"Good God," Don gapes, gazing down at the zonked-out Chet as the boys collect themselves. "What is that thing?" Neither Sam nor Dean has a clue, because they are dipshits, but they do most gratefully thank James Marsters for the assist. Don thoughtfully warns Our Intrepid Idiots that the spell he laid on Leviathan Chet only lasts for a few days, so they'd best "find a bottomless pit and drop it in." He then rummages around beneath the mattresses for a while, eventually extracting the two Wallachian death ducats Maggie had placed there at some point during the last commercial break. "She was gonna kill us?" Dim Dean howls, outraged. "We just saved your damn marriage!" "Yeah," Don allows, "but to be fair, you also tried to kill her." "You know how she is when she gets a bug up her ass," he adds, and with that, he bids them adieu. And because Our Intrepid Idiots are dipshits of the highest order, they let him go, because why hang on to the one person who can stop a Leviathan dead in its tracks when they have, oh, absolutely no other means of fighting the goddamned things? This show. This stupid, awful, evil, wicked show.
And in the end, the boys sling a chained-up Chet into the Impala's back seat to head back to wherever the hell Bobby's hanging out now that The Emporium's gone the way of Harvelle's Chicken 'N' Waffles. "We should hit the road," Dean announces. "You ready?" Unfortunately, Sam is not ready, because Sam would rather stand there in the motel parking lot with a body trussed up in the backseat of their car so they can talk about their goddamned feelings for the next thirty-five years. Fortunately, Dean shuts that stupid idea down with a quickness, and the two embark to motor off into this evening's final blackout.
That was pointless. Next week: More of the same, I'm sure. Hey, lizard! "Yes?!" Where's my flagon? "Coming right up!" Thank Christ for that.
Demian would like to wish you all a very happy Halloween. Raoul can't wait for the impending holiday, because he finally remembered to stock up on a variety of little airplane bottles to pass out to the trick-or-treaters. "Booze, my pretties! Booze for everyone!" You may reach the former at firstname.lastname@example.org. The latter is an imaginary gay dragon who's still in a coma on the Internet.