Robin’s Rambles – “Shut Up Dr. Phil”

In a high-class salon, a woman, speaking on her cell, urges her friend to sell her house to spite her husband”–“I’ll have the papers ready tomorrow. . .yay, I’m proud of you!” She hands her phone to the guy who just put a plastic cap over her head, chortling, “I’m not just good, I’m VERY good.” He hands her a magazine, slips a dryer over her head, turns on the heat, and tells her to let him know if she needs anything. The heat becomes too much, and she calls “Chris!”, trying fruitlessly to pull up the overheated dryer herself. Loud music and the fact that she’s by herself in that part of the salon prevents anyone else from hearing her, either. Unable to pull the dryer off or slide out from underneath, the scene takes on that of an execution as sparks fly and she kicks her shoes right off her feet. The bell rings to signify that she’s done–in every way possible. Chris re-enters. “Oh my God, somebody help!” he shouts. He lifts up the woman’s foil-wrapped head and screams. 

Dean sleeps on top of the covers in yet another cheesy motel, dreaming of Sam in a street, shooting over and over at someone he can’t see. He hears himself telling Amy “You are what you are, you will kill again,” and her protesting, “I won’t, I swear.” He sees the horrified look on her face as he stabs her in the heart, and her normal eyes turning into those of a slitted cat. He awakens from the nightmare breathing hard, to see Sam’s bed empty, and sinks back against his pillows. He checks the beer bottle on his nightstand–empty. He sits at his laptop by the window, drinking something a lot stronger than beer. When Sam enters, breathless, from a workout, iPod in hand, Dean accuses, “Somebody better be chasing you.” “Good for you,” says Sam, talking about the booze, I guess. “Look at you, you’re a mess and you stink,” complains Dean, adding, “while you were out being Lance Armstrong. . .” “That would be biking,” says Sam. “I was working,” says Dean, “ever hear of a town called Prosperity, Indiana?” “Has anybody?” asks Sam, drinking a bottle of juice from the fridge. Dean tells him of a woman who roasted under a bee-hive hairdryer in a salon, and another person boiled in a hot tub. They decide it’s worth checking out, but first, “What’s going on with you?” asks Sam. “We have had this conversation,” says Dean. “No, we haven’t,” counters Sam, “see, to do that, you sort of have to speak.” “Your new Sam,” says Dean, “Lance Armstrong. . .” “Biking,” corrects Sam again. “I’m still me,” says Dean, “so you might see things different now, call it a runner’s high or some crap, but that doesn’t mean there’s something going on with me, OK?” “Yeah, OK,” says Sam, not believing him. “Don’t say ‘yeah OK’ like ‘yeah OK’ (such a funny voice, like Bullwinkle). “Yeah, OK,” repeats Sam in the same tone, leaving with his iPod. Dean picks up his glass, about to take another gulp, but puts it down again without doing so.

(Editor’s note: My heart aches for the two of them here. Sam disapproves of Dean drinking so much, but we know Dean feels guilty about Amy and is using the booze to tamp down on those guilty feelings. Dean probably feels annoyed with Sam, too, perhaps like Sam is born-again in a sense and that’s pissing Dean off. He’s jealous, too, a bit, because he wishes he could feel this euphoria Sam is experiencing. In the present situation, of course, there’s no way for Dean to feel that way, not unless he fesses up about Amy. If he does, Sam will be angry and it might destroy them. I can’t blame Dean for keeping mum.)

A man on the phone carrying groceries from Jack’s Eat & Run Grocery apologizes for “the Winchester thing” taking too long. “No worries, I can be there in a day and a half, just stopped for a quick re-fuel.” He opens his trunk to stow his groceries; there’s a dead man inside. “Thanks, it would be my pleasure,” he concludes his conversation.

PROSPERITY, IN – Sam, FBI, speaks to the dead woman’s sister: “Did she have any enemies?” “Why do you ask that?–do you think her death wasn’t accidental?” her sister asks. “No, we just have to consider every possibility,” says Sam, exuding FBI strength and kindness, “is there anybody who might have wanted to harm her?” “You don’t live here, so you don’t know,” she says, a catch in her voice, “Everyone LOVED Wendy, she volunteered at the church, she ran a group for kids, I was the big sister and I looked up to her.” “What about this man who died, Carl Dunlop,” says Sam, “did she know him?” “I don’t think so,” she replies. “Wendy was in real estate, Carl was an architect,” says Sam, “maybe they had some business dealings?” “If they had worked together, I’d have heard the name,” she says, adding firmly, “Agent Sambora, if someone did this to my sister, find out who.”

Hair Salon – “Nobody was back here but Wendy,” Dean asks Chris. “No, replies Chris, but I was only gone for a minute” “You can’t even crank these things past a certain temperature, am I wrong?” asks Dean. “It would have blown a fuse and shut down,” says Chris. “Basically, you’re saying this couldn’t have happened,” says Dean. Chris agrees. Dean examines the room. “The insurance adjustors already did that,” Chris points out. “Thanks for the heads-up,” says Dean, plucking out a coin.

“It’s not American,” says Dean, discussing the coin on the phone with Sam, “I don’t know where it’s from, it was wedged behind those machines, somebody could have dropped it–of course they don’t have pockets in those robe things they make you wear.” “I didn’t realize you were such a spa expert,” teases Sam. “Shut up, I observe, with my eyes,” says Dean. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” says Sam, “so you think it’s some sort of hex talisman?” “Maybe,” says Dean. “OK, pick me up,” says Sam. “Why don’t you just run home, Lance?” teases Dean. “Dean. . .” says Sam. “I’ll be there in a minute,” promises Dean, detouring first into Van’s Liquors.

Dewey Steven’s Construction – A man enters a portable bathroom to take a leak. A nail gun plugs itself in and crawls along the ground, waiting for him when he opens the door. “Aw, come on,” he starts to say–until he realizes no one is holding the tool. It fires into him dozens of times, leaving him alive for the final two shots. Bloody, dripping nails protrude from the porta-potty, making for a most gruesome death.

(Editor’s note: I must say, the writers had a field day with the gore and violence in this one! Vengeance on SPN always makes for such fun for the audience! Witches really enjoy playing with their prey and making them suffer. I did kind of miss the hex bags and wondered why this group used something different.)

Dean questions the sheriff and learns that the dead man was Dewey Stevens; he owned this construction company, the biggest in town. Rotarian, Methodist, tanner, blue ribbon pecan pie champ, asthmatic. Dean stares at him, stunned at all the details. “We’re a close-knit community,” confesses the Sheriff. “So this pillar of the community was taking a leak before he sprung a few,” asks Dean. (LMAOPIMP!) “Crew was gone for the day, site was shut down,” says the Sheriff. Dean uncovers the body. “Anything unusual besides nails in the eyes?” asks Dean. “We’re still trying to figure out where they plugged in the nail gun,” says the Sheriff, “seems there’s no generator on the truck.” “When you figure that out, let me know,” bids Dean, who stoops down and finds another of those coins. He enters a construction trailer, where Sam is doing research. “Another victim everybody likes,” he remarks. “Not everybody,” counters Sam. “Another physically impossible death,” says Dean, “got any ideas?” “Cirque de Soleil?” suggests Sam. Dean shows him the coin he found–“Just like at the hair salon/brain roast.” “And I found a connection with all the vics,” says Sam, “these real estate logs show Wendy, the real estate chick, Carl the architect and Dewey were all working on a shopping center project together.” “Why didn’t we know about that?” asks Dean. “It all fell apart for some reason,” says Sam, “there are these emails back and forth, pretty hot and heavy, then suddenly they just stopped.” “So everybody working on this project has died,” notes Dean. “Not yet,” says Sam, “they were all working with a developer, a guy named Don Stark.” That name is familiar to Dean. They find out he’s the founder of some charity fund, “really plugged in,” as Sam puts it–and in danger as the next victim. Dean pulls out a flask, upsetting Sam. “Really?” he asks, “what are you, Bad Santa? On the job?” “We’re always on the job,” points out Dean, annoyed, taking a swig. Sam answers his phone; it’s Bobby, reporting that the writing on the coins is Romanian Cyrillic, used only in the mid 15th to the 19th century, an antique () ducket? “So we’re lookin’ for an old Romanian?” asks Dean. “Is it me, or is this really weird?” asks Sam, noticing dead plants surrounding the podium upon which Don Stark’s bust sits. “I’ve seen this once before,” says Dean, “the plants are all dead in one spot–a bus bench with Wendy Goodson’s picture on it–I’m no expert, but I don’t think plants are supposed to act like this.”

“See the Funny Little Clown,” by Bobby Goldsboro, plays on the radio as Carl, the Leviathan man, drives his car on the road.

Don Stark’s luxurious home – “If the Bureau’s involved, I assume you think all three were murdered,” suggests Don Stark. “It’s beginning to look that way, yes,” says Dean. Stark says he knew all three victims in business circles. Dean asks why the shopping center project fell through. “These things happen,” says Stark evasively. A young, pretty blond joins the men. “Jenny, these gentlemen are from the FBI,” says Stark, “Jenny Klein, my assistant.” She’s heading off to the cleaners and to pick up revised contracts. He urges her to hurry back; things fall apart without her. She also baked him some coconut cupcakes. The brothers stare at him speculatively on that one. “She bakes cupcakes,” says Stark defensively. Sam asks for the restroom: “I had a little bit too much java.” Stark tells him where it is. While Sam detours upstairs, Dean asks Stark about his business rivals. “There are tons, real estate’s brutal,” admits Stark, on the other hand, he’s demonstrated his love for this town, and he’s respected for what he’s done here.

Stark proudly shows Dean his Citizenship of the Year plaque and his autographed picture from Donald Trump. (“Wow, the Trumpster!” admires Dean.) Stark again mentions how success breeds fierce competition, but in the end, everyone loves and admires him.

Sam interrupts: “Including your wife? Sorry, we heard the two of you were splitting up.” “Maggie and I are going through a temporary situation,” agrees Stark hesitantly, “sometimes you grow apart, no one’s fault.” “Describe the ISSUES between you and your wife, presses Sam. Stark tires to call it one of those “vague, hard to define passages,” but Dean nails it: “She caught you cheating. I couldn’t help but notice things were CORDIAL between you and your assistant. Pretty good with the ladies there, Mr. Stark? A blessing and a curse.” Stark admits he’s a ‘people person’ who admires dynamic, confident women.” “ADMIRE!” clarifies Sam. Stark admits to having a “thing” with a business associate recently. A thing, says Dean. Like a shoe or a loafer, says Sam. Wives think of affairs as more than things, Dean reminds him. Maggie found out, she needed some time off, temporarily, agrees Stark. Was the ‘business associate’ Wendy Goodson on a weekend trip to Maui? asks Dean. That had nothing to do with the affair, insists Don, it was over long before her accident. If it WAS an accident, says Dean. You’re not implying Maggie was behind it? asks Don. Not implying anything, Sam insures him, just saying take her to dinner and apologize.

Walking down the steps to leave, Sam reveals to Dean all the hex stuff he found in Maggie’s closet, and the emptiness on her side of the closet doesn’t imply she’s returning anytime soon. “So Don admires Wendy, biblically,” reveals Dean, “Wendy dies weird, and the scorned wife turns to the dark side.” “And Don’s just in the dark,” says Sam. “Kinda like BEWITCHED,” jokes Dean, “Don’s Darren, doesn’t even know it, a lotta laughs until you cheat on your wife.” “BEWITCHED reference, really,” teases Sam. “Dude,” says Dean, “Nicole Kidman was in the remake, redhead, hello!” “Look at all these dead plants,” observes Sam, staring around them. “Like the real estate place, and Don’s statue thing,” says Dean. “If she’s strong enough, this being pissed off is enough to send some pretty bad vibes their way,” observes Sam. Dean dials his phone and says, “Literally kill off everything around her by PMSing at it. Bobby, it’s me. . .Winchester. . .that’s not funny. . .so we need our kind of Terminex.. . .a witch. . .we’re headed over to her place so we could use some more specifics. . .yeah. . .thank you.” To Sam: “He’s on it.”

They park the Impala in front of a house for lease. Inside an upstairs bedroom, Dean finds an altar dedicated to pretty Jenny Klein and the other three dead victims, all their faces crossed off with bloody witch symbols. He takes down Jenny’s photo. “Keep it in your pants, man!” he mutters angrily. Sam, standing lookout, watches with alarm as Don’s wife enter the property. He tries to alert Dean on his cell, but gets an “All circuits are busy,” warning on his phone.

Panicking, Sam catches up to Mrs. Stark in the driveway. Flashing his badge, he asks to speak with her. She tells him to come back in half an hour; it’s a very bad time right now. He stops her, explaining it’s very important. “Of course,” she says, “and I’m happy to, I’m just in the middle of an emergency, so please, come back. . .thank you!” He watches, a wreck, as she heads back to the house, then, desperate, leans on her car to make the alarm go off. She turns back, but inside, Dean hears, too, and gazes out the window to see Mrs. Stark. Sam apologizes to Mrs. Stark: “Restless leg syndrome.”

Dean hides against a wall just as Mrs. Stark enters the house, then he hightails it outside and joins Sam. “Spoiler alert,” announces Dean, handing Sam a photo, “Jenny Klein’s next, swiped her photo off a hex deck, but Maggie’s going to notice it’s gone eventually. We gotta get over to Jenny’s.”

Maggie enters her walk-in and gazes proudly at her handiwork.

Jenny, wearing an “I love chocolate” apron, takes her cupcakes out of the oven, surveying her handiwork with delight. She removes them from the pan to cool, grinning joyously.

Maggie pricks her finger, drawing blood, and paints an X over Jenny’s face in her picture.

Jenny takes one of her finished cupcakes and peels down the paper in preparation for eating it.

Maggie, having drawn what appears to be a pitchfork over Jenny’s face in blood, recites in Latin a very ugly-sounding spell, ending in one word we can all translate: MUERTE: DEATH!

Jenny bites into the cupcake. Blood trails down her lip and chin. She sighs with pleasure–until she notices the blood on her wrist and arm, pouring from INSIDE the cupcake itself, which has turned into a miniature, beating HEART! Choking, Jenny drops the cupcake, spitting the bite of cupcake-heart from her mouth, which falls to the floor in a pool of blood. She leans over the sink, gasping and choking, vomiting chunks.

Dean kicks in the door, Sam right behind him. “Find the coin, now!” shouts Dean, trying to support the still-gasping, choking Jenny as best he can. “Come on, Sam!” Finally finding the coin in one of the cupboards, Sam puts it down on the counter and shoots it. Jenny, taking in deep gulps of air, is shaken but all right. 

Jenny, lying on the sofa, murmurs, “There were tiny, beating hearts in my cupcakes. That’s never happened before, hearts in my cupcakes!” She repeats it, over and over, growing hysterical. “Should I slug her?” offers Dean. “Give her a second,” advises Sam. “Oh my God, what just happened?” she asks. “You were hexed,” supplies Sam. “Who are you people?” she demands–“what the hell do I do?” Dean urges her to pack a bag and go. “Go where?” she asks. “Doesn’t matter,” says Sam, “five or six hundred miles oughta do it–you got someone real powerful real pissed, and they’re trying to get rid of you. In line with that, you might want to cool things with Don Stark.” Jenny makes it clear to them that there’s nothing between her and Don Stark–he’s her boss, that’s it. “He’s married–ew!”

Maggie is setting up a bad-paintings charity event, ordering lackeys how to arrange tables and such. She signs for flowers with her friend, Sue. “What would I do without you?” wonders Maggie. “Please, I like helping, what are best friends for?” asks Sue. It’s just been so tough with Don and all, confesses Maggie. Like he put a knife in your heart, says Sue. Exactly right, agrees Maggie. Sue wonders if she was wrong to tell Maggie about Don and Jenny? No, says Maggie, do you think I’d want you to stand by and watch them make a fool of me?–“I love you for what you did.” “I love you, too,” says Sue, clearly smitten with Maggie herself. (Ah ha–Jenny and Don were innocent, but Sue just wanted to stir up trouble in Maggie’s marriage so she could have at Maggie herself!) Maggie is called away from her would-be lover on artwork business, so when Don enters, wanting to talk to his wife, Sue is there, treating him nasty. “You mean the one who’s divorcing you?” she asks. “I know you can’t wait until I’m out of the picture,” he says, “and I know you’re the one whispering lies into Maggie’s ear.” “But they weren’t lies, were they, Don?” asks Sue. “I made one mistake, ONE,” says Don. “I sincerely doubt that,” chides Sue. “This is between Maggie and me,” he says, “has nothing to do with you.” “What do you want?” Maggie asks him, joining them. “I’d like to speak with you,” he says. Maggie gives Sue a look, and she walks away. “Make it quick,” she tells Don, who steps forward, hands on hips. “You know, I think I’ve been patient,” he says, “and you’ve had your fun, the thing with Wendy, but enough it enough.” (Killing another person is FUN?) “Now that you mention it,” begins Maggie. “The thing is,” he says, “none of this was my fault! Maybe if you’d been around a little more. . .but between the art, the charity, and that evil bitch, Sue, I was edged right out of your life!” “Oh, boo hoo, Mr. Big Shot,” says Maggie, “Mr. I don’t put my name on every public works in town–there was three of us in this marriage–me, you and your ego–THAT was the problem, Don–so excuse me, I have a charity event to arrange.” “Some FBI agents came by, asking questions,” he reveals. “Hunters, sweetheart,” corrects Maggie, “that’s what they are. I can see you’re terribly concerned for my safety, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” “Maggie, this stops, you hear me?” warns Don, “as of now.” “You’re so cute when you try to tell me what do do,” smirks Maggie.

Outside, Don notices all the dead foliage surrounding his bust. The brothers drive up in the Impala and witness, along with Don, the destruction of the bust as it cracks in half and falls to pieces. He looks up and sees Maggie looking out the window at him. “Now she’s just getting nasty,” says Dean from the driver’s seat, “killing the girlfriend is one thing, but the commemorative bust? That’s gotta hurt!” “She’ll take the whole town out,” frets Sam–“she doesn’t care who gets in the way.” Bobby calls on the cell. “Yeah?” says Dean–“ya think it’ll take her out? I don’t need to write it down, I’ll remember, go ahead. Wait, hang on, hang on.” He gestures to Sam for a writing implement and paper. Sam gives him both. “What was that last one?” asks Dean. Right. . .uh huh.” Sam shakes his head. “I’ll remember. . .it’s fine.” (Ed. Note: Hmm, I wonder if Dean DIDN’T remember, and that’s one of the reasons the spell didn’t work later.)

Art Show – Maggie reads from cards – Hello, everyone! Thanks for coming. Most of you know that philanthropy and art are my two passions, but what we’ve. . .NOT THERE! Where is the ice, people will be here in three seconds! What we’ve assembled here tonight may be my crowning achievement, not to be immodest. . .” From the sidelines, Sue applauds and smiles, a tear in her eye. “See, I told you,” she says, clasping Maggie’s hand possessively, “everything’s perfect.” “You just reminded me,” says Maggie, “I have to check on the finger sandwiches.”

Dean digs into an entire pie, about to take his first bite. “Dude,” he salivates, “PIE!” Sam enters with an entire plastic bagful of chicken legs and drops it on the table next to Dean’s pie. Disgusted, Dean says, “That is. . .” “Chicken feet, just what the recipe calls for,” supplies Sam, put your schvitz down–he says the power’s been wonky and he’s lost so much product, he probably won’t make the rent–that’s the way we shop on the block, burst pipes and blackouts–it’s like all of a sudden, the town ran out of wonk, so, coincidence, right?” Dean brings over the chicken feet. “I guess we’re past the point of dead flowers,” says Sam. “What can I say?” says Dean–“let’s get a move on here –can you take the feet!?”

Don pulls up in front of his wife’s gala. Maggie hands Sue a martini–“To us,” she toasts, “I couldn’t have done it without you.” When Sue pulls out her tooth-picked olives, however, one of them is an eyeball! She drops her glass on the floor. Outside in his fancy car, Don grins. Inside, Sue screams, “That is disgusting!” Maggie walks down the aisle, examining her paintings, which have all begun to run, like melted ice cream! “NO!” she cries–“not my paintings!” “Maggie, what is going on?” demands Sue. “He did this!” growls Maggie–“how could he?–he knew what this meant to me!” “Do you mean DON?” cries Sue–“he rigged all this?–but how?” “Trust me!” screeches Maggie–“he wants to hurt me!” “I told you,” says Sue, “he’s a dick, but we’ll get through this, because you have people who love you, and he can’t take that away from you.” A silver platter launches itself from a table into the air and decapitates Sue. Her head falls, then her body, to the floor, blood everywhere. In his car, Don smirks and drives away. “Fine, Donald,” says Maggie, “it’s war.”

The brothers pull up on this carnage shortly thereafter. “What the hell?” says Dean, finding the place swarming with cops. He shows his FBI badge and he and Sam enter. They’re just covering Sue’s body. “Clean-up on aisle seven,” says Dean. Sam remarks he doubts Maggie would do this to her own auction, and conclude Don and Maggie are both battling, pissed-off witches and this is full on war of the roses. This is a lot less funny. They drive off, unaware they are being watched Carl, by one of the Leviathans, from a parked car.

They wait outside Maggie’s house, wondering where she is. “She’ll be here,” promises Dean, “they’ve been throwing thunderbolts at each other’s favorite toys. This is ground zero.” Maggie drives up. Hubby is seated inside already, having a glass of (port)? He offers her one. “Shut it,” she orders, “we are so having it out right now.” The brothers enter, carrying a round pan filled with stuff. Dean recites something in Latin; Sam tosses in a match. Nothing happens. “Let me guess, chicken feet?” asks Maggie–“not chilled?” “For obvious reasons,” says Don, “you won’t be leaving this room–well, you will be leaving, just not alive.” The two witches begin to chant a spell, but Sam calls for Plan B–talking. “Now, really?” asks Dean harshly. “This is obviously a domestic dispute,” points out Sam, “so if we can’t kill them, counsel them.” “You know what, not my area,” says Dean, annoyed at his brother. The witches, meanwhile, are continuing their death spell against the Winchesters. Dean puts down the pan of chicken feet on the sofa arm. “Obviously, you two are capable of wiping each other out,” he says, “right? But you haven’t, huh? Which means you still value whatever it is you got. And you wanna keep that dance goin’.” He looks at Sam, who shrugs to him to go on. “Maybe it’s punishment,” continues Dean, “maybe it’s sick, messed-up, erotic, kinky, clamps and feathers kind of love. . .” (Only our Dean would go there, right?) Sam interrupts: “Okay, that’s enough, cowboy; what he’s trying to say is, that you two, whatever it is you have, you’re BONDED.” “Are you out of your mind?” demands Maggie–“he cheated on me–humiliated me.” “We’re not trying to say what Don did was right,” says Sam, “when a relationship cracks, usually both parties have a hand in it.” “Indeed,” says Don. “You’re defending him,” accuses Maggie. She flings Sam to the floor, putting him in immense pain. “OK, OK, nobody can defend Don,” says Dean hastily, looking worriedly at his brother, “right, totally, but we get that you feel betrayed, because you were.” “Don’t suck up to her,” says Don, irritated, sending Dean to the floor with an invisible punch to the stomach and through a French door. Glass shatters. “I WAS betrayed,” insists Maggie, “by all of them–Carl introduced you to Wendy, Dewey covered for you, Wendy DID you!” “Okay, okay!” says Sam from the floor, struggling painfully to stand, “I gotta tell you, I don’t think Don was lying when he said he regrets the whole Wendy thing.” “THING!” repeats Maggie angrily–“sit down!” She forces Sam to sit–agonizingly. “I think the only thing he regrets is getting caught,” adds Maggie as Sam tries to speak. Both brothers are writhing in misery on the floor. “Wendy,” says Don, “was nothing to me, it was over as soon as it started.” “She was part of a pattern,” says Maggie, “I’ve had 800 years of this!–do not make me bring up the Renaissance!” “You’re one to talk!” shouts Don–“1492 ring any bells?” “The man was about to set sail!” she shrieks–“he could possibly fall off the end of the earth! I took pity! So? What’s your excuse?” “I TOLD you! Nothing happened with the Medici chick!” shouts Don–“you’ve always been insanely jealous!” “OOh, I wonder why,” she smirks, “Jenny, Wendy!” “Jenny,” he says, “nothing happened with Jenny, she’s just my assistant.” Maggie makes a derisive noise, not believing him. Dean, barely standing, says, “It’s true, she told us–just an assistant.” Maggie flings him to the floor. “Is that true?” she asks Don. “Yes,” he says, “I swear it, babe, I would never–I made a mistake. I’m sorry, Maggie.” Sam stumbles to his feet. “See,” he gasps, “you’re talking–all these years, you’ve buried your anger and disappointment until it tore you apart, all you had to do was talk!” “And I would have missed the nuking my melon just took,” says Dean, “who wants that?” Don and Maggie give him a few more punches, then Don sets bees loose around his head. “Nice touch,” praises Maggie. “Thank you,” says Don. Dean swallows and spits out a bee. Maggie giggles. “He’s right,” says Don, “I couldn’t kill you. All I ever wanted is you. I’ve been crushing on you since forever. You’re the one I never want to grow old with.” “I could never murder you either, Don,” she says, “it’s crazy, but true.” They finally, passionately, kiss. “Someone wanna call these things off?” begs Dean desperately–“‘scuse me!”

Grimacing from his bee stings, Sam and Dean enter their motel room. Dean takes a swig from his flask, eliciting a disapproving head-shake from Sam. “Come on, it’s been a long day,” complains Dean. “And it’s not over yet,” says a voice from behind them. Dean draws and cocks his gun. “Hi, Sam. Hi, Dean,” greets Chet, Leviathan guy. “Do we know you?” asks Sam, giving Dean a caution sign. “Well I definitely know you,” Chet says, “you’re the dead guys–well, you will be in a minute.” Dean fires. A bit of Blood issues from the wound, but the bullet falls out, apparently harmless. “Sorry–you’re a bit outmatched,” the guy says, advancing on Dean and punching him out cold. Chet grabs Sam around the throat in what is clearly a death-grip–until he’s felled by Donald Stark, standing in the doorway, sending wonderful blue lightning bolts through his body.

Dean and Sam rise to their feet. “Don. . .thank you, we owe you,” says Dean. “Good God, what is that thing?” asks Don. “I guess we should be figuring that out,” gasps Sam. “It is on our to-do list,” says Dean. “Find it a bottomless pit to drop it in,” advises Don, “the spell only lasts a few days.” “What are you even doing here?” Sam asks. “Apparently saving your lives–twice–got it,” Don smiles, kneeling and reaching under each of their beds to retrieve one of Maggie’s deadly coins. “Maggie, seriously?” asks Sam. “She was gonna kill us?–We just saved your damn marriage,” says Dean. “Yeah,” says Don, “but to be fair, you also tried to kill her–you know how she is when she gets a bug up her ass–gotta love her, right?” He gazes at their disbelieving faces. “Right,” he repeats, “bottomless pit. Ciao!” (LOL!) He departs. Sam and Dean stare at each other in amazement.

Later, they load Leviathan guy into the Impala’s trunk. Dean, on the phone with Bobby, reports, “He’s ready for transport. Let’s hope you got someplace you can put him, Bobby. All right.” He slams the trunk closed. “We should hit the road,” he says to Sam, “you ready?” “Were you listening to the Starks tonight?” Sam asks. “A little,” says Dean, “when I wasn’t getting slammed into a wall or stung by bees.” “You notice how they opened up, got everything off their chest?” asks Sam. “Yeah,” says Dean, “kudos on sellin’ up that crap.” “It wasn’t crap, it worked,” says Sam. Dean points out to his brother how very very very very very very very tired he is, but Sam reminds him that the stuff he doesn’t like talking about doesn’t just go away; it builds up–“Like whatever is eating away at you right now. . .” “There’s ALWAYS something eating at me!” says Dean angrily–“that’s who I am! Something happens, I feel responsible–the Lindbergh baby–that’s on me–unemployment, my bad–” “That’s not what I’m talking about!” says Sam. “What are you talking about?” demands Dean. “I’m talking about whatever you’re not telling me about,” says Sam, “look, Dean, it’s fine–you can unload, that’s kinda what I’m here for!” They look at each other for a few moments. We know what Dean is thinking about and that he can’t tell Sam what is eating away at him. “I mean,” says Sam, shrugging, “we’re good, right?” (Ed. note: Break my heart, why doncha?) “Right,” says Dean, climbing into the car, leaving Sam as puzzled and unfulfilled as before. All the background lights, as well as the Impala’s taillights, are red, and I can’t help but think of hell. Hell on earth for Sam and Dean because Sam wants so badly to help him and Dean can’t tell him, can’t “unload” because the secret Dean’s keeping will shatter their brotherhood, destroy their friendship and Dean can’t do that. It’s too much to lose.

Damn you, Sera, you’re killing me here!

I enjoyed this episode, but was hoping for more chemistry from Charisma and James. I just didn’t feel the heat I was hoping would emanate from them as two jealous witches, and while their scenes using Sam and Dean as punching bags were hilarious, I had a hard time seeing them as passionate lovers. She would have been great with Dean. There wasn’t enough oomph with Maggie, sorry. What did you all think?

Of course, Sam used the psychological aspect of the ep as a way to try to get Dean to talk to him, but Dean wasn’t having it. He can’t bring himself to talk to Sam, not after what he did to Amy. He feels too GUILTY, and the guilt won’t let him even admit to killing her. He knows if he does, he’s going to lose his baby brother, maybe for good. He won’t take that chance, even though his excessive drinking is driving him and Sam apart. 

1.  I give this ep a 7 out of 10. The humor was good, but forced in some spots. What about you?

2.  Dean has always been a heavy drinker.  Do you think Sam’s coming down heavy on him for no reason now?  Why is he giving him such a hard time all of a sudden?

3.  How did you like the way the Starks sought revenge on each other?  Are they a fun couple or what?  

4.  Do you think things would be worse or better between Sam and Dean if Dean fessed up?  

5.  What did you think of the “therapy” Sam and Dean practiced on the witch couple?  How about the torture the witches practiced in return?

6.  Re: the Starks.  In the long run – Can this marriage be saved?

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