Oh, I'm sorry. My bad. That was actually the exploding wedding cake they've deployed as a SNOT ROCKET! substitute this evening, the better to underscore the wacky nature of the hijinks to come. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" And as I find myself incapable of arguing with the entirely valid point just made by the comatose lizard now drooling all over his overstuffed armchair, I'll just carry on plowing through this ungodly mess, okay? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Excellent.
Little White Wedding Chapel. Aftermath. Sam and Becky canoodle down in the seats while Dean clompy-stomps around up on the altar, loudly wondering how this stupid wedding came to pass in the first place. Well, Dean, first your show got renewed for a sixth season, even though everyone involved had been freely admitting up to that point that they'd only thought the overall storyline through to the end of Season Five, and then The CW's pilot season was such shit last spring that they had little choice but to renew your show again, even though it was painfully obvious midway through last year that everyone involved was rapidly running out of ideas for new episodes, and then everyone involved actually did run out of ideas for new episodes, and here we are!
Unfortunately, Dean's not talking to me, so instead of accepting my perfectly reasonable explanation for the existence of this evening's ongoing nightmare of a so-called episode and moving forward from there, he insists upon receiving an answer from Sam, who obligingly blithers something stupid about running into Batshit Becky by chance four days ago and falling in love with her over lunch. Dean does not whip out his trusty pearl-handled automatic and shoot Batshit Becky in the head -- which would quickly and easily put an end to this egregious nonsense -- because Dean does not realize Sam must be laboring under some sort of nefarious spell -- which Sam so obviously is -- because Dean is a fucking moron. Dean does, however, get in one good line like so: "Ignoring everything else, have you forgotten the average lifespan of your hookups?" Batshit Becky insists she's well aware of the high mortality rate attendant upon anyone who comes within business distance of Sam's junk, and she claims she's more than willing to accept that risk. She says a bunch of other things, too, I'm sure, but I have zero interest in listening to her at this or any other point this evening, so we'll just wave goodbye as she floats off to settle the bill and issue her first tweet as "Mrs. Rosen-Winchester," and listen instead as the boys...oh, I'm sorry. They really don't have anything important to say, either. Well, Sam does reveal he and Batshit Becky are returning to her hometown in Delaware to begin their married life together, but aside from that? Nada. Next!