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We sadly relive Bobby's shooting and death, then the disagreement between Sam and Dean over killing Amy. Frank tells Dean to quit hunting, and Dean sadly tells him that's not even an option because he can't walk out on his brother. Do what I did, advises Frank, be fine until the end of the week, make yourself smile, because that's your job, and do it again the next week, and do it right, with a smile, or don't do it.
 


The Slice Girls
Season 7, Episode 13
Robin's Rambles by Robin Vogel


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NOW – In his apartment, a man sits down with a cup of coffee. A man enters his apartment and he calls out to him: “Is that you?” But this invader is carrying a weapon. The man turns off the music and listens to hear better over the pouring rain and thunder outside, goes to close the window, returns to sit in front of his computer, listens to his own breathing. He's suddenly flung across his living room, against a painting, where he smashes into the glass and falls to the floor. Already covered in blood, his assailant stabs him, over and over, carving what looks like a weird cave painting of a man into his chest. The camera pans away to reveal his hands and feet have been severed.  

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Sam drives the Impala down a dark road and Dean awakens, groggy, from a nap and takes a drink from a flash. Is that Bobby's? asks Sam, I didn't know you kept that. Mine sprung a leak, claims Dean. Most people would just carry a photo for a memento, says Sam. Shut up, man, I'm HONORING the guy, insists Dean, this is grief therapy, kind of like you and your wild goose chase. Sam takes offense to that—four guys murdered in two weeks, hands and feet cut off? Some guy with a foot fetish run amok, thinks Dean. Grown men thrown so hard they went through walls, counters Sam, pushing a newspaper at Dean—did you even read the article? No, I was napping, says Dean. What else you got going on? asks Sam—Dick Roman's a dead end for now, you might as well. . .  Save a few, yeah, finishes Dean, not all that interested.
 
Coroner's office – Dean quips to the coroner about the ten percent co-pay they get on all drugs—not just generic!--even though they have to work this late over the dead body of the latest victim wheeled out of his drawer. Sam interrupts this discussion to ask the vic's weight—190, and he was thrown against the wall so hard, the wall buckled, hands and feet severed while he was still alive so he'd suffer more. All victims male, all carved with the same symbol. There was some DNA left behind when one vic was bitten, but the genetic markers match nothing the coroner has ever seen, nothing human. Leaving the building, Dean admits this could be in the general vicinity of the ballpark of their thing. "Doesn't match anything human" usually seals the deal for me, says Sam—I've never seen this symbol before--let's get a bite to eat, go back to the motel, haul out the laptop. Dean thinks that's a great idea, but he has a counter--go undercover, mingle amongst the locals, see what kind of clues bubble to the surface. You're going to a bar, says Sam, grinning. Wow, if you're going to oversimplify it, says Dean, who turns and takes off. Sam isn't happy. 

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In the Cobalt Room, which is much nicer than Dean's usual dive bars, he meets a pretty girl, who tells him of a date from hell. They agree dating is hell, but, as she says, what's the option, I don't see settling down anytime soon. That's something you don't hear everyday, says Dean. What, are you afraid of the big commit? she teases. Not exactly, says Dean. They smile at each other. Nice suit, she says, guys don't dress that much—I like it. It's a conservative line of work, he says. What line is that? she asks. Investment banking, he answers. (Seriously, Dean??) Oh, God, she says, I hear the hours are ridic. Yeah, he agrees. There's money to be made, she says. A fortune a year, he agrees. (We are having many eye and lip closeups in this scene, very hot.) She lifts her glass in a toast. May you have many more, she says. He clinks his glass to hers. Arigato, he says. You speak Japanese? she asks. Enough to get by, he says. Well, look at you, she says. Yeah, look at me, he agrees. You want to move this conversation elsewhere? she asks.
 
The music plays “All Night Long” as Dean's long dry spell finally comes to an end..  Interspersed between them stripping off each other's clothes and tumbling into bed, a man answers his door to what appears to be a pretty girl. When Dean's getting kissed, that poor guy is getting shoved against the wall hard enough to crack all his bones. Dean falls to the bed on his back, and we once again see the beloved protection tat on his left shoulder. Clad only in black panties and bra, his date leaps on top of him. They clasp hands, she leans down to kiss him, and they roll so Dean is on top. The poor guy having a lot less fun rolls over, already tattooed with the strange, bloody symbol in his chest, and as Dean and the stranger make love, the poor, hapless man is getting his hands and feet cut off, in agony because he is still alive to feel every hack of the knife. As the woman sits on Dean taking him deep inside her, we see the man, his eyes wide open in horror, the bloody symbol fresh and gory on his chest, then Dean, his eyes wide in passion, staring up at her, then the man, hands and feet gone in pools of blood, all interspersed in a hideous contrast of death and life. Post orgasm, Dean takes a deep breath of satisfaction. “All night long!” finishes about the same time Dean does.

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Heading for the scene of the crime, Sam tells his brother, “You look like crap.” Dean admits he feels like crap, but recommends the Cobalt Room, I do think I'm getting too old for this, Dean says. Sam wasn't able to figure out the symbol and says they're going to need an expert. Our expert is dead, Dean reminds him. (Oh, Bobby!)  The brothers show their FBI badges and gain entrance to the blood-spattered crime scene. Nice decor, very early slaughterhouse, quips Dean.. The same cop they saw the other day introduces them to Charlene Penn, case lead, who tells them there was no forced entry, vic thrown across the room, made to suffer. Hands and feet cut off. Same symbol on the chest, notes Sam. Whoever the killer is, the guy's a monster, says the male cop. Dean notes this guy is just like the first three, early 30's, decent looking. Fairly successful, no known enemies, adds the cop. Noticing a young man being questioned by a cop outside the door, Sam intervenes. The kid explains he was a friend of Jerry's. Sam asks if he knows anyone who would want to harm Jerry. Nicest guy in the world, the other guy says, although his wife wasn't very happy with him—a few nights ago, Jerry had a one-night fling, Ann found out, took off.--but she would never do anything like this . Of course, Sam agrees, and thanks him. Sam relays the conversation to Dean. They don't think it's the wife. Dean feels his pocket—shoot, I left Bobby's flask at Lydia's—my work-out partner from last night, now I've got to go get it. Not only do you have her name, you're actually going to call her? Sam marvels, teasing his brother. Bite me, invites Dean. How sweet, she gave you her number, notes Sam. They always give me their number, brags Dean. When Dean calls, however, Lydia denies seeing the flask and doesn't even sound that eager to hear from him. She says if she does see it, she'll call. I gotta go, just real busy at the moment. She abruptly hangs up. Sam finds this amusing. 
 
We cut back to Lydia, who appears to be nine months pregnant!

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Lydia is giving birth amongst a group of woman. The midwife is urging her to breathe, “take control, Lydia, as in all things”. Only candles light the room, and the atmosphere is very creepy. One final push, the pain is an honor, the woman/midwife says. Lydia gives birth, and the baby is handed into her arms.  What will we call her? Lydia asks. Emma, she is told. The baby has a large birthmark on her head. “Next,” calls the midwife.  
 
The brothers consult with Professor Morrison, head of Anthropology at a  local college. Fascinating, the professor declares, truly, and rather accomplished draftsmanship. If you can get past the fact that it was carved into a guy's body, says Dean. Prof. Morrison, we were hoping you could tell us what the symbol means, says Sam. The professor COULD, but he's looking for “suitable remuneration” in order to do so. The respect of a grateful nation, says Sam grandly. And a good word with the IRS adds Dean. Ah, says Morrison, well, it appears quite ancient. That narrows it down, says Sam, shooting an exasperated look at Dean. Something to do with worship, an obscure script, says the professor, this will require some research. Sam and Dean stand. We'll see you tomorrow, says Sam. Tomorrow?--I've spent entire sabbaticals on a project like this! he objects. We've a serial killer on our hands, Dean reminds him. Your government needs you, adds Sam. My housekeeper needs a Green Card, Morrison says. Leaving his office, Dean asks his brother, Good God, where did you find this guy? Supposed to be a top expert in his field, says Sam. When his field includes things that go bump in the night, he's gonna be worth the breath we just wasted, says Dean. What are we supposed to do, spin our wheels? asks Sam. This is us, spinning our wheels, says Dean, exasperated. I want to call him too, says Sam, but Bobby's not here, so we're settling. Yeah, we sure are, agrees Dean, checking his watch. Damn it, why hasn't she called? Who, Lydia? Sam asks—what, some girl's actually dumping you the morning after? I think you're enjoying this a little more than you need to, Dean says, screw it, I'm goin' over there and gettin' the flask.  
 
Don, she greets him at the door. Dean, he corrects—I guess you didn't get my messages. I did, she says, I've been busy. She found his flask, which was so beat up, she almost tossed it. The guy it belonged to was very beat up, too, Dean explains, (sniffle) but I was very close to him and I'd hate to lose it. I'll get it for you, she says. He follows her into the house, asking how she's been, other than “busy.”  He catches sight of the baby in the crib and realizes why she's been so busy—babysitting. No, she says. YOURS? he says. Uh huh, she says. You didn't tell me you had a little girl, he says, walking over to the crib. There's a lot of things we didn't tell each other, she says wryly. She introduces him to Emma. Your first? he asks. Yes, she answers, playing with her necklace. I hear they grow like weeds, he says. You have no idea, Lydia says. Dean answers the phone—Sam, who wants to know, where are you, it's the flask, not the Holy Grail. I'm a people person, engaging in some social skills, says Dean, get anything out of Orson? No, and would you get back here, we're due at the crime lab, says Sam, annoyed. Dean hears the little baby clearly ask, “Who is that?” and Lydia answer, “Don't ask, we'll discuss it later.” Sam is still talking to him on the cell, but Dean says, I'll call you later and hangs up. 

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Same coroner reports to only Sam that they have another guy weighing 200 pounds thrown so hard against a wall he's got plaster lodged in his skull.  Charlene asks what triggered the Feds' involvement in this case—I always think you boys have bigger fish to fry. The similarity to the other cold cases? asks the Coroner—same killer cross state lines, they bring you guys in. That's exactly right, says Sam, grateful for the explanation. Whatever, says Charlene coldly, you're going to have to wrap this up, your case isn't the only one we're working on. She leaves. You get used to her, the Coroner says. I didn't bring the cold case files with me, says Sam, is there a chance you have a copy. The Coroner does. Sam notices a receipt from the Cobalt Room. Lookin' to hook up? the Coroner asks, it's a pretty good place to go.  I've heard, says Sam. Vic #2 was there, the Coroner says, and according to his security guard, he hooked up with a hot girl, two days later, he's an obituary. Same with Jerry Price, notes Sam. There are a couple of others in there, points out the Coroner. Same thing in Chicago, says Sam. Flings, busted up marriages, says the Coroner, all just before they got offed. Thanks, says Sam, looking like he has had an epiphany. 
 
Dean watches from his Oregon-plated car SMD 5B2  (I miss the Impala!) as two women show up at Lydia's house. “Is Lydia ready?” they ask. Sam calls, berating Dean for not showing up. Hearing where his brother is, Sam accuses him of being obsessed. I've been eating at the buffet of strange all afternoon, reports Dean. Meaning what? asks Sam. I'll tell you as soon as I know, replies Dean, but something ain't right. Or you're obsessed, says Sam. Shut up, I'm serious, Dean insists. Okay, back up, says Sam, ready to listen, but Dean isn't ready to spill, and asks what's up on Sam's end. Sam reports about the identical murder in Chicago, and again in Miami two years before that—all the victims were young, successful, oh, and at least some of them hooked up at the same bar Dean had—the Cobalt Room, so Dean dodged a bullet. Watching Lydia's door open across the street, Dean says he's gotta go and hurriedly hangs up. 
 
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Lydia calls to her daughter to hurry up, and we see a MUCH older girl, at least five or six, exit the house. Lydia kneels in front of the child, pushes back her golden hair, tells her to be a good girl and “Make us proud.” “I will, Mama,” promises Emma, going along with the two women who came for her. She gives her mother a longing look over her shoulder as she's led to the car .“Bye, Em,” says Lydia, stoic, but clearly finding the separation hard.  Dean watches it all through binoculars. I hate when this happens, says Dean, following the departing car. He follows them to a gray building, and they go inside.
 
In their motel room, Sam is arguing that the child Dean saw is probably just Lydia's other daughter. No, just the one, insists Dean, but the night I was with her, she didn't have any—I was at her place, she didn't have any playpens, blankets, no rubber ducks. . .  Right, says Sam, like you were really focused on that kind of thing. Hey, dude, that's the FIRST thing you notice, says Dean, red flags. He reaches into the fridge for some beers, continuing--then all of a sudden, boom—baby. The one you thought talked, says Sam. Oh, it talked, says Dean, and not baby talk, either. Now you know so much about child development, says Sam sarcastically. I know enough to know they don't say 'hey Mom, who's that guy?' says Dean—cut to Lydia's hand on this kid who's calling her 'Mommy' over these two women, but this is not a baby, no, this kid has got to be five—and same name—Emma. You know, George Foreman named all his sons George, Sam reminds him. Are you deliberately messing with me? Dean demands—I know weird—there is no non-weird explanation for this!--this morning, Emma was a baby, by sunset, she was Hannah Montana!--early years. Sam's phone rings—the Professor. I'm sure he'll crack this wide open, smirks Dean. Sam shushes him.

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A line-up of pretty young girls is being given what looks like cookies to eat, which leave a bloodstain behindon a paper-lined tray. Each takes one and consumes it with milk. The brunette who heads up this gruesome organization says: “On this special night, you join an exceptional family. You are ready to take your places alongside us and learn our traditions. This is a tribute to the one who created and protects us. We hunt for her. We kill for her. And now we consume that kill as a symbol of unity with those that have completed their blood missions and furthered the life of the tribe. Go ahead, Emma, she instructs the latest addition, you need to eat. Emma takes the grotesque thing into her mouth and downs it with milk, not even bothering to chew first. (Double ewww!)
 
The Professor tells Sam and Dean that identifying this scroll was no day at the beach, lesser scholars would have crumbled. Professor. . .symbol? Sam reminds him. Yeah—ancient regional, very difficult to identify, says the Prof, but I managed to find a match, it's associated with the Greek Pantheon, the temple of the Goddess Harmonia. According to myth, the coupling of the Goddess Harmonia and Aries, the God of War, produced the Amazons. Like Wonder Woman? Dean asks. No, like a tribe of warriors, explains the Professor, they actually existed, in the comic books, they're just silly perversions. The symbol, I believe originated with the Amazons, pictographs meant to pay homage to Harmonia, occult talismans, if you will, an exclusively female culture, no use for men whatsoever, except for procreation. All the vics were male, says Sam. So you said, the Prof says, with this symbol carved in their chests. And their hands and feet cut off,, says Sam. Now THAT is interesting, says the Prof. Caught our attention, says Dean darkly. Soon as they were impregnated, they killed the male, first cutting off certain body parts, explains the Prof. Sam and Dean exchange a look. 

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