Now, where the hell were we? Oh, right: James can't go to other cops and he doesn't trust other witches. Dean is a bit puzzled that he would turn to hunters for help. "We're the last people someone like James needs to be telling his troubles to," he says. Portia looks slightly guilty and says, "This was my idea." She admits she's the one who sent the text and that James knows nothing about it. If she's not careful, she'll wind up on Dog Shaming with a sign around her neck that reads, "I stole my master's phone and sent texts to people who might kill him. Sorry, not sorry!"
Elsewhere in St. Louis or thereabouts, a blind man shuffles down the sidewalk, tapping his cane back and forth along the ground. He hears a rustling in the bushes behind him. "Is somebody there?" James jumps out in front of him and grabs him by the throat. As he did with the prostitute, he squeezes until blood explodes across his face. And, like last time, he wakes from the nightmare in his own bed.
His day just gets worse from there, as the Winchesters show up unbeknownst to him. While the brothers sit quietly in James's living room, he argues loudly with Portia elsewhere in the house. "You had no right to do this!" he huffs. "I was afraid for your life," she says. "My life is none of their business!" James shouts. A moment later, Portia comes trotting into the living room in her canine form. Don't you hate when you're having an argument with a woman and she suddenly turns into a bitch? Sam and Dean trade uncomfortable glances as Portia click-clicks her way across the wood floor and out of the room. Only now does James come out to meet them, looking just a bit abashed. As soon as Dean starts in on him, though, he gets defensive. "You come to help or pile on?" he asks. "I'm just saying -- you screw with that stuff, you're gonna fry your wiring," Dean replies.