When the highly unusual death of a hard-charging (read: bitchy) real estate agent in tiny Prosperity, Indiana, makes it on to the Internet, Our Intrepid Heroes have little choice but to motor on over to investigate, and they quickly find a connection between the ambitious (read: shrewish) real estate agent and several other local residents, at least two of whom have also died under extraordinary circumstances. You see, Wendy Goodson -- whose extremely gratifying electrocution-by-salon-dryer opened the episode -- had teamed up with architect Carl Dunlap, contractor Dewey Stevens, and developer Don Stark (James Marsters) on a lucrative land deal that would have involved the construction of Madison County's largest shopping mall had the partnership not collapsed. Shortly thereafter, of course, Carl boiled to death in his hot tub, Wendy's salon took the concept of hair-burning to delightful new heights, and Dewey ended up tacked to the inside of a Port-O-Let when one of his pneumatic nail guns decided to go rogue.
Naturally, Sam and Dean fret that Don's next, and so head to the graciously appointed Stark mansion to interview him. They soon discover the guy's in the middle of a messy divorce from his wife, Maggie (Charisma Carpenter), brought on by his inability to keep it in his pants, and that the late, unlamented Wendy Goodson just so happened to be the lucky recipient of Stark's affections. Thanks to Sam's sly snooping, which turns up a shoebox full of various witchy implements, and Bobby's off-camera detective work, which identifies coins found at the site of each death as Romanian hex ducats, Our Intrepid Heroes quickly realize Maggie's a massive hag and so begin to take the appropriate steps to slaughter her. Of course, there's a problem: Don's also a massive hag, and he and Maggie have been in an eight-hundred-year witch-on-manwitch relationship fraught with romantic and sexual indiscretions on both their parts, which means this little flare-up in Prosperity isn't exactly something new for these people. Don and Maggie are also far too powerful for Sam and Dean to kill, so the boys attempt a little marriage counseling instead, and wouldn't you know it? It works.
Unfortunately, Maggie's extremely petty, so Don has to hop on over to This Week's Motel Room to remove the ancient Romanian death ducats Maggie placed beneath the boys' pillows, the better to kill them for trying to kill her. Good thing Don stops by, though, 'cause remember that Leviathanically enhanced customer service agent from a couple of episodes ago? Yeah, he's finally returned to snack on Sam and Dean's livers, and thus things are looking pretty dire, indeed, for Our Intrepid Heroes when Don rather fortuitously comes charging through the motel room door to cast a spell that magically electrocutes the Leviathan, temporarily rendering the beast unconscious. How convenient. Of course, Our Intrepid Idiots then proceed to let the manwitch and his mad Leviathan-sporking skillz escape, because why keep him around to help out with this season's over-arching storyline when they can babble at each other out by the Impala about trust and guilt and Dean's drinking and Sam's massive sideburns instead? Stupid show.
Rattle, Rattle WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE THEN! Briefly: Dean hated witches, Leviathans exist, one Leviathan in particular developed a special fondness for cheese, Darling Sammy met Amy Pond and Dashing El Deano killed her.
Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! We open on an upscale hair-and-nail salon, where we find an indifferently coiffed hairburner of the male persuasion leading a rather strident young woman over towards the salon's bank of industrial-strength space-age dryers. The woman's evidently getting her roots did, but that's really beside the point because what we should actually be focusing on are the words she's spewing into her cell phone at the moment. "Kaaaaa-ren!" she whines at her never-heard chatting companion. "Don't second-guess yourself! Yes, your house is beautiful, but didn't you tell me a million times that it's Rick's dream house? Selling it is how you punish his ass, and after what you've been through, don't you deserve that?" So, Missy Strident's a rapacious real estate agent? Got it. She's also remarkably persuasive, because Kaaaaa-ren! clearly agrees to sell. "I'll have the papers ready tomorrow," Missy Strident promises and hangs up her phone to exult, "I'm not good -- I'm very good!" The 'burner chuckles, straps her into one of the industrial-strength space-age dryers, assures her he'll return in ten minutes, and exits.
A set of stenciled glass doors slides shut behind him, effectively sealing tonight's first bit of Monster Chow off from the others out in the salon proper and, thus left so entirely alone, Missy Strident proceeds to flip impatiently through an off-brand lady-mag. After a moment, she starts squirming around in discomfort, tugging at the neck of her powder-pink beauty cape as the temperature inside that massive plastic helmet rapidly ratchets up to Saharan levels. "Chriiiiiis?" she calls out to no avail, for Chriiiiiis cannot hear her above the obnoxious thumpa-thumpa of the anonymous disco track now blaring through the salon's speaker system. Missy Strident first tries to push the dryer off her head, but the thing seems inexplicably stuck in place, so she next attempts to slither out from beneath the contraption, only to find herself slammed back up, ramrod-straight in her chair, by some unknown and invisible force. DUN! And as she screams, the dryer sizzles and zots, drilling a few flashing bolts of electricity into her skull while smoke pours out around her face, and her extremely high heels go flying off in two different directions as she kicks and spasms and howls and wails and finally goes limp in the chair. "Ohmigod!" Chriiiiiis gasps as he strolls back in from the salon proper, and when he gingerly lifts the dryer off the now most thoroughly dead real estate agent's head, the scorched plastic carries with it charred chunks of her scalp. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, writhing about atop his overstuffed armchair with a delight that only grows in volume when one of those charred chunks of scalp starts dripping vivid bits of gore onto the salon's otherwise spotless floor. "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" For his part, Chriiiiiis unhinges his lower jaw to unleash a caterwauling cry of horror, but alas! The hairburner's sterling efforts leave him with little more than a mouthful of bitterly black demonic goo thanks to his lousy sense of timing and this evening's abruptly onrushing...