Yes Sir, That's My Santa - 1/1
Yes Sir, That’s My Santa
Rating: G, Gen
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Bobby
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchester dolls for the purposes of general amusement. Sorry about the holes!
Word Count: 7,114
A/N: Crack! Sequel to: Hark! The Herald Angels Croak and It’s beginning to look a lot like charity.
Inspired by secret-seer’s great graphics for Doors 19, 27, & 30 of my SPN Advent Calendar & her animated Castiel userpic (with a little help from the lyrics of Yes Sir, That’s My Baby and Santa Baby)
Setting: Baker, CA & The North Pole. 23rd - 25th December, 2009
Summary: Turns out the Winchesters have more than one “family business.”
‘Nnnngggggg… Oh God! Take me now!’
‘Dean Winchester?’
‘Fuuuuuuck!’ Dean skidded around in the shower, narrowly missing amputating a very vital organ with a kinky shower hose.
‘Is there a problem, Dean Winchester?’
There he was, standing primly on the other side of the not nearly fogged up enough shower screen. He looked mildly baffled and not at all self-conscious.
Fucking angels.
The bathroom door slammed back on its hinges.
‘Dean! You ok…?’
Fucking brothers.
‘But you called out the Lord’s name! I thoug…’
‘You screamed! Of course I was gonna come running. How was I to k…?’
As his two irritating millstones continued to talk over each other at him Dean finally decided to stop hid… uh, that he should be more water conscious, and turned off the tap, before stomping out of the shower to confront the idiots.
Holding his left hand up midway between the two of them to share the blame fairly, Dean used the other to start enumerating his grievances, one finger at a time.
‘One - I wasn’t calling out the Lord’s name. Uh uh!’ he said as the angel opened his mouth to object as if he’d been taking lessons from Dean’s very own legal eagle. ‘I was swearing, it was an epithet, okay? And unless God sent you down here to punish me for taking his or her name in vain, I’ll… What?’
He was getting the strangest of looks. Identical looks from both of them, and that was just about the weirdest thing ever.
‘Epi…’
‘…thet.’ Castiel finished.
Sam nudged Castiel aside and stepped closer. ‘I didn’t know you…’
‘Fuck it!’ Dean yelled. ‘How many years have I been living with you?’
‘T…’ Castiel started.
Dean walked two steps to the left and banged his head against the wall. It only made yet another bit of him hurt. Fuck.
‘That was a rhetorical question. And,’ he kept on going while Sam slanted Castiel another one of those, “What is Dean on?” looks. ‘After all the years we’ve been together, don’t you think just a little bit of you might have rubbed off on me, Sammy?’
‘Huh!’ Sam and Castiel both said in scary synchronicity.
Dean leant against the slightly comforting wall (he appreciated its consistent quality of upness in an increasingly shaky world) and got back to his list.
‘Two,’ he said, glaring at his brother. ‘I’m Dean Fucking Winchester! Don’t you think I’ve earned the right to swear in the shower if I want to? Did you think the bathmat was going to jump me?’ he inquired sarcastically.
‘Bu…’
‘Three - Could you all just get out of the bathroom? Now!’
Dean reached over to the rack, snagged its contents and wrapped the towel very securely around his waist. Despite his protests about his toughness, certain parts of his anatomy were feeling ever so slightly threatened by the gun Sam was still unthinkingly waving around.
‘Pleas…?’ He started to add a little more woozily, before that traitorous wall decided to turn upside down on h….
Huh. ‘I fell!’ Dean protested some time later, when he came to, finding himself lying in bed with Castiel holding his feet up with one hand, and Sammy leaning over him bleating, probably about to rip one of the angel’s insubstantial feathers out to burn under Dean’s nose.
‘You fainted!’ Sam bellowed tersely.
‘I diiiiddd not!’ That wasn’t a wobble in his voice. No, it wasn’t.
‘You did indeed experience a momentary lapse of consciousness,’ Castiel confirmed pedantically.
And that right there? Was one of the many things about the angel that irritated the Hell out of Dean. That, and his very angelness. While Cas was growing on him, every now and then Dean just wanted to shake the stilted language and mannerisms right out of him, and maybe get him drunk. Uh. Dean cast his mind back a week. Then again, maybe not.
‘It’s what I was trying to tell you when you all attacked me in the shower!’ Dean said, not unfairly at all. Because he’d been standing there, letting yet another wall hold him up, moaning, and…
‘Tell us what?’ Sam asked. He was patting his face worriedly like Dean was a goddamned girl or something!
Castiel, who Dean had been about to kick in his angelic nuts for untoward foot fondling, turned out to have been taking his pulse, and doing some other sort of angel first aid once over. ‘That he’s sick,’ he said gravely.
‘Sick?’ Sam screeched. He was flapping his arms like a useless albatross, and clearly wanted to be waving a cold compress or some such Victorian maiden nonsense.
And no. Dean was not a maiden, in any sense of the word. Thank you very much,
‘He’s got d…’
‘Stomach cramps!’ Dean interrupted with a minor lie, as he wrenched his various extremities out of their clinging hands and made another break for the bathroom.
This time he took a second to flip the lock. Dean didn’t care if Castiel could teleport in (or whatever the correct term was in the latest edition of the Angel Transportation Manual), or that Sam could pick the lock in thirty seconds even with his bangs over his eyes. It was the principle of the thing.
Also?
Urk.
‘Told you, we shouldn’t have eaten at the Mad Greek place.’
Sam was a big fat know-it-all.
Sam had also sensibly not tried to eat his way through half the menu in an hour. Dean hated Sam. Goddamned psychics!
Nngggh.
‘Told you Bob’s Big Boy coffee shop, or Coco’s looked better.’
Dean decided to knit all those “told yous” into a really long scarf and strangle Sam with it. Just as soon as he felt a little stronger, and could find his knitting needles.
In the meantime Dean kept as still as possible on the bed and wondered what the Greek for “never ever again” was.
‘Your pulse and respiration seem to have returned to within what has been designated “normal” parameters,’ Castiel said approvingly.
Dean had obviously been abducted by aliens because he was clearly missing some time. Since when did Cas make air quotes?
Opening the other eye cautiously Dean watched Sam and the angel go back to muttering inconsiderately lowly at the far end of the bed. What the fuck? Please God, let the two of them have not spent the night watching reruns of “General Hospital” and taking notes, while he writhed unnoticed on his bed of pain.
Just as a little voice in his head began to sing, ‘Nobody loves me, think I’ll go and eat worms…’ Air Quote Boy-Heh! Dean leaned awkwardly off one side of the bead in order to sneak a look at the angel’s feet and was disappointed to find he wasn’t wearing cross-trainers. There went his plan to talk about Air Castiels and Angel Airlines. Dean subsided back into bed with a pout. Nobody appreciated his killer sense of humour. Nobody loves me…
‘Dean?’
‘Nobody knows the…’
‘Dean?’
‘Perhaps I was premature with my diagnosis of his return to good health!’ Castiel shouted. Right. In. Dean’s. Face.
‘Dude!’ Dean shouted weakly right back up at him. ‘A little quiet for the invalid?’ Nobody loves me. Yes Sir, That’s true. Nobody loves…
‘I am not “shouting!” Your auditory perception of the volume of my voice may indeed be a lingering symptom…’
I’m nobody’s child. Nooooobody’s child… ‘Nobody’s baby. Yes Sir, I don’t mean maybe…’
‘Castiel? Can’t you just z…’
‘Did you just zap me?’ Dean moaned, still feeling the tickling effect of tiny lavender-coloured lightning bolts fritzing and giggling through his veins. Fuuuck. That either hurt, or felt really good. Dean couldn’t decide which. Maybe he needed another nap?
‘I used my “angel mojo” on you like Samuel requested!’ Castiel announced brightly.
Oh God. Turns out angels do remember some things that happen when they’re drunk. Dean hoped Castiel, and Sam never remembered everything.
Just a little nap till they and their memories went away? That seemed the safest idea.
‘Dean? Dean! Deeeeeeean.’
‘What?’
‘But you’re better! Castiel promised!’
Dean decided not to open his eyes for a while. Not for anything. ‘Fuck! Stop prodding me!’
‘Well? Are you awake yet?’
Sam was bouncing up and down on the bed next to him as if he was three again. Either that or it was an earthquake.
At this stage Dean didn’t care how he died. At least he’d seen the world’s tallest thermometer before the walls came tumblin’ down.
‘Dean? I know you’re better now. Can you stop milking this in the hope that I’ll bring you breakfast in bed for the rest of the trip?’
Fucking brothers who really did know it all.
‘So, are you going to get out of bed in the next decade?’
‘Maybe,’ Dean said cautiously. ‘Is he gone yet?’
‘Why are you whispering? He’s an angel. I kind of think he can hear you even from Heaven.’
‘Well?’
‘Yes, Dean. He’s gone. I promise to protect you if your big bad angel comes back.’
‘Bitch!’
‘Shut up, you know you love me.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Dean tried hard to sound convincing, but he’d been ill, so possibly it wasn’t his best effort.
‘I thought you liked Castiel.’
‘He’s alright, for an angel,’ Dean shrugged, as he pulled himself upright in the bed. He really did feel better, and hungr…
‘You just don’t like the fact that he could tell you had dia…’
‘I will kill you if you finish that sentence.’
‘Diarrhoea,’ Sam said with a smirk that he had better not have learned from Dean.
Dean blushed. He was still a little sick, okay?
‘What about just waffles then?’ Dean didn’t care if it sounded like he was wheedling. He wanted breakfast; he just didn’t want a full cooked Greek breakfast.
Sam sighed and right then Dean knew he’d won. ‘If I bring you waffles and bacon, will you let me drive the rest of the way to Vegas?’
‘Maybe,’ Dean lied. Lies didn’t count when they were for bacon. That was like the McDonald’s amendment to the Constitution or something.
‘Yeah, right,’ Sam said as he opened the door. ‘And for that lie you’re not getting maple syru…’
‘Sam?’
‘Uh, Dean? Can you think of any reason why there might be an elf out here with an envelope addressed to you?’
‘I’m never going to get to Vegas, am I?’ Dean queried mournfully, visions of sugar plums, and dancing girls, and roulette wheels vanishing in front of him.
He and Sam were sitting hunched up together at the end of the bed. The … elf … Yup! Real live, pointy-eared (and not just a little Starfleet uniformed fan who wanted to live long and prosper) elf. The elf was standing right in front of them.
Even sitting down both the Winchesters were taller than their visitor. Dean was tempted to lie on the floor to see if that would still be true. Dean liked being taller than someone else. That thought earned him a smack from Sam.
‘Dude!’
‘That was not politically correct!’ Sam hissed.
‘Stop reading my mind!’ Dean yelled back.
‘Dean Winchester? Dean Winchester, the first?’ The elf asked tentatively, clearly hoping for a “No.” ‘Eldest son of Mary and John Eric Winchester? Grandson of Samuel and Deanna Cam…’
‘Oh, just shut up, and give me the damned envelope already,’ Dean snapped. He wasn’t sensitive about his name. At all.
Goddamned elvish process servers.
‘Santa? No way, dude!’
‘Think about it, Dean. How often did we get to see Dad at Christmas?’
Uh… Never? ‘No! No fucking…’
‘Way!’ Sam answered, eyes wide in shock.
Or shock and awe. Because, apparently the idea of Santa Dean was just that awesome.
‘Santa. I’m Santa.’
‘Santa? You’re Santa?’
‘Hey! You don’t have to sound like I couldn’t do the job!’
‘Jerk! Like you weren’t thinking exactly the same thing.’
So?
‘I can’t be Santa, we’ve got…’ It’s hard to tell a complete stranger you’ve got to kill Lucifer. Even an elf. Especially an elf.
Dean hadn’t known it till now, but elves had doubting eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was all elves, or just this one. But for now Dean was going to make a sweeping generalization on behalf of all elves. And you know what?
Because he was Santa, Dean fucking well could!
‘Look, kid!’
Urrrrreeeeeek… ‘Sammy!’ Dean tried to gasp.
Fucking teeny tiny green-clothed little elf had him in a stranglehold! How was that even possible?
‘Hey! It’s a kind of magic,’ the elf rasped at him. He sounded French for all of trois seconds.
Huh?
‘I’m one of Santa’s elves. Your elves, fucker! And it’s less than one day till Christmas Eve. I can do anything!’ The elf was right up in Dean’s face, and those doubting eyes now looked really, really mean.
‘Don’t call me kid.’ Dean choked as forcefully as he could, whilst being killed by an elf.
‘Yes, Santa.’
Yes, Santa. The two second-best words in the English language. Right behind, Sammy saying, ‘Yes, Dean.’ Which didn’t happen often enough for Dean’s liking.
Yes, Santa. Heh. Elves had to obey Santa. It was a rule. Dean liked rules.
‘I am Santa…’
‘Dean? Think very carefully. If the next words you say sound anything like, “kneel” or “bow down,” you might find yourself the Ghost of Santa Past.’
Dean had been about to say, ‘Hear me roar!’ But Sam’s suggestions were pretty good too. He would have given snaps to his brother, but he’d learnt that it never paid to irritate Samantha when she was on the r… ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’
‘Dead Santa,’ Sam said grimly.
Fine. ‘But did you hear him? He’s got to obey me! Hey! Shortie. Many more elves back on the farm like you? I mean up at the North Pole?’ Dean was a bit fuzzy on the geography of anywhere he couldn’t drive his baby to, but he had a feeling Santa Central was to the left of Canada. Or maybe the right?
‘Dead UnPC Santa,’ Sam said unnecessarily loudly.
‘ShortE. Not shortIe. E for Elf - Elf dude! That’s what I meant.’ Dean beamed at the short not-so-tall elf guilelessly. ‘Do I have any more minion… uh… really cool elves back at SHQ?’ Totally saved himself there with his fast thinking. Dean was also hot stuff at coming up with useful acronyms on short notice. Speaking of…
‘What say I just call you SE for short? Or do you have a name just like a real person?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam started apologizing profusely to Dean’s new minion. ‘I’m so very sorry. He’s…’
The elf grinned suddenly, showing a mouthful of red and green enameled teeth. Even Mr. Nice Guy Sammy blinked. The decorations didn’t prevent one from noticing that the teeth were pointed. All of them. Just like his ears. Somehow that grin seemed a little less comforting.
‘Don’t worry about it. They’re all like that when they first get the gig. Power mad. We finally called in a consult last century. Freud named it the Santa Syndrome. Don’t worry, it wears off after the first few years,’ the dentally festive elf confided with a deliberately carrying whisper.
‘Oh, no!’ Sam had the grace to look embarrassed on Dean’s behalf. ‘Dean’s always been like this.’
‘Santa. I’m Santa.’ That was never not going to sound fucking wrong.
‘Santa … Baby!’ Sam announced with a snicker.
Sam wasn’t supposed to be the snickerer, he was always the snickee. Dean… Fuck. He was Santa. Sam now owned the right to snicker. Forever.
‘Oh, my freakin’ God! What if I…?’ No, it was too terrible to even think, let alone say out loud.
‘What?’
‘Dude! My hair’s going to turn white, and I’ll end up with a Granddaddy beard!’ He couldn’t help the whimpers; anyone would have been frightened at the thought. Absolutely anyone.
Sam unfairly used his miniscule height advantage to peer down at the top of Dean’s head.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Sam? Geroff!’
‘Hold still,’ his brother said calmly. ‘Hmmm.’ He was running his fingers through Dean’s spiky and totally awesome and unSanta-like locks, and not in a good way.
Dean squirmed, but to no avail. Sam’s hands were as big as the rest of him.
‘At least it’ll save you a fortune on hair colour and product,’ Sam muttered subversively as he finally let Dean go.
Dean had finally (okay, only partially) come to his senses. Maybe Sam’s long fingers of geekdom had hitherto unknown powers? Because that scalp massage (which is what Sam was doing, not checking Dean’s roots, because he did not colour his hair!) had helped him realize that awesome as his momentary vision of himself as Santa was that…
‘I can’t be Santa! You have to find someone else. Sam and I have got…’ Don’t say people to kill, don’t say the L word and whatever you do, don’t mention angels. ‘Things to do. The family business you know.’
SE, or Jock, or Jacques (his “real” name varied along with his malleable accent), as he occasionally preferred to be called, grunted. ‘Winchesters got more than one family business. The original one takes precedence.’ He crossed his arms and glowered at Dean.
As Sam nodded in agreement (fucking legal people always seemed to stick together against everyone else) Dean thought dark thoughts about mutinous minions, and wondered who was really in charge at the North Pole. Elves seemed to be just as much trouble as ange…
‘Shit! Stop doing that!’
‘What?’ Castiel queried curiously.
‘Don’t you ever just knock?’ Dean knew he sounded mournful. So, what? Santa can’t be jolly all the time, can he?
‘Knock? Why would I knock?’
‘People knock on doors,’ Sam offered even though no one had asked him to help.
‘Why?’
‘When they come in them,’ Dean said, knowing it was a waste of an explanation.
Castiel looked at the door. ‘But I didn’t…’
‘Come in the door. I know. It’s a custom. It doesn’t have to make sense, but people do it anyway.’
Castiel’s shoulders moved under his coat in what looked for a second like a shrug, but Castiel didn’t do stupid human gestures. Dean tried not to look at the coat. He had a feeling it was a wing thing.
The wings bothered Dean. When they were out they were as scary as fuck. When they weren’t there, it was even more disturbing. Dean kept finding himself sneaking tiny sidelong glances at the angel whenever they were together. On more than a few occasions he’d been very close to spinning around fast to see if he could catch them. Luckily Dean was good at practicing self-restraint. Even luckier, was the fact that Castiel could at times be even scarier than his wings. So, Dean was trying to pretend they didn’t exist. So far, he gave himself 4/10.
Unfortunately while Dean was rating himself Castiel was off doing something else, which Dean hadn’t even noticed until Sam nudged him. Dean blamed the whole Santa stress thing for dulling his normally finely tuned sense…
Sam nudged him again.
Oh yeah, Castiel. Who’d walked the human way over to the door and was standing there with his nose almost up against the plywood patiently knocking. On the inside of the door.
Dean felt sure that if Missouri Moseley ever met Dean’s angel he’d finally and thankfully lose his blue ribbon for dullest tool in the shed. Seriously? Dean didn’t know if this kind of dumbness was an angel thing (maybe the wings sucked the quick wittedness right out of the host body?) or if Castiel really was just that special.
Dean sighed. Sam and Castiel. What had he done in a previous life to deserve having to raise both of them at once?
‘Cas? Other side of the door,’ Dean said relatively mildly, considering what he wanted to tell the angel.
‘Oh.’ This time Castiel did the bubble pop thing and was gone.
‘Well, that was a short visit,’ Dean said happily, his mind moving quickly back to thoughts of his interrupted breakfast order.
‘Uh, Dean?’
‘What?’
‘Open the door.’
‘Why? There’s no one there.’ Honestly, some times Sam was just thick.
‘Just open the door, and I’ll explain it to you later if you still need the Cliff’s notes then.’
Being Santa fortunately hadn’t impaired Dean’s ability to curl his lip. Or multi-task and open the door, not because Sam told him to, but because Dean felt li…
Huh. Dean looked at Castiel standing patiently (not knocking) on the other side of the door, and back at his brother again. How about that?
Clearly Dean needed to find the time to explain the whole door-knocking concept to Castiel further. But right then? Dean really needed a drink.
‘I don’t suppose those wings are good for nipping out and bringing me back a whiskey?’ he asked the angel plaintively.
Apparently not.
What the wings were good for were for flaring out of nothingness when Castiel caught sight of the elf.
Dean decided to give SE/J/J the benefit of the doubt. He’d probably just been answering a call of the elven nature in the bathroom. Not hiding in there since Castiel had first materialized.
Because that would be strange, as Castiel and the elf knew each other. No, Dean hadn’t suddenly become psychic too. Castiel opening his mouth and greeting the elf with a five-minute long name that seemed to be all vowels; that was what gave it away. That and the elf pouting before answering back equally incomprehensibly.
Dean hoped that this Santa thing didn’t require him to have to memorize all his elves’ real names; otherwise he was going to get sacked before he could even resign.
‘Let me get this straight. You both know each other?’
Sam stepped on his foot. Hard. Luckily John Winchester had passed on all his toughest genes to Dean, so he only let out a slight whine before he rephrased his question.
‘I mean, not biblically, of course. Although that’s fine too if…’
Sam did it again. This might have led to Dean chasing Sam around the room. Or not. Luckily both the angel and the elf were now on Dean’s virtual payroll so he was fairly sure neither of them would admit to anything they saw at a later date.
After the chase Eventually Jaakko (which Castiel carefully explained was the closest Finnish equivalent to the elf’s real and very long name) primly admitted that possibly he and Castiel had met “in the course of business” once or twice before.
Castiel might have been blushing, but Dean wasn’t willing to go there.
‘First angels, now elves? How much weirder could his life get? Oh right, he was SANTA!’
‘Santa?’ Castiel bellowed unnaturally. ‘You told him?’
‘You knew I was Santa? That Dad was Santa?’ Dean was capable of doing some damned fined bellowing of his own.
‘Ahhh…’
‘How long have you known?’ Dean asked suspiciously.
‘Fore… a while?’
A nervous, lying, angel wasn’t a pretty sight.
‘Winchesters have always been Santa Claus,’ Castiel admitted. ‘It’s just…’
‘Classified,’ Jaakko growled.
‘Classified? I’m fucking Santa! When were you going to tell me?’
Castiel winced. ‘Never?’
‘Hang on,’ Sam interrupted with a frown. ‘Dad died in 2006. Dean only just found out now. Who the heck’s been doing the job for the past three Christmases?’
‘Good fucking question,’ thought Dean.
‘A ring-in? You had a stand-in Santa?’ Dean’s bellowing was now rivaling Castiel’s for its wall-shaking capabilities. He wasn’t sure when he’d got this sensitive about something he’d never believed in before. But right now the very idea that there had been someone circling the Earth flashing a fake Santa ID over the edge of a sleigh was striking at the core of everything Dean held dear. Up till now that had been Sammy, Mom, Dad, his car, Bobby, and pie. Somehow the big red festive icon that was Santa Claus had squeezed its way in.
‘It was more like a temporary promotion,’ Castiel said soothingly.
‘Three-level pay increase, overtime, public holiday bonus, and frequent sleigh miles,’ Jaakko agreed.
Jaakko, who was standing there looking tired and overworked (though clearly not underpaid.)
‘Jaa...’ Fuck it. There was no way was Dean going to try and speak Finnish of all things. ‘J?’
‘Not as much fun as I thought,’ the ex-temporary Santa admitted. ‘And the suit always looks redder on the real thing.’
‘God thought it sounded like a good idea at the time?’
Castiel nodded.
Huh. But…
‘God replaced me with an elf?’
Why the fuck is Sammy laughing?
‘Hang on. What’s God got to do with it?’
‘The Boss? Yeah, Castiel. I kind of got the memo that he’s your boss when he used you to yank me out of Hell.’
Sam mumbled something, and tried to kick Dean subtly but Dean was too awesome for him this time and dodged with a yelp. ‘Shut up, Sam. I am not being pissy.’ “Don’t antagonize the angel?” Whose side was Sam on, anyway?
Dean turned back to Castiel ‘What do you mean - the Boss of everything?’
Even the North Pole? Huh.
Hang on. The boss of Santa? Dean had been under the impression that Santa was self-employed. That’s what you got for believing in Hollywood instead of reality.
‘The boss of me?’
Fuck!
‘I’m Dean Winchester! Dean…’
‘I know, Dean.’
Dean flung of his brother’s hand. ‘Then shut up, and stop patting me on the head and saying, ‘There, there,’ then!’
‘Now, Dean. Just take a deep breath and try to relax.’
‘I’m Dean Winchester! I’m your big brother, and I’m Santa! I don’t need a boss on top of all that!’
‘Dean? Dean!’
Why are my fingers all tingly? ‘Samm…’
‘Someone get me a paper bag. Quick! He’s hyperventilating. De…!’
That “I fell” excuse? Didn’t even work the first time. Dean tried it again anyway.
‘He’s been under a lot of pressure, lately,’ Sam was saying to Castiel over the top of Dean’s head.
Hey! I’m right here, assholes! Dean looked around frantically for someone who would pay attention to him, and better yet obey him. There was no one else there but that damned elf. Bugger.
‘J, dude? Give me a hand up, will you?’
J was one strong elf. Dean was instantly upright-wavering a bit, but fine, and towering over the much, much, shorter elf.
‘Good grip, J. Nope!’ He waved off the two girls in the room. ‘I’m not talking to either of you. That was just a bit of a backlash from being sick. I’m not stressed. I’m completely fine.’
Completely fine, and in a totally different room than before. No giant thermometer looming out his motel window. No motel room actually. Wherever he was he wasn’t anywhere near the Gateway to Death Valley, and en route to his planned mini-break in Vegas.
In fact, the “room” looked more like a giant cavern covered in Christmas decorations.
Fuck. Fuck. Christmassy fuck.
Dean stomped over to a red and green chair and sat down more shaken than he was ever going to own up to.
‘I’m Dean Santa Winchester, and I want answers. And I want them NOW, damn it!’
‘Right. Who did it?’
Three hands were sheepishly raised. The angel, the elf, and the brother. The guilty trio didn’t look as sorry for themselves as they should.
‘You whammied me? All three of you?’
Three tousled heads nodded warily. They were beginning to suspect the depths of trouble they might be in.
‘It took all of us to keep you under for the trip,’ Sam finally protested. ‘You know how you are about flying, and there wasn’t time.’
‘Flying? You all whammied me, then stuck me on a plane like a lump of dead Yule log?’
‘Yes, and no,’ Castiel said.
That wasn’t the sort of answer Santa liked to hear.
‘Yes, you whammied me,’ Dean had that much out of them already. What could be worse? ‘And no, what?’
‘No we didn’t stick you on a plane like a lump of anything,’ Sam said.
‘But you said flyi… You didn’t?’
The elf had his lips pressed tight together. His companions buckled more quickly.
‘It is customary,’ Castiel said precisely. ‘You said customs didn’t have to make sense.’
‘I was talking about knocking before entering!’ Dean shrilled. ‘Not throwing me in the back of a flying sleigh.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
‘I wasn’t in the back of the sleigh?’ Dean hazarded a guess. ‘Well I am Santa, so front seat all the way, right?’
Silence.
‘Where the fuck was I then?’
‘On Rudolf?’
‘Rudolf? You tied me onto the back of a reindeer?’
‘Now, Dean. There wasn’t room for all of us in the sleigh…’
‘Hah! How do all the presents fit in then?’ That’d show them Santa wasn’t just a beard and a pretty face. That sleigh could fit presents for every kid in the world, it could definitely fit one angel, one elf, one ginormous geek, and an unconscious Santa in a pear tree.
‘Only Santa can activate the space-pocket,’ Jaakko explained.
‘But you were Santa. Don’t you still have the key, or the armament codes, or whatever?’ Dean was confused and preferred to concentrate on anything except the bit where he’d been riding a fucking reindeer through the sky to the North Pole.
‘That only works when I’m officially Santa. I was only acting in the position. As soon as you accepted that letter, the position reverted to you by right, as the eldest surviving Winchester.
Fuck.
Sleighs. Flying reindeer. A red suit. And Dean was going to have to deal with all of that while he was conscious within twenty-four hours.
No problem.
The dorky hat with the pom-pom? That was another matter entirely.
‘North Pole, huh?’ Dean liked to remind Sam how perspicacious he was sometimes. It kept the kid off guard.
‘Not quite.’
Sam never was as good as Dean at jokes.
‘Sleigh. Reindeer. Big cavern dripping with ornaments,’ Dean waved his arms around demonstratively. ‘It’s either the North Pole or we’re in WalMart’s Christmas bunker.’
‘Foyer.’
‘The foyer?’ Dean was being deliberately facetious. He really just wanted to know why the North Pole:
a) Had a foyer, and
b) If there was a restaurant next to it, because he was feeling much better. Oh, and
c) Why the fuck they were keeping Santa waiting in it?
‘WalMart’s foyer?’
‘Fuck off, Dean.’ Sam always knew when he was being jerked around.
‘That’s fuck off, Santa to you, dude.’
Sam ripped a gold tassel off the corner of his chair and threw it with deadly accuracy at Santa’s head. ‘We’re in the foyer because we don’t have authorization.’
As Dean looked around he saw a sign over an arched doorway on the other side of the cavern. It seemed to be in at least a dozen different languages, the first had to be Elvish (or Finnish) judging by the vowels, and the last said in English, “Strictly No Admittance. N.P.S.I.D. only.” There was a conspicuous absence of signs saying, “Get your Elf burgers here!”
‘Npsid?’
‘North Pole Staff I.D.’
Right. That would have been Dean’s fifth guess.
‘Sam?’ Dean said mildly. ‘Why doesn’t Santa have authorization? Or Castiel?’ he said looking at the angel walking around the cavern, hands crossed clasped politely behind his back as he did a tour of the decorations.
Sam took a few sensible steps back. ‘Ah. Good question. I’m sure Jaakko will have it all sorted it out shortly.’
Dean did another 360º turn before finding the elf half hidden under a giant peacock fan, he seemed to be busy talking to the wall. Dean wasn’t sure if Santa provided full medical cover for his staff, but he hoped so. He didn’t want to have to pay for the elf’s psychiatric bills out of his own pocket, and he didn’t think any of his creatively named credit cards would work at the North Pole, especially when fairly shortly everyone was going to know who he was.
‘He said he had to report in to his wife because we got back here later than scheduled because of your…’
Dean glared.
‘Fall?’
‘Damn straight!’
While J made his excuses to Mrs J (apparently the North Pole was like the ark, everything came in twos) Dean wondered if anyone would notice if he and Sam decided to fly south for winter. Permanently.
‘I’m sorry, but I do require a S-1066 (level A) clearance,’ another of Dean’s elves chirped officiously through a slot that had magically appeared next to the doorway.
‘This is the new master,’ Jaakko hissed. ‘The new Santa Claus.’
‘Dean Viiincester!’ She checked her list and affixed a sparkly emerald green “In” sticker next to Dean’s name.
‘Winchester,’ Dean gritted as politely as he could. He didn’t want to antagonize all of the elves the first day. And he still had Jaakko’s fingerprints around his neck to remind him that wasn’t necessarily a good idea. Elves were short, but feisty.
‘Welcome to the North Pole, Saint Dean! But you do understand that under your predecessor’s security guidelines, I am not to admit anyone, yourself included without the appropriate…’
‘Uh…. Sammy?’ Help?
‘Perhaps we could speak to your supervisor?’ Sam suggested tactfully as he stepped closer.
Some times Dean was glad Sam had been pre-law. And sometimes, as the gate elf looked up, and up at the giant looming before her, uttered a tiny, ‘Eep!’ and reflexively hit a cranberry-coloured button on her desk, just sometimes, Dean was very, very glad that Sam was very, very tall.
‘Brunhilde, you idjut! I’ve told you. Never, ever hit the panic button unless there’s a real em…’
‘Bobby?’
‘Bobby? You’re an elf?’
‘Bobby reached over the desk and whacked Dean on his head. ‘Of course, I’m not an elf! Do I look like an elf?’
Actually he did. Stupid costume, though red instead of the green all the other elves were wearing (Dean guessed Bobby just had to be different.) Silly hat. Grumpy expression and all. He was like a bigger, much redder and meaner version of Jaakko.
Dean was very close to asking him ‘Why are you dressed in an elf suit then?’ but Bobby was a really good shot, and Dean just knew that elf suit or not, Bobby was definitely carrying at least seven weapons on him somewhere. ‘You’re the supervisor?’ Dean managed to ask without breaking down into complete hysterics (it would look bad if Santa was shot by one of his staff on his first day.)
‘Temporary head of security,’ Bobby said. ‘Very, very, temporary.’
Right. Don’t ask.
‘Bobby? You think, as temporary head of my security you could write me a fucking pass to get inside so I can then sign…’
Dean clicked his fingers at the improbably named Brunhilde who obediently handed over Memo 48/566S32a/1.35b “Staff must flash their N.P.S.I.D. at all exit and entry points to N.P.H.Q. In addition they must carry their S-1066 (level A) clearances on them at all times to gain admittance to the restricted areas…” The memo went on for twelve pages.
‘Whatever I need to sign to come and go as I please?’
Bobby looked down at Brunhilde and sighed, as he counter-signed her list, fished a self-inking stamp out from under his hat, and stamped “APPROVED” on Dean’s forehead.
‘Awesome,’ Dean said grimly. Clearly some procedural changes were going to have to be made very shortly. ‘Now let us in.’
Brunhilde raised a hand cautiously. ‘Saint Dean? The list only says, “Santa + Partner.” I can only let you and Mrs Santa in on the same pass.’
Dean looked at Bobby who might have been hiding a snicker as he shrugged. ‘There is no Mrs Santa.’ He looked back at Sam, and sighed. Two by two they came. There really was no other way around it. Not without bloodshed anyway. ‘There’s only Mr Santa, and Mr Santa.’
Sam edged closer and beamed at Brunhilde. She blinked and smiled reluctantly back. Dean tried not to swear as the dimples did their work.
‘I see,’ Brunhilde said thoughtfully. ‘Mr and Mr Santa. I’ll update the paperwork immediately and send out a bulletin to all staff. Do you have a photo you’d like us to include? A wedding photo always makes a nice touch.’
Dean choked. Meanwhile Castiel walked up, looked between the door and Dean, knocked on it once, then rematerialized on the other side of the counter with an expectant look on his face. ‘Yeah, way to go, Cas!’ Dean said, wishing he had a treat to toss, before answering Brunhilde’s question. ‘Um. I always leave that sort of thing to Mr Santa. He’ll get back to you, won’t you, Sa… Mr Santa.’
‘Yes, I will,’ Sam promised with an unreadable look in his eyes.
Dean knew enough to start panicking, and wondering if it was possible to hot-wire a reindeer.
As Bobby led them down endless twisting corridors twinkling with thousands of fairy lights, Dean finally couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Why are you dressed in an elf suit?’
‘Fucking church charity workers!’ Bobby swore. ‘Turns out Jim Murphy has connections everywhere!’
An hour later Bobby was still cussing up a storm, through which the most Dean could make out was that he’d been emotionally blackmailed into helping out as security at a charity auction, then conned into the costume supposedly for “the little children.” Then two seconds after the draw ended the head of the Blue Earth Children’s Charity was standing next to him slapping a plastic bunch of leaves and berries on his hat, muttering about the greater good, yelling, “One to holly up!” and bang! Bobby had ended up at the North Pole with an unbreakable (he’d tried) seven-day contract in his hands signed by the late (but still devious) Pastor Jim Murphy.
Dean could get used to the Santa thing. He got to approve a lot of cool toys with just a wave of his hand (he’d removed the self-inking stamp step from all procedures as soon as he’d scrubbed the glowing ink off his own forehead.) He made the other Mr Santa read out all the letters which Dean then grabbed, scrunched into balls, and slam-dunked into two giant bins he’d had labeled “Naughty” or “Nice.” That was mostly to wind up Sam, because Dean had already told Jaakko that everyone was getting toys that year, and the bigger the better, and if the North Pole went into debt doing it? Well, it wasn’t something Dean couldn’t handle with a little creative accounting and the judicious use of the last of Y. Lee Coyote’s credit cards.
Also? The North Pole really did have a restaurant, and its ice cream pies were awesome.
Plus Bobby had set up this training room, which looked like every kid’s Christmas fantasy bedroom. Christmas tree, presents, fuzzy Gremlin on top of a cupboard, Thunderbird 2 suspended from the ceiling. Dean loved that room. What he didn’t love was Sam standing outside timing him, and saying he still wasn’t anywhere near Dad’s best time. Turned out, that of all the Winchester Santas ever, Santa John had the fastest reaction time. Some times being the son of Santa sucked.
The elves were growing on him. Except Brunhilde, who’d taken to sighing wistfully whenever she saw Mr & Mr Santa together.
Even the reindeer were kind of cute. If Dean could just ignore the magical flying thing, which he’d had to insist they didn’t demonstrate for him in advance. Maybe he could do the whole run with a blindfold on?
Nope. The closer it got to take-off time, the twitchier Dean got.
He had to do this. The honour of all Winchesters, all Santas was depending on it.
If there was just any way other than jumping into an open sleigh behind a bunch of flying reindeer, Dean would do it in a shot. No questions asked.
‘No questions at all?’ Sam asked. He seemed to have learnt a few tricks from Castiel, and had taken to popping up behind Dean in the most irritating of ways.
‘That depends,’ Dean said cautiously. Sammy could get very tricky, and he still hadn’t got his own back for the Mr Santa line.
‘While you’ve been pla… approving toys, I’ve been down in the archive. Did anyone mention the fact that Dad had a second sleigh? A special one. One he modified himself?’
Huh? The only thing Dean ever remembered his father modifying besides guns was the… Oh my G…
‘How much do you love me now, Santa Baby?’ Sam smirked.
‘Lots?’ Because if what Dean was thinking was true, then maybe they could do this thing, and in true Winchester style.
Bobby slammed open the door to the restaurant, trailed closely by an incredibly embarrassed looking angel. Castiel’s nose was intermittently flashing red, and he had tiny reindeer antlers sprouting up out of his curls.
‘The Impala is gassed up and ready to fly. Would you two idjuts stop talking about your feelings, tie the damned angel onto the hood, and just get in the fucking “sleigh” and go already?’
Sam leant a little heavier against Dean at the elves’ annual post-Christmas Eve breakfast bash the next morning. ‘You spelt it wrong,’ he said with a yawn.
‘No, I didn’t!’ Dean protested with a surreptitious glance at the crumpled piece of paper in front of his now sadly empty plate.
Sam reached one ginormous arm over Dean’s shoulder and stole his extra special “Merry Christmas Mr Santa from Mr Santa!” sparkly pen to make a correction.
‘There!’ he said happily. ‘All fixed.’
Dean sat looking at the extra “s” that had just been squished in before the exclamation mark. It was he guessed, kind of okay with him, and felt oddly right.
‘Dean?’
‘Yeah, Sam?’
‘There’s just one problem,’ Sam said with a frown. ‘We’re going to need to order wider business cards.’
The Brothers Winchester
Saving people. Hunting things. The family business since 1983.
Santa Dudes!
Saving people. Giving things. The family business since the 4th century.
Rating: G, Gen
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Bobby
Disclaimer: The characters are sadly not mine. I’m just sticking pins into Winchester dolls for the purposes of general amusement. Sorry about the holes!
Word Count: 7,114
A/N: Crack! Sequel to: Hark! The Herald Angels Croak and It’s beginning to look a lot like charity.
Inspired by secret-seer’s great graphics for Doors 19, 27, & 30 of my SPN Advent Calendar & her animated Castiel userpic (with a little help from the lyrics of Yes Sir, That’s My Baby and Santa Baby)
Setting: Baker, CA & The North Pole. 23rd - 25th December, 2009
Summary: Turns out the Winchesters have more than one “family business.”
‘Nnnngggggg… Oh God! Take me now!’
‘Dean Winchester?’
‘Fuuuuuuck!’ Dean skidded around in the shower, narrowly missing amputating a very vital organ with a kinky shower hose.
‘Is there a problem, Dean Winchester?’
There he was, standing primly on the other side of the not nearly fogged up enough shower screen. He looked mildly baffled and not at all self-conscious.
Fucking angels.
The bathroom door slammed back on its hinges.
‘Dean! You ok…?’
Fucking brothers.
‘But you called out the Lord’s name! I thoug…’
‘You screamed! Of course I was gonna come running. How was I to k…?’
As his two irritating millstones continued to talk over each other at him Dean finally decided to stop hid… uh, that he should be more water conscious, and turned off the tap, before stomping out of the shower to confront the idiots.
Holding his left hand up midway between the two of them to share the blame fairly, Dean used the other to start enumerating his grievances, one finger at a time.
‘One - I wasn’t calling out the Lord’s name. Uh uh!’ he said as the angel opened his mouth to object as if he’d been taking lessons from Dean’s very own legal eagle. ‘I was swearing, it was an epithet, okay? And unless God sent you down here to punish me for taking his or her name in vain, I’ll… What?’
He was getting the strangest of looks. Identical looks from both of them, and that was just about the weirdest thing ever.
‘Epi…’
‘…thet.’ Castiel finished.
Sam nudged Castiel aside and stepped closer. ‘I didn’t know you…’
‘Fuck it!’ Dean yelled. ‘How many years have I been living with you?’
‘T…’ Castiel started.
Dean walked two steps to the left and banged his head against the wall. It only made yet another bit of him hurt. Fuck.
‘That was a rhetorical question. And,’ he kept on going while Sam slanted Castiel another one of those, “What is Dean on?” looks. ‘After all the years we’ve been together, don’t you think just a little bit of you might have rubbed off on me, Sammy?’
‘Huh!’ Sam and Castiel both said in scary synchronicity.
Dean leant against the slightly comforting wall (he appreciated its consistent quality of upness in an increasingly shaky world) and got back to his list.
‘Two,’ he said, glaring at his brother. ‘I’m Dean Fucking Winchester! Don’t you think I’ve earned the right to swear in the shower if I want to? Did you think the bathmat was going to jump me?’ he inquired sarcastically.
‘Bu…’
‘Three - Could you all just get out of the bathroom? Now!’
Dean reached over to the rack, snagged its contents and wrapped the towel very securely around his waist. Despite his protests about his toughness, certain parts of his anatomy were feeling ever so slightly threatened by the gun Sam was still unthinkingly waving around.
‘Pleas…?’ He started to add a little more woozily, before that traitorous wall decided to turn upside down on h….
Huh. ‘I fell!’ Dean protested some time later, when he came to, finding himself lying in bed with Castiel holding his feet up with one hand, and Sammy leaning over him bleating, probably about to rip one of the angel’s insubstantial feathers out to burn under Dean’s nose.
‘You fainted!’ Sam bellowed tersely.
‘I diiiiddd not!’ That wasn’t a wobble in his voice. No, it wasn’t.
‘You did indeed experience a momentary lapse of consciousness,’ Castiel confirmed pedantically.
And that right there? Was one of the many things about the angel that irritated the Hell out of Dean. That, and his very angelness. While Cas was growing on him, every now and then Dean just wanted to shake the stilted language and mannerisms right out of him, and maybe get him drunk. Uh. Dean cast his mind back a week. Then again, maybe not.
‘It’s what I was trying to tell you when you all attacked me in the shower!’ Dean said, not unfairly at all. Because he’d been standing there, letting yet another wall hold him up, moaning, and…
‘Tell us what?’ Sam asked. He was patting his face worriedly like Dean was a goddamned girl or something!
Castiel, who Dean had been about to kick in his angelic nuts for untoward foot fondling, turned out to have been taking his pulse, and doing some other sort of angel first aid once over. ‘That he’s sick,’ he said gravely.
‘Sick?’ Sam screeched. He was flapping his arms like a useless albatross, and clearly wanted to be waving a cold compress or some such Victorian maiden nonsense.
And no. Dean was not a maiden, in any sense of the word. Thank you very much,
‘He’s got d…’
‘Stomach cramps!’ Dean interrupted with a minor lie, as he wrenched his various extremities out of their clinging hands and made another break for the bathroom.
This time he took a second to flip the lock. Dean didn’t care if Castiel could teleport in (or whatever the correct term was in the latest edition of the Angel Transportation Manual), or that Sam could pick the lock in thirty seconds even with his bangs over his eyes. It was the principle of the thing.
Also?
Urk.
‘Told you, we shouldn’t have eaten at the Mad Greek place.’
Sam was a big fat know-it-all.
Sam had also sensibly not tried to eat his way through half the menu in an hour. Dean hated Sam. Goddamned psychics!
Nngggh.
‘Told you Bob’s Big Boy coffee shop, or Coco’s looked better.’
Dean decided to knit all those “told yous” into a really long scarf and strangle Sam with it. Just as soon as he felt a little stronger, and could find his knitting needles.
In the meantime Dean kept as still as possible on the bed and wondered what the Greek for “never ever again” was.
‘Your pulse and respiration seem to have returned to within what has been designated “normal” parameters,’ Castiel said approvingly.
Dean had obviously been abducted by aliens because he was clearly missing some time. Since when did Cas make air quotes?
Opening the other eye cautiously Dean watched Sam and the angel go back to muttering inconsiderately lowly at the far end of the bed. What the fuck? Please God, let the two of them have not spent the night watching reruns of “General Hospital” and taking notes, while he writhed unnoticed on his bed of pain.
Just as a little voice in his head began to sing, ‘Nobody loves me, think I’ll go and eat worms…’ Air Quote Boy-Heh! Dean leaned awkwardly off one side of the bead in order to sneak a look at the angel’s feet and was disappointed to find he wasn’t wearing cross-trainers. There went his plan to talk about Air Castiels and Angel Airlines. Dean subsided back into bed with a pout. Nobody appreciated his killer sense of humour. Nobody loves me…
‘Dean?’
‘Nobody knows the…’
‘Dean?’
‘Perhaps I was premature with my diagnosis of his return to good health!’ Castiel shouted. Right. In. Dean’s. Face.
‘Dude!’ Dean shouted weakly right back up at him. ‘A little quiet for the invalid?’ Nobody loves me. Yes Sir, That’s true. Nobody loves…
‘I am not “shouting!” Your auditory perception of the volume of my voice may indeed be a lingering symptom…’
I’m nobody’s child. Nooooobody’s child… ‘Nobody’s baby. Yes Sir, I don’t mean maybe…’
‘Castiel? Can’t you just z…’
‘Did you just zap me?’ Dean moaned, still feeling the tickling effect of tiny lavender-coloured lightning bolts fritzing and giggling through his veins. Fuuuck. That either hurt, or felt really good. Dean couldn’t decide which. Maybe he needed another nap?
‘I used my “angel mojo” on you like Samuel requested!’ Castiel announced brightly.
Oh God. Turns out angels do remember some things that happen when they’re drunk. Dean hoped Castiel, and Sam never remembered everything.
Just a little nap till they and their memories went away? That seemed the safest idea.
‘Dean? Dean! Deeeeeeean.’
‘What?’
‘But you’re better! Castiel promised!’
Dean decided not to open his eyes for a while. Not for anything. ‘Fuck! Stop prodding me!’
‘Well? Are you awake yet?’
Sam was bouncing up and down on the bed next to him as if he was three again. Either that or it was an earthquake.
At this stage Dean didn’t care how he died. At least he’d seen the world’s tallest thermometer before the walls came tumblin’ down.
‘Dean? I know you’re better now. Can you stop milking this in the hope that I’ll bring you breakfast in bed for the rest of the trip?’
Fucking brothers who really did know it all.
‘So, are you going to get out of bed in the next decade?’
‘Maybe,’ Dean said cautiously. ‘Is he gone yet?’
‘Why are you whispering? He’s an angel. I kind of think he can hear you even from Heaven.’
‘Well?’
‘Yes, Dean. He’s gone. I promise to protect you if your big bad angel comes back.’
‘Bitch!’
‘Shut up, you know you love me.’
‘No, I don’t.’ Dean tried hard to sound convincing, but he’d been ill, so possibly it wasn’t his best effort.
‘I thought you liked Castiel.’
‘He’s alright, for an angel,’ Dean shrugged, as he pulled himself upright in the bed. He really did feel better, and hungr…
‘You just don’t like the fact that he could tell you had dia…’
‘I will kill you if you finish that sentence.’
‘Diarrhoea,’ Sam said with a smirk that he had better not have learned from Dean.
Dean blushed. He was still a little sick, okay?
‘What about just waffles then?’ Dean didn’t care if it sounded like he was wheedling. He wanted breakfast; he just didn’t want a full cooked Greek breakfast.
Sam sighed and right then Dean knew he’d won. ‘If I bring you waffles and bacon, will you let me drive the rest of the way to Vegas?’
‘Maybe,’ Dean lied. Lies didn’t count when they were for bacon. That was like the McDonald’s amendment to the Constitution or something.
‘Yeah, right,’ Sam said as he opened the door. ‘And for that lie you’re not getting maple syru…’
‘Sam?’
‘Uh, Dean? Can you think of any reason why there might be an elf out here with an envelope addressed to you?’
‘I’m never going to get to Vegas, am I?’ Dean queried mournfully, visions of sugar plums, and dancing girls, and roulette wheels vanishing in front of him.
He and Sam were sitting hunched up together at the end of the bed. The … elf … Yup! Real live, pointy-eared (and not just a little Starfleet uniformed fan who wanted to live long and prosper) elf. The elf was standing right in front of them.
Even sitting down both the Winchesters were taller than their visitor. Dean was tempted to lie on the floor to see if that would still be true. Dean liked being taller than someone else. That thought earned him a smack from Sam.
‘Dude!’
‘That was not politically correct!’ Sam hissed.
‘Stop reading my mind!’ Dean yelled back.
‘Dean Winchester? Dean Winchester, the first?’ The elf asked tentatively, clearly hoping for a “No.” ‘Eldest son of Mary and John Eric Winchester? Grandson of Samuel and Deanna Cam…’
‘Oh, just shut up, and give me the damned envelope already,’ Dean snapped. He wasn’t sensitive about his name. At all.
Goddamned elvish process servers.
‘Santa? No way, dude!’
‘Think about it, Dean. How often did we get to see Dad at Christmas?’
Uh… Never? ‘No! No fucking…’
‘Way!’ Sam answered, eyes wide in shock.
Or shock and awe. Because, apparently the idea of Santa Dean was just that awesome.
‘Santa. I’m Santa.’
‘Santa? You’re Santa?’
‘Hey! You don’t have to sound like I couldn’t do the job!’
‘Jerk! Like you weren’t thinking exactly the same thing.’
So?
‘I can’t be Santa, we’ve got…’ It’s hard to tell a complete stranger you’ve got to kill Lucifer. Even an elf. Especially an elf.
Dean hadn’t known it till now, but elves had doubting eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was all elves, or just this one. But for now Dean was going to make a sweeping generalization on behalf of all elves. And you know what?
Because he was Santa, Dean fucking well could!
‘Look, kid!’
Urrrrreeeeeek… ‘Sammy!’ Dean tried to gasp.
Fucking teeny tiny green-clothed little elf had him in a stranglehold! How was that even possible?
‘Hey! It’s a kind of magic,’ the elf rasped at him. He sounded French for all of trois seconds.
Huh?
‘I’m one of Santa’s elves. Your elves, fucker! And it’s less than one day till Christmas Eve. I can do anything!’ The elf was right up in Dean’s face, and those doubting eyes now looked really, really mean.
‘Don’t call me kid.’ Dean choked as forcefully as he could, whilst being killed by an elf.
‘Yes, Santa.’
Yes, Santa. The two second-best words in the English language. Right behind, Sammy saying, ‘Yes, Dean.’ Which didn’t happen often enough for Dean’s liking.
Yes, Santa. Heh. Elves had to obey Santa. It was a rule. Dean liked rules.
‘I am Santa…’
‘Dean? Think very carefully. If the next words you say sound anything like, “kneel” or “bow down,” you might find yourself the Ghost of Santa Past.’
Dean had been about to say, ‘Hear me roar!’ But Sam’s suggestions were pretty good too. He would have given snaps to his brother, but he’d learnt that it never paid to irritate Samantha when she was on the r… ‘Ow! What did you do that for?’
‘Dead Santa,’ Sam said grimly.
Fine. ‘But did you hear him? He’s got to obey me! Hey! Shortie. Many more elves back on the farm like you? I mean up at the North Pole?’ Dean was a bit fuzzy on the geography of anywhere he couldn’t drive his baby to, but he had a feeling Santa Central was to the left of Canada. Or maybe the right?
‘Dead UnPC Santa,’ Sam said unnecessarily loudly.
‘ShortE. Not shortIe. E for Elf - Elf dude! That’s what I meant.’ Dean beamed at the short not-so-tall elf guilelessly. ‘Do I have any more minion… uh… really cool elves back at SHQ?’ Totally saved himself there with his fast thinking. Dean was also hot stuff at coming up with useful acronyms on short notice. Speaking of…
‘What say I just call you SE for short? Or do you have a name just like a real person?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam started apologizing profusely to Dean’s new minion. ‘I’m so very sorry. He’s…’
The elf grinned suddenly, showing a mouthful of red and green enameled teeth. Even Mr. Nice Guy Sammy blinked. The decorations didn’t prevent one from noticing that the teeth were pointed. All of them. Just like his ears. Somehow that grin seemed a little less comforting.
‘Don’t worry about it. They’re all like that when they first get the gig. Power mad. We finally called in a consult last century. Freud named it the Santa Syndrome. Don’t worry, it wears off after the first few years,’ the dentally festive elf confided with a deliberately carrying whisper.
‘Oh, no!’ Sam had the grace to look embarrassed on Dean’s behalf. ‘Dean’s always been like this.’
‘Santa. I’m Santa.’ That was never not going to sound fucking wrong.
‘Santa … Baby!’ Sam announced with a snicker.
Sam wasn’t supposed to be the snickerer, he was always the snickee. Dean… Fuck. He was Santa. Sam now owned the right to snicker. Forever.
‘Oh, my freakin’ God! What if I…?’ No, it was too terrible to even think, let alone say out loud.
‘What?’
‘Dude! My hair’s going to turn white, and I’ll end up with a Granddaddy beard!’ He couldn’t help the whimpers; anyone would have been frightened at the thought. Absolutely anyone.
Sam unfairly used his miniscule height advantage to peer down at the top of Dean’s head.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Sam? Geroff!’
‘Hold still,’ his brother said calmly. ‘Hmmm.’ He was running his fingers through Dean’s spiky and totally awesome and unSanta-like locks, and not in a good way.
Dean squirmed, but to no avail. Sam’s hands were as big as the rest of him.
‘At least it’ll save you a fortune on hair colour and product,’ Sam muttered subversively as he finally let Dean go.
Dean had finally (okay, only partially) come to his senses. Maybe Sam’s long fingers of geekdom had hitherto unknown powers? Because that scalp massage (which is what Sam was doing, not checking Dean’s roots, because he did not colour his hair!) had helped him realize that awesome as his momentary vision of himself as Santa was that…
‘I can’t be Santa! You have to find someone else. Sam and I have got…’ Don’t say people to kill, don’t say the L word and whatever you do, don’t mention angels. ‘Things to do. The family business you know.’
SE, or Jock, or Jacques (his “real” name varied along with his malleable accent), as he occasionally preferred to be called, grunted. ‘Winchesters got more than one family business. The original one takes precedence.’ He crossed his arms and glowered at Dean.
As Sam nodded in agreement (fucking legal people always seemed to stick together against everyone else) Dean thought dark thoughts about mutinous minions, and wondered who was really in charge at the North Pole. Elves seemed to be just as much trouble as ange…
‘Shit! Stop doing that!’
‘What?’ Castiel queried curiously.
‘Don’t you ever just knock?’ Dean knew he sounded mournful. So, what? Santa can’t be jolly all the time, can he?
‘Knock? Why would I knock?’
‘People knock on doors,’ Sam offered even though no one had asked him to help.
‘Why?’
‘When they come in them,’ Dean said, knowing it was a waste of an explanation.
Castiel looked at the door. ‘But I didn’t…’
‘Come in the door. I know. It’s a custom. It doesn’t have to make sense, but people do it anyway.’
Castiel’s shoulders moved under his coat in what looked for a second like a shrug, but Castiel didn’t do stupid human gestures. Dean tried not to look at the coat. He had a feeling it was a wing thing.
The wings bothered Dean. When they were out they were as scary as fuck. When they weren’t there, it was even more disturbing. Dean kept finding himself sneaking tiny sidelong glances at the angel whenever they were together. On more than a few occasions he’d been very close to spinning around fast to see if he could catch them. Luckily Dean was good at practicing self-restraint. Even luckier, was the fact that Castiel could at times be even scarier than his wings. So, Dean was trying to pretend they didn’t exist. So far, he gave himself 4/10.
Unfortunately while Dean was rating himself Castiel was off doing something else, which Dean hadn’t even noticed until Sam nudged him. Dean blamed the whole Santa stress thing for dulling his normally finely tuned sense…
Sam nudged him again.
Oh yeah, Castiel. Who’d walked the human way over to the door and was standing there with his nose almost up against the plywood patiently knocking. On the inside of the door.
Dean felt sure that if Missouri Moseley ever met Dean’s angel he’d finally and thankfully lose his blue ribbon for dullest tool in the shed. Seriously? Dean didn’t know if this kind of dumbness was an angel thing (maybe the wings sucked the quick wittedness right out of the host body?) or if Castiel really was just that special.
Dean sighed. Sam and Castiel. What had he done in a previous life to deserve having to raise both of them at once?
‘Cas? Other side of the door,’ Dean said relatively mildly, considering what he wanted to tell the angel.
‘Oh.’ This time Castiel did the bubble pop thing and was gone.
‘Well, that was a short visit,’ Dean said happily, his mind moving quickly back to thoughts of his interrupted breakfast order.
‘Uh, Dean?’
‘What?’
‘Open the door.’
‘Why? There’s no one there.’ Honestly, some times Sam was just thick.
‘Just open the door, and I’ll explain it to you later if you still need the Cliff’s notes then.’
Being Santa fortunately hadn’t impaired Dean’s ability to curl his lip. Or multi-task and open the door, not because Sam told him to, but because Dean felt li…
Huh. Dean looked at Castiel standing patiently (not knocking) on the other side of the door, and back at his brother again. How about that?
Clearly Dean needed to find the time to explain the whole door-knocking concept to Castiel further. But right then? Dean really needed a drink.
‘I don’t suppose those wings are good for nipping out and bringing me back a whiskey?’ he asked the angel plaintively.
Apparently not.
What the wings were good for were for flaring out of nothingness when Castiel caught sight of the elf.
Dean decided to give SE/J/J the benefit of the doubt. He’d probably just been answering a call of the elven nature in the bathroom. Not hiding in there since Castiel had first materialized.
Because that would be strange, as Castiel and the elf knew each other. No, Dean hadn’t suddenly become psychic too. Castiel opening his mouth and greeting the elf with a five-minute long name that seemed to be all vowels; that was what gave it away. That and the elf pouting before answering back equally incomprehensibly.
Dean hoped that this Santa thing didn’t require him to have to memorize all his elves’ real names; otherwise he was going to get sacked before he could even resign.
‘Let me get this straight. You both know each other?’
Sam stepped on his foot. Hard. Luckily John Winchester had passed on all his toughest genes to Dean, so he only let out a slight whine before he rephrased his question.
‘I mean, not biblically, of course. Although that’s fine too if…’
Sam did it again. This might have led to Dean chasing Sam around the room. Or not. Luckily both the angel and the elf were now on Dean’s virtual payroll so he was fairly sure neither of them would admit to anything they saw at a later date.
After the chase Eventually Jaakko (which Castiel carefully explained was the closest Finnish equivalent to the elf’s real and very long name) primly admitted that possibly he and Castiel had met “in the course of business” once or twice before.
Castiel might have been blushing, but Dean wasn’t willing to go there.
‘First angels, now elves? How much weirder could his life get? Oh right, he was SANTA!’
‘Santa?’ Castiel bellowed unnaturally. ‘You told him?’
‘You knew I was Santa? That Dad was Santa?’ Dean was capable of doing some damned fined bellowing of his own.
‘Ahhh…’
‘How long have you known?’ Dean asked suspiciously.
‘Fore… a while?’
A nervous, lying, angel wasn’t a pretty sight.
‘Winchesters have always been Santa Claus,’ Castiel admitted. ‘It’s just…’
‘Classified,’ Jaakko growled.
‘Classified? I’m fucking Santa! When were you going to tell me?’
Castiel winced. ‘Never?’
‘Hang on,’ Sam interrupted with a frown. ‘Dad died in 2006. Dean only just found out now. Who the heck’s been doing the job for the past three Christmases?’
‘Good fucking question,’ thought Dean.
‘A ring-in? You had a stand-in Santa?’ Dean’s bellowing was now rivaling Castiel’s for its wall-shaking capabilities. He wasn’t sure when he’d got this sensitive about something he’d never believed in before. But right now the very idea that there had been someone circling the Earth flashing a fake Santa ID over the edge of a sleigh was striking at the core of everything Dean held dear. Up till now that had been Sammy, Mom, Dad, his car, Bobby, and pie. Somehow the big red festive icon that was Santa Claus had squeezed its way in.
‘It was more like a temporary promotion,’ Castiel said soothingly.
‘Three-level pay increase, overtime, public holiday bonus, and frequent sleigh miles,’ Jaakko agreed.
Jaakko, who was standing there looking tired and overworked (though clearly not underpaid.)
‘Jaa...’ Fuck it. There was no way was Dean going to try and speak Finnish of all things. ‘J?’
‘Not as much fun as I thought,’ the ex-temporary Santa admitted. ‘And the suit always looks redder on the real thing.’
‘God thought it sounded like a good idea at the time?’
Castiel nodded.
Huh. But…
‘God replaced me with an elf?’
Why the fuck is Sammy laughing?
‘Hang on. What’s God got to do with it?’
‘The Boss? Yeah, Castiel. I kind of got the memo that he’s your boss when he used you to yank me out of Hell.’
Sam mumbled something, and tried to kick Dean subtly but Dean was too awesome for him this time and dodged with a yelp. ‘Shut up, Sam. I am not being pissy.’ “Don’t antagonize the angel?” Whose side was Sam on, anyway?
Dean turned back to Castiel ‘What do you mean - the Boss of everything?’
Even the North Pole? Huh.
Hang on. The boss of Santa? Dean had been under the impression that Santa was self-employed. That’s what you got for believing in Hollywood instead of reality.
‘The boss of me?’
Fuck!
‘I’m Dean Winchester! Dean…’
‘I know, Dean.’
Dean flung of his brother’s hand. ‘Then shut up, and stop patting me on the head and saying, ‘There, there,’ then!’
‘Now, Dean. Just take a deep breath and try to relax.’
‘I’m Dean Winchester! I’m your big brother, and I’m Santa! I don’t need a boss on top of all that!’
‘Dean? Dean!’
Why are my fingers all tingly? ‘Samm…’
‘Someone get me a paper bag. Quick! He’s hyperventilating. De…!’
That “I fell” excuse? Didn’t even work the first time. Dean tried it again anyway.
‘He’s been under a lot of pressure, lately,’ Sam was saying to Castiel over the top of Dean’s head.
Hey! I’m right here, assholes! Dean looked around frantically for someone who would pay attention to him, and better yet obey him. There was no one else there but that damned elf. Bugger.
‘J, dude? Give me a hand up, will you?’
J was one strong elf. Dean was instantly upright-wavering a bit, but fine, and towering over the much, much, shorter elf.
‘Good grip, J. Nope!’ He waved off the two girls in the room. ‘I’m not talking to either of you. That was just a bit of a backlash from being sick. I’m not stressed. I’m completely fine.’
Completely fine, and in a totally different room than before. No giant thermometer looming out his motel window. No motel room actually. Wherever he was he wasn’t anywhere near the Gateway to Death Valley, and en route to his planned mini-break in Vegas.
In fact, the “room” looked more like a giant cavern covered in Christmas decorations.
Fuck. Fuck. Christmassy fuck.
Dean stomped over to a red and green chair and sat down more shaken than he was ever going to own up to.
‘I’m Dean Santa Winchester, and I want answers. And I want them NOW, damn it!’
‘Right. Who did it?’
Three hands were sheepishly raised. The angel, the elf, and the brother. The guilty trio didn’t look as sorry for themselves as they should.
‘You whammied me? All three of you?’
Three tousled heads nodded warily. They were beginning to suspect the depths of trouble they might be in.
‘It took all of us to keep you under for the trip,’ Sam finally protested. ‘You know how you are about flying, and there wasn’t time.’
‘Flying? You all whammied me, then stuck me on a plane like a lump of dead Yule log?’
‘Yes, and no,’ Castiel said.
That wasn’t the sort of answer Santa liked to hear.
‘Yes, you whammied me,’ Dean had that much out of them already. What could be worse? ‘And no, what?’
‘No we didn’t stick you on a plane like a lump of anything,’ Sam said.
‘But you said flyi… You didn’t?’
The elf had his lips pressed tight together. His companions buckled more quickly.
‘It is customary,’ Castiel said precisely. ‘You said customs didn’t have to make sense.’
‘I was talking about knocking before entering!’ Dean shrilled. ‘Not throwing me in the back of a flying sleigh.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
‘I wasn’t in the back of the sleigh?’ Dean hazarded a guess. ‘Well I am Santa, so front seat all the way, right?’
Silence.
‘Where the fuck was I then?’
‘On Rudolf?’
‘Rudolf? You tied me onto the back of a reindeer?’
‘Now, Dean. There wasn’t room for all of us in the sleigh…’
‘Hah! How do all the presents fit in then?’ That’d show them Santa wasn’t just a beard and a pretty face. That sleigh could fit presents for every kid in the world, it could definitely fit one angel, one elf, one ginormous geek, and an unconscious Santa in a pear tree.
‘Only Santa can activate the space-pocket,’ Jaakko explained.
‘But you were Santa. Don’t you still have the key, or the armament codes, or whatever?’ Dean was confused and preferred to concentrate on anything except the bit where he’d been riding a fucking reindeer through the sky to the North Pole.
‘That only works when I’m officially Santa. I was only acting in the position. As soon as you accepted that letter, the position reverted to you by right, as the eldest surviving Winchester.
Fuck.
Sleighs. Flying reindeer. A red suit. And Dean was going to have to deal with all of that while he was conscious within twenty-four hours.
No problem.
The dorky hat with the pom-pom? That was another matter entirely.
‘North Pole, huh?’ Dean liked to remind Sam how perspicacious he was sometimes. It kept the kid off guard.
‘Not quite.’
Sam never was as good as Dean at jokes.
‘Sleigh. Reindeer. Big cavern dripping with ornaments,’ Dean waved his arms around demonstratively. ‘It’s either the North Pole or we’re in WalMart’s Christmas bunker.’
‘Foyer.’
‘The foyer?’ Dean was being deliberately facetious. He really just wanted to know why the North Pole:
a) Had a foyer, and
b) If there was a restaurant next to it, because he was feeling much better. Oh, and
c) Why the fuck they were keeping Santa waiting in it?
‘WalMart’s foyer?’
‘Fuck off, Dean.’ Sam always knew when he was being jerked around.
‘That’s fuck off, Santa to you, dude.’
Sam ripped a gold tassel off the corner of his chair and threw it with deadly accuracy at Santa’s head. ‘We’re in the foyer because we don’t have authorization.’
As Dean looked around he saw a sign over an arched doorway on the other side of the cavern. It seemed to be in at least a dozen different languages, the first had to be Elvish (or Finnish) judging by the vowels, and the last said in English, “Strictly No Admittance. N.P.S.I.D. only.” There was a conspicuous absence of signs saying, “Get your Elf burgers here!”
‘Npsid?’
‘North Pole Staff I.D.’
Right. That would have been Dean’s fifth guess.
‘Sam?’ Dean said mildly. ‘Why doesn’t Santa have authorization? Or Castiel?’ he said looking at the angel walking around the cavern, hands crossed clasped politely behind his back as he did a tour of the decorations.
Sam took a few sensible steps back. ‘Ah. Good question. I’m sure Jaakko will have it all sorted it out shortly.’
Dean did another 360º turn before finding the elf half hidden under a giant peacock fan, he seemed to be busy talking to the wall. Dean wasn’t sure if Santa provided full medical cover for his staff, but he hoped so. He didn’t want to have to pay for the elf’s psychiatric bills out of his own pocket, and he didn’t think any of his creatively named credit cards would work at the North Pole, especially when fairly shortly everyone was going to know who he was.
‘He said he had to report in to his wife because we got back here later than scheduled because of your…’
Dean glared.
‘Fall?’
‘Damn straight!’
While J made his excuses to Mrs J (apparently the North Pole was like the ark, everything came in twos) Dean wondered if anyone would notice if he and Sam decided to fly south for winter. Permanently.
‘I’m sorry, but I do require a S-1066 (level A) clearance,’ another of Dean’s elves chirped officiously through a slot that had magically appeared next to the doorway.
‘This is the new master,’ Jaakko hissed. ‘The new Santa Claus.’
‘Dean Viiincester!’ She checked her list and affixed a sparkly emerald green “In” sticker next to Dean’s name.
‘Winchester,’ Dean gritted as politely as he could. He didn’t want to antagonize all of the elves the first day. And he still had Jaakko’s fingerprints around his neck to remind him that wasn’t necessarily a good idea. Elves were short, but feisty.
‘Welcome to the North Pole, Saint Dean! But you do understand that under your predecessor’s security guidelines, I am not to admit anyone, yourself included without the appropriate…’
‘Uh…. Sammy?’ Help?
‘Perhaps we could speak to your supervisor?’ Sam suggested tactfully as he stepped closer.
Some times Dean was glad Sam had been pre-law. And sometimes, as the gate elf looked up, and up at the giant looming before her, uttered a tiny, ‘Eep!’ and reflexively hit a cranberry-coloured button on her desk, just sometimes, Dean was very, very glad that Sam was very, very tall.
‘Brunhilde, you idjut! I’ve told you. Never, ever hit the panic button unless there’s a real em…’
‘Bobby?’
‘Bobby? You’re an elf?’
‘Bobby reached over the desk and whacked Dean on his head. ‘Of course, I’m not an elf! Do I look like an elf?’
Actually he did. Stupid costume, though red instead of the green all the other elves were wearing (Dean guessed Bobby just had to be different.) Silly hat. Grumpy expression and all. He was like a bigger, much redder and meaner version of Jaakko.
Dean was very close to asking him ‘Why are you dressed in an elf suit then?’ but Bobby was a really good shot, and Dean just knew that elf suit or not, Bobby was definitely carrying at least seven weapons on him somewhere. ‘You’re the supervisor?’ Dean managed to ask without breaking down into complete hysterics (it would look bad if Santa was shot by one of his staff on his first day.)
‘Temporary head of security,’ Bobby said. ‘Very, very, temporary.’
Right. Don’t ask.
‘Bobby? You think, as temporary head of my security you could write me a fucking pass to get inside so I can then sign…’
Dean clicked his fingers at the improbably named Brunhilde who obediently handed over Memo 48/566S32a/1.35b “Staff must flash their N.P.S.I.D. at all exit and entry points to N.P.H.Q. In addition they must carry their S-1066 (level A) clearances on them at all times to gain admittance to the restricted areas…” The memo went on for twelve pages.
‘Whatever I need to sign to come and go as I please?’
Bobby looked down at Brunhilde and sighed, as he counter-signed her list, fished a self-inking stamp out from under his hat, and stamped “APPROVED” on Dean’s forehead.
‘Awesome,’ Dean said grimly. Clearly some procedural changes were going to have to be made very shortly. ‘Now let us in.’
Brunhilde raised a hand cautiously. ‘Saint Dean? The list only says, “Santa + Partner.” I can only let you and Mrs Santa in on the same pass.’
Dean looked at Bobby who might have been hiding a snicker as he shrugged. ‘There is no Mrs Santa.’ He looked back at Sam, and sighed. Two by two they came. There really was no other way around it. Not without bloodshed anyway. ‘There’s only Mr Santa, and Mr Santa.’
Sam edged closer and beamed at Brunhilde. She blinked and smiled reluctantly back. Dean tried not to swear as the dimples did their work.
‘I see,’ Brunhilde said thoughtfully. ‘Mr and Mr Santa. I’ll update the paperwork immediately and send out a bulletin to all staff. Do you have a photo you’d like us to include? A wedding photo always makes a nice touch.’
Dean choked. Meanwhile Castiel walked up, looked between the door and Dean, knocked on it once, then rematerialized on the other side of the counter with an expectant look on his face. ‘Yeah, way to go, Cas!’ Dean said, wishing he had a treat to toss, before answering Brunhilde’s question. ‘Um. I always leave that sort of thing to Mr Santa. He’ll get back to you, won’t you, Sa… Mr Santa.’
‘Yes, I will,’ Sam promised with an unreadable look in his eyes.
Dean knew enough to start panicking, and wondering if it was possible to hot-wire a reindeer.
As Bobby led them down endless twisting corridors twinkling with thousands of fairy lights, Dean finally couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Why are you dressed in an elf suit?’
‘Fucking church charity workers!’ Bobby swore. ‘Turns out Jim Murphy has connections everywhere!’
An hour later Bobby was still cussing up a storm, through which the most Dean could make out was that he’d been emotionally blackmailed into helping out as security at a charity auction, then conned into the costume supposedly for “the little children.” Then two seconds after the draw ended the head of the Blue Earth Children’s Charity was standing next to him slapping a plastic bunch of leaves and berries on his hat, muttering about the greater good, yelling, “One to holly up!” and bang! Bobby had ended up at the North Pole with an unbreakable (he’d tried) seven-day contract in his hands signed by the late (but still devious) Pastor Jim Murphy.
Dean could get used to the Santa thing. He got to approve a lot of cool toys with just a wave of his hand (he’d removed the self-inking stamp step from all procedures as soon as he’d scrubbed the glowing ink off his own forehead.) He made the other Mr Santa read out all the letters which Dean then grabbed, scrunched into balls, and slam-dunked into two giant bins he’d had labeled “Naughty” or “Nice.” That was mostly to wind up Sam, because Dean had already told Jaakko that everyone was getting toys that year, and the bigger the better, and if the North Pole went into debt doing it? Well, it wasn’t something Dean couldn’t handle with a little creative accounting and the judicious use of the last of Y. Lee Coyote’s credit cards.
Also? The North Pole really did have a restaurant, and its ice cream pies were awesome.
Plus Bobby had set up this training room, which looked like every kid’s Christmas fantasy bedroom. Christmas tree, presents, fuzzy Gremlin on top of a cupboard, Thunderbird 2 suspended from the ceiling. Dean loved that room. What he didn’t love was Sam standing outside timing him, and saying he still wasn’t anywhere near Dad’s best time. Turned out, that of all the Winchester Santas ever, Santa John had the fastest reaction time. Some times being the son of Santa sucked.
The elves were growing on him. Except Brunhilde, who’d taken to sighing wistfully whenever she saw Mr & Mr Santa together.
Even the reindeer were kind of cute. If Dean could just ignore the magical flying thing, which he’d had to insist they didn’t demonstrate for him in advance. Maybe he could do the whole run with a blindfold on?
Nope. The closer it got to take-off time, the twitchier Dean got.
He had to do this. The honour of all Winchesters, all Santas was depending on it.
If there was just any way other than jumping into an open sleigh behind a bunch of flying reindeer, Dean would do it in a shot. No questions asked.
‘No questions at all?’ Sam asked. He seemed to have learnt a few tricks from Castiel, and had taken to popping up behind Dean in the most irritating of ways.
‘That depends,’ Dean said cautiously. Sammy could get very tricky, and he still hadn’t got his own back for the Mr Santa line.
‘While you’ve been pla… approving toys, I’ve been down in the archive. Did anyone mention the fact that Dad had a second sleigh? A special one. One he modified himself?’
Huh? The only thing Dean ever remembered his father modifying besides guns was the… Oh my G…
‘How much do you love me now, Santa Baby?’ Sam smirked.
‘Lots?’ Because if what Dean was thinking was true, then maybe they could do this thing, and in true Winchester style.
Bobby slammed open the door to the restaurant, trailed closely by an incredibly embarrassed looking angel. Castiel’s nose was intermittently flashing red, and he had tiny reindeer antlers sprouting up out of his curls.
‘The Impala is gassed up and ready to fly. Would you two idjuts stop talking about your feelings, tie the damned angel onto the hood, and just get in the fucking “sleigh” and go already?’
Sam leant a little heavier against Dean at the elves’ annual post-Christmas Eve breakfast bash the next morning. ‘You spelt it wrong,’ he said with a yawn.
‘No, I didn’t!’ Dean protested with a surreptitious glance at the crumpled piece of paper in front of his now sadly empty plate.
Sam reached one ginormous arm over Dean’s shoulder and stole his extra special “Merry Christmas Mr Santa from Mr Santa!” sparkly pen to make a correction.
‘There!’ he said happily. ‘All fixed.’
Dean sat looking at the extra “s” that had just been squished in before the exclamation mark. It was he guessed, kind of okay with him, and felt oddly right.
‘Dean?’
‘Yeah, Sam?’
‘There’s just one problem,’ Sam said with a frown. ‘We’re going to need to order wider business cards.’
The Brothers Winchester
Saving people. Hunting things. The family business since 1983.
Santa Dudes!
Saving people. Giving things. The family business since the 4th century.