Rattle, Rattle STILL NOT GIVING A SHIT NOW! The NOW! creeps forward into complete and utter blackness, as is its occasional wont, and silence reigns for one very long second until the sounds of heavy, labored breathing emerge from the dark to usher us into the episode proper. The panting is joined by a series of plodding footfalls before the camera finally opens up to offer us all a lingering shot of Darling Sammy's denim-clad derriere, which is currently making its tantalizing way down a set of dimly-lit railroad tracks somewhere ominous and remote. Our Intrepid Hero's ridiculously oversized feet eventually hop over one of the rails to bounce their owner up onto an adjacent asphalt walkway, and the shaky, hand-held, Ginormomope-POV InsomniaCam propels us forward until Darling Sammy slams right into some mouthy midnight dirtbag who'd been ambling along in the opposite direction...or does he? For you see, by the time Darling Sammy spins around to apologize to the dirtbag he's just so brusquely jostled, the dirtbag in question has disappeared. DUN!
The mysterious disappearance of the mouthy dirtbag doesn't seem to bother Darling Sammy too much, though, and he continues tumbling forward in a woozy haze until he reaches a dank and forbidding alleyway, where he finds a diminutive drug dealer finalizing a transaction with an even tinier Goth girl...or does he? Just kidding -- the diminutive drug dealer's real, and he greets Darling Sammy like so: "Dude, get the hell away from me!" Charming. The camera finally focuses in on Somnolent Sammy's face and, as one would expect, he's sporting a set of puffy-yet-photogenic bags under his eyes, and there's several days' worth of stubble sprouting from his chin. "You speak friggin' English?" the diminutive drug dealer demands when Somnolent Sammy makes no move to leave. "Go away!" "It's okay -- there's no one after me," Sam attempts to assure him, but the diminutive drug dealer's not having it, and as Sam slowly slumps down to squat in the alleyway filth, the diminutive drug dealer shouts, "Why you running up in here like that? What the hell did you take, anyway?" "Nothing," Sam wearily sighs. "Bullshit," the dealer basically replies, and it's up to the just-appearing Lucifer to defend what's left of Our Intrepid Hero's honor, which the foul fiend does by too-casually insisting, "No, he's telling the truth -- burned through that last beer hours ago, right around the time Dean passed out." Somnolent Sammy rolls his eyes before burying his face in his hands as Lucifer exposits, "Come on, tell the nice tweaker -- you'd be sleeping by now if the devil would just leave you alone for five seconds." "Stupid Satan," Lucifer teases, placing a pair of sassy hands on his hips as he continues, "chasing you all the way to...where the hell are we?"