Of Angels and Christmas Lights
Cas can barely finish reading the last sentence before Maya turns the page, eager to find out how the story will end. She doesn’t let him continue, though. She leans forward to point to the winged and haloed figure hovering in the corner on the page.
“Do all angels have white dresses, papa?” she asks, turning her head to him.
“Uh—” Cas bites his lower lip, struggling to come up with a proper answer under her expectant stare. “No,” he decides, finally. “No, not all of them. Only those that like white dresses.”
Maya raises her hands. “But they aaaaaalways do!” she says, frustrated.
Cas narrows eyes at her, trying to figure out what the “always” refers to. As she shifts on top of his knees, he shuts the book around his index finger to– Oh, of course.
“Do you mean angels in your books?”
“Yes! And in television!” she explains. “And—and on a Christmas tree!”
“Christmas tree?” Cas repeats. “On television?”
“In Veronica’s house,” she corrects. “It’s so big—” she throws her hands up above her head, nearly punching Cas’s nose in the process—”up to the ceiling! And there’s a star on the top—a gold star and angels in white dresses and little lights. It’s sooo pretty!”
“I’m sure it is,” Cas says, using the occasion to change the topic. Explaining angels, and other creatures that to children and most people are fairy tales, without outright lying, is a balancing act that Cas is not very skilled at. “What color are the lights?”
“All colors,” Maya says, jumping off her papa’s knees. “Blue and red and yellow and they twinkle like this—” she opens and closes her palms and eyelids for the most accurate portrayal of twinkling Christmas lights—”and then faster!”
She involves her skipping feet and her head bobbing up and down in her presentation. Losing her balance, she sways to the side. Cas’s arms shoot forward and lock around her to ensure she doesn’t fall. As if encouraged, Maya starts jumping around, swinging to the sides, until Cas scoops her off her feet. He pulls her in, buries her face in her neck and leaves tickling kisses, drawing a salve of squeaky laughter from her mouth.
It takes her a moment to calm down and sit straight in Cas’s lap, but when she does, she doesn’t call for the book Cas abandoned beside him on the couch. Instead, she turns to him, head cocked to the side.
“Can we have a Christmas tree too?” she pleads with a sweet grin.
Cas sucks in a breath, but before he can say anything, the front door swings open and rattles shut.
“Dean!” Cas raises his voice, only slightly. He doesn’t have a heart to scold Dean for slamming the door when it’s the door that saved him from making up another awkward answer.
“Sorry!” comes a rasp from the entrance and Dean storms into the living room, snow falling off his shoulders and to the carpet.
His movements are sharp, steps rushed but firm on the floor. He’s anxious or angry, either way, it’s more than enough to alert Cas; his body tenses, hold tightens around Maya’s small form.
Dean stops in his tracks, turns to them, hands thrown to the sides.
“Oh, I’m gonna tell you what’s going on,” he starts, tipping his chin.
All of the tension escapes Cas at once. Dean’s angry, yes, pissed, even. But Cas knows this tone too well and he knows what’s coming next.
