The Winchester Family Business

 

It all starts on Bobby’s ancient TV, one that looks like it pre-dates remote control (I don’t see a digital converter box on it).  It's airing the story about how Galveston a day earlier was getting pummeled by a hurricane like swells and winds and today is mysteriously calm.  The announcer, as we know from inside reports, is an actor from the Dallas, Texas area by the name of Alan Ackles.  Yep, the father of this episode’s director.  Oh, I think his son also has a prominent acting role in the show too.  He plays Dean something or other.  The caption informs us this is taking place one year earlier, aka, roughly a day after Sam did his triple lindy into the hole.  

 

Bobby has some sort of concoction of spices going in a pot and candles burning at the points of a sigil.  He cuts his hand.  He’s a summoning!  Why in the world do these hunters cut the palms of their hands?  Don’t they need that?  Wouldn’t the forearm be better? Bobby latinates, he lights the special really bright match that always works on cue during these things and something goes poof.  There’s Crowley in the kitchen doorway.  He’s in a good mood.  


 

“Making merry are we?”  Crowley asks.  “Bite me,” Bobby says.  “If that’s your thing,” Crowley replies.  That’s what you get Bobby for walking into the words of a bisexual demon.  Crowley turns off the TV with a point of his finger and gets a big ole growl from Bobby.  “That swan dive of Sam’s, it’s a thing of beauty.  Tens all the way around, standing O from the Romanian judge,”  Crowley jokes with a big smile.  Yeah Bobby, you guys won.  Crowley tells him he should be proud, for as far as deaths go it wasn't too shabby.  Wasn't too shabby?  It was spectacular, heroic, and just thinking about it gets me all...oh Sammy!!  Not only did he lose his life and become imprisoned in the cage with Lucifer, but now he gets out by some miracle and isn't right in the process.  That sounds like a crappy death to me.   



“Cheer up mate.  We saved the sodding world together.  Me, I’ve been celebrating.”  No doubt it involves some fine scotch, one fine looking man and one fine looking woman.  You know, a devil/angel thing.  Bobby’s frown makes it looked like someone crapped in his celebration oatmeal.  “I hate to see what you call celebrating.”  “Yes you would,” Crowley says.  Let's see, man/woman, angel/devil.  Maybe a beast in there as well?  Sorry, imagination going too far.  Bobby offers Crowley a drink, who instantly answers “No.”  Bobby goes into cranky rant and it’s great.  “Let me get this straight.  We just ‘saved the sodding world together’ (in full British accent!) and you’re too good to drink with me?”  Obviously, but because Crowley has a specific brand.  Craig, aged 30 years, been drinking it since he was in grade school.  In fairness, I drank a bit of local scotch while in Scotland a few years ago.  It’s definitely a different blend.  It’s hard to go back to the American or Canadian swill.  That’s probably why I drink beer. 
 

“I got old rotgut, aged six days,” Bobby says.  I’ve been to Kentucky too and that stuff is really harsh.  Although, there’s a prime selection of it at the massive Liquor Barn in Lexington.  They don't call it the liquor "barn" for nothing.  Their hundreds of varieties of rotgut dissolves your intestines!  Anyway, Crowley points out that stuff will burn a whole in Bobby’s soul, oh, his soul.  But Crowley knows that’s why he called.  Bobby wants him to hold up his end.   Yeah, how much do you want to bet Crowley has found a contract loophole? You don’t have to be a demon to do that!  Here’s a quick joke.  California has the most lawyers, New Jersey has the most toxic waste dumps.  Why?  New Jersey picked first.  

 

Bobby reminds Crowley of the deal, they ice Lucifer, Crowley rips up the lease.  Crowley tells him he didn’t read his contract.  Not sure he had a whole heck of a lot of time.  Bobby wants to know what contract, so with one snap of his finger Crowley pulls it up on Bobby’s skin.  Oh, that contract.  “Paragraph 18, subsection B, which is on your naughty bits.  I only have to make ‘best efforts’ to give back your soul.”  Again, that still makes him a cut above a real lawyer.  Bobby wants clarification.  “I’d like too...but I can’t.”  Bobby gets ten years.  Whew, at least he got the standard deal.  Dean’s really sucked.  Crowley suggests until then he starts drinking the good stuff.  I actually agree with him there.  

 

Bobby figured he’d say that, so he had a trap planted.  A glow in the dark Devil’s trap!  Bobby turns out the lights to prove it.  “I’m going dateline on your ass.”  “I hope that’s paint,” Crowley says.  Ooh, I don’t want to think what else it could be.  Crowley is hardly intimidated, because his pet invisible hellhound was apparently lurking from behind.  Bobby gets a whiff of dog breath and Crowley spells it out.  “Ten years of living or ten years as Alpo.”  It’s time to scratch Crowley out of the trap.  Bobby does so with a big scowl and promises it isn’t over.  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  Crowley does love games.  Sick bastard.  Crowley’s “happy hunting” indicates Bobby won’t stop trying.  We go into the teaser is more Bobby scowling.  Man, couple that with Sam’s brooding and we’d have quite a sour fest.  

 

Shattered glass.  Even Bobby is shattered too.  We get to find out though that people do care.  It’s quite endearing!

 

Kenosha, Wisconsin, Present Day.  A kids playground.  Any angels hanging around?  Isn’t that were they hang?  Dean looks at a mauled corpse while Sam in the background confirms no EMF.  Dean, removing the rubber glove (yuck!) finds a claw in torso where guts used to be.  Sam doesn’t recognize the claw.  Dean knows what to do.  He calls Bobby and one look at his house, he’s nowhere to be found.  “Maybe’s he’s in the can,” Sam theorizes.  Um, taking this deductive reasoning a bit too far guys?  How about he’s busy and will call you back later?  Luckily, Bobby comes in from outside and answers the phone.  Sucker!