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In the episode's opening moments, a hunter by the name of Lee Chambers (portrayed by that eminence of Canadian television Ian Tracey, just so you know) gets himself abducted by the very truck-stop Vetalas he'd been hunting, so his fretful daughter rings up Bobby for an assist, not knowing of course that Bobby's been rotting away in the grave for the better part of a month. Darling Sammy intercepts the wee lass's plea for help and promptly decides to hit the road, but a brooding El Deano begs off -- he's become obsessed with those numbers Bobby scrawled on Sam's massive mitt right before the dear old hairball kicked it for good, you see, and he'd much rather hook up with Frank Devereaux to see what that particular bundle of paranoid psychosis has to say about them.
So, Our Intrepid Heroes split up, which is always a wonderful idea on this show, and after several pointless moments of Leviathan-related antagonism between Dean and Devereaux, Frank reveals he's discovered that Bobby's numbers point to a rather large patch of land in northern Wisconsin that had recently been acquired by Richard Roman Enterprises, Inc. The two head up to the empty field in question and find that the Leviathans have already bestrewn the place with surveillance cameras, so sly Frank taps into the Leviathans' security system and, after three straight days of monitoring the feed, eventually spots some useful information in the form of one "Amanda Willer," an efficient-looking RRE project manager who's seen ordering some underlings about the underbrush.
Meanwhile, Darling Sammy's met up with Lee's adolescent daughter, Chrissy, and she's spunky and sassy and Wise Beyond Her Years, so the dear boy does us all an immense favor by shooting her dead on the spot. No, sorry, I got that one wrong: Sam actually trails after her father and gets his enormously stupid self caught by the very same truck-stop Vetalas that so recently laid Lee low. Chrissy thus has little choice but to call Dean and, after he's pulled himself away from far more important matters, the mismatched duo motor on up to wherever and save Sam and Lee by impaling the Vetalas on a couple of silver knives. Naturally, fist-bumps and hugs abound in the wake of this particular success, but the episode ends with both Sam and Dean sliding back into their collective Bobby-related funk as they peel on off towards their adventure. Words cannot begin to describe how boring it all was.
Want more? The full recap starts right below!Rattle, Rattle WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE ROAD SO FAR! As REO Speedwagon's "Ridin' The Storm Out" kicks in on the soundtrack, we plunge into an incredibly lengthy -- like, a-full-minute-and-a-half-of-screentime lengthy -- review of the season thus far, which seems a trifle excessive. I mean, is there anyone left watching this show now who hasn't been watching it since the premiere back in September? Do we few -- we miserable few, we band of masochists -- really need reminders of Castiel and the Leviathans and Lucifer and Crowley and this show's version of The Fox Sisters at this point? Yeah, no. So, long story short, the first half of this season happened, and it all ended with Bobby dropping dead in a hospital bed in Hammonton, New Jersey, but not before the dear old hairball biffed his final earthly task by scrawling "" on Darling Sammy's gigantic mitt instead of "" like he was supposed to. Oh, Bobby!
Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! And when the dripping is done, the camera fades up on a nighttime truck-stop parking lot to linger for a moment on the lissome lady of the evening now coyly plying her trade out by the rigs before it retreats a bit to swing through the stop's diner, where it lands upon that ragged-looking eminence of British Columbian television, Ian Tracey, just as his waitress stops by to refill his cup of coffee. "You been here a couple nights in a row, now," the waitress observes, giving Ian Tracey the eye. "I like the ambiance," Ian Tracey jokes with a light shrug of his shoulders before returning his attention to that lissome lass outside, the latter of whom is just now drawing a bulbous trucker away from the bright lights of the diner's portico and over towards a considerably dimmer and decidedly more private area of the lot. Waitress Marlene begins to ask if Ian Tracey will be needing anything else this evening, but he's already on his feet and headed for the door in order to give chase, though not before inadvertently gifting us all with a glimpse of the massive hunting knife he's got strapped to his waistband as he hurriedly scrounges around in his jeans pocket for a tip. "Keep safe out there!" Marlene calls out after his disappearing form, and with that, we head out into...
...the parking lot, where we find the lissome lass tottering atop a pair of perilous-looking white vinyl pumps as she leads her bulbous client behind a semi so they might commence with their business transaction far away from prying eyes. By the way, if you're interested in such detail, you should probably know that the semi's passenger-side door has been emblazoned with the logo of Western Couriers, which is a nice little touch in an episode that is otherwise sorely bereft of them. In any event, the moment the lass and her client have wobbled and/or waddled their way out of our sight, Ian Tracey pops up with his massive hunting knife at the ready to slink around the semi's cab, but by the time he's rounded the corner, both the lass and her client have somewhat ominously disappeared. Ian Tracey frowns to himself and proceeds to peek beneath the rigs on either side and whatnot, but he remains alone until Waitress Marlene materializes behind him to sing, "Hey, there! You lost?" "Whaaaaaa?" Ian Tracey slurs, suddenly unsteady on his feet, for as Waitress Marlene quickly confesses, she "slipped a little special sauce" into his coffee when he wasn't looking. DUN! "You do know we're venomous, right?" she smiles, and with that, her eyes flip reptilian, so we know something's not quite right with Waitress Marlene. "Looks like I didn't dose you quite hard enough," she continues, slowly advancing upon him. "That's okay," she assures him. "There's more where that came from." Waitress Marlene here allows her lips to part to reveal a set of fangs, much to Ian Tracey's visible horror, and when he makes a move to escape, Waitress Marlene slams him up against the Western Courier truck with such force that he has little choice but to drop to the asphalt, unconscious. "That's for the crappy tip!" Waitress Marlene spits, and the shot cuts to an arty overhead of Ian Tracey sprawled out across the cracked pavement before everything gets blown away by this evening's...
...SNOT ROCKET! "Well!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon from his comfortable perch high atop that overstuffed armchair of his. "This evening's much-awaited installment certainly looks promising, I must say!" Oh, sweetie. "What?!" I hate to break it to you, doll, but this evening's "much-awaited" installment is actually excruciatingly boring. "Really!?" Really, and with a snot-nosed adolescent featured prominently amongst its primary cast, to boot. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" You know, I should be pissed off that the dizzy lizard's already lapsed into one of his Comas Of Boredom so early in the episode, but mostly I'm just incredibly envious of him at the moment. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Sigh. Well, let's get this bullshit over with:
The screen cuts to black after this evening's SNOT ROCKET! and, after a moment, the words "Week One" emerge from the gloom to hang there in space for a bit until the camera slowly fades up on the interior of that ridiculously rustic homestead in Bozeman or Billings or wherever to focus on Our Intrepid Heroes, whom we find slumped over in a couple of chairs, looking miserable and depressed. That was exciting, wasn't it?
"Week Two." Darling Sammy tidies up around the kitchen in the far blurry background of the shot while Doleful El Deano slugs back some whiskey on the couch, all the while staring at a legal pad upon which he has angrily scrawled "" in bitterly black ink. Sam opens a drawer to find Dead Bobby's address book stowed away inside, and we take a moment to gaze upon his immensely sad sideburns before cross-fading back to the sofa, where Dean's been brainstorming some possible interpretations of the number in question, none of which he's found to his liking.
"Week Three." By now, Dean's filled a corkboard with scraps of paper relating to Richard Roman and his various business interests, busily drawing lines between items that are seemingly connected to Dead Bobby's mysterious numbers. Sam presently enters to fetch himself a soothing El Sol from the refrigerator and, after taking a moment to consider his words, he decides to ask, "Should we be telling people? I mean, people he knew?" To absolutely no one's surprise, Dreary El Deano blatantly ignores the implications of Sam's question in favor of bitching, "How long ago did I give Frank these numbers? It's been a few weeks, right? Is he nuts, or is he just being rude?" So, they're dragging Frank Devereaux back into the story, then? Why kill off one paranoid, know-it-all hairball if you're just going to replace him with another? God, I hate this show. Anyway, Sam replies, "Probably both," to Dean's question before pressing him on the issue of notifying Dead Bobby's network regarding the gentleman's untimely demise. Dean of course flat-out refuses to deal with the situation at all, thus forcing their conversation to an awkward and grinding halt, and in the middle of the silence, one of Dead Bobby's cell phones starts ringing.
"Hello?" Sam answers. "Is Bobby Singer there?" a girl's voice can be heard to ask. "No," Sam replies, "but I'm a friend of his." "My dad asked me to call Bobby Singer specifically," the as-yet-unseen girl complains. "He's not here," Sam evasively responds, "but if you need..." Click! Well, it's actually a click followed immediately by a dial tone because even Supernatural's sound effects guys have stopped caring at this point, and as Dean picks up a full El Sol of his own from the kitchen table, the boys chat about the mysterious call, with Sam arguing firmly in favor of tracking the terse little girl down while Dean just as strenuously insists they should focus on Frank Devereaux and Dead Bobby's numbers, instead. Things threaten to get all snarly and intense for a second, but then they decide to split up in order to pursue their separate interests, so it ends up being no big deal. Except, of course, for the fact that it is always a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea for these two morons to split up in order to pursue their separate interests, because when they do, one of them always -- always -- ends up in mortal danger by the second commercial break. Idiots.
However, we shouldn't be focused on all that, because Dean's just now brought his full bottle of soothing El Sol to his plump and pouty lips...only to discover that the damn thing's empty! D'OH! Or maybe that's a DUN! Given the fact that week's episode involves something called "The God Of Time," I should probably go with DUN!, there, yes? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Yeah, you're right: Whatever.
Cut to the façade of Stately Clarke Manor, whose "FURNISHED APARTMENTS" are available on a month-to-month basis, if that sign out front is anything to go by. Inside, Darling Sammy raps on one of the apartment doors, which is presently answered by Ian Tracey's supremely suspicious adolescent daughter, "Chrissy," and don't ask me how Darling Sammy managed to track her down to this bit of temporary housing, because I don't know. Nor do I care, actually, so let's keep this moving, shall we? Long story short, Sam admits that Dead Bobby is, indeed, deceased, and he learns that Chrissy's supposed salesman father has gone missing in Dodge City, Kansas. After sending Chrissy to the kitchen to fix him some coffee, Sam snoops around Ian Tracey's spartan bedroom until he stumbles across the missing gentleman's secret stash of research in the closet. Said secret stash consists of a Magical Mystery Board papered over with missing persons reports detailing the sudden disappearances of a number of truckers in the Dodge City area along with a handful of news articles recording a rash of animal attacks in Ford County, so Sam heads back into the temporary rental proper to announce that he's pretty sure he knows where to begin his search for Chrissy's father. He asks, and receives permission, to "borrow" a photograph of Ian and Chrissy in happier times, then leaves Chrissy a number to call should she not hear from him over the couple of days. And...that's about it, really. Wow, this episode is dull.
Meanwhile, Dreary El Deano's steering some crapped-out Buick into the driveway of Lunatic Jackass Estates, because I guess they still can't drive the Impala for whatever stupid reason. Dean disembarks and enters the house to find it apparently abandoned, with nothing but blank walls where Frank Devereaux's elaborate collection of electronic equipment should be. "This can't be good," Dean grumbles to himself, and barely have those words issued forth from his mouth when Frank Devereaux himself pops up behind Our Intrepid Hero to level the business end of his cunning little semiautomatic at Dean's pretty, pretty head. "Well, hello to you, too!" Dean more or less says. The paranoid psychotic with the semiautomatic chooses not to lower his weapon. "We're amongst friends, here," Dean begins, but Frank Devereaux's not having it. At all. "That's just what a Leviathan would say!" the bespectacled bit of batshit sneers by way of response, and with that, we head into this evening's first commercial break most woefully CHOMP!-less, because that's how much tonight's episode sucks.
And once the commercials are done with, we return to Lunatic Jackass Estates, where the mind-numbingly dull standoff continues apace. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" I really didn't need you to punctuate that statement with an appropriate snoring sound, Raoul, but thanks for backing me up just the same. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Excellent. And as I need something of significance to happen in this goddamned episode already, I'll be skipping past the scene wherein Dean and Frank prove their human bona fides to each other by bleeding out through various self-inflicted wounds to join them as they jaunt over to Whackjob Frank's super-secret, super-high-tech RV, which has been parked in an abandoned barn someplace remote. Once there, Dean learns that Frank up and quit his usual place of residence because Richard Roman's minions "burned off every IP" Frank had after Dean called to have Frank check on Dead Bobby's numbers. Incidentally, Whackjob Frank is convinced that Dean called him about Dead Bobby's numbers a mere four days ago when in fact four weeks have already flown by, and I mention this only because the apparent time slip is likely linked to Dean's disappearing beer from earlier, along with week's already-advertised supervillain. Just so you know.
In any event, and after a lot of unnecessary and uninteresting growling at each other, Dean and Frank finally get to the point, which is this: Whackjob Frank ran Dead Bobby's numbers through a probability generator, or something, and realized they were actually coordinates, which everyone in the audience already knew a month ago. Unfortunately, Whackjob Frank's probability generator spat out "" instead of "," but that's okay, because even though 45"4' North by 89"3' West is more than sixteen full miles away from Dead Bobby's intended destination, it appears that Richard Roman Enterprises, Inc., has recently purchased a swath of Northern Wisconsin so vast that it encompasses both points on the map, so whatever. "What do we do?" Dean wonders. "Stay away," Frank snorts. "Or," he continues, "we go there and set up surveillance." Guess which option they end up choosing. Go on -- guess. I can wait. I mean, it's not like I've got anything better to do. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Except that, of course.
Meanwhile, down in Kansas, Dapper Sam chats with a gent from the Ford County coroner's office, the latter of whom whips out a fresh corpse for Our Intrepid Hero's perusal. The recently deceased "Matthew Havlena" was "found in a ditch off the Interstate" with puncture wounds in various arteries, through which he leaked at least five pints of blood prior to death, and should I bother pointing out that the nearest Interstate is actually 100 miles away in Trego County? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Okay, forget I said anything. Armed with this new piece of information, Sam rings Dean on his cell for a mini processing summit, and after the two catch each other up on recent developments, we jump ahead to...
...that desolate swath of Northern Wisconsin so recently purchased by Richard Roman Enterprises, Inc., where we find Dean and Whackjob Frank -- here masquerading as telephone linemen -- casually surveying their surroundings. And while Dean fills out that snazzy little lineman's uniform of his quite nicely, indeed, I'll be getting to the point of this sequence immediately rather than lingering on his excessive amounts of pretty, thank you very much, because BORING. Long story short, Whackjob Frank almost immediately spots the extensive surveillance system the Leviathans have already installed around the field and decides to tap into it, so they might monitor the Leviathans' field-related activities from the comfort of his super-secret, super-high-tech RV.
Which they proceed to do. Well, one of them does, at any rate. You see, while Frank proceeds to monitor the Leviathans' field-related activities from the comfort of his super-secret, super-high-tech RV, Dean immediately falls asleep in a chair, thereby following the lead of just about everyone in this show's rapidly-dwindling audience. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" As you can see, Raoul approves.
Unfortunately, just as Dashing El Deano lapses into his very own Coma Of Boredom, Darling Sammy calls with the following bit of news, which he has no choice but to deliver to Dean's voice mail: "I think [Ian Tracey] was hunting a Vetala." Consulting Sucky John's demonic day-planner as he speaks, Sam continues, "[Our worthless bastard of a so-called father] took one down back in the day -- silver knife to the heart, twist, they're done. [That useless piece of human garbage we were forced to accept as our sole parental unit for so many years] says they're maladjusted loner types -- like to knock a guy out, drag him home, feed slow -- so, if Chrissy's dad got grabbed, there's a chance he might still be alive." "Be nice to get this girl's dad back home to her, you know?" Sam notes before concluding the message with, "All right, I could use your help -- call me."
Moments later, Sam's entering the truck-stop diner from the top of the hour to quiz Waitress Marlene on Ian Tracey's whereabouts. Waitress Marlene promptly LIES that Ian Tracey hooked up with the lady of the evening now loitering in the parking lot, so Sam trots on out to chat with the lissome lass, who happens to be named Sally -- or so she would have us believe! Muah-ha-ha-ha-hazzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! Yeah, I just can't with this boring crap anymore, especially because to surprise of absolutely no one who's ever watched this show before, it turns out that Sally and Marlene are actually working together to lure various blue-collar types to their doom, and Stupid Sammy gets his enormously dumb self captured by the pair after he dimly allows Sally to lure him out behind the rigs. It's all so enervatingly tedious, I can't even muster the strength to scream at him properly. Though, you know, did I call it, or what? These two dolts split up at the beginning of the episode, and one of them's in mortal danger by the second commercial break. METAL TEETH CHOMP!
Lunatic Jackass Estates, Mobile Division. While Whackjob Frank continues to monitor his many, many screens, Dashing El Deano slowly rouses himself from his Coma Of Boredom over in his chair to mumble, "How long was I out?" "About thirty-six hours," Frank replies, and I'm just gonna go ahead and assume this is yet another bit of time-slip fuckery that will be resolved after Our Intrepid Heroes deal with the atrociously-named "God Of Time" week. In news that actually has some bearing on this season's overarching storyline, Whackjob Frank's thirty-six-hour marathon of screen-staring produced some intriguing results: Seems a Richard Roman functionary named "Amanda Willer" marched into that remote swath of Northern Wisconsin with a trio of underlings to plot out the footprint of what promises to be a very large building, but unfortunately, we don't get to hear much more than that about this particular development because Dean's chosen this very moment to whine about Bobby's death, and as I have approximately zero interest in listening to him natter on and on and on about his goddamned feelings, I'll be skipping ahead to the bit where his cell phone starts buzzing in his pocket. For whatever asinine reason, he's immediately shunted into Sam's last voice mail when he flips the thing open, and wouldn't you know it? Sucky John was totally, terribly wrong about the Vetalas' social habits. Which we already knew, but it's nice to have Dean confirm that, I suppose. Our Intrepid Hero impatiently makes to dial his badly misinformed brother's number, and he's quite surprised to find Chrissy on the other end of the line, instead, and what the hell is wrong with their goddamn phones tonight? Oh, wait -- this is more of that time-slip fuckery they're going to deal with week, right? I mean, the people responsible for this mess must know that cell phones don't work this way, right? Right? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Ugh, okay. I'll ignore this, too. For now, at least.
Anyway, Dean somehow ends up talking to Chrissy when he should be falling into Sam's voice mail, and he becomes visibly upset when Chrissy reveals that Sam's gone missing. DUN!
And speaking of The Ginormomoron, there he now, waking up in an abandoned warehouse! His remarkably healthy frame has been lashed to a tiny chair, and as he futilely struggles against the ropes that bind him, he takes a couple of moments to examine his surroundings. Two indifferently-placed corpses of the male persuasion litter a couple corners of the space while Ian Tracey -- looking considerably worse for the wear, by the by -- slouches in a chair of his own. The two living gents get to talking with each other, and the upshot of it all is this: The Vetalas infuse their victims with a venom that all but induces paralysis before feeding on said victims three or four times, at which point the victims drop dead from the exhaustion and the blood loss and whatnot. "How many times they fed on you?" Sam thinks to wonder. "Three," Ian Tracey glumly replies, and with that, we're off to...
...Stately Clarke Manor, where Dashing El Deano's just arrived to take control of the increasingly dire situation. He immediately clomps into Ian Tracey's bedroom to start ransacking the place, whereupon he quickly discovers what little remains of Ian's Magical Mystery Board in the closet. You see, Chrissy -- who'd known what the score was the entire time, despite the innocent act she played for Sam's supposed benefit all those many scenes ago -- destroyed all evidence of her father's hunt in order to...um, protect herself? Against creatures who are three or four states away, or something? And don't even know who the hell she is? It's never made clear, and I can't bring myself to care, so whatever. Dean demands Chrissy tell him what she knows of her father's research, pronto, Chrissy quite reasonably responds to this request by pulling a gun on his tantalizing ass, and yet another pointless standoff ensues until Dean agrees to drag her along for the ride down to Dodge City.
Crapped-Out Buick, several hours later. "I have a question," Chrissy begins, but Dean's not having it with this touchy-feely self-help chit-chat crap, bitch, and he tells her to zip it. Chrissy, surprisingly enough, complies. For all of three seconds, after which she announces, "One thing doesn't make sense -- my dad's a pretty great hunter, and your brother's the size of a car, so how'd this thing get them both?" "Vetalas usually hunt in pairs," Dean pissily replies. "Sam and your dad both assumed it was one thing, hunting solo." "And you know different because...?" Chrissy prompts. "Because I hunted one that turned out to be two a couple years back," Dean grumbles. "And you never told Sam?" Chrissy howls, outraged, and shut the fuck up, Chrissy. The only reason I'm bothering to transcribe this conversation in the first place is because you got in a good one with that whole "your brother's the size of a car" thing, and now you've gone and ruined it all with that utterly uncalled-for attitude of yours. Christ, I hate kids on TV. In any event, Dean confesses that he didn't tell Sam because Sam was away at Stanford at the time, and Chrissy goggles at the fact that a lowly hunter's child actually went to college, and is this scene over yet? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Good.
Warehouse. Good Time Sally enters to taunt and sneer at her captives for a bit before moving to snack on Ian Tracey one last, fatal time. Darling Sammy selflessly goads her into snacking on him, instead, by insulting her appearance before regaling her with a probable LIE about how he took down two of her Vetalian sisters in Utah, and as Sam passes out from the sudden onslaught of neck-sucking, we cross-fade back to...
...that truck stop from the top of the hour to discover that Dean and Chrissy have already arrived to scope out the place, and is this, like, the only goddamned truck stop in the entire Dodge City area? How in hell do they know this is where they should be? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Okay! Okay! Fine, I'm not caring. In any event, Dean and Chrissy blather away at each other over...something I totally missed because I totally don't care and I'm totally not going back to listen to it again, and then Waitress Marlene pops up from out of nowhere to hoist herself into one of the rigs and drive off. Despite, oh, never having seen Waitress Marlene before in their lives, both Dean and Chrissy instantly realize she must be one of the Vetalas, there to dispose of a victim's semi, and Dean keys the crapped-out Buick's engine to take off after her.
Some moments later, Waitress Marlene has apparently led Our Intrepid Hero and his spunky little sidekick to the warehouse within which she's imprisoned Sam and Ian Tracey, and Dean takes a moment to enthuse, "All riiiiiight!" He then lifts a fist into bump position. "What century is this?" Chrissy scoffs, going on to claim, "No one fist-bumps anymore." And because what follows amounts to the only genuinely amusing piece of business in this entire episode, I'll refrain from telling that aggravating adolescent to shut the fuck up again. "C'mon!" Dean dorkily encourages her. "Give it up! Good work!" Rather enticingly, he wiggles his fist around in the silence that follows. "You're a dweeb," Chrissy eyerolls. Pause. Dean wiggles his fist again. It is absolutely adorable. So adorable, in fact, that it eats straight through Chrissy's juvenile disdain, and she raises a fist of her own to join him. Suddenly all business, Dean snatches at Chrissy's wrist and handcuffs her to the steering wheel. HA! Chrissy seethes, demanding to be let go, but Dean will not be taking a teenager into a knife fight with a couple of fangy Vetalas, thank you very much, and after he relieves her of her lockpick, he exits the crapped-out Buick to enter the warehouse alone.
Warehouse. Dean tippy-toes in through a side entrance to find Waitress Marlene and Good Time Sally blithely blithering away over the heads of their semi-conscious guests. Easily getting the drop on them, Our Intrepid Hero hoists a handy chunk of metal into the air and whacks Good Time Sally across the teeth with it, sending her into a sprawling daze across the concrete warehouse floor. Waitress Marlene wastes not an instant slipping into her game face, and she skitters across the room to challenge Dean to a little hand-to-hand mere moments after he's whipped a handy little silver blade out of the waistband of his jeans. He lunges for her neck with the knife, but Waitress Marlene manages a dodge that also gives her enough leverage to slam Hapless El Deano up against a wall. Naturally, he loses his grip on the knife as he's sailing through the air, and the thing clatters harmlessly to the ground while Waitress Marlene busies herself throwing him into a chokehold. Fortunately, they're quite close to a workbench at the moment, and Dean manages to wrap his fingers around a crowbar, with which he proceeds to brain Waitress Marlene until she, too, crashes into a sprawling daze across the concrete warehouse floor. And as Sam somehow rouses himself over there on his little chair, Dean scoops up his momentarily discarded dagger and leaps to press the sharpened edge against Waitress Marlene's neck.
And then, because stupid kids ruin everything, Chrissy comes screaming in from outside, crying out, "Dad, hold on! I got you!" Of course, Good Time Sally instantly recovers from her daze at this, and basically snatches Stupid Chrissy up by her hair. "Let her go," Good Time Sally shouts at Dean, referring of course to Waitress Marlene, "or Little Miss Sunshine, here, gets it!" Dean considers his options, realizes he has none, and proceeds to back off, allowing Waitress Marlene the chance to scamper back to the Vetalas' side of the arena. And with that, our lovely monsters of the week glower at Our Supremely Pissed-Off Hero until everything collapses into this evening's CHOMP!-less commercial break.
Warehouse, immediate aftermath, and let's wrap this crap up quickly, shall we? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Excellent. So, long story short, Stupid Chrissy whimpers and mewls and moans and whines and complains until Good Time Sally moves to rip the yappy brat's goddamned throat out with her teeth, and it's at this point that Sly Chrissy produces a silvery blade of her very own from the sleeve of her jacket. D'OH! Sly Chrissy jams the thing into Good Time Sally's chest, and in what I have to admit is a pretty decent effects shot, Good Time Sally practically disintegrates before our very eyes. Waitress Marlene, naturally, freaks the fuck out and scrambles for the exit, but alas! Dean blocks her path, Sly Chrissy slashes through the ropes binding Sam's hands, and Sam himself rises to plunge Sly Chrissy's knife through Waitress Marlene's heart. Waitress Marlene also pretty much disintegrates before our very eyes and, after a quick, snotty remark from Sly Chrissy that references an earlier conversation I completely ignored because OH MY GOD THIS EPISODE IS HELL, we skedaddle over to...
...the nearest hospital for what I pray is this episode's denouement. There follows a lengthy series of conversations between Our Intrepid Heroes, Ian Tracey and Goddamned Chrissy, and the only way I could possibly care less about it all is if I were actually dead. From what little I can recall, though, Dean urges Ian Tracey and Goddamned Chrissy to leave the hunting business behind them as soon as possible, and then the jackass proceeds to walk away from them both before getting a satisfactory reply one way or the other from either. Not that it matters. I mean, do you seriously think we're going to see Ian and Chrissy again, ever? Yeah, didn't think so.
And in the end -- and after one final and completely unnecessary commercial break -- Our Intrepid Heroes retire to Dean's crapped-out Buick to motor on off towards their adventure, and while they likely yammered away about their goddamned feelings for a good minute and a half or so, I'll be damned straight to Hell before I actually listen to what they had to say to each other at this point. Also: Steve Winwood.
God, that was a hatefully uninteresting way to return from the winter hiatus, wasn't it? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" I'll take that as a yes.
week: The aforementioned God Of Time hurls Dean into 1944, where Our Intrepid Hero meets up with Eliot Ness. Presumably, they will then spend the hour bar-hopping in Canton, Ohio, because Eliot Ness had long since left the Treasury Department's employ by that point in his career but, hey: An hour of time-traveling bar-hopping could be a lot of fun, right?
Demian is painfully aware of the fact that an hour of time-traveling bar-hopping on this show could totally, totally suck. Raoul might not even bother to wake up and find out. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" You may reach the former at demian_twop@yahoo.com. The latter is an imaginary gay dragon on the Internet.