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This isn’t how you planned this at all.
Not only had you meant to get your Christmas decorating done on the weekend before Christmas, you certainly didn’t mean to get sidetracked while shopping for decorations on Christmas eve. You’re supposed to be in your new apartment, adulting.
This shop is gorgeous. The whole street is gorgeous. You’d turned the corner, exploring a part of town you hadn’t yet seen, and your footsteps all but slowed to a stroll. Enjoy, you think. Just enjoy something Christmas. Work is out, take a breath.
Every building is ye olde timber with thick beams of dark wood. Their warm windows glow, full of Christmas sparkle and bewitching shelves of expensive bespoke things you don’t need. There are street lamps to dance from, holly and mistletoe to kiss under, handmade wreaths and jingling bells to carol by. It’s like the city has saved it all for here, for people who’ve been starved of it all month. It’s positively Hogmeadesque and you’ve already spent far too long.
To be fair, though, it is a lot more Christmassy than your place. Your new place. You new place that doesn’t really feel like your place yet.
The new job is marvellous. Everyone is lovely, bright, capable. They talk to you about their friends and weekends with openness and ease, but don’t invite you along. Your parents are proud; they tell you what their friends think of your new job, your success, and they’re sure some clever boy will snap you up soon. (“Who? Who mom?! They’re all taken!” “He’ll turn up!”) Your college friends are thrilled, and they say “Oh that’s so good Y/N! I’m so happy for you.” But everyone you’d see is too far away right now. You don’t have time to drive anywhere until Christmas Day, if the weather holds, and the thought of waking up to a cheerless apartment is one too many 2nd-place scenes right now so you’re here, poking at once-loved decorations, in a shop you want to snuggle into until they turn off the lights and lock the door.
All ornaments look old and precious. November thoughts of dainty-romantic-and-elegant have been replaced with bulk-tinsel-I-can-throw, but you’re not finding that kind of thing here at all. You’ve a box of hanging lights under one arm, a string of bells under the other, and a few boxes of baubles before you that you can’t choose between.
One contains a set of six glass balls covered in glittering silvery snowflakes. Those you love. But another has three covered in rich ornate patterns and two more with scenery, and they’re just too gorgeous to go past. Screw it. It’s my first Christmas out of home. I’ll get both.
The street is almost deserted when you leave, and snow has begun to drift down. With deep breaths you look forward, as you have reminded yourself this past week, you look forward, to having the place to yourself, some wine and Netflix and indulgent food. It’ll be perfect in no time.
…
It’s cheesy, but it works. Retro Christmas music was just what you needed and it’s helping you feel good about the small roast in the oven already. You stand back and look at the tree, 6 twinkling glass baubles hanging from the boughs, the string of lights dancing on their curves in their little on-off rhythm.
You’ve decided to give the other baubles a bit of pride of place. The patterned ones you hang first - one high and centre, and then one each low and on the sides - and the two picture ones you place near the middle.
They’re quite large, about two inches wide, and they feel cool and fragile. One of them is a sweet tableaux of a family beside the fire, a Christmas tree beside them, in their 50s lounge room scene. He’s dashing, in a blue and white sweater, with wifey on his lap, two kids glowing at their feet. You hang it gently, around shoulder level, nice and easy to see.
The other has an outdoor scene. It’s aglow with moonlight, and there’s a snow-frosted hill sloping down from a forest. There’s a couple on a wooden toboggan, delighted, mid-squeal, as they coast along, her clinging to his shoulders with her boots kicked out the sides.
You hang the bauble on a twig and pause because… it’s like the ball turns all by itself, or not turn, but… the inside turns? You take it off the tree and have a proper look at the picture. The toboggan seems to have moved. You tilt and rotate the bauble, trying to measure the middle of the scene, but now you can’t tell whether the picture is actually painted inside the back of the glass or inside the front. Or if it’s even a diorama in there.
You hang it again and although your brain says It must be turning, it’s not. The toboggan is going down the hill.
The girl in the back seems to hug the guy in front, hiding her face in his neck. But then he reaches back, grabs her, kind of pulls her over his shoulder and the whole toboggan tilts over, both of them landing in the snow, rolling about, canoodling in their mittens and warmth.
“Cool,” you breathe. Holograms are getting so clever these days.
Then the woman gets over the guy, sitting on his stomach and you think you see white eyes, an open jaw that’s…. too long. And dark. She leans her head up and throws it down, as if to bite him, but he smacks her sideways, rolls them both, and grabs the toboggan, turning it in his hands so he can slam the edge down on her neck.
You suck a breath in through your nose, a little gasp at this tiny murder. He tosses the toboggan aside and pushes himself off her, stumbling backwards. He steps back more, then readies himself as her body scrambles out of the snow and stands, without her head.
Blinking, you pick up the bauble again and the whole thing freezes.
This…
Okay. So maybe the patterns on the other baubles were a bit pagan-ish. Maybe you’ve gotten a Halloweeny kind of Christmas set.
While the bauble hologram is turned off, you feel much more comfortable and put it back in it’s box, nestled in the shredded paper. Standing back, you down the last of your wine, just in case. You peer inside the box; the scene hasn’t changed. She’s still a headless zombie, he’s still braced for attack. It’s still a bit too grim for your tree…
You think to look at the other bauble and barely even notice yourself say “Holy shit,” because the room is spattered with blood and the tree’s on a tilt.
The doting father is mid-swing, fire iron high behind his head with a child about to pounce from the arm of the couch. Crumpled on the ground is the wife’s body, a read patch where her head should be. The other child is out of your view; only its socks and little lace-up boots are clear as they rest against a large gift.
On a hunch, you hang the snow-scene bauble back on the bough and they both come to life.
Dashing Dad swings with all his weight and the child is put off for a moment, then launches itself at his neck. He wrangles it free, throws it on the ground with both hands, and starts to bash at it, fire iron flinging red dotted stripes up and down the room as he goes. Teeny crimson drips start to slide down the glass. It seems so real.
A dozen or so strikes later, he straightens up, chest heaving in his blue and white sweater, and flicks his hair off his brow.
Back in the outdoors, you see the woman’s body wandering around, feeling the air for anything, and the head is stuffed into the bank of snow, face down. The guy runs up the hill. He runs hard, runs up, up, run-run-runs up and over and flips himself face down into the snow from running up the curve of the ball. He pops his head up and smacks the ground. “Sonofabitch!”
“Jesus Christ!”
His head pops up and looks in your direction. You gasp and step back because he gets up to run at you, runs right up to the glass and you get a wall-eyed view of a very angry man in snow gear, yelling in a very small voice “Who the hell are you? Where’s Sam?!”
“Shit!” you gasp and step back more. His face is taking up the whole bauble and he’s looking around, squinting a bit, trying to make out the room. “Hey! Did you do this?! Huh?! Get back here! I’m gonna beat the shit outta y-!” He disappears and a bloodied neck stump is there for a second, then nothing, just the moonlit hill, abandoned toboggan and forest. You creep closer and when you dare to look inside you can hear little grunts and squelchy noises. He’s fighting the headless-girlfriend, just out of view.
“Hey!”
“Oh my god,” you mutter and turn to the other bauble.
“Hey! Can you hear me?” It’s the other guy.
You get up close and peer at the man calling for your attention. His hands lean on the glass and he smiles tentatively. “Hi! Where am I?”
“Uh, you’re in my living room-”
He stumbles a bit, holding his ears, and you think to whisper “Sorry! You’re hanging on my tree!”
“What?” He looks confused and pissed off. “On your tree? What do you mean? Where’s Dean?!”
“Wait a tick.”
“No! I ne-” You lift the bauble and he freezes mid-word, eyes half-lidded. You hang him on a branch quite close to the other, so that they’re glass walls touch. The other guy has the body by the elbows, wrangling it away from himself, grunting and struggling. He notices the view change and peers through the glass.
“Sam?”
“Dean!”
“What the fuck?!”
“I do not know man. Are you okay?”
They ignore you and talk, yelling at each other across the space and through the glass. “No! I’m being zombie-attacked in a snow dome!”
“You have to bash it’s head in!” Sam yells, pointing at his own skull.
“Oh fuckin’. That’s awesome.” Dean traipses off as best he can, hauling the flailing body along, all the way into the woods. You and Sam watch as he leaves it amongst the trees and runs back to the head, grabbing it by the hair and dropping on the thinner snow. He glances back at the body - it’s bumping about amongst the tree trunks - and retrieves the toboggan to bash it down on the skull. It’s gory and grim. Blood splats across the snow and between blows he looks up to see the body lurch and stumble, staggering towards him to try and save itself, but eventually it gives a final jolt and teeters over, disappearing into the drift. Dean drops the toboggan and puts his hands on his knees to recover a few breaths, then makes his way back to the glass.
“Okay. Where the fuck are we?” he puffs.
“We’re on someone’s tree,” Sam says, projecting loudly to his friend. “I think we’ve been trapped in some ornaments.”
“It’s fuckin freaky man. Like the Truman show Halloween Special in here.”
“Tell me about it; I just offed my whole zombie family.”
Dean peers around and Sam steps back so he can see. Eyebrows go up and Dean pouts, nodding thoughtfully. “Nice work man. Ugh, kids too?”
“Tasmanian Devils with a rage virus,” Sam assures. He leans towards you and taps the glass, “Hey! Where’d you get these things?”
You come close and speak quietly. “I swear, I bought them at a regular store from a regular person,” you shrug helplessly. “Just you two and three other glass baubles.”
“What’s on the other baubles?” Sam asks.
“Uh, patterns. In silver. Though they’re kinda like a foreign alphabet, I suppose,” you say to the little man in the glass ball on your tree. How is your day going, by the way?
“I bet they’re fuckin’ runes,” Dean grumbles and walks away to kick the snow.
“I need to see what’s on there,” Sam says, and you reach up to collect one. “NO! Don’t take them off-”
“But when I take you guys off you just freeze,” you explain.
Sam’s waving his hands before him. “Yeah it may not be the same with those. It might reset everything, or set it forever, we don’t know. Just copy down the figures and hold ‘em up. Don’t take them off.”
In a slight daze, you watch your own hands diligently dig up some paper and pen and you copy down the shapes as best you can, putting a circle around each set. By the time you come back, Dean’s onto the second ball of a snowman. While Sam looks at the marks, Dean plops the mashed zombie head on top. He looks proud of his work, then comes back to the glass, smiling at you a moment before a thought crosses his face.
“God you look weird,” he tells you. “Like a giant. In water.”
Your cheeks pinch up and squint at his rudeness. “You have a teeny widdle voice.”
Dean blinks once, and pouts a frowny face. It’s adorable
“You need to remove that one first,” Sam decides.
“Which one?”
“The middle one.”
“Let me see,” Dean demands and peers at the pages when you tilt them his way. “No you gotta crush it, where it hangs.”
“Dean, you can’t undo that,” Sam starts. They sound like they’ve argued before.
“It says to break-” Dean starts to poke the glass, and the baubles tinkle against each other, Sam swaying with the disturbance, “- so it should be broken, not removed.”
“Yeah, break the link,” Sam barks, poking back.
Dean feels his world move around him and he sticks his chin out. He lunges at the wall and shoves with both hands. Both decorations tinkle on the branch. “Don’t fuckin’ school me on runes!”
“Guys, the tree isn’t that big. Settle down okay?”
Sam looks up to see how well his bauble is on the twig. It isn’t much, and Dean’s isn’t too sturdy either.
Dean scowls and steps back, saying “Break is the key word, not link. Crush it where it hangs.”
You hold up the figures again, hoping Sam will find some confidence in what he sees. Eventually he concedes, “Yeah, okay,” and enunciates clearly for Dean’s benefit, “Let’s hope for the best.”
You find a paper towel and wrap it around the middle bauble, double checking the figures are correct first. You wince, scrunching your shoulders and squeeze, finding it much harder to break than you expected - until it gives.
A muted crunch gives way in your hand and suddenly your legs are crowded by two people, Sam behind and Dean on your feet, grabbing the tree, grabbing you, Woahing and Jesusing, deep and real, jingling and tinkling everywhere. Sam tumbles sideways and pushes everything over, and although you don’t notice it there’s a clear crackling sound amongst the top branches when it hits the wall. Dean’s grabbed your calf but still landed on his back.
There’s a cloud of glittering sand, what was once their baubles, sparkling as it settles and it’s as though the magic now is complete. Dean’s still wearing his beanie and puffer suit, snow on his shoes, and he’s looking up at you.
Sam has blood all over his beautiful sweater and is slowly scrambling out of the branches. He spreads his hands wide, saying “Oh, oh no, shit. Sorry. Oh shit, that’s- I can fix this-”
“You okay?” Dean asks.
“Mm hm!”
Dean’s little smile doesn’t leave him, and the eye contact doesn’t falter, even as he stands tall. He pulls off his turque and runs his hand through his hair a few times, stepping back and smiling more. You watch him make every move.
You and Sam move away too and he rights the tree, trying to balance the top quarter over the rest. “Aw crap. I broke it.”
“Are you okay? You, uh, seem a little bloody?” you say.
Sam looks down at himself and begins to reply but-
“Don’t worry,” says Dean, unzipping his jacket. “He usually looks like that. You got anything to drink?”
“I- Yeah, I have wine out but there’s whiskey. If you can find it,” you gesture to your many unopened boxes, “it’s yours.”
Dean pulls up half a smile. “Challenge accepted, but we should probably clean up first.”
Running on automatic is really the best your brain can do right now. “Okay, well… I’m gunna try and get a proper meal together.”
Sam is sheepish as you leave the room. You think he’s waiting for you to go before he tells Dean just how much damage there is.
Meanwhile, you’re trying to do a Jesus thing with a roast for 1.5 people and make it spread into something better. While you work, you hear them talk about their car being quite close, the dates being recent, and breathe easier when it sounds like they don’t have to rush off for anything.
When you get back to the lounge room, you’ve got a tray of three plates, the meat and veggies split between them, plus corn chips and rice crackers to bulk it out, dips on the side. You watch Sam and Dean finish splinting your tree. They’ve used a ruler and the fairy lights to make the top two feet sit pretty much on top. Now it has a lovely glow from the inside out, like a golden heart. It makes you smile harder than ever.
Sam flashes his palms by his legs, pats his thighs few times and shrugs his chin. “That okay?” Dean looks proud as punch.
“Yeah, I kinda really like it.”
Your couch is deep and saggy, so you gesture to sit on the floor. Sam has removed his bloody sweater, Dean’s down to snow pants and a Henley. You sit cross legged on the carpet and put the tray of plates between you. Both of them fold themselves over, heads down and look directly at the food.
“Did you want to say Grace?” you offer quickly, collecting your meal. They do the same, both boys holding theirs nearly to their chins, as though they’re just going to open their mouths and tip it all in.
Dean looks up at Sam, who he waits a second before saying “Thank you God for getting us out of those cursed Christmas decorations. Thank you for sending us- uh-”
“Y/N.”
“Y/N,” Sam smiles, “and that she’s smart and also an awesome cook.”
“Amen!” Dean pushes a whole piece of meat into his mouth. It folds over the fork and he jerks his hand free, closing his eyes and leaning back on the couch to chew, chew, chew and enjoy. You eat in silence, save for Sam’s “Thank you, this is really good.”
“Sho goodt,” nods Dean.
“No problem. It’s nice to have someone here on my first Christmas out of home.” Dean looks at you like you should go on, and before you know it you’re gushing about work, excusing your friends, and forgiving your parents, and they’re full sprawled out with full bellies, nibbling on crackers while they finish their drinks. Sam is interested and attentive, but Dean keeps smiling crookedly, watching to talk to him, a little side on stare. You keep losing your place in what you’re saying and he keeps dropping your last words as a prompt. Soon you’ve run aground, awkward with all the talk, and they’ve run out of things to fiddle with.
They look at each other and Dean says what seems to be most sensible thing next. “Well, we should really find a motel for the night.”
They nod and sigh and you say “Oh”, not realising that that inevitability had completely slipped your mind.
“I wish,” you start, trying to figure out if you have room, “I wish you guys could stay here. You’ve had such a weird thing happen. And it seems unfair for you to be at a motel for Christmas.”
“We’re used to it,” Sam says kindly.
“No. No, we’ll figure it out.” You’re becoming quite determined. “I have a home and you should stay. Wait here.”
You get up and look through the cupboards. There’s a sleeping bag, enough sheets, just, and a flimsy mattress under the bed.
“You know what,” Sam offers, “I can sleep on the couch.”
“Yeah, I’m good on the floor,” Dean adds.
You dump all the stuff near a chair and Dean collects the dinner plates. When he comes back, Sam goes off to the bathroom, cleaning up a bit while you and Dean finish laying out the crappy mattress. It’s barely thick enough to call it “padded floor”. “God I think the carpet is thicker than this.”
“It’s fine,” Dean laughs. He keeps smiling at you and you keep wishing you had something witty or sexy to say.
He follows you to the bathroom and you offer him floss and toothpaste. He flosses while you’re using the bathroom, you floss while he does the same, both of your looking at each other’s hands, necks, shuffling around to make space, his ski pants noisy and ridiculous in the small room, and then you’re blushing while he rubs paste over his teeth, pretending not to watch him while you brush yours, and sneak peeks at each other’s throats when you rinse and spit.
You back into the short hall between the bathroom and your room, finding your door handle behind you. “‘Night then,” you say quietly. Sam’s gentle snoring is already filling the lounge room.
“‘Night,” he smirks, hand ready to flick off the bathroom light.
He leans over, at the last minute, and kisses you on the lips. It’s short and sweet, with a little full-stop peck at the end. You forget to breathe, don’t react fast enough, and it happens so quickly you’re not even sure what you would’ve done.
He turns off the light and the festive flicker of the fairy lights show you all his angles, warm and focused on you.
“‘Night,” you say again and he nods a little, respectfully, and watches you go into your room.
Sam keeps snoring, and you undress, pulling on your cutest bed shorts and a snug sleep singlet. For about 50 seconds you tell yourself you should let him sleep and that you’ll be fine here but as you climb into bed you realise you’ve put on clean, somewhat revealing pyjamas for no reason other than hoping he’ll see them…
You throw off the covers and hop up, tiptoeing down the hall. “Um, Dean?”
“Ya!” he hushes, popping out of bed like a jack-in-the-box and coming over to you. He’s still got the Henley on but only boxers below that. You both give each other a once over, and you don’t miss how much heavier his gaze becomes. He huffs it out, looks at you more heavily, and works at not looking at your breasts.
“It’s silly- It seems a bit silly for you to lay on the hard floor when I have a queen bed.” His grin is bright, even in the shadows. “I mean, we don’t have to do anything just…”
“Hey, no I’d be happy with a proper bed. Hell I’ll sleep on top of the covers if you want. Soft is nice.” He nods in promise. Smiles again. Knowing bastard.
You slide your fingers into his hand and lead him through your door, climb between the sheets and watch him follow you. He lays down on his back, and tucks the blankets under his arms. Curled on your side you can look at him in the dim light and immediately think of excuses to touch him.
“You have a nice room,” he says quietly. He blinks at the ceiling and licks his lips, thumb rubbing the sheet a bit.
“You have a nice kiss,” you tell him. He turns his head and realises he can see you quite well. in one move he reaches across, leans your way, and kisses you. It’s a proper kiss, with his palm on your cheek and the closeness of him all the more heightened with your heads against the pillow. He kisses you and you hold his wrist, rolling with it and encouraging him.
“How do you feel about cuddling?” he asks, letting the words work the kiss open and wet.
“I love cuddling. I think it’s a good idea.”
He slides over a bit, close enough that there’s air between you, under the sheets, but doesn’t pull you against him. You kiss and kiss and he brushes your hair back, caresses your skin and traces your jaw. Your fingers find him too, returning the niceness, and the kiss grows impassioned, heavy, his tongue searching out yours and you frown like yes, dig your fingers in and kick your hips a little over in your space. He starts to lean up and over you, wanting and faster, a hand high on your waist and you groan, a hard grunt like you’re thinking of the end point.
Dean lets up then, reminds himself of what the limit is and winds it back, calmer, softer, tapping his forehead to yours between fat pecks and lazy kisses, warm and sweet, and it’s all you want to think about in the dark. He settles in next you with his hand on your chest and your noses touching, and as you slowly doze off your chin reaches across, kissing him occasionally, kissing back when he does the same.
Sometime later you wake enough to shift yourself, rolling away and taking his arm with you. Dean adjusts too and slots up against your back. He’s warm and broad, and you can feel the shapes of his chest across your shoulders. His breath blows heavy as he hugs you close, a short hum at how nice it is, but he keeps his hips away from yours. Nothing else changes, you think, and you nod off again.
Little nippy kisses on your neck make your mind resurface. You lay still but he can probably tell you’re not asleep. He kisses more, along your hairline, lifting his head to gently pluck at your skin.
You’ve had his hand in yours all this time, holding it before your chest, and now you lay his palm on your skin, on your sternum and above the singlet, inviting him to feel you. He pulls you tight against himself and slides his hand down, cupping the heft of your breast and feeling it’s give. His kisses grow wet, down the meat of your neck and towards your shoulder, and you can feel his tongue rasp against you lightly. His thumb starts doing things that makes you twitch your legs. You breathe deep and curl into him, and as his mouth takes more and his hands give more, you instinctively arc back, pushing your hips into him, and feel a solid erection, like a whole other thing between you, rigid against your coccyx.
Dean sucks in half a breath and groans hard, dragging his forehead against the curve of your neck and plucking at your nipple. It makes you gasp and peep, and both of you start to undulate against the other, his balls and the root of his cock sliding down to push up against your softness.
“Whaddyou want me to do?” He groans it, hoping you’ll read his mind.
You think for a moment, as best you can. There’s a lot you could do between here and there.
He rolls against you, with you, and waits, spreading his hand flat on your stomach and keeping you close as he leans up on his elbow, watching your eyelashes while you think.
“Put on a condom?”
“Yes.”
You reach for your drawer and he pulls down his pants, peeling off his top too. When you give him the packet you busy yourself with taking off your own very well chosen pyjamas and try not to watch too much while he rolls on the condom. He looks just as strong as he feels, burly and smooth.
You reach up with both hands, holding his head while you kiss him and he falls back with you, over you, shuffling between your knees while you scootch into the middle of the bed, pulling pillows away, guiding him down, smiles and panting kisses, eyelashes and skidding fingertips.
He looks down, sliding his cock along your folds a few times, guiding it and pushing with a firm hold, smearing your softness and watching you spread and tilt for him. You watch him, his long eyelashes and slack shining lips, his focus on how he slides into you and the creases in his brow as he feels your heat and depth.
Grabbing his waist brings his attention back, a half smile, dropping down with a ready, open kiss and he surges, both of you moaning against each other. You think it’ll be lazy and heavy, but he gets faster, harder, and it’s easy to run with it, lift your legs and hook them behind him. You pull on his neck, slide your fingers into the hair on his crown and grip, and he tilts his hips, angling himself to find the spot that makes your voice jump, makes you fight to stay quiet with Sam next door. You gasp and ache at it, pleading with your eyebrows when you throw your head back, and Dean swears “Fuck, sweetheart,” diving onto your neck to kiss and bite.
Quickly, things start to buzz and you reach down, circling your clitoris, letting his bone mash your finger against the nerves and tweak them sweet. You bite your lip and search for that feeling, leading him on with “So good Dean, don’t stop, feels just right.”
“Tellin’ me,” he pants. “You’re gorgeous. Gonna come just watching your mouth.”
He’s above you, staring at you, both of you starting to shine, and he grins slack, then drops onto his elbow to drive it home. His hips on yours shift from a slap-slap to a thump-thump and you cry out at how good it is, grabbing his ass, but he pulls your wrist, puts it back where it was to make you pleasure yourself. In your ear, hot and humid, he tells you “Do it, make it feel good. Come on me,” and fucks you so hard you jolt up the bed.
It flashes from under your fingers, feels like a splash under your skin, and the tightness around him trembles, making Dean grunt “O-hoh, ho-fuck, M-mm,” as he shudders too and you cling tight, wrapping yourself around him every way you can.
Before you’ve finished coming down, he’s shifted himself, propping his elbows by your shoulders and caging you in under him, fingers stroking the top of your head as he kisses your cheek and lips, popping up occasionally to check you’re okay. “You’re an awesome cuddler.”
“Thank you,” you say and clear your throat while your legs slide up and down his. “I like to be very thorough with my cuddling.”
He grins more and takes a deep breath before starting the clean up. Very soon he’s beside you again, pulling you close and tucking your back against his belly like before, this time from top to toe.
By morning, you’re on your stomach, he’s on his back, and his hand is over yours on his chest. Both of you are woken by Sam’s not-subtle holler of “I got breakfast!”
“Right then,” you sigh. “We’re up.”
“Yyyyyeah,” Dean groans. “Dammit.” He pecks you on the cheek, all crumpled, warm and goofy, and climbs out, shuffling back to his clothes in the lounge room. Through the door, you listen to their idle morning chatter and stare at your ceiling, naked in your bed.
After the pastries and coffee, you insist that Sam take the remaining baubles - probably best you don’t have much to remind you of their visit - and Dean gives you a card with a number on it. “In case you come across anything else unnatural like that,” he says.
“Does unnaturally good sex count?” you wonder.
He smirks at you in a way that’s exactly as cocky as he should be. “Yes. If you go and get an extraordinarily good fuck, you call me.”
“You gonna come back and raise the bar again?” You grin cheekily, twisting on your toes.
“Sweetheart, if you’ll let me,” he nods earnestly, “Imma give it a red hot go.”
You manage the slightest of giddy giggles and reach up to kiss him. He lets you, watches you do it, and gives in, kissing back on the second. “Okay, I’m sorry, I gotta go.”
“Yeah I have a long drive ahead.”
“Stay safe,” he says. “Oh hey, can I have your number, in case we need to know more about last night?”
He hands you his phone and you type it in, and then it’s one last kiss, a little wave, and he’s mostly behind the door saying “Hey, have a Merry Christmas Y/N.”
“Done and done,” you tell him. “You too Dean.” Then he’s gone.
You look at your golden-hearted Christmas tree and wrap your arms around yourself, thinking no gift under your tree will ever be that good again.