"So I was thinking—"

"Nope."

Sam's brow furrowed. A lazy afternoon in the bunker and he'd been tipping his chair back, foot pressed against the table they shared. Now he let himself come crashing back down. He leveled a glare at Dean.

"You didn't even let me finish."

"Don't need to." Dean lowered his magazine, smirking. "We're not working a case, man. Therefore you're thinkingway too much. Take it from me and kick back for a bit. Give that big brain of yours a rest."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Uh huh. Whatever. Bobby is dead."

That caught Dean's attention. He tossed his magazine aside, pursed his lips, spread his hands.

"Uh… yeah? And?"

"And maybe you should let me tell you the first part if you'd like the second half to make sense." Sam tapped his finger impatiently on the table. "C'mon, Dean. Put your small brain to work and think it through. The barriers between worlds or… or realms, or whatever the hell they are have been flimsy for years. At least for us. How many times have we been to heaven? Hell? Even purgatory! I swear, sometimes it's easier to leave Earth entirely than it is to drive cross-country."

"Okay. Fair." Dean huffed. "Your point?"

"My point is that Bobby is dead and I think we should send him a Christmas card this year."

There was silence for a long moment, Dean's expressions working through humor, disbelief, and then grudging contemplation. Sam waited patiently, a smirk of his own slowly growing. He sipped his tea.

Dean finally nodded once, sharply. He scooted his chair forward with determination, the two of them leaning into the table like businessmen finalizing a deal.

"When?" Dean said.

"Today if we can manage it. Christmas is tomorrow."

"How?"

Sam shrugged. "Underling? We've given them enough assistance with Amara; I think we've earned a favor or two. Besides, how hard can it be to sneak a card in? They had the gates in a playground last time." He scoffed, shaking his head.

"Why?"

There Sam grinned. He'd been waiting for that question and he could easily see that Dean had been waiting to ask it. He didn't look hesitant anymore—overly eager if anything. They leaned even closer together, preparing to engage in needless, conspiratorial whispers. It reminded Sam of the few times they'd played pranks on their dad, the two of them whispering heatedly in the back of the Impala, John pretending he couldn't hear them, Sam and Dean pretending they didn't know that he knew. Sam felt a sudden rush of joy that had nothing to do with the half-assed tree Dean had put up.

"C'mon," he whispered. "He's been inheaven. Way too much peace."

Dean suddenly stood, grinning and wagging a finger at Sam.

"Sammy, you're a Grade A genius. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, especially me. You know what though, you know what?" He ran around to Sam's side, then immediately started backing into the other room. "I've got an idea. Yes! I've always wanted to do this. You trust me?"

"Hell no," Sam said, but Dean was already running for the door.

"… I don't understand."

Cas squinted at the tree, trying to decipher exactly what Dean wanted him to do. He was briefly distracted by an ornament hanging directly at eyelevel, notable due to being made out of Popsicle sticks. He peered closer and saw a shaky "Sammy" written in a child's scrawl along the bottom. Up top in the left hand corner was a misspelled "Made for Daen."

Cas smiled.

"Here you go, put these on."

Dean and Sam came jogging back in, Sam carrying a camera and Dean a fake pair of fluffy, white wings. Cas felt mildly offended just looking at them.

"Perks of hoarding," Dean said, grinning and shaking the wings. "Had a girl years ago—Josie? Joanna? Don't remember, but man, she loved playing angels and demons." Dean wagged both eyebrows. "Granted, this was before we were hunting actual angels and demons, so that's lost a bit of its kick, but back then? Woo! I got her to wear this itty-bitty angel suit. Reeeeal itty-bitty. Knew these wings would come in handy someday." He shoved them against Cas' chest. "Put 'em on."

Cas frowned, staring at the monstrosity. "Dean. I have wings."

"Sure," Sam chuckled, "but we need some that are gonna show up on camera."

This time Cas' eyes blew wide. He stared at the camera with something approaching fear… though that was likely due more to the gleeful expression that had inched its way onto Dean's face.

"Do it for Bobby," he said with exaggerated seriousness.

Sam laughed outright. "Yeah, Cas. Do it for Bobby."

"Do what for Bobby?"

Dean pointed dramatically to the top of the Christmas tree. "Climb."

Glma didn't know how she'd been roped into this. One moment she'd been in a meeting with a group of other angels (admittedly grunts) when a non-grunt had arrived, saying he had a message from a higher up, who had a message from another higher up, who may or may not have been the Castiel. It was something having to do with the Winchesters and though Glma didn't always approve of their methods, you'd have to be a fool to ignore those stupid boys when they called.

Still, Glma didn't see what delivering a letter had to do with stopping the Darkness.

She walked down the endless hallways, identical doors lining both sides. Glma finally stopped at one door that looked exactly like all the others.

She knocked and moments later a suspicious man with a scruffy beard poked his head out.

"Yeah?" he drawled.

"Bobby Singer?"

"Ye know damn right it is."

Glma smiled. This man knew what was up—the fact that he'd found his door so quickly was testament to that. Really, she expected nothing less from an acquaintance of the Winchesters.

"Delivery," she said and shoved the card into his hands. Glma immediately turned around and started walking away. "Don't get used to it!" she called.

Brow furrowed, cursing lightly under his breath, Bobby tore open the paper and found a single piece of cardstock. On it was a picture that made him choke.

Cas, sitting at the top of a sad looking Christmas tree, wearing fake wings and bearing a horrified expression as said tree began to fall. Ornaments flew in all directions. A few had already shattered on the floor. Dean stood right in the tree's path, his arms raised as hundreds of pounds of pine needles came barreling towards him. There was a tan smudge on the right that Bobby could only assume was Sam's thumb.

On the back of the picture was just one word, written in Sam's curved script: 'BALLS!'

Bobby leaned his head briefly against the card, closing his eyes.

"… Idjits," he whispered and slipped back inside.