Our Intrepid Heroes hop on over to Sturbridge, Massachusetts, because The Glamorous Goddamn Ladies Of Frigging Halliwell Manor have apparently abandoned scenic San Francisco, gone all Dark Side, and are now wreaking havoc amongst the tastefully appointed suburban manses of depressingly damp Worcester County.
Okay, not really, but that's pretty close. Seems an amateur coven of WASPy witches has unwittingly sold its collective soul to an undercover dark demonic force in exchange for, like, lower interest rates on their mortgages, or something, and now all Hell's broken loose, complete with an impressively high body count and several spectacularly gruesome moments involving unexpectedly loose teeth and pale little wriggly things in cheeseburgers. Sam and Dean quickly figure out what's going on -- thanks mainly to some really sloppily hidden hex bags -- and are all prepared to take the witches out by any means necessary when sparkly haired Ruby stops by to order them out of town, pronto, as the undercover dark demonic force will most likely gut Our Dear Boys like trout, so great are her powers. Screaming ensues, but Dean's eventually ready to bail on the job like he's been told to do when he starts hacking up bits of lung, so Action Sammy swings into gear (and gets to drive the Impala for the first time this season), busting up the coven's latinations to shove the business end of The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Can't into the ladies' faces. Alas, The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Can't lives up to its name when it fails to blow the undercover dark demonic force away, so it's left to Ruby and her luxuriant tresses to save the boys' tantalizing asses.
And in the end, we learn something special about Ruby that I've totally forgotten about because I really don't care, but I think it involved her getting completely polluted seven days before her twenty-first birthday and then being dimwitted enough to lie about her identity when the Arizona State Police pulled over the SUV she was riding in. How is that going to affect Dashing El Deano's imminent journey to The Underworld?
Rattle, Rattle THEN!, and never have I been so grateful for the previously sequence on this show, because it feels like they haven't aired a new episode in three years, and I don't remember ninety percent of the crap that takes up the next full minute of airtime (in an episode that clocks in at barely thirty-nine minutes without the commercials, by the way, and just to let you know in advance why this recap might end up being unusually brief). So, long story short, then: Ruby The Sparkly-Haired Demon -- seriously, she's like a My Little Pony from Hell -- came from out of nowhere with a Knife That Can Kill Anything (And Actually Does), much to the befuddlement of Our Intrepid Heroes and their grizzled mentor, Bobby, before assisting that self-same grizzled mentor in reconstructing The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't and promising Darling Sammy to help Dashing El Deano out of that deal the latter made with The Saucy And Now Deceased Crossroads Demonette at the end of last season. Meanwhile, Sam might be soap, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, because oh, my holy God, did you see what he did to Whackjob Gordon's neck? "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, flailing himself into a tizzy of glee on his overstuffed armchair over the chance to witness such awe-inspiring awfulness once more. "It was decapitation with razor wire!" Raoul howls, giddily clapping his paws together while unnecessarily reminding longtime viewers of what that scene involved, and I am thus forced to make shushing noises in Raoul's general direction, for after Princess Sparkle's vow to be a "little fallen angel" on one of Darling Sammy's remarkably broad shoulders gets run through the METAL TEETH CHOMP!, it's time for the...
...Silence, Silence NOW! The camera pans across the darkened master bedroom just now emerging from the gloom until it lands on a pair of exquisitely attired silhouettes entering from the hall. As the tuxedoed gentleman flicks on a light, his gorgeous wife snaps into well-lit view to sigh about the wretchedly dreary party they'd been forced to attend earlier in the evening, and because I've seen this show before and thus understand that this pre-credits sequence will not end well for either of these people, let's allow them to kiss and purr and canoodle at each other in peace for what certainly will be the absolute last time in their woefully brief lives, shall we? Good. While they're doing that, then, let's jump with the camera as it cuts over to a fearsomely toothy brunette striking a match as she chants Craptin I'll make no attempt to transcribe, because I happily stopped transcribing Craptin two blessed years ago, and I'll be damned if I'm ever picking up that unfortunate habit again. As the brunette touches the match to a white candle's wick, Doomed Wife sashays into the master suite's bathroom to remove her expensive-looking jewelry in front of the mirror, quite justifiably admiring her reflection the entire time. The Craptin continues underneath, and the camera leaps back to the brunette's den of terrifyingly toothy iniquity to pan across a variety of disgusting tools of the voodoo trade before rejoining Doomed Wife, who's about to brush her teeth, and already my hand is flying to my mouth in anticipatory sympathetic agony, because we can all see where this is going, right? Right.
For her part, the chanting brunette unwraps a toothbrush atop her foul, witchy altar, hoists an athame into the air, and slices open a gouge in her right palm to start dripping globbets of blood all over the bristles. Meanwhile, Doomed Wife obliviously scours away at the inside of her mouth until..."GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" For yes, gentle reader, Doomed Wife is now fussing with one of her canines, which promptly pulls free from her gums with a sickeningly wet sucking sound and not a small amount of blood. "Oh, God!" breathes Doomed Wife, staring at the pulpy tooth now resting in the palm of her hand. "Just you wait, little missy!" Raoul shriekily taunts, pointing an overly excited (albeit perfectly manicured) claw at the television screen. "It gets worse!" I, meanwhile, have burrowed backwards into the sofa with both hands clapped firmly over my mouth in a ridiculous attempt to keep all of my teeth in their proper place, because -- and I'm not sure if you've figured this out yet -- this sort of mouth shit freaks me the fuck out. As the brunette continues to dribble blood on the bristles, Doomed Wife starts working her tongue around, then reaches in to pull out one of her molars, and I can't! Sorry! I can't watch this anymore! "But Demian, darling!" chides Raoul. "It's simply delightful!" You can delight your scaly way straight to Hell, Raoul, because I am not watching this anymore. "Your loss!" Raoul cheerfully shrieks just as an increasingly anguished Doomed Wife screams for her husband, "Paul," who arrives just in time to watch as the bathroom door slams shut and locks itself of its own accord. DUN! "Janet?" Paul bellows, immediately pounding against the wood, but it's of no use, for as the brunette ratchets up the Craptin, Doomed Janet suddenly clutches at both her stomach and her mouth before doubling over the sink to vomit tooth after blood-spattered tooth across the white porcelain. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Shut up, Raoul. "You hush up your own self!" Raoul shoots back. "After all, I'm not the pantywaisted little sissy cringing in terror over a bathroom sink absolutely brimming with rent mouthflesh!" I hate Raoul so much sometimes.