"Demian, darling!" Raoul shrieks, each syllable lovingly gift-wrapped with sincere concern. "Whatever is the matter with you?! Did you not just hear the glorious sucking sound that bit of cutlery made as the unnecessarily tall gentleman pulled it from that poor boy's neck!? Delicious!" Oh, I know, I know, my scaly friend. But with those cameras so close in on the action, and with Poor Little Fey Doomed Corbett so palpably petrified that he was utterly unable even to scream in his own defense, it all just felt a little too...intimate, if you know what I mean. I prefer my Supernatural violence to be a bit more broadly framed -- spectacularly gruesome, rather than this unnervingly personal gruesomeness we just witnessed. And I should note that infernal Lesley certainly didn't help matters. "You hush your mouth this instant!" Raoul shrieks, chiding and appalled. "Everything's better with that sassy little lesbian, do you hear me? Most especially GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Okay, I give up. Should I get back to the action? "You should!" All righty, then.
So, Lurch lets go of Poor Little Dead Fey Corbett's hair, and the hapless corpse just slumps forward slightly in his chair, his vacant eyes seeing nothing while those seven hundred goddamned mini-cams keep capturing every last detail, from Darling Sammy's remarkably broad chest heaving with horror and fear right on down to the blood that still trickles down Poor Little Dead Fey Corbett's face. Disturbing! "I do believe you meant to type 'Delightful!'" Shut up, Raoul. "Okay!"
Back upstairs, the assembled idiots (plus Dean) scamper through the den again until Dean puts Daggett's C rations and the civil defense pamphlets together and stumbles across A Remarkable Insight Into Freeman Daggett's Decidedly Psychotic Frame Of Mind.
Down in the party that never ends, Darling Sammy seethes and squirms as Lurch approaches. "Just relax," Daggett whispers, and his Lurch-like body obscures Sam's from the various cameras' points of view for a moment. When Daggett retreats, we see he's adorned Sam's head with a conical party hat, tilted at a festively jaunty angle. Heh. Now utterly humiliated on top of being trussed up and held captive by a psychotic ghost, Darling Sammy pouts. Hee!
Meanwhile, Dean's arrived at the basement door, announcing to all douchebaggy idiot assholes present that Russkie-fearing Daggett likely built a bomb shelter down there, and that's where they're most likely to find their missing compatriots. Unfortunately, only he and Spruce make it onto the basement stairs before Daggett's spectral presence slams and seals the door behind them, leaving the other three alone on the main floor. Dean, thinking fast, shouts through the wood, "There's some salt in my duffel -- make a circle and get inside!" Dick and Dickless think real hard about this instruction for a very long time before Dickless finally guesses, "...inside your duffel bag?" "Inside the SALT, you IDIOT!" Dean roars, and the morons scurry off while Dean -- after rolling his weary, weary eyes around in his head -- leads Spruce down the stairs.