Disclaimer: Eric Kripke and the CW are the lucky owners of all things Supernatural. I'm just having a little holiday fun with the boys.
Caroling, Caroling, Now We Go
By: Vanessa Sgroi
"Dean, are you singing 'Jingle Bells'?
"No!"
"But . . . I swear you're . . ."
"Nope!"
(SN) (SN) (SN)
"Now you're singing 'Deck the Halls'!"
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are. I just distinctly heard 'Don we now our gay apparel'."
"You did not. You're crazy, little brother."
(SN) (SN) (SN)
"Dean! I can't believe it! I just can't believe it. You are actually singing 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'?"
"You're hallucinating, Sammy. Hearing things."
(SN) (SN) (SN)
"That's it! Pull over!"
"What? Why?"
"Dude, in the last 15 minutes you've sang 'Hark, The Herald Angels Sing', 'Silent Night', 'Little Drummer Boy' and 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. I wanna know who you are and what have you done with my brother!"
"Sam, you really need to get your hearing checked."
(SN) (SN) (SN)
"Okay, just stop right there! Don't you dare sing 'Let It Snow'! It already is, and we're tempting fate being out on this road anyway."
"Oh, relax Hermie, we're fine. My baby will get us where we need to go," Dean patted the dashboard lovingly, "besides I can concentrate better if you'd just keep quiet."
"Ha! That's rich! You're telling ME to be quiet?"
(SN) (SN) (SN)
"Dean, seriously dude, did you hit your head or something on that last hunt? 'Cause NOW you're singing 'Good King Wenceslas'! I can't believe you even know the words to that one! Why DO you know the words to that one?"
A loud and half-annoyed, half-pleading huff sounded from the driver's seat. "Alright, alright! YES! I admit it. I am singing Christmas carols! I can't help it, okay? They're like . . . you know . . . those things . . ."
"Things? What things?"
"You know—those creepy, wiggly, nasty little things they put in Chekov's ear in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan. Great movie by the way. Classic."
"You mean an earwig or something?"
"YEAH! Yeah, just like that! These songs just . . . just worm their way into your brain and then they just . . . Won't. Go. Away."
"Oh. Okay, now I get it."
"I can stop . . . maybe . . . I mean, if I try really hard. It's just that with the tape deck not working . . ."
"No, no—nevermind. You can keep singing. Might as well as long as we're driving in this."
There was a brief contemplative pause.
"Okay. So—what do you want to hear next then?"
"Uh, I dunno. Anything but 'Carol of the Bells'. How about 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer'?"
Dean groaned. "I knew you were going to say that. You want that one on purpose 'cause you remember how I always wanted to hunt that little freak of nature down when we were kids. I mean, c'mon, a magical reindeer named Rudolph?"
"Yeah, I remember," Sam snorted, "That little red glowing light on his nose always did freak you out."
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And so it was on that wintry night,
as the black, sleek Impala torpedoed
its way through the blizzard of white,
strains of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer"
filled the frosty midnight air.
Two mellow, honeyed voices
resounded happily from the pair,
rocketing high, high up
unto twinkling, Heavenly stars.
The joyous sound of two brothers
safe, happy, and silly in the home
that was their classic car.