Now, where the hell was I? Oh, yeah: Dean gasps his actual, corporeal self awake, and it's a very good thing indeed that Sam thought to stow his brother's thoroughly flayed ass away with a Zippo in the pocket so that, on the off chance Dean did manage to resurrect himself, Dashing El Deano would then have just enough light to illuminate the mad, mindless panic he'd hurl himself into once he realized he'd been buried alive. Way to go, Sam. But of course, Dashing El Deano doesn't go for any of that touchy-feely self-help panicking crap, bitch, and after rasping out a few feeble Heeeeeeeelp!s through his freshly resuscitated and decidedly parched pipes, Our Intrepid Hero sets to freeing himself, first by punching through an upper panel of his exceedingly shoddy coffin, then by punching through the very dirt that covers his exceedingly shoddy coffin to emerge, roaring, into the almost blinding sunlight that's currently flooding his gravesite. And if I think too hard about this -- if I remind myself, for example, that even if Sam did inter Dean under no more than six inches of dirt, there'd still be no way in hell all of that desiccated vegetation would have overrun the spot in a mere four months -- I'd accomplish little more than ruining the moment for myself, so whatever. Dean hauls his unexpectedly creaky body out of the earth and flops over onto his back upon the thick carpet of dried-out grass that covers what should have been his final resting place for a moment before he hauls himself to his feet to squint around through the brilliant light. What is it that he eventually focuses upon? A hundred or so recently living trees that up until a few moments ago had been sheltering his grave from view. And now? Each and every one of them has been violently ripped from and flung to the ground in a sunburst pattern around that grave, as if a tremendous force had simply exploded into the air above them. The camera quickly spirals up to give us all a birds-eye view of the generalized destruction with Dean a tiny speck at the center -- his shadow, like that of his cross-shaped grave marker, stretching out behind him -- before it jumps back down in time to catch Dean going, "Buh?" And then?
The RAAAWWWR! lashes out to snatch everything into the title card! "Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" shrieks Raoul -- once again with delight, for The Kripkeeper's gone all Hitchcockian on our collective ass this season, what with the blurry black crows flapping away against a white background until the blood-red-on-black title card slams into place as ominous growlings grumble underneath. And, really, Raoul? You're not upset The Kripkeeper apparently scoffed at your idea for the exploding cadaver? "Not in the least!" Raoul replies. But why? "Oh, don't play coy with me, you silly little man! You and I both know we've already placed our blesséd eyes upon he whom those black wings represent!" Ah. Gotcha. Shall I move this along, then? "Absolutely!" Excellent.