When six girls vanish from Limestone, Illinois, in the space of seven days, Our Intrepid Heroes trek to lovely central Kankakee County to see if this is, indeed, their kind of thing, and after several long minutes of Twilight-related misdirection and "comedy," they reach the foregone conclusion. Seems a nest of Illinois vampires has been luring barely-legal Twitards to their doom while also knocking over several of the county's bloodmobiles, so the boys stake out the goth bar wherein the last victim was last seen until they encounter a couple of likely suspects. They split up to chase after the pallid lads -- because splitting up is always such a good idea in these situations -- and while Sam ends up tracking and decapitating an actual vampire, Dean wastes time chasing after some glitter-bedecked wannabe who's just out to get laid. Until, that is, the coven's leader emerges from the grim downstate shadows to smack Dean around for a bit, after which the coven's leader turns him! DUN! While Evil Sammy watches from afar, twirling his nefarious moustaches! Dun-dun-DUN!
Things quite naturally go to hell pretty quickly after that for Dean, but fortunately, Grampa Campbell arrives on the scene with instructions for a terribly convenient vampire cure that he just happened to swipe from his own granddaddy's Demonic Day Planner, and all they need to whip up a batch of the stuff using blood from Dean's vampire sire. So, quite naturally, Dean races off to Cicero to scare the living crap out of Bendy Lisa and The Brat with his bloodshot eyes and brand-new fangs. Yeah, I don't know what the hell that scene was doing in this episode, either.
In any event, it is only after thus so efficiently destroying the one stable relationship he'd ever had in his life that Dean returns to Limestone to invade the abandoned bank the vampires are using as their home base and slaughter everyone. Grampy quickly concocts the cure, Dean goes back to normal after vomiting up a bucketful of bitterly black vampiric bile, and in the end... absolutely nothing happens, actually, because Dean totally does not confront Evil Sammy over the latter's nefarious moustache-twirling ways. Wimp.
Rattle, Rattle Tacky Blue Glitter THEN! There were easily slaughtered vampires, and there were Campbell cousins no one had heard about before, and there were Bendy Lisa and The Brat, and there were Dark Suspicions That Darling Sammy Might Possibly Have Come Back Wrong For The Eighteenth Or Nineteenth Time Since This Godforsaken Show Began, and it's a shame they had to go and remind us all of this excellent vampire-themed episode from the third season during the Tacky Blue Glitter THEN!, because the vampire-themed episode we are about to endure is not nearly as awesome and does, in fact, suck, and in all of the worst possible ways.
Rattle, Rattle Tacky Blue Glitter NOW! As a mercifully truncated version of Bauhaus's "Bela Lugosi's Dead" moans away on the soundtrack, the camera tracks through a sort of goth-slash-biker bar populated entirely by sallow-faced twentysomethings sporting the expected array of arcane facial piercings and unusually colored hair until it lands on the plaid flannel back of an obviously out-of-place brunette as she orders a cocktail. The guylinered bartender motions for her ID, so the brunette -- who's wearing black nail polish, by the way -- produces the driver's license of one Emily Fang of 315 Lincoln Street, Limestone, Illinois. Despite the fact that our brunette is both clearly underage and, you know, not Chinese, Guyliner passes her a shot, and the brunette nervously gulps it down while darting her eyes around the bar's interior, obviously searching for someone.
She eventually starts pushing her way through the crowd and clumsily bobbles her sparkly red cell phone, which is caught before it shatters on the floor by a poutily lipped male model. The brunette beams at the sight of the guy, and she tippy-toes her mouth up to his ear to perk, "You came!" "Not yet," Lippy smiles, "but I was planning on it later this evening." "Filthy!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, a mortally affronted yet perfectly honed paw pressed against his supposedly outraged chest, and you can knock it off with the pearl-clutching, my scaly friend, because I'm totally kidding. "Really?!" Really. All the guy does is smirk something about keeping his promises before escorting the brunette over to a booth, where they proceed to yammer away at each other for about three thousand years. "Oh, poop!" pouts Raoul. "That's boring!" Honey, we just started -- you want boring, just wait until we hit the... "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Oh, great. Figures that damned dizzy lizard would take the easy way out by lapsing into a coma not even two minutes into this crap. Thanks for nothing, Raoul! "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Rrrgh.