Supernatural

Episode Report Card
Demian: C+ | 2 USERS: A-
YOU GRADE IT
The Hardy Boys Get Snuggly, Hugly, Mean and Ugly

Rattle Rattle THEN! In the beginning, Darling Sammy had a shapely, Smurf-loving blonde fiancée named Jessica, who most memorably found herself nailed to the ceiling with a foot-wide gash through her torso right before Azazel set her on fire, after which she fled to Dillon, Texas, where she changed her name and began enjoying the company of a variety of gentlemen whose penises are not fatal. Much later, Dashing El Deano learned he's the officially designated angel condom for St. Michael shortly after someone smote the crap out of Castiel, who unexpectedly found himself completely restored thanks to the magical intervention of an entity or entities unknown, so My Sweet Baboo -- adorably leaping to conclusions by believing God Himself was responsible for said magical restoration -- decided to set off on his own to track down his mysteriously missing benefactor in order to have that benefactor smite Lucifer, and thus Castiel missed the still-later moment when Sam and Dean broke up. And as the agonies of the fangirls echoed across the Internet, I, your faithful recapper, delighted in telling them all to shut the fuck up so we don't miss the...

...Slashy, Slashy NOW!, for Christ's sake. Stupid screaming fangirls. As the NOW! advances forward into the blackness, it briefly shares screentime with the neoned façade of The Great Plains Motel before both NOW! and façade vanish completely in favor of a far more entertaining sight, indeed: Darling Sammy, shirtless, asleep on a motel room bed. Yum. Also: Yowza. "I'd forgotten what an expressive back the dear boy has!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, fluttering a perfectly manicured paw in front of his face to cool his overheated and somewhat drooly maw, and just wait until he rolls over, my scaly friend. "Oh, mercy!" Raoul shrieks again, sounding a little woozy and light-headed this time around, so you'll have to excuse us for a moment while I fetch Raoul's smelling salts from his den, as I wouldn't want him to pass out and tumble off his overstuffed armchair like he did during last Sunday's Mad Men, partly because he's too damned heavy to hoist off the fricking floor, but mainly because he's about to tumble onto my roommate's morbidly obese cat, and that's the sort of mess I'd be happy never to deal with in my life, thank you very much.

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Supernatural

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