So, Dean keys the Impala's ignition and -- after speeding beneath the actual dark side of the moon because, like, Heaven's facing the opposite direction, man, or some such marijuana-induced bullshit -- he eventually arrives at a charming yellow Victorian, wherein he finds an extremely dapper Sammy enjoying Thanksgiving dinner with a roomful of people we've never seen before and shall never see again. It seems that Sam, much like Dean, was also blasted from this week's motel room into one of his fondest memories, Sam's being the holiday feast he shared with his brace-faced McKinley High crush and her proper -- and properly normal -- family way back in the day. I bet Sam met her in Glee Club. And I bet they didn't have to Auto-Tune the hell out of Sam's voice, either, Frankenteen. Anyhow, Dean arrives to piss all over Sam's pleasant little interlude, and after Sam's predictable bout of initial confusion, Dean draws him into the Victorian's parlor to explain the entire situation. "How are we in Heaven?" Sam flusters. "All that clean living, I guess," Dean giggles. Sam clenches, and elaborates like so: "No -- you, I get, sure. But me? Maybe you haven't noticed, but I've...done a few things." "You thought you were doing the right thing," Dean reminds him, but Dead Sammy isn't having it. "Last I checked," he counters, "it wasn't the road to Heaven that was paved with good intentions." "Yeah, well," Dean shrugs, "if this is the SkyMall, it sucks -- I mean, where's the triplets and the latex? A guy has needs!" "Dirty!" Oh, knock it off, Raoul. "I beg your pardon!?" Come on -- you know you love Slutty Dean as much as the next imaginary gay dragon on the Internet. "Hee! It's true! More, even!" Fine. Now, might I continue? "Please do!" Excellent.