...Darling Sammy's rapping on Casey's apartment door. Of course, it swings open, so he lets himself in to snoop around. He finds a pile of yellow crap on an end table, sticks his fingers into it, and realizes it's sulphur. DUN! NOT! BECAUSE WE ALREADY KNOW SHE'S A DEMON, SO WHATEVER! "Would you please?! I'm trying to sleep over here!" Ooops. Sorry!

The Admittedly Pointless Wine Cellar Of My Endless Despair And BOREDOM. And while I was typing that out, they debated the wars of the twentieth century and the veracity of the Bible. Next!

Bar. Sam leaves a rushed plea for help on Bobby's voice mail, then assaults the long-suffering bartender again for more information. The long-suffering bartender most disdainfully and awesomely addresses Mr. Pissypants Bitchface here as "Princess" while telling him to go to hell, and Sam gets his tremendous panties in a wad for a moment before spotting Father Sneaky lounging around in one of the banquettes. Finding no other recourse, Sam tensely marches over to grill the priest on Casey's current whereabouts.

The Admittedly Pointless Wine Cellar Of My Endless Despair And BOREDOM And DOOM. Demonic Casey's a faithful lass, don't you know, only her higher power is Lucifer, whom no demon has actually met, but many believe in nevertheless, and we're back to debating the goddamned nature of goddamned faith, and where the hell is the gore? WHERE THE HELL IS THE GORE? "QUIET, you silly little man!" I ignore Raoul to note that by the way and incidentally, Demonic Casey also subscribes to Hell's newsletter, and so knows all about Dean's Crossroads Demonette dilemma. Next!

Bar. Darling Sammy, confronted with the fact that he'll have to discuss slutty El Deano's fornicating ways with a priest in order to secure Father Sneaky's assistance, hems and haws and stutters and stammers and stumbles all over his own words until at last he admits that Dean and Casey left the bar together, and they haven't been seen since, and they're not at her apartment or his motel, and Sam's really getting worried about them, so could Father Sneaky please let Sam know if Casey's got some other place in town where she might be entertaining one of her many, many gentleman callers? "Yes, there is a place," Father Sneaky answers without hesitation. "Let me get my jacket," he begins, but Darling Sammy, deploying those Super-Special Puppy-Dog Eyes Of Religious Seduction, hastily assures Father Sneaky that he doesn't want to put the good man out, and that he can track down his brother on his own. "Son," Father Sneaky replies, brooking no dissent, "if Casey's really in trouble, then there's nothing to talk about." And with that, he rises to fetch his coat.