Sam was snoring, his breath redolent of eggnog. Dean gave a reflexive shudder. That stuff had been freaking lethal. He reached over and gave Sam a shove. The snoring eased off. Dean smiled up at the ceiling. One hell of a Christmas.

There was a silvery tinkle of bells and a thud on the roof, followed by a muted 'ho-ho-fudging-ho'?

Son of a bitch.

Dean slid out of bed, a knife in his hand, and flung open the door, peering up through the whirling snow.

Nothing. Good.

They didn't need Santa; never had.

Just each other, like always.

Just them.


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