After a very promising opening sequence positively bursting with grue and gore, this episode quickly settles back into the same sort of boring routine that's dragged down so many other installments of this show over the last couple of years. It seems a certain someone or something has taken to slaughtering various young men in the Seattle area and, as one would expect, the unusual method of death -- severing the hands and the feet before carving a mysterious symbol into the victims' chests -- catches the attention of Our Intrepid Heroes. Well, it catches the attention of one of them, at any rate, because we first have to endure yet another of those Are You Sure This Is Our Kind Of Thing?/Yes, You Pathetic Drunk, I Am Positive This Is Our Kind Of Thing! conversations before Dreary El Deano agrees to accompany Darling Sammy on a road trip to the Pacific Northwest to see what's going on. And barely have they arrived when Dreary El Deano decides to bail on the whole sitch in favor of sucking down a scotch or ten at the first yuppie bar he stumbles across. Nice.
Naturally, while he's at the bar, Dean meets and flirts with a likely lass whose name will forever escape me, and before you know it, the two are flying back to her place to Do It. Of course, this night of passion ends up being A Very Bad Thing Indeed for Dashing El Deano because the likely lass is actually an Amazon, there in Seattle with the rest of the women in her tribe on their collective biennial quest to get knocked up. You see, on Supernatural, Amazons head out into the world once every two years to mate, after which their fast-gestating insta-offspring rise up to slaughter their respective sires -- after first making sure to hack off the hands and feet of the gentlemen in question for snacks later. I know, I know. Just go with it.
So, within a period of three days, Dean finds himself confronting his irritable and morose teenage daughter, the latter of whom at first plaintively pleads for his help in escaping the wicked Amazonian cult that's ensnared her before she eventually reveals her true murderous intent, along with a very large knife. Fortunately for Dreary El Deano's various appendages, Darling Sammy arrives in the nick of time to plug his supposed niece with lead and, after leaving the annoying adolescent's now-rotting corpse just lying there in the middle of their fetid little motel room, the boys hop into whatever piece of crap they're driving this week to motor on off towards their next asinine adventure. They can't seriously be considering another whole season of this bullshit, can they?
Rattle, Rattle WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE THEN! As you'll no doubt recall, Bobby dropped dead after taking a bullet to the brain courtesy of lead Leviathan Richard Roman, and his unquiet and aggressively hirsute spirit is likely roaming the earth even as I type this. Meanwhile, Darling Sammy wouldn't shut the hell up about stupid Dead Amy already, and at some point during this seemingly neverending season, Dashing El Deano turned into a whiny little bitch who occasionally flashes a creepy, dead-eyed smile, just so he can freak us all the hell out.
In far more important news: Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon is missing. Yes, missing. When last I heard from him, he was going bowling, but that was three whole weeks ago, and I've seen neither scale nor claw of him since. And to be honest with you, I'm more than a little worried. Sure, he's taken it upon himself to vanish with no explanation before, but he never stayed away longer than a couple of days, and besides, all of those disappearances ended up being tied to the brief (but passionate) affairs he's been known to dally in from time to time with various of the charming locals here in Brooklyn, New York. That can't be the case this time, because that dizzy lizard is utterly incapable of maintaining a romantic relationship for longer than thirty-six hours, max, so I don't know what to do. I tried putting up flyers, but the neighbors told me they were scaring the children, so I had to take them all down again. Naturally, I can't get the police to listen to me, either, but you know if he were a skinny blonde white woman instead of a tubby little green-scaled prehistoric killing machine, he'd have been all over goddamned Nancy Grace weeks ago. So, you know. I'm a little emotional right now. If any of you happen to see him, would you please tell the shrieky bastard to give me a call, at least?