Letter from Dean Winchester

Dear... (damn it, I feel like a moron) Santa,

Look, I gotta be honest. I don't know if I believe in you. These days, I don't know what I believe in. God? The greater good? I for damn sure don't plan to listen to any angels on high. No offense, but they pretty much suck. Except for Cass. And I guess I have a few decent memories of Anna. But, hell, even if you do exist, for all I know, you're some Anti-Claus who's up at the North Pole sacrificing Comet and Blitzen and Sneezy and Sleepy in dark rituals.

That said, when Sam was a kid, he believed that Christmas was a time of miracles and all that feel-good "It's a Wonderful Life" crap. Truth is, we could use a miracle. Now, I realize there's no way I made the nice list. I'm violent and I swear too much (although, technically, does douchebag really count as profanity?) But I figure sucking up my pride and asking you for help beats the hell out of trying to make deals with demons--that never ends well.

Since we're on the road too much to hang stockings, you can just toss the presents in the back of the Impala. This Christmas, please bring us some kind of weapon that actually freaking works on Lucifer, since the Colt was a bust. We'd like to kill the son of a bitch once and for--er, we'd like to help with that whole peace on earth thing. Also, a twelve pack for me and Sam, some new shocks for my baby and the collector's holiday edition of Busty Asian Beautys would be appreciated.

Happy New Year--assuming any of us live that long,
Dean