And look at that! He did! The camera's cut over to last week's ROADHOUSE, and now that the sign's been turned on for the evening, we can see that it's actually "Harvelle's ROADHOUSE." Who in hell is Harvelle? No, seriously. Who the hell is she? Though I must admit, that trashy-sounding name of hers only makes me want to meet her more. You just know that any woman with a name like that is going to end up being the kind of gnarled old broad who could take out both Sam and Dean in a fistfight, likely with both arms tied behind her back. Blindfolded. In any event, the phone rings inside, and Ellen answers to find Sam on the other end of the line. "Sam!" she affectionately greets him. "It's good to hear from you," she adds, and you can tell she means it. "You boys are okay, aren't you?" Sam notes that they are, then asks if she's ever heard of a guy named Gordon Walker. She has. "And?" Sam leads. "Well, he's a real good hunter," she replies noncommittally. "Why you askin', sweetie?" Several on the boards took umbrage to Ellen so casually addressing Sam with that endearment, and to them, all I have to say this: If you've never had a bartender -- male or female -- call you sweetie, you've never been to a bar. Moving on. Sam admits he and Dean "ran into him on a job" and now they're "kind of working with him." Ellen wastes not an instant before chiding, "Now, don't do that, Sam," in a tone of voice that will brook no dissent. "I thought you said he was a good hunter," Sam buhs. "Yeah, and Hannibal Lecter's a good psychiatrist," Ellen grunts. "Look," she continues, "he is dangerous to everyone and everything around him. If he's working on a job, you let him handle it, and you boys just move on." Sam's all, "But!" and Ellen's all, "Zip it!" and Sam's all, "My brother!" and Ellen's all, "ZIP IT!" so Sam agrees to follow her advice.
SHUT UP, GORDON. He pays me no mind in favor of speechifying about how most people live their lives in shades of grey, but hunters like Dean and himself are fortunate enough to exist in a world where everything finds its way into neatly delineated groups of black and white. If something's evil, you kill it. Oh, yeah? Then how come you're not dead yet, GORDO?
...and if it's Thursday, Sam must be getting his lanky self kidnapped by agents of doom. Sam's left the relative safety of his motel room to futz around with the soda machine out by the parking lot. The camera gets all shuddery and hand-held as it tracks his remarkably broad-shouldered form from afar, as if from the perspective of whatever hell-sent beast is tracking him. Or, you know, from the perspective of the motel's night manager, who's having a tipsy smoke outside the main office. Oh, sorry, I forgot. Smoking makes you evil, so they must be one and the same. Or are they? I'm so confused. ("Moi, aussi," interjects The Big Gay Supernatural Dragon, pretentiously in French.) Anyway, after a few tense moments wherein our poor imperiled Sammy tensely eyes the empty parking lot, he finally slides the key into his room's lock and scurries inside. Once the door's secured behind him, he allows himself to relax, then allows himself to realize he's probably being a massive hyperparanoid loser about the whole thing, and he laughs a little at his own stupidity as he sets the soda down on a nearby table. Got news, Sam: You were right to be a pissy-pantsed little bitch about monsters lurking in the parking lot, because one of them's jumping you right now. And not in the good way. Sam shakes off his attacker and sends the guy to the floor with one well-placed biff to the schnozz. Another intruder leaps from the shadows only to get a mouthful of knuckles for his trouble. Alas, the first guy's quickly recovered, and now bashes Sam in the back of the head with the telephone. "Ding!" goes the phone. Hee. Sam drops into black.