SPN FIC - If Santa Were My Daddy
RL has been interfering again. We got a ton of snow dumped on us, which I had to shovel. And it's heading on towards 9:00. So, in place of LET THERE BE LIGHTS (which should show up tomorrow), have a wee baby ficlet.
Characters: John, Wee!Dean
Pairings: none
Rating: G
Length: 683 words
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: You know the drill. No money.
If Santa Were My Daddy
By Carol Davis
“And I heard him exclaim, as he rose out of sight, ‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.’”
John closed the book.
Dean didn’t move for a moment, and John thought maybe he’d drifted off to sleep. Then Dean’s head shifted a little, enough to allow him to peer up at his father.
“Good story, huh?” John asked, smiling.
“Daddy?”
“What is it, son?”
“Are you Santa?”
John could have made a list of questions he thought Dean might come up with tonight. Can we have turkey tomorrow? Can we have pie? Can I get up even if it’s not light out yet, because Sammy might want to wake up early?
Can I have a puppy? might have made the cut.
But this?
Are you Santa?
“Why do you ask?” John managed to say.
“Michael’s brother said there’s no such thing as Santa. He said it’s the moms and dads who get the presents and put them under the tree.”
Dean’s eyes, those huge green doe eyes, searched John’s face.
Cursing a child - even thinking about cursing a child - didn’t seem like a good choice, tonight of all nights, but John soundly cursed Michael’s brother, the little disbelieving blabbermouth, and Michael along with him for daring to pass along his brother’s proclamation. Michael’s parents, too, for good measure.
He drew in a deep breath and tried for another smile.
Dean didn’t even blink.
A couple of yards away, Sammy lay sleeping quietly except for the soft snuffling sound he always made when the air was dry. He’d been falling asleep just fine these last few months, whether Dean was in the PortaCrib with him or not, although he did seem to sleep more deeply when Dean was spooned up next to him. He didn’t have a clue that tonight was any different from any other night. He did seem to love the colored lights on the little tree John had set up on top of the dresser, but for Sam, they were just lights. Maybe next year he’d understand that there were gifts involved, left during the wee hours of the night by a fat, white-bearded guy in a red suit.
Dean was five years old. Almost six.
Six, really. He’d be six in a month.
But wasn’t that still young enough to believe?
In myth. In magic.
I think Michael’s brother got it wrong, son, John could say. I think he misunderstood something. Of course there’s a Santa. He’ll sneak in here after you’re asleep.
“If it’s you,” Dean said softly, “that’s okay.”
That, too, took John by surprise. “It is?”
And that might have been the wrong thing to say. It wasn’t a denial. Wasn’t Of course it’s not me. Michael’s brother is full of crap. For a moment Dean didn’t react, and John felt a flash of relief that the boy hadn’t picked up on the subtlety of what John had or hadn’t said.
Then Dean murmured, “Yeah. It’s okay.”
Those big green doe eyes shifted, and Dean spent a long time looking at the little tree on top of the dresser. In the morning, there would be gifts underneath it - just a few small things, all there’d been money enough to buy. Right now, they were tucked at the bottom of a duffel in the closet, underneath several layers of clothes.
There should have been more, John thought. A sled. Maybe one of those train sets that had interlocking plastic pieces of track.
A puppy.
Mary.
Don’t cry in front of him. Not now. Not tonight.
But that was a lot to ask of himself.
John’s eyes were closed when Dean crawled out from under the covers of John’s bed, where John had tucked him so he could listen to the story without getting cold. He curled his arms around his father’s neck and held on tight, his soft, fair hair warm against John’s cheek.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” Dean whispered. “If it’s you.”
Not now. Not tonight.
But that was too much to ask.