"Can't you just feel the evil pagan vibe?"

'A Special Presentation' says the very 1970s caption at the start of the episode. There are no previouslies in sight. We're in standalone territory all the way here! And lo! it is awesome.

Seattle, Washington. One year ago. We open on a Christmas card scene of a random house richly decorated with all kinds of seasonal splendour, and I can already tell that this episode is going to make me feel bad about the fact that I own next to no Christmas decorations at all, and have decided to not even bother putting up those few that I have this year. Well, the kitten will only eat them if I do. But this episode is barely 12 seconds old and already it is making me look bad!

A little boy named Stevie receives a Christmas visit from his grandfather. I'm going to assume that Stevie has parents stashed away someplace in the house, but we never actually see them. Grandpa jocularly teases Stevie about not having brought any presents because that's what Santa is for, and then gets himself dressed up as Santa, later that night, to stack a sackful of gifts under the tree. I've never understood why people do that. Why dress as Santa just to put the presents under the tree? The whole point of getting the kids to bed on Christmas Eve is that you don't want them to wake up! Once they are awake they'll never go back down, so the last thing in the world you want is for them to wake up and actually see you setting out their gifts, however you are dressed.

Bearing that in mind, it seems foolish in the extreme that Grandpa actually jangles his sleigh bells loudly to deliberately wake up little Stevie – he's not only just asking for a sleepless night there, for which Stevie's invisible parents are hardly likely to thank him, but actually inviting the kid to catch him out in his playful little ruse by recognising him beneath the costume.

Um…what? I have Christmas spirit! Honest.

Anyway, an awestruck Stevie gapes through the banister at the sight of the supposed Santa diligently piling gifts beneath his tree. A loud thumping noise on the roof only serves to enhance the little boy's belief, but gives Grandpa cause for concern, although he tries valiantly to conceal it so as not to break character. He goes and peers into the chimney, only for something to grab him and drag him up. Stevie gasps in shock, but since he doesn't realise that it's his grandfather he looks puzzled rather than scared at the grisly sounds of snapping bones and pained screams that ensue. At length, a bloody Santa boot tumbles into the hearth. Foot still inside? Probably. Merry Christmas, Stevie.

Festive titles. So adorable!

Ypsilanti, Michigan. Present day. A sombre little girl stands in a window and watches as her near-tears mother explains to supposed FBI agent Dean that she and her daughter were in bed while her husband decorated the tree. So…tree decorating isn't a thing that you do as a family in these parts, then? Anyway, the Grieving Widow, Mrs Walsh, continues that she'd heard a thump on the roof, then heard her husband scream, and now she's talking to the FBI. Except that she totally isn't, but she doesn't know that.

Dean's looking good in his suit. Just sayin'. He questions Mrs Walsh a little more about her husband's mysterious disappearance, and she confirms that he just vanished, with all the doors and windows locked and no sign of forced entry. A similarly smartly be-suited Sam rejoins his brother and thanks Mrs Walsh for letting him have a look around inside, and the boys make polite farewells, having learned all there is to learn from this house. Mrs Walsh calls after them to say that the police think her husband might have been kidnapped, but she's fretting because there has been no call, no ransom demand, and it is only three days till Christmas, and she has no idea what to tell her daughter.

"We're very sorry," Sam gravely tells her, which isn't exactly what she was looking for, but what else can he say? Then as the brothers walk away, Sam shows Dean a bloody tooth he found in the chimney. Dean protests that there's no way a man could fit up the chimney, which is true, so I'm going to guess Sam actually found the tooth in the fireplace. Sam agrees that there's no way a man could fit up the chimney in one piece, which is a nice grisly thought. So, they conclude, if Missing Dad Mike Walsh went up the chimney, they need to find out what dragged him up there.



Motel of the week. So they're back to motels instead of squatting again now, then? With research notes and pictures taped all over the walls, Sam's busily looking up the Krampus and the like on the laptop when Dean drifts in with a bagful of groceries, which is reassuringly domestic. Oh, and it just kills me that the seat Sam is on is so low that his knees are practically up around his ears – he's almost folded in half!

Dean: "So, was I right? Is it the serial killing chimney sweep?"
Sam: "Yep. Uh, it's actually Dick Van Dyke."
Dean: "Who?"
Sam: "Mary Poppins?"
Dean: "Who's that?"
Sam: "Oh, come o–…never mind."

Hee. That just kills me, that Sam's getting into the spirit of the banter, only for the joke to fall flat because Dean doesn't get the reference. And Dean's meant to be the film guru! I guess his film obsession has always excluded certain genres, but if Sam knows Disney you'd think Dean would too, since they spent their entire childhood living on top of one another in cramped little motel rooms. Maybe Sam encountered Disney much later, via Jessica perhaps. Or, Dean could just be yanking Sam's chain here.

Dean announces that it turns out that the unfortunate Mike Walsh was actually the second mysterious disappearance in town, and on both occasions witnesses heard a thump on the roof. Sam announces that he has an idea about what it could be, but suspects Dean will think he's crazy.

"What could you possibly say that sounds crazy to me?" Dean asks, reasonably enough.
"Um…Evil Santa?" Sam offers.
Dean digests this suggestion, and obligingly takes the bait. "Yeah, that's crazy."



Heh. And Sam agrees that, yes, it's crazy. But he argues that there is some version of the Anti-Claus in every culture, citing numerous examples to back up his theory. Basically, according to the stories, Santa's brother went rogue and now shows up every Christmas to punish the wicked.

"So that's your theory?" Dean sceptically asks. "Santa's shady brother." Looking a little embarrassed, Sam umms and ahhs that that's what the lore says. "Santa doesn't have a brother," Dean protests. "There is no Santa."

"Yeah, I know," Sam sniffs. "You're the one who told me that in the first place. Remember?"

The silence that follows this pointed rejoinder is very sudden and absolute, with both brothers looking a little taken aback and guilty, as if that throwaway remark, a reminder of Christmases past, has crossed some kind of unseen line, taken them into dangerous territory. Then Sam breaks the moment as he sighs and drops it, despondently grunting that he's probably wrong, must be wrong. Whereupon Dean promptly seizes upon his little brother's crazy theory and starts to seek validation for it, announcing that he's done a little digging and learned that both victims visited the same place before they got snatched.

Santa's Village. Seriously? They build whole villages for their fake Santas in these parts? Man, we can barely rustle up a twee little grotto in my neck of the woods! Anyway, it looks wonderfully rundown and seedy in its attempt at seasonal festivity, but the kids running around the place seem to be enjoying it, if not the be-costumed casual staff.

Arriving, Dean suggests to Sam that the visit of both victims to Santa's village before their disappearance lends at least some credence to his theory, although Sam is still morose and not in the mood to be humoured. Dean then announces that he thinks they should have one this year. Christmas, that is. Sam's immediate, knee-jerk reaction is 'no thanks', but Dean continues to enthuse about the idea of getting a tree and all the rest of it, 'just like when [they] were little'.

"Dean, those weren't exactly Hallmark memories for me, you know?" Sam points out, and it's kind of noticeable that his emphasis there is on how bad his own memories of those occasions are, utterly dismissive of how anyone else might remember them.
Dean wrinkles his nose. "What are you talking about? We had some great Christmases."
"Whose childhood are you talking about?" Sam protests.

We've always known that the brothers tend to look back on their childhood through very different eyes, although not really since Bugs has their specific take on the past contrasted so strongly. Dean has always tended to sugar-coat his childhood memories, in a 'hey, so it wasn't perfect, but it could have been worse, and at least we always had each other' kind of way, just as Sam has always tended to look back on his childhood through a haze of resentment. It's all about selective memory for them both, the basis of their separate outlooks drawn from their very different personalities.

As deeply damaged as he is, having known happy, stable normality only to have it snatched away from him, Dean's outlook on life is nonetheless generally positive. His focus tends to be on making the best of whatever he's got, rather than wasting time and effort looking for something better that he doesn't believe he will ever be able to have again anyway. He accepts his situation for what it is and makes the best of it, rather than complain and look for more, and thus risk losing what he's already got. And when looking back at the past he chooses to dwell on whatever was good about it, rather than regretting all the things he never got to have. Sam, on the other hand, lacking that early experience of such shattering loss and never having known anything more than the bleak itinerant life in which they were raised, tends to look outward, always searching for something better, something more. It isn't in his nature to accept anything without question, and that's a large part of the reason he struggles to ever find the kind of happiness and contentment that Dean can draw from the smallest things; he's always too busy looking at what he hasn't got, and when he looks back at the past it tends to be what wasn't there that he remembers more than what he did have.

The brothers agreed in Fresh Blood to stop hiding behind bravado and denial and instead to face up to the fact that Dean's time is running out, but it is inevitably affecting them each in different ways, as the issue of the current festive season is making clear. Dean is revisiting the wistful, nostalgic mood we saw earlier in the season, looking back on the Christmases of their childhood and seeing a time when their Dad was still alive, there were no fears about Sam potentially turning evil hanging over their heads, no demonic deals anywhere in sight, and they were all safe and together – even if not all physically in the same location. Sam, on the other hand, already grieving for the imminent loss of his brother on top of everything else he has lost, looks back and sees only all the ways in which their childhood was screwed up, with both the present and the future holding only more of the same.

Dean tries to talk his brother around, but Sam isn't having any of it. "No. Just no," he insists. Not understanding where this mood is coming from, Dean rolls his eyes, calls him the Grinch, and wanders off to continue looking around the village. A subdued Sam watches him go, is distracted by a large cross-eyed plastic reindeer, and drifts off into a flashback of one of those childhood Christmases that he remembers as being so uniformly lousy.

Flashback! Broken Bow, Nebraska. Christmas Eve, 1991. So, Sammy would be eight and Dean a few weeks shy of 13. It's a really nice touch that they've used the same child actor for Young Dean as in Something Wicked, Ridge Canipe – it adds a lot to the sense of continuity. I still think his hair is rather too dark to be a young Dean, but other than that he's a good match, and certainly exudes a convincing mix of bravado and vulnerability. The new Young Sam, Colin Ford – apart from being a couple of years older than his character – is a lot blonder than you'd expect Sam to have ever been even as a child, especially since the six-year-old Sam in Something Wicked had hair every bit as dark as his adult self. And he isn't chubby, as Sam once described his younger self; maybe the puppy fat came later and didn't stay long. But he's got the adult Sam's curiosity, stubborn streak and sheer emo-ness down pat, right down to the way his nostrils flare when he's irritated! The last (and till now only) flashback we had came from Dean's POV, so it's nice to have one that comes from Sam's perspective, as this one does.

With a festive film playing on the TV in yet another trashy, dingy little motel, Young Sam is sitting on the sofa using newspaper to wrap a gift, while Young Dean is glued to the window. You might think that he's just watching the snow, but he really, really isn't; he's waiting for his dad to come home. John is away on another hunt, and, given the conversations that follow, appears to be late getting home. So Dean is anxiously keeping watch for him, keeping his hope alive that Dad will be home in time for Christmas, that he's safe out there despite the danger of his work.

Dean asks what Sam is doing, and scoffs when he learns he's wrapping a present for Dad, wanting to know where he got the money, if he stole it. Sam indignantly denies the charge, protesting that 'Uncle Bobby' gave it to him to give to his Dad. "He said it was real special."

Ahhh. We finally have canon proof that Bobby has known the boys since they were children – it has been heavily implied in all their interaction for the last season and a half, but now we have the proof. As for the gift Bobby has provided being 'real special', well, we'll get to that later.

Dean is looking out of the window again, can't seem to tear himself away, but, taking an interest, he asks what Sam's gift for John is. Sam promptly sasses that it's a pony, so Dean just snorts that that's funny, slouches across the room and slumps onto the sofa as only an adolescent can, boredly picking up a Hot Rod car magazine to leaf through.

"Dad's gonna be here, right?" Young Sam anxiously asks.
"He'll be here," Young Dean firmly assures him.
"It's Christmas," Sam points out, apparently not convinced that either Dean or their Dad fully appreciates this crucial fact.
"He knows. And he'll be here," Dean repeats. "Promise."

I'm not going to talk about where John is or why, because we simply aren't told in any more detail than that he is on another random hunt. No doubt he had a strong reason for taking on this job so close to Christmas, and no doubt there is an explanation as to why he hasn't returned home when his sons were expecting him. But whatever his reasons, the end result is the same. It doesn't really matter where he has gone or why, or how valid his motivations were, doesn't matter how good his excuse is for not getting home on time. The bottom line is that he has left his sons alone again, hasn't returned when they expected him to, and it is extremely damaging for them both.

I've never doubted that John loved his sons dearly and always believed he was doing the best he could given his situation and circumstances, but he made a lot of bad choices in his time and his sons have suffered for it. I try to be fair to him in my recaps, and can see how he would have started down this slippery slope, justified it to himself. But at the end of the day he chose to go away on hunts for days at a time, and to leave his sons alone in a succession of filthy, seedy motels while he did so, not just once but repeatedly, rather than seeking out appropriate adult supervision for them. No doubt he was reluctant to trust the casual acquaintances made in each new town. No doubt he was reluctant to burden the few genuine new friends he'd made among the hunting network, or to waste time travelling long distances there and back to leave the boys with them. But leaving children alone in this way even once classifies as neglect. There's no other word for it; practically the dictionary definition. More than once, and the layers of damage start to accrete, like water dripping on a stone.

But then when you remember how John died? Man. This family gets you in every direction!

Sam wants to know where Dad is, anyway. On business, Dean idly replies, with the air of one who has given the same vague standard response to this question many times before. Sam presses further to ask what kind of business, and Dean's tone darkens, not liking the direction this conversation is going, as he insists that Sam already knows that – that John sells stuff.

This is more or less the exact conversation that Dean recalled in All Hell Breaks Loose, and he told us then that Sam started asking these kinds of question as early as five years old. And now we learn that even at eight years old Sam still remained in the dark about the monsters of the world, and the fact that John hunted them. We already know that a very large part of that ignorance revolved around Dean's determination to preserve as much of his little brother's innocence as he could. As the parent, John would have, of course, also played his part in the decision to keep Sam in the dark, and it's fairly likely that a part of the reasoning would also be about John's uncertainty over Sam's ability to not talk to outsiders about the supernatural if he knew too young. But it seems pretty clear that it was mostly Dean's decision not to tell him as he grew older. After all, Dean was the one who had to field all Sam's questions while John was away, whenever he was away.

If Sam started to ask when he was five, and at eight he is still being shielded from the truth…well, Dean's been fielding these queries for a long time now, and no doubt it is getting harder and harder to fob Sam off with excuses as he grows older.

When Dean fails to give a satisfactory answer to Sam's querying about what kind of stuff John sells, Sam sighs and grumbles that nobody ever tells him anything. I'd imagine that that's very true – as sheltered from the truth as he is, just about everybody in his life would have to be implicit in that. The truth being concealed from him is a dark and heavy load for anyone to carry, least of all a child, and that's the reason why. But it can't be easy to grow up unable to understand the foundations on which your life is constructed.

Dean rolls his eyes and suggests that his brother quit asking, taking his magazine over to one of the beds in order to put a bit of distance between them, and sweeping a stack of junk off it so he can sit down. Oh, and bless him, he's already taking the bed nearest the door. It's all so very them, and they haven't changed a bit in sixteen years, really. Sam is still like a dog with a bone when he wants to know something, and Dean still always reacts the same way to an uncomfortable line of questioning, with prevarications, jokes and put downs, and physical distance.

"Is Dad a spy?" Sam isn't going to let up. I've got a little sister who is much the same, just keeps asking the same questions over and over until she gets the answer she wants to hear, and it really does wear you down and drive you insane after a while! It's a very consistent characteristic of Sam's.

Without looking up, Dean says yes, John is actually James Bond. Heh. Without skipping a beat, Sam asks why they always move around so much and Dean, frustrated that he won't let this go, snarls that everywhere they go people get sick of looking at his face.

"I'm old enough, Dean. You can tell me the truth," Sam tries, relentlessly pursuing an honest answer to his questions.
"You don't wanna know the truth. Believe me," Dean firmly insists, which is the most honest response he's given yet.

And that's all kinds of heartbreaking, because the very fact that Dean so determinedly tries to protect Sam from the truth demonstrates how much he wishes he didn't know himself, his own innocence having been stripped away so very young.

"Is that why we never talk about…Mom?" Sam tremulously ventures, and bless him, he just so honestly wants to understand.
But Dean just explodes. "Shut up! Don't you ever talk about Mom, ever!" he shouts.



Sam is dismayed by this reaction, and Dean can't explain why this is such a sore spot without revealing the full truth that he's so anxious to conceal from his brother. So instead he grabs a jacket and storms out into the snow, leaving a confused little Sam all alone in the motel room.

It's interesting that, a couple of years on from Something Wicked, with Sam that bit older and less dependent, Dean clearly feels no qualms about leaving his brother alone for a bit, while he gives himself some space to cool off. It's a very typical Dean response that hasn't changed in sixteen years; whenever Sam starts poking at raw nerves, Dean always has to put physical distance between them.

This is a stark glimpse into a bleak childhood experience, with the young brothers so isolated and alone it hurts. Sam's questioning is so innocent – he's worried about his Dad maybe not getting home in time for Christmas, and doesn't understand why Dad goes away so much in the first place. He doesn't know why they live out of a succession of drab little motels instead of a proper home, why they never talk about the Mom they don't have, why any of it. He can't know why his desire for information inspires such an extreme reaction from his brother, that the focus of his incessant querying feeds into all kinds of difficult and painful issues for Dean.

Dean has been left in loco parentis yet again, and I talked at length in my Something Wicked recap about just what that means in practical terms and how heavy a responsibility it is to be heaped on such young shoulders. It's Christmas, and Dad isn't home yet in spite of having apparently promised, and Sam won't stop asking these searching questions that Dean doesn't know how to answer, or that are too painful in a variety of ways for him to answer, and he's only twelve and doesn't know how to make any of it right. Sam wants to know the truth, is demanding the truth, and Dean struggles to say no to him, but also wants desperately to shield him from the harsh realities of the world they live in, and those harsh realities are all tied up with their mother's death. If Mary hadn't died the way she did, none of this would have happened, and they wouldn't be in this situation now. Sam's questions are probing at issues that are painful to Dean in ways that he can't articulate – he still can't, even now, sixteen years later. So he blows.

But although Dean will blow up and get mad in the heat of the moment, he really can't sustain it for any length of time. That's still true sixteen years later, as an adult.

Back in the present, Sam remembers this incident, which serves only to back up his claim that his childhood Christmases were always miserable.

"You'd think for the ten bucks it cost to get into this place, Santa could scrounge up a little snow," Dean mutters, wandering back having noticed that Sam was no longer with him. Having regained Sam's attention, he asks what they are looking for again. Distracted, Sam fumbles for the info, explaining that lore suggests the anti-Claus would walk with a limp and smell like sweets, and the way he says it suggests that he's becoming less and less convinced by his own theory.

I'm not sure I've ever heard an American refer to sweets as sweets before – they generally always just say 'candy'. Dean snorts that they're looking for a pimp Santa and wonders why sweets. Sam shrugs that maybe if he smells like candy the kids will come closer. Maybe, but all the victims so far have been adults, not children. Dean notes how creepy this theory is, and wonders how this thing knows who has been naughty or nice.

Oh now, come on, Dean – how many spirits and supernatural creatures have you encountered in your life who could see right into peoples' heads? The vast majority of them, I'd say.

Anyway, Sam can only admit that he doesn't know. They've reached Santa's grotto now, and watch as a little boy clambers onto the Santa's knee. Man, the guy playing Santa for this village is a total pervert, and not even subtle with it. Watching, the boys think they might be onto a winner in their hunt for a potential Anti-Claus.

Just then, one of Santa's little elves approaches to perkily ask if she can escort their child to Santa, and both brothers are mildly flummoxed at being challenged while in the act of snooping on Santa. Dean recovers first and cheerfully tells her that seeing Santa has been a lifelong dream of his brother. Bless her, the elf takes him totally seriously and is thrown, stammering that they don't allow children over 12, so Sam has to explain that his brother is just kidding and that they only came here to watch. Hehe, bless his heart, he realises way too late how bad that sounds. The elf is all 'ewww' and Dean only barely keeps from completely cracking up at the hole Sam just dug for himself.

Santa gets up to take a break at this point, and the brothers can't help but note that he limps badly as he walks. Sam shrugs that a lot of people walk with limps, but Dean is convinced he smelled candy as the man passed. Sam thinks it smelled more like cheap Ripple wine…but he isn't sure. It's still the best lead they've got, and they don't want to take any chances.

Night. The boys are staking out the trailer Santa calls home, both of them tired and fed up already. Hee, and Sam thoughtfully hands Dean a flask of coffee so he can caffeinate, only for Dean to discover that the flask is already empty.

"Hey, Sam," Dean gently calls, since they've got nothing better to do than talk. "Why are you the Boy That Hates Christmas?"

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes, unwilling to get into this, but Dean really wants to know. It's something of a turnaround for Dean to be broaching a subject that's potentially painful and personal, but follows on beautifully from the resolution struck by the brothers during Fresh Blood. This is Dean in Big Brother mode, seeing that something seems to be wrong with his brother and trying to sound him out about it. Plus, I guess, if he can work out what's bugging Sam, he stands a better chance of talking his brother into having a proper Christmas with him.

"Okay, I admit it, we had a few bumpy holidays when we were kids," he admits. "But that was then. We'll do it right this year."

Aww, and he looks so sincere in his desire to have a proper, happy Christmas, just the two of them, family. He really wants this, and can't understand why Sam doesn't.

"Look, Dean, if you want to have Christmas, knock yourself out," Sam tiredly tells him. "Just don't involve me."

And that's a kick in the teeth for Dean, for whom the whole point of having Christmas would be spending it with what's left of his family and not being by himself. As he pretty much points out, only not in so many words and with self-deprecating snark.

Just then, movement is sighted within Santa's trailer, as the old man surreptitiously peers through the window before pulling his curtains closed. "What's up with Saint Nicotine?" Dean wonders.

Then they hear muffled screams from within the trailer, and hurry to investigate. Outside the door, Sam snorts a 'huh' that draws Dean's attention. "Just that, uh, Mr Gung-Ho Christmas might have to blow away Santa," Sam observes. Dean is not amused by the mockery.

Into Santa's trailer they bust…much to the alarm of the drunken old man who is watching a Christmas porn movie with whisky bottle in one hand and a large bong in the other. The brothers hastily hide their guns, while Santa bemusedly wonders that they are doing there. Sam can't come up with any suitably plausible excuses on the spur of the moment, so Dean launches into a tuneless rendition of Silent Night, and the old man is stoned enough to be easily convinced, luckily enough. After gaping for a moment, Sam joins in, and they stumble through a couple of lines, realise that they absolutely don't know the words, and get the hell out of there.



I'm kind of impressed that Jensen Ackles, who has a nice singing voice, can manage to sound so awful! It's harder to sing off key than in tune. And hey, Dean gets points for picking an actual carol – in my neck of the woods carol singers tend to try and fob folks off with We Wish You A Merry Christmas, and then just look blank when you point out that that isn't actually a carol, per se.

House. Night. In a random suburban home, a thump on the roof can be heard. A little boy of no more than six or seven is woken by the noise and wanders downstairs in delight, believing that Santa has come early. But what comes out of the chimney is not Santa, and the child's wide-eyed expression of frozen shock and horror is absolutely perfect as he silently watches the figure in a blood-soaked leather mockery of a Santa suit trudge upstairs into his parents' bedroom. There's a scream and a thud, and the kid just about jumps out of his skin, and then not-Santa trudges back downstairs again, with the kid's father is struggling and groaning inside an enormous sack he is dragging. In front of the chimney there's a hideous crunching noise, and the captive father becomes silent. Then Not-Santa turns on the little boy, who backs away and backs away, frozen with terror. Not-Santa reaches out…and grabs some candy from the table behind him. Kids are clearly good only for traumatising for the rest of their lives, rather than eating!

House. Morning. Supposed FBI agents Dean and Sam are on the case, interviewing their second Grieving Widow of the episode about what she and her son saw last night. The little boy saw his daddy being dragged up the chimney, as we already know, while Grieving Widow saw nothing – she was asleep, and woke up just in time to scream and get knocked out. Not the most useful witness statement ever.

"I'm sorry, I know this is hard," Dean spontaneously sympathises. That's usually Sam's line, but in this instance Sam is a bit busy being distracted by a wreath decorating the room. Grieving Widow is a bit taken aback when he asks where she got it, and so is Dean, who turns a bemused look upon his brother. Sam flounders a bit when challenged, and then has to run the gauntlet of Dean's teasing when they get back outside, but his point is that he recognised the wreath – they saw one just like it at the Walsh family home, yesterday.



Motel. Sam's on the phone to Bobby, who has apparently agreed to keep looking for anything they could find useful on this job. Then he hangs up and announces that they are definitely not dealing with the Anti-Claus.

Dean: "What'd Bobby say?"
Sam: "That we're morons."

Gotta love Bobby. I'm happy that this is such a solidly standalone episode, with Dean's deal the only hint of ongoing story arc, and no recurring characters getting underfoot, only the briefest mentions of Bobby even. But I do love Bobby, and how naturally his character and his relationship with the brothers have developed. As an old family friend that the boys knew as children – that they trusted enough to go to for help in Devil's Trap in spite of his having had a such huge row with John – and who was around during the immediate aftermath of John's death, it has worked out perfectly naturally, the way they've gradually learned to lean on his support in the absence of their father. And he really does fit the role of gruff bachelor uncle perfectly. Even when he isn't on-screen!



Sam continues that Bobby thinks it was probably meadowsweet in the wreaths that struck Sam as unusual. Dean is none the wiser, so Sam explains that it is pretty rare, and probably the most powerful plant in pagan lore, used to attract goes to human sacrifices. Nice.

To my mind, meadowsweet isn't exactly rare. But then, I live in the UK, not the US. I gather it isn't as common over there as it is here.

Dean wonders why the hell somebody would be using this plant for Christmas wreaths, and Sam shrugs that just about every Christmas tradition is pagan, which is very true. Post-Roman and early medieval Europe was a time of enormous cultural flux, and early Christianity did indeed adopt all kinds of earlier pagan rituals and make them its own, because it was easier to do that than to try to stamp them all out.

Dean bemusedly points out that Christmas is Jesus' birthday, but Sam corrects him that Jesus was probably born in the fall, and then explains pretty much what I just said – that Christmas started out as the winter solstice festival and was co-opted by the church. He lists a whole swathe of Christmas traditions that are actually remnants of pagan worship, and Dean just blinks at him. "How do you know that?" he sighs, mystified as ever by Sam's enormous geekdom. "What are you gonna tell me next? The Easter Bunny's Jewish?"

Heh. Even Sam chuckles a bit, which is saying something, he's been so morose throughout the episode. Anyway, the upshot of Sam's conference with Bobby and his latest round of research is that they are most likely dealing with a pagan god, probably the god of the winter solstice, whose name Sam says, but I can't spell, and doesn't seem to be Google-able. From demons to pagan gods, life is never dull for hunters of the supernatural; they deal with both the lowest and the highest of prey!

I should probably mention here, mind, that just because these pagan deities are called gods does not mean that they bear any resemblance to the kind of omniscient, omnipotent God of the Christian tradition. Pagan deities are traditionally more like elemental spirits, whose power and influence is impressive, but limited – a bit like if a demon found itself a fanbase and a really good public relations agent! In Irish mythology, for instance, the deities originally worshipped by the earliest Celts were gradually downgraded, once the arrival of Christianity changed the nature of worship, to become known more as the fae: capricious fairies and elves and the like. That's the kind of creature they are dealing with – powerful, yes, but not all-powerful.

All these unsuspecting families buying their pretty meadowsweet wreaths might as well be putting a neon sign on their door saying 'come kill us,' Sam snorts. And in return for sacrificing to this god, he provides mild weather. Dean peers appraisingly out of the window. "Kind of like no snow in the middle of Michigan in the middle of winter," he notes.

Bobby is working on how to kill this thing, Sam continues. In the meantime, the boys have to figure out who is selling those wreaths, since this person may or may not be deliberately feeding the victims to this god.

Store. It's very festive. The Winchester boys wander in, cast warily appraising eyes around the joint, and approach the storekeeper, who is casting similarly appraising eyes over them, clearly wondering if these are genuine customers or mere time-wasters. Deliberately choosing to play gay for the first time, because it provides both a plausible story and an opportunity to tease Sam, Dean cheerfully dissembles that they'd been visiting the Walsh's the other night and Sammy fell in love with a Christmas wreath he saw there. Thus set up, Sam can, as usual, do nothing but stumble reluctantly along with the cover story he's been given. He describes the wreath in detail before getting to the meadowsweet part.

The storekeeper just looks at him. "Well, aren't you a fussy one?"
Sam huffs, and Dean chuckles. "He is."
Heh.



It turns out that the store has run out of the meadowsweet wreaths, which were made by a local lady by the name of Madge Carrigan, who told the storekeeper that her wreaths were so special she'd give them to him for free. That's a red flag, right there, and both brothers spot it. Of course, being such a generous and festive soul, the storekeeper promptly charged his customers top dollar for these special wreaths he'd acquired for free. "That's the spirit," Dean smiles.

Motel. It's getting dark as the brothers arrive home from their recon mission, discussing how suspicious it is that these expensive meadowsweet wreaths should be given away for free by this lady. Shedding their coats, they drop with unison onto the ends of their twin beds, Sam sighing wearily, while Dean comes over all nostalgic again and starts chuntering on about a wreath that John brought home one year, made from a bunch of empty beer cans, remembering it with delight as funny and cool and something that their Dad brought home for them. But Sam, on the other hand, remembers it only as stupid junk stolen from a liquor store, and this tiny memory is another perfect example of the very different ways in which the brothers look back on their childhood. Dean. While Dean smiles to himself at the memory of a much simpler time when they were all together and relatively safe, Sam just can't take any more, and wants to know what's going on, why his brother is so eager to do Christmas.

Dean counters the question with another question – why is Sam so against it? "Were your childhood memories that traumatic?"

It must be a little bit hurtful for Dean to hear Sam so flatly dismissing their childhood Christmases as consistently lousy, all of them presumably blending together in his head and mixed up with all his other issues about their upbringing. We already know that Dean tried hard when they were children to give Sam as much stability and normality as a little boy could manage, so any implication that his best wasn't ever good enough has to feel a bit like a slap in the face.

Not expecting to have this turned back on him, Sam sniffs that their bleak little childhood has nothing to do with it, so Dean wants to know what his problem is, in that case. Sam points out that Dean hasn't talked about Christmas in years – clearly it is a holiday that generally goes uncelebrated and largely unnoticed in the Winchester family.

Dean hesitates a little, but for once, God bless him, doesn't try to evade or deflect in any way, just comes right out and explains himself. "Well, yeah. This is my last year," he points out, with absolutely devastating simplicity.

Sam clearly wasn't expecting this line of argument, at least not such an open and honest version of it. But still – this is what he asked for, isn't it? He told Dean in Fresh Blood that he wanted all the bravado and denial to be dropped, wanted Dean to be honest about what lies ahead of him and what it means for them both, wanted him to just be his brother. And Dean is. Right here and right now he's being as open and honest as he can be, emotional defences completely lowered. This is his last Christmas, and he wants to celebrate it with his brother because it's the last chance they'll ever get. It isn't so much to ask for.

But Sam couldn't have expected being given what he asked for to hurt so much. "That's why I can't," he softly replies, with tears in his eyes that he won't shed, and it's just devastating to hear him saying this out loud. "I can't just sit around, drinking egg nog and pretending everything's okay, when I know next Christmas you'll be dead. I just can't."

And just…damn. Sam's giving up, accepting Dean's fast-approaching death as inevitable, just as Dean has from the start. There's a kind of resigned despair in this scene that's just heartbreaking, and the direction of the scene is simply stunning, with the brothers sitting side by side on their twin beds, unable to actually look one another in the eye but stealing quick little glances at each other, filmed from behind and in tight close up, with no background to distract from their eyes and expressions. It's beautifully done.

If we really have skipped vast swathes of time this season, as seems to be the case, and my timeline for the first two seasons remains accurate, then Dean could be as much as eight months into his final year. It wouldn't surprise me to have the remainder of the season – or as least as much of it as the strike makes possible – crammed into a short space of time; we've had similar compressions before, after all. Just look at the arc of Dead Man's Blood through Everybody Loves A Clown, all of which take place within the space of just a couple of weeks. It would certainly add a lot to the intensity of the remainder of the season, counting down the last few months of Dean's life, with the clock ticking louder and louder, fear and desperation growing.

Bearing that in mind, I can't help but wonder about Ruby and her machinations. She told Sam she would be at his side throughout, 'a little fallen angel on [his] shoulder' – but hasn't been seen since. In the meantime, Sam has moved from furious denial of Dean's fate to grief and acceptance, which could be interpreted as slipping out of the hold Ruby had over him. She certainly hasn't cemented her position by making any more demands on him. But the chances are that she is simply biding her time; the nearer the deadline draws, with no hope of salvation anywhere in sight, the more desperate and vulnerable Sam will be. She can afford to let him slip away now, all the tighter to reel him in later.

So Dean just nods, looks away and looks down, and drops his One Last Happy Christmas request like a hot potato, never to be mentioned again. It's such consistent characterisation for him. No matter how badly Dean wants something for himself, he won't push for it if he thinks it is going to hurt someone else, Sam especially. Sam's wants and needs must always come first, even when it hurts.

*wipes away a tear*



Flashback! We're back in Broken Bow, Christmas Eve 1991. Sam is lounging on the sofa, reading a comic and not seeming the slightest bit concerned about having been left alone, when Dean returns to the motel with a bag of groceries. Sam is sulky, and Dean subdued as he tosses some candy and chips at his brother by way of unspoken apology for the harsh words earlier, then grabs a can of coke for himself.

Pretty much ignoring the peace offering, Sam follows Dean over to sit on the beds, ready and waiting for round two. "I know why you keep a gun under your pillow," he challenges, and Dean hastily checks that the gun is still there, which is a nice touch, before protesting that Sam doesn't know and to stay out of his stuff. "And I know why we lay salt down everywhere we go," Sam adds, and it's still a challenge. Having been given the opportunity by being left alone, he's been doing some investigating of his own, since Dean was less than forthcoming, and now he wants Dean to know what he's learned – wants Dean's confirmation and explanation of what he's learned.

Dean is getting alarmed, angrily insisting that Sam doesn't know what he's talking about. So Sam reaches down and pulls John's journal out from under the mattress, in exactly the kind of gesture that his adult self still employs to force Dean's hand when his brother clams up on him.

You have to wonder just where Sam found the journal, and when. It is unclear whether he'd already read bits of it before the earlier argument or not. I'm inclined to think probably not, based on the tone and content of his questions, which were vague in that dispute but now become detailed and specific in the extreme. This is information new to him since their recent argument that he's confronting Dean with. I'm going to guess that John left the journal behind when he went out on his latest job, presumably strictly out of bounds to both boys, and Sam, in his anger, has defied that restriction for the first time by digging it out and reading it.

Panicking, Dean instantly hits the roof on his dad's behalf, because that journal is John's and Sam shouldn't have it, and above all else, Sam should not be reading it, because the secret is out now and there's nothing either Dean or John can do about it. The last thing in the world Dean would have wanted was for Sam to learn the truth in this way.

"Are monsters real?" Sam asks, straight out, daring his brother to lie to him. Dean instantly protests that he's crazy, the denial coming automatically, but Sam isn't having any of it. He can see through Dean's evasions even at eight, and insists that his brother tell him.

Dean bites his lip, backed into a corner with nowhere to go. "I swear, if you ever tell Dad I told you any of this, I will end you," he threatens, and Sam promises glibly enough, since at this stage he'd say just about anything in exchange for a straight answer. It's probably safe to say that they won't be able to keep Sam's newly informed status a secret from John for long, though.

I find myself wondering about that childhood 'warrior' training that Sam complained about so bitterly in the Pilot, and when exactly it started. We know from No Exit that John started teaching Dean to shoot when he was six or seven, but Dean's position in the family is very different than Sam's; he witnessed Mary's shocking death, experienced the massive dislocation of their lives alongside John – would have known about everything John was learning as it happened, because I can't see John being in any state to hide things from his son at the time. He was the oldest, John's right-hand man, to Sam's sheltered and innocent baby of the family. It is quite conceivable that John would have started teaching Dean to defend himself and his brother rather younger than Sam, who had no one coming up after him to protect. But it is also conceivable that John could have started training Sam fairly early without the little boy ever knowing why – it would be easy for him to start teaching his son to fire a gun without having to explain that it was so he could one day defend himself against supernatural monsters. After all, theirs is a household bristling with guns and weapons, and for safety's sake if nothing else Sam would have to have grown up respecting them, whether he fully understood their function or not.

Would it be easier or harder for John now that Sam knows the truth? I can think of arguments for both.

Dean sighs and hesitates, trying to decide how best to play this, drops heavily onto his bed, and then leans forward. There's nothing for it but to come clean about everything, but how he presents it to Sam is crucial for his brother's understanding and acceptance of the world in which they live, and the lifestyle John has set down for them. With Sam having already read John's journal, this is all about damage limitation now. "First thing you have to know is we have the coolest Dad in the world," he begins, setting out his priorities right from the start. "He's a superhero. Monsters are real. Dad fights 'em. He's fighting them right now."

Even though these flashbacks are coming from Sam's perspective, rather than Dean's, Dean's anxieties and vulnerabilities are shining through loud and clear. Only twelve years old and he's already clinging desperately to the image he's constructed of John the Superhero to comfort himself for the fact that his Dad has left them all alone in a dingy motel for Christmas. He and Sam are coming a poor second in their father's priorities – after all, whichever way you slice it, John made an active choice to take on whatever job he is working this close to Christmas – but Dad's work is important, he's out there saving lives, so that has to make it okay. You can imagine him telling himself that, telling himself over and over that Dad wouldn't leave them like this if it wasn't important, that saving those random other lives is obviously more important than Dad actually being at home to look after them or spend Christmas with them, that he's fine and perfectly able to take care of Sammy, doesn't need any taking care of himself, not when there are those other lives at stake. It all feeds into that inferiority complex of his, and this has to be a large part of how it started. He's making excuses for John's behaviour to himself every bit as much as for Sam's benefit, trying to hide John's inadequacies from his little brother because preserving Sam's innocence and maintaining Sam's faith in John is important to Dean. It's all kinds of heartbreaking.

"But Dad said the monsters under my bed weren't real!" Sam breathes, trying to assimilate this new information.
Dean chuckles. "That's 'cause he already checked under there. But yeah, they're real. Almost everything is real."
"Is Santa real?" Sam has his eight-year-old priorities straight.
"No," Dean tells him.

He says it really gently, and it's a lovely contrast to the scene earlier where Adult Sam reminded him of this day, when it was easy to imagine a much harsher and more provocative shattering of wee Sammy's illusions. Having avoided this exact conversation so determinedly for so long, Dean is handling it extraordinarily well here, very calmly and seriously answering all of Sam's questions with firm reassurances. Up until now in these flashbacks, we've seen Dean in Brother Mode, a youngster on the brink of adolescence, grouchy and fed up, worried about his dad, and with Sam's incessant questioning grating on his last nerve. But now that the cat is well and truly out of the bag and he is faced with talking Sam through his discovery of the truth, reassuring his brother and making sure that he fully understands the facts, he's switched into full-blown Guardian Mode. Dean has always been awesome, clearly.

Because, let's face it, this is a conversation that Sam should be having with his father. But John isn't here, Dean is, and that simple fact only serves to reinforce the concept that Dean had to be parent to Sam as well as a brother on a fairly regular basis while they were growing up. We don't know how long John has gone away for this time, but it is clearly a period of days strung together, and for the duration of that time Dean has to be responsible for Sam's welfare, as well as his own, in every respect. That includes making this enormous decision to come clean and tell his little brother the whole truth about their past and about John's unusual occupation, now that Sam has got hold of enough evidence to make continuing to keep him in the dark an impossibility. Sam is clearly no longer willing to be fobbed off with excuses and lies, and it was perhaps inevitable that his desire for full disclosure would come to a head while John was away, leaving Dean squarely in the firing line, because it would be during John's absences that the issue of Sam's not knowing is at its most acute.

And the timing of this incident ties in fairly neatly with Sam's little anecdote, way back in the Pilot, about John's giving him a gun when he complained of being afraid of the thing in the closet when he was nine. If he learned the truth about what was out there now, at age eight, I can well believe that he'd start to fret about it and start jumping at shadows.

So. Sam thinks for a moment, and then comes back at Dean with the most obvious fear that arises from this new information. "If monsters are real, they could get us! They could get me!"

Aye, that's a very real reaction for an eight-year-old, especially one who is the baby of his family, with the world revolving around him. It would be an understandable fear for an adult learning all of this for the first time! Dean solemnly assures Sam that Dad won't let the monsters get him. Sam counters that the monsters could get Dad, but Dean insists that they can't get Dad, because he's the best.

"I read in Dad's book that they got Mom," Sam ventures, knowing that he's treading on thin ice with this one, and it kind of breaks my heart that he's learned the truth about how his mother died by reading it in John's journal instead of being told. We already know from season one that despite being the reason behind John's quest, Mary's death was seldom ever mentioned among the family, and the comics – dodgy though their consistency with canon continuity tends to be – reinforce that fact.

Dean bites his lip again, because that's a very sore spot for a variety of reasons, and evades that it's complicated.

"If they got Mom then they can get Dad," Sam fearfully insists, and he sounds absolutely petrified at the thought. John being away when it's Christmas – being late getting home for Christmas – is what brought all of this to such a head. They are both so very young, so utterly reliant on their absentee lone parent, who has left them all alone in this dirty little motel room so that he can go and risk his life elsewhere. "And if they can get Dad, they can get us."

Dean gets up and moves to sit alongside Sam on the other bed, a clear visual and physical statement of reassurance of the kind that's so typical of Dean. "It's not like that," he firmly tells his brother. "Okay, Dad's fine. We're fine. Trust me."



Sam shakes his head tearfully. He pushed for this, forced the revelation, but Dean was absolutely right when he said that his brother wouldn't want to know. It's an inevitable Catch 22 that until you actually know all the details about something you can't really make an informed decision about whether or not you are better or worse off for knowing!

"Dad's gonna be here for Christmas," Dean repeats, getting right back to the original point. "Just like he always is."

Throughout the flashbacks in this episode, Dean keeps repeating the same statements over and over, that Dad will be home in time, that he's promised, that he always gets home in time – so you really have to wonder just how many Christmases they've spent like this already: stuck in a dingy motel wherever they've moved to this time, knowing nobody but each other, with John out hunting. Does John usually manage to get home in time, and this is a one off? Or is this selective memory, Dean just trying to kid himself that Dad always gets back in time, as though maybe if he says it often enough it'll be real? As though John will make it home in time and in one piece if only Dean believes he will, and trusts him enough. Is this the first Christmas that John has failed to make it home, or is his presence on the day always hit and miss? It's impossible to be sure, on this evidence.

Sam's really struggling to hold back tears now, so brushes his brother off by lying down and saying that he just wants to go to sleep. Dean stays right where he is, sitting miserably on the edge of Sam's bed, listening to his brother cry, and fretting about all the ways in which he can't fix this. "It'll all be better when you wake up," he unhappily offers. "You'll see. I promise."

Back in the present, Sam and Dean approach the Carrigan's house, which is unremittingly suburban and festive. "Can't you just feel the evil pagan vibe?" Dean snarks as they approach the door, before turning on his biggest smile to butter up Madge Carrigan when she answers his knock.

Between them, the boys smile their way through a conversation with Madge about her wreaths, and how much they admired them in the shop, and how much they regret not getting the chance to buy one before they all sold out. Embodying the light-hearted and vivacious image of stereotypical All-American apple-pie housewife for all she's worth, Madge is chirpily welcoming, but regrets that they were the last she had for the season. Her husband Edward joins them all at the door to complete the Ozzie and Harriet image: utterly idealized, too-cheerful, too-perfect, totally swearword-free, and marvellously ludicrous. He joins in the chorus of praise for the lovely wreaths, and offers some peanut brittle. Sam quickly smacks Dean's hand away before he can take any candy from the man they believe to be harbouring or invoking an evil pagan god a la the townsfolk in Scarecrow. Hee.



Motel. Weapons man Dean is carving wooden stakes, while Sam busies himself at the laptop, finally letting out a triumphant "I knew it, something was way off with those two!" It transpires that the Carrigans lived in Seattle last year, where two abductions took place right around Christmas – one of which we saw in the teaser, of course – then moved here to Ypsilanti in January. And all the Christmas decoration around their house isn't the traditional boughs of holly, he continues, but verbain and mint. Both of these are, along with the meadowsweet, associated with druidism. 'Serious pagan stuff', as Sam calls it.

"So, what? Ozzie and Harriet are keeping a pagan god hidden underneath their plastic-covered couch?" Dean sighs. Sam mutters that he doesn't know, but that they have to check them out further. Bobby, it seems, has provided the means of despatch for the god when they find it – evergreen stakes, which Dean, as previously noted, is busily whittling in preparation for a night's hunting.

Carrigans'. Night. While Dean bends to pick the lock on the front door, Sam pulls the stakes out of his bag on his back, ready to face for whatever they find inside, and there's something about the synergy of this tiny scene that really appeals to me, the unconscious harmony with which they work. I can't help but think breaking in around the back would be less conspicuous, mind, but they seem discreet enough about it, despite not, as usual, wearing gloves.

Inside, the boys poke around, Dean noting the plastic-covered couch with a snort and shake of his head at the folly of the rich, and both of them looking perplexed, rather than in any way covetous, at the sheer quantity of Christmas decoration covering every surface. It's so overdone my eyes hurt!

At length, Sam finds the locked door down to the basement, and calls his brother's attention rather louder than I tend to consider safe when trespassing in someone else's house. Not that I make a habit of such a thing, of course. More poking around ensues, but the contents down there, however, are considerably less festive. The cellar is a dark, dank abattoir littered with human detritus – blood and bones absolutely everywhere. Ewwwww. It's tremendously gory, and both brothers look disgusted and slightly nauseous. At length, Sam notices a large red sack hanging from a meat hook, clearly with something large inside, and moves to investigate. It seems to move when he touches it, as if the occupant is still alive, but since this detail is never referred to again, we'll just pretend it never happened. Then Madge Carrigan appears behind Sam, grabs him by the throat, and slams him up against the wall. Dean promptly tries to rush to the rescue, only to be sideswiped by Edward Carrigan, who slams his head hard into the wall, and lets him crumple unceremoniously to the floor, out cold.

"Gosh, I wish you boys hadn't come down here," Madge intones, as she continues to throttle Sam. Both hers and her husband's faces momentarily distort to reveal their evil supernatural nature, as if their actions and the contents of their cellar weren't enough of a giveaway. Then she smacks Sam's head into the wall, and the lights go out.

I'd been waiting for the whumping to start – they've got an impressively long way into the episode before actually coming face to face with anything dangerous!

Later. Sam and Dean sit tied to two chairs, back-to-back, in the Carrigan's kitchen, Sam awake once more, while Dean's head still hangs limp. Then, as Dean starts to move, Sam calls to ask if he's okay. Dean, who has picked up another of his habitual bleeding head wounds, offers a groggily cautious assent. "So, I guess we're dealing with Mr and Mrs God," Sam ruefully observes, realising too late that they just weren't suspicious enough of the Carrigans.

It isn't often that both brothers find themselves captive at the same time, but here they are, prisoners of these pagan demi-gods, without so much as a sniff of backup anywhere in sight. The Carrigans come bustling back into the kitchen, and what's cool is how that cheesy 1950s All-American apple-pie routine of theirs suddenly becomes all kinds of menacing underneath the saccharine, when you know what they are, and it is allied to their evil actions.

"Ooh, and here we thought you two lazy bones were going to sleep through all the fun stuff," Madge chides.
"Miss all this? No, we're partiers," Dean snarks right back at her, bristling.
"Isn't he a kick in the pants, honey? You're hunters, is what you are," Edward announces.
"And you're pagan gods," Dean counters. "Why don't we just call it even, and go our separate ways?"
"What, so you can bring back more hunters and kill us, I don't think so," Edward laughs.
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you went snacking on humans," Sam growls.

The Carrigans brush this murderousness off completely, Madge breezily explaining, while laying napkins in the boys' laps, that they used to take over a hundred tributes a year, but now take only two or three. As if that makes it all right. "Hardy boys here make five," Edward notes. Unsurprisingly, the boys do not find this statement reassuring.

"Now, that's not so bad, is it?" Madge coos.
"Well, you say it like that, I guess you guys are the Cunninghams," Dean snorts, complete with Death Eyes, since sarcasm and glares are the only way he has right now of expressing his anger and of trying not to show any fear. And this is, after all, the second time now that he has been trussed up as a human sacrifice to a pagan god!
"You, mister, better show us a little respect," Edward sternly instructs.
"Or what, you'll eat us?" snarks Sam. Touché.

However, there are rituals to be followed before the Carrigans can get down to actually munching on the boys.

"We're just sticklers for ritual," Madge explains.
"And you know what kicks off the whole shebang?" her husband asks.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Let me guess – meadowsweet. Oh, shucks, you're all out of wreaths. I guess we'll just have to cancel the sacrifice, huh?"
"Oh, don't be such a Gloomy Gus!" Madge chuckles, pulling out a couple of dried-up wreaths left over from a previous occasion, I guess, and draping them around each of the boys' necks. "There! Oh, don't they just look darling?"
"Good enough to eat," Edward agrees.

Ooh, if looks could kill, he'd drop dead on the spot from the look Dean gives him for that line!



Step number two is blood, and Dean starts hollering with rage when Edward slices Sam's arm open to drip blood into a little dish. No one is allowed to hurt Sammy! And I'd imagine it's probably worse since Dean can't really see properly what's happening, what with them being trussed up back-to-back and all.

"Sammy? Sammy?" he anxiously calls. "Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!"
Edward is not amused by the attitude, and starts to lecture. "You hear how they talk to us? To gods? Listen, pal, back in the day we were worshipped by millions."
"Times have changed!" Dean angrily snaps.
"Tell me about it," Edward grumbles. "All of a sudden this Jesus character's the hot new thing in town. All of a sudden our altars are being burned down, and we're being hunted like common monsters."
"But did we say peep?" Madge joins in the history lesson. "Oh, no, no, no, we did not. Two millennium. We kept a low profile, we got jobs, a mortgage, we – what was that word, dear?"
"We assimilated," says Edward.
"Yep, we assimilated," Madge agrees, as if this makes their yearly human sacrifices acceptable. "Why, we play bridge on Tuesdays and Fridays! We're just like everybody else."
"You're not blending in as smooth as you think, lady," Dean snarls.

Heh. It has to be noted that this whole concept of old pagan gods having to adapt in order to survive in modern society, because the whole point of being immortal is that they don't die and therefore continue to live even when their followers abandon and forget them, kind of sounds like Douglas Adams' vision of the Norse gods in the modern world, in his novel The Long Dark Tea Time Of The Soul.

Madge's only response is to warn Dean that this might pinch a bit as she brings her knife to his arm for his share in the blood-letting.

Funny how both brothers make such loud fuss about having their arms sliced open here, when both have endured far worse injuries in the past with far more stoicism. I suppose context is everything. Madge feigns offence at Dean calling her a bitch for cutting him, lightly noting that when she feels like swearing, she says 'fudge' instead. The look on Dean's face is priceless, like the apple-pie mannerisms of this couple are so much worse than the human sacrifice and torture. "I'll try to remember that," he growls.

Meanwhile, Edward advances on Sam with a nasty-looking implement, cheerfully remarking that the boys have no idea how lucky they are, that once upon a time kids came from miles around to be where they are. Yeah, I'm sure they were queuing up to be eaten alive! Sam is more interested in that nasty-looking implement than he is in the history lesson on pagan customs, fearfully asking what the man is going to do.

"If you fudging touch me again I'll fudging kill you," Dean snarls at Madge as she leans over him once more. Heh. Got to love that he can take her swear-substitute and make it sound so menacing. But Madge merely compliments his restraint, and then slices his other arm for more bloodletting. Shame the bloody effect looks so very fake – the special effects are usually better than that.

Edward grabs hold of Sam's hand, and I close my eyes so as not to see him pulling a fingernail right out of one finger. EWWWW. It's totally gross, and and this time I don't blame Sam at all for howling in pain and almost fainting!

Dean's blood and Sam's fingernail are added to the concoction the demi-god couple are preparing. "Sweet Peter on a Popsicle stick!" Edward then laughs. "I forgot the tooth." Ick.

"Merry Christmas, Sam," Dean breathlessly gasps to his brother, as Edward advances on him with his heavy-duty pliers. He gets a firm grip on one of Dean's teeth ready to pull, and viewers start cringing in fear, only for the doorbell to chime at the crucial moment. The Carrigans freeze, and Dean hurriedly mumbles around the implement in his mouth that they really should get that. With a sigh, they put the pliers down and head to the front door.

Wow. The chick at the door in the green velvet outfit with appliqué reindeer on the front of it really has overdosed on Christmas spirit, and that's saying something considering she's standing right next to two actual pagan gods of the winter solstice! She's brought a fruit cake, which the Carrigans dutifully enthuse over, and invites them carolling, an invitation they regretfully decline, what with being in the middle of a tasty human sacrifice, and all. And…good God, the saccharine conversation they all have just about rots my teeth right out of my head, and that's even knowing that two of the three are totally faking it. But the sugar overdose is nicely counteracted by the way the smiles just drop right off the Carrigans' faces the moment they close the door, and the way they trample over that innocent little fruit cake in their hurry to return to that half-completed ritual and cannibal supper of theirs.

However, they reach the kitchen only to find that the prisoners have taken advantage of the distraction to get out of their bonds and escape, and both kitchen doors are hastily slammed shut, trapping them inside. Dean pulls a drawer out of a handy nearby cabinet to keep his door secured – although not all that well secured, it has to be said – while he hurries around to help Sam with his. Dean worriedly yells over all the banging and crashing that the evergreen stakes are in the basement, to which Sam reasonably enough replies that they need more evergreen, then. He glances across at the large Christmas tree dominating the room, and has a lightbulb moment. Hooray for real trees over plastic, I guess. The brothers pull another cabinet in front of Sam's door and then hurry over to dismember the Christmas tree.

I really love that they make impromptu stakes out of the Christmas tree. That's just so perfect for this episode and this show.

Having availed themselves of a couple of nice, sharp evergreen branches, the brothers start back toward Sam's door, only to notice that it's all gone suspiciously quiet. And that would be because the Carrigans realised that Dean's door was less well secured, and have managed to get it open. Edward tackles Dean to the ground and starts whaling on him, while Madge confronts Sam over his destruction of her tree, and backhands him to the ground before he gets a chance to bring his stake into play. But then as she advances on him, he manages to smack her away with the branch, and then slams the pointy end into her chest before she can recover.

Man, Sam's really racking up his kill count this season.

Edward sees his wife get stabbed and howls in anguish, and the distraction allows Dean to reach out for his own branch, knock his attacker down, and stab him a couple of times in turn. Case closed. "Merry Christmas," Sam tells his brother, once he's caught his breath again.

So, the Christmas-clad demi gods end up lying dead alongside one another in the middle of their frenzy of festive decoration, stabbed to death with their own Christmas tree, the dismembered branches still strewn with festive decoration as they stick out of their chests. Man, I wonder what the cops will make of that! Not to mention all the grisly human remains in their basement! And Winchester fingerprints all over the place.

I've seen a few people commenting on how relatively easily these gods have been defeated, and how as gods they should have been much harder to take out. But that takes me back to my earlier point about pagan deities of this kind not being anything approaching omnipotent. It's important to think of pagan folklore rather than the Christian tradition. These creatures would come from the same basic stock as the Trickster we met in Tall Tales, and the method of destruction there was very similar. He only escaped – not that the boys actually know that – because he didn't underestimate his opponents, and because he had the ability to conjure a corporeal figure out of raw firmament with which to fool them. The powers of these 'gods' were tied to the elements and to their immortality, and evidently nothing more than that. Their physical bodies were vulnerable to the evergreen stakes, no doubt they were unaccustomed to being seriously challenged, and the boys got lucky. Simple as that.

Flashback! It's still snowing in Broken Bow, Nebraska, back in 1991, as Christmas morning dawns. Dean wakes Sam up to excitedly tell him that Dad was here and brought Christmas, totally casting John as Santa in this scenario, Sure enough, their grimy motel room now has a lopsided little tree strewn with lights, and a couple of gifts underneath it.

It is pretty obvious right from the start, though, that John hasn't been anywhere near the motel, that Dean has set this up himself because he wants Sam to have Christmas and doesn't want his brother to be angry with their father for disappointing him.

Sam yawns and blearily wonders why Dad didn't try to wake him up before taking off again, and Dean's face falls as he has to spin his story out a little more, assuring Sam that Dad tried to wake him up but he was too soundly asleep. "Did I tell you he would give us Christmas, or what?"

It's really heartbreaking how deep he is burying his own disappointment in his attempt to make sure Sam isn't let down. Luckily for Dean, for now, anyway, Sam is only eight and is easily distracted by presents. There are only two gifts beneath the tree, both of which Sam grabs. None for Dean; bless him, he's so focused on alleviating Sam's disappointment, on giving Sam at least a part of the Christmas he craves, that it wouldn't even occur to him to fake gifts for himself to back up the ruse. If Sam was paying attention right now, and wasn't only eight and therefore largely self-absorbed, that would be a major red flag right there. But Sam is, for now at least, completely willing to believe the lie, hasn't learned yet to resent his father – and how much of that is down to Dean's determined PR campaign in John's favour? It would be so easy for him to say 'Dad hasn't come home, so I've got these for you instead', to encourage both Sam and himself to resent the deprivation, and let the hurt and disappointment fester. But that would blow holes right through the façade he's been so rigidly maintaining. However disappointed he is in John's failure to return home himself, he would do anything rather than let Sam feel the same way, especially after the enormous emotional upheaval of last night. He needs Sam to believe in the justifications he offers, so that he can believe in them himself, and he needs to believe in John because he simply doesn't have anyone else. And Sam is in the habit of believing Dean when he offers empty reassurance – even his adult self, sixteen years later, still falls for it half the time!

Dean hops onto the couch to watch Sam open his presents, looking almost as excited as Sam to see what's inside, and that really hurts, because he doesn't have anything for himself, but is so happy at the prospect of Sam's delight.

But the best laid of plans go astray, after all, and this was a long way from being the best laid of plans. The first gift Sam opens contains a Barbie doll, and he is confused. Dean is dismayed, but laughs it off as a joke and urges Sam to open the other parcel. It's a glitterstick. "Dad never showed, did he?" Sam resignedly asks, already knowing the answer.

Dean looks so dismayed as he tries to cling onto the lie, the fantasy that Dad would never let them down, but Sam isn't having any of it, wanting to know where Dean got all this stuff. From a nice house up the block, Dean confesses, then as now unable to lie to his brother for long in the face of a direct challenge. "I swear I didn't know they were chick presents," he apologises.

It's kind of breathtaking how casually he admits to having broken into someone's house and stolen the gifts he brought back for Sam. Just another example of his double standards, which clearly manifested early on, after the sternness with which he asked earlier if Sam had stolen his gift for John. Dean considers it's for Sam to be justification for just about anything – up to and including the damnation of his own eternal soul in exchange for Sam's life.

Absolutely crushed, Sam hangs his head, because Dad hasn't come home to spend Christmas with them, and there aren't any gifts, and he's just had all his illusions shattered and found out how dangerous the world really is. And this would be a large part of the reason why, sixteen years later, he remembers Christmas only as a time of misery and disappointment.

"Look, I'm sure Dad would have been here if he could," Dean insists.
"If he's alive," Sam pessimistically sighs.
"Don't say that," Dean immediately protests. "Course he's alive. He's Dad."

He has to be alive, because he's Dad. John has been leaving Dean alone to look after Sam for a number of years now, we know that much for a fact. He must have been afraid every single time that John wouldn't come back this time, buried those fears deep in denial, and built up that image of John the Indestructible Superhero to comfort himself, since he had absolutely no one to turn to for reassurance. How lonely must it have been, alone with that secret and that fear every time? And yet for Sam to know the truth and share his concern for John's safety was the last thing he wanted.

Sam nods and sighs and looks away, and Dean watches him anxiously. He tried so damn hard to give Sam what he needed, but just doesn't have the wherewithal or resources to achieve it. He can't make their Dad come home to spend Christmas with them just by wishing for it to happen, and it was for Dad to come home that Sam really wanted, more than any material gifts.

Sam makes a decision and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out the 'real special' gift that Bobby helped him acquire for John, and holds it out to Dean.

"No," Dean immediately refuses. "No, that's for Dad."
"Dad lied to me," Sam unhappily tells him. "I want you to have it."
Dean still hesitates. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure," Sam insists.

It can be read as all kinds of symbolic that Sam is giving Dean the gift he'd intended for their Dad. John has let them both down badly on this occasion by not getting home in time, while Dean is the one who has been here for Sam throughout, who so carefully and reassuringly talked him through his discovery of the things that go bump in the night, and who at least tried to make it a proper Christmas for him. And Sam has recognised that, wants to reward his brother accordingly. He's a generous little soul, really, and it ties beautifully in with the childhood hero worship of his brother he confessed to in Fresh Blood.

Just how many of Sam's major milestones did John miss out on, one has to wonder? It's a safe bet that Dean was there for every single one, at least until Sam left for Stanford.

Dean tentatively takes the gift – and inside is the amulet that, sixteen years later, he is still never seen without. "Thank you, Sam," he breathes. "I – I love it."

His delighted reaction to the gift is just so beautiful and wholehearted, the kind of reaction that can't help but make the giving of any gift worthwhile. It also gives the very definite impression that he doesn't receive many gifts, and that's heartbreaking, too. This particular gift, straight from Sam's heart to his, means so much to him that, sixteen years later, he still never takes it off.

I doubt there was much serious logical thought in Sam's giving of that gift to Dean. He is, after all, only eight years old here. It was a spur of the moment decision; he was angry with his Dad for letting him down, and recognised, at least as much as an angry eight-year-old is able, both that his brother was having just as bad of a Christmas as he was, and that Dean was trying incredibly hard to make it better for him. So he gave the amulet to Dean instead, on impulse. But I also doubt that he has ever regretted that decision for a moment. And the gesture means so, so much to Dean, whose efforts seem so rarely to have been truly recognised and rewarded. Sam's little nod of satisfaction as he watches his brother place the amulet around his neck says that he knows he's made the right choice here.



The fact that the amulet was provided to Sam in the first place by Bobby not only confirms for us, as mentioned earlier, that Bobby has known the Winchester boys since they were children, but also means that – unless Bobby was just humouring Sam when he said it was 'real special' – despite being a gift given by a small boy, the amulet could still have a story to tell. It has long been theorised that there is something special about it, just as Bobby told Young Sam. So maybe we will learn more in the future.

Mostly, what I'd love to know is how Bobby reacted the next time the Winchesters visited and he saw Dean wearing the amulet instead of John! I'd also like to know what Sam thinks whenever he sees the amulet around Dean's neck, all these years later; presumably it is such a permanent fixture that he barely even notices it, but there must be moments when it catches his eye and he feels proud that his gift still means so much to his brother.

Back in the present. Motel. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas plays gently in the background, and it is awesome. The entire soundtrack for this episode is awesome – the most gorgeous versions of traditional Christmas carols all the way, and it works so beautifully with the tone and theme of the episode.

Sam is on tenterhooks as he hears Dean arrive back from a beer run, and Dean walks in, wearing the amulet as he always does, to find that Christmas has happened in their room, complete with tree, decorations and egg nog in little plastic cups. Oh, and the tree is decorated with little Christmas tree shaped air fresheners, rather than anything fancier, because what else could Sam have acquired at such short notice?

"What's all this?" Dean's jaw about hits the floor.
"What do you think it is? It's Christmas!" Sam enthuses, trying hard to make it sound natural.

Dean looks at him, and oh, Sam's almost painfully anxious to see his brother's reaction, wearing that nervous little half-smile that he always wears whenever he's done something he thinks Dean will like, but isn't completely sure until approval is offered, like an anxious puppy. Did I do it right? Is this good? Is it what you wanted? Can't relax until he is sure he hasn't got it all wrong.



Throughout the episode Sam has been remembering that Christmas of so long ago, but something that was experienced as a child is now being remembered through the eyes of an adult. At age eight he recognised that Dean was doing his best, but that small fact would have quickly been buried beneath the weight of everything he resented about their lives. Certainly when Dean first raised the subject of Christmas, Sam's knee-jerk reaction suggested that all their childhood Christmases had blurred together to leave only a general impression of unhappiness. As an adult, however, he can look back and realise just how young Dean was back then and how unfair a position he was in, has been recognising for a long time now just how much his brother has done for him over the years. He's been making a determined effort this season to give a little of that back where possible.

Remembering how miserable he was that specific Christmas, with John not getting home in time, and finding out the truth, led Sam straight into the memory of how desperately Dean tried to make Christmas happen for him, and from there to the memory of Dean's delighted and awestruck reaction to the gift that Sam gave him. And no doubt that was what swung it for Sam, realising how much it would mean to his brother and wanting to see that reaction again, and understanding how important it is to do this for Dean while he still has the chance – that he'll regret it forever if he doesn't. It might hurt like hell to go through the motions of Christmas good cheer, knowing that by the same time next year his brother will be gone, taken as payment for Sam's own life, but Sam has weighed that pain up against Dean's happiness and realised that there's no contest.

Dean looks at the Christmas tree, and his slow smile of appreciation is beautiful to see, as is the way his eyes keep tracking between Sam and the tree throughout the scene that follows. Such immediate, heartfelt delight is all Sam could have wished for.

"What made you change your mind?" Dean asks, as reluctant now as he was back in 1991 to accept the gift until he is absolutely sure that Sam really does want to give it to him, that it isn't going to cause his brother too much pain to make it worthwhile.

There's a long pause, as Sam is completely unable to find any words to answer that question, at least in a way that either of them will be comfortable with or that will allow him to maintain his cheery demeanour. By way of diversion, he hands his brother a plastic cup of egg nog that he poured earlier, and stands by with the bottle in case it needs more kick, as anxious to please as any society hostess. Dean's reaction suggests that there's plenty of kick in there already, thanks all the same!

And it's just the two of them alone together in a dingy motel again. Sixteen years and that sense nothing has changed. But in every other respect everything has changed. This shabby room with the lopsided tree and whatever cheap decorations Sam could scrounge – it's all either one of them could wish for right now, because the trimmings are not what is important here. What's important is the gesture of love that brought it all about, is the two of them, all that's left of the family, spending the holiday together, happy to be together in spite of the strain of knowing what lies ahead. It's what Dean wanted, and he doesn't ask for much, is allowed to have what he asks for even less. And it's what Sam asked for in Fresh Blood, although he's clearly finding the reality of living his request painful.

"So, have a seat – let's do…Christmas…stuff. Or whatever," Sam falteringly suggests. Bless. He's falling over himself to give Dean the Christmas he wanted, but bless them, neither of them actually has any idea what traditional family Christmas celebrations really involve, other than putting up decorations and exchanging gifts.

Gifts come first, because that part they know how to do. Dean goes first, thinking fast because Sam has completely blindsided him, and then handing over a couple of brown paper bags from the plastic carrier he brought in with him. The chances are that he actually picked these items up for himself, since he didn't think they were going to be observing Christmas, rather than originally intending them as gifts for Sam, or. But it's the gesture that counts, rather than the content.

"Where'd you get these?" Sam asks, echoing his younger self, but with a genuine smile on his face.
"Someplace special…" Dean begins, then laughs. "Gas-mart down the street. Open 'em up."
"Great minds think alike, Dean," Sam chuckles, pulling out a couple of gifts of his own, wrapped up in newspaper just like the amulet all those years ago.
"Really?" Dean's face lights up like a Christmas tree, like it wouldn't have occurred to him that there'd be presents to go with the tree and decorations, because Sam has already given him what he wanted, which was to simply observe the holiday with him, spend that time together, as brothers. And he's just so happy to be getting anything at all, and it's heartbreaking.

Sam laughs when he sees what's actually in the bags Dean gave him – skin magazines and shaving cream. Dean does always love to tease Sam about porn, but yeah, these probably weren't originally intended as gifts. "You like?" Dean grins.

Although he's genuinely amused by the jocular offering, the strain Sam's under is pretty obvious, just one misplaced word away from tears all through the scene. He regards his odd little gifts fondly, murmuring, "Yeah. Yeah." And yeah, he does, because he absolutely doesn't care what they are. He cares that Dean gave them to him, and that this could be the last thing his brother ever gives him.

In turn, Sam's gift for Dean is beautifully attuned to his brother's interests and passions: a candy bar and a bottle of motor oil. Couldn't be more perfect. The chocolate uses Dean's love of food as an opportunity to tease, and the oil for the Impala speaks volumes, coming on the heels of Dean teaching him to maintain the Impala for the first time. "Well, look at this," Dean delights. "Fuel for me, and fuel for my baby. These are awesome, thanks."

But really, whether jocular or meaningful, the content of these gifts isn't important, for either of them. It isn't about the gifts in themselves; it's the gesture and sentiment that counts, the fact of being together. It does occur to me, though, that this is the kind of instance where the lack of fleshing out of Sam's character really shows itself. Because Sam could give Dean chocolate and motor oil, and even a casual viewer of the show can recognise those items as being perfectly in tune with Dean's personality quirks. But Sam has never had the same kind of personality quirks that make it possible to imagine just what could be acquired at a trashy mini-mart that would suit him so completely. We know that he likes to read and is pretty good with computers, but that's about it. He must be a nightmare to buy for – probably just as well they don't usually bother!

So then Dean holds up his plastic cup of egg nog for a sincere Christmas toast, and Sam's even closer to losing it, but manages to hold on tight to his emotions, because this is meant to be that One Last Happy Christmas Dean asked for, not a blub-fest about what next Christmas holds for Sam. And Dean looks so content it hurts. It takes so little to make him happy, but it's so rare for anyone to actually make the effort to give it to him.



"Hey, Dean," Sam calls at length, and Dean gives him his attention, but Sam can't actually find any words for what he wanted to say, because what he's feeling right now is just too huge. All that love and pain, joy and grief, fear and anger, peace and despair. The unshed tears in his eyes say it all for him, and everything that's too painful to say out loud is conveyed in the look the brothers share.

Then Sam remembers another thing that normal people do at Christmas, and puts the game on for them to watch, which makes a nice distraction from what was in danger of becoming an awkwardly sentimental moment, since that's not what this was meant to be about.

So the camera pulls back on two brothers relaxing in one another's company, watching the game on TV, Sam laughing at something Dean just said, and each of them stealing little glances at the other – Sam especially – because this is as good as it ever gets for them, and every moment counts now, every second has to be committed to memory.

Outside, it is snowing, because the pagan demi gods who were bringing mild weather without anyone even asking them for it have now been destroyed. And the Christmas lights decorating the motel are reflected in the Impala's shiny black surface, and it is all good.

Man, that was a beautifully bittersweet episode!



December 2007

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