...that squalid little abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of Hammonton. "This is stupid!" the exceedingly effervescent Dean pouts. "My sandwich didn't do anything!" "There's something wrong with you, dumbass!" Bobby more-or-less snaps as he and Sam free what remains of Dean's awesomely delicious Pepperjack Turducken Slammer from its swan-shaped foil prison. "Are you kidding?" excessively effervescent Dean counters. "I'm fine!" he insists. "Best I've felt in a couple of months," he continues, hopping up to perch on the squalid little abandoned farmhouse's rickety-looking counter. "[My Sweet Baboo]? Black goo? I don't even care anymore -- and you know what's better? I don't care that I don't care!" "Atta girl!" You took the words right out of my mouth, Raoul. "Hee!" Sam impatiently informs Dean that he's as stoned as Ranger Rick and everybody else back at Biggerson's at the moment, and in a cleansing burst of synchronicity, Dean's awesomely delicious Pepperjack Turducken Slammer chooses this very instant to show them all why. As Dean gazes on with open-mouthed dismay, his formerly delicious sandwich belches out a thick stream of viscous grey foulness that slowly oozes down onto the plate. "That...that's in me?" Dean stammers. "Only half of it," Sam rather amusingly shrugs before he begins the following obvious conclusion: "So, whatever turned Gerry Browder into a Pumpkinhead, and is currently turning Dean into an idiot..." "...is in the Turducken Slammer at Biggerson's," Bobby finishes for him. "If I wasn't so chilled right now," and exceptionally effervescent Dean offers, "I would puke." Heh.
Cut to the expected stakeout of Biggerson's loading dock, already in progress. Bobby and Sam companionably sit side-by-side in the front seats of a nondescript van while Dean loudly sleeps off the effects of his formerly delicious Pepperjack Turducken Slammer in the back, and oh, Christ. Here they go with the endless yammering about their goddamned feelings again. "Really?!" Really. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Sigh. I knew this episode was gonna start sucking sooner or later. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" So, Sam frets about Dean's current state of mind, what with Sam's broken head and the recent loss of My Sweet Baboo weighing so heavily on his conscience, or whatever, and Bobby offers a few sage words of advice I'll not be bothering to transcribe, and just when I'm about to join dear Raoul in his Coma Of Boredom, a delivery truck prominently labeled "MIDWEST MEAT & POULTRY" pulls up to the Biggerson's loading dock. A white-haired gentleman emerges from the cab to cart a stack of boxes into the restaurant proper, then climbs back behind the wheel to drive off into the night. "I guess we follow him," Bobby sighs. You think?