Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural

I want to apologize for not posting in so long, but I just haven't been feeling it lately. Hopefully y'all still remember what the storyline was. Enjoy!

Confused. Hurt. Furious. All these emotions rattled through the oldest Winchester's head as he stood on the side of the road. His conversation with Sam was less than ideal, and it definitely didn't bring the two closer together.

"Damn it!" Dean yelled in frustration at nothing in particular. He had half a mind to storm back in there and demand to see Sam again, but the other half of his mind stopped him. Dean was not calm enough to talk to Sam right now. In fact, Dean had the urge to kill something.

A loud ringing made Dean jump. Rolling his eyes at himself, Dean pulled out his cell. "What?"

The gruff voice on the other end of the line sounded annoyed. "Is that any way to talk to me, boy?"

Dean sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I've had a rough time so far."

"Have you any idea what I've been going through?! This is the first time in three months you've picked up one of my calls! Don't get me started on having a 'rough time.'" Bobby sounded pissed, but Dean could hear the underlying worry lacing his voice.

"I'm really sorry, Bobby. It's... I've... Um..." How could he explain everything that's happened, including losing Sam?

"Spit it out, son."

Dean took a deep breath to steady himself. "I found him, Bobby. I found him, and I messed everything up. He kicked me out."

Silence.

"Bobby? Say something, anything. I don't know what to do. I want to barge back in there and try to speak to Sam again, but I also want to gank something. I can't talk to Sam pent up like this."

Finally, finally, Bobby spoke. "It's a good thing I called, then." Bobby's voice sounded tight, restrained. "I have a hunt for ya."

Ypsilanti, Michigan

"My, uh, daughter and I were in our beds, Mike was downstairs decorating the tree, and I heard a thump on the, the roof, and I heard Mike scream, and now I'm talking to the FBI." The blonde woman pursed her lips together, trying to keep it together.

Dean wasn't in the mood to pretend to care. "And you didn't see any of it?"

"No. He was, he was just gone." The woman's arms were folded in front of her as if they could shield her from the terrible memory.

"The doors were locked, there was no forced entry?"

The woman nodded. "That's right."

Dean wrote in his notes. "Does anyone else have a key?"

"My parents."

"Where do they live?" Dean's voice was short, clipped.

"Florida."

Dean shut his notebook and stuffed it into his suit's pocket. "Thanks Mrs. Walsh, I think I got everything I needed. We'll be in touch."

As Dean turned to walk down the steps, Mrs. Walsh called out to him.

"Agent!" Dean turned around. "The police say my husband might've been kidnapped."

Mrs. Walsh was obviously looking for some solace, but Dean had zero fucks to give her.

"Mrs. Walsh, your husband was not kidnapped; he was murdered."

She took a step back, hand flying to her heart. "It's three days 'til Christmas. What do I tell my daughter?"

Dean shook his head and tried to put an empathetic look on his face. "I'm very sorry."

He turned and walked away, not caring how Mrs. Walsh took the news. While surveying her house, Dean had found a tooth in the chimney. Whatever took Mr. Walsh didn't take the fat guy up in one piece, and Dean had to figure out what it was. Off to research more on this serial killing chimney sweep.

Dean could not believe his eyes. Santa had a freaking brother. Guess everyone has issues with their sibling. From what Dean had looked up, Santa's brother had gone rogue and instead of giving gifts at Christmas time he punishes the wicked. Anti-Clause was one shady son of a bitch. Freaking guy's a pimp, too. Has a limp and smells like candy. Wait, what was Dean even thinking? Santa doesn't have a brother. Santa's not real. The lack of sleep must be messing with his head. Dean needed a drink.

A light flickered in Dean's tired mind. He remembered something. Something that both Mr. Walsh and the other victim in town had done before they died. They had visited Santa's Village.

Ten bucks. Ten bucks to get into stupid Santa's village and they don't even have fake snow. What a freaking rip-off. Walking past the stubby trees and stubbier people, Dean found "Santa" with a kid sitting on his lap. Guy gave Dean the creeper vibe. As the kid got up, "Santa" stood up and limped past Dean. Limped. Leaving behind a scent of sweet goodness. Freaking Anti-Clause!

Dean followed the creep back to his trailer and doubled back to grab his car. Parking the Impala next to some trees by the trailer, Dean leaned his seat back and settled in for a stake out.

The sound of faint screaming woke Dean up. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it was black out, so it must've been at least one in the morning. The woman screamed again. Dean busted out of the Impala and sped like a bullet to the trailer. Barreling through the door, Dean sees the TV on, which explains the woman's screams, and Saint Nicotine jumping off the couch. Hiding his gun, Dean tries to school his features.

"What are you doin' here?" The smell of alcohol is strong on his breath.

Thinking as quickly as his newly awakened mind allows him, Dean starts to sing. "Siiiilent niiight. Hooooly niiight." His voice was way off key, and he wasn't sure exactly what the words were after that, but at least the drunken sod bought it. Laughing, not-evil-santa sat back down as Dean fled out the door.

"So that's how your son described the attack? 'Santa took daddy up the chimney?'" Dean had barely gotten three hours of sleep when another reported attack was brought to his attention. Couldn't this killer Santa at least wait until Christmas to kill people? Dean needed his sleep.

"That's what he said, yes." The newest widow crossed her arms over her chest. Apparently that's what all sad women do.

"And where were you?"

Now her hands were on her hips. Feisty. "I was asleep." Now her arms are crossed again, and she withdrew into herself once again. "All of a sudden Al was being dragged out of bed screaming." Tears formed at the edges of her eyes. She's a crier. Great.

"Did you see the attacker?" Dean asked somewhat softly.

The widow shook her head quickly. "It was dark, and he hit me. He knocked me out."

Yeah, Dean could tell. The bruise on her right eye was quite the shiner. "I'm sorry, I know this is hard. I'll keep you updated."

Dean walked back to the impala and sunk into the familiar leather seat behind the wheel. No hex bags, no sulfur, no signs of the usual suspects. What the Hell was killing people?