You’ve believed in angels ever since you were old enough to notice that every Christmas, your father’s hands weren’t stained with oil and transmission fuel, and your mother didn’t have that crease between her brows. Dean went back to terrorizing everyone like the good old days, instead of acting like some cold, ruthless bastard. Your cousins, when they stayed over, didn’t come smelling like monster guts. And best of all, Sam would smile.

You stick your cold nose down further into your scarf, your feet idly scuffing the frozen earth beneath you. Like every year, it was one of those occasions worthy of gathering the whole family, despite their differences in lifestyle and hunting style. Despite John’s nagging to help your mother wrap presents, (hunting gear? New flannels?) you were quite content watching him and Uncle Bobby struggle to hang a strand of white lights across the gutters. The two seemed exhausted of your constant need for updates on when Sam and Adam were flying home from their schools. The hot cocoa seeps into your mouth, warming your body from the inside. Before too long, it would be another nice family holiday.