ANY-way, Boris then turns his back to lead Dean on a "private tour" of the facilities -- if you know what he means, and I think you do -- so Dean carefully draws the hypodermic full of Dead Man's Blood from his jacket pocket, quietly uncaps the thing, and slowly lifts his hand to plunge the needle into Boris's back. Unfortunately, a tiny drop of Dead Man's Blood falls from the needle's tip to splash on the floor, and it of course makes enough noise to alert Boris to Dean's nefarious plotting, so Boris super-speeds back to Dean's side, throws Our Intrepid Hero into a chokehold, and wrests the hypodermic from Dean's hand. And he'd do far more than that, I'm sure, were it not for the otherworldly susurrations now overwhelming him from somewhere far above. The strange whisperings almost immediately send Boris onto his back in a daze with the caged recruits following in the order in which they were turned, until finally Dean, too, passes out on the floor for what follows.
And what follows is some sort of hallucinatory dream sequence I'll not be bothering to interpret, both because I very much doubt it will come back into play later this season and because -- and have I mentioned this before at some point? -- I've wanted this fucking boring episode over with for at least the last five weeks. Basically, the hallucination involves an older, spear-bald gentleman of color sending a couple of befanged Shining twins out into the world to have tea parties with their dollies in Illinois graveyards. Yeah, I don't get it, either. And neither does Dean, apparently, for he awakens from the vision even more befuddled than I am. Unfortunately -- or fortunately, I suppose, depending on how you look at it -- he has little time to ponder the deeper meaning of it all, because Boris is already up and unleashing the new recruits from their cages.
"After him!" Boris screams, so Dean leaps to his feet, scoops up the hypodermic, plunges it into the neck of the vampiric bodyguard sent to block his escape, and charges upstairs where he runs into Robbie, and should I bother poking Raoul with a stick? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Screw it. Dean reaches into his flimsy little jacket pocket, withdraws an enormous freshly sharpened machete, and lops off Robbie's decidedly pretty little head. A pack of ferocious Twitards arrive on the second-floor landing just in time to watch as Robbie's now-headless corpse clunks to its knees and, thus so enraged, they swarm forward as one. Dean hacks away at the horde of hissing adolescent idiots, and a sweeping gout of moron blood thwacks the METAL TEETH CHOMP! right in its schnozz.