SuppliedSupernatural is the television equivalent of McDonald’s. People will claim they don’t take part in it, preach they’re above it, and yet it’s still around, going stronger than ever.
Currently in its 12th season, Supernatural stars Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki as Dean and Sam Winchester, who throughout the series, hunt down demons, ghosts, and whatever other monsters the writers found most recently on Wikipedia. Together they’re joined by the angel, Castiel (Misha Collins) among other colourfully cast allies who help them battle the forces of evil. My Supernatural obsession began in grade 11 after buying the first seven seasons, and marathon binge-watching them. Now on season 11 (which can more conveniently be found on Netflix), I will openly admit that while the show is absolute shit, I still love it.
Unlike last night’s Presidential debate, Supernatural isn’t so bad it’s good, it is just bad, and that’s where the charm lies. I mean, the show has cured death. Fucking cured death. On a better program, this would be inexcusable (ahem Jon Snow), as it immediately destroys any sense of tension gained from your heroes being put in peril. Yet here I am, 18 episodes into another season, on the edge of my seat, wondering what might happen to my beloved Dean and Sam, even with a pesky thing like death being out of the question. It may be long past its prime (if it ever had one) but it takes me back to a simpler time, when term papers and cripplingly hard midterms didn’t exist, and who can resist the fun of guessing what wild idea the show’s writers will cook up next in an attempt to raise the stakes to even more ridiculous heights.
When they released the show on Netflix, I dedicated a week straight to it, finishing each run with a rewarding feeling of self-hatred (the true mark of a good guilty pleasure). Any credibility my opinion on television programming once had, disappeared — I even began to question my own integrity as my friends viciously roasted me for my love of it. Still, every year, as new episodes of Supernatural arrive, my shameful hate-watching resumes, and as each season comes to an end, a single tear rolls down my face as I whimper, “I wish I knew how to quit you.”
