I just can't anymore, and whatever, so let's cut to the chase: Leviathan Joyce has invited that elderly gentleman from earlier over for a little more persuasion, and when the elderly gentleman balks, Leviathan Joyce latches onto the gent's hand, morphs up into Leviathan Gent form, and more or less twists the old guy's head off. Leviathan George is all, "Was that really necessary?" and Leviathan Joyce is all, "Um, yeah!" and Leviathan George is all, "But Mr. Roman said we shouldn't kill people!" and Leviathan Joyce is all, "Fuck 'im!" and long story short, Leviathan Joyce pulled the same thing with Baggy Scott's mangled mom, morphing into her unwitting victim's form to sign the property transfer paperwork herself, and is any of this of interest to anyone at all? Anyone? Didn't think so. So, to recap -- ahem -- Leviathan Joyce is buying up all the commercial properties in this section of Portland, and she's not averse to slaughtering the properties' present owners to do so. For his part, Leviathan George has been tasked with disposing of the occasional corpse and, despite his many, many qualms, he has done his level best to make each death look like an accident. Got all that? Good. Oh, and also: METAL TEETH CHOMP!
We return to Joyce Bicklebee's tastefully-appointed offices to witness an entirely pointless spat between the Leviathanically-enhanced co-conspirators, and to hell with this shit, and long story short, because Leviathan George has to run into Darling Sammy somehow, Leviathan Joyce sends her feckless assistant across town to her favorite barista for a "Grande nonfat no-whip white mocha one-pump sugar-free double-shot espresso," pronto, lest she force him to bib himself as she did her last four assistants.
Speaking of Darling Sammy, there he is now, cruising through the nighttime streets of Portland in a purloined pickup truck while struggling valiantly to remain awake, because even The Ginormoron knows how fucking boring this episode is. Or, you know, because he hasn't slept in days thanks to Lucifer's kind ministrations and all that. Whatever. Eventually, Sam's cell phone bleats, and it's Dean, calling to chat about recent events, and while Sam yawns and stretches and fidgets around in his seat because: Bored, Dean fills him in on tonight's tedious real estate subplot. To his eternal credit, Darling Sammy listens obligingly to Dean's entire spiel, and waits until his brother is well and truly finished before plowing his purloined pickup truck into oncoming traffic, because death's sweet embrace is far preferable to putting up with this bullshit real estate crap for longer than a single second.