A Winchester Christmas
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley
Word Count: ~4,800 words
Summary: It’s Christmas at the bunker, and you’ve gone all out with gifts for your favorite hunters (and allies). They weren’t expecting anything, but you’re about to show them what the holiday spirit really means.
-----
The bunker had never looked more festive.
You stood back, hands on your hips, admiring your handiwork with a satisfied grin. Garlands of pine draped along the war room railings, twinkling lights casting a warm golden glow against the usually cold metal fixtures. A modest Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner—nothing too extravagant, but decorated with a mix of classic ornaments and a few handmade ones you’d crafted yourself. The star on top sat just slightly crooked, which somehow made it more perfect.
“You know,” Dean’s voice rumbled from behind you, his arms sliding around your waist as he pulled you against his chest, “when I said you could decorate, I didn’t expect you to turn our secret underground lair into Santa’s workshop.”
You laughed, leaning back into his embrace and tilting your head to look up at him. “Oh, come on. You love it. I saw you humming along to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ earlier.”
“I was not humming,” Dean protested, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “I was… clearing my throat. Repetitively. In a rhythmic pattern.”
“Uh-huh. Sure, Winchester.” You turned in his arms, reaching up to straighten the collar of his flannel. “Besides, you guys work so hard. You deserve a little Christmas magic.”
Dean’s expression softened, his green eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at you. Even after months of dating, he still got that look sometimes—like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, that someone like you had chosen to be with someone like him. You’d spent countless late nights convincing him otherwise, talking about everything and nothing while he traced patterns on your skin.
“You’re too good for us, you know that?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Nope, not possible. You’re stuck with me now,” you said cheerfully, going up on your tiptoes to kiss him properly. He tasted like coffee and the candy cane he’d stolen from the candy dish when he thought you weren’t looking.
“Ahem.”
You broke apart to find Sam standing at the entrance to the war room, laptop tucked under his arm and an amused expression on his face. His hair was pulled back in a small bun today, and he wore one of his more comfortable flannel shirts—the blue one that brought out his eyes.
“Don’t mind me,” Sam said, grinning as he made his way to the map table. “Just trying to do some research. You know, hunting stuff. In our hunting headquarters.”
“Research can wait,” you declared, bouncing away from Dean and practically skipping over to Sam. “It’s Christmas Eve! No one should be working on Christmas Eve.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, setting his laptop down. “We’re hunters. We don’t really do holidays.”
“Well, you do now!” You grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the library where you’d set up a more cozy atmosphere. More lights, some candles (the nice-smelling ones from that boutique in town), and a plate of fresh-baked cookies that you’d made that morning. “I have a whole plan. There’s dinner—I’m making lasagna, by the way, with that garlic bread you like—and then we’re watching Christmas movies, and—”
“Please tell me not ‘Love Actually,’” Dean groaned from behind you.
“‘Love Actually’ is a cinematic masterpiece, Dean Winchester, and I will die on that hill,” you shot back over your shoulder, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “But no, I was thinking ‘Die Hard.’”
Dean perked up immediately. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
Sam chuckled, allowing himself to be pulled along by your enthusiastic tugging. “You know he’s just going to spend the whole time arguing about whether it counts as a Christmas movie.”
“It IS a Christmas movie!” Dean insisted, following you both into the library.
“It’s an action movie that takes place at Christmas,” Sam countered, falling easily into what was clearly a well-worn argument between the brothers.
“It’s about a man trying to reunite with his family on Christmas Eve. That’s a Christmas movie!”
You laughed, the sound bright and warm in the usually somber space. This was what you loved most—taking these men who carried the weight of the world on their shoulders and giving them permission to just… be. To banter about stupid things, to smile, to remember what it felt like to be normal.
“Okay, okay, boys,” you said, settling into one of the library chairs and curling your legs under you. “Before we get into the great ‘Die Hard’ debate, I actually have something for you all.”
Dean froze mid-step. “Something for us?”
“Gifts,” you clarified, unable to keep the excited smile off your face. “I got you guys Christmas presents.”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look, and you could practically see the silent communication passing between them.
“Sweetheart,” Dean started, moving closer and crouching down beside your chair. He took your hand in his, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” You squeezed his hand. “You guys never expect anything, and that’s exactly why you deserve everything.”
“We didn’t get you anything,” Sam said quietly, and there was guilt in his voice that made your heart clench.
You stood up, crossing to Sam and taking both of his hands in yours, looking up at him with all the sincerity you could muster. “Sam Winchester, you and your brother saved my life. You gave me a home here, a family. You taught me how to fight, how to protect myself, how to research lore until my eyes cross. Dean—” you glanced back at your boyfriend, “—you gave me love I never thought I’d find. You make me laugh every single day. That’s worth more than any present.”
“But—” Sam started.
“No buts!” you interrupted, dropping his hands to wag your finger at both brothers. “I’m a gift-giver. It’s one of my love languages. So you’re going to sit down, accept these gifts graciously, and like it. Got it?”
Dean stood, chuckling as he held up his hands in surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” You rubbed your hands together. “Okay, so I need to get everything organized. You two stay here—no, actually, Dean, come help me carry stuff. Sam, you just… sit and look pretty.”
Sam snorted. “I can help—”
“Nope! Sit!” You pointed at a chair with exaggerated authority.
Shaking his head with amusement, Sam obeyed, settling into one of the library chairs while you grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him toward your room.
Once you were alone in the hallway, Dean pulled you back against him, spinning you around to face him. “You really are something special, you know that?”
You grinned up at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just want you guys to have a real Christmas. Is that so crazy?”
“Considering we’ve spent most Christmases fighting monsters or dealing with apocalypses? Yeah, it’s a little crazy.” He kissed you softly. “But it’s the good kind of crazy. The kind that makes me wonder what I did to deserve you.”
“You were yourself,” you said simply. “That was always enough.”
Dean’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, emotion flickering across his face. Even now, he struggled with accepting genuine affection, genuine love. But you were patient. You’d spend forever showing him he was worthy if that’s what it took.
“Come on,” you whispered, kissing his cheek. “Help me grab presents before Sam gets suspicious.”
Your room was an organized chaos of wrapped gifts, bags, and boxes. You’d been hiding everything for weeks, sneaking purchases past the boys and wrapping late at night when they were asleep. Dean whistled low when he saw the spread.
“Sweetheart, how much did you spend on all this?”
“That’s for me to know and you to never find out,” you said breezily, starting to load his arms with packages. “Now come on, pack mule. We’ve got Christmas magic to deliver.”
When you returned to the library, arms full of gifts, Sam’s eyes widened. “That’s… that’s a lot of presents.”
“Well, there are four of you, and I’m thorough,” you said, setting your armload down on the table. Dean added his pile, and you began organizing them. “Speaking of which, where’s Cas?”
As if summoned, the flutter of wings announced Castiel’s arrival. The angel appeared beside the bookshelf, his trench coat slightly askew and his dark hair messier than usual.
“Hello,” Cas said in his gravelly voice, tilting his head as he took in the festive decorations. “I felt a disturbance—” His eyes landed on you, and his expression softened slightly. “Oh. You were thinking of me strongly. I apologize for the intrusion.”
“Cas! Perfect timing!” You bounded over to him, throwing your arms around him in a hug that clearly confused him, if the way his arms hovered uncertainly was any indication. You’d been working on getting him comfortable with physical affection. It was a slow process.
“I don’t understand,” Cas said, finally patting your back awkwardly. “What is the occasion?”
“Christmas, Cas,” you said, pulling back to smile at him. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“I’m aware of the human holiday,” he replied, “but I didn’t realize we were celebrating.”
“Well, we are! So sit down.” You gestured to the chair next to Sam.
Cas looked to Dean, who nodded. “Might as well, buddy. You know how she gets.”
The angel sat obediently, still looking somewhat bewildered as you bounced back to the gift pile.
“Okay, so I’m going to do this in a specific order because I’m extra like that,” you announced. “First up—”
Another voice interrupted you, this one carrying a British accent and dripping with sardonic amusement. “Well, well, well. Quite the festive little gathering.”
You spun around to see Crowley materializing near the doorway, immaculate as always in his black suit, a glass of what was probably very expensive scotch in his hand.
“Crowley!” You lit up, which clearly surprised the King of Hell if the slight widening of his eyes was any indication.
“Squirrel, Moose,” he nodded at the brothers, then his gaze landed on you. “Darling.”
“What are you doing here?” Dean demanded, immediately tense.
“Actually, I texted him,” you admitted, and all three men turned to stare at you.
“You WHAT?” Dean’s voice went up an octave.
“I texted Crowley and asked him to stop by tonight!” You shrugged. “What? He’s helped us out before. Plus, it’s Christmas. The more, the merrier!”
Crowley looked genuinely touched for a brief moment before his usual mask slipped back into place. “How… unnervingly cheerful of you.”
“That’s me! Unnervingly cheerful!” You gestured to an empty chair. “Now sit. You’re getting a present too.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Crowley blinked.
“Present. Gift. Token of appreciation. Sit down, your majesty.”
Sam was trying very hard not to laugh at the expression on Crowley’s face—the demon looked completely wrong-footed, which was not a common occurrence.
“You got the King of Hell a Christmas present,” Dean said flatly.
“Yep!”
“The same King of Hell who’s tried to kill us. Multiple times.”
“But he didn’t!” you pointed out cheerfully. “And like I said, he’s helped us too. Plus, he’s not all bad. I mean, he loves his mother, he has excellent taste in scotch, and he’s got that whole ‘reluctant ally’ thing going on. It’s endearing.”
“Endearing,” Crowley repeated, looking like he didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.
“Now SIT,” you commanded with enough force that even the King of Hell obeyed, settling into a chair with his scotch, looking deeply uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Dean leaned over to whisper to Sam, “Your brother’s girlfriend invited the King of Hell to Christmas.”
“I heard that!” you called out. “And yes, I did. Now, everyone get comfortable because this is happening.”
You picked up the first gift, a medium-sized box wrapped in blue paper with silver snowflakes. “Okay, Sam, this one’s for you. Open it!”
Sam took the package carefully, like it might explode. “You really didn’t have to—”
“Sam Winchester, I swear to Chuck, if you finish that sentence, I will tackle you. Open the present.”
Chuckling, Sam carefully peeled back the wrapping paper. Inside was a beautiful leather-bound journal, the cover embossed with protective symbols and his initials. Beneath it was a set of high-quality pens and a first edition copy of a book on ancient mythology that you knew he’d been trying to find for months.
Sam’s mouth fell open slightly as he ran his fingers over the journal. “This is… wow. This is incredible.”
“I know you go through journals like crazy with all your research notes,” you explained, perching on the arm of Dean’s chair. “And I found that book at an estate sale. The owner said it’s been in her family for generations. I figured you’d give it a good home.”
“This must have cost a fortune,” Sam said, looking up at you with those puppy-dog eyes that could melt steel.
“Worth every penny to see that smile,” you replied warmly. “Plus, now you have something fancy to write all your nerdy thoughts in.”
“Hey, research isn’t nerdy,” Sam protested, but he was grinning.
“Sam, you once spent six hours researching the etymology of a single demon name. It’s nerdy. But it’s also why we’re all still alive, so we love you for it.”
Dean squeezed your hand where it rested on his shoulder. “She’s got a point, Sammy.”
“Okay, Cas, you’re next!” You grabbed a smaller package wrapped in blue paper and handed it to the angel.
Castiel took it with the same confusion he’d shown since arriving. “I don’t understand the purpose of wrapping.”
“It builds anticipation!” you explained. “Part of the fun is unwrapping it. Go ahead!”
Cas proceeded to precisely unstick every piece of tape, carefully folding the paper as he went. Dean groaned.
“Cas, buddy, you can just rip it.”
“But she wrapped it so carefully,” Cas protested.
You laughed. “It’s okay, Cas. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Finally, Cas opened the box to reveal a vintage honey jar with a wooden dipper, along with a small booklet. He lifted the booklet, reading the cover: “‘The Complete Guide to Beekeeping for Beginners.’”
“I know you’ve been interested in bees,” you said softly. “I thought maybe you’d like to learn more about them. The honey is from a local apiary—raw, unfiltered. The beekeeper was really passionate about her work. I thought you might appreciate it.”
Cas stared at the gift for a long moment, and when he looked up, there was something deeply emotional in his blue eyes. “You remembered. From one conversation months ago, you remembered.”
“Of course I did. You talked about bees for twenty minutes. Your eyes lit up. It was sweet.”
“I…” Cas swallowed hard. “Thank you. This is very thoughtful.”
“You’re welcome, Cas.” You smiled warmly at him before turning to the demon in the room. “Alright, Crowley, you’re up.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I’m genuinely curious what one gets for the King of Hell.”
You handed him an elegant black box tied with a red ribbon. He untied it with nimble fingers and opened it to reveal a bottle of scotch—but not just any scotch.
“Is this…” Crowley lifted the bottle reverently. “This is a Macallan 1926. There are only forty bottles of this in existence.”
“I know,” you said with a pleased smile. “I figured the King of Hell should have the best.”
“How did you even…” Crowley looked at you with something approaching respect. “This costs more than most people make in a year.”
You just winked. “I have my ways. There’s also something else in there.”
Crowley dug deeper into the box and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. He opened it, and his expression shifted to something unreadable.
“These are…” he started.
“Spells and rituals your mother used,” you said quietly. “Not the dark stuff. The… earlier things. Before everything went wrong. I found them in some old archives. I thought you might want them. To remember her as she was.”
The room had gone very quiet. Crowley stared at the notebook for a long moment, and when he looked up at you, there was something vulnerable in his expression that you’d never seen before.
“This is…” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, darling. Truly.”
“Everyone deserves good memories for Christmas,” you said simply.
Dean pulled you down into his lap properly, wrapping his arms around your waist. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
You kissed his cheek. “Just wait until you see yours.”
“I’m almost afraid to,” Dean joked, but you could see the anticipation in his eyes.
You retrieved the last two packages—one large, one small. “Okay, so Dean. You get two because you’re my boyfriend and I’m biased.”
“I can live with that,” Dean grinned.
You handed him the larger package first. He tore into it with much less ceremony than Cas, revealing a beautiful leather jacket—not unlike his current one, but new, pristine, with perfect stitching and that perfect worn-in brown color he loved.
“Your other one’s getting pretty beat up,” you explained. “I had this one custom-made. Same style, but look—” You reached over to point out details. “Reinforced seams, hidden pockets for weapons, and the lining has protective symbols stitched in. Fashion and function.”
Dean stood up, immediately shrugging into the jacket. It fit perfectly. “This is… damn, sweetheart. This is perfect.”
“There’s more,” you said, handing him the smaller box with a slightly nervous smile.
Dean opened it carefully this time, and his breath caught. Inside was a vintage amulet on a leather cord—but not just any amulet. It was similar to the one Sam had given him years ago, the one he’d lost.
“It’s not the same one,” you said quickly. “I know that one was special because Sam gave it to you. But I found this at an antique shop, and the owner told me it’s a protection amulet. It’s supposed to protect the wearer and guide them home. I thought…” You bit your lip. “I thought maybe you’d like to have something like that again. And maybe it could remind you that you always have a home to come back to. Here. With me. With Sam. With all of us.”
Dean’s eyes were suspiciously shiny as he lifted the amulet from the box. His jaw worked like he was trying to find words.
“Dean?” you asked softly, worried you’d overstepped.
Instead of answering, he pulled you against him, crushing you in a hug that lifted your feet off the ground. His face buried in your neck, and you felt wetness against your skin.
“I love you,” he whispered roughly. “God, I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” you whispered back, holding him tight. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”
When he finally set you down, he immediately put the amulet on, tucking it under his shirt where it rested against his heart. Sam was smiling that soft, genuine smile he reserved for moments when his brother was truly happy. Cas looked pleased in his own subtle way. Even Crowley seemed touched, though he hid it behind a sip of his new scotch.
“Okay,” you said, wiping at your own eyes with a laugh. “Enough crying! This is supposed to be happy! Who wants cookies?”
“You made cookies?” Sam perked up.
“Of course I made cookies! What kind of Christmas would it be without cookies?” You headed toward the kitchen. “I’ve got chocolate chip, snickerdoodles, and those jam thumbprints you like, Sam!”
As you bustled around getting plates and napkins, you heard the low murmur of conversation behind you. When you returned, the four of them—hunter, hunter, angel, and demon—were talking quietly, the atmosphere warm and comfortable in a way that would have seemed impossible months ago.
“Alright, who wants what?” you asked, setting down the cookie plate.
“I don’t eat,” Cas reminded you gently.
“I know, but you can still sit with us!” You plopped down next to Dean again, immediately stealing one of his cookies. He tried to look offended but failed.
“So,” Crowley said, swirling his new scotch appreciatively, “what’s this movie the Squirrel was going on about?”
“‘Die Hard,’” you and Dean said in unison.
“And it’s definitely a Christmas movie,” you added.
“It’s not—” Sam started.
“DON’T START, SAMUEL,” you interrupted, pointing your cookie at him threateningly.
The evening dissolved into warmth and laughter. You watched ‘Die Hard’ (with Sam good-naturedly arguing throughout), then switched to ‘Elf’ (which made even Crowley chuckle a few times, though he’d deny it). You served dinner—the lasagna was a hit, and you caught Dean sneaking thirds.
Throughout it all, you found yourself just… happy. Watching Sam and Dean banter like the world wasn’t ending. Seeing Cas slowly relax, even laughing at a few jokes. Observing Crowley let his guard down, bit by bit, until he was actually participating in conversations rather than just making snide comments.
This was family. Not the family you were born with, but the family you’d chosen. The family that had chosen you back.
Late in the evening, when Sam and Cas had gotten into a surprisingly deep discussion about the theological implications of Christmas, and Crowley had stepped away to take a phone call (“Hell doesn’t stop for holidays, darling”), Dean pulled you aside.
“Come with me,” he whispered, taking your hand.
He led you through the bunker corridors until you reached one of the storage rooms. But when he opened the door, you gasped.
He’d transformed it. Lights were strung up, creating a soft glow. An old record player sat on a table, soft jazz playing from its speakers. And in the center of the small space, he’d cleared an area.
“Dean…”
“I know I didn’t get you a wrapped present,” he said, pulling you into the room and closing the door behind you. “But I wanted to give you something too.”
He took both your hands in his, looking nervous in a way that made your heart skip.
“You came into our lives like a damn hurricane,” he started. “All sunshine and sass and refusing to let us wallow in our own crap. You made this place—this bunker that’s seen so much darkness—you made it feel like a home.”
“Dean—”
“Let me finish,” he said, smiling softly. “You did that impossible thing, sweetheart. You made me believe I could have this. Have you. Have happiness. Have a future that’s more than just fighting and dying.” He squeezed your hands. “I don’t have fancy words like Sam, and I can’t give you the kind of present you gave me tonight. But I can give you this.”
He pulled you close, one hand on your waist, the other holding your hand up in a classic dance position.
“Dean Winchester, are you asking me to dance?”
“Yeah,” he said, starting to sway with you to the music. “I am. Because you deserve romance and gestures and all that stuff. And I’m not good at it, but I’m gonna try. Because you try for us every damn day.”
You rested your head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your ear. The amulet pressed between you, a reminder of protection and home.
“This is perfect,” you whispered. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m really not,” he chuckled.
“Perfect for me, then.”
You danced in the soft light, the rest of the world falling away. Just you and Dean and this moment that felt suspended in time.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, kissing the top of your head.
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Later, when you returned to find Sam had fallen asleep on the couch, Cas was reading his beekeeping book with intense focus, and Crowley was on his third glass of his new scotch, you curled up against Dean’s side.
“Best Christmas ever?” you asked quietly.
Dean wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer. His fingers played with your hair absently as he looked around at the scene—his brother peaceful for once, his best friend content, even their occasional enemy looking almost… happy.
“Best Christmas ever,” he confirmed.
And in that moment, in a secret bunker decorated with lights and love, surrounded by the most unlikely family in the world, everything was exactly as it should be.
-----
THE END
Merry Christmas! 🎄