A Very Supernatural Christmas – A Poem

Come December, Cleveland is like virtually every other Western city; glowing strings of red, green and gold are threaded through the barren boughs lining downtown streets. Except that here, one also strangely finds two unorthodox troupes of very bright blue huddling around the veterans’ memorial and the northwest corner of Public Square. When the dark, sharp air is blended with a breathy mist or a falling web of white, this spectral blue can be beautiful, nearly ethereal purple. In other atmospheric conditions, namely during the day (yes, the lights are often on then; way to save energy, dumbasses), it can come across as tacky as, you guessed it, a Martha Stewart-on-acid Supernatural hotel room. Thus, the unwitting kernel of this rewritten classic.

I ask forgiveness in advance for any technical deficiencies, mais à mon avis, in verse, sentiment takes precedence over prosody (the cry of the talentless hack). So, thanks to the writers, producers, crew and cast of Supernatural for making something that has become for me as synonymous with the holidays as A Christmas Story and the loathing of banal family get-togethers. May you all have a groovy whatever, except you, Krampus. Try this bar of Life Buoy.

A Very Supernatural Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through some house
Not a creature was stirring, certainly not a mouse.
Something was rumbling down the chimney without care.
St. Nick? Hardly, for bloodthirsty hell was now there.


Devils and demons painting fugly hotel walls,
While serial-killing chimney sweeps decked Dean’s halls.
And Sam at his screen — the answer, heavenly manna!
What else could it possibly be but Evil Santa?

“There is no Santa.” “Yeah, I know,” was Sam’s blue refrain,
As Dean’s mind fumbled over this emotional stain.
Next they drove to the source of his info pillage:
A decrepit sign, Welcome to Santa’s Village.

How about a Christmas, asked Dean. No, replied Sam,
As ghosts of Xmases past flash sad on the cam.
Ten bucks for snow, cheap jokes are free, like limping sweets
Of this pimp Santa prowling for freshest meats.

“Tell me you didn’t smell that. That was candy, man.”
“That was Ripple. I think.” Coffee drunk as they scan
Saint Nicotine — Christmas, yes? No — A scream! Who’s in peril?
No one, but any ears killed by the world’s worst carol.

Another murder is probed the next morn. “Wreaths, huh?”
Meadowsweet, the morons are told, more pagan stuff, duh.
Jewish bunnies, lap dances and dammit, where’s that snow?
They’re getting ever so close, so on with the show.

Shopkeep, why make wreaths out of this expensive stuff?
“Beats me, I didn’t make them.” A name, that wasn’t so tough.
The monster-of-the-week, they’re getting near it,
But wreaths for free? “Hell no, it’s Christmas.” “That’s the spirit.”

“This is my last year,” says Dean. At last, the Grinch’s reason.
In a moment they vanish, trappings of the season.
All because of love, one soon forever absent.
“I just can’t,” says Sam, stumbling, as they sit, silent.

For the first time, the journal is seen, youth in reprise
As young Dean tries to console young Sam, who simply cries.
Now, Mrs. Wreath and her caricature spouse —
Wait, they’re out! “Oh, fudge” echoes throughout the house.

Plastic covered couches camouflaging pagan gods,
So what’s the fix? Evergreen stakes run through their bods.
What’s in the basement, dark horror and chilling fear?
“Gosh, I wish you boys hadn’t come down here.”

The brothers are tied — settle down, ladies — for a ritual party.
Apparently humans make a snack extra hearty.
“You mister, better show us a little respect.” “Or what?
You’ll eat us?” Is this their fate, has escape slammed shut?

“Don’t be such a gloomy Gus.” Ouch, those pliers fudging hurt!
“Merry Christmas, Sam,” was Dean’s reply so curt.
The doorbell rings! Their chance! The luckiest of breaks!
The Carrigans are locked — gasp! Sam, Dean have lost their stakes!

Ah! The tree! Armed anew, ready for gods busting through,
Parries and thrusts, two holiday coups-de-grâce so true!
Days gone by, Dean’s present prestidigitation
Fools not one bit. “Dad never showed,” Sam’s consternation.

In a flash, a gift meant for one is given to another.
“Thank you, Sam, I, I love it.” A bond, brother to brother.
Years fly, and through it all the gift opens the door,
Eggnog with kick, as warm as their resigned hearts’ core.

Skin mags and motor oil, cheapest gifts are treasure,
For what they’ve forged in blood and fire, lies beyond measure.
As toasts are drunk, and the football game fades from sight,
A Very Supernatural Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!