Of course, the reason it's not working is because I do not actually have that sort of power over time and space. If I did, I don't think I'd be trying to get through the last seven minutes of this goddamned episode at two o'clock in the morning. "Excellent point!" No, rather, My Sweet Baboo was actually responsible for Alastair's smiting, as we discover when Astral Dean mutters, "What the hell?" "Guess again," Castiel replies, magically materializing in the frame in that mystical way of his, a delightfully pleased little smile lingering on his face over his little joke for a moment until he, Astral Dean, and the cremated remains of Fake Brando get swallowed up by the METAL TEETH CHOMP!
And oh, this is awesome. You know all those phone calls from Bobby earlier in the episode? The ones warning about this creepy little Wyominginian burg stuffed with the walking undead, and the seal, and the very obscure and arcane version of Revelation? They were actually from Castiel. Kick. Ass. You see, he needed to "recruit" Sam and Dean to this particular job because the glow-in-the-dark sigils and whatnot plastered all over The Only Funeral Home In Town were actually -- as Astral Dean puts it -- "angelproofing," and Castiel therefore needed his favorite human (and his favorite human's fifteen-foot-tall Anti-Christ of a brother) to save the seal. And why didn't he just ask for their help instead of relying upon all of this awesome subterfuge? Let's let Castiel answer that one in his own words: "Because whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite." HA! Dean's so busted. Next, though, Astral Dean -- for whatever stupid reason -- refuses to stop trying to save Greybull's already-dead citizens, and now asks Castiel to make an exception for all of these "good people." "You made an exception for me!" Astral Dean argues, and oh, Dean. Don't make Castiel tell you the one thing you don't want to hear. Castiel turns his head to face Astral Dean and announces, simply, "You're different," thereby proving Sam's earlier assertion in the graveyard correct. Poor Dean. You poor, freakish, unnatural, stumpy little bow-legged Lamb Of God. Sniff. "I'm feeling a little verklempt myself!" Have another flagon, hon. "Thanks!"