This Week's Motel Room. Aftermath. As the boys from the coroner's office wheel Dead Warren out to their van, Our Intrepid Idiots arrive to find the broken salt circle and not much else. "I told him!" Stupid Sammy rages. "Osiris would have got to him one way or another," Dreary El Deano mopes. "Guy's batting a thousand." "There's still time!" Stupid Sammy protests, attempting at reassurance. "We can figure something out!"
And by that, Stupid Sammy of course means that Bobby can figure something out, which Bobby presently does. After a brief montage of Our Intrepid Idiots...not doing much of anything, really, Bobby phones with news he's discovered "a way to give Osiris a dirt nap." "It ought to put him down for a couple of centuries, at least," Bobby adds. "So, it's temporary?" Sam frowns. "Long temporary," Bobby emphasizes, going on to reason, "I figure we slap that Band-Aid on and leave finding a cure to some hunter in a space suit." Ah. Kicking it down the road. Always the best solution to any problem. To defeat the supposed god, Sam first must get his gigantic mitts on a ram's horn. "Make sure it's a sharp piece," Bobby warns, "'cause he ain't gonna let you stab him twice." Sam loudly despairs of ever finding a ram's horn in Dearborn, Michigan, but after they hang up on each other, he once more deploys his mad Googling skillz to come up with this as a possible solution, but of course, there's a problem: It's the middle of the night, so Sam will have little choice but to break into the nearest synagogue and swipe one. Good thing Yom Kippur was last week, I guess. As Sam scoops up the Impala's keys to go desecrate a temple, Mopey Dean takes a moment from sucking down yet another tumbler's worth of whiskey to whine, "The dick's gonna sic Jo after me." "You're a hunter," Sam impatiently reminds him. "You know how to deal with ghosts." "So," Mopey Dean grumps, feeling all sorry for himself, "you suggesting I kill her again?" "You didn't kill her the first time, asshole!" Sam would snap back were I in charge of this awful script, and with that, The Ginormomoron vanishes into hall.
Thus so left alone, Dreary El Deano retrieves a canister of salt from one of his many, many Duffels Of Demonic Destruction and lays down a thick circle of the stuff in the center of the room. Once he's stepped inside the protective barrier, he lifts his eyes to the ceiling and sighs, "You can come out, now!" Dead Jo, ever the obedient little wench, promptly materializes in a dim far corner of the room. DUN!