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Feast of the Assumptions

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It would become known as Dongsgiving.

Of course it was Ash who christened it that with the wide, easy grin of certain truth and everyone immediately lit up with agreement. Kevin tried to press for Sexsgiving, but no one was going to take a virgin seriously in such a serious matter as naming that day.

“But Sexsgiving, guys, it makes the most sense.”

“Naw cause see, we didn’t all get sex but we all got dongs.” And Kevin didn’t have much that could counter that. They had all gotten dongs, even Bobby, the poor bastard, as much as he’d like to forget.

“Besides,” Dean laid a paternal hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “virgins don’t get a vote.”

“I’m not a virgin!” Kevin had argued, not for the first time that night. “Oral sex is still sex!”

“That’s something a virgin would say.” Sam added sagely from the couch.


Every year, for many years after, someone would inevitably shout at a table mate, DON’T EAT THE TURKEY! Or someone else, typically Jo, would start moaning inappropriately around forkfuls of pie until Ellen broke out the full name warning, but she was never quite able to do it without choking down her own amusement.

Dean took it all in stride, what did he care? That had been the Thanksgiving that changed everything in his life for the better. Even if he was never going to live it down.


Before that, holidays were never much of a happy time in the Winchester household. Mary gone too young, John dragging the brothers whipstitch across the forty-eight states searching for work, they were lucky if one of them had enough to scrounge up a birthday present.

Dean tried. He wanted Sammy to have what other families had, so by the time it was just the two of them, Dean had come full circle and planted them both back in hometown Kansas. He got them a little place, got a job, opened a business, got a nicer place, broke his own heart when he sent Sam off to college a thousand miles away. But he comforted himself with the thought that Sam finally had somewhere to come back to, a real home.

But as most things go, schooling gets hectic and plane tickets get expensive, and before long, most all of Dean’s Thanksgivings were spent with a bottle of whiskey, a store bought pie and a day of football on the couch. Not much of a Thanksgiving, but he never complained.


“You mean it?”

“Yeah Dean, I do. I got the whole week off and we’ll be there the Monday before.”


There’s a long pause.

“I’m uh…bringing Jess with me, if you don’t mind. I sort of want you to finally meet her so you can…maybe…I don’t know, give your blessing? I mean, I already asked her and she said yes, but I won’t feel like it’s official until you’ve met her.”

Dean face hurt he’s grinning so much.

“You finally grew a pair! Congrats man!”

“Thanks Dean.”

They talked about wedding plans and plans for Thanksgiving and how everyone back home was doing and wouldn’t it be great to have all the people they loved around the table for once and before he knew it, Dean had agreed to host a full Thanksgiving feast with all the trimmings for ten people. By the time they said their goodbyes he was wound up tight with holiday excitement at the prospect of getting all his family under one roof. He was going to make this the best damned Thanksgiving anyone had ever seen and Martha Stewart could suck a bag of dicks.

Only one problem.

Dean hadn’t prepared anything more complicated than a burger in his life and had no blessed clue how to pull off something close to a Thanksgiving dinner. But it was November third, there was time, so by God he was going to figure it out.


The first practice run confirmed Dean’s suspicion that this wasn’t something he could pull off on the fly, his instincts on the matter obviously failing him when it came to something that didn’t leave much room to improvise. The turkey wasn’t large, but had somehow come out of the oven raw in some parts and crumbling to fine white dust under his knife in others.

Turkey number two necessitated the intervention of emergency response professionals after it was incinerated beyond human recognition. Dean’s original idea to was try grilling it, it was brilliant, he could grill a hell of a good steak, why not this? Only thing he didn’t count on was accidentally choosing one of those butter injected deals and failing to put a catch pan underneath. Two hours later Dean ambled outside to check its progress and was thrown back on his ass by a ten foot ball of fire igniting right in his face. The inferno raged higher with the flood of sweet oxygen and for a blind panic minute, he was sure he’d lost both eyebrows.

Benny and the boys had laughed their asses off as they tromped through his house after putting out the flames, gear jangling in a parade of overkill, because even though Dean had told Benny- he’d told him- he only needed a bit of help putting out one teeny tiny crematorium, (that had roared its victory over his pathetic kitchen extinguisher) Benny had thought it would be much more fun to bring the full complement of Station 17’s best and brightest to annihilate his backyard barbeque.

“You know, I might just have other plans this holiday…” Benny teased him from behind the neck of his bottle. He’d brought pizza and beer after clocking out, a small peace offering. The two of them sat on the back porch, watching the sun set on the gnarled corpse of Dean’s beloved secondhand Grillmaster.

“Don’t you dare. You’re the only one coming besides Ellen that knows their way around a kitchen and she won’t lift a finger if I screw this up. I need you to be my backup.”

“Sure thing partner, how’s about I sneak in a pot of gumbo just in case? Contingency plan.”

Dean looked at him sideways, gumbo didn’t fit into his traditional holiday theme, but he guessed he couldn’t be too picky about the shape of his safety net, especially seeing as how it was looking entirely likely that he’d need it.

“But you’re bringing the pie too, right? I’m not buying this if it’s an either/or situation.”

“Yeah, brother, pie gonna come. Chocolate bourbon pecan, mother’s own.”

“I swear to God Benny, if you were gay I would marry you just for that pie.”

“Oh really?” he chuckles. The first fireflies have come out as he drains his beer, reaching for two more and handing them over for Dean to open. “What makes you think I’d want someone like you if that was the case? I got standards brother.”

“The hell you do!”

He gave Benny a playful shove and the two men spent the rest of the evening reminiscing about romantic encounters gone wrong. He strong armed Benny into the guest room sometime after one, after the two of them had reminisced their way through another case of beer. Benny offered no help whatsoever getting his bulk from one room to the next, snickering about Dean getting him in his bed after all, but promptly passing out mid-sentence the minute he hit the mattress with his face.


The fringe of his hangover hadn’t yet dissipated by the time Dean found himself standing once again in the meat department of his local supermarket, florescent lights far too bright to allow him to remove his sunglasses, glaring daggers behind the lenses at the recently installed turkey display with its trough of bulbous frozen carcasses, each one mocking him with its potential for failure. He was never going to get this right. The holiday would be a disaster and Sam would never come back, he’d spend every year with Jess’ family, sighing politely when they asked about Dean.

After what happened last year we didn’t want to be a burden. I think it was a little too much for him…

He was just considering calling the whole thing off, thoughts spiraling around which version of disappointing Sam he could stomach slightly more, when he saw it, the cheery wrinkled face of the kindly old woman in a floral dress and a frilly white apron smiling at him from the cardboard sign. She held a picture perfect turkey on a platter and on her head she wore a wireless headset nestled in her silver curls.

Plumperson’s Turkey Hotline!

Nov 1-Dec 24

24 hrs a day!

Your friends a Plumperson’s are ready to help you with any turkey predicament!

That’s it, that was just what he needed! Some adorable little grandmother type that loved to spend her days helping all the poor folks out there with their endless cooking questions. Someone named Marjorie maybe, with her grandkids all grown, all those years of roasting birds and candying yams going to good use again. She would have a peppy, wrinkled voice and call him ‘dearie’ and patiently guide him through all the intricacies of roasting the every loving shit out of this stupid fucking bird.

He bought six, Winchester resolve surging in his chest. He copied the number of the hotline in his phone and pulled down his shades to wink cheerfully at the unimpressed checkout girl.


Dean left the smallest bird to thaw in a sink full of cool water, crammed the others in the garage fridge usually designated for beer. He poured himself a nice glass of whiskey, gathered up a pencil and pad and settled into the sofa with his cell phone and a determination to pull every secret trick Marjorie had out of her sweet, fragile little heart.

The line rang and Dean took another long sip.

“Thank you for calling Plumperson’s. This is Castiel, how can I be of assistance today?”

Dean floundered for a moment, looked hard at the glass in his hand. He only felt a little cozy so far, not nearly buzzed enough to call the wrong number. He had to have called the wrong number.

For Dean would never admit to something like a kink, per say. He just knew, from years and years and years of experience, that there was one thing in particular that could get him harder than a sailor on shore leave and it was the timber and grit of an especially deep, commanding male voice. And the voice vibrating through his skull right now and zinging its way on down to his pants was something straight out of his most pornographic dreams.

“Where’s Marjorie?” he managed, pitifully, trying to stitch his words together without any telltale strain.

“I’m sorry, I do not understand. There is no Marjorie here, you may have dialed this number in error.”

And the hot blooming vine of blood was already spiking its way due south with every word the man said and Dean wasn’t sure if he knew how to course correct now that it had started.

“No I- I thought this hotline was full of, you know, little old ladies with blue hair and….”

And not men with fuck-filthy voices making me stand up and salute.

“Ah yes, your confusion is understandable. But I can assure you that I am fully capable of providing you with whatever culinary aid you might need. Now, how may I help you today?”

“I have to go.”




So that was unexpected. Dean stared down at his erection, unsure what to do with it. Well, he knew what to do with it, he was just getting hung up on the finer points of how it came to be.


That wasn’t a real person’s name and real people didn’t sound like that unless they were putting it on. But who the hell tries to sound sexy talking about Thanksgiving? And didn’t that company screen these people? Weren’t they getting complaints about the higher than average panty disintegration happening to its customers?

He slipped a hand down the front of his jeans and pressed it hard against the throbbing line of flesh. He rocked into it, tiny little juts impeded by the confines of denim he still hadn’t undone. He liked teasing himself, liked things just shy of satisfying till he couldn’t stand it anymore.

You need me to assist you with that Dean?

God he could fucking hear Castiel clear as a bell, rumbling at him in curious approval.

You look so uncomfortable like that. Why don’t you unzip your pants and show me what the problem is.

He did, slowly undoing his pants and dragging his shirt up higher, letting the hot length of him burn in the cool air.

Hmm, I see. You’re so hard you must be aching. Does it ache Dean? I know you want to touch it, do you have any lube? No? That’s a shame, I bet your cock looks so good when it’s all wet and glistening. Well I’ll just have to help in other ways. Now, I want you to stroke yourself Dean, to the sound of my voice. Uuuuup and doooown, nice and slow, just like that. Uuuuup and doooown. Good, yes, keep going at my pace.

Dean pumped himself slowly, face scrunched up at the gorgeous building pressure.

What about that tight little asshole of yours? Does it like to be stuffed full? I bet it does. Why don’t you rub a finger over that hole of yours, let me see what that does. There you go, just like that. Oh, you like that I see, look at you, it must be killing you not to go faster. Do you want to go faster?

Dean nodded, eyes shut tight.

Mmmm, yes I can see that, but you need to be good for just a little longer. Now suck on those fingers of yours, get them nice and wet. It’s time to see how deep you can fuck them into your ass for me.

He did, and the minute he worked two of them in there that was it, jettison of come feeling as though it was ripped from him by a voice that wasn’t even there.


“Thank you for calling Plumperson’s. This is Castiel, how can I be of assistance today?”

Alright, so he’d planned for this. It was always a possibility that Castiel would be the one to pick up again. He needed help with this cooking business and now that Dean Jr. had been seen to thoroughly he could sit here and talk to the man like a normal person. Like a normal, liar person who was about to pretend that he didn’t just imagine this exact same voice growling at him to take his own fingers as deep as they could go.

He cleared his throat.

“Hi….hello…..hi, um, sorry I just hung up on you. There was a work…..thing.”

“That’s no trouble at all, I’m glad you called back. What can I help you with today?”

“Well, uh, you see I gotta do Thanksgiving this year and I’ve never actually cooked a bird before. Successfully. I actually tried to cook two for practice but those didn’t really pan out.”

“I see,” the man hummed in his ear, intimate and low, as if Dean’s terrible cooking skills deserved serious contemplation. “Well then, I applaud you for getting an early start. Thanksgiving day this line will be flooded with people that did not have your foresight.”

The praise thing. God Dean couldn’t fucking count the stuff he’d willingly agreed to just because someone told him he was good. His pants were getting more constrictive by the second, as if he hadn’t just taken care of this minutes ago sonovabitch! Dean tried to stay strong, but fuck this guy sounded sexy and if he wasn’t holding the phone in one hand and his second glass of whiskey in the other, odds were better than good he would be testing just how much touching he could get away with right now without letting on to the Plumperson Turkey sex phone operator what he was doing. Hell if this guy suddenly stated ‘Dean, I pull hair’ he would even need his hands, just a clean towel.

“Why don’t you tell me what your approach was with the previous two birds and then we can see what went wrong.”

“Dean.” He offers in a voice he thinks is far too shaky to go unnoticed.

Say it. Oh Christ say it, just say it.

“I’m sorry?”

“My- uhhh- my name is Dean. If we’re gonna….”

“Oh yes, thank you. Dean.”

That gorgeous baritone grinds through the vowels and pins the final N sound down by the back of its neck and in order to stop from moaning into his phone and making this immediately weird, Dean presses his head into the back of the couch and breaths as quietly as he can through his nose. He drains his glass in one go but doesn’t set it down.

“Ok, so uh…” he cleared his throat. “So the first one I guess I just threw it in the oven for a couple hours like I thought you’re supposed to and the thing was pretty much jerky on the outside and raw on the inside.”

“It sounds as though you did not thaw the turkey properly before cooking. Alright, tell me about the second one.”

Dean shifted a little then froze when his (now full glory) erection pushed against the seam of his jeans.

“Second one I kinda thought would be easier to grill out back, ‘cause I have a bit more experience with that sort of thing. Turns out though, there’s some turkeys that make mighty good bonfire fuel, had to call in a firefighter buddy to help put that out. Lost a good barbeque that day.”

Castiel gave a husky laugh that had Dean biting his lip.

“Yeah,” Dean chuckled a bit himself. “Poor old girl will never grill again, which is a shame ‘cause the only thing I can make is a mean burger. I’m pretty sure you could see the fire ball in Kansas City.”

“Oh that was you?” Castiel teased dryly, “I thought there had been a train derailment or something equally catastrophic.”

Dean sat up straighter, “You’re in Kansas City? I’m in Lawrence.”

“Well I’m sure I’m not supposed to be saying this, but yes. They have hotline operators all over the country and the calls get routed to the nearest available line. Speaking of which, why don’t we go over a few things and see what works for you?”

Over the next forty five minutes, Dean got solid, practical experience with speaking in a normal voice while his erection tried desperately to Hulk its way out of his jeans every time Castiel said his name. But he managed to take notes and by the end of it Castiel had helped him construct a simple outline that he assured him would result in perfection.


It’s not like he planned on it. He had a routine.

Once in the morning, once in the evening with the aid of his laptop, and then maybe a few extra times over the weekend if he got bored. His sex life was healthy enough that he’d never felt overwhelmed by a sudden compulsion to masturbate. At least not in the last decade. So he could be an adult about this, despite what happened last time.

There were other things around the house that could use his attention, the laundry was piling up and, he hadn’t sorted the mail in a week and he was absolutely not going to whip his dick out the minute he hung up with Castiel and come all over the couch to a mental replay of that fucking voice growling his name for a second time in a row. He was not.

But deciding on what to do to take his mind off Castiel proved tricky. The beige plastic skinned globe of his turkey shined dully from the sink, and there were the instructions, the bright yellow slab of legal paper stark against the white counter from where he’d slapped it down a moment before.

Dean busied himself with what he remembered off the top of his head, opening the packaging, throwing out the packaged giblets, placing the bird in the roasting pan and shoving it into the fridge to dry overnight. And he was only trying to go over his notes for tomorrow, but it was near enough to a transcript that he couldn’t do anything but imagine Castiel talking him through each step.

Just slip your fingers under the skin…

Make sure to rub it all over with the-

Don’t tie up the legs if you want to finish faster…

And shit, shii-iit! He was propped against the counter with a hand down his pants, come spurting out at disastrous angles wondering how in the hell that had just happened even before the last tremors of his orgasm had shook themselves free. He looked around in panic.

The kitchen window was open and it was the middle of the day and what the hell was wrong with him? He grabbed paper towels to clean off, wincing at the rough texture on his sensitive skin.

And Christ it was all over the floor and the- he scrubbed with the vigor of shame- the counter. He’d just got off with the instructions for how to roast a turkey. This had to be a new low.


The whole house smelled amazing and he took a moment to appreciate the picture perfect golden skinned bird resting in the pan before carving up a plate for himself and taking it to the living room. He clicked around the television before settling for a movie he’d seen before, then took a bite. Then another. He groaned- fuck it was so good, and it didn’t even have gravy. Before long he’d finished three plates worth and could almost hear Sammy’s thin whine that he couldn’t just eat meat for dinner, Dean, you need to eat something green once in a while. Which, the fuck he couldn’t because this shit was fantastic and there’s no way he’s having a heart attack at twenty-eight and--and now he was just arguing with an imaginary brother.

Before he allowed himself to think it through, Dean was dialing the number. He didn’t even bother with a feigned apology before hanging up on the bright, female voices that greeted him, just disconnected and tried again. Three times.

“Thank you for calling Plumperson’s. This is Castiel, how can I be of assistance today?”

“Heya Cas!” he grinned and licked at the traces of salt on his lips.

“Dean!” The even cadence of his voice fell away, Cas sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him again. “How are you? Did everything turn out alright?”

“That’s why I wanted to call you, man, I have to thank you! Everything was perfect, you’re a genius.”

“I’m not sure that’s how one’s intellectual prowess is measured, but I am delighted I was able to help. Does this mean you feel well enough prepared for your family holiday?”

“Kinda, but I,” he hesitated, unsure how harshly he should be judging himself right now. “I guess I wanted to try a few more? Different kinds, see which one takes home the blue ribbon, ya know? I just want everything to be perfect for Sam.”

“That’s very considerate of you. I’d be happy to help, there are a number of different ways that one could cook a turkey depending on the results you’re looking for. Do you have time?”

And Dean smiled and couldn’t feel too bad, he really did need the help.


“How’d you get into this racket anyway? I mean, seems like sort of an odd line of work, talkin’ hysterical home chefs down off a ledge on your holiday.”

They had been talking for hours, the original intent forgotten long ago as Castiel and Dean found an easy, unfolding interest in what the other had to say. Questions moving through explanations and winding off into tangents that turned into conversation about food and sports and television and family. Castiel had even asked him to stay on hold twice so he could take other calls.

Dean had long since moved to the bedroom, having wandered with no real direction all over the house before idly curling up in his bed, leaning back against the headboard, feet tucked under the blanket. He’d been ignoring the dull throb of his half hard cock all evening. It was impossible to keep it totally under control any time Castiel strung two syllables together, but the longer they talked the easier it was to push aside in favor of getting to know the man. He had an odd, dry sense of humor that Dean got a kick out of and he seemed baffled by every single movie reference Dean had made, even The Godfather, which was both confounding and fascinating.

“Well,” Castiel gives a relaxed little sigh. He sounds like he’s also made himself comfortable wherever it is he’s sitting. Dean can hear the difference, the softening, easy tone, the kind of voice for dark, cozy spaces. He imagines Castiel curled up on a couch, sinking into the pillows and not bothering to turn on the lights now that it’s gotten dark outside. “I sort of fell into it a few years ago. I run a small café with my brother, or rather I run the café and he runs the bakery.”

“You work with your brother?”

Dean said it with a pang of jealousy, but Castiel takes it, as most people do when they find out (especially if they’ve met his brother before) as sympathy.

“It only really works if I stick to my kitchen and he sticks to his, besides, his hours are much earlier than mine so we’re only stepping on each other for half the day. Anyway, every year we have to shut the café down for weeks just so I can help Gabriel with the holiday pie orders. He’s rather well known for them. A longtime customer lamented the fact that we didn’t offer full catering for the holiday, she was sort of in the same position as you, expected to pull of the holiday with no real idea how to do it. So I gave her some tips, and afterwards she was so grateful, I just felt very….is it silly of me to say something about the holiday spirit?”

“I think that’s only Christmas, but who am I to judge? Though if there was a Spirit of Thanksgiving, I think I’d picture him as a giant, talking bottle of whiskey. Winchester tradition and all.”

“Hmm… that would suit my family as well actually. I feel like he should still be voiced by Burl Ives.”

Dean barked with laughter, “Yeah, man. Spot on, good call!”

“Thank you Dean.” His voice smiled, pleased, and how was Dean supposed to stop himself from reacting with a little flare of heat? That strangely proper way Castiel had of speaking, but in his intimate grumble, it was sort of awkward but sexy because he obviously wasn’t putting it on. Dean tugs the hem of his shirt up to rub at his belly, just an innocent, unconscious move, but his hand starts traveling lower the longer Castiel speaks.

“Anyhow, we come from a large family. Large and very….taxing. They’ve always believed that because I spend all day, every day cooking for other people then it’s only natural that I should want to spend my Thanksgiving cooking for them as well.”

“Not gonna lie, Cas. If you’re half as good as I think you are, I’d be angling for you to cook for me every chance I got.”

His hand makes a pass down the inside of his thigh, and for a moment he stops himself. But his growing erection makes no such attempt at decency.

“Yes but I don’t think I’d mind cooking for you Dean, I get the sense you’d be far more appreciative of my efforts than they are.”

He doesn’t know what Cas looks like, and he doesn’t try to picture him, but the shadow of him pops into Dean’s head. A solid presence in his kitchen, the house warm and fragrant, the music of his movement something Dean could hear from the backyard as he hammers together the planks for a grow bed Castiel requested for his herbs. It’s such a sudden thought, so oddly specific and fucking domestic that a twist of ill fitted emotions snakes around Dean’s chest before wriggling itself back smooth. Want and melancholy and contentment and desire. He wrangles his head back into place, it’s far less dangerous to keep this pathetically one-sided interaction at lust. Lust is easy, and forgivable and the solution is cheap. He doesn’t need to think about the other thing, about how much he hates an empty house, how long he’s been alone for reasons he doesn’t think he remembers correctly. Dean squeezes his dick through his jeans, still hard and perking at the attention. Castiel’s still speaking and he sinks into that voice.

“…and I did it for years, but they are overwhelmingly difficult to please and I just got tired of listening to them pick on each other and complain about everything I’d made. I found out about this hotline and decided to give it a try and I must say that I enjoy it a great deal more than having to listen to Grandmother Jojo announce to the room that she’s sure I could find a nice girl if I only dressed better or didn’t read so much. And how in her day she didn’t know a single homosexual but now everyone was trying to be like that Neil Patrick Harris on the TV. You see Dean,” his voice gets somehow lower with the hint of conspiracy, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but apparently Mr. Harris is actively trying to corrupt the American youth with his deviant sexuality.”

Dean fakes a gasp, “But he seems like such a nice young man!”

Castiel laughs along with him. “According to Grandmother Jojo, that’s how they get you and I’ve been told every single year at Thanksgiving and Christmas that I don’t need to be gay because I’m so very handsome. Not as handsome as my brother Michael, mind you, but she’s assured me that there’s no need to resign myself to men because there’s plenty of young ladies out there that might like my sort.”

“I’m bisexual!” Dean blurts out and then looks wildly around the room as if there was someone here who could explain to him why he’d just said that. “I’m sorry, that’s uh….that was weird. I just mean, you know, I get it. I never brought guys around my dad when he was alive. Sexuality can be tricky when there’s other people involved. Or- I don’t mean it like that, just when there’s family involved. Wait. That sounds worse. What I mean is that you got family over here and sexuality over there and if they come together- you know what, I’m gonna need you to throw me a branch or something cause I don’t think I can climb out of this one on my own.”

“My family has never told me directly that they disapprove of my lifestyle, but they have been known to play, what Gabriel calls, Name That Queer. They’ll see someone on television and one of them makes their case why they believe that person is or is not homosexual, the prevailing sentiment being that this is an unfortunate thing to be. I am usually forced to act as the deciding vote if a consensus cannot be reached. So I thoroughly understand what you were attempting to say.”

“Thank God, ‘cause I’m not even sure where I was trying to go with that. Good to know you’re not scared off by the occasional foot in mouth disease.”

And there’s a jumbley little silence that is somehow both awkward and pleasant before Castiel manages to break it.

“I, myself, have been told I lack social skills, an apt descriptor I’m afraid, as I do not tend to have much opportunity to socialize.”

“Oh I don’t know Cas, you seem fine to me, I like talking to you. Or maybe I’m just a shit one to judge considering I’m not the most sociable person myself.”

“Then allow me to say that I very much enjoy talking to you as well Dean.”