...The Appropriately Impressive Mission-Style Mansion's appropriately impressive study. Crowley telekinetically slings the appropriately impressive study door shut once all three have gathered around his appropriately impressive desk and, long story short, confesses he deliberately sent word through the supernatural "grapevine" that The Fucking Colt was now in his possession. And why, exactly, would Crowley do something like that? "Yes, why!?" Let's let the demon himself answer that, friend of friends. "Okay!" "I want you," Crowley explains, "to take this thing to Lucifer and empty it into his face." "EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" Sam and Dean, far less easy to please than Our Faithful Lizardly Companion, demand to know why, exactly, Crowley would want The Devil dead. "Survival!" Crowley duuuuuuuuuhs. "But I forgot," he glares while pursing his lips. "You two -- at best -- are functional morons." Heh. "Yeah?" Dashing El Deano, Ph.D., snaps back. "You're functioning morons...moron...[crap!]" Hee! And then Crowley offers us all an expository information dump, and while Mark Sheppard delivers said dump in most amusing a manner, what you really need to know is this: Lucifer's contempt for humanity is second only to his contempt for demonkind, so minions like Crowley can't expect to last very long should Lucifer prevail. Supernatural Crowley, much like his Good Omens namesake, has grown rather fond of the material luxury he enjoys as head of Hell's Crossroads Sales Division, and is willing to do whatever it takes to maintain the status quo, so.... "What do you say?" he brights in Our Intrepid Heroes' direction. "What if I give you this thing," he continues, offering The Fucking Colt grip-first, "and you go kill The Devil?" Sam hesitates, but accepts The Fucking Colt right before thinking to ask, "You wouldn't happen to know where The Devil is, by chance?" "Birdies tell me he has an appointment in Carthage, Missouri," Crowley helpfully reveals. Sam thanks him kindly, then...pushes the barrel of The Fucking Colt That Can Kill Anything Except When It Usually Can't into Crowley's face! "VIOLENCE!" Not this time, friend of friends. "Rats!" Yep, this is one of those times when The Fucking Colt Usually Can't, because Crowley -- God love him -- made sure the chamber was empty before handing it over. "Oh, yeah," Crowley eyebrows, "you'll probably need some more ammunition." Heh. Crowley hunches over a desk drawer as Dashing El Deano, Ph.D., stumbles across a supposedly excellent question of his own, because he evidently has not been listening to a single goddamned word Crowley's said this entire scene: "Aren't you kind of signing your own death warrant? I mean, what happens to you if we go up against The Devil and lose?" Crowley gathers what little patience he has left with these dolts in his hands along with the remaining ammunition for The Fucking Colt and explains, "Number one, he's going to wipe us all out anyway, two, after you leave here I go on an extended vacation to All Points Nowhere, and three, HOW ABOUT YOU DON'T MISS, OKAY, MORONS?" HA! With that, he flings the remaining ammunition into Dean's chest and vanishes before the package has made it halfway across the room, but Crowley can come back and play anytime he feels like it. "I agree!" I thought you would, my scaly friend. I thought you would.
Santana's cover of "Oye Como Va" cha-chas onto the soundtrack as the scene shifts to Bobby's Emporium deep within the lush coastal rainforests of central South Dakota, where The Fabulous Ellen Harvelle is challenging My Sweet Baboo to a drinking contest, Marion Ravenwood-style. "Hi, Ellen!" Raoul shrieks, once more dizzily waving at the television screen for, in accordance with his earlier initial encounter with Jo, he's still dim enough to believe the tiny little people in the television set will wave back at him and he remains uninformed as to the Harvelles' ultimate fate later this evening. "WHAT?!" Never you mind, Raoul. Now, why don't you take a hint from Miss Ellen up there on the screen and go whip up a batch of something soothing? "Do you really think that's an appropriate course of action at so early a juncture!?" I think you'll need it. "Okay!" Again: Love it when he makes it so easy for me.
So, as Raoul toddles off to his den, Castiel slams down enough tequila to choke Jeff Conaway, much to the amusement of the Harvelles, who apparently insisted he finish five shots for every single shot Miss Ellen had herself. Hee. "I think I'm starting to feel something," My Sweet Baboo earnestly states, clearly not feeling anything at all. Jo gapes. Heh.
Over at an arcana-strewn desk, Our Intrepid Heroes bang their heads together over a couple of beers of their own as part of a processing summit. Sam thinks the whole Carthage thing might be a trap, but Dean points out that the area's been "lit up like a Christmas tree with Revelation omens" and that six missing persons have been reported in town "since Sunday." Given the likelihood Lucifer is indeed present in southwestern Missouri, Dean believes it best Sam remain at Bobby's, for what I hope are obvious reasons. Sam, of course, objects strenuously, and insists, "If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it together." Dean's about to say something when he notices Jo's shapely derriere disappearing into Bobby's kitchenette, so Our Intrepidly Horny Hero cuts short the processing summit in favor of getting some. No, seriously. No. Seriously. I'd transcribe the ridiculousness that follows, I'm sure, but I'd like to make it to Carthage before I die, and besides, we all know she turns him down, right?