Man's Best Friend With Benefits

Episode Report Card
Tippi Blevins: F | 51 USERS: B-
The Worst Thing Ever
In a hurry? Read the recaplet for a nutshell description!

THEN! Witches used some bad mojo to make a guy choke on razor blades. They got up to some other evil deeds, too, but I don't recognize the episodes. Dean expressed his distaste by cursing, "Friggin' witches!" A rancid and soiled Kevin Tran finally translated his half of the Word of God: Demon Chapter. For some reason, God wanted to make it really hard for someone to close the gates of Hell and thus created three trials that must be passed. The first step required the would-be closer to kill a hellhound and bathe in its blood. Dean was all het up to volunteer, because he felt sure it was a suicide mission and didn't want Sammy getting himself killed. Because the best laid schemes of mice and Winchesters often go awry, it was Sam who ended up killing the hellhound. "I can do this," said Sam. The issue seemed to be resolved, but because we're talking about Sam and Dean here, we're sure to witness many more scenes of pleading and arguing and hurt feelings.

NOW! Nighttime in St. Louis, Missouri. We descend into a dank, smoky alleyway, illuminated by a few pallid streetlamps and a hotel's neon sign. Nothing says "class" like hanging out your shingle in an alley between two dumpsters. A man and woman exit this budding Savoy, cuddled close together. "That was great," the man says. "I wanna give you a little something." He hands her some cash. It must be a tip, because working ladies know to get the money up front. Her customer walks away with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. Because this young lady has apparently never seen a TV show or movie of any kind, she heads further into the alley instead of making for the street. A car door opens and closes behind her. She gasps and looks around. The alley seems empty except for heaps of trash and festering puddles of filth. She turns again and suddenly there's a man standing right there. It's eternally baby-faced Christian Campbell. He shows her his police badge. "Guess it's not my night," the working lady sighs. "Guess not," Mr. Campbell agrees. She turns around and holds her hands behind her back. He cuffs her, then grabs her by the throat. His fingers dig in until there's a snapping sound. Blood sprays across his face.

He sits up in bed, breathing hard. Fuzzy images of the dying woman flash in his mind, gorier and more detailed than a moment before. A beautiful Doberman Pinscher looks up at him from the floor. Whimpering, the dog jumps up into bed and lies down next to him. Mr. Campbell absently strokes the dog's head and slowly eases back onto his pillows. The dog whimpers again and lies down across his belly.

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