Barefoot, she steps deliberately forward until she's almost right up against his lanky frame. "I want to play guitar," he tells her, finally having realized she's the devil he summoned with his burlap bundle of dark demonic foulness. "I want you to make me the best bluesman that ever lived." The crossroads devil -- and let's call her The Little Queen Of Spades -- has, amusingly enough, risen up on her tip-toes so she might look him in the eye. I wonder if the actress came up with that one on herself or if it was a directorial choice, but either way, another nice little touch in an episode that's full of them. She places a hand on the side of his face and coos, "If that's what you want." Mr. Johnson blinks and nods his head. "So, uh," he fumbles, not sure how to proceed, "do we shake on it?" The Little Queen Of Spades coyly shakes her head before latching onto his with both hands. As a quick slicing noise shears across the soundtrack to collapse into a low rumble, she pulls his mouth to hers for a big, sloppy, lingering wet one. A brief susurration whispers through the crossroads as she breaks the kiss and withdraws her hands. Mr. Johnson slowly opens his eyes to find her gone. He rocks back and forth uneasily on his heels for a moment before swinging his guitar around from his back to stare at it. And finally, the camera, paralleling the beginning of the scene in reverse, pulls a slow swoop up and away from him as we hear...

...Sam, in the present, babbling, "So, it's just like the Robert Johnson legend, right?" YES. YES IT IS, AND WE JUST WATCHED THE ROBERT JOHNSON LEGEND PLAY ITSELF OUT IN ITS ENTIRETY SO YOU CAN SHUT IT ALREADY WITH THE EXPOSITION, SHOW. The important bit of the scene that follows involves Sam predictably arguing to help the damned fools who bargained with the devil at the crossroads while Dean just as predictably argues against such action. Sam deploys The Super-Special Puppy-Dog Eyes, though, so Dean is compelled to go along with Sam's plan. What, you have a better explanation? Dean draws the small photobooth snapshot of the gentleman who'd originally buried the tin box ten years ago -- such summoning rituals require a photograph of the applicant, apparently -- and bow-leggedly stalks off to Lloyd's to see if anyone recognizes the guy. Sam pouts. Or maybe he's doing something more deeply motivated and meaningful than simple pouting, like fretfully ruminating on his poor elder brother's fragile emotional state given the fact that their current case has so much in common with Daddy Shut Up's unusual requests for summoning paraphernalia in the hos...you know what? I can't even make it through that thought, so little do I care about The Angst at this point. Zip it, Supernatural.