Author's Note:
This is an original Christmas interlude set in my Supernatural AU, featuring Dean, Beth, Lisa, Ben, and Sophia. It takes place after episode 6.12 Like a Virgin and includes quiet family moments, questionable glitter origins, holiday chaos, emotional milestones—and a Santa suit that gets thoroughly misused.

Rated M for language, intimacy, and the explicit unwrapping of our lovebirds at the end. ;)

Maybe this Christmas will mean something more
Maybe this year
Love will appear
Deeper than ever before
And maybe forgiveness will ask us to call
Someone we've loved
Someone we've lost
For reasons we can't quite recall
Maybe this Chistmas
Maybe they'll be an open door
Maybe the star that's shown before will shine once more
And maybe this Christmas will find us at last
In heavenly peace

MAYBE THIS CHRISTMAS

Dean's POV

There was glitter on the carpet.

Not just a few festive specks. No, this was biblical glitter. End-of-days glitter. The kind that would be showing up in my flannel six months from now, like some sparkly little curse.

"This isn't from the wrapping paper," I muttered. "This is faerie glitter. I know this. I've lived this."

I stared down at the living room floor in horror.

"This might actually be worse than last year," I added, rubbing my chin.

Lisa snorted from the kitchen, half-shielded behind a tray of cookies and what had to be her third glass of spiked eggnog. "Why do you think we had to move?" she called out, all smug and flour-covered.

I raised a brow. "Pretty sure it was the ghouls."

She waved the spatula like a wand. "That's the official version. But between you, me, and the vacuum cleaner that gave its life trying to clean up last year's sparkles? This was the only town that would still have us."

Ben perked up from where he was sprawled out on the floor with his RC car. "Wait—so we didn't move because of monsters?"

Lisa gave a solemn nod. "Nope. Glitter demons. Sparkle poltergeists. Faeries. The real menace of the Midwest."

I didn't even look up from the tangled ball of Christmas lights in my lap. "Honestly? Could've been fae. I'm telling you I've seen things."

Ben's head whipped around. "Like, actual fairies?"

"Yeah. Glowing, naked, winged things with a mean right hook. I had to microwave one."

Lisa spat out her drink, gaping at me.

Beth, curled up on the couch with Sophia tucked into her side like a sleepy little kitten, raised an eyebrow. "You left that part out at the birthday party."

A little over a month ago, before I'd gotten my crazy idea to summon Death and ask him to put Sam's soul back in place, we'd stopped for a weekend to celebrate our daughter's first birthday. It didn't seem real - she was one and we were…

I swallowed, pushing back the guilt.

We were doing the best we could.

I turned back to the conversation, and grinned at Beth.

"Yeah, well," I said, "we were surrounded by toddlers dressed like woodland creatures. Didn't want to traumatise the guests."

"What about Ben?" Lisa asked, wiping her mouth.

"I can handle the truth," Ben said without missing a beat. We high fived, and I smiled, amazed and proud at how quickly he was growing up.

"I'm not sure I can…" Lisa murmured, sliding hot cookies from the tray to a cooling rack on the counter. My stomach grumbled at the sight of the little promises of delicious gingerbread.

"Did you really have to microwave one?" Ben whispered to me, as if we were sharing a secret.

"Yeah," I whispered back, glancing at Lisa who had mercifully moved on to the next tray of cookies. "Tinkerbell throws punches, man."

Ben looked as if he was filing this hunting maneuver away for future reference and my chest tightened. I saw a side of him in that moment that was me at his age - aware of the things that go bump in the night,

Sophia was too young to know better - at least for now - Beth and I had seen things, futuristic events, where she'd come to us like a warning from The Terminator. I had no doubt that she'd be pulled unwittingly into the life one day - it was partly the reason Beth and I were out hunting now, trying to stop that from happening.

But for now, she was just a baby, snuggled up to her mother. She patted Beth's chest with a chubby hand, her fingers landing right over the bandage still healing beneath the sweater. Beth flinched slightly, and kindly moved to hold her hand, making cooing noises that made Sophia giggle. The sight made something twist in my gut.

Beth had taken a dragon's flame to the shoulder barely a month ago. And somehow, here we were—tree up, music playing, snow falling soft outside the windows like a goddamn Christmas card. I didn't know how we got here. I didn't know how long it'd last.

But right now? We were okay.

The tree was leaning slightly to the left, its branches burdened with glitter and glue and the artistic chaos of two children and a lot of hot chocolate. There were only three candy canes left because Ben had eaten the rest. The blinking star on top was giving real "help me" energy. I made a mental note to fix that later.

Outside, snow drifted down in lazy spirals. Inside, it smelled like ginger, cinnamon, pine and something warm I didn't have a name for.

I looked up, and Beth was watching me from over the rim of her cocoa. Her eyes were soft. Tired, but happy. Content in a way that made my chest ache.

"You good?" I asked her, quiet.

She nodded. "Better than good."

That hit me somewhere deep. Somewhere I didn't usually let people go.

"Merry Christmas, sugarpie."

She smiled into her mug. "Merry Christmas, Aragorn."

I nearly choked. "You did not."

She grinned. Sophia giggled. Ben muttered something about faeries, and questioned whether Santa and the elves were real. I shrugged non committed.

And for one long, golden moment, we were just a family.

Mismatched. Messy. But exactly where I wanted to be.

I let myself have it.

It was after 1:30 a.m. by the time we got home from Mass.

Sophia was already half-asleep in Beth's arms, one hand tangled in her mother's hair. Ben was doing his best to look tough, but he was blinking slowly and heavily, swaying slightly where he stood at the base of the stairs. Lisa yawned behind him and placed a hand on his back.

"Come on, kiddo," she said, guiding him up the steps. "Nearly there."

Ben gave her a quiet, lopsided grin—one he got from me—and started trudging upstairs. Lisa followed with a murmured "Goodnight," already half-asleep herself.

Beth and I followed behind, slow and quiet, climbing the stairs with Sophia nestled between us. Her room was the first at the top of the landing, warm and softly lit with the little plug-in nightlight she liked—shaped like a star and casting faint constellations onto the walls.

Beth gently shifted Sophia, and I reached out to help, catching the weight of her as she stirred and blinked blearily at me.

"Hey, pumpkin," I whispered. "Time for bed." I hummed a little as I rested her on my shoulder. Enter Sandman. That was my lullaby and I stood by it. Worked every time with my little girl.

She blinked once, then tucked her head into my shoulder with a sleepy little sigh that just about melted every solid part of me. When she was good and out, I eased her down into the crib, tucked the blanket around her, and stood for a second just… watching.

The kind of silence that doesn't beg to be filled. The kind you wish you could bottle.

Beth reached over and smoothed Sophia's hair.

"Good job, Daddy," she whispered.

I nodded, but I wasn't quite ready to leave. I just stood there, hands on the railing of the crib, heart full and heavy in that way it always got when I looked at her. At both of them.

A minute later, we slipped out, with soft footsteps down the hall to check on Ben.

His room was dark except for the glow of a small lamp on the desk, and I could see him still rustling around under the covers. Beth knocked gently on the doorframe.

"Hey," she said. "Thought you'd be asleep by now."

Ben sat up a little, rubbing his eyes. "Almost. Just… thinking."

I stepped in. "That's dangerous stuff at this hour."

He smirked, but it faded fast. "You guys ever think… maybe Santa's real?"

I paused. Not because I didn't know what to say. But because I did.

Ben had seen things no kid his age should've. Monsters. Bizarre, twisted hybrid creatures that could skinwalk, among other things, and take on our appearance. They'd slipped through an open portal between our world and the future in 2036. A portal that had been opened by Sophia in the future, to warn us of what was to come if we didn't change our path.

His innocence had been shattered that day, when he'd had to pick up a shotgun to protect his mother and baby sister. He knew the world could be cruel. He knew the dark wasn't empty.

And still, he was asking about Santa.

Beth gave me a look—one of those soft, quiet ones that said, This matters.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned in. "I think… when you've seen the kind of stuff we have, a little magic doesn't seem so crazy, huh?"

Ben nodded, slow and thoughtful. "So… he could be real?"

"Could be," I said. "There's a lot we don't know. Lotta stuff hiding out there. And maybe the world needs someone like that—someone who shows up just to remind us not everything in the dark is bad."

Beth stepped behind me and rested a hand on my shoulder.

Ben's eyes were wide in that way that told me he was holding on tight to what I'd just said.

"And Rudolph?" he added after a beat. "Flying reindeer and all that?"

I let out a low chuckle. "Buddy, if I told you what does fly around this country, reindeer wouldn't even crack the top five weirdest."

He laughed. Beth laughed. And something in me eased.

"You should get some sleep," Beth said gently. "Tomorrow will be here before you know it."

Ben nodded and lay back down, pulling the covers up to his chin.

"Night."

"Night, kiddo."

"Hey, Dean?"

I turned to see him peering out at us. He looked content. Happy.

"Thanks."

His words made my chest swell.

He'd said that once before—seven years old, big brown eyes, arms thrown around me like I was some kind of hero. Just "Thanks." Back then, it had caught me off guard. Now? Now it felt earned.

"Anytime, buddy," I said, starting to close the door.

"Ah, Dean?"

I stopped, looking back at him.

"Yeah?"

"Is it… I mean, do you think it'd be okay if I called you Dad?"

Even though he was my son, I hadn't raised him. We'd been with him and Lisa for the last year, and before that, in and out of their lives after we discovered his existence. But he'd never once asked that before—I'd never felt worthy of asking.

I'd never imagined being a father. Even after Beth had finally allowed herself to break Dad's rules, not even then had I had the heart to wish for something like this—with her, or anyone else.

And yet here we were. Practically domestic. At least, when we could be.

My voice cracked. I was almost unable to utter the words.

"Of course," I said. "I'd love that."

"Good."

He paused, then added—so soft I almost missed it—"Dad."

His smile just about broke me. Like he'd been holding that word in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to let it out.

I stood there, heart full and throat tight, the word echoing in my ears. I'd faced demons, angels, the goddamn apocalypse… but that right there? That undid me.

I crossed the room again to tuck the blankets firmly around him, watched the way he settled into the pillow and his eyes fell closed.

"Goodnight, Ben," I said. Then, almost without thinking, like it had always been there waiting—"I love you, son."

I stood there for a few seconds longer, watching him sleep. Letting it sink in. That he'd said it. That I'd said it back.

Son.

The word still echoed in my chest like the aftershock of a bell—not painful, just… deep. Resonant. Final in the best kind of way. A line drawn between what had been and what was now.

Beth hadn't said a word. She didn't need to.

When I finally stepped back out into the hall, she was waiting there, arms folded loosely, eyes soft and shining.

"He meant it," I said, voice low.

She nodded. "So did you."

I reached for her hand and threaded our fingers together. My grip was firm, like I needed the feel of her to ground me in this moment—to keep from floating away under the weight of it all.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admitted.

"Yes you do," she said, brushing her thumb over mine. "You're already doing it."

A breath I didn't know I was holding slipped out, and I leaned my forehead against hers, just for a second.

"Thank you," I murmured.

"For what?"

"For believing I could be this," I said. "Even when I didn't."

Beth smiled—that kind of smile that felt stitched to the bones of my life now. Steadying. True.

I kissed her temple.

And then, finally, I let the weight of the moment settle.

Not all at once. Just... piece by piece. Like laying down armour I didn't realise I was still wearing.

That word—son—still lingered in my chest, warm and heavy and unbelievably real.

I'd held Sophia on the day she was born. Tiny, loud, beautiful. The moment she wrapped her whole hand around my finger, I'd felt it—that click in my chest. That she was mine. I never questioned it. Never had to earn it. I was just… there. From the start.

But with Ben?

I'd missed so much. The scraped knees, the training wheels, the first day of school. And even when I came back into his life, I didn't feel like I had the right to want that word. I hadn't been there when he needed a dad. Hell, before his seventh birthday, I hadn't even known he existed, let alone was mine.

So I'd been making it up ever since. One bedtime. One lunchbox. One monster check under the bed at a time. Hoping, someday, he might see me that way.

And now he did.

I exhaled slowly, letting the silence stretch for one more beat.

Then I turned toward Beth, a faint smile tugging at the edge of my mouth, voice low and a little rough with the remnants of it all.

"I'm thinkin' I might throw on a Santa suit," I murmured. "Set up a security camera and get caught on it. Leave it for him to find. Keep the mystery alive a little longer."

She leaned into me, smiling. "That's… adorable."

Her eyes glittered, like she hadn't already seen the suit in our bedroom, picked up days ago—I'd been planning this for weeks.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me."

Truth was, I wasn't sure how much longer we could keep the illusion going. The older he got, the more questions Ben would ask. The more answers he'd already started piecing together. But if anyone had earned a little extra wonder in this world, it was Ben.

I wasn't gonna lie to him.

But I wasn't gonna take the magic away, either.

Not yet.

The house had gone still, the kind of silence that only came when both kids were down for the count and the grown-ups had nothing left but soft lights and slow breathing.

I stepped into our bedroom and pulled on the suit I had waiting.

No padding. No shirt. Just the red velvet coat, open at the collar, hanging loose over bare skin. Matching pants, soft and low on my hips. A hat slouched lopsided on my head. I'd bring the boots with me, but for now I was barefoot. Quiet. Stealthy.

I made my way across the hall to the living room and leaned in the archway, dropping the boots on the floor next to me, quiet as I could. It was pushing 2:30 a.m. I was starting to think we weren't sleeping tonight—and I was too excited to care.

Beth was crouched by the tree, rearranging the presents like it mattered where they landed. Adjusted a ribbon, straightened a tag, moved one of Sophia's stuffed animals from under the couch and tucked it in the toybox. The lights on the tree blinked slow and uneven, casting gold across her cheekbones. Her braid was coming loose, scarf still hanging off one shoulder, sleeves pushed up like she'd been working a double shift at the North Pole.

I didn't say a word. Just watched her do her thing.

She moved around the living room like she belonged there—like this had always been her home, not just another stop between battles. She picked up one of Ben's shoes from under the coffee table, tossed it in a shoebox in the corner. Straightened a throw cushion. Set the record player to a Crosby song—one of our favourites, I'll Be Home for Christmas. Little things. Soft things. The kind you do when you're part of something. When you're home.

And me? I just watched her.

Maybe it was the way the candlelight caught in her hair. Maybe it was the smell of pine and clove still clinging to her skin. Or maybe it was just Christmas—the kind of night that peeled me open whether I wanted it to or not.

I thought about a lot of Christmas Eves. Ones where we were freezing our asses off in motel rooms. Ones where Dad was missing, or drunk, or both. The one in '96 when Beth begged for Mass and I stood up to Dad for the first time in years. That night in Ypsilanti—before I'd gone to Hell—when she'd been too heartsick to ask, and I'd been the one to insist.

Beth never missed Midnight Mass—not if she could help it. Not even in the worst of years. That stubborn streak in her wasn't just grit. It was hope. Real hope. And because of her, I clung to it like it was oxygen.

Still did.

She caught me staring, and her expression softened. She didn't say anything, just tilted her head and took in the sight of me.

I'd deliberately left off the beard, though it was there—waiting for the photo later. Right now, in this moment, I wanted to see her catch her breath when she clocked the crooked Santa hat, the open coat, the fact that I hadn't bothered with a shirt underneath.

A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes dragging over me from head to toe.

She was still smiling as she stepped right into my space, close enough I could smell the vanilla-scented shampoo in her hair. She slid her hands into the open coat, fingers brushing my bare skin.

"No one could claim you aren't committed to the role," she murmured.

"Wait'll you see what's in my sack," I said, deadpan.

She huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half a groan. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," I murmured, "you're still standing here."

Beth didn't answer. She just looked at me—really looked—and something in her expression shifted. The amusement didn't fade, but it deepened into something warmer. Hungrier.

She stepped in closer, the tips of her fingers brushing along the open edge of the coat, then trailing down, slow as snowmelt.

Her eyes moved over me like she was trying to memorise everything: the cut of my chest, the curve of my stomach, the way the velvet hung loose at my hips. Like she couldn't decide where to touch first.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe.

She reached up, dragged her fingers lightly over my collarbone, and let her palm settle against my heart. Her thumb brushed over the spot, like she was trying to feel it beat.

And then—without warning—she kissed me.

Not playful. Not teasing.
Full.
Slow.
Like she'd been holding it in all night and just now let it pour out.

It stole the breath right out of me.

When she finally pulled back, I blinked once, heart pounding.

"Wasn't expecting that kind of reaction to the Santa hat," I said, voice rough.

Beth lifted her hand and pointed above my head.

"Mistletoe," she whispered.

I glanced up, then back at her, lips curving. "Mmm. Tradition."

Her gaze didn't waver. "You're so goddamn beautiful, it's unfair."

I swallowed. That word always hit differently when it came from her.
Beautiful. She said it like a fact, not a compliment. Like I had no choice in the matter.

Her hands slid to my waist, thumbs brushing just under the edge of the velvet. The fabric shifted against bare skin, and every nerve in me snapped to attention.

"You know," she murmured, eyes flicking lower, "you're stupidly hot in red."

"Yeah?" I said, my voice going lower. "It's not the boots?"

She laughed—soft and wrecked all at once—and pressed her body against mine like she couldn't help it. One hand curled into the coat again, tugging just a little. Testing the edge of self-control.

God, I wanted to let her.

Her breath hitched when I brushed a hand along her spine. She tilted her chin up to kiss me again, slower this time, like she'd forgotten we were on a deadline. Like the only thing that mattered was the way the velvet bunched in her fists and the heat between us.

I let it go on for a while.
More than a while.

And just when her fingers slid under the waistband of the pants, I pulled back—not far, just enough to keep us from crashing through the finish line.

"Careful," I said, breath catching. "Santa's got a schedule tonight."

Beth looked up at me, lips flushed, pupils wide, and smirked.

"Tell the elves they can wait."

I smiled softly at her eagerness, reached a hand out to twirl a piece of hair that had come loose.

"You remember Sioux Falls?" I murmured, changing the subject to something my mind had been dwelling on for the whole night. "Tree lot. You dragged me all over creation looking for the perfect one."

Beth smiled softly. "Yeah—our first Christmas together."

I smirked. "You made Bobby hang wreaths."

"You kissed me under the mistletoe."

"You parked yourself under that arch and didn't move," I said. "Might as well've held up a sign."

She shrugged, smug. "Tradition."

"I knew it was a trap," I said. "Still walked into it."

"Oh, please," she said. "You lunged."

I huffed a laugh. "Only 'cause you looked at me like that."

"Like what?"

I gave her a look right back. "Like that." She was doing it right now.

She didn't argue. Just stepped in closer, eyes a little softer now.

"Best Christmas kiss I ever got," she said, quieter this time.

I made a mental note that I'd have to fix that—later.

I brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, fingers lingering. "I remember thinking… if I could just freeze time right there, hold on to that one moment, everything might feel okay."

Beth's gaze locked with mine, deep and steady. "And now?"

Now, I thought.

Now I had a daughter with her laugh. A son who looked up to me. A warm house. A tree with too much glitter and a blinking star that couldn't decide whether to live or die. I had this.

And her.

I pressed my forehead to hers. "Now I think I'm the luckiest bastard alive."

Her breath caught a little, but she didn't say anything. She just wrapped her arms around my waist and held on tight. I held her tighter.

Outside, snow kept falling. Inside, the silence wrapped around us like a prayer.

Sometime later, the moment between us folded neatly into the hush of the house, we got to work.

The beer was already out on the coffee table—Beth's idea. "Milk is too suspicious," she'd said. "Santa deserves a drink." I wasn't about to argue.

I took a bite out of one of the cookies Ben had picked out special—chocolate chip, obviously—and left the rest sitting in the tray, crumbs scattered just right. Beside it sat the note Ben had written, and a pen I made sure to use, scrawling out a crooked reply in big block letters:

THANKS FOR THE SNACK, BEN. KEEP BEING AWESOME. — SANTA

Then came the padding.

Beth brought over the pillow and helped stuff it under the tunic, adjusting it until I looked less like sexy cover-band Santa and more like the jolly old fat man himself.

"You know," she said, stepping back to survey the look, "I think the pillow really brings it all together."

"You saying I'm not convincing on my own?"

"Oh, I didn't say that." She grinned. "You're very convincing. Just not for children."

"Fair."

She came in with the fake beard next, fitting the elastic around my ears, then reaching up to position it gently across my face. Her fingers lingered longer than necessary at my jaw, smoothing the edges.

Then the glasses—plastic, round, ridiculous. She tilted them just enough to make them sit crooked on the bridge of my nose.

"There," she said, satisfied. "You look completely unrecognisable."

"I look like I got kicked out of the mall for scaring children."

She handed me the bag of pre-wrapped decoy gifts we'd stashed earlier, already pre-labeled, then grabbed the Polaroid from the couch.

"Alright," she said, backing toward the tree. "Places."

I rolled my eyes - she was really getting into this - but played along, adjusting the sack over my shoulder and crouching down by the fireplace. I reached out, grabbed the beer, and took a long, theatrical sip.

"Really getting into the role," Beth said from behind the camera.

I belched. "I'm a method actor."

She bit back a laugh and lifted the Polaroid. "Okay, Santa. Look sneaky."

I ducked behind the tree like I was mid-drop-off, one hand in the sack, the other hovering over the plate of cookies like I'd been caught in the act. I made sure the hat was crooked, the glasses slipping, the beard just off-center. Then I glanced toward the lens with wide eyes, half-guilty, half-goofy.

Click.

The camera whirred as the photo spat out.

Beth caught it and gave it a little shake, then glanced down and smiled as the image started to develop.

"This is going to blow his mind."

"Think he'll buy it?"

"Oh, definitely," she said. "Between the boots, the crumbs, and the beer, he'll be convinced Santa was here, got drunk, and barely made it out alive."

I chuckled and stood back up, brushing glitter off my sleeve.

Beth came around the tree, still holding the picture. She looked down at it, then up at me.

Her smile shifted.
Softened.

She stepped in close and slipped the photo into the breast pocket of my tunic. Her other hand reached up, brushing the beard aside, then lifted the glasses off gently.

"You're really something else, you know that?" she said, soft and gentle.

"Only one of me, sugarpie," I quipped.

"And you're all mine."

She kissed me—slow, warm, right there next to the tree, the scent of pine and sugar still thick in the air. It was quieter than the earlier kiss, less urgent. More like a thank you.

I slipped a hand down to take the camera from her and turned it in my grip, snapping a candid of us kissing—backed by dancing Christmas lights, oddly angled tree branches, and of course... the glitter.

She pulled back with a quiet laugh, watching me wave the photo through the air as it developed.

"I'm not sure that picture fits the brief," she said. "Beth kissing Santa Claus might get me off on the wrong foot with your children."

"This one's for us," I said with a smile. "A moment we should remember."

"Like I could ever forget," she whispered.

"Merry Christmas, Santa."

I grinned, still leaning into her. "While I'm here, I should check what list you're on."

Beth laughed, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you want me to be naughty, or nice?" she asked, curious.

I caught my breath.

"Why not both?"

It was after 4 a.m. by the time we finally stumbled back into the bedroom, limbs loose from laughter and exhaustion, but too wired to even think about sleep.

I'd ditched the beard and the pillow, but I was still wearing the velvet coat. Bare chest, bare feet, and one very specific idea in mind.

Beth dropped the Polaroid camera on the dresser, and I watched her from the doorway, chest tight with everything we hadn't said. The photo of us — kissing under the tree like we were straight out of a Christmas song — sat safely in my pocket. But the real memory? That was seared into me.

She turned slowly, eyes dragging over me, and damn if she didn't look hungry.

"I take it Santa's off-duty?" she asked, already stepping toward me.

"Not if you've got anything left to unwrap," I said, voice low.

Beth reached for my belt, and I let her. Hell, I wanted her to. Every slow second of it. Her fingers worked the buckle with this careful, deliberate rhythm that made my breath catch. She tugged it free, letting it hang open against my hips.

But she didn't rush.

Didn't go for the button or the zipper.

Instead, she brushed her knuckles over the front of my pants, light and teasing — the kind of touch that didn't give me anything but still made my knees want to buckle.

My forehead dropped to hers. "Beth," I breathed.

She smirked, that quiet, wicked thing she does. "Something you need, Santa?"

I laughed, but it broke halfway out. "Yeah. A little less fabric between me and your hand."

She kissed the corner of my mouth, slow and smug. "You're so easy to rile up."

"You're killing me."

"I'm unwrapping you," she whispered, and finally popped the button, then slid the zipper down - torturously slow. Still not touching skin. Still just hovering.

And I let her.

That's the thing — with Beth, I'd wait forever. I'd burn for it. Because she didn't just touch me to tease. She touched me like she knew me. Like I was more than just a body to undress.

When she finally curled her fingers under the waistband, brushing heat and not much else, I couldn't take it anymore.

"You're evil," I groaned into her neck.

"You started it. Santa."

"Yeah, well—Santa's about to deliver."

Beth laughed, but it caught in her throat when I dipped my head and kissed her neck, slow and deliberate. She slid her arms over my shoulders, fingers dragging up through my hair and knocking the santa hat to the floor.

"Tell me," she murmured, her breath hot against my ear. "Is this how Santa says thank you for the cookies?"

I grinned, loving the witty banter - only she could get me going like this.

"More like for the beer."

"Well then," she whispered, pulling back to smile cheekily at me. "Merry Christmas to me."

I closed the distance. Kissed her like I meant to erase every second we'd spent not touching today. Like the last few hours of teasing hadn't been enough. Her legs wrapped around my waist, her hips arching into me like she needed me closer than skin. I held her firmly to me, the weight of her in my arms felt good - right. Tired as I was, I could have carried her to the top of the Empire State Building for this moment.

I lay her back on the bed, drinking in the sight of her, still fully dressed.

Jeans. That ridiculous red sweater with a Christmas tree on it that looked as lopsided as the one in the living room. Her scarf was gone, hair messy from my hands, and that wicked smile tugging at the edge of her mouth told me she knew exactly what she was doing to me.

"Santa gets to unwrap his present now," I said, voice thick.

Beth smirked. "Hope you brought scissors."

I chuckled and leaned over her, bracing one hand beside her head while the other slid down her front, slow and searching. The sweater was thick, almost too much, but I could feel the heat of her underneath it—layers or not.

My hand slipped beneath the hem and met cotton—thin, fitted, warm from her skin. I pushed higher and found another layer underneath, this one ribbed and tighter, clinging to her.

"Too many layers," I muttered. "What is going on?"

"Yeah, the sweater was overkill," she chuckled. "But, I thought it looked festive."

"Festive's about to get fucked," I muttered, pushing higher.

Beth laughed—a short, breathy sound—and tilted her hips up into my hand. That was the sound I lived for. The kind of laugh that turned into a moan before it was over.

"Well festive is feeling a little hot right now," she admitted, rising up on her arms. "Maybe you can do something about that?"

I did. One layer at a time.

The first came off easy—wool and festivity.

The second clung tighter, and I had to lift her up to peel it over her head. I took my time near her arm, careful of the bandage still covering that dragon burn. She didn't say a word—just watched me with that look like she trusted me not to make it worse.

The third? A threadbare tank top so thin it was practically see-through, and under that…

Lace. Black. Minimal.

She shivered under my hands—not from cold, but from the way I touched her. Slow. Certain. Like I was rediscovering something I already loved.

I leaned in, kissing the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the line of her collarbone. She tasted like skin and heat and something that belonged to me. Her hips shifted under mine, arching, needy, like she was trying to close the distance that still stretched between us.

But I wasn't done looking. Or touching.

I slid one hand up the side of her ribcage, fingers ghosting over soft skin, then under the band of her bra. I felt her breath catch—just a whisper of it, just enough—and I smiled against her throat.

With my other hand, I nudged the lace upward, just enough to bare one perfect breast to the air. She gasped as air hit her skin, but I didn't give her a second to adjust. I lowered my mouth and took her nipple between my lips, sucking gently, slow and firm, tongue flicking just enough to make her back arch off the bed.

She moaned, soft and breathless, one hand threading through my hair as I kept working her over. I licked and sucked and teased until she was squirming, her thighs flexing around me like she couldn't decide whether to pull me in or push me deeper.

I shifted, trailing kisses lower, my hands never leaving her skin. Her nipple slipped from between my lips, wet and peaked, and I moved to the other side, tugging the lace down to repeat the whole thing again. Her body arched under me like she was offering herself up, hips rising, hands fisting in the sheets now.

"Jesus, Dean—"

"Yeah," I murmured, voice low and full of gravel. "Well, it is his birthday."

Her laugh was soft, wrecked. "Right now it feels like it should be mine."

I looked up at her—flushed, panting, completely in my hands—and grinned.

"Oh I'm just getting started, sugarpie."

I kissed my way down her stomach, slow and deliberate, letting my stubble rasp just enough to make her twitch. Her legs shifted wider, knees bent, heels pressing into the mattress like she was trying to ground herself. Or maybe brace.

I hooked my thumbs under the band of her panties and tugged them down, slow enough to watch her breath hitch again. She lifted her hips for me, graceful even in surrender. I dropped them to the floor without taking my eyes off her.

And God… she was gorgeous.

I knelt between her thighs, hands splayed on the outside of her legs, and just looked at her for a moment — pink and wet and so fucking ready. My mouth watered. My heart thudded slow and deep in my chest, like it knew this part by heart.

She reached for me again, breath shaky. "Dean, come on—"

I lowered myself without a word, dragging my tongue through the slick heat of her in one long, unhurried stroke. She cried out, hips jumping, fingers clenching tight in the sheets.

I groaned against her — the taste, the sound, the way her body moved for me — it was all too much, and still never enough.

I took my time, flicking and sucking, circling her clit until her thighs trembled and her moans turned breathless and broken. She reached down once, fingers threading into my hair like she couldn't help it, like she needed the anchor. I let her guide me — until her body locked up, thighs tensing, spine arching high.

"Dean—please—"

I pulled back, breath hot, lips slick with her.

"Not yet," I said, voice shot to hell. "I need to feel you..." The implication of that sentence hung heavy in the air between us.

I crawled back up her body, kissing every inch I could reach. As soon as I came into reach, her hands were on me—sliding under the open tunic, pushing it up and off my shoulders. I shucked it to the ground, and hovered over her with my palms planted either side of her. I still had the red velvet pants on. I used that.

With a gentle thrust of my hips, I rubbed against her—the soft velvet dragging over slick heat, the hard press underneath drawing a gasp from her lips. Her eyes went wide and hot all at once, hands grabbing at my shoulders, nails digging into my skin.

And then she moved.

Her hand slid down between us, bold and greedy, pressing her palm against the thick length of me through the pants. I groaned, hips twitching forward, the friction through the fabric damn near short-circuiting my brain.

She rubbed slow, deliberate, her fingers curling around the shape of me as best she could through the velvet. It was hot, almost too much, and I could already feel just how badly I wanted her—heat blooming low, wet tension soaking into the fabric, sticky and aching with need.

That was how bad she had me. One touch and I was already wrecked.

I had a brief, fleeting thought - pretty sure this wasn't what the rental place meant by "light wear." I wouldn't be getting my deposit back on this costume. And it was totally worth it.

Beth looked up at me, flushed and focused, her hand stroking me like she needed to see me come apart.

"You've been driving me crazy all night," she whispered.

I sucked in a breath, sharp and fast.

Her thumb brushed the head through the velvet, and my whole body jolted.

"Take them off," she said, voice low and rough and completely in control now.

And yeah—I did. Without hesitation. Without pride. I shoved the pants down, kicked them off the edge of the bed, and reached to line myself up—

Right where I belonged.

Beth grabbed my hips like she couldn't wait another second, legs wrapping tight around me.

And I didn't make her.

I slammed into her in one rough, perfect thrust that knocked the air out of both of us.

She gasped, her head snapping back against the pillow. I followed her down, catching her mouth with mine, swallowing the sound she made as I pulled back and did it again—harder.

Faster.

Her nails dug into my shoulders. Her heels pressed into my ass, urging me deeper, chasing every movement like she needed it to keep breathing.

"Yes—"
One word, carried on a gasp. If that wasn't a invitation, I didn't know what was.

I gripped her hips, angling deeper, driving into her over and over until the headboard hit the wall with a quiet thud, thud, thud and neither of us cared. The air between us was hot, wet, electric.

She was everything—tight, slick, clinging to me like she was never letting go.

And me? I was gone.

I buried my face in her neck, breath dragging ragged from my chest as she started to shake beneath me. Her body tensed, thighs trembling, and I felt it—that perfect rhythm breaking under the weight of what was coming.

"I'm—Dean—"

"Come on, baby," I breathed, "let go."

She shattered beneath me, a cry tearing loose from her throat as her body clamped down around me, pulsing, drawing me with her.

I slammed into her one last time and came hard, my whole body locking up as her name fell from my mouth like a curse and a prayer all at once.

We collapsed together, breathless and sweat-slick, tangled in limbs and heat and the kind of silence that only comes when everything else inside you has burned out.

I didn't say a word. Just pressed my mouth to her shoulder and stayed there, chest rising and falling against hers.

She was still shaking. Still clutching me like I might disappear.

I eased out of her with a soft groan, muscles already aching. Beth whimpered—small, involuntary—and clutched at my back like she didn't want me gone.

I got it.

I didn't go far. Just pulled the blanket up and brought her with me, tucked tight to my chest. Careful of her arm. She winced when it shifted, and I kissed her temple without thinking.

"Easy," I murmured, already feeling sleep closing in like a freight train.

The room was warm. Her breath was steady. My heartbeat was finally starting to come down.

I cracked an eye toward the clock on the nightstand.

The clock read 4:57 a.m.

Jefferson was flying in at 10 o'clock. Sam and Bobby would be here at 9. And Ben? Ben would be up by 6.

Jesus.

We were gonna be so wrecked.

But I wouldn't trade it. Not a damn second of it.

Beth curled in closer, her leg sliding between mine, her fingers finding the center of my chest like that's where she always belonged.

And yeah.

That's where she'd stay.

Come morning, there'd be wrapping paper, coffee, and chaos. But for now?

It didn't get better than this. Not for me.

AUTHOR'S NOTES

The song for this chapter is Maybe This Christmas by Ron Sexsmith

Dean's letting go of some pretty heavy stuff on this magical evening. Thanks for being here as he (finally) gets the kind of Christmas he never thought he'd have. This chapter was an absolute joy to write—from the mistletoe kiss to the final collapse. It's Dean at his softest, filthiest, and most domestic. For anyone who's ever found peace in the chaos, or kissed someone under the blinking lights and meant it—hope you felt the magic too.

This fanfic is fueled by blinking tree lights, Santa roleplay gone too far (or maybe just far enough), and the unholy power of Dean in red velvet. Drop a comment if you survived the mistletoe.

Quick question for the regulars:

I'm in the middle of getting the whole series ready to post over on AO3 (starting with Season 1). My invite should come through by the end of the month, so I'll be slowly migrating everything across and polishing as I go. There will be some new material, building on the story in between what it already written - I'm hoping it'll be worth reading all over again!

Would you rather I keep updating Season 6 here in the meantime, or pause uploads until AO3 catches up a bit?