas. Maybe it’s just that Christmas is kind of… hard to catch hold of.”

“It’s like trying to catch smoke,” Castiel said.

“Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands,” they said together, and then groaned and smiled.

“Remember when that clip was on repeat on every single TV in the entire electric department for six weeks?” Dean said, his tone saturated with fake nostalgia.

“It was the best time of my life,” Castiel said solemnly. “I miss it so much.”

“I haven’t even read Harry Potter.”

They both fell silent again; they’d managed, somehow, though, to bring themselves back to the shallows, and the silence was easier. Castiel turned around and perched himself on Charlie’s desk; Dean tried to watch him without watching, and ended up just staring at him for far too long. Luckily, Castiel was too busy trying not to dislodge Charlie’s filing system to notice.

“ In the valley we can build a - oh, no, come on,” Dean said, half-humming and half-singing the words and then cutting himself off angrily. “Not that song again. Come on. ”

Castiel looked up at him, amused. “I take it you’re not a fan of Christmas songs.”

“Nah, man. I’m into Led Zep and that’s about it.”

And suddenly all the tension was back - because neither of them had mentioned the band since the work drinks, the texts, the silent and confusing crumbling of the momentum they’d slowly been gathering way back then. Dean could see Castiel’s eyes slide away, his cheeks colour a little; for himself, he felt his heart leap and then sink, somehow both at the same time.

Damn that text that he’d sent. “ haha nice ”? It had seemed like a cool, inviting response at the time; looking back, it had been a catastrophe. And Dean had looked back at it, so many times - had wanted to send a follow-up text, or an explanatory text, or just a joke about butts or something, whatever. But whenever he was on the verge of doing it, he remembered saying to Castiel, you know, my mom liked my dad because of his appreciation of Led Zep. And he remembered Castiel brushing him off, utterly and performatively disinterested. Dean had understood: Castiel wasn’t interested in Dean in the way that Dean’s mom had been interested in Dean’s dad. It just wasn’t gonna happen. And that was the end of that.

Or at least, it should have been. Except that Dean’s heart wouldn’t just let it be.

“Hey,” Castiel said, reaching back behind himself on the desk. “Look what I found.” He pulled out Dean’s pair of antlers, still festooned with mistletoe, and waved them wryly in Dean’s direction. “Prank number one.”

Dean snorted. “Right,” he said. And then, because his guard was down, and the mood between them was softer than usual, he said, “I shouldn’t have put the mistletoe on them.”

And - damn it, damn everything - it came out sounding like a secret. Because it was a secret.

Castiel could have said no, you shouldn’t or probably not or hmmm, you’re right , but instead he said, “Why not?”

Dean could hear it in his voice - Castiel knew that Dean was regretting saying those words. He had sensed the heavy weight behind them.

“Uh,” he said intelligently. “Uh - no, just - nothing. I just -” He couldn’t decide whether to brush it off or answer properly, and he was trying to do both at once, and he was making a fool of himself. Again . It had to be moments like this, when he looked like a complete idiot, where any warmer feeling Castiel had for him had to be at its lowest point. If that warm feeling even existed at all.

He looked up, and caught Castiel looking at him with eyes that were soft and kind and fond. His stomach swooped.

“Because,” he said. “It was a bad prank.”

“We’ve definitely done better…” Castiel said, allowing it to pass for truth. “But -”

“It was as much a prank on me as it was on you,” Dean said. He was sailing dangerously close to the wind, here; he could feel the temptation, the sudden intense rush he felt along with fear - the urge to just do the thing that scared him most, get it out the way, get it over with. He wanted to just say even one of the thousand things that had been on his mind for three years. He wanted to say, I shouldn’t have worn the mistletoe to work because of your smile. He wanted to say, I shouldn’t have worn the mistletoe to work because of your eyes. He wanted to say, I shouldn’t have worn the mistletoe to work because of you, your whole you, everything about who you are, you complete ass -

“Dean?” Castiel said. “What does that mean?”

Dean gulped. Three years of saying nothing. Three years of being too scared of pain and hopelessness to allow himself to hope.

If there was a time to hope, Dean thought, wasn’t it supposed to be now? Wasn’t that the whole point of Christmas? Even here, in this big ugly stupid grocery store with its garish lights and its greed and its horrifying banality, even in here, couldn’t it be worth something that it was Christmas?

“I shouldn’t have worn the mistletoe,” Dean said, “because I wanted to - you know - yeah. I kind of hoped we’d somehow just end up doing the - the thing. I’ve wanted to… I - yeah, I pretty much pranked myself.” It was awkward, and too short, and lame, and flustered.

“Dean…” said Castiel; he sounded numb, confused, shocked.

“I - Cas, I’m -”

And Castiel’s hands were suddenly in Dean’s hair, pushing something onto his head.

At the top of Dean’s vision, green leaves and white berries danced. His mouth fell slightly open.

“Mistletoe?” he said, and then looked at Castiel.

“You... didn’t just prank yourself,” Castiel said. He still looked shocked, disbelieving - but as Dean watched his lips lifted into a smile - gentle, understanding, warm, thoughtful, hopeful - damn that smile -

“I didn’t?” Dean said, his voice rough. Castiel was close; he hadn’t moved away.

“You got me, too,” Castiel said. He reached up his hand, and softly, tentatively, cupped Dean’s cheek. It was such a simple touch, so easy. Three years’ wait, and it left Dean’s knees weak. “I wanted to kiss you too.”

They stared at each other. Slowly, Dean felt a smile creep onto his face.

“So… does that mean… you… ?”

“I - like you, yes.” Castiel’s cheeks were pink again. Dean’s heart squeezed.

“I like you, too,” he confided. No flustered half-sentences or syllables. Just a fact.

“Like… ?”

“Like.”

“ Like like?”

“Like, like like like.”

They both snorted a little laugh. Dean couldn’t feel his legs; he was floating, floating in pure happiness.

“We’re so dumb,” he said. “So freaking dumb.”

“We are,” Castiel agreed, matter-of-factly.

“We wasted so much time.”

“I know .”

“Like, what were we thinking?” Dean asked; every word he spoke was giddy and happy and beautiful. He reached out and put his hand just above Castiel’s hip, because Castiel was near and because he could. And Castiel leaned into the touch, swaying even further into Dean’s space. His hand was still warm and steadying on Dean’s cheek. His thumb gently stroked, and the movement was sending sparks down Dean’s back.

“You know,” he said quietly, dryly. “The mistletoe might still be good for another go.”

“You reckon?” Dean said, his grin so wide he thought his face might crack. “It’s got the juice?”

“It’s worth a try, at least, don’t you think?” Castiel said, his eyes flicking down to Dean’s lips and back.

“OK. I’m gonna - I’m gonna try it.” Dean squared his shoulders. “You ready?”

“Hmm. Maybe it hasn’t quite been long enough -”

“I’m gonna do it.”

“OK,” Castiel said. “Do it.”

“I’m gonna - just - do it.”

“I’m ready,” Castiel said.

“I’m just gonna -”

"Yes."

"I'll just..."

"Mmhmm."

"I'm going to -"

"Go on."

"I will, I will."

"Right."

"OK."

"Good."

"Excellent."

“ Dean. ”

And Dean leaned in, close enough for their lips to almost brush.

“May I just say, Mr Novak,” he said, and then said nothing else at all - only pressed forwards, and kissed Castiel, who kissed him soundly back.

[language-rxgers]

Best Boyfriend You’ve Never Had (Bucky x Reader)- Part 6

Summary: You and Bucky share a moment that completely affects your mindset, Bucky tries a pumpkin spice latte for the first time, and an unexpected visitor from your past may spell some trouble for the future...

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Reader, OFC Trish, OFC Catherine, OMC Thomas, {OMC Brandon, OMC Jesse, OMC Ben, OMC Mike, OMC Max}- mentioned, OMC Ryan

Warnings: angst, self-doubt, conflicting thoughts, maybe a few swears

Word Count: 3343

A/N: This took so long, I am soo sorry! Please enjoy, lovelies!

Masterlist

Part 5 (Previous) / Part 7

*not my gif, credit goes to the rightful owner*

Drumroll.

The moment seemed to last forever, the drumroll just rolling and rolling and rolling. However, instead of the giddiness and anticipation you should have been feeling, you only felt the crushing pressure welling up in your chest, every expectation and thought that had flown through your mind when it came to Bucky now whirling around like a rampant flurry in your head. It was too much, too much pressure for it to be perfect, too much pressure for it to lead to more, too much pressure for you to meet all of his own expectations. It was just too much.

Almost as if an electric shock had sparked between the two of you, you and Bucky sprang apart in almost perfect unison, both panting hard. “I’m sorry, Bucky, it’s too much pressure,” you started, but Bucky spoke at the same time as you.

“This is too intense!” You both met each other’s eyes, suddenly breaking into chuckles of relief. “So I’m not crazy for feeling like my brain is about to explode from the pressure?” Bucky gave you an apologetic grin. You pushed your hair out of your face, shaking your head.

“No, that was insane. It was just too much, y’know?” Bucky nodded in agreement. You ran your hands over your face.

“How about this,” the brunette started. “What if we just do it really quickly? Like a quick peck or something to get rid of the pressure?” You barked out a laugh.

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid?”

“Like ripping off a Band-Aid,” he agreed. “And then the pressure of the first kiss is gone, ‘cause we already had one. Don’t get me wrong, doll, I really want to kiss ya, but I want it to be easy and without pressure. I want it to be great.” A deep flush spread through your cheeks.

“Well, you certainly are a dedicated fake boyfriend.” You whispered it more to remind yourself that it was all for show, but it still reached Bucky’s ears. He spread a smile across his cheeks.

“Only the best for my girl,” he replied. You shook your head to clear your thoughts.

“Okay, let’s do this. We’ll do a quick kiss on the count of three. But maybe we just need to do more couple-y things, get into the swing of it first, before we can kiss more naturally. How about tomorrow we have a date-day. Go out in the city, get coffee, lunch, go shopping or something.”

Bucky nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Okay, here we go,” he placed his hands on your waist, taking a big breath and shimmying. You laughed.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting the ants outta my pants, let’s go.” You mouthed out an amused ‘okay’ at his initiative. “One,” he started.

“Two,” you continued.

“Three,” he finished, and the two of you swooped forward, meeting brilliantly with teeth on lips and noses knocking together. The two of you groaned in pain, hands flying to sore mouths. You felt shock shake through you. You’d expected something fleeting, too quick to remember, maybe a little chaste. This was worse than any first kiss you’d imagined with Bucky. “Oh, my God. That was the worst kiss I’ve ever given,” Bucky whispered. You chuckled. He composed himself again. “Retry.”

You shook your head in amusement, preparing yourself again.

“One, two, three.” You both leaned forward again, only to knock foreheads. “What the fuck?!” Bucky groaned out. “I’m sorry, doll, I swear that I can do better, I guess I’m just more nervous than I thought,” the blue-eyed soldier shook his head, an embarrassed smile gracing his lips. You put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t worry about it, Buck. I think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. I’m nervous too.” You felt a surge of courage swell in your chest, and you took a leap. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Just do it, Barnes.”

He chuckled, and his icy blue eyes disappeared under his long dark lashes as he closed his lids. You took a deep breath, placing a hand on his cheek and the other on his chest. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned forward, closing your own eyes in the process.

Your lips met his in a gentle embrace, and in the moment you realized how long it had been since you’d kissed someone. You forgot how inexplicably wonderful it was, feeling soft lips moving against your own, sharing a breath, a thought, a moment frozen in time. You squeezed your eyes tighter shut before breaking away, feeling a rush of adrenaline shoot through your veins at your sudden boldness. Your lips still tingled with the feel of Bucky’s lips ghosted over yours, the slight scratch of his stubble and the press of his nose against your cheek. While the kiss had been unlike any you’d had before, the best part was immediately after, seeing Bucky’s lips slightly parted and eyes still closed in a daze. He was still leaning forward, and his hands were still on your waist, holding you as if he never wanted to let go.

You watched Bucky in anticipation, suddenly terrified that the kiss hadn’t been as beautiful for him as it had for you. “Wow…” he whispered. “I think you’re a lot better at this than I am, doll.” You breathed out a laugh, resting your head against his chest. “I definitely think that I’ll need some more practice.” You smacked his arm, laughing at your best friend as he circled his arms around you. “Okay,” he sighed. “I think this has been enough intensity for one day. What do you say we get settled in bed and watch a movie?” You smiled up at him.

“Sounds like a plan, Bucky-O-Boy.” As Bucky went to change in the bathroom across the hall, you replayed the kiss again in your head. You could feel yourself flushing, a giddy smile undying on your features as your fingers ghosted over your lips. Oh God, if you weren’t in deep before, you were six feet under by now.

“So, m’lady, where to on this fine day?” You hooked an arm with Bucky’s, strolling down the main streets of your hometown.

“Well, this is downtown from where I lived, so I didn’t come here too often growing up since it was such a hassle, but there is one café I always loved to visit when I was in this part of the city. They’ve got these unbelievable pastries, Bucky, you won’t believe it.” Your eyes took in the bustling downtown area around you as you spoke, feeling as though while it had obviously changed, the atmosphere was still as lively as ever. “And their hot chocolate is just to die for. Their coffee’s great too, but I’ve always personally been more of a chocolate fan. Anyways, we can go there for lunch- they had a really good tomato spinach panini sandwich when I still lived here, hopefully they still have them.” Bucky combed his gloved fingers through his hair, ruffling it a bit before tucking the loose strands behind his ear.

“That sounds great, doll. Lead me away.”

The café was still tucked in the small corner it had always been, between a bookstore and what had once been an antique store but was now a wedding dress shop, go figure. You snorted at the café’s new neighbour, walking up to the door. Bucky reached for the brass handle and pulled it open, jingling a bell inside. You thanked him as he stepped back and allowed you to enter first. When you first stepped in, your senses were comforted by the aroma of ground coffee beans and fresh baked pastries, the soft and calm chatter of patrons filling the atmosphere with a comforting separation from the busy streets outside. You and Bucky waited behind a short, stout woman who was ordering in front of you. Your eyes scanned the menu board above the counter, neat handwriting listing different beverages both hot and cold, sandwiches and desserts galore. Your attention was immediately drawn to their famous tomato spinach panini, which was now available with mozzarella cheese, which had you nearly salivating. You turned to Bucky, who was still expressively reading the menu, eyebrows shooting up in interest at certain options and furrowing at others.

He leaned towards you, frowning in confusion. “What’s a pumpkin spice latte?” He asked quietly, as if embarrassed that he didn’t know. You rubbed his arm absentmindedly as you explained.

“It’s a latte- espresso and steamed milk- that’s flavored with different spices that give it a fall-type pumpkin-y taste. Like cinnamon, nutmeg, so and so, and it’s topped with whipped cream and pumpkin purée. It’s a classic fall drink, everyone goes crazy for them because they’re seasonal. Unfortunately, it’s come to be branded a ‘white-girl drink’ which ruins the enjoyment of them because they’ve become so basic.”

Bucky pondered this information, shrugging. “I can be a basic white girl.” You burst out laughing, clutching your chest and stomach.

“Oh, you sweet smol bean, of course you can.” The till opened for you to order, and Bucky once again stepped back to let you order first. You smiled graciously and approached the counter, ordering a hot chocolate and tomato spinach panini with mozzarella cheese. Bucky then stepped up behind you.

“Hi, could I please have a pumpkin spice latte, a bacon tomato sandwich and a bear claw? Thank you.” You opened your wallet to pay when Bucky gasped dramatically and plucked the cash from your hand, shoving it back in your purse.

“What the hell are you doing? I’m treating my girl to lunch, that doesn’t really work very well when she thinks she’s gonna pay.” He took out his own wallet and handed the barista his money, dropping the change in the tips jar without a second thought. “Jeez, (Y/N), you’re gonna make me look bad here.”

You rolled your eyes, but you felt your heart flutter at his action- however minimal, it was very chivalrous. You found a table by the window and sat down, eagerly watching Bucky in anticipation. He raised an eyebrow at you. “What? Something on my face, doll? Because the last time I ate was at brunch this morning with your family, so if you’ve been letting me walk around like a jackass with syrup on my face all morning-“ you shook your head, laughing.

“No, I want to see your reaction when you try a PSL.” You made a goofy face as you used the slang ironically.

Bucky froze. “P-S-L?” He sounded out each letter, incredulous. “What the hell is that?”

“A pumpkin spice latte, dumbass. It’s what all the basic white girls call it, and if you’re gonna be basic, you gotta call it by its basic name.” The blue eyed soldier narrowed his eyes at you.

“Saying I’m getting a PSL sounds like I’m undergoing an invasive medical procedure. I’m drinking a pumpkin spice latte, not getting a lobotomy.” You pursed your lips and gestured for him to taste it. He rolled his eyes and brought the cup to his lips, sniffing it before taking a cautious sip. He smacked his lips tastefully a few times, as if tasting an aged wine, and then his faux-concentrating expression melted away into incredulity. “It’s like fall threw up in my mouth,” he said in disbelief, taking another sip. You laughed.

“So you like it?”

“Doll, I don’t even know, but I can’t stop drinking it.” You watched fondly as he took a deep sip, disregarding its hot temperature, and set it back down, revealing a frothy whipped cream moustache coating his upper lip and the tip of his nose. You chuckled, and his attention was turned to you. “What now?”

“Now you really do have something on your face, soldier,” you quipped. He groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, removing most of the whipped cream save for the bit on his nose. You gestured to your own nose to show him where it still was, and he wiped just under it. You shook your head. “Here, may I?” He simply nodded, and you cupped the side of his face, swiping your thumb across the tip of his nose, wiping off the remaining whipped cream. You wiped off your thumb and took a sip of your hot chocolate before digging into your sandwich, completely oblivious to the adoring look in Bucky’s baby blue eyes.

Over the next week, you and Bucky went on outings every day, exploring different parts of the city. Bucky was never less than a gentleman, holding open doors, pulling out chairs, and always keeping an arm around you in the more questionable parts of town despite your familiarity with them. With each outing, you saw a different part of Bucky, like the cuts of a diamond, which all fit together perfectly to expose the man you now knew you loved. You couldn’t help it, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself it was just the wedding messing with your brain. But that excuse didn’t work too well considering the trip had only confirmed the feelings you’d already had festering inside since the day you’d met the blue-eyed brunette. His face showed more expression and feeling than you’d ever seen as you showed him the parts of the city that reflected who you were, and you saw more and more of the bright-eyed, free-spirited boy Steve had known him as before the ice.

Every time you closed your eyes, you experienced that kiss you’d shared in your room over and over again, and every time, all you felt was a comforting warmth you’d never known before, spreading through your veins right down to your toes. You wanted to kiss him again, so bad, just to see if there really had been a spark or if you had imagined it after building it up so much in your mind. You hadn’t kissed since then, but every now and then Bucky would plant a soft kiss in your hair or on your cheek while around your family.

(just to keep up the ruse)

(don’t get any ideas, (y/n/n) this is all just for show for him)

In the week leading up to your sister’s wedding, you were busier than ever helping her prepare, which meant you rarely had Bucky to yourself after lunch and before 7 in the evening. But he had settled in quite nicely with your family, getting on well with your father and Thomas. The three of them were often off doing “man bonding or whatever,” as your father so endearingly called it. Usually playing darts or pool in the garage- your dad’s man cave, working on your father’s ancient motorcycle, or helping Thomas finish some of the errands Catherine had assigned him. Thomas’s groomsmen, whom you’d met at brunch at the beginning of your visit, consisted of his three brothers, cousin and best friend, and were all nice enough but rambunctious as ever when together.

Bucky seemed to be slightly more wary of this group, often sticking closer to your side when you were all together. You caught on after the first few times he had done this, and you had a good idea as to why. Thomas’ younger twin brothers, Brandon and Jesse, were still very much bachelors and were quite the pranksters. However, the eldest brother, Ben, was happily married and every inch the father-figure of the family, and Thomas’ best friend Max had been around since they were kids, so they were quite good at keeping the twins in line. The wild card was the cousin, Mike, who was not only the instigator of many of the twins’ shenanigans, but was a playboy to boot.

It was hard to miss the way Bucky’s metal arm found its way around your waist whenever Mike was around, the way he’d shuffle his vibranium digits to catch the light and remind Mike to back off when he was being a little too charming with you. You, of course, thought it was hilarious the way Mike’s eyes would shift from smug to uneasy whenever the dark haired soldier did this, but you also found it intriguing that Bucky was acting this way in the first place. Mike’s flirting was harmless; Thomas had assured you that while he was naturally inclined to playfully flirt, it wasn’t serious and he respected that you were with Bucky. You had to give Buck props though, he was really killing the whole ‘jealous boyfriend’ thing. Last week’s ‘dates’ had certainly paid off for getting the fake relationship down to a T. This thought occurred to you with a fleeting reminder of the impermanence of this arrangement.

At this point, you were in so deep with these impossibly consuming feelings for Bucky that you longed for the end of the wedding. It was torture to be so close to him with that glass wall still keeping him out of your reach, a cruel reminder that for him it was still all for show. It wasn’t fun and games for you anymore, but you knew it was your fault in the first place. You never should have let your feelings for him get this far. You should have nipped it in the bud and conditioned yourself to see him as only your friend from the beginning. Now, here you were, faking yet another laugh as your father recounted a childhood memory to your family around the dinner table, Bucky’s warm and calloused hand gripping yours on the table between your dinner plates. How could his touch burn agonizingly hot and be so freezing cold at the same time?

The wedding was in two days, and all you could think about as you watched the blue eyed soldier take a sip of his water was how wonderful those lips had felt on your own last week. You chastised yourself. Why couldn’t you just let it go? It had been nothing but practice for Bucky, an exercise to really nail this fake relationship front. It was probably a distant memory in his mind by now, but for you it was the only thought in your head. You cleared your throat quietly as you took another bite of the lasagna you had helped your mother make that evening.

Your brain hurt

(two more days)

nearly as much as your heart, but you shoved it down and kept up your smile.

The doorbell rang as you all started cleaning up after dinner, and you sprang up from your seat to go answer it. “Oh, I think that’s Thomas’s friend from college, he said he’d be stopping by to say hi tonight,” Catherine called from the kitchen.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open, only to have the wind knocked out of you at who stood on the front porch. The bright hazel eyes, light freckles dancing across a soft-sculpted nose. It took you a moment to process the sight before you, having been certain you’d never see him again after the incident all those years ago.

“Ryan?” You breathed out. The man’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, full lips forming a hint of a smile.

“(Y/N), I didn’t expect to see you here. Thomas didn’t mention you were in town…” He let out a soft, hesitant laugh, almost apologetic, as if he were still apprehensive around you after all those years. “You look really beautiful. Well, you still do, you always did.”

You had no idea how to react to this. Here, standing in front of you, was the last man you had ever considered yourself to love.

(look how well that turned out)

The man who, right now, deserved a door in the face, if not more. But you steeled your expression, straightening your shoulders.

“Hi, Ryan. It’s been a while. Yeah, I flew in last week. It is my sister’s wedding after all. I didn’t know you knew Thomas.”

Ryan nodded, a few strands of light brown hair falling against his forehead. “Yeah, we went to college together. What a small world.”

What a small world indeed.

Part 5 / Part 7

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There’s Hope for You Yet...

Fandom: Batman

Rating: K

Warnings: Past Relationships, a bit sad but has an uplifting ending.

Characters: Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow, Edward Nygma/Riddler.

Relationships: Scriddler (Past Relationship but Hopeful Possible Reconciliation at the end) (No smooching or anything in this story though, sorry). 

Description: Edward was a part of Jonathan’s past he wanted to forget. Too bad Edward won’t let him.

Extra Notes: P.I. Riddler!!!

“What a surprise. Jonathan Crane still holing himself up in abandoned warehouses instead of investing in an actual warehouse like every other rogue. Really Crane, if you’re going to be a villain at least stop and rob the Gotham Bank like everyone else has at least once so you can afford a place with working electricity…”

Jonathan Crane flinched violently at the sudden voice, nearly dropping the test tube full of chemicals he had in his hand. That certainly wouldn’t have been good. Once he composed himself, he gritted his teeth to control his temper as he gently placed the tube back in the test tube rack. He had been hidden away in this warehouse for about a month now, tirelessly trying to concoct a new chemical formula for his fear toxin to make it extra potent and easier to manipulate. After all, there were still grudges that he needed to settle, and he might as well make it so his lab rats suffered all the more.

He thought he was the only one who knew of his dealings here. He had been careful to make it like that after all. He hadn’t hired any henchmen (he would hire some when he was actually ready to hit the streets of Gotham with his chemicals and when he could actually afford to splurge some cash on them), got all chemicals and ingredients from providers miles away from Gotham, and had interacted with no other rogue since his escape from Arkham. When he went out, he used a fake ID and wore sunglasses and other such things to hide his face. He had done everything in his power to make sure that he wasn’t a blip on the map.

There were only two people in his life who seemed to constantly know where he was no matter what he did… and he had to say, when he found himself actually wishing it was Batman he was dealing with instead, then that was a bad sign. At least Batman wasn’t chatty… and at least he and Batman didn’t have a certain kind of history that Jonathan would very like to erase from the fabric of his mind.

Oh how he wish he had a syringe right now…

Keeping his voice cold and tight, he turned around to face the green-clad man in front of him and said, “Hello Edward, still loud and as obnoxious as ever I see… care to tell me how you found this place?”

Edward’s face was annoyed at the insult but Jonathan watched as it eventually morphed into a proud and smug expression. No doubt the man was eager to explain how he brilliantly managed to figure out where Jonathan was hidden, just like Jonathan knew he would be. For a man who prided himself on being an enigma, he was awfully predictable once you got to know him a little better. Jonathan still couldn’t believe he used to find this man so intriguing.

He was really mad at himself on the fact that he still kind of did.

“It was merely simple deduction, Crane. I knew you never went to the effort of making a proper lair before, so I quickly pinpointed all of the abandoned warehouses and farms and such in Gotham. Then, once I did that, I thought to myself, ‘Hm, now which of these buildings is located somewhere around the outskirts of the city and in a seedy or reclusive area where no one would question someone going in and out of a warehouse?’ Badaboom, and voila! I found this place!”

Edward’s chest was actually puffed out with pride, as if he was expecting praise of some kind. Unfortunately for him, Jonathan wasn’t willing to give it.

“My my, very impressive, Edward. Now are you going to get on your knees and lick the law’s feet by arresting me or are you just going to hang around and waste my time as per usual?”

He saw a flash of anger shoot through Edward’s face for a brief moment, and Jonathan prepared himself to hear Edward yell or perhaps have the man call the police and cameramen over so they could film his arrest, but he was surprised to see Edward quickly managed to collect himself by closing his eyes and letting out a breath. Jonathan had to admit, he was somewhat intrigued. Edward would’ve never done that before. That coma really must have changed the man somewhat.

Once Edward seemed to deem it safe to open his eyes, he proceeded to flash Jonathan an infuriatingly cocky grin. He took his last statement back. That coma hadn’t changed him enough. At this point, Jonathan was tempted to finish the job that the person who placed Edward in a coma failed to do, but he controlled himself once more. Temper, temper. He knew physical confrontation wasn’t his strong suit and quite frankly he found such methods immature. Once his toxin became more refined however…

“Charming as ever I see, Crane. However, my reason for coming here is neither of those things.”

Jonathan couldn’t help the annoyance that seeped through his voice like a poison, “Then tell me, Nygma, why ARE you here?”

He suddenly saw Edward’s green eyes dart away from his gaze. The man bit his lip and began playing with his hands… almost as if he was… unsure of something. It was a rare expression to see on Edward and despite a large part of Jonathan wanting to say ‘fuck it’ and slosh the chemical he made into Edward’s face and record what happened when the incomplete formula was administered through the eyes, he couldn’t help but feel curious on what had gotten the usually over-confident man so antsy. A very, very small, shriveled up part of him hidden deep within the confines of his flesh actually felt a flicker of hope. A hope that maybe Edward would hushedly whisper to him that this whole private investigator thing was merely an act and that this was all part of some elaborate ruse that he wanted Jonathan to partake in.

Jonathan couldn’t help but inwardly roll his eyes at his own optimism. Yeah, and pigs would suddenly develop the ability to fly and Edward would get on his knees and beg him to forgive him and let them rekindle whatever it was they once had way back in the day. He knew from personal experience that good things like that didn’t conveniently and neatly plop on his lap like that. They never had and they probably never would. Even if Edward did such an out-of-character thing, what would he even do? Would he reject Edward and walk away with the satisfaction of knowing he had gotten the last laugh… or would he agree to go back with him?

He can’t believe he had gotten himself in a situation where he would even have thoughts like that. It made him even more mad that he didn’t have a solid answer to that question. Thankfully, Nygma spared him from thinking too hard about it as he interrupted Jonathan’s thought process by saying, “I came here to see if I could perhaps convince you to perhaps consider joining Quinzel and I in perhaps reforming.”

Jonathan’s jaw clenched. So that was what this was about. He should’ve known that it would be something stupid. So why was this obnoxious feeling of bitter disappointment in his chest?

Keeping his voice even, he let out a cold chuckle and shook his head. Turning back around to the table full of lab equipment, he said, “I knew you would only come here to waste my time. Sorry to say, Nygma, but I am afraid I will have to refuse your offer of suddenly becoming buddy-buddy with the law.”

He heard Nygma take a step forward as he exclaimed, “Jonathan, wait! You know it can’t be this way forever right? I mean look at you! Your lurking around in abandoned, dusty warehouses like some sort of street rat… obsessively pouring over your chemicals day after day, thinking that this time you have done it. You came up with the perfect plan to foil the Bat and all of those who stand in your way. And maybe at the beginning, your plan will work at first…”

God, did he ever shut up? Jonathan considered telling him to do so, but it wasn’t like Edward ever listened. So Jonathan continued to pretend like he wasn’t listening and that he wasn’t getting angrier and angrier by the second and that the grip on the flask wasn’t getting tighter than necessary…

“But we all know how it ends Jon. The Bat or someone else will beat you up or foil your plan and you’ll be sent back to Arkham Asylum and have to deal with all of that until you finally get your opening to escape once more. Rinse and repeat. And you're so convinced… that this is it. This is the plan. You’ve ironed out all the flaws. You’ve grown wiser. But you know what… so has the Bat and all of his Robins.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!

That was the mantra going on his head right now. He was beginning to see red almost… and he could feel the early inclinations of the Scarecrow starting to show through already… wanting so badly to make Edward scream until his heart gave out if it just meant he would stop talking.

If it meant that he would just stop confirming all the thoughts that Jonathan had thought before but had tried so hard to deny.

If it meant that Edward Nygma would stop being right.

No… no. He wasn’t right. That was a quitter's attitude. Jonathan’s research was so close… his revenge list almost done… he had come so far. He couldn’t give up now. Not at the pinnacle. So what if he died? At least it would be doing it to spread the message of fear all over the place. What did Nygma know, huh?

“I know this because I was just like you right before the coma,” Edward said in a tone so sad that Jonathan couldn’t help but deflate a little bit at it. All of the anger seemed to vanish from his lanky frame and all of a sudden he was just left feeling… tired.

When Jonathan finally gathered up his bearings, he turned around to give Edward a withering look as he asked, “Why are you telling me this, Nygma?”

Edward took another step forward, face encouraging as he said, “Because it doesn’t have to be like this Crane. You can do better for yourself, I know you can. You’re one of the smartest rogues in Gotham. Got a lick more sense than everyone else… and hey, if I can get a successful job, who says you can’t? Perhaps you can even go back to teaching…”

“Nygma,” Crane cut off, closing his eyes… trying to stop all of this false optimism, all this fake positivity from deluding him. But of course, Nygma didn’t listen.

“No Crane, really. I talked to the staff of the asylum and they actually think they are making progress with you. Of course you still have some issues to work through… I think we all do. But I genuinely believe you can do this. If you just go back to the Asylum and get your sanity card out of there… perhaps you can move on and do something with the rest of us. The rogue life… it has no conclusion. It’s a never ending cycle and you got to break out of it.”

Jonathan remained in contemplative silence for a moment. Part of him eyed Edward, wondering if this was a trap. This was all just a ploy of Edward’s to emotionally manipulate him to going back to the asylum so he could reap the glory of capturing the infamous Scarecrow and sending him back to Arkham to his fans. He was about to say as much when Nygma interrupted once more.

“I don’t want us to be enemies anymore, Jon.”

Fuck. Why did he have to say that? Jonathan stood there in silence, trying to formulate what to say to all of this without sounding too emotional. The memories of Edward coming to him that one last time and explaining how their lives were too different now… how they couldn’t keep whatever it was they had going… seeing him leave him behind. He used to be so mad at Edward for all of it. Used to hate him. Now he wasn’t sure what he felt anymore and he wasn’t sure how to react to that.

Thankfully, it seemed Jonathan didn’t have to say anything because Edward simply diplomatically tipped his head and said, “Of course, I am not going to force the decision on you… I just want you to know my side of the argument. And who knows. Maybe if you head back there I can give a word in for you or something… and if you get out, maybe we can work together… that is, if you would allow. Well… that was all I had to say… goodbye, Crane.”

As he turned around to walk away though, Jonathan couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied that that was how they were leaving things off. So… before his mind could stop him by thinking about it too hard, he said, “I’ll… consider your proposition, Nygma. No promises.”

He turned around before he could gauge Edward’s reaction, but he swore he could hear the smile on Edward’s face as he said, “Well then… maybe there is hope for you yet, Jonathan.”