Rattle, Rattle WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE THEN! Mention is made -- again -- of Dead Amy, but the important part of this week's THEN! involves the reintroduction of Becky The Wincesting Fangirl, a supremely aggravating tertiary character I'm sure you'll all recall from such past-season gems as "Sympathy For The Devil" and "The Real Ghostbusters." And if you're under the impression her presence this evening means that tonight's offering is going to be as entertaining as those other two episodes were, let me disabuse you of that notion right now. "Really?!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon. Really, my scaly friend. "Rats! ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Lovely. Looks like we're in for yet another excruciatingly long night at Casa Demian. Oh, well -- no point delaying the inevitable, I suppose, so here we go:
Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! From the murky blackness following the drippy NOW!, a location card emerges to inform us we've landed in Las Vegas, Nevada, for the first portion of this evening's festivities, and as the location card lingers there on the screen for a moment, it's joined by a pair of shapely gams, bathed in the tacky glow of a red backlight that has absolutely no business being all the way down there on the floor, as we learn when the camera rises to reveal we've found ourselves in the middle of a low-end strip club. But let's set aside any bitchery we might toss in the direction of pointless and ill-conceived lighting effects for the moment, because we've got an entire pointless and ill-conceived scene to deal with, here. Yep, the camera eventually rises high enough to reveal we've found ourselves in the middle of a low-end strip club, and it settles on Dashing El Deano, whom we greet as he's in the middle of hitting on the bleach-blonde cocktail waitress attached to those shapely gams. Were it not for the fact that the bleach-blonde cocktail waitress vanishes immediately after this scene's over, never to disturb us again for the remainder of this dreadful installment, I'd see fit to mention her hastily sketched backstory, I'm sure. As it is, I'm going to skip past that part to listen in as Dashing El Deano explains -- by way of some entirely unnecessary and unnecessarily convoluted "My Friend Has This Whackjob Brother" tale of woe he feeds the waitress -- that while he and Darling Sammy are supposed to be on their "sacred annual pilgrimage to Vegas," Sam rather rudely bailed to embark on "some granola-munching hike in the desert by himself." And with that sad fact, my estimation of Darling Sammy just plummeted. His lank, greasy hair this season, and those asinine sideburns that now threaten to eat his entire face? His incessant and incessantly mopey whining about Dead Amy? His utterly nonexistent storyline as of late? These things I can handle. But you tell me he's actually some gorilla-sized hipster hippie who'd rather be hugging rocks at Burning Man than shooting monsters in the face with rock salt? Forget it. Sam Winchester is dead to me. You know, until he takes off his shirt again.