Robin’s Rambles – Supernatural 7.16,”Out With The Old”

 
Irina, a snooty ballerina, practices after all the other dancers have already left. Her dancing is juxtaposed with the janitor cleaning the floor outside the gym. As the music crescendos, she is horrified to realize the ballet slippers have taken over her feet and she is unable to stop dancing; she dances until her feet are literally danced right off her body and she dies, blood spurting from her body all over the floor. Hearing her scream, the janitor enters the room to find it splattered with blood, the ballet slippers mysteriously clean, the dancer lying there with nothing but stumps at the end of her legs.
 
The horrified janitor crosses himself.

 
Frank has news for Dean–Dick’s funding an archaeological dig. Dean doesn’t know what to do with that info, or the factory in Saudi Arabia, or the fishery in Djakarta–none of this is helping. Frank is annoyed that Dean doesn’t care more–I could be in Tromsoe, Norway (you moron) now, zero Leviathan activity there. By the way, they opened another Biggerson in Butte, Frank informs him. We’re not in Montana, says Dean. At least you know where Butte is, says Frank, that’s encouraging. He doesn’t have anything in Oregon, where the brothers happen to be (against a stunning, snowy backdrop). Wisconsin, Bobby’s coordinates, Dean reminds him, what about those? Frank’s got nothing on those. Work on it, orders Dean. When did you become the boss of me? demands Frank–you don’t like what I’m doing, you can stick it up your Montana! Dean urges him to take it easy, but Frank hangs up on him, pissed. Sam joins him and Dean says having a cranky SOB as their go-to guy is. . .he doesn’t know what it is. He notes that this is Sam’s fifth cup of coffee this morning, wondering if his brother is going for the Guinness of world records. Every time I close my eyes, Lucifer is yelling in my head, says Sam, I let him in once, now I can’t get rid of him. You know he’s not actually. . .points out Dean. Sam does, but try telling that to the mind control inside my brain. Dean asks if he tried the hand thing. He did, but apparently that isn’t working anymore. Sam’s found them a possible case, and shows Dean the newspaper story about the ballerina. Dancers–they are toe-shoes fulla crazy, remarks Dean, and he knows this because he saw BLACK SWAN, twice–hot tututu-0 action, c’mon Sam, what’s wrong with you? he says to his brother’s smirk and “the depths of your”–anyway, it’s only a coupla hours away, adds Sam. (LOL! to this exchange.)  Dancers? why not, says Dean, maybe you’ll get some sleep on the way. Yeah, maybe, says Sam doubtfully. They take off in the car that is not the Impala.
 
They enter the Portland Police station after finding the gym empty of EMF and other supernatural clues. Dean heard they had good coffee in Portland. That’s Seattle, corrects Sam. The cop behind the desk is not very friendly and makes the FBI suits wait. Sam and Dean request the crime scene photos and he makes them show their FBI badges. Gimme a minute, the cop says unenthusiastically. 

 
A cop, who has brought his daughter to work with him, has just marked the ballet slippers for evidence. She reaches out to touch them. Those are for Daddy’s work, he warns her, but she eyes them longingly. Daddy, I have to go pee, she says. You know where the little girl’s room is, he reminds her. She leaves.
 
Sam and Dean look at the photo of footless Irina and the ballet slippers she was wearing, minus even a drop of blood. I call that weird, remarks Dean. 
 
The little girl enters the bathroom to find the ballet slippers waiting for her on the floor. She slips them on–and to her delight, they instantly conform to the size of her feet!
 
The brothers request a peek at the ballet slippers, but they are gone. Damn it, Tracy! says her father, explaining that his daughter loves ballet. Sam and Dean race into the bathroom, where Tracy is still sitting on the floor. Take those shoes off, orders Sam, but it’s too late–the little girl launches to her feet and is being twirled around and around against her will. Sam grabs onto her body while Dean tries to wrestle the shoes off her feet. She kicks him over and over, apologizing, but he’s finally able to peel the shoes off. Gasping, Sam says, “I’m going with cursed object!” “Ya think?” says Dean.

Sam asks Tracy if she’s okay and later carries the shoes out by pencil. Inside the shoes, a label says they came from a store called Out With the Old. That’s our next stop, declares Sam, hoping that the shoes are the only thing in the store they have to worry about. What a dreamer you are, says Dean. They exit the police station. When they arrive at their destination, they realize the shoes have moved themselves from the trunk to the back seat. Does it look like they’re your size? asks Sam. Shut up, orders Dean. Are you. . .? asks Sam. Getting a strong urge to Siegfried myself into oblivion? asks Dean–yes. You’re not gonna see BLACK SWAN, vows Sam. Dean nods.
 
A too-friendly real estate saleswoman tells a Mr. Marshall it was nice meeting him, and to call her if he has any questions about the offer. George, her lackey/assistant, tells her he doesn’t think Mr. Marshall is going to sell. Thinking isn’t your strong suit, George, she says, and forces him to open her car door even though his arms are loaded down with papers and such. Sam and Dean hurry past them across the street to an antique store, which is going out of business. Did you sell these? Sam demands of the owner, who is sweeping up. My mother had them in that box, the proprietor says, which is, of course, a curse box. Sam grabs the shoes out of his brother’s hand; Dean has been holding them and looking them over with much fondness. Sam hurriedly pushes the toe shoes into the box and seals them away. You okay there, Baryshnikov? asks Sam sarcastically. Yeah, I’m pas de deax, says Dean, mispronouncing it. Scott Freeman, the owner, tells the brothers he found the shoes in the back, his mother passed away last week. Sam tells him he’s sorry to hear that. The shoes are some personal stuff she collected, explains Scott, I’m trying to get rid of it all. Dean comes from the back with more empty curse boxes; Sam demands to know what was in them. 

 
We nervously watch a woman chopping vegetables, wondering if the knives are cursed, but when an ancient teapot whistles, she takes it in her bare hands and pours the boiling water down her throat, killing herself in a most grisly fashion as third degree burns spread over her chin and inside her body. 
 
Scott want to know what the hell kind of FBI guys Sam and Dean are. The kind that are trying to fix the mess you started, Dean says–now where did you get these boxes? In her safe, says Scott, pointing to a safe covered with a ton of warding-off symbols. Did it ever occur to you that they were there for a reason? asks Sam angrily. No, I just thought it was some junk she had collected over the years, says Scott, I knew she was into some weird stuff, but I never. . .  Think again, advises Dean, because this junk is killing people. Scott doesn’t believe it. Sam tells him they need to know exactly who he sold the stuff in the boxes to. 
 
The brothers pull up in front of kettle lady’s house, Sam explaining that with enough mojo, you can turn a pencil into a weapon of mass destruction. Good times, says Dean. They’re too late to save the woman with the tea kettle, so Sam calls it in to the cops, identifying himself as Bruce Hornsby. 
 

There are two more objects, a gramophone sold to Brenda Gluck and a vintage gentleman’s magazine sold to Peter Yankit (seriously?) on Johnson (seriously?) Lane. (Could we get anymore blatant with the jokes here?) Dean volunteers to “handle” the latter, with Sam reminding him not to do so literally. Sam with take care of the former. I wonder how old porn kills you? muses Dean. Pretty sure you don’t want to know, says Sam. Probably right, agrees Dean. (They are holding everything now with yellow non-slip gloves, the kind with which you wash dishes.)
 
At the Gluck residence, Brenda turns on the gramophone and heads upstairs with a basket of laundry. Something in the gramophone whispers to her son to kill his mom, and he listens intently, then finds a nice, sharp knife. She is sitting on the sofa reading a magazine, when he, in a trance, heads her way. He has the knife drawn back, ready to kill her, when Sam rushes in and disarms the boy. Seeing what was about to happen, Brenda screams. Where’s the gramophone? demands Sam. She points. Sam draws on the yellow gloves. Hey, that’s mine, the kid insists. Kid, this would be a really good time for a lesson in gratitude, says Sam, lucky for you, I’m too tired. Sam answers his phone–Dean–reporting that he got there just in time, too, and Sam doesn’t want to know what he was doing. Sam’s across town and will head Dean’s way.

 
Watching the curse boxes being returned to his mother’s safe, Scott says, so my mother wasn’t just some whack job, all this stuff is real? Yup, says Dean. Now I really feel like crap, says Scott, I kept pushing her to sell the store, she kept saying no, and I kept pushing her, you know, telling her how much money she’d make. You think you changed her mind? asks Dean. I don’t know, says Scott, this real estate lady kept coming around, then one day, just like that, Mom says okay–then she had that accident, never even got to enjoy the money. How soon after? asks Dean. The next day, says Scott sadly, car crash—-you know, I keep thinkin’ if I hadn’t pushed her. . .  A little tip, says Dean, feelin’ guilty isn’t going to bring her back, best you can do is live your life the way you think would make her proud–or at least not embarrass the crap out of her. (Aw, Dean, that’s so sweet!) Dean reminds him not to touch anything in the boxes, don’t even go near the safe; he and Sam will get it all boxed up, get a U-Haul and take it away. Scott gets it. Dean leaves, noticing the SOLD BICKLEBEE REALIY sign hanging in the window—heck, in nearly every window of every business in town, with Joyce Bicklebee’s smiling face on the signs.
 
In the latter’s office, Joyce tells Mr. Marshall, who is sucking on a fat cigar, how the town won’t be the same without him, but e nearly everyone else has already sold. I’ve prepared an analysis report for you, she says, and is annoyed with George when he hands her the wrong report. Hard to find good help these days, she chortles to Mr. Marshall. She hands him the paperwork. As you can see, she says, our offer is more than generous–and with that generous offer, you can go wherever and do whatever you please–get on with your life. Marshall agrees, but abruptly refuses to sell–that store IS my life–I can’t sell. He rises to leave. Look, she says, we all feel attached to our past, but it’s the future that’s the real adventure. Sorry, ain’t sellin’–and I ain’t buyin’ that crap either, lady, Marshall says. Well, if that’s your decision, what can I say? says Joyce, holding out her hand to grip his–I wish you the best of luck with the rest of your life–what little there is left of it. He feels her incredibly strong grip as she morphs into him, reaches out, twists his head and breaks his neck. She signs the contract as Marshall, says, “See, as promised,” then turns back into Joyce and says, “On the dotted line.” Seeing George’s disapproving face, she says, “WHAT?”  Think you were a little quick on the trigger? asks George–first the woman at the antique shop and now this?–you know that Mr. Roman doesn’t like us calling attention to ourselves. She glares at him. He is chastened. So what should I do with the body? he asks. There, that’s the attitude, she praises–take Mr. Marshall and his stinky cigar home, and put them in bed–oh, and George?–make sure the cigar is lit, you know, burning hot? She smiles, proud of herself.     

       

 
As the fire trucks do their job outside Marshall’s house, Joyce chuckles over poor Mr. Marshall–he should have stopped smoking. Choking on the cup of coffee George has made her, she asks if he knows how many assistants she’s had since taking over this body. Three? he guesses. Five she informs him–I leave it to your imagination what happened to the first four. Something wrong with the brew? he asks shakily. You tell me–what did I ask for? queries Joyce. Hot cup of coffee says George. She asked for hot, but got tepid–“FOUR, George, just sayin’.” She sends him out to a barista on Main with an order that would have daunted someone with an eidetic memory. That’s all the way across town, protests George, I won’t be back until 9. See you at 8:45, she warns him. George hurries out. 
 
Sam, driving a black truck, yawns and  turns on the radio, nice and loud, to help him stay awake. He takes a call from Dean, who is sitting at his laptop in an eatery with Wi-Fi. Dean reports that Scott’s mother, aka Mama Hoarder, didn’t just die and leave the store to Scott; the lady spent 40 years trying to keep that place, then one day she wakes up and sells–next day, drives her car off a cliff. So, says Sam, yawning, do you think somebody cut her brakes? No, I think the world is full of hilarious coincidences, says Dean. and tells Sam about this new real estate firm that just gobbled up a whole ton of Main Street–doesn’t that seem weird to you? Sam, probably fending off Lucifer in his head, responds, “Yeah, sounds good.” Sounds good? repeats Dean–are you all right? You know that they say sleep deprivation is an enhanced interrogation technique? says Sam. Yeah, says Dean. Trust me, it’s torture, Sam assures him. Dean hangs up and clicks on CORPORATE CONTACT on the screen. WE’RE SORRY, THE SITE YOU ARE TRYING TO ACCESS HAS BEEN BLOCKED is what comes up. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he mutters, and phones Frank. He calls Frank crazy sauce, Frank calls him fudge pop. He tells Frank about the real estate company buying up mom and pop shops in Portland and the firewall he hit doing research. Can Frank crack it? Can a dog play poker? asks Frank. I don’t. . .says Dean. The answer is yes, says Frank, what’s the company name? Geothrive, Inc., supplies Dean. 
 
On his way back, Sam starts falling asleep behind the wheel of the truck, swerving all over the road. He’s fast asleep when he’s heading into the path of a semi, which begins beeping at him to get out of the way. Sam awakens just in time to swerve out of the semi’s path, narrowly avoiding a serious accident and leaving Sam gasping as the realization of how close he came to dying hits him. 

 
WAIT! I said one pump sugar free, not two, says George to the barista. It’s a freebie, but George insists his boss will be able to tell the difference and wants a new one. There are people in line and he’s there all alone, so enjoy the free pump, says the barista. How about make me a new one, demands George, pushing back the coffee cup. How about you eat me, invites the barista. Don’t tempt me, advises George. (LMAO!) George checks his watch. You’re lucky I’m late, he says, so lucky. As he’s walking away, he hears Sam, who’s next in line, ordering a triple red eye. Your funeral, says the barista. George gets an eyeful of Sam and rushes away.
 
George calls his boss, who is more concerned about her coffee. You’re sure it’s him? she asks. I’m sure, says George–Sam Winchester is going into that antique store we just bought–you think they’re here for us? No, says Joyce, trust me, if they were here for us, we’d know. I’m going to enjoy this, says George exultantly. Enjoy what? she asks. Well, eating him is pretty much what I was thinking, says George, cowed once again. WHAT? screeches Joyce–no!–come back to the office–now!

 
Once George is in front of her, Joyce continues–We have a chain of command here, George–you see a Winchester, you don’t eat him–you tell ME, and *I* eat him! What do you think, I’m going to tell Dick ‘I think he ate him but I didn’t see it’–what, I’m supposed to vouch for YOU, George? Like you’re not one dumb move away from a bibbing already? Come on! But I–begins George. Oh, no! says Joyce, pointing a finger at him–nonononononononono. She shuts him up, finally, takes the coffee, sips it, and exclaims with disgust, “Two pumps! Really, George?” (I could not stop laughing during this exchange, which reminded me of a few bosses I’ve had in my time. You can’t win, you want to kill them, or better yet, eat them to death.) 
 
Eying pie in a glass case, Dean speaks to Frank on his cell: Tell me you got something. No, I’m calling with the Lakers-Celtics score, snarks Frank. My silence is your cue, Frank, says Dean, echoing a conversation they had earlier. You were trying to get into the Geothrive internal site, and the reason why you couldn’t is because if you dig down deep enough, it’s all Dick, says Frank. That would be helpful, says Dean, if you didn’t say that about everything. Except I’m operating on hard fact now, wise-ass, says Frank. Geothrive is part of Roman Inc.? asks Dean. A conglomerate within a subsidiary within a conglomerate–it’s all tied together, says Frank. So Leviathans are Walmart mom and pops? asks Dean. And Bingo was his name-o, says Frank. So we’ve got a big old field in Wisconsin and a bunch of friggin’ shops in Portland–what the hell are they up to? wonders Dean. Sam pulls up outside. Beats me, says Frank, all I know is, it’s corporate and smelly as the day is long–if I were you, I’d get out of Dodge, pronto. People are dyin’ here, Frank. Sure, every second, the latter agrees, check the obesity stats, that town ain’t nothin’ special. We’re not done here, and hey, we might get some answers, says Dean. FINE!–call me if you don’t die, says Frank. Sam sits across from his brother, who tells him he just got off the phone with Frank–apparently, they have a Leviathan issue in this town–they’re looking for the big old giant nesting doll of Dick–as far as property sales go. Seeing how out of it Sam looks, Dean asks, “Hey, you hearin’ me?” “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” says Sam. Enough with the insomnia crap, declares Dean, you need to crash–I’ll keep workin’, you find a motel, get some sleep, okay? It doesn’t matter what I do, says Sam, Lucifer will not shut up. Even now? asks Dean. He’s singing “Stairway to Heaven” right now, says Sam. Good song, says Dean. Not 50 times in a row, says Sam. Dean agrees. Sam’s phone rings, it’s Scott, hysterical.  I looked in one of my mother’s old mirrors and now I want to rip my face off–I think it was cursed! He touched something he wasn’t supposed to, guesses Dean, dropping money on the table. Of course he did, says Sam. The brothers race out.

 
Back at his shop, Scott asks Joyce and George if that was okay. Not exactly Oscar worthy, she replies, but I was convinced. Not that it matters, she adds, stuffing her scarf in his mouth, because you don’t have anymore lines. Now what? asks George. Now, says Joyce, fixing her hair, we wait for meals for us.
 
Antique Shop – Binding and gagging Scott with duct tape, George asks Joyce, “So, one more body we’re going to have to spirit away, huh?” Actually, no, she says, as you so helpfully pointed out, Dick doesn’t like making the papers. So what’s the plan? asks George. We can’t have Scott here, running his mouth, she says, loose lips, yada yada yada–we will kill him. Scott makes a sound of protest behind his gag. But that doesn’t mean anyone has to notice he’s dead, she says, pack your bags, Georgie. She kneels beside Scott. You are turning into one Scott Freeman–for the next, oh, 30 some odd years. She playfully shakes Scott’s shoulder. 
 
Sam and Dean pull up in front of the store to find Scott tied up and gagged and George and Joyce awaiting them. So much for the cursed mirror, says Dean. Sam and Dean–it is such a pleasure to make your acquaintances! bubbles Joyce, hands on hips–now, so you can put names to the faces that will be eating you, I’m Joyce, and this is my assistant, George. You’re the lady from the real estate signs, notes Dean. You like my photo? she asks, striking the same pose. You might want to lay off the whitening strips, advises Dean. Ah, Dean, she laughs, I am going to enjoy picking you out of my teeth. Her head turns into that of the Leviathan, all hungering tongue and teeth. She tosses Dean into a bookcase and George pummels Sam, but also gives him some interesting info: “There’s a bucket of that stuff you love throwing at us RIGHT THERE–dunk me before she sees! As Joyce continues to toss poor Dean all over the room and through French doors, Sam does so. He lifts George, his face all burned, from the cleaning solution. “The sword!” George shouts twice. Sam breaks the glass on a case containing a sword over the fireplace, grabs it, and deftly beheads George’s bitch-boss as she’s going in for the killing blow on Dean, who is lying dazed on the floor amidst shards of glass and wood splinters. Joyce’s head falls to one side, eyes still open body drops straight down. Thanks! gasps Dean. 

 
Putting the last cursed object into the safe, Dean listens to Scott moaning, “Okay, I get that these things mean business, but I can’t just uproot my life.” Sure you can, Dean assures him, it’s not as hard as you think. Adds Sam, these big mouths don’t like to leave loose ends. So you don’t look back until you get someplace you don’t speak the language, finishes Dean. All right, I’m goin’, agrees Scott, thank you, I guess. He leaves. Don’t mention it, calls Sam. He turns to George. One minute–that’s how long you get to tell us why you helped us. Because I am DYING to know what that bitch tastes like, says George. Let me get this straight, says Dean–you want to EAT your boss? (How many of us have felt that same way, not necessarily eat, but murder, at least?) You’ve got a better way to make her stay dead? asks George. So what, says Sam, you’re on our side or something? Yeah. . .no, says George, removing his jacket and loosening his tie, but if Joyce is alive, I spend the rest of my life cleaning her messes–or worse, I get eaten–or bibbed–so, thanks for chopping her head off for me–takin’ her on solo–yikes–so, really, thanks for the assist there–and, of course, you’re welcome, for saving you, before she ripped into your ass like a Christmas present–win-win, right?–so, how about that head? No response from the brothers is making him nervous. Sam holds the sword up to his throat.

Dean says, Yeah, not gonna happen, Georgie–what the hell is Dick Roman building in Wisconsin? I don’t know, I barely know where Wisconsin is, insists George, I’m a West Coast representative. (And I believe him, LOL!) You gonna keep killin’ people who don’t sign on the dotted line? demands Sam. Take it easy, says George, pushing the sword away, but not before tasting Joyce’s blood on the blade and licking his fingers, to Dean’s disgust–killing people isn’t part of the agenda–Joyce just kept getting impatient, you got nothing to worry about with me–don’t you get it, you guys are freaking out about the wrong thing! Ya think? asks Dean. A coupla real estate deals, says George, come on!–big picture, guys!–you think it’s just here?–it’s EVERYWHERE–and it’s a lot more ambitious than this little project–my advice?–keep your heads down and stay down. Listen to me, you gooey son-of-a-bitch, says Dean, you’re gonna tell us what you’re building here or I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap. I was hoping we could play nice, says George, but if you must know, it’s going to be a research center–this, gentlemen, is where we’re going to kill cancer. That doesn’t make any sense, says Sam, why would Dick Roman want to cure cancer? ‘Cause we’re only here to help, says George.
 
Monsters curing cancer, something I never thought I’d say, says Dean, preparing to leave town. I hear ya, says Sam, so what do we do now? You’re gonna sleep on it, all the way to Frank’s, says Dean, capiche? I wish I could, says Sam. Did you get any sleep last night? asks Dean. A little, answers Sam, not enough. We’ll find you a soft rock station, promises Dean, always knocks you right out. He drives to the tune of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising,” hearkening back to the night the Impala was struck by the demon-driven semi with all three Winchester men inside. Behind them is a U-Haul with the curse boxes inside it. When they pull up to Frank’s trailer, it’s pouring, dark, and the same song is still playing. They call to Frank from outside, bang on the trailer door, but get no answer. What the hell is he doing in there? wonders Dean. “Frank, don’t shoot, we’re coming in!” shouts Dean. 
 
There’s blood everywhere, including all the computer screens, and the place has been completely trashed, as though someone was looking for something. Frank, however is nowhere to be seen. “Not good,” says Dean. Sam’s dismayed expression says he agrees.

 
Pretty cool episode, huh? I was wondering when we were going to get back to the Leviathans. This ep was weird—we focused on Scott and the cursed objects, then they seemed to tack on the extra about the Leviathans. It was almost as if they had enough for two half episodes, but not enough for two whole ones, and they took the two halves and mushed them together.  It was uneven, but worked somehow.
 
I LOVED George and Joyce.  She was so over the top, but Keller made it work. My mother was a real estate agent/broker, and there were moments when she and Joyce were chillingly similar. Not that my mom would kill to make a sale. . .well, I hope not.  Please don’t make me remember, please!
 
Ahem.  George was so funny, but he reminded me of how I tried to hard to please my share of bosses and just never could get the coffee right, the report perfect, anything RIGHT EVER! That George actually went so far as to sell Joyce out to the Winchesters, get her killed—well, it’s tough in the business world, but with her gone, he might just get a promotion. Or maybe not. Wanting to taste one’s boss sounds sexual, but not in his case! Weird world, the Leviathans.
 
Questions:
 
1.  Do you think the Leviathans are curing cancer?  If so, why?  To make sure they have an adequate food supply, or is George just plain lying?
 
2.  I’m worried sick about Sam.  Between Lucifer screwing with his head and lack of sleep, I fear for his mind and life. What is going to happen to him?
 
4.  Do you think you have ever owned a cursed object?  Fess up.  If you could have a cursed object, what would you like to have?
 
4.  Would you want Joyce for YOUR real estate saleswoman?  Why or why not?  
 
5.  Do you believe George’s reasons for saving the Winchesters, or do you think there’s something else behind his altruism?
 
6.  What do you suspect has happened to Frank?  Will we ever see him again, or has he been digested?
 
7.  Come on, I dare you, what happens to someone who buys a cursed gentleman’s magazine?  Can someone really masturbate himself to death?  REALLY?
 
8.  Rate this episode from 1-10, and explain your rating. I give it an 8.  For gross factor, it gets a 10. Ballerina dying bloody, killing by drinking hot water, pretty gross spectacles.  

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