Meanwhile, downstairs, another skinny little blonde yuppie too stupid to move to Camden lets herself into her apartment and starts ripping open her mail at the kitchenette's low-lit island. The party invitation she receives is so appallingly awful, I'm tempted to transcribe it in its entirety, but all you really need to know is that if you'd like to host your own lingerie party with sale specials on all panties and bras plus new loungers and feather accessories, you might want to contact Emma's on 555-0100. No word on whether that's the traditional 215 area code for the city or its younger, more scantily clad sister 267, so you'd best try both. As The Plaintive Yet Spooky Piano Of Some Whacked-Out Shit's About To Go Down In The City Of Brotherly Love Again, Some More tinkles on the soundtrack, a drippy blotch of ectoplasm lands wetly on the invitation from above. The new and improved skinny little blonde yuppie too stupid to move to Camden immediately looks up, all, "Who's jerking off on my ceiling?" but finds no one there. She shrugs, pitches the invitation in the garbage can, and sets to work on the rest of her mail right when every single damn light in the apartment starts buzzing and blinking on and off. Just as she begins cursing her worthless landlord, some unseen force starts dragging a trench through the ceiling plaster, evidently with rather a sharp implement, and here's the point where you or I, not being skinny little blonde yuppies too stupid to move to Camden, would run screaming from the fucking apartment. Our little missy here, however? Just stands there and gapes like the moron she is. The ceiling rip suddenly tears over to the wall, and the new and improved skinny little blonde yuppie too stupid to move to Camden finally thinks to snatch up the phone to dial 911, but all she gets from the receiver is an earful of EVP. As the plaster gash rrrrrrips down to the heating grate, the new and improved skinny little blonde yuppie too stupid to move to Camden frantically bangs up against her front door, but the thing won't budge. Finally, those filthy corpse fingers with their blackened nails poke through the grate's holes, for the first time accompanied by some pervy male panting and growling, and the new and improved skinny little blonde yuppie too stupid to move to Camden gasps and flutters and panics and heaves and -- wait for it -- AAAAAHHHHHHHIYYYYIIIIIIIAAAAHHHHH! The corpse fingers push their spectral way completely through the grate to latch onto the skinny dumb blonde's ankle and pull. Skinny dumb blonde go boom onto her kitchen floor, and instead of doing something sensible like beating at the corpse hand with the closest weapon available -- even if said weapon is merely her own fist -- the new and improved skinny little blonde yuppie too stupid to move to Camden just screams and screams and screams some more until she's gobbled up by the METAL TEETH CHOMP! See what happens when you disdain New Jersey?
Dean's sleeping form is twisted up into a Marty McFly-shaped pretzel on some cheap modern knockoff of a Barcalounger until all those police and ambulance sirens that are positively endemic to big-city life wail him awake. "Morning, princess!" Jo smirks from the kitchen table nearby. Dean ascertains Sam's current whereabouts (fetching coffee, likely because poor Jared Padalecki had to have his broken arm reset and thus sorely needed some sleepy time while this episode was filming), bitches about his aching back, then finds himself wading waist-deep into a gloopy character scene so completely pointless and ham-fisted, I'll be skipping through it to deliver the major points. Dean mocks at Jo's little "pig-sticker" of a knife. She passes it over so he might note the initials engraved on the blade: W.A.H. I can already tell they're going to regret picking those particular letters. At least as far as I'm concerned. Officially, they stand for "William Anthony Harvelle," and I can't begin to convey my disappointment in learning that Harvelle is a last name, and not some gnarled old battleaxe of a broad who can take out both Sam and Dean in a fistfight, blindfolded, with both arms tied behind her back. Now, where are they in this boring scene? Oh, yeah: Dean's sharing his supposed fondest memory of Daddy Shut Up with Jo, and as it involves six-year-old Dean expertly picking off a series of beer bottles the "very first time" he ever went to a gun range, we'll ignore it to process Jo's supposed fondest memory of her Daddy Drearest, and it's something about the smell of his leather jacket and yaaaaaaaaaawn, and she wants to be a huntress because it makes her feel closer to her father, and can we get back to the creepy corpse fingers that pick off skinny little blonde yuppies too stupid to move to Camden already? We can? Oh, excellent. Thank you, Sammy, for finally bursting through the apartment's front door with some much-needed caffeine and the equally welcome news that another blonde's gone missing.