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Darling Sammy's Lucifer-related insomnia has worsened considerably since last we saw him, and it leads directly to a pre-credits car accident that lands him in an insane asylum after the emergency room doctors determine the dear boy's suffered a psychotic break. Of course, Sam's Lucifer hallucination comes along for the ride, and the foul fiend quickly devises a series of nuthouse-related torments designed to run Our Intrepid Hero into an early grave. Darling Sammy does his valiant best to ignore the torture, however, and he even finds time to gallantly help a fellow inmate rid herself of the pesky ghost that had been plaguing her for the better part of the last year, so that was pretty nice of him, I guess.
Meanwhile, Dashing El Deano uses Darling Sammy's hospitalization as an excuse to freak the fuck out, and he begins dialing his way through Dead Bobby's lengthy list of contacts until one of them calls back with news of an actual, honest-to-God faith healer named Emanuel, who just might be able to cure Sam. Dean tracks Emanuel down to the latter's tastefully-appointed home deep within the lush coastal rainforests of central Colorado, and is shocked and appalled to discover that Emanuel is actually an amnesia-afflicted Castiel. My Sweet Baboo, you see, emerged from that municipal reservoir all those many months ago with no recollection at all of the last several years -- no comment -- whereupon his adorable self was quickly adopted by some random who is now his wife, and he's been spending his time since then curing his various friends and neighbors of their various ills and ailments. You know, more or less.
Luckily enough for Dashing El Deano, Emanuel is more than amenable to the idea of a road trip to go restore Darling Sammy to the latter's typical levels of mental health, but naturally, there's a problem: Crowley's cancelled the moratorium he placed on all Winchester-related demonic activity, and so on top of everything else, Dean finds himself under repeated attack by Hell's many minions. Fortunately, Meg shows up just in time to offer Our Intrepid Hero a crucial assist, and she promptly invites herself along as a sort of bodyguard for both Dean and Castiel on the rest of the journey to the asylum.
Eventually, everyone ends up in the same place and, after My Sweet Baboo's memories come rushing back in the middle of an especially dull run-in with a quartet of Crowley's goons outside Sam's hospital, Castiel decides to sacrifice himself so Darling Sammy might live, because the only way he can cure Sam is by trading places with him. Just go with it.
And in the end, as Sam and Dean board this week's crapped-out piece of trash to motor on off towards their wacky adventure, My Sweet Baboo gets himself fitted for a straitjacket while Meg gets herself hired as one of Castiel's nurses. I have no clue where they're going with all of this, but to be honest with you, I don't particularly care, either.
Want more? The full recap starts right below!Rattle, Rattle WE DON'T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE THEN!, and I'm not sure if anyone's told you this, but Darling Sammy is crazy. Again. Some more.
Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! The NOW! creeps forward into complete and utter blackness, as is its occasional wont, and silence reigns for one very long second until the sounds of heavy, labored breathing emerge from the dark to usher us into the episode proper. The panting is joined by a series of plodding footfalls before the camera finally opens up to offer us all a lingering shot of Darling Sammy's denim-clad derriere, which is currently making its tantalizing way down a set of dimly-lit railroad tracks somewhere ominous and remote. Our Intrepid Hero's ridiculously oversized feet eventually hop over one of the rails to bounce their owner up onto an adjacent asphalt walkway, and the shaky, hand-held, Ginormomope-POV InsomniaCam propels us forward until Darling Sammy slams right into some mouthy midnight dirtbag who'd been ambling along in the opposite direction...or does he? For you see, by the time Darling Sammy spins around to apologize to the dirtbag he's just so brusquely jostled, the dirtbag in question has disappeared. DUN!
The mysterious disappearance of the mouthy dirtbag doesn't seem to bother Darling Sammy too much, though, and he continues tumbling forward in a woozy haze until he reaches a dank and forbidding alleyway, where he finds a diminutive drug dealer finalizing a transaction with an even tinier Goth girl...or does he? Just kidding -- the diminutive drug dealer's real, and he greets Darling Sammy like so: "Dude, get the hell away from me!" Charming. The camera finally focuses in on Somnolent Sammy's face and, as one would expect, he's sporting a set of puffy-yet-photogenic bags under his eyes, and there's several days' worth of stubble sprouting from his chin. "You speak friggin' English?" the diminutive drug dealer demands when Somnolent Sammy makes no move to leave. "Go away!" "It's okay -- there's no one after me," Sam attempts to assure him, but the diminutive drug dealer's not having it, and as Sam slowly slumps down to squat in the alleyway filth, the diminutive drug dealer shouts, "Why you running up in here like that? What the hell did you take, anyway?" "Nothing," Sam wearily sighs. "Bullshit," the dealer basically replies, and it's up to the just-appearing Lucifer to defend what's left of Our Intrepid Hero's honor, which the foul fiend does by too-casually insisting, "No, he's telling the truth -- burned through that last beer hours ago, right around the time Dean passed out." Somnolent Sammy rolls his eyes before burying his face in his hands as Lucifer exposits, "Come on, tell the nice tweaker -- you'd be sleeping by now if the devil would just leave you alone for five seconds." "Stupid Satan," Lucifer teases, placing a pair of sassy hands on his hips as he continues, "chasing you all the way to...where the hell are we?"
Alas, neither Lucifer nor the audience gets an answer to that one, as Somnolent Sammy chooses instead to rub away at his temples while moaning, "I just need some rest!" For whatever asinine reason, the diminutive dealer takes this whiny plaint as his cue to kindly offer Our Sleep-Deprived Hero some choice industrial-grade sedatives, and before we know it, both Sam and the dealer are snoozing away side-by-side in the front seat of an abandoned Lincoln Continental, and believe it or not, that is far from this episode's most ridiculous development. God, I hate this show. Anyway, Sam seems to be settling in quite nicely, thank you very much, when suddenly, a chunky length of iron pipe comes crashing through the front window...or does it? Short answer: It doesn't, because Sleepy Sam's just hallucinating again, but Startled Sammy scrambles out of the car anyway only to wind up with a face full of Lucifer, the latter of whom begins trilling some obnoxious and hastily-contrived approximation of "Good Morning" from Singin' In The Rain because this pathetic wreck of a show can't afford the rights to the original. Scarified Sammy takes off back towards the railroad tracks, with Lucifer of course hot on his ridiculously oversized heels, and as Lucifer begins babbling away about "the longest a normal human being has ever gone without sleep" -- eleven days, supposedly -- Sludgy Sam breaks into a run that leads him straight into...
...oncoming traffic! Dun-dun-DUN! A late-model sedan plows directly into The Ginormomoron's heretofore remarkably healthy legs, and Somersaulting Sammy goes flipping up into the air and over the car until he lands in the damp and sticky embrace of this evening's...
...SNOT ROCKET!, and in case you heartless bitches were wondering, I still haven't been able to find Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon. As you'll no doubt recall, I'm sure, I last traced his movements to a social club in Bay Ridge, but as I lack the proper connections, I was unable to pursue this shaky lead further. I'm all out of options at this point, so I suppose I have little choice but to soldier on, all stoic in the face of my grief and such. I wonder what I can get for his overstuffed armchair on Craigslist. No, no, I'm just making a bleak attempt at humor, here -- I could never get rid of that mangy old thing as long as there's some faint glimmer of hope he'll return. Besides, I'd never be able to get the slobber stains out. Sigh.
In any event, when the dripping is done, Dashing El Deano barges into the run-down office of some beleaguered hospital administrator, bellowing for access to his grievously injured brother. "Doctor Kadinsky" rises from his desk, dismisses the screaming nurse who'd run in after Our Belligerent Hero, and gently informs Dashing El Deano that Darling Sammy has been admitted for treatment of a broken rib and several minor lacerations, even though that goddamned sedan basically kneecapped him, which means he should be missing both of his heretofore remarkably healthy legs at this point. Dean's all, "Broken rib? That's not so bad. And?" "And," the good doctor hesitantly replies, "he's on our locked psychiatric floor." DUN! "You're aware that Sam is experiencing a full-blown psychotic episode?" the good doctor asks. If Dashing El Deano wasn't aware of that fact, he is now, and even though he argues that Batshit Sammy is no "freakin' Norman Bates," the good doctor insists his staff must determine if Batshit Sammy's psychosis was brought on by his exhaustion (and dehydration!), or if Batshit Sammy's exhaustion (and dehydration!) is merely a symptom of some far more troubling underlying condition. I'd insert some thoroughly tasteless KONY 2012-related comment here, I'm sure, were it not for the fact that everyone's already forgotten about that particularly hilarious example of born-again closet-case "exhaustion and dehydration" by now. Though, you know, given this episode's title... Nah, this installment was long in the can by the time Jason Russell unleashed his inner drag queen on the streets of San Diego, so I suppose I should just forget about it and keep this recap moving, right? Right.
In any event, the good doctor and his colleagues are perplexed, because they've basically pumped an entire pharmacy's worth of elephant tranquilizers into Batshit Sammy's veins, and The Ginormocrazy still won't go to sleep. "I've never seen anything like it," the good doctor ruefully admits, and with that, he leads Dashing El Deano upstairs to the psychiatric ward, where they find Batshit Sammy lying on a bed in a private room, looking positively resplendent in a very tight white T-shirt. Lucifer's there, of course, perched on a desk and tossing off a variety of supposedly vicious bon mots while working a cat's cradle, but as none of his barbs are particularly amusing, I'll be ignoring him in favor of...listening while Our Intrepid Heroes talk each other to death? Fuck that shit. Long, long story short, Batshit Sammy's resigned to his apparent fate, Dashing El Deano's pissed off because Batshit Sammy's giving up, reference is made to a far superior first-season episode for what will soon become obvious reasons, and Dashing El Deano clompy-stomps on out of there while Lucifer continues with his sneering.
Cut to that ridiculously scenic rustic homestead from earlier in the season, where we find Determined El Deano burning up the phone lines with a series of increasingly desperate calls for help to a list of Dead Bobby's acquaintances. He's about to give up, flipping Dead Bobby's little black book on the kitchen table as he fetches himself another beer, when that mysterious and mysteriously helpful force that is so totally The Spectral Presence Of Bobby Singer knocks the little black book onto the cabin floor, in the process dislodging a business card for something called "Mackey's Taxidermy." Dean warily hunkers down to examine the card, finds a private cell number scrawled onto the back of the thing, and is soon leaving a voice mail for the card's apparent owner.
Meanwhile, back at the nuthouse, Batshit Sammy's batshit insanity continues apace, with Lucifer briefly disguising himself as The Good Doctor Kadinsky to taunt and mock at The Ginormowhack until a friendly orderly stops by with Batshit Sammy's dinner. Batshit Sammy obediently totes the plate over to his bed, sits down, hoists the delicious-looking sandwich to his mouth, and bites into a...special effect they already used to far greater effect four years ago. This show. This stupid, stupid show. Of course, this time around it's just another of Lucifer's naughty hallucinations, so Batshit Sammy is not, in fact, now aspirating on maggots, which makes me wonder why they bothered recycling this bit in the first place, and I have no idea how the hell I'm going to make it to the end of this wretched, pointless season alive, and as Batshit Sammy drops his sandwich on the floor to recoil in horror, or something, a wisp of a lass with a very large bandage on her neck materializes in his doorway to stare at him for a moment before vanishing from whence she came. That was exciting.
Ridiculously Scenic Rustic Homestead. The elusive Mr. Mackey finally returns Dashing El Deano's call, and we spend the better part of the minute and a half listening to Mr. Mackey's boring backstory, so I'll cut to the point: The scruffy Mr. Mackey is of course a fellow hunter, a fellow hunter who recently received word of a supposed faith healer named "Emmanuel." Naturally, Mr. Mackey became suspicious of this Emmanuel person, decided to check the guy out, contacted him through his wife -- "Daphne," "out in Colorado" -- and wouldn't you know it? Emmanuel actually healed Mr. Mackey's bum eye! He's the real deal! Who would have guessed? Dean goes, "Hmmm!" and with that, it's time to head back to...
Chez Allen. Aftermath. My Sweet Baboo busies himself freeing Dowdy Daphne from the chair to which she'd been lashed by the now-dead demonically-enhanced gent while Dumbstruck El Deano watches from across the room, quietly freaking the fuck out. Eventually, they get to chatting -- I'm not sure if you've noticed this yet, but this evening's installment is rather infuriatingly heavy on the chatter -- and, long story short, My Sweet Baboo knows nothing of demons and angels and The Abortive Apocalypse and The Leviathans and such, because My Sweet Baboo is currently suffering from amnesia. Joy. Dean decides for the moment to keep My Sweet Baboo in the dark, and instead mentions his desperately ill brother, the latter of whom...
...is at this very moment attempting to sleep back at The Nuthouse. Lucifer, however, will be having none of this touchy-feely self-help sleeping crap, bitch, and starts blasting The Everly Brothers' "Wake Up Little Susie," much to Batshit Sammy's annoyance and dismay. Lucifer then lights a series of small firecrackers, which he tosses in the general direction of Batshit Sammy's bed, and the snide banter and the chit-chat -- the endless, endless chit-chat -- continue until that friendly orderly from earlier arrives with another tray of food. "Mmmm!" Lucifer croons. "What'll it be today -- maggots again, or tapeworm?" Um. Neither? Because you've already used maggots to far greater effect four goddamned years ago, and the audience won't be able to see a fucking tapeworm? Jackass. GAH! ANY-way, Batshit Sammy and Marcus The Friendly Orderly get to talking -- OF COURSE -- and Marcus The Friendly Orderly reveals that Wispy Marin "didn't get here 'cause of no accident." Lucifer lights another firecracker. Batshit Sammy flinches. I bang an heirloom lead crystal ashtray against my head in a half-witted and frenzied attempt to remain awake. And...are we done here? We're done here.
Elsewhere, Dashing El Deano steers this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash through the night, My Sweet Baboo sitting patiently at his side. They get to talking -- OF COURSE, AGAIN -- and we learn that Castiel emerged from scenic Lake Leviathan all naked and wet and not remembering what he was and all, whereupon Dowdy Daphne stumbled upon him, decided she needed herself some Naked Baboo in her life, and promptly convinced the addled Castiel to marry her. Atta girl. "Must be weird not knowing who you are," Dean observes. "Well," Castiel shrugs, "it's my life, and it's a good life." "Yeah, well, what if you were some kind of -- I don't know -- bad guy?" Dean sneakily wonders. "Oh, I don't feel like a bad person," My Amnesiac Baboo blithely replies, and with that, we head back over to...
...The Nuthouse, where Wispy Marin arrives at Batshit Sammy's room with yet another offering of supposedly maggot-free candy bars, and the two get to talking -- OF COURSE, AGAIN, SOME MORE -- and we learn that Wispy Marin has been officially diagnosed as a psychotic depressive with suicidal ideation, but really, she's just being bothered by her dead brother's pyromaniac ghost, and no, I'm not kidding with that, at all, and once that's over with, we head back over to...
...this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash, where Dean and Castiel get to talking -- OF COURSE, AGAIN, SOME MORE, AND AUUUAAUUAUAAAAUUUGH -- about Batshit Sammy's nervous condition, and it all leads to Dean confessing, "This whole thing couldn't be messier, you know? I used to be able to shake this stuff off -- you know, whatever it was -- it might take me some time, but I always could. What Cas did, I just can't -- I don't know why." And I just can't with your heartfelt little confession, honey, and I do know why: Not once during this season did I ever get the impression that Dean hadn't shaken that whole Castiel stuff off, ever. In fact, I do believe he's spent the entire season blaming himself for Batshit Sammy's unfortunate nervous condition -- when said self-censure has been convenient to that week's plot, of course -- so where the hell is all this bullshit angst and betrayal coming from now? Huh? HUH?
Yeah, don't bother answering that, because I really don't care about this, either. You know they're just going to drop it all again after tonight until it's convenient for them to resurrect it later on in the season, so what's the point? Don't believe me? Well, then, I will bet you five dollars cash money they never once -- once -- mention Castiel during week's episode, despite this evening's supposedly traumatic Castiel-related events. Go on. Bet me. I dare you.
Anyway, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: So, that ridiculous conversation happens, and then the thing we know, it's the following morning, and Dashing El Deano is sliding this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash into a parking space somewhere semi-urban so he might load up on provisions in a nearby convenience store. After instructing My Amnesiac Baboo to remain in the car, Dashing El Deano enters the store all by his lonesome, only to find himself immediately set upon by a trio of demonically-enhanced mooks. Fisticuffs ensue, with Dean quickly taking out the first of the demonically-enhanced mooks with The Knife before the second demonically-enhanced mook bitchslaps The Knife right out of Our Intrepid Hero's hands. D'OH! The third demonically-enhanced mook then advances upon him until a certain mysterious someone retrieves The Knife from the floor to plunge it into the third demonically-enhanced mook's back, at which point the second demonically-enhanced mook drops to his knees, unhinges his temporary host's lower jaw, and unleashes a torrent of bitterly black demonic foulness up towards the convenience store's ceiling. And with that final adversary now roiling its merry way out a nearby window, and with the convenience store's floor now littered with corpses and shattered glass, both Dean and the camera direct their attention towards the certain mysterious someone and...it's Meg! You know, Short-Lip Meg? Meg Masters? Meg who killed Jo Harvelle? Meg who macked on My Sweet Baboo for some bizarre reason way back during season...oh, whenever the hell it was. Yeah, her. "Dean, Dean, Dean," Meg smirks, "you got some 'splaining to do!" Dashing El Deano looks her up and down for one very long moment before we all get booted into this evening's commercial break most woefully CHOMP!-less.
Convenience store. Aftermath. Dean crosses to lock the store's front door so he and Meg might chit-chat in private -- OF COURSE, AGAIN, SOME MORE, AND AUUUAAUUAUAAAAUUUGH, AND ANEURYSM! -- and by the time I recover from my rage-induced stroke, Dean and Meg have brought each other up to speed on recent events. Long story short, Crowley's basically caught wind of Castiel's continuing presence on Earth, and as he and Meg are still not on speaking terms -- thanks, you'll recall, to that time she helped kill him, except for the part where they totally didn't kill him at all, and are you getting as sick of these fake deaths as I am? -- and as Meg's current "'Army Of One' situation is not cutting it," she's there to make a deal: If Dean grants her access to My Amnesiac Baboo, she'll fend off any future demon attacks. No, she never explains why she wants access to My Amnesiac Baboo, despite all their endless blathering in this scene, and no, it's never made clear how she'll be able to fend off any future demon attacks on her own, but there you go. Dean agrees, mainly because the resumption of demonic hostilities has clearly unnerved him, and with that, the two provisional allies head back out to...
...this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash, where My Amnesiac Baboo takes one look at Meg and shrieks, "Her face! It's all puffy and bloated and weird! What happened to her?! EEEEEEEEEEEEEK!" Or perhaps I was channeling my sorely missed scaly recapping companion there for a moment, and Castiel actually stopped shrieking after those first two words. In any event, both Dashing El Deano and Meg hasten to assure Castiel that Meg is in fact "a friend" who's tagging along "for moral support," and with all that settled, the three depart. Well, I think. I mean, we never actually see them climb into this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash and drive off, but I'm guessing that's what happens.
Nuthouse. Batshit Sammy ventures out into the hallway to chat with the just-passing Wispy Marin, and I'm afraid you'll have to forgive me, but the sight of him in that splendiferous white t-shirt of his has quite seriously rendered me deaf to the incessant babbling that follows. Actually, now that I think about it, that's probably a good thing, because I'm pretty sure I can't keep stroking out scene after endlessly nattering scene this evening. Besides, Wispy Marin has nothing to say that we haven't already heard approximately 3872 times on this show, so my current inability to hear what's dumping out of her mouth is certainly no big deal. From what I can gather, though -- thanks, VITAC! -- her dead pyromaniac brother wants to kill her, and his unquiet spirit is tied to the tacky little friendship bracelet she's currently got wrapped around one of her exceptionally thin wrists, because the dead brother bled out on it at some point in the past, because the dead brother was a clumsy oaf. Got all that? Good.
This Week's Crapped-Out Piece Of Automotive Trash. Where it is now nighttime again, by the way, even though it normally only takes all of five minutes to drive anywhere on this show. Go figure. And after several long, blissful moments during which nobody says anything to anyone, Castiel announces, "This silence is very uncomfortable." No, it isn't, and shut up, asshole. !
Nuthouse, and it's about time to wrap up Wispy Marin's utterly insubstantial subplot, such as it was. Under Lucifer's insistently intrusive eye, Batshit Sammy and Wispy Marin lay down a circle of salt using the shakers Batshit Sammy had apparently been stashing away from his various uneaten meals, and once it's complete, the two step inside so Batshit Sammy might torch that twee little blood-soaked friendship bracelet with a lighter Wispy Marin swiped from Marcus The Friendly Orderly's pocket. Wispy Marin's dead pyromaniac brother quite naturally materializes to put a stop to it all, but the ineffectual twit finds he can do little more than blow out the overhead fluorescents before Batshit Sammy sets lighter to bracelet, and Dead Pyromaniac Brother soon finds himself blazing his merry way down to The Waste Land, or wherever. Catch you on the flip side, whatever the hell your name was!
And when it's over, Wispy Marin hightails it on out of there right before Marcus The Now Not-So-Friendly Orderly arrives with one of his colleagues to strap Batshit Sammy to the bed, after which The Good Doctor Kadinsky pops up to inform Batshit Sammy that they'll be pursuing a surgical option in a desperate last-ditch attempt to put an end to The Ginormopsycho's unfortunate nervous condition. Lucifer, of course, delights at this news, but all Batshit Sammy can do is gaze at his ruined manicure for one very long and stomach-churning moment before lapsing into a blurry approximation of semi-consciousness.
Meanwhile, this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash has finally -- finally -- arrived at The Nuthouse, and Dashing El Deano disembarks with My Amnesiac Baboo and Meg to find the asylum's front door guarded by a veritable platoon of demonically-enhanced security guards. "Oh, gracious!" Castiel mouths upon getting an eyeful of their adversaries, because even though he's lost all memory of who he once was, My Sweet Baboo is still a tremendous dork. "How many of those knives do you have?" Castiel thinks to ask. "Just the one," Dean grumps. "Then, forgive me," Castiel politely inquires, "but what do we do?" "Yeah, Dean," Meg sneers, "got any other ideas how we could blast through that?" Dean drags Meg off to one side and starts berating her -- loudly, because he's an idiot -- about the unknowns involved in triggering Castiel's memory, and because My Amnesiac Baboo's ears still work, he quite sensibly wanders over from the car to wonder what gives. "You're an angel," Meg snaps. "Is that a flirtation?" Castiel blinks. "No, it's a species," she emphasizes before adding, "A very powerful one." This leads to a round of chatter -- ANEURYSM! -- regarding My Amnesiac Baboo's true identity and nature until Meg assures him, "You got the juice -- you can smite every demon in that lot." "But I don't remember how," Castiel protests. "It's in there," Dean insists. "I'm sure it's just like riding a bike." Pause. "I don't know how to do that, either," My Amnesiac Baboo sighs. Hee. "All right," Castiel eventually glooms, "I'll try." And with that, he dutifully trudges towards The Nuthouse's main entrance, leaving Dean to squint, "This ain't gonna go well." "I don't know," Meg practically sings by way of reply. "I believe in the little tree topper." "Tree topper"? Shut up, Meg.
...back inside The Nuthouse to find Marcus The Downright Inhospitable Orderly wheeling Batshit Sammy into the asylum's harshly overlit electroshock therapy suite, where he quickly makes clear his intent to fry what little is left of Batshit Sammy's brain right out of the latter's freakish Cro-Magnon skull, for Marcus The Downright Inhospitable Orderly has in fact become Marcus The Demonically-Enhanced Orderly, and DUN!
Meanwhile, out on the lawn, Dashing El Deano and My Miserable Baboo bicker about plot developments that were already ancient a thousand years ago until Dashing El Deano reaches into the trunk of this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash to present Castiel with his moldy and bloodstained trench coat. Um. Thanks?
Nuthouse. What little is left of Batshit Sammy's brain sizzles and zots deep within that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of his until My Badass Baboo flutters on in to smite Marcus The Demonically-Enhanced Orderly. You know, just as we all knew he would, despite his little temper tantrum out there on the asylum lawn, so whatever to those two little scenes I thankfully ignored. By the way, Castiel's sporting the moldy and bloodstained trench coat Dashing El Deano so carefully and conscientiously lugged around for him the entire season, so I guess that means they kissed and made up. Off screen, of course, because this show sucks, but what else is new? And when the smiting is done, My Compunctious Baboo apologizes for breaking what little was left of Batshit Sammy's brain a year ago before pressing a couple of angelically magical fingers against Batshit Sammy's forehead. For whatever reason, Castiel's healing touch has absolutely no effect -- even the accident-induced scabs on Batshit Sammy's face remain stubbornly in place -- and we enter this evening's final CHOMP!-less commercial break, uh, terribly concerned over Batshit Sammy's well-being? Deeply worried this means Batshit Sammy will never be the same again? Certain they'll pull something out of their collective ass at the last minute in order to get Our Intrepid Heroes back on the road again in time for week's wacky hijinks? Not particularly caring what the hell happens over the course of the three and a half minutes? Yeah, that's it -- that last one.
Nuthouse. Aftermath. And let's wrap this up, shall we? We return to find Lucifer reading to Batshit Sammy from The Three Little Pigs while Dashing El Deano and My Sweet Baboo stand off to one side -- the latter still wrapped in that damn mangy trench coat, like, Dean couldn't have at least tried to have the goddamned thing dry-cleaned? Christ on a stick, that's disgusting.