Stately Fulgurite Manor. You see, because fulgurite is so vanishingly scarce, they must break into some fulgurite magnate's impressive manse (built, no doubt, with bales of filthy fulgurite money) to swipe a prominent fulgurite sample from the fulgurite magnate's vast fulgurite collection, and I just can't with this anymore, and I don't even want to try with this anymore, so Chase, Cutting To The: Our Intrepid Nitwits break in to Stately Fulgurite Manor, whereupon they are immediately accosted by the gun-toting fulgurite magnate and his wife, whom Our Intrepid Nitwits immediately overpower and lash to chairs -- the better to have rank civilians witness the supernatural hijinks that follow, natch -- and then, after a beautiful Ritual Preparation Montage that chews up a good sixty seconds of episode I never, ever have to deal with, ever, Bobby finally starts in with the Latinating. Barely has the opening line left Bobby's lips, however, when the entire house around them begins to quake, and as Bobby's recitation continues, the shaking rapidly amplifies in intensity, shooting great, groaning CGI'd cracks through the ceiling plaster while shattering every single pane of glass in the manor's great hall until, just as quickly as it began, the ominous quaking stops, giving way to an even more ominous silence. "Hello?" Dean yodels. "Death?"

The Horseman in question silently materializes at Dean's side, much to the muffled surprise of the filthy fulgurite magnate and his -- let's be honest, here -- extremely tired-looking wife. "That poor dear!" Raoul shrieks in a fit of heartfelt commiseration. "She looks like she could use a nap!" I think we all could at this point, friend of friends. "Hooray!" And yet, we must soldier on. "Oh, poop!" So, Death silently materializes at Dean's side, then promptly makes his displeasure known by way of a mildly incredulous, "You're joking." "I'm s-s-sorry," Dean stammers, instantly on edge, insisting, "This isn't what it seems." "It seems like you bound me," Death acidly replies, lifting his arms to display the flickering, blink-and-you'll-miss-it length of ectoplasm that's loosely linking his wrists. "For good reason!" Dean hastens to assure him, but you know Death's not buying it, and he delicately and deliberately picks his way across the filthy fulgurite magnate's filthy fulgurite floor to stare an increasingly tense Darling Sammy square in the eye. "This is about Sam's hallucinations, I assume?" Death inquires, more than a bit disdainfully. As Sam's hallucinations are news to Dean, he quite naturally gapes and goggles and gibbers most impotently as Death continues, "Sorry, Sam -- one wall per customer." "Now," Death demands, returning his attention to Dean, "unbind me."