Well TraSan it's finally done and I hope you enjoy it. Belated Merry Christmas:)

The Letter

'Growing up, were your Christmas' that bad?' Dean Winchester.

'No…' Sam Winchester. A Very Supernatural Christmas

Chapter 7 –

The smell of something cooking woke Sam. His stomach growled and he stirred, groggy and hurting.

His eyes slowly blinked open as one hand moved up to rub at his painfully throbbing shoulder. For a moment he just lay in the bed, barely daring to breathe as he tried to remember where he was and why his arm was hurting. His mind was a muddled, foggy place that didn't want to work too well and he just took careful breaths as he stared up at the planks above his head. Planks? A bunkbed? Now the child was really confused. He and Dean only slept in bunkbeds when they stayed with Pastor Jim – but why would he be at Pastor Jim's?

But this looked like the Pastor's room…

And then he shifted slightly and the throbbing pain made him softly whimper.

"Sammy?" A brown head peeked down at him. "You okay?" A second later, Dean had twisted around and carefully slid down to sit beside his sibling. His hazel eyes were wide in his pale face.

"Dean," Sam didn't want to cry but he was confused and hurting and right now he wanted someone to make sense of all this for him. "My arm…"

"It's going to be okay," the older boy quickly assured as he tugged up the end of the sheet and wiped at Sam's face. "The doctor gave Dad some pills for you-" As if on cue, the door behind them opened and a freshly washed and clothed John Winchester strode into the room. His face dropped briefly when he saw the boys were awake.

"I was hoping to be back before you woke up," he offered and then smiled brightly. "Merry Christmas, boys."

"It's Christmas morning?" Dean grinned. "Wow!"

"Well technically Christmas afternoon," their father corrected. "You lazy bones slept through the morning."

Sam's eyes went saucer wide – oh no it was Christmas! He never mailed his letter!

Overwhelmed the little boy burst into tears and tried to turn away from his family. This was horrible!

"Sammy?" Dean turned to his father seemingly unsure what to do, "Dad?"

"Its okay, Dean" Sam felt the bed dip as his father perched on the edge next to him "I got this one. Why don't you go see if you can give Pastor Jim a hand in the kitchen? We'll open presents in a few minutes."

Dean's eyes widened "Presents?"

Presents? Sam felt even worse. Santa had been here…

"It is Christmas, Dean," he heard his father remind "Now go on… I need a few moments with your brother."

Sam felt a slight moment of panic when he heard the door open and close and knew his brother had gone but then he felt his father's hand on his good arm. "Sammy? Son, I think we need to talk."

Sniffing hard and trying to stop his tears, the little boy turned towards his Dad, trying to 'suck it up' like he knew his brother would. His resolve crumbled when he recognized the piece of paper in his father's hand – it was his letter to Santa. It was hard being a big boy.

"Sam," his father's voice was unusually gentle and he forced his eyes up from the letter to look at the man's face. He didn't recall his father ever looking so tired before. "I read what you wrote -" The little boy stared at him. His dad was supposed to mail the letter, not read it. "And I think we need to talk about it…"

"It was 'pposed to be a surprise," the little boy pouted as he rubbed at his hurting arm. Didn't Dean say Daddy had some medicine so it wouldn't hurt so much?

His father must have seen his pain because he shifted out of Sam's sight and then leaned back holding a small white pill and a glass of water. "Here take this first. It'll help with the pain."

"What happened to me?" Sam asked after he'd swallowed the pill.

"You don't remember?" his father's voice was oddly gruff and the child shook his head,

"It's kinda fuzzy up here," he admitted as he tentatively rubbed his head. It didn't hurt, it just felt thick. John reached out and gently ran fingers through Sam's hair and the child leaned into the touch, his father's affection craved like something missing deep in his soul.

"You left the cabin by yourself -" the older man reminded, his eyes narrowed slightly as he lightly reprimanded, "Which you know you're not supposed to do…" Sam dropped his eyes. Yeah, he kinda remembered that part. "And ran into a very confused man… Sam?" He looked back up at his father. The older man sighed "You were very lucky last night that I was able to find you when I did. Do you have any idea how badly that could have turned out?" The child didn't actually, but he nodded anyway 'cause that was what his father expected. John's tone turned stern and Sam tensed knowing a lecture was about to come. "When I tell you boys something, Sam, I expect it to be obeyed. I don't make these rules up for something to do – they're important, and they're about keeping you and your brother safe. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Sam muttered as he hoped the medicine kicked in soon. He tried to defend himself. "But Daddy, this was important! I had to mail my letter to Santa! I had to!"

Some of the sternness shifted out of his father's face but Sam didn't recognize the new look that settled there. "Oh, Sammy…" the man sighed again. "Son, I'm sorry I didn't mail it like I said, but I'm also glad because if I had I never would have known what you asked for… and we need to talk about that." Sam felt something nervous flutter in his stomach. "Son," his father swallowed hard, "Santa can't bring your Mother back…" Brightness shone in the older man's eyes, his voice lowered, "I'm sorry, son, no one can."

Sam's eyes swam. "But," he tried. The older hunter cut him off gruffly.

"No buts, Sam. That's just the way it is."

The child didn't understand – that wasn't how it was supposed to work. Hurt and confused he tried to turn away from his father but John grasped his thin shoulder keeping him in place. "Sammy-"

"No, Daddy." He just wanted to curl up, go to sleep and forget about Christmas forever.

"Son," John wasn't taking no for an answer. "You need to understand that this isn't something you can ask for. Ever." His voice hardened. "Your mother is dead, Sam, and she isn't coming back."

Sam sniffed and used his good arm to wipe his nose. "I just wanted you and Dean to be happy," he mumbled. "That's all."

His father exhaled loudly and then stood up. "I know you did but we don't always get what we want… It sucks and it isn't fair but that's just the way it is." His voice softened and he held out his hand, "C'mon, son, let's go open presents."

Sam let his father help him out of the bed. He looked up at the man. "Daddy," he hedged and waited until John looked down at him, "Did Mommy love me?"

For one long moment his father just stared at him, an odd sick look on his face and then he growled; the words grit through his teeth, "Of course she did Sam, what hell kind of stupid question is that?"

The little boy cringed but persisted anyways. Sam had rarely heard his father speak about his mother so he grasped at this chance knowing it might never come again. "But how do you know? I was only a baby, she didn't know me!"

"Oh Sammy…" his father rubbed a hand over his mouth as he sat back down on the edge of the bottom bunk. He leaned forward and scratched at the back of his neck. Sam waited for the man to say something else. After a moment of nothing, he reached out tentatively and placed a hand against the side of his father's face

"Daddy?"

John closed his eyes and covered the smaller hand with his own. "Son, your mother loved you very much… You were – are – her baby. Her little boy blue… The way her eyes softened every time she looked at you… the way she hummed little tunes just for you whenever she held you in her arms…" Something warm wet Sam's hand. "Sammy," his father opened his eyes and held his gaze. "She loved you. I promise you that."

Fresh tears stained his cheeks and the child sobbed, "I never got to tell her I loved her, too!"

Strong arms enveloped him and Sam was pulled into his father's embrace. "She knew, baby," he whispered. "She knew…"

Suddenly, the door burst open startling both Winchesters. John stood up as Sam tried to wipe the tears from his face, his brother stood framed in the doorway.

"Dean?"

"C'mon, Dad," Dean implored, so excited he was almost dancing on the spot, "Sammy, you gotta see the haul Santa left! Holy shi- I mean cow! And the turkey," his big brother actually vibrated and it was hard for the younger child not to smile at his enthusiasm. Dean held his arms apart as far as he could. "It's huge!!"

John looked down at Sam and the little boy sniffed again, scrubbed the last of the tears from his face and then nodded that he was okay now. He wasn't exactly fine but he was better… and starting to feel a little bubble of excitement of his own about what might be under the Christmas tree.

"Well c'mon," Dean darted between the two and grabbed Sam's good hand, practically towing him out of the room, "C'mon, c'mon!!"

"Easy, Dean," their father chastised lightly even as he shook his head and followed them towards the door, "watch your brother's arm."

Dean tossed a scowl over his shoulder and Sam giggled in spite of himself, thankful the painkillers had finally kicked in. Like his big brother would ever forget he was hurt!

And then Sam saw the festively decorated living room and huge Christmas tree dwarfing the little one his father had brought from the motel and he just stopped and gaped. He'd never seen anything like this.

Garland draped the fireplace mantel and windows as a train set traversed a path around the smaller tree, its shrill whistle blowing at every pass. Gaily wrapped presents with bows and name tags nestled beneath the larger tree as soft music cooed an accompaniment in the background. Sam felt his eyes well up again. Beside him, his brother's grin widened; Dean wrapped a slender arm around Sam's shoulders, leaned over and whispered, "Merry Christmas, little brother."

Pastor Jim smiled from the kitchen doorway. "Turkey or presents first?" he asked as he winked at John. The senior Winchester was already taking a seat next to the trees before the boys shouted, "PRESENTS!"

"Do you even need to ask?" John teased his old friend as he got comfortable and watched as Dean picked through the presents, the self appointed Santa's elf.

"I really wish I'd had more time to prepare," Jim whispered as he crouched down next to the hunter. "There's not much there for them, some Hardy Boys books for Sam and a walkman for Dean."

John watched as Sam opened one of his gifts – the new jeans – and saw the pleased look on the child's face as he traced fingers over the material and whispered back. "It'll be fine, Jim. They really don't ask for much." Something tightened in his chest as he realized the truth in those words. They really didn't want much… Just him. John sighed and leaned back in the chair, and then he shook his head, shoved the melancholy away. This wasn't about him, not today. This was about his boys.

Forcing his own guilt to the back of his mind, John laughed out loud as Dean opened the box with his new boots and then pretended they were trying to eat Sam's new jeans as the younger boy tried to twist away to protect his clothes. Dean beamed at seeing his father's reaction and John gave him an approving wink. And then as he watched and listened, something in the hardened hunter lightened and he just knew that – at least this once – Mary would have been proud of him.

Did Mommy love me?

John swallowed hard, the question sucker punching him as much in memory as it had at the time. How could Sam have not known? But then as he thought about how little the child was told about his mother, he probably should have seen the question coming. It just hurt and he wished he was stronger, that he had the strength to talk to his children about their mother without feeling the searing pain of her loss as fresh as the night it happened.

"Daddy?" Sam smiled up at him from where he was sitting on the floor, holding his new books in his good hand, his new jeans draped across his lap. Dean stopped fiddling with his new walkman to watch, his hazel eyes drifting from his little brother to his father.

The hunter cleared his throat. "Yes, Sammy?"

"Merry Christmas!"

Then Dean chimed in with his best falsetto voice as he sniffed his new stick of deodorant, "And God bless us all, each and every one!"

And from somewhere not so far away an angel with blond hair smiled down at her little family and whispered softly, Amen…

THE END