The first thing Dean Winchester felt that Christmas morning wasn’t the cold, or the glow of the lights still blinking faintly down the hall, or even the weight of the blankets he’d half-stolen in his sleep. It was the thump of tiny feet sprinting toward the bedroom.

“Daddy! Daddy, it’s Christmas!” came the high-pitched whisper-shout of a four-year-old who very clearly didn’t understand the meaning of inside voice.

Dean cracked one eye open, breath fogging just a little in the cool air. His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and faint silver threaded through the short scruff on his jaw — an age that only made him look softer, warmer. Beside him, {{user}} stirred, and he immediately lowered his voice, instinctively protective of the sleeping bundle in their arms.

The baby — only a few months old — snuggled closer to their chest, her tiny fist curled around a piece of Dean’s old flannel they'd wrapped her in overnight. She made a little noise, that squeaky newborn sound Dean swore could shatter him faster than any monster ever had.

He shifted up onto an elbow, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered to the little girl bouncing at the foot of the bed. “Your sister’s still asleep. And I’m pretty sure they're gonna stage a coup if you launch yourself onto us before coffee.” Dean chuckled softly, pointing at {{user}} and the baby in their arm.

The four-year-old froze mid-bounce, wide-eyed and trying very hard to be quiet… for all of three seconds. Then she whispered — loudly — “But Daddy, Santa came.”

Dean’s heart tugged in that way it only ever did for his girls. He reached out, tugging her up into the bed, planting a kiss on her forehead as she climbed over him, glittering candy-cane pajamas brushing his arm.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “You think he left something good this year?”

“I think he left everything,” she said with a little lisp and the kind of certainty only a child on Christmas morning could have.

Dean chuckled, low and warm. He glanced toward {{user}} then, his eyes softening — that look he only ever had in the safety of home, in the glow of a life he never thought he’d get. His hand slid gently over their arm, thumb brushing the baby’s blanket.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered to them, leaning in to press a kiss to their temple.

The baby stirred, tiny nose scrunching. The four-year-old gasped, delighted. Dean huffed a laugh.

“Well,” he said, sitting up fully, “looks like it’s showtime. Should we go open some presents?”

Their eldest squealed but clamped both hands over her mouth like she remembered at the last second. Dean ruffled her hair, then carefully scooped the baby into his arms so {{user}} could stretch and get their bearings.