ANY-way, Dashing El Deano and My Sweet Baboo fret about Castiel's apparent inability to heal Batshit Sammy for a good thirty seconds or so until My Sweet Baboo of course realizes that he actually can heal Batshit Sammy after all, because that's just the way this awful, evil show has been rolling these past couple of years. Castiel perches himself on the edge of Batshit Sammy's bed, rolls up his sleeves, apologizes once more for breaking what little was left of Batshit Sammy's brain in the first place, and presses his full palm against Batshit Sammy's freakish Cro-Magnon skull. Batshit Sammy shudders and shakes, and a bright red light collects in his eye sockets before branching upwards through his forehead to invade My Sweet Baboo's forearm. Whatever this bright red energy is supposed to represent soon shoots up to fan out across Castiel's face before collapsing into his own eyes, and when this extra-special special effects sequence is over, Batshit Sammy is Darling again, and My Sweet Baboo's seeing Lucifer everywhere he turns. So much for Misha Collins's much-vaunted return to Supernatural, I suppose.
Moments later, Our Intrepid Heroes are hoofing it back to this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash, with Darling Sammy whining, "We can't just leave him!" "Well, we can't bring him with us!" Dashing El Deano snaps back, going on to testily remind his enormous dimwit of a brother, "Everything on the planet's out for us, okay?" "Word gets out," Dean continues, "we can't protect him -- not really." "This is safer," he insists. They exchange a few more words I'll not be bothering to transcribe, thank you very much, because ANEURYSM!, after which they climb into this week's crapped-out piece of automotive trash to motor on off towards their next thrilling adventure.
Meanwhile, My Catatonic Baboo sits by his heartlessly abandoned self up in his private padded cell on the asylum's locked psychiatric ward. Awwwwwww.
Downstairs, The Good Doctor Kadinsky welcomes the exceptionally well-qualified "Nurse Masters" to The Nuthouse staff. Meg smiles. DUN! And with that, we finally cut to black.
Next week, that insufferable DJ Qualls person returns to engage in some drunken hijinks with Our Intrepid Morons. I'm going to kill myself.
Demian's not actually going to kill himself. Raoul remains at large. You may reach the former at firstname.lastname@example.org. The latter is an imaginary gay dragon on the Internet last seen in the company of certain extremely well-connected gentlemen in a social club in Bay Ridge, of all the hateful places. If you've seen him, let us know.