SucroCorp's Tackily-Appointed Worldwide Headquarters. Aftermath. Darling Sammy confronts Dead Bobby, and tussling ensues, with Dead Bobby directing the hapless hotel maid to slam all seventeen feet of The Ginormotron up against a handy van in a strangling chokehold, and I have to admit: The visual of that wee tiny little woman throttling The Ginormotron is kind of amusing. "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Yeah, that too, but come on -- it's obvious we're going to have to make our own fun tonight, so can you cut me a break on this one? "ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" Oh, whatever. ANY-way, Dead Bobby catches sight of his reflection in the van's window and, utterly horrified by what he's become, he rips his spectral form from the hapless hotel maid's body, vanishing in the nighttime breeze while the now most thoroughly dispossessed maid goes crashing to the asphalt, unconscious. Darling Sammy scoops the zonked-out maid up into his arms and races with Dashing El Deano all the way back to...
...Dead Rufus's ridiculously scenic rustic homestead deep within the lush coastal rainforests of Montana's Rocky Mountains, because why not race five hundred and forty miles all the way back to that rustic lair for no good reason, right? RIGHT? GOD, I hate this fucking show.
IN ANY EVENT, Dashing El Deano, Darling Sammy, My Batshit Baboo and Meg chit-chat about recent events for a while, taking great care to make repeated references to the multiple copies of Richard Roman now wandering the halls of SucroCorp's tackily-appointed worldwide headquarters, until it becomes clear to Dean that Castiel's withholding some vital piece of information. "Hey, shifty, what's your problem?" Dean calls out. "Do we need a cat?" My Batshit Baboo evasively non-sequiturs by way of response, adding, "Doesn't this place feel one species short?" Dean presses his angelic boyfriend to dredge up a more appropriate answer to his initial question, but Castiel continues to hedge and hem and haw until Dean explodes, "You let these frigging things in, so you don't get to make a sandwich, and you don't get a damned cat! Nobody cares that you're broken -- clean up your mess!" At that, My Batshit Baboo decides he'd much rather be playing Twister at the moment, and he flutters off to find an appropriate mat. D'OH! Again! Some more!
"Nice!" Meg remarks from her corner of the cabin's parlor. "You scared off The Empire's only hope!" "Meaning?" Dean snaps. "It occur to you every one of those things was inside him?" Meg duuuuuuhs. "He knows them," she continues. "He can see past their meat suits." Our Intrepid Heroes bang their empty -- yet pretty! -- heads together for a little while and eventually realize this must be what Crowley was talking about all those many, many scenes ago: My Batshit Baboo alone possesses the ability to find the real Richard Roman amongst his army of hastily-constructed fakes. Oh, did I forget to mention that the army of fakes is why Richard Roman had Leviathan Sue retrieve The Armsicle from The Leviathans' walk-in freezer in the first place? You know, because they have to touch some part of the original in order to alter their forms? Well, consider it mentioned now. Not that you should particularly care about that particular plot point at this stage of the season, because none of this is going to matter ever again in about fifteen minutes or so, but there you go. Now, where the hell were we?