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Dean is in an unusually good mood. He and Sam have just gotten back from a ghoul hunt in Arkansas that had gone surprisingly smoothly, all things considered. They only ended up getting thrown into a wall like once. He's sat in the Dean Cave, in his beloved hotdog pajamas, with a bottle of his favorite beer and a bowl of popcorn absolutely drenched in movie-theater butter. Damn what Sammy says about his cholesterol levels, the stuff is fucking delicious.
As the opening credits of All Saints Day begin to play, Dean's leg starts bouncing. Not out of anxiety, but excitement. He takes a swig of his beer, clenching and unclenching his other hand as the movie continues. At Hatchet Man's first “it's time to slice and dice”, Dean's leg kicks out and he bites down on one hand, flapping the other vigorously.
It feels good, Dean thinks, to be able to let go like this. To be able to express his joy openly without anyone around to judge him for it. John had drilled so much shame into him as a kid for doing this stuff, and it's taken him years to begin to overcome it and to let himself stim, even when he's alone like this.
As the movie reaches its climax, Dean starts to rock back and forth slightly, making his recliner rock with him. He's just started on his second beer, and he's made a decent-sized dent in his popcorn.
The final (and best, in Dean's opinion) kill scene starts to play out. Hatchet Man comes up behind his final victim, and when the guy turns around, he sinks his hatchet right into the poor son-of-a-bitch's face. Dean slaps both hands down on the armrests of his chair with a “Hah!”, kicking his feet and grinning.
By the time the end credits are rolling, Dean feels better than he has in weeks. He ends up staying up late to watch the next two All Saints Day movies as well, and by the time he crawls into bed, the giddiness has given way to a pleasant exhaustion. His sleep that night is deep, peaceful, and blissfully uninterrupted by nightmares.