Is It Time for Christmas Spirit?
There are three dead hunters, their bodies carefully posed and frozen, encased in ice and turned into holiday sculptures. Dean has stripped them out of their disgusting survivalist gear, and instead, under the thick ice their bodies are wrapped to the waist in a piece of white silk. The men, two young and one older, stand with their heads bowed, one foot pointed, bent forward at strange angles. Their posture is solemn and sedate, but the faces that stare wide-eyed out of icy prisons are contorted into varied expressions of absolute anguish.
The skin has been carefully flayed from their backs, connected only to the length of the spine, and shaped like wings behind them. The ribs have been carefully broken along the sides so that their points protrude out from beneath the shoulder blades. Eerie pricks of light are dotted down their arms; candles placed into the hollowed bones of extended arms, the flickering flames refracting strangely off the surface of the ice. The icicles that decorate ice-coated wings of skin are red from the blood, adding a slash of festive holiday color to the elsewise stark white images.
Dean's grinning from ear to ear, hanging green Christmas balls from the jutting ribs, winding a garland of flashing multi-colored Christmas lights around their throats. It's a bit of garish, pre-holiday cheer: a present for Sammy. Dean had never been told that killing people and making their corpses into bizarre shows of affection might not be appropriate. And so it's exactly how he shows Sammy he likes him -- rather like a cat that carefully arranges a dead bird on your pillow.
The skin has been carefully flayed from their backs, connected only to the length of the spine, and shaped like wings behind them. The ribs have been carefully broken along the sides so that their points protrude out from beneath the shoulder blades. Eerie pricks of light are dotted down their arms; candles placed into the hollowed bones of extended arms, the flickering flames refracting strangely off the surface of the ice. The icicles that decorate ice-coated wings of skin are red from the blood, adding a slash of festive holiday color to the elsewise stark white images.
Dean's grinning from ear to ear, hanging green Christmas balls from the jutting ribs, winding a garland of flashing multi-colored Christmas lights around their throats. It's a bit of garish, pre-holiday cheer: a present for Sammy. Dean had never been told that killing people and making their corpses into bizarre shows of affection might not be appropriate. And so it's exactly how he shows Sammy he likes him -- rather like a cat that carefully arranges a dead bird on your pillow.