10: [Video] Have Yourself a Supernatural Christmas
The camera is in the usual spot, on the table, switched on. Dean is starting to record himself whenever he feels disgustingly pathetic enough to send out a silent request for company. He's managed to pull one of the records out of the closet that's actually good Christmas music - none of this crappy new-age shit - and sets it carefully on the pin, placing the needle at the edge of the vinyl. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" by Judy Garland starts playing, and Dean sighs, taking a step back and shoving his hands in his pockets. Almost longingly, he glances over one shoulder at a tiny, near-pathetic tree bedecked in strings of multicolored lights and pine-scented car air fresheners.
That was the exact tree Sam had made on their last Christmas, and when he'd asked the closet for decorations, this is all it would give him.
At least there's a fireplace.
Moving to the table, he pours another shot of liquor into the already-spiked eggnog and knocks it back. Sniffing as he caps the rum - or whiskey, or Bourbon, or Scotch - Dean nudges it away on the wooden top and takes a deep breath. Jesus, he used to love this holiday. And as soon as the decor started going up in the house, Dean was more than pleased to dodge flying ornaments and tinsel just to stand in a corner and watched the magic happen - literally.
Now, though...now he's alone. There's no brother to celebrate the last Christmas with, no pagan gods to gank, no evil Anti-Claus to worry about.
He's trying to avoid the booze but it keeps hitting him harder every time, and at least he falls asleep when he drinks. Not feeling fully invested in the Christmas spirit, Dean perches on the edge of his bed and stares morosely at the blank television across from him. No Christmas football game on, either.
And he hates football.
That was the exact tree Sam had made on their last Christmas, and when he'd asked the closet for decorations, this is all it would give him.
At least there's a fireplace.
Moving to the table, he pours another shot of liquor into the already-spiked eggnog and knocks it back. Sniffing as he caps the rum - or whiskey, or Bourbon, or Scotch - Dean nudges it away on the wooden top and takes a deep breath. Jesus, he used to love this holiday. And as soon as the decor started going up in the house, Dean was more than pleased to dodge flying ornaments and tinsel just to stand in a corner and watched the magic happen - literally.
Now, though...now he's alone. There's no brother to celebrate the last Christmas with, no pagan gods to gank, no evil Anti-Claus to worry about.
He's trying to avoid the booze but it keeps hitting him harder every time, and at least he falls asleep when he drinks. Not feeling fully invested in the Christmas spirit, Dean perches on the edge of his bed and stares morosely at the blank television across from him. No Christmas football game on, either.
And he hates football.