It's three days before Christmas, and Our Intrepid Heroes have found themselves in an unusually balmy Ypsilanti, where something sinister's been gruesomely yanking unsuspecting residents up their chimneys in apparent anticipation of the holiday. Super-Smart Sammy speculates that they're dealing with one of the various Anti-Clauses who have popped up in folklore throughout the ages, but this week's villains are actually a pair of deathless pagan gods who masquerade as Michigan's modern-day versions of Ozzie and Harriet when they're not busy gnawing away on the human flesh they've stripped from their unsuspecting neighbors' bones. And as a result of an unfortunate series of miscalculations, Our Dear Boys very nearly become the gods' Christmas dinner, but Sam and Dean magically manage to free themselves at the last minute, and, after dismembering Ozzie and Harriet's festive yuletide tree for appropriately seasonal weaponry, the two dispatch the demon gods with a couple of evergreen stakes to the chest.
Meanwhile, because it's his last year on earth, Dashing El Deano wants to make this holiday one to remember (in more traditional ways, of course), which hurls an initially dismissive Sam into a series of flashbacks to the Christmas they spent alone with each other in some seedy Nebraska motel, because John Winchester has always sucked. During the course of that evening, Wee Sam learned monsters were real, Santa was not, and Dean has forever been a great big goddamned hero, so Wee Sam decides to gift his big brother with the present he'd been saving for their worthless bastard of a so-called father: the protective amulet Dean's never been seen without. Aw. And as a bonus, all of this contemplative rumination leads Sam to grant Dean's wish, and the episode closes with Rosemary Clooney crooning "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" while the boys exchange presents, and I...I think I have something in my eye. Again. Damn you, Kripke!
Once again, before we begin, Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon would like to take a moment of your time to make the following announcement. "Thanks! [Ahem!] Baron von C. is the man for me! Hee! See what I did there?!" I've got to stop letting you do these things, Raoul. "Hmph!"
We dispense with the THEN! for this evening's special holiday presentation in favor of something completely awesome: The old ident CBS used to air immediately preceding its Christmas programming back in the 1970s. Kripke's such a sick bastard.
We also, of course, dispense with the NOW! to fade right up on a most tastefully appointed yuletide living room as the closing notes of "The Twelve Days Of Christmas" tootle past on the soundtrack. The tree's immaculately done up, the room's warmly lit throughout, and an invitingly cozy fire crackles beneath a mantle topped off with an expensive-looking wreath, so we know some fucked-up shit's about to transpire, and I, for one, cannot wait. The home's doorbell rings, and as an aggravating preadolescent boy clad in a festive holiday sweater races to answer, the location card informs us we've landed in Seattle, Washington, "One Year Ago." "Merry Christmas, Grandpa!" the aggravating preadolescent chirps when he swings open the door, and the elderly gentleman in question crosses the threshold to tousle little Stevie's hair right before he rips little Stevie's head off with his bare hands! "GOOOOOOOOOORE!" Raoul shrieks, writhing about in his overstuffed armchair with delight for a moment until he realizes I'm just screwing with him. "Oh, you silly little man!" Raoul pouts, feeling a bit foolish. "Were I not so full of holiday cheer at the moment, I've a feeling I'd positively ruin my manicure on your face!" Seasons greetings to you, too, my scaly friend. By the way, those of you at home should know that "holiday cheer" for Raoul means "a flagon of flaming rum punch," so don't be surprised if things get a little messy up in here. "Hey!" Yes? "You forgot to mention my hat!" Consider it done, Raoul. "Hee! Kiss me, my pretties! KISS ME!"
Um. Yeah. So, where was I? Oh, yeah: Grandpa does not rip Little Stevie's head off with his bare hands at all, and instead leads Little Stevie into the most tastefully appointed yuletide living room while the two banter about presents and Santa and whether or not Little Stevie was a good boy this year. Little Stevie insists he was, so Grandpa kindly allows that Santa'll be sure to show up with lots of treats for Little Stevie this year, then.
Later that evening, Grandpa fires up the strings of white lights on the tree and tugs his fake Santa beard into place, topping off his complete costume with the requisite fur-trimmed cap above a curly white wig. He then deliberately shakes a little circlet of sleighbells and waits until Little Stevie scuttles halfway down the stairs to spy on him. Santa Grandpa hurriedly turns his back so the kid won't recognize him, and sets to placing presents from his big bag o' toys beneath the tree. Little Stevie's appropriately awestruck, and Santa Grandpa carries on happily with his deception until something heavy unexpectedly trundles across the rooftop far over their heads. Little Stevie of course thinks the noise is coming from Santa's unruly reindeer, but Santa Grandpa of course knows better, and warily hoists his eyebrows before shrugging it off and carrying on with the task at hand. Things are going well until a shower of soot cascades down through the chimney into the hearth, and Santa Grandpa, no longer able to ignore what might be happening up above, drops his bag to get down on his hands and knees beneath the mantel to see what the hell is going on. Little Stevie, meanwhile, creeps further down the stairs and cranes his neck around to make sure he misses none of the action, which is perhaps not the best idea at the moment for Little Stevie because...WHOMP! Accompanied by a blast of ominous horns, a pair of filthy hands shoots through the flue and latches onto Santa Grandpa's shoulders before yanking the poor old man up into that tight little space. Santa Grandpa shouts in shocked horror as the upper half of his body quickly disappears, and his wildly flailing legs spin and kick around as a series of gruesomely explicit bone-crunching noises hit the soundtrack. Soon enough, even his legs disappear upwards, and in the momentary silence that follows, Little Stevie fretfully frowns, "Santa?" The preadolescent aggravation's answered by yet another meaty cracking noise, and Santa Grandpa's blood-encrusted boot tumbles out of the fireplace onto the carpet. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks Raoul, giddily clapping his slightly inebriated paws together with delight. "And you know Grandpa's foot is still in it!" Raoul excitedly adds. "Merry Christmas, Stevie!"