So, remember that Crowley person Becky The Wincesting Fangirl mentioned at the end of the last episode? The Lilith minion who's actually in possession of The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't? He's actually the head crossroads demon, and Castiel catches up to him arranging yet another bailout package for Goldman Sachs beneath a ridiculously scenic cloverleaf interchange. My Sweet Baboo attempts to follow Crowley back to the latter's lavishly appointed mansion, but the crafty minion's got the place positively encrusted with Enochian sigils, so it falls to Our Intrepid Heroes -- with a major assist from Jo Harvelle -- to break into the place, and once they've gained access, Crowley rather surprisingly hands them The Fucking Colt with a minimum of fuss, because he's convinced Lucifer intends to annihilate both the human and the demonic races, and Crowley would like to keep his job, thanks very much.
And so, after a brief end-of-the-world get-together back at Bobby's Emporium deep within the lush coastal rainforests of central South Dakota, the boys plus Castiel plus Jo and Ellen motor on down to Carthage, Missouri, where they're greeted by a city that's devoid of actual human inhabitants, but positively packed to the rafters with Reapers. Castiel marches off to investigate The Reaper incursion, and of course promptly gets his tantalizing ass trapped in a circle of flaming Jerusalem oil by Lucifer himself, and there's a bit of endless speechifying until Lucifer skips off on yet another nefarious mission, leaving Castiel alone with Meg -- yes, that Meg -- and My Sweet Baboo most awesomely escapes by luring Meg into the fiery ring and then -- get this -- slamming her demonic ass to the floor and stomping out of the circle across her back like she's some sort of Hell-sent meat carpet!
Meanwhile, Jo gets thoroughly mauled by one of those invisible Hellhounds we haven't seen in what seems like ten years, and as Dean scoops what's left of her up into his manly arms, Sam and Ellen bust open a convenient hardware store, where the four barricade themselves against the beasts outside while scrambling for a way to save Jo's life and make it out to the Civil War battlefield Lucifer's lounging around in order to pop a Fucking Colt cap in Lucifer's brain. Jo eventually cuts though all of the crap to announce that she'll remain behind in the hardware store with a couple dozen hastily prepared super-special anti-Hellhound bombs, thereby allowing the others to escape across the rooftops, but Ellen can't let her little girl die there on that squalid linoleum floor all by her lonesome, and so, the Harvelles sacrifice themselves together in order to give Sam and Dean another chance to save the world, and I... I think there's something in my eye.
And in the end, atop the mass grave Lucifer's constructed for the women and children of Carthage (which means that he's seriously standing on about 9,000 corpses in that last scene), Dean shoots Lucifer in the face. And nothing happens. Because we call it The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't for a very good reason. Fortunately, Castiel flutters on over in the nick of time to whisk Our Intrepid Heroes back to the lush coastal rainforests of central South Dakota, but they've failed, and Jo and Ellen exploded into millions of itty pieces, and Lucifer's summoned Capital-D Death to Earth, and we won't even begin to understand what all of it means until January 21st at the earliest, because that's how long we have to wait for the next new episode.
Eric Kripke sucks. Happy Holidays!
Rattle, Rattle THEN! As I'm sure you'll recall, Meg The Sassy Throat-Slitting Sammy-Sporting Demonette made her triumphant return to the small screen earlier this season wearing a Scientologist because her earlier incarnation had other things to do, Our Intrepid Heroes learned The Fabulous Ellen Harvelle and Her Lovely Daughter Jo had been hunting together "for a while now," Castiel unfortunately made mention of The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't, and Becky The Wincesting Fangirl confirmed said Fucking Colt was now in the possession of some Lilith minion named Crowley. And look at that! I made it all the way through the THEN! without mentioning the hateful presence of a certain poshly accented procuress in same. "Hooray!" shrieks Raoul The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, for -- sensible creature that he is --- Raoul loathes that poshly accented procuress as much as the next scaly, television-addicted beast. "MORE!" Raoul shriekily insists, and as that fact has thus been so duly noted, my faithful recapping companion, I'm afraid I must insist you close that impressively fanged maw of yours immediately, lest we all miss the...
...Rattle, Rattle NOW! "Okay!" Thanks, friend of friends. "Don't mention it!" The slowly advancing NOW! vanishes almost instantly so the camera might treat us all to an arty little overhead shot of a complicated-looking cloverleaf Interstate interchange before ducking beneath the center of the thing just in time to catch a black stretch limousine braking next to a filthy puddle. A sixtysomething captain of industry promptly emerges from the comfortably appointed back seat armed with a small cigar box and a trowel, only to plant his right foot firmly in the muck so conveniently located beneath his limousine door. The sixtysomething mutters something profane, but quickly shakes the muck from his pricy footwear to hustle his rapidly aging ass a few yards from his limo, where he squats to bury the cigar tin in the loose gravel. The instant the old man's stood up again, a voice calls out from behind, "Mr. Pendleton, I presume?" and it's Mark Sheppard, whom I do not remember from Battlestar Galactica, Firefly, and Dollhouse because I did not watch any of those shows, but whom I do, alas, remember from a lesser fifth-season episode of Charmed, because fucking Charmed will fucking haunt me to my fucking grave. "Demian! Language!" Shut up, Raoul. "Well!" In any event, Mr. Sheppard is here, of course, playing Crowley and, as we quickly learn through the dialogue that follows, Crowley is -- and apparently has always been -- the head Crossroads Demon, which I suppose made him answerable only to Lilith herself before Darling Sammy so obligingly whacked her in the depths of St. Mary's at the end of last season. Since then, evidently, Crowley's assumed total control of the Crossroads operation, and has been carrying on with business as usual, even going so far as to appear in person, as he's doing now with Mr. "Piggy Banker," to seal particularly important deals himself. "In my negotiations," the disappointed and somewhat confused sixtysomething protests, "I was dealing with a very attractive young lady." "I know," Crowley too-casually acknowledges, deploying Mr. Sheppard's native English accent while advancing upon the sixtysomething with a -- dare I say it? -- devilish grin on his face. "She said the deal would be sealed with a kiss!" the increasingly uncomfortable sixtysomething splutters. "That's right!" the ever-smiling Crowley confirms. The grossed-out sixtysomething Piggy Banker immediately balks, so Crowley slithers the rest of the way up to the guy and shrugs, "Your choice: You can cling to six decades of deep-seated homophobia, or give it up and get a complete bailout of your bank's ridiculous incompetence!" The incompetent, homophobic, and (I'm guessing) deeply corrupt banker waffles for a moment, but eventually caves, and so the audience must endure a full nine seconds of Mark Sheppard tonguing a gentleman old enough to be his father before the camera leaps over their lustily locked heads to land on...sneaky Castiel, stealthily lurking behind a concrete pillar with a cell phone pressed to his ear! "Got him," My Steely-Eyed Sweet Baboo growls into the mouthpiece, right before the entire screen explodes outwards for the...
...SPLAT! "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" shrieks Raoul, writhing about his overstuffed armchair with delight over the fifth season's endlessly compelling blood-burst of a title card for the very last time this year. "Oh!" Raoul sighs, once the writhing is done. "I do so hate the winter hiatus!" I don't. "WHAT?!" shrieks Raoul, an instantly appalled yet perfectly manicured paw rising to clutch at his nonexistent pearls. "You can't mean...!" I can and I do, my scaly friend. "Spiteful!" Oh, be nice -- after ten of these recaps in a row, you're telling me you couldn't do with a two-month break, yourself? "I most certainly am not! I want brand-new installments of this charming little Thursday-evening divertissement EVERY SINGLE WEEK OF THE YEAR!" Raoul, darling. "YES!?" Volume. "Oh, I do apologize, I'm sure!" No worries. "Okay!" Now, might I continue? There's an awful lot to cover toni... "Please do!" Excellent.
We get another two full seconds of hot man-on-man action before the camera hops back over to Castiel, who euphemistically narrates, "The demon Crowley is making a deal." "Even as we speak, it's --" My Sweet Baboo adorably continues, searching for the correct, noirishly human term to describe the transaction before landing on, "Going down." "'Going down'?" Dashing El Deano incredulously repeats from the other end of the line. "Okay, Huggy Bear," Dean snorts, "don't lose him." Castiel promises to do just that, and after a couple of artfully edited shots in which Crowley and Castiel suddenly vanish even as the camera's tracking them, we...
...land over outside the walls of an appropriately impressive Mission-style mansion somewhere else. To My Sweet Baboo's great dismay, however, those walls are "layered in Enochian warding magic," so Castiel can't get in. "That's okay," Dean kindly reassures his deeply disappointed angelic boyfriend. "You did great -- we'll take it from here." And with that, Our Intrepid Heroes tear off through yet another filthy puddle somewhere else, deep within the protective embrace of The Impala.
Appropriately Impressive Mission-Style Mansion, later that evening. While "