December 15th

It was a freezing cold, yet snowless Saturday. But Dean only was aware of that fact when he placed his hand on the chilly windowpane…on an area without paper snowflakes.

Dean couldn't feel the cold at all due to the warmth of the apartment. There was a hot, blazing fire in the fireplace (which Sam had bordered in holly) and electric candles in the window giving the apartment a soft, cheery glow.

John was out of the house, hunting for a Christmas tree and string lights just to shut Sam up. He also might've been finding a good, steep cliff that he could jump off of.

So, Sam and Dean were in the apartment alone, which wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Dean was sitting by the window, writing curse words with his finger on the foggy window, while Sam was sprawled out by the hearth, the firelight reflecting off of his dark hair. He was writing something with a candy-cane looking pencil on green, Christmas stationary, erasing regularly, and in deep concentration. Both boys were silent. The only sounds that could be heard were the scratching of a pencil, the squeaking sound of a finger rubbing on wet glass, and Bing Crosby singing "Silent Night" on the radio.

Eventually, Dean started to become curious about what Sam was doing. It was his ADD. He couldn't stay focused on one thing (particularly a dull one) for too long. So, Dean stood up from the window seat and plopped down beside Sam on the floor, sitting "crisscross-applesauce" for once in his life.

"Whatcha doin', Sammy?" Dean inquired, peering over at Sam's project.

"Oh!" Sam turned his head around, smiling sweetly at his big brother. "I'm writing my letter to Santa!"

"You're doing what?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "I know it may be a little late. But I think it might get to the North Pole in time."

Dean was gaping for a moment in disbelief. Was his little brother really being such an idiot? He'd always thought all Winchesters were realists.

"Sammy," Dean looked at his little brother with exasperation in his olive-green eyes. "You know there's no such thing as…" Sam's smile began to curve into a frown and his hopeful, expectant eyes began to dull. It broke Dean's heart to see Sam so sad. "Never mind. Umm…what are you exactly supposed to say to Santa, anyways?"

Sam's face lit up and he situated himself closer to Dean. "You mean…you don't know?" Dean shook his head. "Well…most kids tell Santa what they want for Christmas."

"Why?" Dean was puzzled.

"Because on Christmas Eve, Santa comes with a big bag of toys and gets on his sleigh with a bunch of reindeer and he gives the toys to kids all around the world." Sam explained fervently. "And giving him a letter helps him know what you want him to bring you. I'm sendin' it to the North Pole…to his workshop where all his elves help him make the toys!"

This was by far the most ridiculous thing Dean had ever heard in his young life. And that was saying something. His father was a demon hunter for Pete's sake!

"Err…is that where that song "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" comes from?" Dean asked. He knew the song only because he'd heard people singing it, not because he understood it.

"Yep!" Sam smiled. "Rudolph leads the sleigh on foggy nights cuz' his nose-light is so bright that it helps Santa see his way."

Dean shook his head, trying to stop himself from saying anything nasty that would hurt Sam's feelings. "So…" Dean tried to sort of change the subject. "What are you askin' him for?"

Sam began to frown. "Well…here's what I wrote so far…" Sam sat up, cleared his throat, and started to read,

"Dear Santa,

How are you doing? I hope the elves and the reindeer are doing well. Is Mrs. Claus helping you get a nice big belly for Christmas Eve?

I know you've never heard from me before. I've never had Christmas until this year. But I'll tell you that I like it fine! And…I know you know my name because you know everything, but I want to be polite. My name is Sam Winchester and I'm seven years old.

Now, I'll bet you'll be wanting a Christmas list from me. To tell you the truth (because I always tell the truth because I know lying is bad) I…"

Sam stopped. "That's all I have."

Dean was surprised. If he were seven and believed some fat guy would give him presents, he'd be asking for everything. A super-soaker, a race-car, Betty Morrison (a pretty girl in his class), etc.

"Do you not know what you want?" Dean asked, curious.

"Well…I know what I want…" Sam bit his lip. "But I'm scared to ask."

"Why?" Dean put an arm around Sam's shoulder.

"Well…" Sam started. "I want three things. And I know he can't give me one."

"What are they?" Dean questioned kindly.

Sam took a deep breath. "Well…the first one…I know he can't give it to me." Sam looked down. "I want a mommy."

Dean was silent for a minute, but took Sam's hand and squeezed it tighter, feeling the blood coursing through his brother's veins. His blood. Their blood. Dean understood what it was like to want a mother. Even in fifth grade he wished that he had a mom to tell him to wash up for dinner, to brush his teeth, to clean behind his ears. He wanted a mother to tell him not to run to fast, to change his socks, to do motherly, gentle things. He never had it and he never would.

"What are the other two things, Sammy?" Dean asked softly.

Sam blushed. "The second one is to grow up and be just like you."

Dean felt his cheeks burn from the flattery of it all and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. "And the last one?"

"For all of us…you, me, and Dad…to be together forever." Sam said wistfully.

"That's really…" Dean paused. "That's really sweet, Sammy."

"Oh!" Sam slapped his forehead. "I forgot something!"

"What?" Dean prepared himself for another heart wrenching wish.

"I want a super-cool art kit with a bazillions of colors of crayons and finger-paint and pastels and colored pencils and markers and glitter glue and water-color paint with gazillions of different kinds of paintbrushes and…"

Dean clamped a hand over Sam's mouth. "Yeah…why don't you tell him that?"

Sam pulled Dean's hand away. "Well aren't you gonna write a letter to Santa?"

"Oh, c'mon, Sam!" Dean groaned. "I'm in fifth grade. I'm too old for that kind of stuff."

"But, Dean!" Sam gasped. "Do you want to get a…?" Sam lowered his voice to a whisper, as if about to say a naughty word. "…lump of coal?"

"What?"

"Santa gives bad boys and girls coal for Christmas," Sam stated knowledgably.

"Really?!" For a minute, Dean forgot that he didn't believe in Santa Claus. "Do you have any paper?"

"Yeah," Sam pulled out a piece of stationary with little elves on the border. "And here's a pen!" Sam handed Dean a sparkly green pen.

"Where'd you get all this stuff?" Dean asked, examining the writing utensils and paper.

"Mrs. Davis," Sam said. "She has a Christmas Prize Box and whenever we're good or we answer some hard question right, she lets us get something out of there."

"And let me guess…little Einstein pretty much owns the Christmas Prize Box," Dean rolled his eyes.

"Write your letter, Dean!" Sam wagged his finger at Dean. "And be nice or you'll get a nice, big lump of coal!"

"Fine," Dean began scribbling rapidly on the paper, finishing in about two minutes. "Done!"

"Really?" Sam was writing "Love, Sam" very neatly at the bottom of his own letter. "Read it!"

Dean picked up the letter and began reading,

"Heya Santa!

How's everything going in the South Pole?"

"The North Pole," Sam corrected.

Dean grumbled and scratched "South" out with his pen and put "North" in its place. He continued reading,

"I've been pretty good this year…except for when I called the teacher a fat whore. But I apologized and I'm really sorry about it.

For Christmas this year, I'd like a new leather jacket. Mine is getting too small. Also…I wish for world peace and happiness.

Love,

Dean"

"You wished for world peace?" Sam looked quizzically at him. "I should add that!" Sam picked up his own letter and added a neat postscript.

"So…" Dean started. "How do we mail these?"

…