"Well, aren't you a handsome son of a gun?" Dean The First snarks, already disengaging from this clichéd turn of events. "We need to talk," Dean The Second gently opens, and the Deans begin circling each other as Dean The First shakes his sarcastic head around all, "I get it -- I'm my own worst nightmare, is that it? Kinda like the Superman III junkyard scene? A little mano a mano with myself?" Dean The Second orders Dean The First to cut the crap. "You can't lie to me," he claims. "I know the truth -- I know how dead you are inside, how worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror and hate what you see." Dean The First, bless him, understands how tedious this scene has already become, and cockily blows his doppelganger off by insisting, "This is my siesta, not yours -- all I gotta do is snap my fingers, and you go bye-bye." And then he snaps his fingers. And nothing happens. D'OH! Dean The First snaps again and again and again, but Dean The Second doesn't budge. Finally, Dean The Second smirks, "I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you." With that, he, um, flips a little telekinetic mojo at the door, I guess, slamming it shut and locking it. "Like I said," Dean The Second repeats, far more threatening this time now that he's hoisted a sawed-off shotgun into the air. "We need to talk."

Elsewhere, Sam snaps awake in the Impala and frantically whaps at Dean's arm. One problem: The figure slouched over in the driver's seat is actually Batshit Jeremy! DUN! Jeremy rams Sam with his trusty baseball bat -- hard -- leading Sam to spill from the passenger's side into the dirt below, clutching at his bruised abdominals. "KILL HIM!" shrieks Raoul, appalled. "KILL THE ONE WHO WOULD HARM THE SIX-PACK!" And once again, Raoul, we're getting to it. "Thank Heavens for that!" Raoul sighs, placing a troubled paw against his overheated forehead. "I simply can't bear to see that darling young man injured!" Good to know. So, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: Sam, despite his remarkable levels of health, has somehow been near-immobilized by one tiny little baseball bat to the stomach, and can barely crawl backwards away from the car while Batshit Jeremy looms ever closer to psycho something about how awful his pathetic little life has been. Yawn. Long story short, all those years without dreams were nigh on unbearable for him, and The Good Doctor only made it worse by offering him a cure, only to snatch it away after Batshit Jeremy had become well and truly addicted to the stuff. So, of course, The Good Doctor had to go, as did Bobby, who similarly threatened Batshit Jeremy's stash. And as Sam's promising more of the same, well, Sam's next on Batshit Jeremy's hit list. With that, Jeremy flips a little dream mojo in Darling Sammy's still-prone direction, and The Ginormotron finds himself lashed to the ground like he's Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians all of a sudden. He so big. Sigh.