#letters to santa | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zacharyleigh316 · 4 months

Text

making a list, checking it twice

making a list, checking it twice | Teen and Up | 2.6K | Read here (or below cut)

Another holiday tradition born for the Winchester family.

“I want to write a letter to Santa.” Jack announced to the room, making Dean look up from the book he was reading.

They were in the library, pouring over the copious amounts of books and folders of lore the Men of Letters had stashed upon the shelves — “think of it as spring cleaning” Sam had said to them that morning over breakfast, after suggesting they could be kept occupied by doing some ‘light’ organizing, “but it’s winter, not spring”, and before making himself scarce, fucking off to who knows where, nowhere to be found when the time actually came to clean, “that’s why I said to think of it as spring cleaning, Dean,” came his brother’s ‘matter of fact’ reply, in that particular tone of his (you know the one), and “winter cleaning then,” Castiel supplied afterward, rather unhelpfully, but who was Dean to ever deny the angel anything, especially with that smile on his face, so here he was — and Jack met Dean’s eye, eyes twinkling with a startling amount of determination, as if they’d made an earth shattering revelation just now, one that wasn’t even related to what they were supposed to be doing.

“What was that?” Dean asked, as if he hadn’t heard the kid correctly the first time.

“I’d like to write a letter to Santa. That is what the kids do for Christmas isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah, guess so,” Dean furrowed his brows, “but we’re not exactly the poster child for what most normal people do for, well, anything really.”

“Hm, true, but I’d still like to write one, if I can.”

“You can do whatever you want, kid, no one is gonna stop you.” Dean said, about to go back to his appraisal of his book, but paused.

“You know you could just tell us what you wanted. For Christmas. You don’t have to write a letter to Santa.”

Jack smiled, and nodded, seemingly undeterred regardless of what Dean had to say about it.

“I know.”

“Alright.” Dean said rather awkwardly, and was to the first to break eye contact.

However, upon looking back down at his book, he found that he couldn’t even read the damn thing anymore, staring at the same grouping of words—of what creature Dean couldn’t even tell you—for some time without taking anything in; he just had to know.

“Jack, why Santa?”

“Why not?” They shrugged, expression earnest, and Dean’s jaw clenched with the force of all his self restraint.

This kid wasn’t very forthcoming, were they? Getting any sort of explanation from them was like pulling teeth.

Of course it wasn’t the kid’s fault, they were just like that, and Dean was no stranger to it, after all, he had years experience with the kid’s father, and normally he didn’t mind it, but there was a time and place for everything, and when you were trying to ask questions (whilst skirting around the glaringly obvious “Santa ain’t real” conversation like it was a marquee sign with blinding, blinking, twinkly lights—Jack was still a kid when it came down to it) it was like stepping through a minefield. You’d think devoting your life to fighting monsters would make shit like this easy.

It did not.

“Sure,” Dean nodded, closing the book he was clearly done with for now, and leaned back in his chair, “but what if…Santa can’t get you what you ask for?”

“You mean if he isn’t real?”

Oh.

Guess it wasn’t that hard after all, Dean thought, unable to stop the look of surprise on his face.

“I wasn’t gonna say that.” He muttered.

“It’s okay, Dean.” Jack chuckled. “But even if he doesn’t, I still want to. Just in case.”

“Just in case…what, exactly?” Dean asked, brow raised curiously.

“Who’s to say what’s real and what’s not? Belief is about having faith, is it not? People believe in things, because having faith also means having hope. And when one doesn’t hope, it means we’ve given up, which is sad. I don’t like being sad.”

Dean chuckled. “Makes sense.”

“Besides, people might not have proof that the things they believe in exist, but that doesn’t mean they don’t. I’m a nephilim, and I exist. Angels and demons exist. Monsters exist. Many people don’t believe in the supernatural, and yet we’re still real. We hunt monsters for a living.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” Dean agreed, nodding.

“If all this still exists despite that, how can we say if Santa is real or not, either? I choose to believe. I have faith in him, and hope he’ll get my letter. Nothing bad can come from trying.” Jack finished, leaving an impressed Dean speechless.

“Damn, kid. That’s some sound logic.” He managed after a while, with an amazed whistle.

“Thank you.” Jack beamed.

“Alright,” Dean said, quickly shifting gears, “enough of the philosophical, grown up talk, Aristotle, let’s write some letters to Santa.”

“Really?” They asked, sounding hopeful.

And damn if Dean wasn’t just as weak to this kid as he was to Castiel.

“Hell, you said yourself kid. Why the fuck not? And when you’re done, we’ll address it to the North Pole, and I’ll take you to the mailbox.”

Jack nodded. “I’d like that.”

And so, with a clap of his hands, Dean stood up and made his way over to the other side of the table to Jack. They found some paper, and a pen that Dean figured was probably Sam’s, lying around, made easy by the fact that they were already in the library, and put it to good use as they went about writing Jack’s letter to Santa.

The kid’s handwriting was pretty shit, but then again, Dean’s penmanship wasn’t anything to write home about either, and though slightly more legible, it was more authentic if Jack did it—plus Dean didn’t want to reap the nephilim the chance to do it themself. Jack was pretty excited about this, perhaps for some reason beyond Dean’s understanding, but he was young once too, and had been invested in making the holidays both ‘merry and bright’, if not for himself then for Sam, since the absence of their dad had saved John from any and all responsibility to pass the holiday bug around to his sons, so Dean could do this—at the very least—for his own kid. He was there in case Jack needed his help, and that was enough.

When Jack finished, they folded the letter up and put it in an envelope addressed to Santa, just like he promised. And if it helped Jack feel a little more like a normal kid, then that was a success in Dean’s book.

“Hey kid, you all set to go get it delivered?”

“Yes, I think so.” Jack replied with a nod, smiling down at the letter in their hands.

Dean chuckled and reached out, giving their shoulder and friendly pat, and squeezed. “Then let’s make sure Santa gets his letter.”

They headed to the garage and slipped into Baby, her leather cool and smooth, and Dean turned the key into the ignition, sending the kid a wink from across the bench seat as she roared to life. Her rumbling purr never failed to soothe that barely there ache in his soul, that itch he got every once and while, just under his skin. Jack patted her dash with a soft, appreciative smile, and Dean bit his cheek to hide the overwhelming bout of fondness that rattled against the cage of his chest, making his heart thrum in time with Baby’s idling.

“Wanna get some ice cream and hot cocoa after we send your letter?” Dean asked then, unable to help himself, a little bit of that fondness seeping out into the edges of him.

“Can they have the big marshmallows?”

Dean laughed. “I don’t know if anybody does that, but tell you what kid, we can pick up some big marshmallows for our own hot cocoa on the way home.” He said as they pulled out, and though Jack didn’t reply, their resulting grin was answer enough.

Their posts in the library were left abandoned and forgotten.

Jack practically skipped to the mailbox at the post office, and, with Dean by their side, dropped the sealed envelope inside.

“You really think Santa will get it? That the post delivers all the way there?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t see why not, it’s a place right? And all places get mail. Besides, you could probably deliver it yourself if you wanted to.”

Jack did have wings, that was, they were part angel. They honestly could just fly to the North Pole, and deliver the letter to Santa directly.

Jack looked thoughtful, brows furrowed.

“Oi, don’t get any ideas, kid. You said you wanted to experience this like a normal kid, and regular kids who aren’t nephilim have to wait for the post.” Dean added quickly, eyeing his kid skeptically.

“I know.” Jack said simply, before turning to wave at a woman who was watching them off to the side.

Christ this kid was something else, Dean thought to himself, internally shaking his head with an exasperated fondness, not too unlike the feeling from before.

However, externally, Dean’s hackles raised, and he instinctively stepped closer to Jack, like a mama bear protecting her young from a stranger who, may or may not, be hostile, and/or pose a threat.

“Hi!” Jack chirped, either unaware of Dean’s sudden change in demeanor, or just not commenting on it, in lieu of greeting said stranger. He really needed to teach this kid not to just talk to every random person they met.

“Hello.” She greeted back politely, apparently entirely nonplussed at the big, burly, six foot figure that imposed intimidation behind the kid’s left shoulder.

“Is this your son? Is he sending a letter to Santa?” She asked Dean, who crossed his arms, not backing down just yet.

“My kid, yeah,” he corrected, watching the lady’s face for any tells, “it’s their first time, actually. We never really celebrated Christmas, didn’t have the time between traveling…for work. But they wanted to try something new this year, so.”

“Well then, you have a really great dad.” She said sweetly to Jack, who nodded enthusiastically.

“I do.” They agreed easily, and Dean looked at them, eyes wide in surprise.

They thought he was a great dad? Dean didn’t feel all that great, hell, didn’t think he was even that good, but Jack said it so effortlessly.

“He’s taking me out for ice cream and hot chocolate next!”

“Ooo,” she laughed, a light, bubbly sound that was genuine enough for Dean to finally settle, “you two have fun then. I won’t keep you any longer.”

Before she left, the woman leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially to Jack, in that fake ‘not at all quiet’ way people did when what they were about to say wasn’t actually a secret, “I’m sure Santa will get your letter. You seem like a very sweet kid.”

It took a second for Dean to realize she had answered Jack’s question for him, and they watched her go, Dean only snapping out of it when he felt Jack’s hand slip into his. They were looking up at him with a smile, holy shit this kid was always smiling, but Dean was, once again, weak willed against it, and decided to allow it.

They walked down the street to the diner for their sundaes and hot chocolate—with the mini marshmallows, “they’re just as good as the big ones,” and who was Dean to argue with that logic either—and returned to the bunker later full in more ways than one.

Sam finally returned from wherever sometime later, sputtering about at how nothing had gotten done, but shut up once Jack told him what they did instead, soft on the kid just the same as were they all, had always been from the start, and Dean resolutely ignored the way his brother looked at him for it.

Castiel wasn’t spared from the explanation of their day either, Jack recounting in detail what they did at bedtime, Cas looking rather pleased from where he sat on edge of Jack’s bed, engaged fully, attention rapt despite the childlike, long windedness of it all. He was always amazing at that, paying attention to, and hanging on, your every word. It was one of the reasons why people loved him.

Why Dean loved him.

“Did they tell you what they wished for?” Dean asked when Cas slipped into bed, after tucking Jack in for the night.

“No, they didn’t say.”

“Damn. They were talking for hours. We didn’t even do that much today.” He said, impressed.

Cas chuckled, reaching over to drag his hand along the side of Dean’s face, smiling when he leaned into his palm.

“Maybe not, but it was important to them. They needed to make sure we knew that.”

“They were really excited. Made me believe in Santa.”

“Mm.” Cas hummed, sounding amused.

“Shoulda heard them today Cas, they made some solid points. They’re a smart kid.”

“They are, yes.” Cas agreed.

“You think Santa’ll really get the letter?”

“I don’t know.” He said honestly, and their eyes met. “But I have faith he will.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. Faith. Funny. They said that too.”

“Seems to be our motto, don’t you think?” Cas mused, happily accepting the answering kiss.

“Think we’ll make this a tradition. Get the whole family in on it. Whatcha think?”

Cas smiled at Dean as he yawned, and the two of them snuggled close together, just as they did every night.

“I think that sounds wonderful.”

———

Dear Santa,

My name is Jack Kline. My mother was Kelly Kline, but she’s in Heaven now, and though I miss her, I know she’s safe and happy there. You know that, don’t you? I can only assume you’re omniscient, if the song is to be believed.

But it’s okay because I have a bigger family now, to fill in the gaps. Though my last name is Kline, I’m a Winchester. But you probably know that too, right?

Anyway, I don’t know if you deliver presents to nephilim, oh yeah I’m a nephilim by the way, but I promise I’ve been good. Did I make it on your list? I hope so, but if I didn’t that’s okay too, I didn’t want much. I already have what I wanted.

But if you’re still in the business of granting wishes, all I wanted to ask for was to bring my family together for Christmas. We don’t really celebrate the holidays, because we’re always busy hunting, but they’ve worried about everyone else long enough that they deserve a break too (plus I think it would be nice to have a normal family Christmas like they do in the hallmark movies Dean secretly enjoys watching).

P.S. Dean is one of my dads!

But yeah, that’s all Santa.

Love,

Jack.

P.P.S. Okay I lied, I know that’s pretty bad, and I’m sorry Santa, but I also really want a snow globe, because I think they’re cool.

——��

Dean yawned, still weary from sleep, as he entered the kitchen Christmas morning, and started the coffee pot, leaning against the counter to support his heavy, sleep-addled limbs. It was still early enough that everyone else in the bunker was asleep, giving Dean the chance to make breakfast for his family. And despite his caffeine deprivation, soon to be cured by the glorious pot of bean juice currently brewing, he found himself oddly cheery, a bubbly sort of excitement simmering just beneath the surface.

He poured himself a cup when the machine was done, and, after a long, satisfying gulp of the black, bitter slosh, Dean turned around to start about making their actual breakfast, stopping short when he noticed that, just over there, on the dining table, sat comfortably right in the middle like a centerpiece, was a snow globe, gently falling, sparkling snow over a family and their black car, within.

9 notes · View notes