Supernatural: On the Head of a Pin

Get Your Own Pair of Wings, Damnit!
by Sylvia Bond
Supernatural Episode Review – Season 4, Episode 16
“On The Head of a Pin”
 
Watching this ep was a little like looking at the feed out of a seismograph, because the Richter scale of impressiveness would jump from a measly 1.0 (the size of a construction site blast) all the way up to 9.4 (the size of the Indian Ocean earthquake of 2004) without any warning at all, and then suddenly go back to 1.0. In between times, there were a whole lot of commercials, too much angels talking, and not enough boys angsting and emoting. Not enough of the boys, period. What was good was very good, and what was not was boring. I can’t say it any plainer than that. I kept asking myself What’s this happy crappy?

I’ll start in on the angels, who can’t seem to manage on their own, who wander around with vapid, blank looks on their faces, and who operate on an undramatic need-to-know basis, making allusions that could mean just about anything, but don’t, not really. There’s stilted talk of their “superiors,” and of getting information through a process known as “revelation,” and the whole setup smacks of Show having gone up to the very fine line of Judeo-Christian mysticism without ever actually crossing it. I’d say, if you’re gonna go there, then GO there. Otherwise, just make something up, because there’s plenty of people very well versed in this religion who would be willing to call Show out on its mistakes. Or its gall at playing at knowing what God’s designs are. 

I didn’t clock it (though I’m tempted), but at least half (that’s 50% for you math addicts out there) of the ep was devoted to angels standing around and talking. And when I say that, I mean literally standing around and talking. It was like having one of those Fisher-Price See n’ Say toys called “The Angel Says,” and when you put the pointer on a specific character and pull the string, it would go a little something like this: Anna Banana says: “Yap! Yap! Yap!” Soap Angel says, “Blah, blah, blah. BLAH!” And Uriel goes, “Pontificate…pontificate, er, pontificate.” Fun, huh? Not hardly. Especially when your fingers might slip and you put the pointer on completely the wrong character and get bored to death, if you’re not already.

Being a savvy watcher of Show, I’m fully aware that the angel story has been developing itself (and I say itself, because there doesn’t seem to be anyone at the helm, there) for quite some time and needed to be brought to fruition. Otherwise, fans would be loosing their collective nut trying to figure out what’s going on with that. We needed to find out who’s good and who’s bad, and we did. Uriel is the bad dude who’s been killing angels, because only an angel can kill another angel, and now he wants to raise Lucifer up to his rightful place. (For all you heathens out there, Lucifer was God’s favorite among the heavenly host, and the most beautiful and prideful of the angels. Due to his lack of willingness to bow before Adam and the sons and daughters of Adam, he was Cast into Hell and started up his own mob down there.) Anna Banana has been trying to recruit the Soap Angel over to her side, her side being a call to very questionably question the word of God. And as for our buddy “Cas?” (Hey! Only Dean gets to call him that! Otherwise it becomes insipid.) He’s been waffling harder than a waffle at a Waffle House restaurant come Sunday morning. Which is exactly the time he should be in church. 

The Soap Angel also takes up a lot of screen time being in battles. First there’s the battle with Alistair, where Anna Banana saves the day. Then, after his little Peter Falk/Columbo routine, when the Soap Angle finds out about Uriel, there’s an angel battle. There’s punching in a puddle as they scuffle and dance over the lines of a devil’s trap that couldn’t hold a fly, there’s ducking and weaving and falling and grunting and slamming of faces with hard metal objects. Which is what we call a scuffling dancing ducking weaving slamming puddle jumping angel battle. (Oh, Dr. Seuss, where are you when we need you?) The only good part about the fight was when it was over. Although there was, as I must most assuredly point out, the very fine spitting action courtesy of the Soap Angel. It was sharp and masculine and very effective. Would that everything else were so, because while I enjoyed finding out the truth, I found the telling of this part of the story too long; it simply took up too much screen time. 

Then there’s Alistair. I’ve stopped making fun of his name because this character got more interesting to me. I think that this is so because bad guys, who are allowed to have good qualities, come across as more complex than good guys, whereas most good guys aren’t allowed to have bad qualities, and come across as a trifle boring sometimes. Anyway, Alistair enters the scene, riveting for all he’s bound hand to foot on a pentagram inside of a devil’s trap. He’s still got that corn farmer face and that faux Marlon Brando accent going on, and when Dean starts to torture him (to find out who’s been killing the angels), he’s all piss and vinegar and here’s mud in yer eye, ya bastard. 

I respect him, at least more than Uriel. I know, it sounds strange, doesn’t it? But there’s Uriel, who’s been lying (which is a sin), and then there’s Alistair, who’s telling the truth, even if it is for his own gain. What’s not to like? What makes it even more interesting is the truth he’s telling: that when Dean came out of hell, he left part of himself behind. And that idea, that Sam might not be the only one who didn’t come back 100% pure, is what makes me start to shake inside at the delightful twisting awfulness of it. I’m such a bad fan, I know, to want this kind of suffering for Dean, but there it is.

And then there’s Sam. That old non-compromisin’, enterprisin’, anything but tranquilizing, right on Sam. He’s got lots to do with the overall story, but, sadly, not a whole lot to do during this ep, having been moved back to Guest Towel status with very little ceremony. He’s his typical, startlingly handsome self as he steps in to create a barrier with his body to stop Dean and the angels from tearing each other’s throats out. Then he’s hysterical when the angels swoop Dean away up in their fluffy but-none-too-pure-or-resourceful wings. I about choked on my wine when he looked around the suddenly empty and Deanless room, and said, helplessly, “Damnit!”

But here’s where it gets dark for our boy. Alone, he lets that Skank Ruby in the room. I experienced no joy upon seeing her, and was puzzled when he said he wanted more of “it,” and then Ruby goes, “I can get you more,” and I’m like bwuht? Oh, to have a picture of the expression on my face when that Skank Ruby straddled Sam’s lap. There was nuzzling and closeups and I thought they were going to go at IT again, for reals and for trues. Didn’t he swear off that Skank Ruby, or was my brain on vacation and completely missed the less-than-nuanced references buried inside comments that Dean, Alistair, the Soap Angel, and Uriel have been barking out for ages? But no, it’s worse than that, worse than that, WORSE than that. 

The more of what Sam wants is demon blood because he’s convinced (and I agree) that Dean is not strong enough to withstand the rigors of torturing Alistair. He wants to protect his brother, and his motives are pure. I can see on his face his reluctance to consider himself as the stronger, more capable brother warring with his desire to save his Dean; there’s no joy for him here, just pure desire to protect, and surely that’s worth points in heaven? Regardless, it’s going to make him go Dark Side for sure. However, he loves Dean enough (more than enough) that this is of little or no concern to him, so it’s Dark Side here we come. I will admit I choked on my wine again when Sam wrapped his lovely mouth around the cut on that Skank Ruby’s arm and started drinking her blood. Her poisoned, tainted demon’s blood.  (As an aside, the map burning trick performed by that Skank Ruby had overtones of a certain well-loved Western show from the 60’s. Bonanza anyone? Simply replace the map of Wyoming with a map of Nevada and you are there!)

Demonically empowered, off Sam drives to Save the Day. Watch. Watch Sam. Watch Sam drive the Impala. Watch Sam drive the Impala fast in the rain. Rainy, rainy, rainy. Fast, fast, fast. Go, Sam, go! Oh dear. Sam’s eyes are turning black. Black, black, black. Did you blink and miss it? Then you must rewind and watch again: Sam’s eyes turn BLACK. Oh, woe to the Republic. It has Happened. What will the Heavenly Father say? But even for all his sacrifice, by the time Sam gets there to be clean up relief pitcher for Dean, Dean has already crossed his own line drawn in the sand, so the dramatic impact of Sam drinking demon’s blood is made null and void because he wasn’t able to save Dean with it. Plus, disappointingly, it’s actually the Soap Angel who stops Alistair from killing Dean outright, when I was so, so, so hoping that ta-da, it would be Sam. At least I got to watch Sam doing his thing, spreading his manly palm and slamming Alistair to the wall, wrenching every necessary fact out of the demon with nary a furrow on his sweet, manly brow. 

Sadly, missing scene is missing. What is the missing scene? Well, there’re two of them, and here’s where my disappointment in this ep starts to expand exponentially. The first missing scene is where Alistair pummels Dean to a pulp. Oh, granted, the idea of the scene was good, the sharp turnabout of power and dominance that has Dean in Alistair’s grip, but the whole scene jumps from Dean being beaten to Dean having been beaten, that is, we see the results but not much of the action. I feel gyped at the same time I feel kind of bad for wanting to see Dean being brought to such state of wretchedness. 

The other missing scene was at the end of this pummeling, after Sam has saved the day by finding out that it’s not demons who’ve been killing angels, but something else. All of a sudden, we jump to hospital scene (and nice it is, too), but where, oh where did my beloved scene go, oh where, oh where can it be? The one where Sam kneels in the puddle of Dean’s blood and sweat and cradles his beloved brother to his manly bosom? Where’s the shock and dismay and the frantic calls to 911? Where is the RESCUE, I ask you, where??? I have been denied. 

There is a saving grace to this ep and its name is Dean Winchester. Not that I’m not a Samgirl forever and for always, but I’m a little fickle in that if the one boy isn’t on the screen, then there’s the other boy who is, and just as easy on the eyes. Though, this time around, not so easy on the psyche, my psyche, which got all jumped up and anxious and worried about Dean from the moment the first reel starts to run to the closing credits. Though I dare you to try juxtaposing that sort of fannish love with the equally fannish desire to see him get the crap beat out of him, just try. You’ll come away as I did, needing more wine.

Opening scene is in the Impala, with Sam driving and Dean ensconced in the passenger seat. The fact that Sam’s driving in the first place means that all is not well. The fact that Dean’s all pale and curled up like a slug who’s just been dosed with salt means that things are going badly indeed. Moreover, he snaps at Sam to do whatever sneaky thing he’s going to do but to leave Dean out of it. The boy looks tired, but for him to admit it?  In the parlance, we call this being at the end of your rope. 

They arrive at the motel where there are angels waiting. When the angels tell Dean to come with them because they have a job for him, he tells them to frak the frak off. They zap him off to The Factory with its spinning fans and where bad things always happen. Dean continues to resist the angels’ request for him to get the information out of Alistair using the techniques he learned in hell. He tells them to frak the frak off again, but the Soap Angel bats his vapid eyes. Dean says, through gritted teeth, “You ask me to open that door and walk through it? You will not like what walks out.” But the Soap Angel insists, and Dean, with shoulders bowed, trundles the cart, upon which rests many instruments of demonic torture, into the room where Alistair is. And here’s where it gets good, very damn good.

Part of the goodness comes from what the scene is about, and that is the point at which Dean and his tormentor in hell (that’d be Alistair) get to perform their dark and twisted pas de duex once more. We finally see what we’ve been told about over and over again, that Alistair strapped Dean to the rack and tortured and flayed him for 30 years, 30 eternities, until finally Dean said enough. To hear about it is one thing, to see it (even in reverse) is another, and a really fine development in this particular story. Alistair is wonderfully caustic and defiant as he spends his time flinging bon mots like yer mother wears army boots and so’s your old man while grinning that rictus-inspired grin as he tries to make Dean stumble and fall from his intended course. He’s almost as much fun as Demon Meg!

Dean, for his part, picks up the tools of his trade like he’s never forgotten how, my favorite bit of which is when he tests the syringe that he’s filled with holy water. He stares at the jet and not the bubble, and he goes a little cross-eyed, which makes him look young and vulnerable and totally not suited for what he’s about. That’s the other part of the goodness, Dean himself, being dutiful and obedient although it kills him to do it and after which he will never be the same again. It’s his face that tells the story, the tightness of muscles that cannot hide the quivering beneath the surface, as well as the flat affect of his expression that tells me he’s getting absolutely no joy, no joy whatsoever, out of this whole thing.

Torture scenes like this are always harsh, but they have visual and aural cues that allow me to let my mind wander a bit and still keep track of the action. I wasn’t really concerned with how Alistair was suffering, only mildly interested in how long the host body would last, but was way more interested in seeing how long Dean could keep it up, my poor boy. When will he learn that blind obedience is not always the best course? Then comes the bit where some entity (turns out to be Uriel) releases the pipe that drips the water that washes away the chalk mark that the Soap Angel drew. Which thusly releases Alistair, which thusly makes the tables turn, at which point, I started to get worried. Really, really worried, because I knew that Alistair would show no mercy. And he didn’t. 

He starts in on Dean like no time has passed since they were in hell together, and this is where the pummeling I told you about earlier begins, along with the nasty commercial jump that hides the majority of the pummeling. But what I didn’t mention before was the point where Alistair lifts Dean up by his chin to shove him back against the pentagram that’s serving as a rack, putting Dean right back where he’d been in hell, and I got completely nauseated. 

I’ve never been tortured, and no one I know has, either. Insulted, or abused, maybe even battered, but not like this, tied up and immobile filleted with a none-too-sharp knife. Yet it took me not even an ounce of effort to imagine what it must feel like to be slipped right back into a space where there is nothing but pain and more pain, everlasting pain, as far as the eye can see. In that one moment, sick to my stomach, I wanted it to stop. Yeah, me, the bring-it-on-hurt-him-some-more fangirl was saying out loud, Make it stop. 

This wonderful moment was brought to me by Ackles, who, frankly, can just stop now. It was that dull gleam in his eye at just the moment Alistair says the demonic equivalent of welcome home that killed me, and with the gorge thickening in my throat I knew I’d had enough. Really. Ackles can stop bringing it, can stop zooming off into the stratosphere with dialog so simple it would be inane in less capable hands, stop peeling away the layers of Dean like that till there’s nothing left but heart and soul and too much emotion to bear. And frankly, he can stop moving his face like that, in that lip-quivering, chin wobbling way that just breaks my heart. Oh, frak, where IS that bottle of wine?

Does he listen? No. Does he ever? No. Instead, he provides me with the deliciously disturbing hospital scene, which has loads of Deanish goodness. Sadly, there is not very much Sammish goodness. Instead, Sam marches about like an affronted diva, demanding that the Soap Angel fix Dean before another second has passed. (“Miracle. NOW!”)  I only say that because of a) his Samhair, flying about like he’s a finely drawn animae character, and b) because he seems completely ineffectual and the Soap Angel doesn’t even flicker an eyelash to say no. 

Sure, it’s sweet (very sweet) when Sam’s sitting at Dean’s hospital bedside, shoulders slumped and eyes tip-tilted downward in exhausted worry. But the moment passes, and for some reason, Show determines that the best course of action is to show the Soap Angel, rather than Sam, lingering at Dean’s bedside. Not that I didn’t like the conversation, but where the hell is Sam? Sam’s too hot for Show not to use him more than they do. Seriously. (Although I think I could live with less Sam if, when we did see him, we saw him more naked.) 

On a more serious note, the poverty of Sammish scenes points to Show’s inattentiveness as to how good they are. Padalecki takes every single one of the tiny little minutes he is offered in this ep and makes Sam perfect. Sam’s all grown up now, killing demons and disobeying orders as he sees fit. Standing tall and decisive and beautiful, and Padalecki is so very good at lifting his chin and having that disdain in his eyes for the weakness of those who don’t understand what is at stake, and that is the continued safety of his Dean. (As well as the rest of the world, but they come a hard second to the other.) All without more than a handful of scenes and less than a page of real dialog. When is Show going to wake up and realize what they’re wasting here?

Back at the hospital bed, Dean and the Soap Angel have a very interesting talk about how Dean is the one written about in the Biblical prophesy of “a righteous man shedding blood in hell.” That Dean is, in effect, the one who brought about the breaking of the first seal and the ensuing Apocalypse if the demon army isn’t stopped from breaking the rest of them. That it’s up to Dean, finally, to put an end to it. Dean announces that everyone on the planet is screwed because he’s not the man he was, he’s not up to it, that he can’t do it. The Soap Angel says, “Blah, blah, blah. BLAH!” Which really, when you think about it, is not a very nice thing to say. 

And then there’s Dean, he’s so battered that the bruises and swellings almost swallow up his prettiness. I say almost, because he’s prettier than the law allows, and it would take much more than a beating to cover that up. His nose looks broken, which makes me question the effectiveness of the nose breather thingy, but all in all, it looks real, so kudos to the Makeup Team. Really. Gold stars and everything. He sounds groggy and spent, his voice thick with meds and clogged with despair. The thin, exhausted tears he cries don’t so much fall from his eyes as they push up through his skin. He is deliciously wretched and yet still so profoundly moving, it almost hurts. All in all, this scene is everything I’ve ever asked for, for here we have first aid to the nth degree, but so horrible at the same time that I might have finally learned about asking for what I want, because look at what it’s brought me: the most pathetic, crumbled up leavings of a man I have ever seen. And he’s supposed to save the world? 

What are the angels playing at anyway? Seriously, what are they playing at? What are those dumb wings of theirs for if not to symbolize the purity and strength of God’s love and the power to trample out vintages and grapes of wrath and stuff? They need to pull up their collected angel panties and take some of the burden from Dean’s handsome but exhausted shoulders. Or is Dean supposed to be the Christ in this scenario and save the world by sacrificing himself? Does that make Sam Lucifer? Oh, halp. Wench, wench! More wine!

Sylvia Bond is a ten-year technical writing veteran with too many degrees under her belt to count. She lives in Colorado, but does not ski, preferring instead to spend her money and time at the annual Great American Beer Festival, taking road trips across the United States, and reading historical fiction from the comfort of her fluffy green arm chair. She has been involved in fandom since 1993 and been writing fanfic since approximately 1993. What she finds most amazing about fandom (besides the open heartedness of fans and the sheer amount of creativity) is how visible fandom has become. “In my day,” she says, “we had to hide behind P.O. boxes to get fanfic. But nowadays, people wear t-shirts that shout their affiliation and share their shiny toys on the internet.” It’s a wonderful world.

Never miss an update. Subscribe to Pink Raygun by Email or subscribe via RSS

Related Stuff: