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Handel’s Messiah plays quietly in the background. Castiel watches the record go around and around on the turntable in the corner of the living room. Soft voices drift down from the attic, eager and excited. Flames crackle in the fireplace. The room smells of fresh pine.
A lump sits in Castiel’s throat, threatening to choke him.
Castiel has always had a somewhat complicated relationship with Christmas, one that has only gotten more so over the years. Of course, he has an incredibly complicated relationship with religion, so it’s only natural that part of it would involve Christmas.
He misses it, the pure, unadulterated joy of childhood, of seeing presents under the tree, of lights and music and family and food. Despite his less-than-pleasant feelings regarding the holiday, he desperately wishes he could experience it again.
—————
Age 6
—————
Castiel stares at the clock on the bedside table, practically vibrating with excitement. The rule, which was carefully and repeatedly enunciated to both him and Anna, is that they aren’t allowed to get out of bed before six o’clock. He’s been awake for the past twenty minutes, just staring at the clock, watching the numbers slowly change.
Finally! 5:59 because 6:00, and Castiel jumps out of bed, heading straight for the stairs, four-year-old Anna hot on his heels.
The whole house is still dark, except for the Christmas tree in the living room, strings of lights wrapped around it, a beacon to excited children. Castiel stares at it, eyes wide. There are presents under it, where there had been none when they had gone to bed the night before, and their stockings, hung on the mantle, are full.
“Cassie, look!” Anna exclaims, tugging at the sleeve of Castiel’s pajama shirt. She points to the low coffee table in front of the fireplace. Last night, they had left out a glass of milk and a plate of cookies that they had decorated.
If possible, Castiel’s eyes get even wider. “They’re gone,” he whispers, voice full of awe.
“They’re gone,” Anna echoes, her voice equally hushed.
They aren’t allowed to touch the presents until everyone is there, but Mom didn’t say anything about looking. Castiel sits down in front of the tree, Anna beside him. He points at each present, carefully sounding out the names on each label.
Castiel turns around at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Anna jumps up, running towards their parents. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas,” Dad replies, catching Anna and tossing her into the air.
“Can we open presents?” she asks.
Dad laughs, kissing her forehead. “Alright, but remember, only the stockings for now. The rest are for after Mass.”
Castiel nods solemnly.
He unwraps each small package carefully, making sure to keep all of the wrapping paper in one place, unlike Anna, who’s inadvertently scattered it across the room. He lines up his new Hot Wheels, trying not to look too much at the candy canes and chocolate coins next to them.
He lets himself be dressed for Mass, even allowing Mom to comb his hair and put a bowtie on him, since he and Dad have matching Christmas suits this year.
The priest and altar boys process down the aisle at the end of the service. Castiel holds his father’s hand as the voices of the choir fill the crowded building.
Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains, and the mountains in reply echoing their joyous strains.
He tries to hold still, despite how excited he is for the rest of the day, between opening the rest of his presents and getting together with family.
Once they get home, Castiel changes out of his church clothes while Mom gets breakfast ready. The mouth-watering smell of bacon slowly fills the house, along with the sweeter scents of hot chocolate bubbling on the stove and cinnamon rolls reheating in the oven. He hears Anna laughing, and the muffled voices of his parents, whose words he can’t quite make out.
After breakfast and presents, people start to arrive. The house is loud and joyful and full of love and life and family. As wonderful as it is, it’s slightly overwhelming, so Castiel retreats to his room.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. Castiel smiles when he sees that it’s Gabriel, his favorite uncle.
“Hey, Cassie,” Uncle Gabriel says.
“Hi Uncle Gabe,” Castiel replies softly.
Uncle Gabriel frowns, looking him over. “You doing ok, kiddo?”
Castiel nods. “It’s loud downstairs.”
His uncle nods understandable. “It is. Is it ok if I hang out in here with you?”
Castiel nods. “Want to help me build my new legos?”
Uncle Gabriel grins at him. “Absolutely.”
He joins Castiel in sitting cross legged on the floor, neat piles of lego bricks between them. With Uncle Gabriel’s help, Castiel finishes building the cars that Santa had brought him. He lines them up on the bookshelf, next to his other ones, as well as his Hot Wheels.
“Thanks, Uncle Gabe!”
Uncle Gabriel pulls him into a hug. “Any time, kiddo. Any time. You ok to head back downstairs now?”
Castiel nods.
“Awesome.” Uncle Gabriel claps his hands together. “I happen to know that there are several plates of cookies in the pantry, and that no one would notice if a few happened to go missing.”
Castiel smiles up at him, giving him another hug.
He loves Christmas.
—————
Age 10
—————
It’s dark outside when Dad gently shakes Castiel awake. He blinks up at him, still half asleep.
“It’s time to get up,” Dad whispers.
Castiel squints at him, confused.
“We’re going to Mass, remember?”
Castiel pulls himself into a sitting position. They’re going to Midnight Mass for Christmas this year, something that he’s been looking forward to for months.
The clock on the dresser reads 11:00 pm.
Castiel pads to the bathroom, the hanger with suit clutched in one hand. In the room next to his, he can hear Mom talking to Anna in a hushed tone. He frowns down at the tie in his hands, realizing that he doesn’t know how to tie it. There’s a quiet knock on the bathroom door. “Come in,” Castiel says.
Dad smiles at him from the doorway. “Almost ready?”
He nods. “Can you help me tie my tie?”
“Of course,” Dad says. “Give me just a second.”
He returns a minute or two later, his own tie in hand. He stands next to Castiel in front of the large bathroom mirror, talking him through each step, demonstrating it on himself. It takes Castiel a few tries to get it right, but when he does, he grins up at Dad.
Dad kisses him on the top of the head. “Good job,” he says, and Castiel can hear the smile in his voice. He ruffles Castiel’s hair.
Castiel scowls at him, trying to flatten it again.
He ties his shoes (double knotted, of course) as Dad wakes up Samandriel. He slips the three-year-old’s shoes on, then picks him up. Castiel follows them out to the car, where Mom is buckling one-year-old Duma into her carseat.
The church is breathtaking. It’s always a beautiful building, high ceilings, large stained glass panels, the marble statue of St. Michael at the front, but tonight, it’s stunning. All the overhead lights are off, but there are hundreds of candles on and around the altar, flickering flames sending long shadows across the room, the red light of the sanctuary candle standing out like a beacon amongst the yellows and oranges.
Music fills the space, seeming to echo off the walls, the low notes of the organ resonating in Castiel’s very bones. He’s utterly captivated by the precise, almost choreographed movements of the priest and the altar servers, the way the candlelight reflects off the gold vestments.
At the consecration, the church falls into complete silence. Castiel doesn’t dare to even take a breath. The priest holds up the host, the bells clang loudly in the tomb-quiet church, the candles create strange shapes in the smoke from the thurible, filling Castiel’s nose with the scent of incense.
It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, despite how the scene blurs as his eyes water.
Later, when Mom asks them what their favorite part of Christmas was this year, he answers, “Midnight Mass” without hesitation.
—————
Age 13
—————
It’s the day after Christmas. Castiel is curled up in the corner of the couch, a mug of cocoa on the coffee table and one of his new books in hand. The sounds of quiet conversation drift in from the kitchen. If he strains, he can hear the sounds of children playing upstairs.
It’s a fairly unremarkable Christmas, but that doesn’t make it any less wonderful, Castiel thinks. Mass and presents and family and good food, laughter and conversation and people fighting goodnaturedly over who gets to pick the music.
The living room is quiet, thank god. There’s bits of wrapping paper still on the floor, evidence of the earlier festivities, and it’s comforting in a way that Castiel can’t quite put into words.
It’s almost dinner time, so Castiel replaces his bookmark and wanders into the kitchen to see what the plan is. As soon as he enters, all conversation ceases. He looks around, seeing his mother’s pale face and his father’s red-rimmed eyes. “What’s going on?”
Dad takes several shaky breaths. “Go get your siblings. We need to talk.”
Castiel nods, heading upstairs on autopilot, something inside him screaming something’s wrong something’s wrong something’s wrong.
In the living room, Dad waits until everyone is sitting down. He looks at Mom, then at the floor, then back at Mom. Something bad happened , the voice in his head screams.
Dad clears his throat, and Castiel thinks it sounds like he’s trying not to cry. He glances at Anna, his worried expression mirrored in hers.
“Uncle Gabriel is in the hospital.”
Roaring fills Castiel’s ears. This can’t be happening. It can’t.
“He’s very sick,” Dad chokes out.
He’s going to be ok. He has to be ok. Uncle Gabriel is young and healthy and he can’t die. He can’t.
Following Mom, Castiel kneels down, eyes fixed on the crucifix on the wall as they pray the emergency Novena, nine Memorares.
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary , he begs, that never was known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy interception was left unaided.
Please, God, let him be ok.
Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother. To thee do I come, before thee do I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer them .
Please.
Each Amen feels like a blow.
That night, long after Samandriel is asleep, Castiel kneels on the carpeted floor, praying harder than he has ever prayed before.
In the morning, Dad calls them all into the living room. He looks exhausted, like he’s been crying for hours.
Uncle Gabriel has to be ok. He has to be .
“Uncle Gabriel died last night.”
Everything seems to stop. Castiel is suddenly lightheaded. He’s not sure if Dad says anything else. He retreats to his room, though it doesn’t feel like he’s the one moving his body.
He crawls back into bed, pulling the covers over his head. Only then does he start crying.
He cries until the tears cease to fall, despite the sobs still wracking his chest.
“Why?” he asks God. “Why would you let him die? How could you let him die?”
Later, perhaps only hours, perhaps the next day, Dad calls Castiel into his room.
“Uncle Gabriel killed himself.”
Castiel’s world shatters again.
Dad leans against the desk, not looking at Castiel. “Do you remember the sermon that Fr. Adler gave a few weeks ago?”
Castiel doesn’t need any more detail to know exactly what his father is talking about. He can’t fucking believe it.
It was an evening Mass, not the one that they usually went to. Duma had fallen asleep, leaning against Castiel. Fr. Adler droned on and on, and as much as Castiel loves his faith, he wished the priest would wrap it up already.
Fr. Adler was going on about Last Rites, and how you shouldn’t wait until the last minute to call the priest to administer them, just in case. You never know what might happen. There could be traffic, and the person could pass before the priest ever got there.
“People who kill themselves don’t go to Heaven,” Fr. Adler said. “Life is a gift from God, and to throw it away like that is one of the worst sins.”
Castiel shifted uncomfortably.
“And if someone tries to kill themselves, don’t bother calling a priest for Last Rites.”
Castiel doesn’t know what to say. Why did Dad think that was the appropriate thing to say?
They stand there for a few minutes, unspeaking, before Dad leaves. Castiel doesn’t know what to do.
The next week is a blur of the funeral and food, hugging and crying, people huddled together in houses still decorated for celebration. The angel at the top of the tree, the one that was advertised as a “St. Gabriel the Archangel Tree Topper,” seems to mock him.
There are hushed conversations among the adults that fall silent whenever Castiel gets too close, though he overhears the frequently repeated words “depression” and “overdose.”
It’s at 13 that Castiel no longer loves Christmas.
—————
Age 14
—————
Every year, Castiel’s family prays the St. Andrew’s Novena, but he’s never really thought about it that much. The same prayer, repeated fifteen times a day, from St. Andrew’s feast day on November 30th to Christmas Eve.
On the small prayer cards that Mom made a few years ago, it talks about how it’s a novena to obtain favors and prepare to celebrate the birth of Christ. That if you successfully pray the novena, God will grant you the favor for which you’ve been praying.
Every evening, they light the candles in the Advent wreath and pray the novena.
Hail and blessed be the hour and moment in which the Son of God was born of the most pure Virgin Mary, at midnight, in Bethlehem, in piercing cold. In that hour, vouchsafe, I beseech Thee, O my God, to hear my prayer and grant my desires-
They pause, heads bowed and eyes closed.
-through the merits of our Savior Jesus Christ and of His Blessed Mother. Amen.
Castiel prays that he can be happy.
During the party on Christmas Day, Castiel slips away to his bathroom. His hands shake and blood drips down his wrist and soaks the tissue he’s holding.
He wonders why the novena didn’t work. He wonders if this is what God wants for him. After all, so many saints are lauded for the way they suffered, for their mortification of the flesh.
Castiel wonders if God even exists.
—————
Age 16
—————
Castiel sits at the kitchen table with Mom, helping her address the dozens of Christmas cards that still need to be sent out to family and friends. She sighs as she looks down at one of the many cards. “I don’t see why you need to dress like that all the time,” she says, her voice slightly irritated.
Castiel manages not to roll his eyes. It’s a conversation that they’ve had many times before. He looks down at the card that he’s about to slide into an envelope.
It’s a nice picture of their whole family, taken at a park. He’s not sure exactly what the issue that Mom has with his clothes is. In the photo, he’s wearing a black hoodie and dark wash jeans. He remembers the fight that they’d had the day of, where she’d tried to get him to wear a polo, like Dad and Samandriel, but he’d refused. If he thinks about it too much, he remembers the pure panic that shot through him at the idea of taking his hoodie off, at the possibility of someone seeing the layers of scabs and scars on his forearms.
Merry Christmas! is printed in white cursive along the top of the photo. The text at the bottom reads Love, the Novak family- Michael, Naomi, Castiel (16), Anna (14), Samandriel (9), Duma (7), Inias (4), Benjamin (1).
Winter break passes without much to differentiate the days. Castiel dreads the fast approaching holiday. The grief and anger that usually sit in his chest and weigh him down now sit in his throat, threatening to choke him.
As they have for the past several years, they’re going to Midnight Mass, a service which is still so beautiful to Castiel, despite the hot coals of the inexplicable agony of grief that it drags across his still healing wounds.
He leaves early, taking Anna and Samandriel with him, as Anna sings in the choir and both he and Samandriel are altar servers. In the sacristy, his fingers shake as he buttons his cassock. He directs the other boys in preparing for Mass, and he prays they can’t hear the tremble in his voice.
They process in, Samandriel carrying the gold crucifix between the two teenagers carrying candles, Castiel walking beside Fr. Adler, holding open his cope. He can hear Anna’s sweet soprano voice clearly.
His pants and thin cassock do little to lessen the cold marble tile beneath his knees, but he welcomes it. It grounds him, keeps him sane. He moves on autopilot, the tasks and responses a second nature to him by now.
During the sermon, his fingers fidget with the lace hem of his surplice. When he glances down at his hands, he notices a single drop of blood staining the white linen.
—————
Age 19
—————
It’s Castiel’s first Christmas with Dean. They’ve been together for about 11 months, and God, Castiel loves him so much. He’s sweet and supportive and loving and everything that Castiel has ever longed for.
They met at the beginning of their freshman year, as their dorms were right next to each other. Castiel, finally out of his parents’ house, was immediately drawn to the other man. Dean was loud and outgoing where he was reserved and quiet, but from the moment Dean introduced himself, a welcoming smile on his face, they were inseparable.
Dean was always there for him as he stopped going to church and tried to come to terms with his identity. Castiel had known that he was gay for several years at that point, but had never anticipated actually getting out of his parents’ house, away from the religion and the god that he once held dear but now could no longer believe.
Dean understood, at least the part about his sexuality. The Winchesters were more of a “church on Christmas and Easter but that’s it” kind of family, rather than Castiel’s radical traditionalist Catholic one.
Castiel had finally got the courage to tell Dean how he felt in January of their freshman year, and the past year has been nothing but incredible.
Until now.
Both of them stayed on campus for winter break, Castiel because he knew he couldn’t handle Christmas at his parents’ house, and Dean because he knew Castiel didn’t want to be alone during Christmas.
Castiel wakes up on Christmas morning exhausted. Dean is still asleep, his chest pressed to Castiel’s back, one arm draped loosely over him. He can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, can hear his soft exhales.
He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep. It doesn’t work.
When Dean finally wakes, he pulls Castiel closer, pressing gentle kisses to his bare skin. “You ok?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.
Castiel shrugs.
Dean gets up eventually, moving quietly around their shared dorm room, pausing every couple of minutes to sit on the edge of the bed and hold Castiel. “I love you,” Dean murmurs.
Castiel clings to him like a lifeline. He tries to respond, but the words won’t come. Dean understands, though, soothing arms rubbing circles on his back.
The day passes slowly, but eventually the sun starts to set. Dean kisses Castiel gently. “I’m gonna go make dinner. You want to come?”
The idea of getting out of bed, let alone leaving their room to go to the kitchen on the first floor of their building, is exhausting. Castiel shakes his head.
“Ok,” Dean says.
He stands, but Castiel pulls him back. “Love you,” he manages to get out.
Dean smiles, and as always, it’s breathtaking. “I love you too, Cas.”
The door swings closed behind him, and Castiel can’t help but feel an odd sense of finality. He reaches for the bedside table, grabbing his hoodie off of it and pulling it on.
It takes a tremendous amount of effort to stand, but he eventually manages it. Every part of his body is exhausted. He makes it to his backpack, then sits on the floor, leaning back against the wall.
Castiel pushes the hoodie’s sleeves up, fingers tracing the now faint scars on his forearms. He reaches into the inner pocket of his bag, pulling out the blade he still keeps there, just in case .
His hands shake. There’s pain, but god, what a welcome pain it is.
He realizes that he’s wearing Dean’s hoodie, not his own black one that he thought he had grabbed.
Tears blur his vision, as bright red blood soaks the dark green fabric of Dean’s hoodie.
Merry fucking Christmas.
—————
Age 19, pt. 2
—————
The first thing Castiel sees when he wakes is Dean’s face, exhaustion and terror painted on it. When he realizes Cas is awake, he lets out a shaky sob of relief, eyes watery with tears.
The first thing Castiel feels is guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Dean doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head and kisses him. He clings to him, crying, afraid to let go.
When they eventually make it back to their room, Dean helps him into his own hoodie, along with a pair of soft sweatpants. Dean props up the pillows on the bed, sitting down and gently pulling Cas towards him, til he’s half laying against Dean’s chest, his boyfriend’s fingers combing gently through his hair.
“Did you-” Dean pauses, swallowing. “Where you trying-” He can’t get the words out.
Cas knows what he means. He shrugs.
“Oh, Cas,” Dean murmurs, his arms wrapping more securely around him.
“I love you,” Cas says, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dean takes a shaky breath. “I love you too, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
They stay like that until they both finally drift off to sleep.
Things are different after this. Not anything major, Cas probably couldn’t even put his finger on exactly what changed, but something did. Not bad, just different.
—————
Age 30, present day
—————
Jack comes running down the stairs, Claire following close behind. “Papa! Papa!” he shouts excitedly.
Cas smiles, looking up at his five-year-old son. “Yes?”
“Dad found the ornaments. Can we decorate the tree now? Like right now? Please?”
Cas laughs softly. “Of course.”
Jack spins around to look at Claire. “We can decorate the tree right now!”
“I know,” Claire says, with the infinite wisdom of a seven-year-old, looking over Jack’s head at Cas. “I heard you ask Papa.”
Dean comes down the stairs, a large plastic storage tub in hand. Cas stands, walking over to his husband and pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Claire rolls her eyes dramatically. “Gross,” she says matter of factly. “Can we decorate the tree now? “
Dean laughs. “Absolutely.” He opens the box, and both children start picking their favorite ornaments. He helps them decorate, picking them up to get ornaments on the upper half of the tree.
Cas watches them from the couch, a fond expression on his face. His fingers absentmindedly trace the now faded scars on his wrist, covered by a small tattoo, a pair of angel wings that sweep over all of them, the detailed feathers hiding them well, a small ‘G’ between them in place of a body.
Dean, being the incredibly observant man that he is, notices, and joins Cas on the couch. He takes his husband’s hand in his, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his hand. “You ok?” he murmurs.
Cas nods, still looking fondly at their children. “I am.”
Dean smiles, leaning in to kiss Cas.
“We’re done!” Jack announces. He grabs Cas’s hand, pulling him over to inspect the tree.
“Not yet,” Claire says. “We still have to put the angel on the top.”
Jack spins around. “Can I do it, Dad? Please? Please?”
“Alright, kiddo,” Dean says, handing Jack the tree topper, then swinging him onto his shoulders.
Cas pulls out his phone just in time to capture Jack sitting on Dean’s shoulders, reaching out to place the angel on the very top. It’s a little lopsided, but it’s perfect.
Claire carries the now empty box back up to the attic. Jack follows her, telling her all about which ornaments are his favorite.
Dean pulls Cas into a hug, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. “God, I love you so much,” he murmurs.
Cas smiles. “I love you too, Dean.”
“I know,” Dean says, kissing him softly. “I know.”
Handel’s Messiah still plays in the background, accompanied by the crackling of the fire. From the top of the tree, the angel watches them, a small lily clasped in one hand, a trumpet in the other, a truly happy smile painted onto its face.