Back in the present, My Sweet Baboo squirms himself into sludgy semi-consciousness on the study's sofa just as Bobby's timer enters the final hour of its countdown. Bobby himself quizzes Castiel on recent events and, after they get all caught up, My Sweet Baboo confesses that, thanks to his wound, he won't be able to yank Our Intrepid Heroes out of the past. For whatever never-explained reason, he can't call upon one of his fellows to do it for him, either. "There's gotta be something that can juice you up," Bobby flails. "A spell? Something?" "There is one thing that might work," Castiel admits, "but it's extremely dangerous." "Shocker," Bobby deadpans. "So, lay it on me." "It's your soul," Castiel replies. "I need you to let me touch it." "ZZZZZZZ -- dirty! -- ZZZZZZ!" Absolutely filthy, if you ask me, my snoozy friend, but we haven't time to linger on such smut, because My Sweet Baboo's busily explaining, "The human soul is pure energy -- if I can siphon some of that off, I might be able to bring Sam and Dean back." "And the catch is...?" Bobby leads. "Doing this is like putting your hand in a nuclear reactor," Castiel claims, and it sure as hell didn't seem that way the last time he did it, but what the hell do I know? "I have to do it very gingerly," Castiel cautions. "Or?" Bobby prompts. "Or you'll explode." "ZZZZZZZ -- DIRTY! -- ZZZZZZ!" As they have no other choice, Bobby's quick to agree to the plan, which for some mysterious reason is enough to summon this evening's very first METAL TEETH CHOMP! CHOMP! needs the paycheck, I guess.
Sunrise. It's ten to noon, and Dean's impatiently awaiting Sam's arrival over in the town's jail, where he's imprisoned that dimwitted deputy for reasons which shall soon become clear. The deputy gripes loudly and at length regarding his current situation until Dean thinks to ask, "Why is Finch gunning for you, anyway?" "I guess you missed the part where we hung him," the deputy snots. Dean sets the iron nail he'd been idly fiddling with down on the sheriff's desk and ambles on over to the deputy's cell. "I'm thinking to a thing like Finch, that's no big whoop," he opines. "He would've just blown town," Dean theorizes, "but he came back -- that seems personal." "You let me out of here, and we'll talk," the deputy offers, but Dean's not about to let his only piece of phoenix bait go free anytime soon, and besides, Radioactive Ted's just now walking into the joint, anyway. "Open up that cell," Finch growls as he deliberately strips off his gloves. "Open it yourself," Dean nonchalantly counters. "Unless you can't," he guesses after Finch flinches at the suggestion, "just like you couldn't break those cuffs when they strung you up." By now, Dean's strolled back over to the desk, and he whips that iron nail at Radioactive Ted's head. Finch instinctively catches the thing before it whacks him in the face, only to drop it when the metal starts burning into his skin, so Dean now has confirmation that Finch just can't deal with iron at all.