"My name's Portia," she says. "I belong to James Frampton." Dean's eyes widen. Is he shocked to hear a woman describing herself as property? Is he a little bit aghast at the mental image of a black woman being "owned" by a white man? Sadly, no. Instead, his feelings of unease stem from the realization that his friend James is a witch. Portia explains that James wasn't a witch when the Winchesters last saw him. It was only after helping the brothers on a case that he became interested in the supernatural. "James wanted to learn more about that world," she says. "Black arts, witchcraft... became the center of his life." Dean is still trying to process the fact that James, a cop, became a witch because of them. Portia saunters over to him and asks, "You don't like dogs, do you?" Dean scoffs. Sam brings the topic back around to James. Turns out he's still a homicide detective and uses his new powers in his work. Portia says something's been happening to him lately. She describes him having headaches, nightmares, hearing things. It's like he's having a breakdown. Maybe -- and this is just a guess -- screwing around with dark magic has consequences.
Dean listens to all this, but remains unmoved. "Here's the thing," he says. "Witches? Not real fans." Portia narrows her eyes at him, takes a step closer. She says James has a spotless record and uses magic only for good. "So why don't you lost the ignorant bigotry for two seconds and give him a shot?" Dean takes this all in, and then says out of the side of his mouth to Sam, "That was incredibly hot." Yes, on top of everything, let's patronize the woman instead of taking her seriously. Even Sam admits to being a little turned on.
Let's take a break from the awfulness of this scene, shall we? It's time to drop in on what looks like a squat, nondescript brick building from the outside and the lame-assiest hotel bar and lounge on the inside. But wait! It's not just the lame-assiest hotel bar and lounge, but the lame-assiest hotel bar and lounge for witches. People sit around at little tables lit by candlestick lamps, playing chess using the powers of their minds and wearing velour smoking jackets, all while vaguely jazzy piano music plays in the background. James Frampton -- formerly known as Mr. Campbell -- sits at one of these little tables, downing strong drinks. "You might want to go easy on that," says the Bad Guy. He sits down across from James. He all but has a sign flashing above his head declaring him to be the villain. The only thing that's not immediately apparent is whether he's a witch or, given his faintly reptilian demeanor, someone's iguanid familiar. "God, you look awful," the Bad Guy says. "Not getting any better?" James admits he's getting worse. "These dreams are like torture," he says. He describes them a bit. "Spencer, they scare the hell out of me." Spencer suggests he see somebody for help, but who's he supposed to see? Spencer sounds very concerned, mostly that James's professional life clashes with his supernatural life. James listens to all this, but it's Portia he's really worried about. She's gone and he doesn't know where she is. Perhaps he should look on PetFinder.com?